Antwerp to Tallinn - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 14

Chapter Two
Antwerp to Tallinn
T HE swaying of a ship has a distinct flavor, as ultimately the hull is at the mercy of a liquid. We'd grown
accustomed over the past nine days to the sensation of fluid dynamics asserting their whims. Stepping off
the ship now, onto solid ground, we experience—as though for the first time—the eminent stillness of the
earth.
Our freighter captain has kindly radioed ahead to shore, so a taxi awaits us on the pier. The taxi driver is
a compact, muscular man with close-cropped hair and wraparound shades. He stands beside his cab with his
arms crossed, his biceps flexing under a tight, shortsleeved shirt. As we approach him, Rebecca murmurs in
my ear, “He looks just like Jean-Claude Van Damme.” And indeed he does bear a striking resemblance to the
world-famous Belgian thespian/ kickboxer. It's extraordinary that the first person we meet on Belgian soil is
an unmistakable doppelgänger for the nation's most glamorous celebrity. (The five most famous Belgians, in
my amateur estimation, are: Van Damme, René Magritte, Peter Paul Rubens, Tintin, and Papa Smurf. Poss-
ibly not in that order.)
It takes Jean-Claude forever to navigate out of Antwerp's enormous port, which is one of the busiest in the
world. Having watched the loading operations at the dock in Pennsylvania, we're familiar with the rhythms
of container shipping, so the bustle and noise of the forklifts and transporters here don't feel new to us. What
does feel radically new is the taxi's velocity: When we hit 45 mph on a long back alley, between rows of
container stacks, it's as though we've been strapped to a ballistic missile. This is more than twice the speed
we've been moving at for the past nine days.
Our first stop is at the immigration center that gatekeeps the port, as we're required to check in and get
stamped before we formally enter Europe. There's a long line at the passport window—mostly merchant
sailors from other ships—so we wait outside for a bit. Jean-Claude, puffing on a menthol cigarette, decides
to make small talk.
I had almost entirely positive expectations for our time in Belgium, with two exceptions. First, I predicted
that at least one dude would direct an oily, sexual comment at Rebecca—because hey, this is Gallic Europe.
Second, I predicted we'd see some mild xenophobia directed at Islamic immigrants—because hey, this is
Gallic Europe.
What I didn't predict: that we'd encounter both these things within our first fifteen minutes in the country
or that they'd both come courtesy of the first man we met.
When an adorable-looking South Asian family walks out of the immigration center, Jean-Claude com-
plains angrily, under his breath, about “the fucking Mushlimsh.” He explains that “they're lazhy” and “they
all shell drugsh” and “they drive around in big carsh they can't afford.” It's the litany of sins every culture
attributes to its most underprivileged minority groups.
After customs stamps our passports without so much as glancing at our bags (damn it, I totally should
have brought along that exotic monkey pet), we get back in the taxi for the drive into town. Along the way,
Jean-Claude offers us an eccentric introduction to the modern Belgian economy. “There'sh a lot going on in
Belzhum. We have a chemical indushtry. Alsho,” he says, now grinning at Rebecca in the rearview mirror,
“we make shilicone titsh.”