Day 3: (it remains) Antwerp

Wikipedia:

"The Plantin-Moretus Museum (Dutch: Plantin-Moretusmuseum) is a printing museum in Antwerp, Belgium which focuses on the work of the 16th century printers Christophe Plantin and Jan Moretus. It is located in their former residence and printing establishment, the Plantin Press, at the Vrijdagmarkt (Friday Market) in Antwerp and has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2005."

Museum Plantin-Moretus, Antwerp.

It is all too easy to forget that one, while vacationing, can also learn things. At the Plantin-Moretus Museum, I learned how a printing press works, which was something I've been attempting to understand for the better part of 10 years.

yo dawg I heard you like f o n t s

I also learned that it was apparently commonplace to spank apprentice typesetters:

I have developed a new and inexplicable interest in typesetting, just in time to meet the world's two oldest printing presses:

It appears, regrettably, that they do not have names.

All my future correspondence will begin with the letter

because it is the first letter of my name, and because I am Extra.

If libraries, rather than printing presses, are your jam, I have some good news about the Plantin-Moretus Museum:

It has an extensive library of books dating back to the 14th Century.

The exhibits themselves are informationally dense, but exactly as succinct as they need to be to get their point across. They encompass a huge breadth of subjects, and present their material frankly, with no bells and whistles, and in a linear, easy-to-follow layout. 

They also know how to catch one's eye:

It's not just about typesetting and printing. Plantin-Moretus Publishing was responsible for some of the earliest medical texts, including all their wild and wooly illustrations:

Get down, get down / Get down, get down

When your friends ask you to open up to them but you take it too far

"They invited me to a party, but I simply haven't a thing to wear."

"Makin' my way downtown, walkin' fast, faces pass, and I'm homebound..."

The Moretus family also bequeathed to the museum their extensive and luscious collection of original manuscripts.

If this lettering doesn't make you just about cream your jeans, then get out of my face.

The museum's almanacs offer important informational tidbits to help plan your weekend:

While their Gutenberg Bible simply lurks, unassuming, under glass:

Its paragraph-initial lettering defying damn description:

Here, we also find Christopher Plantin's pride and joy: the Polyglot Bible.

The first four volumes contain the Old Testament. The left page has two columns with the Hebrew original and the Latin translation, the right page has same text in Greek with its own Latin translation. Underneath these columns there is an Aramaic version on the left-hand page and a Latin translation of this on the right-hand side.... Volume 5 contains the New Testament in Greek and Syriac, each with a Latin translation, and a translation of the Syriac into Hebrew. Volume 6 has the complete Bible in the original Hebrew and Greek, as well as an interlinear version that has the Latin translation printed between the lines. The last two volumes contain dictionaries (Hebrew-Latin, Greek-Latin, Syriac-Aramaic, grammar rules, list of names, etc.) that were of value to scholars. (Wikipedia)

It is humbling, to say the least. And here I sit, writing a blog post about it. What would Plantin think, to see his Bible captured here, to know that Syriac is dead, that his Bible lives only behind glass, pages turned once every three months; but that it is still admired by crowds of wanderers, illiterate and ignorant in all of its languages and more, yet thrilled by its mere existence? 

Day 2: (still) Antwerp

Took melatonin last night, for the first time in my life, thanks to Internet advice. Last time I ever follow Internet advice, as melatonin dosage seems to have resulted only in disturbingly vivid sex dreams, with no noticeable improvement in sleep quality. I mean, sure, under other circumstances, this would be a feature, not a bug - but I'm trying to freakin' SLEEP over here.

Despite nocturnal, er, engagements, we spend quite a while rambling through Antwerp, the bustling port town, where we are so far from the port that I keep forgetting it exists. Our first stop is Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekathedraal - the Cathedral of Our Lady. 

It is important to keep cathedrals clean.

"But first, let me take a selfie."

This is a momentous occasion, as it begins my newest photo project, Derpy Lions of Belgium.

It also affords me a first glance at a theme I'll discover repeated in Belgian churches and cathedrals: the Sassily Reclining Pope or Archbishop:

The Cathedral of Our Lady currently houses a modern installation piece, Diasporalia, by Koen Theys. We didn't know it would be there, and, rounding a corner, are surprised to find the incongruous colors and shapes set against the background of a rose window and tabernacle:

"Twelve bronze mattresses, covered with personal possessions, have been lined up in two rows on the floor. 'Each mattress tells a story that develops around people as individuals, in search of their identity, as they struggle to preserve it. Man in search of his destination in life', according to the artist." -source

The piece, with its bright gold and blue hues, might have been overbearing or even tacky in a "traditional" museum setting; but here in the somewhat gaudy baroque cathedral, where being "overdone" is considered an expression of religious ecstasy, it's almost subtle. I spend a considerable amount of time inspecting it from multiple angles, not wanting to miss any detail.

The cathedral is renowned for its Rubens triptychs.

I've never seen Rubens before - I haven't even heard of him, strictly speaking, in context - so I'm less awed by the repetition of the name than by the fact that his depictions of Jesus are like drastically more muscular and generally more solid than those of his - what - competitors? 

Only 19 people allowed to die at a time.

Not just Rubens, but other artists as well, one of whom painted this incredible piece, depicting rebel angels being cast out of heaven, one of whom straight-up has a hawk head for genitals:

Back on the street, things are more normal. We admire this street art installation, based on A Dog of Flanders, which - do NOT let these smiling faces fool you - is arguably the most depressing story of a boy and his dog you will ever read. Seriously. It is like Where the Red Fern Grows combined with Old Yeller with a side helping of The Yearling. I read it when I was about 10, and it made me want to give up on everything.

More cheerful: this sculpted depiction of the legend (supposedly) behind Antwerp's name - the dude flinging a giant's hand into the river: 

And some alarmingly pretty buildings in the town square:

Later, we discover that seemingly every Belgian beer has its own damn glass:

More on this later.

Finally, exhausted, peckish, we attempt to order a pizza from a scruffy Italian joint near the train station, only to be roundly rebuffed by the server when we ask to share a pie: "We don't do that," he informs us, appalled, brusque. Don't do what? Allow patrons to eat reasonable portions? We'd understand this attitude were the place packed to the gills, but the fact is, we're two of, say, six guests in the entire incongruously large restaurant. Sir, you are the reason we Americans are fat. We bid a suitably ill-tempered farewell and get our (shared) pizza instead at a quick-service spot around the corner. A wasp harasses us throughout the meal; eventually, it crawls inside my empty bottle of Aperol Spritz (this comes in bottles here), and I trap it under a coaster. It flails, dying a slow, sticky, liquor-soaked death. I feel at first triumphant, then increasingly guilty, eventually chucking the whole mess in a trash bin and leaving the dining area with my tummy full and my head hung low in shame. 

Day 1: Antwerp

This month's fetish is travel.

I stumble into Antwerp via the central train station at 1:00 PM, local time, on Sunday, August 5th. Once outside, I admire the station's staggering, Harry-Potter-esque front facade, then turn around to find this:

Welcome to Antwerp!

Here's a better view of the train station itself:

I'm sure you get the idea. 

The hotel room isn't ready yet, because hotel rooms are never Ready Yet. Luckily - do you see that splendid green camel in the upper left corner of the photo above, gazing off into eternity, bearing a confusingly nude young man on his back? Follow his gaze and you'll find the Antwerp Zoo, one of the world's oldest. (I've also been to the oldest, which is in Vienna *preen*) What better place to kill a few disoriented, sleep-deprived hours? The animals don't care that you smell like international plane funk and wobble on your feet like a career drunk. All they care about is finding some goddamn shade, because it is 32 degrees celsius up in here, what the hell is going on. 

Yes, we have arrived from New York City, which is in the middle of a heat wave, to find Belgium in the hazy grip of - you guessed it - a heat wave. It's a good thing climate change isn't real, or we'd really be struggling, eh? 

The Antwerp Zoo houses many frens:

When will my son return from the war?

Some quite smol indeed:

Others smol, yet thicc:

Some sort of hamster-rabbit that only eats carbs

It is also, historically, the first zoo in the world to house an okapi, which, if I were given a choice of any animal in the world to ride into battle, just might be my selection: 

A horse-sized emo giraffe

After laughing at all these dumb animals - just kidding, they were freaking great, all of them, even those awful birds that look like hell's own dinosaurs and stare right into your soul - and napping extensively at the finally-Ready hotel room, it is time for...

...a beer served in a glass with a wolf on it in a bar covered head-to-toe with French bulldog paraphernalia.

Why all the Frenchie love, you might ask? Well, meet Billie: 

Billie wasn't one bit impressed by us, until, seeing our feeble entreaties to win his favor, the bartender approached, asked, "Do you want to make a friend?" and offered us a dog biscuit. This gained us Billie's attention and affection for exactly as long as it took him to eat it - fewer than five seconds. But oh, what a five seconds they were. 

Also found in this bar, though not pictured, was Angel, a Schipperke mix. "She was my ex-girlfriend's dog," explained her owner. "Now the girl is gone, but the dog has stayed." Angel looked like a small black fox with a curly tail and an ear-to-ear grin. "We are in the middle of a heat wave, so I am sleeping with a fan. But she sleeps in bed with me. She lies right in front of the fan, and thinks, how nice and cool! While I lie there and think, where is the cool air?" Questioned about her name, he replies, "It's funny, because to me, she is Satan." Demonstrating the fondly pejorative attitude I've found typical of European dudes with their dogs, he took his leave from us by announcing to Angel, "Come on, bitch, let's go outside, the beer's getting warm." She trotted happily beside him, glad just to be a part of his evening.