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