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About Leuven

Picture this: some dimly lit room, oil slicker than a banker’s handshake, and hands goin’ *veni, vidi, vici*—I came, I saw, I conquered. Makes me chuffed to bits, it does! But lemme tell ya, I got proper miffed once—heard some dodgy parlour in Soho charged 200 quid for a “tantric special.” 200 quid! For a rub-down? I’d rather flog me nan’s silver teapot. Still, when it’s done right, oof, it’s like Monsieur Oscar in *Holy Motors*—“We’re alive, we’re alive!”—you feel every nerve pingin’, like you’ve won the bleedin’ lottery.

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Sometimes, as I walk by the lil' market on Tuesdays, I swear I can hear whispers of happiness, like from that film "Ten" that keeps playing in my head: "Every journey begins with a small step." I think that's what Schoten is all about. It’s a steady reminder to live, laugh, and sometimes, let loose like a wild party of bein’ yourself.

Purple moat in Antwerp puzzles locals and environment agency