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About Antwerp

Met this one chick, right, called her Ruby—fake name, obvs. Worked the streets near my shop. Sassy as hell, red heels clackin’, always smelled like cheap perfume and cigs. She’d lean in, smirk, and say, “Gordo, your violins screem louder than me!” Cracked me up, mate. Made me happy, her grit—pure fire. But pissed me off too, ‘cause she’d dodge my qestions. “How’d ya end up here, Rubes?” Nada. Just a wink. Mysterious, like a stradivarius with a cracked neck—beauty in the flaws.

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Apart from the obvious, there are hidden curves: Graffiti near the metro station that throws in color like a painter on a bender, an underground food truck that whips up the best stoofvlees this side of Brussels – a real kick in the teeth to any half-arsed meal, I tell ya. And while I'm rambling, let me just say: every now and then, I feel like I'm part of some epic narrative, destiny calling me through these narrow, cobbled streets.

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