The Great Antwerp Disappearance, Liquid Sacrilege, and the Hell of the North

It has been a minute, hasn't it? If you were checking your feeds thinking I’d finally succumbed to "Hive Fatigue" or retreated to a mountain top to live as a hermit, I have to disappoint you. I’m still here. The truth is far more mundane: Real Life happened. Sometimes that pesky physical dimension outside of my monitor gets a bit too interesting, or simply demands a bit of priority.

You know how it goes—you plan to be a digital pioneer, a content machine, a social media titan... and then you realize you haven’t put the bins out and your boss is calling.

A Friday Fling in Antwerp

Last Friday, the wife and I decided to reclaim our sanity. We took a day off, the two sons were already deep into their Easter break, and we figured: why not? The plan was simple and elegant. Head to Antwerp around noon, stay the night, enjoy a slow breakfast, and zip back home just in time for the eldest’s away game on Saturday.

Now, Antwerp is a city of class, fashion, and history. Naturally, I intended to document every second of it. I had visions of myself as a travel influencer, capturing the light hitting the Schelde river just right.

Spoiler alert: I took zero photos. None. Nada.

We arrived, grabbed lunch, and strolled through the Meir (the main shopping artery for those of you not fluent in Belgian geography). Every time I saw something cool, my brain went, "Oh, that would be a great shot," and my hands stayed firmly in my pockets. I’m just too busy living in the moment, apparently. Either that, or I’m just catastrophically lazy with a smartphone camera. Let’s go with "mindful traveler"—it sounds more sophisticated.

We ended up at the Grote Markt (the central square). If you’ve never been, it’s a sight to behold. The guildhouses are topped with statues that are either gold-plated or solid gold—honestly, I don't know, and at my age, I’m too afraid to climb up and scratch one to find out. Back in the day, when literacy was a luxury and Google Maps was just a guy named Pierre pointing a finger, these statues served as "house numbers avant la lettre."

• "Where do you live, Joris?"

• "Oh, just under the giant golden guy holding a fish." Practical. Shiny. I love it.

The "WTF" Moment: Liquid Heresy

While stopping for a mid-afternoon beverage, I witnessed something that shook my foundation of culinary understanding. Apparently, the "youth" of today have decided that the best way to enjoy Whiskey is by mixing it with... Apple Juice.

Now, look. I don’t even drink hard liquor. I’m a simple man. But I know enough about the world to know that this is a "Well-Placed WTF." Who came up with this? Was there a shortage of ginger ale? Did someone run out of cola and think, "Hey, I have this Motts juice box and some Scotch, let's see what happens"?

I’ve seen some weird combinations in my time, but "Applesky" (or whatever they call it) feels like a crime against both the distillery and the orchard.

Dinner that night at the hotel didn’t help my traditionalist palate much either. It was heavily Asian-inspired. Now, the wife and the eldest son were in heaven, slurping down noodles and mysterious spices like they were born in downtown Tokyo. Me and the youngest? We were the grumpy holdouts. I’m sorry, but it can’t always be Tagliatta or steak-frites, though my heart (and my stomach) certainly wishes it could be.

Saturday: The Beautiful Game (Usually)

Saturday was the eldest’s football match. Let’s keep this brief to protect the innocent: it was not a game for the history books.

They lost 3-0 (or maybe 4-0, I think I blacked out around the third goal). It was quite possibly his worst game of the season, and he wasn’t alone. The whole team played like they’d spent the night before drinking whiskey and apple juice. Only two games left in the season, and honestly? I think we’re all ready for the whistle to blow on this one.

Sunday: Drama in the Dust

Sunday, however, was the redemption of the weekend. Paris-Roubaix. The Queen of the Classics. The Hell of the North.

It did not disappoint. Paris-Roubaix is less of a bike race and more of a high-speed survival horror movie. It was packed with drama, punctures, and enough plot twists to make M. Night Shyamalan dizzy.

In my humble (and perhaps controversial) opinion, the best man in the race didn’t actually win. That was Mathieu van der Poel. The guy is a freak of nature. However, the man who did win, Wout van Aert, is someone nobody can begrudge.

Van Aert has had so much bad luck in his career. He’s the king of the "Second Place Finish" in the races he wants most. Seeing him finally grab one of his two lifetime goals was a genuine "feel-good" moment for Belgian cycling. And Pogačar coming in second? Perfect. It gives him a reason to keep coming back, as it’s the only Monument missing from his trophy cabinet. Keep him hungry, I say!

Monday: The Consultant’s Zen

Then came Monday. Back to the grind.

I’m trying something new at work: Caring less. Wait, that sounds bad. Let me rephrase. I’m trying to stop imposing my will on my team of analysts. As a consultant, I’m a nomad. I’m a temporary fixture in their world. I’ve realized that sometimes, it’s better to go with a solution that the whole team supports, even if I know it’s not the absolute "best" or most efficient way.

There’s a certain peace in letting go. If they want to build the bridge out of LEGOs instead of steel, and they’re all happy about it... well, I’ll just make sure I’m not standing on it when the truck drives over.

How was your weekend? Any whiskey-juice drinkers in the house? (Please don't admit it).

Cheers,
Peter