I’m here to regale you with a legend. A story, if you will. A tale of how a city came by its name.
In the beginning, there was a guy. There was also a dragon, and some slaying. There may, in fact, have even been a second guy. I think he was a manly man. Or something. Anyway, a hand fell off. Or, maybe it was chopped off. And then…it was thrown into the river. Do you follow? No? Let me clarify.
Hand=Hant. Werpen=Thrown. In Flemish. Or Dutch. Whichever is the correct term to use. And that, my friends, is a concise – if somewhat garbled – history lesson on how (Hantwerpen) Antwerp came by it’s name.
You’re most welcome.
On the weekend, I visited Antwerp. And it’s an absolutely gorgeous place. Kind of like Amsterdam without the whacky-backy and minus some canals. But the feel. And the buildings. And the funky Antwerpians on their old-fashioned bicycles. It was definintely Europe and I really do love Europe a whole lot.
I was visiting my friend who lives there, so I not only had a day or so of tourist wanderings and photo opportunities, I also had the fun and debauchery of a birthday party Belgian-style. As a representative of all things English/Australian/Irish, I am pleased to report that I made you all proud. The bruise that is actually BIGGER than my leg is a clear indication that I was not an embarrassment to myself. I certainly did not fall over. I know this because I don’t remember falling over. And if I don’t remember it, then it probably didn’t happen. Although, by that logic, most of the party wouldn’t have happened, because I don’t remember a great deal of that.
I should not be allowed anywhere near a well-stocked bar.
Also, the Flemish language has officially become one of my favourites. It sounds so pretty. Full of long, drawn out vowels, sibilant whispers and a sort of burbly sound in the back of the throat. I couldn’t understand a word, but boy did I enjoy listening to it. Mostly, though, everyone spoke English when I was around, which was very nice of them. I did learn one word (which of course I’ve got completely wrong) but as I remember it the word is “schlor”. Which means moustache. This cropped up quite a lot on Saturday and Sunday, as most partygoers and post-party goers (c’mon, you KNOW that drinking is the best cure for a hangover) sported a fetching pencil-drawn moustache. No-one escaped. Women as well as men. But we all wore our schlors with good grace. Who wouldn’t enjoy a bespoke hand-drawn moustache?
