Déjà Vu

It’s a month since I arrived in Brussels. My concept of time is already warped. Some of the experience has passed in a blink of an eye. Other aspects feel like a distant memory. That’s nothing new. I felt the same living in Strasbourg. I was based in North-East France for roughly two and half years. A relatively brief period. Yet there are times those early memories from 2017/2018 feel so much further away than they are. I can’t blame it all on the distortions of living through a pandemic. It comes with the territory of getting older. Everything appears to speed up post-18. Back in my student days, a fellow undergrad put it down to the rapid life changes after leaving school. Up until that point so much is determined by a routine over which we had very little control.

20-odd years later, his theory still holds up.

Of course, there is no getting around the impact of a global health crisis on social norms. I have to keep reminding myself of the effect it is having on adapting to a new work environment. The physical distancing measures at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) are very strict. With our presence in office heavily constrained, I am meeting very few of my colleagues. Add to that the usual summer lull – which COVID-19 hasn’t changed the way I’d expected – and my whole initial one-year contract could pass before I’ve begun to form proper working relationships.

There is nonetheless a thick silver lining. I have the time to adjust to my new life at a slower pace. Working from home has its drawbacks. Contending with the morning commute is not one of them. Furthermore, in finding alternative spaces to WFH beyond my hotel room, I have become acquainted with the personnel at various eating establishments in central Brussels. There’s Mehmet, the red-head Belgian-Turk who in addition to his mother tongue speaks fluent English, Dutch, smatterings of German but hardly any French. Abdul, the gregarious proprietor of an organic café in Botanique, takes easy continental living to an extreme; shutting up shop days before a national holiday in the name of faire le pont. In the same neck of the woods, I meet Afro-Cuban festival curator, Leonardo (or Lenni) and Sanaa, his idiomatic-English speaking, Belgo-Afghan colleague, at the Point Culture; one of many such hubs dotted across the city.

Back in the office, I’m encouraged by the interactions I’ve had thus far. My team are doing their utmost to cooperate and maintain regular communication under the current restrictions. Emails are prefaced with Dear Sister, or less common Dear Brother... (Personally, I prefer Dear comrade. It's rooted in the workers' struggle and gender neutral. I appreciate the familial sentiment, however).

Before she goes on leave, my manager Ama instructs me to shadow another colleague, Demetria. Having only interacted via computer screens, we meet for the first time in person during my second week. I discover her to be as warm and down-to-earth as she has appeared from afar. In between brainstorming about projects related to GBV and harassment at work and the effects of the pandemic on migrant workers, we swap life experiences. Demetria relocated from her native Thessaloniki to Brussels to study International Relations. She speaks five languages and is learning her sixth. A similar age, we ponder the unfulfilled Brave New World promises that we Xennials/older millennials were fed growing up. We talk about cultural adaptation from our different perspectives.

Point Culture, Brussels

Over the coming weeks I’ll observe her weep genuine tears over the untimely death of one of our partners; a vibrant young Mexican trade unionist with whom she’d only very recently been in contact. I’ll watch Demetria both assert herself but maintain her sang-froid whilst an abrasive colleague is scandalously unprofessional during a conference call. I’ll listen as she comfortably conducts virtual meetings in her second, third and fourth languages (English, Spanish, French...). Demetria implores me to resume my long dormant Spanish study. TTUO works with many monolingual Hispanophone comrades. I’m less keen. I have enough basic knowledge to pick up bits and pieces but I fell out of love with Español many years ago. Neither do I want it interfering with my Portuguese study. Nevertheless, three weeks into the job, I concede it would at least be useful to improve my passive Spanish skills.

I soon have the opportunity to make myself useful. I contribute to the design of a survey on global migration, translate here and there, proof-read and facilitate online discussions, amongst miscellaneous tasks. Demetria organises introductory Zoom conversations with overseas partners. I’m finally discovering what has become the new normal for many office-based professionals. A substantial part of the working day is spent in online meetings and/or webinars. Being new, I want to avail myself of them all. Making a valiant effort at first, I realise it's impossible. A whole day could go past having done little else. Hard choices must be made.

I still have a growing backlog of background reading that I have less and less time to do during office hours. I squeeze in what I can whilst using public transport, alternating between work-related reading and Portuguese study.

Yet I really can’t complain on the work front. Ça va bien. Thank God for small mercies.

The ongoing hunt for a flat is less smooth. The TTUO only guarantee my temporary digs for a month. I’ll be paying my way after then. I had hoped to find somewhere by 21 July; Belgium’s national holiday. The office would be closed, making it easier for me to move and less reliant on the two days relocation leave afforded us. 

It is not to be. I spend a solitary Fête Nationale in my short-term studio rental, catching up on reading, podcasts and speaking to family and friends.

More and more of my viewings are cancelled before the chance to see the property. Someone has pipped me to the post. Others fill me with niggling doubts. Eerily quiet surroundings with limited transport connections or slap bang in the middle of commercial areas. Promising flats are marred by half-finished renovation and/or detritus still remaining from the previous tenant. If they can’t get their act together for a viewing, it doesn’t augur well for future relations. Some properties aren’t available before the autumn, as I discover on one occasion half-way through the visit.

I attend a viewing one lunch time, a stone’s throw from my office. There are several of us. The space is newly renovated but on closer inspection, something is amiss. The agent shrugs when I ask why the wardrobe appears to have had its doors removed. The main bedroom isn’t a room at all; just a sectioned off part of the living room. Worst of all are the poorly maintained communal areas. When a few of us make an early exit, we discover that the front door is missing its handle. A young lady spots the broken knob lying on the floor for residents to re-attach. Something the estate agent somehow concealed. Considering a bulk of the bills go towards the upkeep of said communal areas and little else, this is not reassuring.

Towards the end of my first month, I feel thoroughly demoralised. And frightened. I’m yet to receive my first salary. Tax at source is significant. I don’t want to gripe. I consider it my civic duty to contribute financially to the common good. It will however have a significant influence on my budget. I now have to consider extending my temporary accommodation; something I’d hoped wouldn’t happen. My mind frequently goes back to the stress of my early days in Strasbourg, where it took me six weeks to find a flat; hopping from one AirBnB to another.

With the confidence of those who know Brussels well, my TTUO colleagues assure me that I’ll find somewhere decent for a reasonable price. I am encouraged by these positive prognostications but time is of the essence.

The longer it takes to find accommodation, the longer it takes for me to settle in. The longer it takes to find and build community. Brussels makes up in vibrancy and culture what it lacks in general aesthetic appeal. There has been a (sometimes worrying) resumption of activity post-lockdown. Yet moving to a new City intensifies the sense of alienation that has characterised 2020 so far. I feel adrift, separated for so long from those who have known me longest and/or best. This rootlessness isn’t helped by the realisation that even some of these relationships are fractured. Emigrating has only made the cracks more evident. 

Much of the online spiritual nourishment that has been a lifeline these past months takes place during office hours. I still participate, not wanting to lose focus on what’s most important. Yet I do have to adapt to this new life season. 

Soundtrack: Women in Music III by Haim, Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo.

A Change of Scene: Part 2

Flat hunting allows me to kill two birds with one stone. As well as trying to secure accommodation, I am becoming acquainted with Brussels in all its damp and/or overcast glory. (On average, it rains more than half the year in Brussels. The climate has been true to form since my arrival. Summer? What summer?)

 I have visited the Belgian capital on a number of occasions. Now having relocated here for work, as oppose to floating around as a tourist, I see it with completely different eyes. A big city girl most of my life, I'm already out of the habit having lived in a glorified-village for two-and-a half-years. Brussels isn't a mega-city like London yet feels larger and more intimidating than I recall. Furthermore, I thought I’d already mentally prepared for the sense of isolation that accompanies moving to a new city with no connections. Clearly not entirely. I'm occasionally overwhelmed at the thought of being unmoored.

As well as looking for long term shelter, I also make my enquiries regarding sustenance of another kind. On my request, a Strasbourg-based uncle (cultural, no relation) who use to live in Brussels has provided me with a helpful survival list.

The unpronounceably-Dutch Colruyt falls into the budget-shopping category. Its vast warehouse set-up does include some genuine bargains including wholemeal pasta, a wide variety of cheeses and an impressive Pic-N-Mix. However, the meat section is exorbitant as are household goods. I don’t care much for the payment system either. There is no proper check out service. One is obligated to either hold their items or leave them in a trolley whilst a sales assistant scans each by hand. Looks as if it'll be a mix-and-match job, procuring different items from various retailers to ensure the best prices.

Fortunately, in that same corner of Schaerbeek (No, I don’t know how to pronounce it either) I stumble across Aldi (far better than what I came across in France or even Germany) and a world market where I can purchase meat at a much more sensible price.

As for spiritual bread, I've made my peace with the fact that finding a church in Brussels will be a longer process than anticipated. It's much larger than Strasbourg for a start. Online services in the wake of COVID makes it simultaneously easier and harder to gauge. I'm also keenly observing how Belgian churches have responded to the social unrest following George Floyd's murder. The response on the Continent has generally been unimpressive from what I've seen or heard so far. One minister goes as far as to call the protests a work of the Devil. Good grief. There's no perfect church of course but neither should I rush the decision. To be continued...

The day before I start my new role, my future line manager, Ama, schedules an informal meet up. She is the director of the Diversity & Inclusion Department (D&I). My specific projects will revolve around gender relations in the Trade Union context as well as supporting migrants' rights. Already having great salience before the pandemic, they're thrown into stark relief all the more now.

Ama and I meet in the Bourse area which has changed beyond recognition. Ama agrees.

She treats me to a delicious virgin cocktail whilst we discuss our similar West African backgrounds, international politics, work culture and natural Afro haircare. Over the next few days it becomes apparent how much our political worldview overlaps. We lament that Jeremy Corbyn has been replaced by Keir Starmer and the latter's complacency over Afrophobia and other double standards. We swap notes on insidious forms of racism, converge on the importance of political education and paraphrase Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Paolo Freira and Stuart Hall. It’s stimulating to say the least. I revise my initial impression of her diffidence. Ama doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

Turning to more practical matters, I ask about TTUO’s physical distancing guidelines. She explains that the usual office-based routine hasn’t resumed and colleagues are only permitted on site based on a rota. D&I has a generous WFH policy. In light of the Belgian government’s post-lockdown endorsement of teleworking, it’s all the more encouraged by the organisation.

After lunch with Ama, the afternoon is far spent. I head to my next viewing. En route I’m accosted by an attractive young Congolese fellow; full of compliments and wide-eyed, ahem, admiration. I’m flattered. He is polite, helpful and eager to meet up. I give him my business card. I would normally be on my guard but with no pre-existing networks in Belgium, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. On the other hand, I don’t want to mislead and hope my friendliness isn’t taken for more than just that. I needn't worry. I don't hear back from him.

I arrive at the viewing early, as has become my habit since missing one the previous week. The agent has no key to the property. We wait for the landlord to show up.

It’s a partially converted hotel. A gentleman sleeps rough outside. I am nervous about that, to my shame and latent hypocrisy.

Two oriental men let us into the building. The agent explains one of them is the proprietor, a new client. The flat itself isn’t what I expected. Let’s just say it doesn’t live up to the promise of the dazzling photos. It’s smaller, older and less pristine than advertised. The rent is pretty attractive. Not so low that it would be suspicious but a bargain considering it includes all bills and is in one of the most respectable parts of a capital city. Alas, if something seems too good to be true it probably is. By that stage I’ve viewed enough properties to have had this recurring experience. The apartment is taken under especially flattering light and/or photo-shopped or whatever the inanimate equivalent is. It’s a frustrating first few weeks for visits. There are a number of cancellations, false starts and general disappointment.

Thankfully, it's more auspicious on the professional front. I'm up early for my first day of work after less sleep than would be advisable. My office is slap bang in central Brussels. The immediate environs are pleasant, although that changes swiftly depending on which corner you turn. 

I arrive three quarters of an hour early. It’s either that or cutting it fine with an alternative route.
Head of HR, Émilie is an early bird too. She gives me a cheery welcome and good French practice.

Émilie spends most of the morning and some of the afternoon taking me through the organisational structure, work protocol, perquisites and introducing me to the very few colleagues scheduled to work in the office that day. Her brother, Serge oversees office supplies. He informs me that I have my pick of two swanky face masks, courtesy of TTUO.

Having previously communicated via email, I meet the sole IT technician on duty, Stijn. It takes him the whole day to set up my work laptop. Fortunately, I have come prepared with my basic PC. Efficient Stijn has the unintended curtness of the ever-so-slightly socially-challenged. I never cease to be amazed by how much IT personnel live up to the clichés. 

Émilie formally introduces me to all colleagues via email. One of the Comms team, Kimberley,  recognises my name from an unrelated webinar earlier on in the year. She had looked me up and wanted to approach me to write for a TTUO-related publication. Now, here I am. God is in the details.

I practise some Portuguese with Brazilian colleague Sandro. Bob, one of the assistant directors, introduces me to the main boss and fellow South African, Lauren. Her manner is at once salt-of-the-earth and somehow regal. She decides against hugging in respect of the physical distancing rules. She asks me how the flat-search is going.

Don’t settle, she advises. It’s a renter’s market. Hold out for what you really want. I find this reassuring given my experience thus far. And the fact it's TTUO currently paying for my hotel.

There’s more French practice later with the head of the West & Central African region, Rashidi.

Late that morning, I have a teleconference with the other members of the team. Ama re-introduces herself formally, as does project manager, Demetria whom I met during the interview. I’m yet to meet the others such as PA, Manuelle and project coordinator, Roos. They give me a comprehensive overview of the projects on which I’ll be working, conscious not to overwhelm me. By the end, I have a solid list of recommended reading to keep me busy until I start formal duties the following week. I discover later that, according to the roster, my physical presence is scarcely required in the office during my first month.

I have time for a brief lunch break in which I nab some winter essentials for a steal at a nearby high street.

It’s 6pm before I know it. My first few days follow a similar pattern. I'll meet and lunch with more colleagues, some of whom started working at TTUO before I was born.

A week later I’m still green and fresh, much to Ama's bemusement.  It’s invigorating to attend and/or contribute to numerous teleconferences on themes such as the plight of migrant farm workers during the global pandemic or encouraging more women to take up leadership roles in Trade Unions. My heart swells when I read about the campaigns on which I'll be working. I try to temper my excitement with realism. I can but take a day at a time. For today, at least, it feels very rewarding.

Soundtrack: What Kinda Music by Tom Misch & Yusef Dayes, Canyons by Young Gun Silver Fox.

A Change of Scene: Part 1

Brussels Grand Place.

I awake at 5am groggy, having spent a restless night not wanting to sleep through the alarm.

My train for Brussels via Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport leaves Strasbourg Central Station at 7am.

I wash, dress and put out the last remaining recycling and household rubbish. I package up the Internet Livebox to be posted on my behalf by my (now former) landlord. He’ll be coming round later that morning to prepare the flat for the next tenant, eager to move in ASAP.

I take a final look around what has been my home for the last two and a half years and give a salute. I drag my diabolically heavy suitcase downstairs. Spare keys are left on the dining table, originals in my old letterbox.

My  transport connections are straightforward, no time-wasting. Yet there are still only mere minutes to spare when I reach Gare Centrale terminus.

I’m leaving Strasbourg today.

I announce to the tram driver, as he steps out of his cabin. We continue to exchange pleasantries.

It’s a shame we didn’t meet before, he commiserates as we say our farewells.

I am leaving one bilingual region with a difficult history for another. One Germanic language (Alsatian) will be replaced by another (Dutch/Flemish) that I don't intend to learn.

En route, I update my blogs and check emails. The day before leaving, I formally notify all the members of my community Gospel choir who are not already aware. My email is accompanied by a personal recorded message of thanks and farewell. Incredibly supportive and affectionate responses pour in over the next few days.

At CdG Airport I log into the daily prayer meeting with Morphē Arts collective. It has been a lifeline since March. The regulars are surprised I've managed to join en route.

I’m exhausted but spend much of the journey unwisely fighting sleep. I finally succumb in the last half hour.

We pull into Brussels Midi Station. So far, so timely. No missed connections or delayed trains. I don't any time purchasing the monthly STIB travel card. I already have a flat viewing scheduled that afternoon. I just need to check in at my hotel in the Schaerbeek area and, if possible, sneak in a snooze.

Easier said than done. I have multiple itineraries (printed off Google maps) and a poor sense of direction. How the heck am I meant to know if I’m heading North-West or South-East? I’m not a bloody sailor.

The most reliable itinerary is locked inside aforementioned heavy suitcase. I’m too afraid to open it, for convenience’ sake. The instructions sent by the hotel turn out to be misleading. They assume I am travelling from Gare du Nord. I discover this the hard way, wandering around the wrong bus station, with its depressing stench of urine. Later, I spot a man emerging from a corner with his fly undone in broad daylight. It’s an unwelcome reminder that much of Brussels is less salubrious and aesthetically charming than its French near-neighbour.

Lugging my merciless suitcase around (not to mention stuffed back pack), I eventually work out a route to the hotel. The best part of my three hour window has been wasted. On the bus to Porte de Namur I finally open my suitcase to check the all but pointless itinerary. I’d have saved an hour if I’d done that sooner. As feared, I struggle to close the case again. A compromise is reached.

My new employers, The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) have put me up in studio flat-style accommodation, including breakfast and a laundry service. The establishment is run by Nik from The Netherlands. He responds to my French with English.

By the time I turn up at the reception I’m a little frazzled. He takes me through the check-in process in fluent but quaint Dutch English. I politely try to speed things along, aware that I don’t have much time before the viewing. I’ve already contacted the landlord to let him know I’m running late.

So you’re here for a month? asks Nik.

Well, for less I hope. I’m flat-hunting

His eyes light up. He was under the impression I was only in town for a short-term mission. He offers to show me available accommodation on the premises. That’s another viewing I can add to the growing list over the coming days.

I have just enough time to alleviate myself of the heavy load before I’m back out again. Not before I take a moment to appreciate the very attractive gigs.

My poor sense of orientation and increasing panic let me down again. I call the landlord, a jovial fellow called Guy, to let him know I have lost my bearings. He suggests a meeting point.
He is keen to show off his English. I am eager to maintain my French.

The accommodation is well equipped but a bit on the old side. The kitchen area is cramped and the bathroom is too close to the bedroom. It wouldn’t be convenient for guests. It’s the sort of place I’d have considered back when I was first flat-hunting in Strasbourg, before I eventually landed on my feet. I’m not looking to upgrade. Just something similar to what I have become accustomed.

I'm reconciled to higher rents. Being a capital, Brussels is more expensive than Strasbourg. However, there is a lot more chance of finding accommodation inclusive of all. I’ve adjusted my expectations accordingly but I will not be ripped off.

The first viewings are underwhelming.

Some flats are poorly lit. Or the kitchen area is too narrow and/or under-equipped. Sometimes it’s just a question of layout. Nik’s turns out to be one of the best of the bunch. The problem is the steep annual incremental rent increase. As with most of what I’ll see in my first few days or weeks, I’d potentially be paying more for less.

(courtesy of https://www.diaspordc.com/) 

I promise Guy I’ll be in touch with a response soon. I send a text the following the day. Sorry, it’s not the right fit.

Shortly after the viewing, curiosity leads me to explore the surrounding area. This is how I come to discover the famous Matonge neighbourhood; Brussels Quartier Africain. Some internal cultural compass instinctively leads me to the Black Quarters of these European cities. I had a similar experience in Strasbourg. Except Matonge is on another level.

Strasbourg’s paltry collection of African/Caribbean grocers and cosmetics suppliers is all the more risible in comparisons. If Brussels prices aren’t as competitive as London, they certainly have the same vast range of stock. Something else I missed in Strasbourg.

Much to my shock, UK Hair & Beauty chains have found their way to Matonge. And, similar to the UK, most of these establishments are run by South Asians. I get talking to Yusef, who moved from the Midlands to help run one of the Brussels-based chains. He explains how the empire has spread from the UK to Europe, buying up some of the competition. The comfort of brand familiarity is in conflict with my inner-socialist.

On one level I feel an instant affinity with the neighbourhood. I am disheartened nonetheless by signs of neglect. Unsightly refuse accumulating on street corners. The grubby condition of certain shops. I wonder if my disappointment/harsh evaluation is some form of internalised racism. Or just a frustration that too often in major European cities, local authorities don’t seem to invest as much in areas where much of the population are migrants from poorer nations. Can the degradation be blamed on divergent cultural norms? Could it be be that residents feel alienated and thus not as enthusiastic about environmental upkeep? Cleanliness is not a preserve of wealthier nations or even wealthy neighbourhoods. Anyone who has spent time in gentrified Shoreditch, East London could emphatically attest to that.

I duck into corners that lead into arcades heaving with activity. Nail shops and hairdressers one end, food vendors and clothes shops the other. Men of all descriptions loiter in groups. I feel the weed-thick air shift when I move into these spaces. As I circle the area, the female proprietors shoot daggers at me. It’s a strangely hostile reaction to a potential customer. Perhaps they already discern I’m a foreigner. Whatever their reasons, I can’t get out of that uninviting environment soon enough. So much for sis’ advice to find a hairdresser. (Thankfully, happenstance will lead me to friendlier and/or more professional-looking salons in the coming week).

I walk the length and breadth of the road, wanting to familiarise myself with the locality should any future guests wish to be escorted. I compare product prices and make a mental note of where to buy gari. By the time I complete this unexpected excursion, I am thoroughly unnerved by the scrutiny of the far-too-many-idle men in the vicinity.

I make another mental note to only come to this neck of the woods when I am on a specific mission.