Cold day start. Stomach aches until breakfast. I cross the boarder without knowing it. this mornings porridge is in Belgium. Loose the LF2 I am following south but cycle route skip my way to Antwerp. Its a long suburban sprawl, there are more cars here and I am forced to approach with the bulk of the traffic. I guess I have been spoilt in Holland.
My face is red from deceptive overcast sun.
Cobblestones like boulders, shudder Rose.
Tired from another cold night.
Usually, in the evenings, warm from cycling, I strip to boxers and a tshirt before climbing into my sleeping bag. As the night progress I gradually get dressed again. First a jersey, then socks, jeans, then maybe another jersey. By morning I am almost warm, fully clothed to start the day, but tired from the interruptions.
Keun, who is working at Revista cafe where I use the internet welcomes me into his home. Rather than cycling on, and finding a campsite, he suggests I crash on his couch. I leap at the opportunity. I cook, and we take wine, and talk about that thing we have in common, travel. He tells me all about Belgium, its strange division of languages, the story of its ragged boarder, and the legend of Antwerp.
Once this port was guarded by a cruel giant, who would chop of the hands of anyone who did not pay the taxes to enter the port. Until one brave Roman soldier slew the monster, and cut of his hands and threw them into the river. Hence the name Antwerp, which translates to something like, “hand throw.” Its a good night.
He reminds me as I apologise in advance for my meal, that “the eyes eat first” and he’s right, its a good looking pile of food at least (even if it does need soy sauce). He fills my oil, gives me some salt, and some pepper, so that my food will always have flavor
