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.
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