Antwerp · Monday — Departure

Day 7 · Antwerp

Monday — Departure

Monday, July 27, 2026 Het Zuid

on a stone riverside promenade railing above the Scheldt, a wide grey-green river carrying a slow container ship northward; the railing's iron edge wet with drizzle, the near bank wall dropping to a fisherman in rubber boots below, flat diffuse morning sky overhead pressing low — cup set on the railing, hands released, watching the container ship lose and reappear in the grey distance

The coffee was weak and too hot and I held it anyway.

The place was barely open — one woman moving slowly behind a counter, a single strip of light above the machine, chairs still up on two of the three tables. I stood at the railing with the cup and watched the Scheldt do its grey-green thing.

Morning light on that river is nothing like evening light. Evening was orange and still and made the whole surface look like something being rendered. Morning just showed me what it was: wide, moving, indifferent. A container ship was working its way north toward the port district, slow enough that I kept losing its movement and finding it again. One man crossed the bridge on a bicycle, no hands, coat open.

Below the railing, a man in rubber boots was fishing from the wall.

Not the same man as the first evening. Or maybe the same man. The same wall, anyway. The same patience — rod out, line still, bucket near the left foot. I watched him the way I'd watched the ship, losing and finding him in my attention.

The richest port in the world, once. Now: one man fishing, one container ship moving at the speed of a cloud. I finished the coffee and left the cup on the railing.

A kouign-amann on a white paper bag held at waist level, sugar crust cracked open, laminated layers visible, butter sheen catching flat morning light

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a narrow pavement two doors from a hotel entrance in Het Zuid, a bakery window immediately behind her displaying trays of kouign-amann under warm interior light, the wet stone pavement reflecting the window glow as a blurred amber smear at her feet — first bite taken, sugar crust just cracked; the other half of the pastry held mid-air, a flake catching the bakery window light

Checkout was at eleven. The woman at the desk asked if everything had been fine and I said yes, which was true. She printed the receipt without being asked. Outside, I stopped at the bakery two doors from the hotel — the one with the trays of kouign-amann in the window, which I'd walked past every morning and never entered. I went in. I bought one. I ate it standing on the pavement, the sugar crust cracking, the butter still warm somewhere in the layers.

in the vaulted booking hall of a monumental railway terminus — its iron-and-glass dome vaulting sixty metres overhead, neo-baroque stone arches stacked in receding tiers, the departure board mounted high on the far wall, platform corridors opening as dark rectangular mouths in the stone facade below — stopped just inside a platform archway; coat folded over the tote's strap; her gaze lifted to the departure board still clicking through arrivals

At Centraal the board was clicking through departures. Platform six. The linen shirt was carrying the whole day again, same as arrival, and the charcoal came off at the door to the platform — the train would be warm and I'd know it within a minute.

The departures board mid-click above Platform 6 sign, the vaulted iron-and-glass dome arching overhead, figures small on the concourse below

The Scheldt was behind me by the time we cleared the city. Still moving.

What she wore

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I wore the black linen skirt because it packs flat and creases honestly and at 7am on a river wall neither of those things matters at all.

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Added the charcoal knit somewhere between the coffee and the last look at the Scheldt — not cold enough to need it, just right enough to want it.

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Pulled the charcoal off at the station — train home, same skirt, same shirt, different river behind me.