A Place to Call Home: Part 1

 

After a charming parenthesis in Bruges, it’s back to reality. Shortly after my return, the news comes to light that a colleague has contracted the old 'Rona. Symptoms are mild and they're recovering well. However, anyone rostered to work in the office the previous couple of weeks is advised to quarantine and told not to return on site for a fortnight. My colleague, Demetria panics. She’s days away from a long French excursion. For her, self-isolation is not an option.

Thankfully, I’ve been spared; either on leave or having not been rostered in the office.

Alas, I’m not so fortunate the next time. The following week, another colleague comes down with symptoms; apparently unrelated. It’s one with whom I’ve interacted. She waives anonymity to send us all an email update. Be careful out there, she warns, I was.

Senior management reassures that the risk of any of us being possible carriers is low. According to occupational health, we haven’t been in close proximity for long enough for it to be a real threat. Management nevertheless errs on the side of caution. Most colleagues are instructed to stay away from the office for another fortnight or so. For much of August, the office will be deserted; colleagues either on leave or physically distancing.

I sympathise with the organisation’s decision but I’m still miffed. Ironically, as a result of TTUO’s current COVID policy, being in the office feels like a change of scene. The flexibility of teleworking is great but not five days out of five.

This unexpected confinement turns out to be a blessing in disguise. It allows more flexibility when it comes to flat viewings. If I exclude my brief Bruges holiday, it’s still been well over a month since I’ve been looking for accommodation. I will learn later from various sources that the market is tougher than I’ve been led to believe. 

Meanwhile, I’ve come to a deal with the hotel manager, Nik. I downgrade my room. He gives me a discount. My first salary allows me to comfortably pay him on a week by week basis as I keep him updated.

Returning from leave, Nik introduces me to new colleague, Steve also in the same lodgings. The HR team have mentioned a Brit would be relocating from the Midlands. By the end of the week I've met his Mauritian wife, Sylvia and all of their good-looking, well-behaved brood. We exchange notes on accommodation searches. It’s not automatically smooth-sailing for them either. Sylvia talks of a balancing act between keeping the children safe, without wanting them to be too sheltered and removed from the reality of others. Yet, perhaps the demands of family mean they take a more pragmatic approach. Within a couple of weeks they find somewhere not far from the hotel.

Speaking of which, one of my viewings is on the ground floor of the very same building where I stayed in the first month. I want so much to like it. I’ve come to have a soft spot for the area. It’s in the safer part of a neighbourhood with an otherwise mixed reputation. It has good transport links, only 15 minutes by bus from the office. 20, tops. The flat in question is also a duplex, my preferred option. 

The agent and I are are welcomed by the outgoing American tenant, starting in English and switching to very competent French. Fingers crossed and uncrossed again on entering. The flat is attractive but not the most practical use of space. There are hardly any doors, not even on the wardrobe. The current tenant’s fish lunch stinks out the place, drifting up to the mezzanine (not a proper second floor) where one would sleep and hang their exposed clothes.

And so on and so forth. I see a lot of flats. It most often comes down to a toss up between location (location, location), amenities and use of space. And a feeling. Yes, an ineffable feeling. It sounds fickle, I know but if the doubts niggle too much it’s not a good sign. I don’t know if the long search has started to affect good judgment. I attend viewings in the centre of town; attractive spaces and yet… I’m also beginning to question the wisdom of living in the middle of a bar and restaurant district. I want some liveliness but not all day and night. I envisage being harassed by boozy cohorts, returning home after dark.

One Belgo-Congolese estate agent shows me around several spaces within days. The first is gorgeous. And also in the middle of nowhere. No good for a single woman who doesn’t drive. The surrounding area is ever-so-louche. Come autumn/winter, I’d be cursing the long walk up a lonely road with only the odd sketchy-looking bloke around. He shows me more lovely spaces, some a bit out of my price range or, once again, in neighbourhoods where I wouldn’t feel wholly at ease. The umpteenth viewing he schedules turns out to be a place I visited a month prior, that wasn’t- and still isn’t-immediately available. He tacitly gives up after that.

As things start to become really desperate, there's a breakthrough of sorts. I respond to the ad for a spacious flat in the prestigious Woluwe-Saint-Lambert area. Even if its reputation didn’t precede it, I fall in love with the neighbourhood each time I pass through. There’s a busy interchange opposite the well-known shopping centre. It’s calm but not dead; attractive scenery with what appears to be a mix of social housing and private residences. And I just feel good each time I’m in the area.

To my surprise and mild disappointment, the viewing will be conducted by Verne, an agent whose path I’ve crossed a number of times. He makes a joke about third time lucky. There’s something of the used-car salesman about him. The stereotypical estate agent doing and saying anything to secure that commission.

Nevertheless, I am hoping this visit will be the one. Time is of the essence. Winter is coming and the appropriate clothing is still in France. My manager Ama has dropped gentle but pointed hints. Autumn promises to be hectic. It’s important that I’m settled; not just for work but my own peace of mind. I completely agree. The stress is no joke. Ama remains sympathetic but it bothers me that it even has to be raised. It’s already surpassed the six weeks it took me to be settled in Strasbourg. A helpful colleague sends me photos of ‘to let’ adverts he’s passed. I feel ashamed to admit I’m still looking.

I have good reason to be hopeful this time. The flat is reassuringly close to Tomberg station. The apartment block is in decent condition. The few residents I meet are friendly and polite. Inside, the flat is expansive. A capacious lounge/kitchen area with high ceilings and a sizeable bedroom. 

The view from the salon isn’t inspiring. The freezer space is on the stingy side. There are one too many cobwebs for comfort. Overall, however it’s a good fit. Plenty of storage space and room for guests. Most importantly, it’s great value for money. Almost all bills are included.

It’s all but a done deal. Verne and I joke about the heatwave. I pretend to fan him. I don’t even mind his facetious gift-of-the-gab salesman act.

If you don’t take this one, then I don’t know what. Better be quick...properties like this aren’t two-a-penny...

At the last minute, I remember to ask about the washing machine. That makes a difference, I insist, opening cupboards looking for the elusive appliance.

Verne knows this from past experience. He becomes ever-so-slightly evasive.  He eventually leads me down to the communal laundry in the basement.

It was going well until then. It’s infuriating that every single flat I’ve visited has a dishwasher – a comparatively useless appliance-but not all have something more essential like a washing machine. This might seem a mere trifle to some but is indispensable to me. In London, I had no choice but to share facilities of all kinds. Extortionate rents. Limited space. Needs musts. In Europe, one can live like an adult without having to earn a six-figure salary. I’d rather not have to wash my clothes out of earshot; at the mercy of potentially mischievous strangers.

It’s just a small compromise Verne protests, Otherwise, just install your own. Initially wary, I start to warm to that idea. I research appliance rentals. I allow myself to be optimistic, submitting my dossier to the landlord via Verne to express my interest. Except the landlord takes long enough to respond that hope begins to fade. He also has issue with me installing a washing machine.

I’m thrown into a panic. I worry this relative triviality (not to me) might be a sign. Maybe this isn’t for me. A positive harbinger of what might come but not the real thing. I hold off signing anything and parting with money as long as I can. Meanwhile Verne steps up the pressure, more so than other agents.

 It’s as if he has something to prove by getting me to rent something from his portfolio. The ‘fussy’ client that he talked round. This, even more than the washing machine affair, heightens my unease. Few good decisions are made in a rush. Moreover, he provides inconsistent information about the process of securing the tenancy. It makes me all the more suspicious. But I’m feeling the strain of the situation. I can’t trust my own decisions. 

I reluctantly give Verne a date to sign the lease.

You seem to have doubts, madam he observes. Have they cleared now?

I don’t like being put in this position but I can’t lie.

No. Nothing is a 100%. Of course there’ll be doubts.

The whole truth is that I already have a draft ‘thanks, but no thanks’ email saved in my inbox.

To be continued...

Soundtrack: What's Your Pleasure? by Jessie Ware

In Bruges: Part II

Bruges Market Square from the Historium Tower

Part 1

The evening of my birthday, I opt for healthy Tunisian veggie mezzes and sizzling chicken tagine at a Trip-Advisor favourite. However, for most of my sojourn in Bruges, I dutifully sample some of the local cuisine. Around the corner from the Town Hall & Burg, there’s a gaggle of restaurants that come tour guide approved. I’m not usually one for chips but it’s a Belgian speciality. I am told there are few places that use the authentic recipe.

Two nights in a row, I order traditional beef stew with Belgian fries from two different establishments. One restaurant’s chips surpasses their stew. It's vice versa for the other. Both eateries are run by families from the former Yugoslavia. Three Bosnian brothers talk excitedly about driving to Germany that night to celebrate Eid Mubarak with relatives.

I get into the habit of staying out late for dinner. One evening before supper, I catch an outdoor concert by a jazz trio at The Half Moon Pub and Brewery. I have chosen the right week to visit. Jazz only plays on alternate Thursdays.

After my meal I stroll around the environs, not too concerned about the late hour. At this time of year and this far north of the hemisphere, dusk falls close to 10pm. I’ve not heard of any problems with crime in Bruges. Besides, everything is so close.

Returning home from dinner one evening, I’m reminded to be on my guard. A couple of inebriated men walk ahead of me, just as I approach my accommodation. I can hear strains of what sound like NWA; as if they’re undergoing some pre mid-life crisis. The younger of the two keeps turning around in my direction. They walk too slowly for me to drop back.

As I pace ahead, I switch off my own music so I can be fully alert. I hope their attention is by now drawn elsewhere. No. A comment floats on the wind…

She has a good swing.

Any momentary satisfaction is subsumed with anger and frustration of how predictably this scene plays out. At any given moment, especially at that time of night, a woman walking past a group of two or more men can expect to have her form audibly scrutinised. Like some perverse rite. I consider how the average man would never have to consider either his safety or dignity in similar circumstances. How, if the tables were turned, it wouldn’t even occur to him to feel nervous. How he might have the luxury of not even noticing a group of women were around.

Thankfully, such an exchange isn’t characteristic of the trip. It’s mostly just the respite I need. The best moments are the most serene; far from the city hub and with an element of surprise. Like discovering the church round the corner from my Airbnb doubles up as a community culture hub.     Even prior to COVID, the only services that took place were weddings and funerals.

A smooth wooden cylinder swing hangs from the church roof. I scramble on whenever I have the chance. At first the concept is incongruous, even irreverent. Yet on the other hand, for me, it makes absolute sense. I like visiting classic Western orthodox places of worship. I also appreciate the repetitive motions of a swing. Both can be soothing for a busy mind.

Outside the church building I exchange a kind word with a German tourist evidently battling with an eating disorder. She embraces me; a gesture that takes on much more significance at a time when we’re all a lot more paranoid about physical contact.

I'm less of my frugal self on this trip. I patronise local artisans, selling their wares almost on a daily basis at the various markets close to The Burg. One of them, claiming to be from Bruges, speaks with a strong Hispanic inflection. He explains he was born and raised in Argentina, returning to Belgium in the 1970s to escape the dictatorship. It's the start of a stimulating conversation about travel, language and the state of South American politics.

It's fitting that my last full day in Bruges is the most placid. Walking in the opposite direction to the city centre, I head to what remains of what were dozens of mills that lined the outskirts of town. A steady breeze mellows the 35C heat. I traverse canals and sprawling manicured landscapes. It’s calm but far from isolated. Cyclists and fellow pedestrians take advantage of postcard-worthy surroundings. I venture into side streets, on the hunt for the chapel on Jerusalem Street. I pass up on a ticket to stroll around the grounds built by the aristocratic Adorne family. Their estate has enough money. 

I make my way instead to St Anne’s church and square. Inside the spectre of COVID looms;  a quota on who can access the building, extremely sparse seating and many corners off limit to the public. I return to the serenity of the old docks and continue my windmill search. I stop for lunch and a talk with God. If the usual morose thoughts about ageing and the disappointments of life haunt my first night of the trip, they’re kept at bay for most of its duration.

On check out day, the house is empty. Brenda and I have said our farewells the evening before. She warned she might have popped out to the market by the time I leave. Following a café brunch, still with much time to spare, I take no chances and catch a bus to the main station. I arrive nearly 20 minutes before the departure of my coach. A mixture of confusing signs, busy customer service agents and the useless direction of Bruges residents means I will eventually miss my Flixbus (one of the few occasions it's actually on time, in my experience). Refusing to pay double for the train, I book another coach a few hours later.

It won't take long however for this inconvenience to be eclipsed by sweeter memories of Bruges.

Soundtrack: Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo, Lockdown by Anderson .Paak, Dinner Party by Dinner Party.

In Bruges: Part I

For my annual birthday/summer trip, this year I’m cutting my cloth according to my COVID-19 adjusted size. Ironically, the last time I was in the low countries during the summer (2016), I vowed not to spend any more such trips in Northern Europe. I needed to go where the sunshine doesn't just make the occasional cameo. Southern France has hence been my destination of choice late July/early August.

But then COVID. 

Even before the number of infections started to creep back up, I questioned my chances of making it all the way to the Med without issues. These days, travel plans have to be held very lightly. There is also the time versus cost factor. Finally, I am conscious of the impact the virus might have on general ambiance. I wouldn’t want my memory of an unfamiliar city to be characterised by tension.

Better to stay put in Belgium. Even if cross-border travel might suddenly be put on hold, I should still be able to circulate relatively freely within. I decide to visit Bruges, which was left off my Netherlands list back in 2016. I recall a primary school day trip in the early 90s to Brussels' smaller, more charming cousin. The only memories that remain of that visit is a frantic souvenirs dash, purchasing little dolls in satin pink and blue dresses and almost leaving my camera behind in a shop.

Having started my new job half-way through the annual leave year, I have to ration my pro-rata holidays. I work part of the week and head to Bruges one Tuesday afternoon in late July. I am temporarily leaving behind my ever-more frustrating flat hunt and the uncertainty that entails. I also hope for a break from an increasing mask-wearing tyranny. Obtrusive fellow citizens gesture to me on the bus to cover my whole nose and mouth area-even if I’m just about to drink some water. As if they don’t know how hard it is to breathe with material on your face.

I understand. The latest figures in Belgium are not promising. We need to be conscientious. We must offset what now seem to be the adverse effects of a complacency about adhering to health measures. Yet mask-wearing has taken on almost a superstitious status. As if salvation from this terrible disease can be found in a humble piece of cloth. Meanwhile, the state's preventative measures are inconsistent. We can still sit cheek by jowl on public transport.

On arriving at Bruges station, however I’m immediately admonished by patrolling police guards for bad mask etiquette. Damn you, Mr Rona.

Pralinette Chocolatiers (website image)

I stop at the tourist information point. I don’t heed the kindly agent’s advice that it won’t be necessary to buy a bus ticket. Not for the last time I’m told, Bruges is so small, you can’t get lost. I err on the side of caution. I don’t know the city and my bags are weighing me down. I buy four tickets from an obnoxious sales assistant. True to the advice I didn’t take, I will only use half of them.

I’ve found a cheap and cheerful Airbnb close to the city centre (not that anywhere in Bruges is very far). I’d normally hire a studio but there aren’t many options available within my budget. I’ll be sharing with elderly host Brenda and, as she explains later, a French family renting a capacious room upstairs. The walls are thin. The husband’s snoring will reverberate late at night and their familial chatter will fill the corridors briefly in the morning. Apart from negotiating the shared bathroom, I don’t mind. It’s good to be surrounded by life and activity.

The evening I arrive, Brenda ushers me to the garden to go over virus-related house rules and give me a potted guide of the town. In her best English, my Flemish-speaking host shares useful tips on what to see, where to dine and where to buy the best artisan chocolate.

The house is large; built high rather than wide. My room is at the top of the first of several steep and narrow stairwells. The room is old but spotless. I don’t know if Brenda does all the housekeeping herself. It would be a feat for anyone at any age; especially with the constant disinfection the pandemic now requires.  

A skylight, accessible by ladder, is the only source of air and light in the room. Traces of her children and grandchildren’s presence are everywhere. 

Once unpacked, I step out mid-evening to explore whether Bruges really is as accessible by foot as they say. I take my print out of must-sees and cut through the picturesque Koningen Astrid park, where the play area is still full of children and revellers are enjoying a balmy mid-summer evening.

Bruges has a Germano-Gothic charm that makes me mildly nostalgic for Strasbourg. It’s clean and tranquil. One thing it isn’t, is cosmopolitan. I see a few residents and tourists of African descent here and there. I make a point of greeting them, even if fleetingly, as a show of solidarity. That first evening, heartened by my cordial nod in his direction, a young Gambian man stops for a natter. Despite Bruges’ international reputation, gauging from the bizarre looks I receive from some locals, it can’t be easy for the melanated living amongst them. 

Within two hours I have stumbled across a number of sites of particular interest such as the Minnewater Lake and Beguinage, where proto-feminists created an alternative community for single women. These lead me all the way to the main station. It really is all so close. By some ironic twist, the only time I have trouble finding my bearings is on the way back to my lodgings; on that very same road.

Beguinage in Brules (courtesy of Ulysses Travel)

The next day, the morning of my birthday itself, I wake up to ample texts and emails of well-wishes. Many are from unexpected sources. A member of my former choir in Strasbourg, HRGS, happens to send a catch-up text the day before. I mention in passing I’m on a birthday break. A mon insu, she notifies the rest of the group. This sort of sweet happenstance will continue throughout the day. Friends and acquaintances who aren’t even aware it’s my birthday get in touch; as if by divine inspiration.

After responding to some of the kind sentiments and joining the Morphe Arts' morning prayer group, I make a mad dash to the town square. I’ve booked myself on one of those informal walking city tours for which I’ve developed a taste whilst living in Europe. It’s brisk but sunny weather. It already feels like a birthday win. Who needs Nice? By the end of the week it's a bona fide heatwave.

The volunteer guide, Jennie, carries on the cheery tradition of these sorts of tours. It’s the usual cocktail of historical facts and fun bits of trivia, such as the difference between Brussels and Lieges waffles or why Bruges has two 'bridges of love'. Jennie is also fond of suspicious-sounding yarns about the origins of expressions such as ‘s***-faced’ and ‘stinking rich’. Just a modicum of scrutiny reveals them to be bunkum. Whether she doesn’t know or doesn’t care, isn’t clear. She says at the outset that she’s more interested in amusing us than imparting 'tedious' facts. 

Two and a half hours fly past. We cover the same hot spots I have come across the night before and much more besides. At the end, as donations are collected, I ask Jennie about some other attractions on the other side of town. She looks puzzled. I show her the map. She pleads ignorance. It’s a different side of town, she explains. I find it odd that, being from such a tiny city, she doesn’t know every corner inside out. If nothing else, from sheer boredom and/or curiosity. It’s not the first time I’ve encountered this phenomenon. Must be a small town thing.

I do nonetheless stick closely to Jennie’s cultural and culinary recommendations throughout my stay, starting with the House of Waffles. It’s here I learn that restaurants and cafes are required to take customers’ information for possible virus track and tracing. I have an opportunity to practise French with the attentive multi-lingual waiter; a modern-languages graduate. 

I come across a lot more French speakers in this part of Flanders than I expect. Bruges being heavily reliant on tourists, it makes sense.

Bruges Market Square viewed from the Historium

Speaking of tourists , the streets are comparatively quiet for this time of year; particularly in the evening. There are still signs of life, no doubt, but nothing like a typical summer in Bruges from what I'm told. I’ll hear from multiple sources how the pandemic has reduced footfall. 

On an artisan chocolate shopping spree, making bilingual small talk with one proprietor, she writes the year off. It’s not so bad for established businesses like hers, she says. They can afford to have a nest egg. It’ll be far more complicated for start-ups. 

 Later that week, I’ll be aggressively accosted by a toilet attendant and a sales clerk in two separate incidents. The first harangues me about mask-wearing rules, even when my nose and mouth area are fully covered. I protest my innocence, whilst she pesters me about CCTV cameras and possible fines. On the second occasion, the clerk chases me around the shop, scratching me with her false nails to get my attention.

 'You couldn't hear me with your headphones on!' she insists, gesticulating.

 She barks at me for not having a shopping basket, something that doesn’t seem to bother her other colleagues whom I’ve passed multiple times. It’s a post-pandemic rule I’ve never understood. She only calms down and apologises when I threaten to speak to the manager.

A number of attractions are subject to COVID-19 restrictions. Climbing the Belfort tower is by limited reservation only. My chances are scuppered by the time I arrive at 3pm. I do manage to climb the Historium tower. Access is restricted to 10 people, to avoid visitors brushing against each other on the stairwell. By the time I’ve climbed the 145 steps to the top, I’m grateful for this interdiction. Expecting to be protected from the elements by a glass or perspex covering, my vertigo surfaces with a vengeance on the narrow open air roof. A wall reaching my chin prevents me from falling to my death. With great trepidation, I do one turn around the tower, take some furtive photos and leave. Thank God there’s no-one else to jostle against.

Part 2

Soundtrack: Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo, Lockdown by Anderson .Paak, Dinner Party by Dinner Party.