Festive Alternative Part 2

 

Christmas can be a difficult time of year, even without factoring in a pandemic. Following the last minute change to my festive plans, for my own mental well-being, I can but take a day at a time. I’m still a little glum the Monday morning after mum’s trip is cancelled. I share the news with the Morphē Arts prayer group who, as customary, offer solidarity and thoughtful prayers. A similar repeats itself throughout the week via different media, as friends and acquaintances enquire about my Christmas schedule. My TTUO colleague, Steve wastes no time getting in touch after the UK's Tier 4 changes are announced.  I give him an update, thanking him for his kindness. I don’t take up his family’s offer to have me round for reasons previously explained. As not to appear either ungrateful or anti-social, I propose a Boxing Day jaunt around their local park instead.

I start to see the silver lining in the situation. I had been in an emotional state of limbo about mum’s trip. Planning anything in great detail has been frustrated by so much being in suspended animation.

Now I will be doing a lot less running around. I won’t need to spend as much on food if it’s just me. I can focus more on the Christ aspect of the holiday with fewer distractions. Moreover, a number of acquaintances will also have a solitary Christmas for sadder reasons than I; relationship breakdowns, family stranded abroad or a combination of other complicated factors. It’s an opportunity to look out for each other, without feeling guilty for not paying enough attention to my guest.

In the week leading up to Christmas day, I gradually-if not wholly successful-start to wind down some of my daily routine. You know, actually rest. 

Rob le Provocateur continues his antics with an unrelenting stream of material and comments that indulge his chauvinism. In telling him to back off, I let slip my Christmas plans have gone awry.

Watch out, sis warns he smells blood. Attention is a powerful currency.

She’s not wrong. At the culmination of this latest (rough) charm offensive, he invites me round for ‘dinner and to talk’.

I can squeeze you in between one of my other victims, he chides.

I reflect on his offer. I’d be content with chat but without the dinner at his place. I suggest we meet somewhere more neutral. Go for a brisk walk around the park, for instance. I expect he’d welcome the idea more than his South American friend, whose apparent sulk about my reluctance to come over is one of the reasons we’re no longer in contact (even though it's he that eventually cancelled our tête-à-tête) . If Rob’s vehement reaction is anything to go by, it turns out they’re as bad as each other. Rob throws in a bit of emotional blackmail for effect, also insinuating I’m uncivilised for turning down his offer.

Quel gonflé.

Notwithstanding valid concerns over personal safety, he’d literally have the home advantage. He could verbally misbehave in any manner of ways. Politeness, for a while anyway, might prevent me from keeping him in check.

Rob grumbles something about it being too cold. See you in May, he quips.

If you feel that way, too bad.  There's no point me coming over if I’m not comfortable. I’d only be bad company.

More sarcastic responses.

When I update sis, she’s furious. You owe him no explanation! He just wants to take advantage of you being on your own.

I unilaterally put a stop to the email exchanges. Not that Rob entirely desists. Over Christmas, whilst apparently somewhere in Eastern Europe, he attempts to drip feed controversial content to spark another debate. I don't engage, opting instead for ironic remarks about him having better things to do with his time.

I certainly do. There’s reading to catch up on. A pre-Christmas spring clean. Dropping off festive biscuits for acquaintances. Shopping for some rabbit for the stew and pie I plan to make to cover both Christmas and New Year’s Day. I also continue my relatively recent tradition of watching favourite Yuletide specials (Series 1 of The Boondocks, Series 3 of Community...). I'm peeved to note however, that some corporate Grinch has removed the full length version of A Charlie Brown Christmas from YouTube. 

My festive evening strolls are now an inviolable part of my daily routine. The city is fully in the swing of things, within COVID-circumscribed limits. On the metro, the voices of children singing transport-themed adaptations of Christmas ditties blast through the speakers.

Christmas Eve is eerily quiet. Earlier that day, at my local Aldi’s, I observe aloud to the cashier how strangely calm and sane it all is. Perhaps it’ll pick up later. She’s not sure. It is very strange, she concurs.

I’m back out again at night fall, leaving later than I planned having joined an online quiz (in which I came from the rear to wind up in second place. Not bad). Most shops are closed. The streets are semi-deserted. It can’t just be the damp and uninspiring weather. In particular quiet stretches of road, I dance with some abandon to my personal soundtrack; covered by the cloak of darkness.

At Mont des Arts, I pass a tenor saxophonist playing jazzy carols. I stop short when I hear the opening strains of my number one: God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman. I walk back down the steps to join in. He modulates to an unsuitable key. I switch to harmonising with the horn. To my consternation, I have no more change in euros. He’ll have to do with some Sterling coins. He thanks me in transatlantic- inflected English.

Having spent most of the week trying not to think of it too much, Christmas Day is peculiarly serene. In the best possible way. I wake up to sunshine that wasn't forecast. It lasts for most of the day. Numerous texts of well-wishes are exchanged. I attend multiple livestreams of shorter-than-usual Christmas morning services whilst eating brunch. Much of the afternoon is spent catching up with friends who are also alone. My Zoom chat with Temi takes nearly two hours alone, much of it dedicated to relationship issues. Having survived and thrived despite an acrimonious separation, I'm keenly open to her advice. Her kids are with her ex for the day. She’s in good spirits considering that she’s had a hellish few years, of which 2020 was only the latest iteration. She also comments on my bonhomie. Thank God for the grace, as has become my refrain this week.

While there’s still light in the sky, I make the most of the relatively good weather. Droplets appear on my window just as I’m about to step outside, very soon to cease. En route I note, to my pleasant surprise, that the local University Campus church is open to the public for a change. The interior is appealingly modern and understated. Whilst an inviting organ solo thunders in the background, I am drawn to the subdued nativity scene. This Baby Jesus is appropriately brown (in contrast to the Virgin Mary in Grande Place, who resembles Melania Trump). 

Like France, and unlike the UK, public transport still runs on Christmas Day in Belgium on a Sunday schedule. I catch the 29 bus from Roodebeek, descending at Diamant to enjoy the light show around the Telecoms tower. Ironic then that there’s no illumination on Christmas Day itself. 

Never mind. It’s an excuse for a ramble. 

The roads are busier than I expect. Convenience stores, run mostly by people for whom Christmas does not have the same significance, remain open. I get carried away for a couple of hours before it’s back home for dinner and the Netflix adaptation of Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Viola Davis is on fire. Having been ambivalent about the play, it’s a cinephile friend who convinces me to give it a go. Plus I'm drawn by the thought of seeing Chadwick Boseman do his swan song performance.

So far, so enjoyable.  The real test of morale normally comes in the interim period leading into the New Year. Sure thing, a sense of melancholy awaits me on Boxing Day. I have the stroll around Josephat Park with Steve, Sylvia and family later that day to break up the monotony. It's short and sweet. Literally. They bring some delicious cocoa to keep us all warm. The kids predictably torment each other. Out in the open, all restraints are off. This moment of precious offline interaction, confiding our shared frustrations around relocating during a pandemic, is welcome respite. Away from it, as well as the relative bustle of the world outside my flat, it only amplifies the isolation with which I have to contend otherwise.

Soundtrack: My own Best of...2018, 2019 + 2020 mixes.

Festive Alternative: Part 1

courtesy of Le Soir

The week before mum’s scheduled festive visit, she and I are in more regular communication than is our habit. We’re keeping each other abreast of any COVID-related changes to travel on either side of the Channel. Apart from the usual discretionary advice and possible quarantine measures, there aren’t any major upsets. No news is good news. Up until Saturday 19 December. Three days until mum’s series of Continental firsts. Her first time taking the Eurostar (she always came to Strasbourg by plane). Her first visit to Belgium...

At this stage, although my optimism remains cautious, our every-other-day updates are beginning to feel academic. That is until mum mentions rumours of a new tier of restrictions will be introduced by the UK government. The latest mutation of the virus is raging through Southern England and likely elsewhere. After weeks of dismissing the threat, Bojo is feeling the pressure to ‘cancel Christmas’ after all.

I have not been aware of this latest development. By the time mum informs me, the measures are already in place. I immediately start a panicked search of how this affects travel plans. Whether it’s the official UK government website or ITV news, it doesn’t look good. I make several update calls to mum. Eventually, the news gets too depressing. It’s late. I don’t want to keep disturbing her.

I weep tears of bitter disappointment. It’s official. I won’t have seen any of my UK-based loved ones in the flesh for the whole of 2020. I’m overcome with a strange Coronavirus-state of déjà-vu. Nine months earlier almost to the day, back in Strasbourg one anxious weekend, I was hunched over in tears days before the first wave of lockdowns and border closures disrupted all travel plans.

Saturday into Sunday, I fall into a fitful sleep; even more than usual. I wake up a little less distressed in the morning. Maybe there’s a way mum can still travel. She should at least show up at St. Pancras station on Tuesday and see what happens. I phone mum to share my thoughts. She is up for that idea. She has already completed the requisite Passenger Locator Form. There's nothing outright precluding travel thus far. The app even wishes her 'a good trip’. According to the Eurostar website, their trains are still in operation (most likely for those permitted to travel for professional purposes). 

However, by the middle of the day, successive European countries start to close their borders to Blighty. Belgium is one of the first amongst them. At this point, I’m starting to make peace with it all. It wouldn't be my first solo Christmas. However, at least I had some illusion of control over the situation the last time. 

Mum is way ahead of me. Even before news of the travel bans, she’s already decided it’s better to postpone. It’ll be less stressed, she explains. If she could visit, she’d almost definitely be subject to quarantine. The Belgian authorities have announced they are stepping up the monitoring process. I wouldn’t want mum to be effectively under house arrest. She says she wouldn’t mind being home all day. It would be a shame, nevertheless. For her to come to the City and not see any of it, even with the current restrictions. No twilight strolls admiring the luminous Christmas decorations...

You like to play by the rules, she reminds me, it won't be worth compromising.

Besides, she’ll be able to take longer leave in the New Year. There'll be less demand from other colleagues.

It's futile to fight it. Even if we didn’t both come to terms with the changes, the decision is taken squarely out of our hands when Eurostar cancels her train. I’ll have to wait longer to enjoy mum’s company and all the other knick-knacks I miss from the UK; either not available in Brussels or extortionately-priced.

Bloody 2020. It’s been that sort of year. Might as well finish as it went on; in solitary mode. 

Soundtrack: Personal Christmas Collection and Best of ...2017 Part 1 & 2

Loneliness and Christmas Lights

 

It’s official. The Christmas holidays have begun. Staff at The Trade Union Organisation can look forward to two additional weeks of annual leave, as is the custom.

We’ve been squeezing in as much activity as possible in the run-up. Crossing the ‘T’s and dotting the ‘I’s. Webinars, online office parties and a reassuringly constructive evaluation with my manager, Ama.

As the holidays approach, I detect a noticeable lightening of her mood. At the last team meeting, she gives us all glowing praise for punching above our weight. We’re the smallest department with the least resources but, she argues, we achieve more than most. All the more so under pandemic conditions. Having yet to have worked at TTUO for even six months, I feel uneasy about these plaudits. As rewarding as our work is, I’ve not been there long enough to have contributed a great deal.

On the last day before the office closure, I meet up for a mid-afternoon ramble around Parc George Henri with sweet Italian trainee, Gianna. It’s a sunny and invigorating winter’s day. She’s in good spirits. Her contract has been extended. Pending COVID test results, she’ll soon return home for an admittedly straitened Christmas as Italy plans for a harsh festive lockdown.

Gianna thanks me for introducing her to the park. It’s the first time I’ve been since the summer. The bare trees have not diminished its attractiveness. Gianna draws my attention to an adventure playground I either hadn’t noticed, or had ignored on the previous visit. There's a huge sculpture of an Easter Island figurehead lounging in the sand. The playground is practically deserted. We go mad on the slides and swings, before returning to our respective homes to join the online office party.

No end of year quizzes as I’d hoped. Just judging Chrimbo pet photos, colleagues’ prospective festive menus and alcohol recommendations I’ll never use. Colleagues exchange glamourous travel-related anecdotes from pre-COVID days. I see the faces of people whom I’ve only known by name. I long for real world contact with them all the more, especially at this time of year.

Parc Georges Henri (c) Luc Viatour

Most of my colleagues will be off for a good month, whilst I’ll only take a couple of extra days in the New Year. Whilst longer serving colleagues have been encouraged to use as much leave as they can before the cut-off point, I have to ration my pro-rata’d allocation. Besides, with Belgium still on 80 % lockdown and no relaxation of measures during festivities, there’s not much to keep me occupied at home.

There is a glimmer of hope. One that I only speak of with apprehension, as not to tempt fate. My mother is supposed to visit over Christmas. God willing and COVID restrictions permitting.

I have a couple of potential options in case it falls through. One comes from my colleague Steve, also newly arrived from the UK, his wife Sylvia and their wonderful, multi-cultural brood. Another is courtesy of a compassionate couple at my new church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM), who are opening their home to anyone who might be alone at this time. We’ve never met.

I appreciate the offers. It is better to have some choice than none. Still, I am doubtful I’d take them up even if, God forbid, I have to spend Christmas on my own. The thought occurs that being with comparative – or total- strangers somehow would intensify the loneliness.

By coincidence, as it became clear the Belgian authorities were pursuing a harsher festive anti-viral strategy, my few remaining outlets for social interaction have slowly fallen away. Inchoate friendships at church are put on hold, as new acquaintances return to their respective countries to spend the holidays with family. Auntie Carol warns me in advance she’ll be in hibernation before her seasonal trip back home to the West Indies. She texts me the day before she flies out.

The South American man-of-fashion has officially been downgraded to waste-man status. I won’t dignify this non-story with too much detail. Suffice to say I have had to give him the benefit of the doubt pretty much from the outset. He’s spent all his lifelines with one too many mind games and cruel, not to mention, childish antics. It’s always sad to come to the realisation you were so wrong about a person. In fairness, he did once warn me that he wasn't well-adjusted, as hard as it was to believe at the time. When people tell you about themselves, take them at their word.

Another would-be suitor (who, by chance also works in the fashion industry), FWM’s Gerry Rose (yep, that’s his government name), has also disappeared into the ether. I never like to string anyone along. Since I mentioned that my intentions were purely platonic, I’ve noticed a distinct cooling on his part. No more texts to check on my well-being or propose another park stroll. Hmm. I make a mental note to give fashion designers a wide berth in future.

Conversely, a number of blasts-from-the-past have re-emerged after several months, or even years, off the radar. I’m pleasantly surprised-or rather shocked – when a couple of emails from errant acquaintances drop into my inbox.

It’s been a good time to reconnect in general, albeit remotely. Rob-the-Kidnapper has also crept out of the woodwork recently. Very late one evening, he unceremoniously sends me a message demanding to know my thoughts on the US election. No greeting or pleasantries. I let him know I’m not impressed after months of radio silence (a chance meeting at a metro station notwithstanding), and ignore his request. He persists with some other topical news items. I relent. By text or email, we debate the crisis in Ethiopia, gender relations and various perspectives on scripture. Instead of calling, he sends excessive amounts of messages, despite my protests. I can’t lie. I’m glad for the stimulation even if he’s an arrant contrarian. Half the time I don’t know if he really believes what he says, merely wants to elicit a reaction or both.

Text controversies aside, real world stimuli is still lacking. After railing against the solitude, I have no choice but to embrace it and make my own fun. As I have so often had to do. I’m tired of being at the mercy of others’ whims or scheduling. Trips to the supermarket, bookshops and aimless wandering are elevated far above the mundane nowadays.

My attitude towards Christmas this year is notably ambivalent. I am sluggish to put up the decorations. I decide to wait until after the cleaning lady, Melissa, has done her pre-festive rounds. Since moving in, I’ve signed up to the Titres-Services programme. I pay a monthly subscription through which I can benefit from a pool of cleaning personnel. To ensure that I don’t completely mutate into a champagne socialist, I only avail myself of the service every fortnight. I still clean my own toilet bowl in between.

In these undesirably quiet times, I’m immensely grateful for the company. On this occasion, Melissa is particularly loquacious. I’m glad for the French practice and the interaction, although keen to get back to finalising my end-of-year blogs. She asks if I have kids. Not yet. If it's God's will. I don't know...but I love children anyway...

I'm the same she replies but I love other people's children.

I later realise that her verbosity is for my benefit not hers. She’s married with a house full of kids. She perceives my loneliness and her emotional intelligence kicks in. And to think domestic work is often described as ‘low-skilled’. Nonsense. As if there’s such a thing. How many therapists can offer solace whilst cleaning a whole flat inside three hours? There’s something intensely moving about her gesture. I well up at the thought of it.

Back to my subdued Christmas plans. After Melissa leaves, I dutifully put up the decorations, glad to have it out of the way. I’ve decided to switch on the fairy lights only if and when mum arrives.

Brussels City Centre

One concession to festive cheer is meandering around Brussels to enjoy the City in its yuletide splendour. Having relocated from Strasbourg, not undeservedly known as the ‘Capital of Christmas’, I must admit Brussels holds its own. Even with the absence of the Christmas market this year, which I’m yet to experience. With all that's happened this year, I didn't think local authorities would bother. Also for fear the lights would attract a crowd, as has happened.

I’m a woman of simple pleasures. An ordinary walk around tastefully-illuminated Bourse, Grande Place and Ixelles, with good music streaming through my ears, is enough to warm the heart. Even parts of my local Woluwe-Saint-Lambert neighbourhood are festively stunning. Thanks to these regular excursions, I'm also getting to know the city even better.

At home, I try to throw myself into Advent. I attend online Carol Services in which geographical distance would have otherwise precluded my participation. At night, I am comforted from the seasonal resources courtesy of a Chaplain friend, before I close my eyes for more fitful sleep.

Lockdown: The Sequel

A few weeks into the second round of lockdowns that have swept across much of Western Europe, there are signs that the sacrifice is slowly paying off in Belgium. Thank God. Infection rates and hospital admissions are moving in the right direction. Any optimism however, must remain extremely cautious. Some of this success could be attributed to extended school holidays. 

Recently announced festive plans favour commerce and little else. Depressingly, the tight restrictions on indoor gatherings will remain until mid-January. Neither will restaurants, cafés and most cultural venues be re-opening. It's as if the Belgian authorities expect people to flout the rules over the Christmas season. Thus, they're not giving any leeway, as to offset any possible breaches.

Day to day, the sense of routine is more maddening than reassuring. I remark to friends and family that to an extent, I’m struggling more this time than during the even stricter quarantines of spring. A few echo my sentiments. I don’t want to over-romanticise the difficulties of Lockdown Part 1. Domestic and other forms of (often gender-based) violence rocketed. There was of course the widespread economic devastation for many. Not to mention those already in a fragile psychological state. All travel plans came to an abrupt halt. On a personal front, like many living alone I was completely isolated save for some online community. I had the additional stress of unemployment. 

On the material front, life has improved drastically since March. I found work and moved countries. Thank God, I'm still in good health despite the continued circulation of a vicious virus.

Yet mentally, there’s a particular weariness accompanying Lockdown: Part 2. There’s neither the shock or novelty of the situation to cushion the blow. It’s also leading up to winter in the Northern Hemisphere. There’s no longer the warmth or heartening abundance of sunlight that characterised this year’s unseasonably clement Spring.

Whereas online audio/visual platforms proved a lifeline during the First Wave, personally the charms of community-by-Zoom are wearing off fast. My desire for human interaction and -on the work front- the professional imperative, demand that I interact with these apps despite ever-diminishing returns. On one hand, with more time in theory and less reasons to step outside, I have more opportunities to catch up with friends at a distance. I reconnect with acquaintances with whom I haven’t spoken in years, including a celebrated writer and pundit now based in the German capital. Another one-and-a-half hour conversation with a long-lost friend, builds up to the announcement that she’s divorcing her childhood sweetheart. As she stoically recounts the hellish last five years of her life, it puts things in perspective.

And yet…

There are days I’m bouncing off the walls from the minute I wake up. The thought of another whole day of quasi-house arrest fills me with dread. Or rather, the familiar feeling of light depression eating away at the peripheries. The spontaneous crying on a regular basis is a sure sign. One morning, to combat the especially lachrymose Monday blues, I spin Sade's modern-day secular Psalm King of Sorrow.

There's nothing anyone can say to take this away. Just another day. Nothing [feels] any good.

Boy, that hits the spot.

It's as if lockdown removes all the pros about being single and leaves mostly the cons.  I make a point to leave my flat at least once a day. Preferably during the lunch hour whilst it’s still daylight. Occasionally, my gamble doesn’t pay off. Work duties encroach on my break. By the time I step out for a quick jaunt round the neighbourhood, I’m late back for a work meeting much to the consternation of my increasingly ill-humoured supervisor, Ama. Navigating her shifting-moods is exacting more psychic energy than I can spare.

Work is otherwise good. Busy but good. I’m becoming more autonomous; albeit with much still to learn. The projects and campaigns on which I’m working have never been more urgent than in the current crisis. Thank God I can be useful at a moment like this. Yet the atomisation that comes from having to constantly WFH is tough for us social butterflies. I’ve never been a homebody. The first lockdown necessitated it. I adapted and survived but it’s still not second nature. With the closure of all eating establishments and cultural centres, it’s not as if there are many other chances for sustained offline social interaction.

I am so grateful for any occasion to get outside. The streets are no longer enveloped in the ghostly quiet of the first lockdown. (Admittedly I was living in France where, until very recently, restrictions were generally harsher). One Sunday afternoon, when a newly made acquaintance cancels a promenade because of bad weather, I improvise one of my own. Rain, fierce winds et al. There’s no such thing as a wasted journey. Contrary to the advice by some health experts, I make frequent shopping trips. When I arrive to find my local Aldi’s closed earlier than I expected one evening, I don’t curse the heavens. I’m just pleased to be out in the elements. I've developed a tendency to leave the radio on when I go for my twilight walks, so I don't return home to silence.

My local shopping centre in Woluwe is comfortingly serene. There are still sufficiently-distanced corners to sit, snack, read… I even stumble across a deserted Chapel on one of my visits, seizing a chance to collect my thoughts in the calm setting.

When I can, I arrange to meet with colleagues and new acquaintances for one of the state-approved park strolls. Meanwhile, the intervals between catch-ups with the South American have widened. For all his seemingly enchanting whimsy, otherworldliness and not conforming to masculine clichés, I worry that he might just be another fickle and unreliable hetero. He has a habit of ignoring my text proposals to meet up, only to send me a cheery non-sequitur out of the blue. Or to leave me an (admittedly flattering) voice message about how he misses the 'melody of my voice' and the 'poetry' of how I speak. Hmm. It's as if he only comes alert when he's being ignored. 

At one point he invites me round to dine. No matter how good a first impression, I don't make a habit of going alone to men's homes; especially those I hardly know. I eventually agree, telling myself not to be too rigid but still mentally hedging my bets. I pray for divine intervention if it's not to be. A couple of hours before our scheduled Sunday lunch, he texts to say he's too exhausted and wants to postpone. Hmm. Trying to work out if he's on a power trip or just incredibly disorganised is another mental workout that I. Do. Not. Need. 

I default to my natural spiritual posture; wrestling with God. It’s not that I don’t recognise a foxhole. Or even need one to call on the Almighty. God is ever-present. I am just seeking a more tangible experience.  More often than not, it feels like screaming into the void and other clichés. Not just about my own sadness but the state of the world.

Speaking of spiritual outlets, despite the disruption I’ve managed to find some church community. Ironically, the first time I attend a Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries, it's the last before places of worship are obligated to close. I have a presentiment something isn’t right when one of the welcome team mentions Pastor Mike has some ‘special announcements’ to make. 

With a ready smile and a comically-broad Afrikaans accent, he’s a man of unbelievable good cheer. Suspiciously good, at first. Such that it would be impossible to maintain if it weren’t innate. 

Pastor Mike explains that the authorities changed their mind literally from one day to the next. His message is adapted in accordance to the news; acknowledging the turmoil whilst suitably encouraging.

Afterwards, I have the opportunity to speak to the man himself. I confess the closure comes as a blow. From late September/early October I have been visiting churches. I didn’t realise how much I missed Sunday services in real time. Fresh Wine had been on my radar for a while. I’d been following them from afar. 

I’ve avoided joining Anglophone congregations as not to get stuck in an expat bubble. The church offers a bilingual service (English to French translation of which I avail myself). It’s a compromise I can live with. Unlike other Anglophone churches, it attracts a number of Francophones. Also contrary to other churches I visited, COVID-19 restrictions are not a reason/excuse to be guarded or unwelcoming to newcomers. Fresh Wine members seem genuinely warm and friendly. Thanks to one or two serendipitous encounters on and offline, I meet up with a couple of them on separate occasions for the aforementioned state-approved park walks. (One said acquaintance, Gerry Rose, is like a dark-skinned Senegalese version of the capricious South American. Except more reliable. By coincidence, both are deceptively* camp fashion designers who are apparently attracted to voluptuous, cocoa-complexioned African chicks. Go figure. No sparks with Gerry on my end but that's a boon. I can enjoy his company without being all in my feelings)

*I like to believe I'm forward-thinking enough to realise that not all gay men are camp and vice versa. Heck, I've seen enough examples that defy the stereotype. Alas, socialised-instincts are hard to kick.

There’s much to recommend FWM. Pastor Mike clearly doesn’t take himself too seriously. The church has an outward focus and is pragmatic in its approach to God’s kingdom. It doesn’t espouse pie-in-the-sky theology. They've begun organising monthly lamentation evenings-in the spirit of the psalms.  The objective is to have a safe space for people to mourn all that this turbulent season has churned up. For the inaugural event, I'm crying before I even log-in.

It helps that Fresh Wine's senior pastors are not all Caucasian and/or  male. Mike and his wife Tasha, diverge from the usual. They’re both offspring of multi-generational mixed-heritage families from the Cape. They have a late youth/early middle-aged vitality, whilst old enough to remember what it was like living under Apartheid.

I am forthcoming about all these considerations. Pastor Mike seems to appreciate my honesty. 

A few weeks later I join an online newcomers meeting. Mike is chipper as ever, despite having just recovered from the dreaded virus.

I am fairly distracted, having lively bilingual private conversations using the chat function. 

During the Q&A, I point out that singles (especially women) shouldn't be sidelined the way churches have a tendency to do. My remarks receive enthusiastic assent from fellow singles, as well as (married) Pastor Mike. FWM is doing its best but, he admits, more could be done.

Another new-ish member, reeling from her mother’s recent demise, commandeers the introductions segment. Mike’s polite interventions are in vain. Loneliness compels her to monopolise the floor as long as she can get away with it. The meeting thus finishes later than scheduled. My positive appraisal of FWM is reinforced. Still, it would have been so much better if we could have all met offline.

Here We Go...Again?

Life and its ironies. My last blog was an account of the social ties I’ve been steadily establishing in Brussels. I called it Girl About Town. I was entertaining a follow up about charming evenings spent in the company of a thoughtful, bright, handsome and slightly effete South American. But then COVID.

As I write, the Belgian government is deciding whether to go the way of its French neighbour and instate a full lockdown.
I really shouldn’t be bewildered by the mayhem wreaked by this virus. If this year should have taught us (or rather reminded us of) anything, it’s to hold all plans loosely and expect the unexpected. Heck, my own life should have taught me that control is an illusion. And yet…

Maybe it’s the innate optimist in me. It’s not as if the signs weren’t already there. Perhaps I was too busy burying my head in the sand as news circulated that Belgium was regaining its disgraceful position of having one of the worst infection and death rates per capita. The piecemeal government has been tightening restrictions ; an illogical ban on bars and cafés whilst restaurants were still allowed to remain open. Nevertheless, I was genuinely blindsided by the month-long blanket closures of eating establishments (save for take-away) issued mid-October. Teleworking is all but compulsory, which means no breaking up of my week with occasional days in the office. 

Priorities. I understand that this is a deadly disease that has claimed the lives of well over a million people globally. Drastic times, drastic measures. But my already high concern for the psychological toll of quarantine-style orders only increases. Then there's the shadow pandemic of domestic violence that has seen a frightening surge over the past months.

Like many, I feel the heaviness of 2020’s fear, uncertainty and, maybe worst of all, isolation all the more as the year draws to an end.

Yes, the public might have become a little too eager to socialise after the lockdown but widespread government mismanagement and inconsistent instructions don’t help.  Belgian's notorious linguistic divide affects policy. There's also the significant -not to mention farcical- issue of having nine, yes nine, health ministers. Too many cooks...

Belgian prime minister Alexander De Croo, claims the situation is worse than six months ago. That now even those in semi or full isolation are catching the disease. Tu m’etonnes. Six or seven months ago the kids weren’t at school. That’s the major difference. Not to diminish the very difficult balancing act between children’s social and educational development and the general well-being of everyone else, we shouldn’t be astonished to see a spike in cases after schools have re-opened.

The weekend after the new measures are announced, I’m in a state. I can’t think or speak about it without crying. I look back on the past month’s or so activities; from the aforementioned socials to charitable endeavours. I weep for the promising connections I was beginning to form; still too fragile to be able to count on.

A friend from the UK calls just as I’m about to step out to the shops. I appreciate the gesture; touched that I came to mind. However, his Christian fatalism ticks me off. I wish I have the presence of mind to properly challenge it.

What a difference a day makes. Just the evening before, shortly before the announcements, I am out with my Caribbean auntie Carol at an even more disappointing DJ set (clue: no DJ) at Plein Publiek. The company is a mixed bag. Along for the ride is a St Lucian friend; a contrarian, who likes the sound of his voice. What he says is mostly horse manure. He asks if I ‘chat Caribbean’.

No. I’m African.

So you don’t chat Caribbean?

He brings along a younger Tunisian friend who appears to be drunk on arrival. He hits on me constantly. Perhaps partly out of vanity, I entertain it somewhat, to my regret. He keeps interrupting my conversations to make non-sequiturs such as ‘You look American. Doesn’t she look American?’ or to get angry with me for not paying him the requisite attention. At some point he offers to draw a cartoon animal version of me.

Mr Tunisia and Mr St Lucia don’t really have a language in common but somehow manage to communicate.

Thank goodness, Carol’s other acquaintance is far more agreeable. Originally from North-West England, Simon has lived in Belgium more than half his life. He’s very candid about various health issues and an unhappy domestic set-up. His first lockdown lasted longer than most, having had to shield because of a pre-existing condition. 

You can take away bars and cafés, he reasons, but please don’t take away all the places I can eat and talk with good company.

An hour or so later, after Simon has dropped Carol and I off at our respective homes, we learn of the tighter anti-COVID measures. I send him a supportive message.

By the following week, the Belgian government stops just short of a much-discussed second lockdown. All cultural venues and sports centres are to close from Monday. A 10pm-6am curfew is ordered. I go to the cinema twice that weekend, whilst I still can.

On top of the latest constraints, it’s another hectic week at work. Ama, already not exactly sunny by nature, is in an especially foul mood. Her sinuses are giving her grief. She’s overworked, fed up with all that 2020 has thrown at us and who-knows-what-else is going on. I get caught on the sharp end once or twice. I’m not the only one. I can never take it personally with her. It’s just how she is. 

I’m grateful for every kind word and thought elsewhere. For a good conversation with a friend whom I thought had dropped off the radar. For the surprise texts from acquaintances whom I haven’t heard from in a while. For another enchanting afternoon spent with the South American. For the sound life advice that one occasionally finds on YouTube. I greatly appreciate the reinvigorating fellowship of an (unintentionally) all female online church cell group I gatecrash.

All these are well-needed fortification for the weeks to come. I’m trying not to think further ahead.

G.A.T.

Now I’m no longer looking for accommodation, I can focus on making a life in Brussels.

Things are hectic on the work front. We have successive online workshops from late September to mid-October. My manager, Ama asks if I’m ready to lead some sessions. Looking for an opportunity to pop my presentation cherry at the TTUO, I accept. I like feeling useful. 

I am immensely aware of the privilege of doing a job that potentially makes a positive difference in the real world; to be able to work on issues that are close to my heart. At the same time, I am soul searching over how much my personal views align with certain aspects of the movement. Particularly on social issues. I’ve always found myself at odds as a Christian engaged in politics. I often feel like an outlier. I’m either too economically to the left for some or too socially conservative for others. It’s an opportunity for growth nonetheless. A chance to wrestle with my own values and beliefs; fine tune or adapt if and where necessary.

Things on the socialising front are also starting to pick up. (As much as COVID restrictions allow, that is. Figures in the Brussels region are especially worrying.)

Unlike Strasbourg, I don't have a hard time meeting folk of the same generation who aren't already married and too ensconced in domestic life to fraternise.

Having survived being (sort of) abducted by Rob, we meet up a few weeks later. Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment. 

Rob has no filter. He treats me like his priest or therapist, making all sorts of personal confessions I have no business knowing. Some things can’t be unheard. 

He flirts with me in a quasi-aggressive way. As with his lurid anecdotes, I’m not sure if he’s trying to get a rise out of me. 

I’m not a tease. I let him know that he’s not getting any play. His romantic life sounds too complicated.  I accuse him of being slutty. I'm nobody's side chick.

Things become very interesting when I explain (not for the first time) that I’m celibate. He reacts with a mix of fascination and taking personal offence. In my experience, it’s a typical response from the male species; even if there were no romantic designs. Annoyed by the idea of one less potential conquest. 

He asks why I don't go for Christian men. As if it's that easy. I explain the pre-pandemic, vastly disproportionate female:male ratio in church. In that sense, it's a numbers game as much as destiny. Even in the less common cases where there's balance, the men are usually already spoken for. I don't get round to speaking about The Rest. Let's just say there are compatibility issues.  Whilst there's no shortage of vibrant and dynamic Christian women, the men often lack the same well-roundedness. Too 'churched'. Those who don't fall into that category usually aren't single. Et cetera, et cetera.

Ignoring the explicit faith-based reasons for my lifestyle choice, Rob presumes I've never been in love. Or that it's a result of trauma.

How condescending...(and insulting)...I haven't been molested if that's what you're getting at...

Rob brings out an irritable side for which I apologise more than once. 

He takes to sending me links to videos about the Christian faith or politics. He also emails choice scriptures, somewhat passive aggressive. 

Rob and I have talked about faith quite a bit. He's spent time in a monastery. He's intrigued and clearly searching. I want to be a help rather than a hindrance. Our complicated dynamic makes it a challenge, nonetheless.

For all his foibles, Rob is sharp and entertaining. He’s also a veritable M.A.T; Man About Town. He has a great circle of friends, some of whom speak very well of him; both beyond and within earshot. If that's anything to go by, he can’t be so bad. One evening, after a fraught conversation over drinks, we’re joined by Rob’s merry band of mulattos. My first impression is that they've been friends for years, if not decades. I'll later learn some of them have only known each other for mere months.

They're a cultured set too. I’m in my element. We discuss everything from semantics and international politics to West African cuisine and Brazilian music. I despair at the lack of Rob's knowledge of 90s R&B.  

A few days later, he invites me to an afternoon of board games and quizzes in the Ixelles area. 

It's the annual designated no-car day. The roads are eerily quiet, except for the odd thundering of skateboards collectively sailing down the empty streets. 

I get lost en route. By pure happenstance, I bump into one of Rob's crew, easy-on-the-eye Diego. I'm delighted to see him. We have already established a fast rapport. He's very complimentary about my outfit. Alas, he’s not staying for the festivities. I ask him not to leave me alone with his unruly friend. Rob’s so much better behaved when he’s with his chums. 

With mischief in his eye, Diego alludes to some suppressed attraction. I’m genuinely gutted to see him go. (A few weeks later, he and I will spend an enchanting Saturday evening in each other's company. But that's for another blog. Perhaps).

I win the quiz by fluke rather than comprehensive knowledge. Thus, despite my competitive streak, the victory feels a little hollow. 

Also along for the ride is Rob's friend, Carol. She’s a no-nonsense older Caribbean woman who keeps him in check. I take to her instantly. We exchange numbers. I invite her to an event the following weekend. I forward her the link. She passes, believing it too abstract for her taste.

She’s not wrong. The event is organised by some good acquaintances at one of my haunts at Botanique. It’s supposed to be a showcase and open mic. It’ll be the first such event I’ve attended in forever. My previous after-hours experience at the same venue was mixed to say the least. I attended for the sake of the vivacious and intelligent organiser, Fatima. The crowd is rather insular and monocultural. I duck out as soon as I can.

This time I imagine something quite different; more diverse and sophisticated. 

There’s a queue outside the venue. Once again, I’m not enthused to see the crowd is not as cosmopolitan as hoped. Fatima works her way down the line, only admitting those who intend to perform. I came prepared. 

Inside, I realise it’s not my crowd. I don't think they'd appreciate one of my acappella Jazz, Gospel or Bossa numbers. Maybe I’m too old. Or it’s too much of a Hip-Hop slam vibe. 

Thankfully, the bartender Mario comes to my rescue. He’s one of the first people with whom I had a real conversation in Brussels. We’re a similar age. Like me, he’s not a Brussels native. Originally from Costa Rica, he spent much of his formative years in Sicily. Our common language is French. 

We’re long overdue a drink, I tell him. I won’t sniff at any opportunity to build social ties.

The following week I meet up with Carol for a DJ set in town. A few days earlier Rob calls to invite me out for dinner. I decline. Too tired. I mention my plans with Carol.

Oh yeah? I’ll be there too.

So much for a ladies’ night out.

I arrive at the event half way, having finished work later than usual. Carol and her friends are about to leave. Charitably, she hangs around to keep me company. No sign of Rob. Ear infection, Carol explains.  She ran into him earlier in the day; another anecdote-worthy incident. Everything about Rob is a caper; as if he’s a real life sitcom character.

The music policy is more commercial than expected. The highlight is a mass singalong to Toto's Africa. Dancing is forbidden under COVID. (Why then, bother with the event?). That doesn’t prevent a drunk chick almost falling over me, leaping around to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now.

It’s a rainy, uninspired Brussels evening. The music selection is hit-and-miss. Yet Carol’s company is enough to compensate. She calls to mind another of my West Indian aunties. That would explain the instant fondness.

Soundtrack: The Eddy OST, Placebo by Carrie Baxter