In the second half of the 1960s I traveled
repeatedly from England to Belgium, partly for study purposes,
partly for other reasons which were never entirely clear to me,
staying sometimes for just one or two days, sometimes for several
weeks. On one of these Belgian excursions which, as it seemed
to me, always took me further and further abroad, I came on a
glorious early summer's day to the city of Antwerp, known to me
previously only by name. Even on my arrival, as the train rolled
slowly over the viaduct with its curious pointed turrets on both
sides and into the dark station concourse, I had begun to feel
unwell, and this sense of indisposition persisted for the whole
of my visit to Belgium on that occasion. I still remember the
uncertainty of my footsteps as I walked all round the inner city,
down Jeruzalemstraat, Nachtegaalstraat, Pelikaanstraat, Paradijsstraat,
Immerseelstraat, and many other streets and alleyways, until at
last, plagued by a headache and my uneasy thoughts, I took refuge
in the zoo by Astridplein, next to the Centraal Station, waiting
for the pain to subside. I sat there on a bench in dappled shade,
beside an aviary full of brightly feathered finches and siskins
fluttering about.