I have this weird fascination with places that are local tourist attractions, but not quite stellar enough to attract international visitors.
Antwerp is firmly within that genre. Lovely, but like 53rd on most peoples’ ‘Must See in Europe’ list.
Not that it matters. I was in a trying-to-finish-an-essay fugue state, and I barely did anything I couldn’t have done at home.
I got up at five every morning, wrote for like seven hours, then ventured out, ravenous for breakfast and scenery.
Antwerp has a surplus of both, though if you bike far enough in any direction, it starts to look like True Detective.
But I sort of like that, how Antwerp goes all ugly at the edges.
It’s a reminder that European cities, no matter how pretty they are in the center, need cranes and shipping containers and rusty train tracks to keep them that way.
Antwerp got rich after WWII, it was one of the only ports unbombed during the war. This is where a lot of the Marshall Plan donkeys came in.
Now the port host a different kind of donkey, tourists like me, our dangling cameras, our insipid questions, our temporary interest.
I realized as I was on my way to the airport that chatting with my AirBnB host was the longest conversation I had all weekend.
‘What are you doing here in Antwerp?’ she asked. ‘As little as possible,’ I replied.
‘Well you’re in the right place,’ she said, and handed me the keys.
