Yesterday my daughter asked me: “Would you ever want to move back to Antwerp?” To which I replied: “I can never go back.”
Maybe I should explain what this is about…
I was born and raised in Antwerp. When I was 21, I moved to Amsterdam to study there. I never moved back to Antwerp. I did go back for the occasional day trip or weekend, but never to settle there again. And when I think back to that time, when I traded Antwerp for Amsterdam, I realize I probably never intended to go back at all. At the time, I experienced Amsterdam as a city with far more opportunities.
That’s different now. But that’s a topic for another time.
I’m 56 now, so I’ve been living in Amsterdam for 35 years. That’s longer than I ever lived in Antwerp. Even though I’ve come to love Amsterdam very much—and it’s no coincidence I’ve never really left—I’ve always had the feeling I’m not a true Amsterdammer. For me, my roots lie in Antwerp, Belgium.
The reason I can’t go back to Antwerp is not because there are laws or practical obstacles standing in the way between dream and reality. The choice to go back, if I wanted to, is entirely mine.
No, I can’t go back because the Antwerp I left 35 years ago no longer exists.
Until about 10 years ago, I could still go there for a day or even a weekend every now and then, to soak up the atmosphere again, hear the Antwerp dialect around me, and above all, to taste the city once more through its food.
On such a day I had to—unhealthy as it was, I admit—eat a few things again: a Belgian waffle with whipped cream, a baguette with chicken curry salad from butcher shop De Laet (I swear to you, there is no better sandwich in the world), a croque-monsieur, and if possible, paling in het groen as well—a typical Flemish dish of eel stewed in a sauce of fresh green herbs, often including chervil.
Sometimes I would just stand there, my mouth watering, staring at these dishes in shop windows or at the plates of people enjoying them on a terrace. In those cases, I would resist eating them, because I had already decided to go find my favorite pizzeria near the Grote Markt. The owner was called Antonio, a funny, typically Italian man who not only made the best pizzas, but also set the atmosphere and stole the show with his loud Italian presence.
Another place I always had to visit on such a day—if it was a Sunday, at least—was the Vogelenmarkt (literally “bird market,” a traditional open-air market). Not because I wanted to buy a bird, but simply because of the atmosphere. And a visit to Café de Pelgrom (video) also couldn’t be missed. It consisted of medieval underground vaults lit only by candlelight, where guests would sit at long tables on benches.
Sounds pretty good, right?
So why do I think I can’t go back?
In fact, a day like that down memory lane isn’t even possible anymore.
Because butcher shop De Laet, near the central train station with those amazing chicken curry sandwiches, is gone. And the sandwiches offered elsewhere just don’t compare.
I used to eat croque-monsieur at Café de Pelgrom, but the last time I went there it had apparently changed ownership and been turned into a sort of “cabardouche” (a Flemish term for a risqué, cabaret-style venue), the whole place redesigned with fluffy fake fur in fluorescent colors.
It made me sad to witness that the Pelgrom I knew had disappeared too. And to console myself, I walked over to Pizzeria Da Antonio. But that was gone as well! Just shuttered doors and emptiness in its place.
And paling in het groen has now become absolutely unaffordable, while this used to be food for poor people when I was a child.
Only the Belgian waffle with whipped cream remains. But these days it is offered in such a mass-tourism context that it no longer makes me feel “at home” either.
That’s why these days I’d rather just stay home in Amsterdam. And I make my own croque-monsieur, the way I remember it.
That way, it can’t disappoint me.
I do that these days out of necessity—not only with the Flemish dishes I long for, but also with Dutch bar snacks and even pizza. Going out to eat has become rare for me. Not only because it has become financially out of reach, but also because I no longer enjoy it among all the tourists.
The only thing left to do—for a nice city trip—is to visit cities I have no personal memories of. There I simply walk around like any other tourist.
That’s why I’ve come to really like Liège these days. I can enjoy Belgian food there, but it still feels more emotionally distant because the main language is French and not Flemish (my mother tongue). That means it doesn’t trigger painful memories. On top of that, the natural surroundings are absolutely beautiful.
And I can also enjoy Palermo. There too, I have no memories that can clash with my current expectations. (Even though the locals themselves complain about how much they’ve seen it change.)
Is there a city you can no longer return to in the same way?
If you know someone from Antwerp, or someone who moved to another city when they were young, you might want to share this with them—they may recognize something in it.
Top photo by Michiel Annaert: Antwerp seen from the left bank of the River Scheldt.
Middle photo: Me, together with my dog, during a visit to Antwerp in 2022, the city seen from the left bank of the River Scheldt.
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