![](https://culinarytravelsinfrance.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/6b4dc-brasschaet.png?w=320&h=214)
So there we were, Antwerp, circa 1969, a town that I new little about but grew to greatly enjoy and appreciate. It’s broad avenues with the trams going back and forth then eventually turning down on the Meir towards the Groenplaats or Grande Place. Beyond that were the docks, the port and the busy River Scheldt. It was an exciting town with sights one a seventeen year old might not normally see. Tattoo parlors buzzing away 24 hrs a day, dance clubs everywhere with your choice of entertainment and of course more than one colorful side street with young ladies in their window perches urging you to come inside. I returned to Antwerp several years ago and found it just as vibrant as ever and the food and drink as pleasureable.
As a young student, my daily ritual included getting ready for school then walking for fifteen minutes to catch a privately run Antwerp to Brussels school bus which dropped me and other seniors at the international school in Boitsfort- just a few kilometres from the city center on the road to Waterloo. The lower school and the administration were housed in a 19th century Château while the upper school was in a modern two story building tucked near the woods and the playing fields. For boys, coat and tie were a must and I know we all somehow managed to stretch the definition of wearing a tie or what even defined a coat, all in an attempt to annoy the administration and our teachers most of whom were either from England or Belgium. They were no strangers to student shenanigans, however clever we thought we were.
One day, my father over breakfast let me know that he had signed me up for private tennis lessons; private that is if you didn’t include the other dozen or boys and girls assembled on the court. Opening day, there we were all of us in white, a shimmering display of white Lacoste shirts, white shorts, white socks and white sneakers. The classes were held in Wilrijk a suburb of Antwerp and oddly enough the tennis courts were directly across from the house we had once lived on Elsdonk Laan. Perhaps it was that little bit of irony that appealed to my father and made him sign me up. I can think of no other reason. On our way over, he let me know that my tennis instructor was also my sister’s ballet teacher! Right, I thought to myself, as if this is really going to last more than a few moments. Ballet and tennis? Hang around for a laugh, ladies and gentlemen.
There I was bouncing a ball and chatting with Willy, my new found friend and tennis partner when, as if on cue from the sounds of an orchestra pit somewhere, the curtain lifted and a short, grey haired ball of fire raced onto the court with her racket high in the air and proceeded to start running in place all the while yelling, in an encouraging, martial-like manner, for all us to follow, allez tout le monde! Allez, allez, allez en place, un, deux, trois... Little Madame Jacob kept on talking all the while twisting, turning, leaning right, left then back into bizarre shapes. This was not the tennis I knew. I was already out of breadth and willing to surrender my kingdom for a beer and a Marlboro when Madame trotted over to me and asked if Monsieur was alright and I assured her, through half closed eyes, flushed cheeks and heart pounding, that yes I was fine. Her response was that well worn French understatement allez Monsieur un petit effort....which translated means with a little more effort and perseverance, motivation and a little more exercise you will be fine. There we were a dozen or so in white, stretching, jumping, twisting, running in place, breathing deeply. In my mind, Madame had become the very definition of hell, a diminutive tyrant, a Belgian drill sergeant. But as the lessons progressed, we gradually moved from conditioning hell, to the fundamentals of tennis with endless serves, posture work (bend from here not there Monsieur) volleying, perfecting our short game, sprinting to the net and back for what seemed like hours on end until finally the sun slowly set and ushered in the cool of the early evening.
After the tennis lessons had run their course, my tennis buddy Willy and I decided to continue with our game. We had obviously learned something from that little ball of fire, Madame Jacob, or as I used to call her the Godiva from Hell. Now we just needed to finely tune the enjoyment of the game of tennis. And we did just that. Nearby was the Kasteel van Brasschaet (“Braskat” Castle – see pic above) a beautiful home that had been build in the late nineteenth century and eventually turned in to a hotel in the 1950’s. The extensive wooded grounds included several clay courts which had been made available to the hotel guests and I don’t remember if we paid to play or just acted as if we guests. I don’t wish to speculate. I would meet Willy on the court by late afternoon and both us, in our formal whites, would play one set after another until we were too tired to even lift a racket let alone manage a killer serve or an energetic volley. We returned to the hotel and sat outside on the terrace and ordered two of the tallest gin and tonic that the bartender could muster. We watched the last of the tennis games especially those where the young ladies were playing. I played more than my fare share of tennis that year in Antwerp and I look back fondly on those days and sometimes wonder what ever happened to Willy, my tennis lesson friend.
Other related stories set in Belgium:
The Lowlands
Brussels Station- East Annex