A Place to Call Home...At Last

 

My moving in date draws tantalisingly closer. I’ve told hotel owner Nik, that I’m moving out by early September. I pay him for the first week of the month, to cover myself should any of my plans go awry.

I contact the removal company with the exact details of my new address. The earliest they can schedule is the first Monday of the month; the same day the internet is due to be installed. The delay turns out to be a blessing in disguise. European bureaucracy is still slowing me down.

I attend an inventory of the flat a few days before the move. The expert, M. Poêle, is held up. When he arrives, he’s thorough to the point of pedantry. There is, however, a genial side to his officiousness. He's a Buddhist, he says. He doesn’t take kindly to me squashing the stubborn insects that remain; even after the flat has been professionally cleaned.

M. Poêle notices every little stain or negligible dent left by the previous tenant. He's perplexed how she managed to do any damage in such a short period of time.

Everything was brand new when she moved in.

He keeps making reference to her oddity.

Nice girl but...he shakes his head.

Head in the clouds? I ask

More like she was on Mars or Venus.

At some point M. Poêle mentions that I am liable for half the cost of the Etat des Lieux; €150. That’s not something sexy Milo brought to my attention. I call him to check.

Oh yes, it's in the lease. [I check. It's not]. But you won’t have to pay right away.

Wrong again. Poêle requests for an upfront cash payment. I stop off at the ATM in the station opposite the flat. I make sure to obtain a receipt.

A few days later, I take Nik up on his generous offer to give me a lift to my new place. Starting with the heavy suitcase that accompanied me from Strasbourg, I plan to move in gradually that weekend.

I’m racked with all sorts of anxieties. Given its proximity to foliage, I’m afraid my new place has an insect problem and I might be overrun. Having sought a quote, I decide against an expensive fumigation. Instead, I ask one of the cleaning staff at the hotel to give the flat the once over that Saturday. It’ll also mean I won’t be on my own as I begin unpacking. 

She pulls out at the last minute. I can’t arrange an alternative at that late stage. The phobia of unwanted critters is real. Yet it’s starting to feel a lot like an externalisation of (yet another) mini-existential crisis.

2020 is a year characterised by isolation for many. I'm no exception. At the flat I feel alone and overwhelmed by the task of moving in. At least at the hotel I'd be guaranteed to come across another soul at some point. In pre-COVID circumstances, my mum would have probably paid a visit and helped me unpack. The arbitrary British quarantine puts paid to that. What’s more, I can’t confidently envisage any trips in either direction across the Channel. 

Overall, Brussels is definitely a better fit for my personality than Strasbourg. In the end, I’m a Big City girl. Nevertheless, relocating to a new country would always be as daunting as it might be exciting. There are no shortcuts to finding real community. How much more difficult when the world is still navigating a pandemic. I thought I’d made my peace with the reality of it. Not quite. Nine months into 2020 and the weight of the year’s difficulties is starting to drag on my emotions and psyche. As it is for most.

The gently-does-it weekend move goes better than expected, thanks to some insightful podcasts to keep me company. Back at the hotel, my last few days are anticlimactic.

The day of the move itself, I’m up and out early for a bikini wax and to make sure I have a head start before the removal company arrives. Indeed I do. I’m waiting for a good while, in fact, scratching around for things to do. I call the company HQ in France. I’m assured the team is on its way.

I decide to wait downstairs in the lobby, just in case they have trouble locating the building. Whilst waiting, I meet one of my neighbours, Henrik. He’s a disillusioned veteran of the block. He tells me not to expect anything from the tenant management company. The building is old and the walls are thin. The refuse system is a mess. There are no communal bins.

Clearly it’s working for you, if you’re still here.

Henrik says he's still in it for the proximity to the metro. By chance, our offices are in the same neck of the woods. 

He’s supposed to be teleworking. He sticks around long enough to tell me where to go shopping in the immediate vicinity.

He also warns that it’s not easy to find the building when travelling by road; even with GPS. 

 I bid Henrik cheerio and pace outside the building with my trusty podcasts. Close to two hours elapse and no sign. I call the removal company HQ again. A young woman answers this time. I ask for an ETA. She puts me on hold to check. On returning, she explains sheepishly that my goods have been delivered to my office address.

What?! That’s nuts! I’m sure I gave the right details.

I start to think I’m losing my mind. But no. It’s not me, it’s them. They hadn’t updated their system. 

I’m mortified. What will my colleagues think?

By the time the mistake is registered, the crew are on their way back to France via Luxembourg. I explain that I’ve already taken two days off work to relocate. I can't afford more time away from work.

I contact my HR team, gabbling my apologies. To my great relief, they are gracious about the mishap. My HR colleague asks when the delivery company will stop by again.  The best that can be done is an early afternoon delivery the next day. 

I go to a nearby café to use their Wi-Fi. I Skype sis in a panic. As always, she talks me off the ledge, tells me to make the most of the day.

Whilst waiting for the internet technician, I shop for some essentials.

The installation of my Wi-Fi goes so smoothly, I can hardly believe it. Based on past experience, I expected that to be more complicated than the delivery of my belongings. Quelle ironie.

I bid farewell to the lovely technician. 

Alone again, naturally.

Social Detour

 

After signing my new lease, comes the administrative headache of opening an account for the two months’ deposit required. I’m still awaiting my Belgian ID card which further slows down the process. So much for hopes that Belgium would be less bureaucratic than its French neighbour. It looks like I can no longer avoid setting up a Belgian account. The stress that came with looking for a flat, hasn’t completely subsided on finding one.

A few days after the signing, I’m exhausted. I do have one distraction to look forward to. I’m supposed to be meeting up for drinks with Robert (French pronunciation). 

First, a little bit of background. 

Rob -as he likes to be called- is the ethnically-ambiguous host of an Internations event I gatecrashed during my first few weeks in Brussels. At said event we have a fairly brief but enriching conversation about our origins (his mother Belgo-Rwandan, his father Dutch), Belgium’s refusal to confront its colonial past and the anti-imperialist Non-Aligned Movement, amongst other things.

Rob appears to have taken a shine to me, periodically getting in touch to invite me to various soirées that he organises both off and online. Over time, he’s been in contact with increased frequency. I keep missing his calls. We finally manage to catch each other. He invites me out for a drink one Saturday night. By the time I arrive, I’m in a churlish mood. My day hasn’t gone to plan.

I explain I’ll start off in English and switch to French when I’ve calmed down and can think clearly.

 Rob isn’t fazed by my saltiness. He proceeds with gentle Socratic questioning; about everything from why I’m teetotal to my thoughts on revolutionary leaders gone rogue. It feels more like a job interview than a casual night out, I half-joke. I try to turn the interrogation around on him.

He was born and raised in South Africa. I ask how this came to be. Casually, he mentions that his parents were engaged in the anti-Apartheid struggle. As you do.

Well, I should go home now. I reply I can’t really top that.

He seems to be a good listener. Or it could just be an excuse to check me out on the sly. He doesn’t exactly hide it. 

He has to leave early. I don’t know what I’ve said but he’s very keen to meet up again.

True to his word, Rob texts me during the week to ask about my availability. We’re both free Friday night. He texts the details of a restaurant in Ixelles.

Can’t wait to see you again, he adds. 

That’s sweet. I respond See you Friday, inshallah.

I arrive at the proposed restaurant. It’s deserted, with a note indicating they’re (just about) still closed for the summer. I text Rob. Messages trickle in. Then he calls. He rambles something about low phone battery and being stuck at Louise. He suggests I come and meet him. I am not amused. I head to Trône metro. Just as I’m about to step on the train, my phone goes off again.

-Stay where you are. I’ll meet you.

Except he won’t literally meet me at the station. Rob texts me some more instructions to come to a book shop near Trône. He phones again.

I can see you coming up the high street.

...Although I can’t see him. He instructs me to carry on walking in the same direction, towards the white van in the distance, where’s he’s parked.

As I approach, he’s smiling mischievously.

What the heck happened?

He tells me to hop in the van. I refuse. He’s 6”6 and of heavy build. It would hardly be a fair fight.

Oh come on! You know my friends from Internations. I’m not going to do anything…

He has a point. An assault rap wouldn't be good for his hosting rep. I hesitantly open the passenger door, sitting at a safe physical distance. It’s not just because of COVID-19.

He commences to tell me the convoluted story of his day. A sibling’s washing machine broke down. He had to replace it. Somehow this involves him also having to change vans, pass by said sibling’s flat and then stop off at his parents’ in the outskirts of Brussels. Oh yes, and he has to pick up a couple of mates to help him out.

-I don’t have time for this, I protest. I have an early start at the hairdressers the next morning.

-This is some crazy rom-com business. Why didn’t you just cancel? 

-Because. I wanted to spend time with you. We can talk and drive. I had this date planned…

Come again?

-I never said anything about a date!

-What would you call it then?

-I don’t know. Drinks with a new acquaintance? An outing?

-An outing. I like that.

Rob likes to go into deep discussion quickly. He says for example, that if a man hooks up with a woman whilst she’s drunk, it’s tantamount to rape. I’m impressed but shouldn’t be. That’s a minimum.

He volunteers to tell me about the latest woes of his ex with whom he was with for 10 years. They split five years ago but are still good friends.

-It took you a decade to work out you weren’t compatible?

-No, perfectly candid. We knew sooner. I even went to therapy about it. Haven’t you ever been in a similar…?

-...Ah. Sunken cost syndrome, I venture, Like Vietnam. You’ve already invested so much time, energy and money...it becomes a vicious circle.

-Exactly. Surely you know what that’s like?

He’s fishing. At this early stage, I say, I don’t owe him that much of my bio. There are no short cuts to emotional intimacy. I don’t want him all up in my business. In any sense of the expression.

-But I was completely open about my ex.

-Yes. Because you chose to be. I never asked you.

He has to pass by his flat for some keys and to charge his phone. He makes a joke about inviting me round.

-Oh no, uh-uh. No Netflix ‘n’ Chill.

-I don’t watch Netflix.

-In that case, there certainly won’t be any chillin’.

En route to his flat, we speak about the merits of chivalry. I maintain that it can be defended from a feminist perspective. My feminist perspective anyway. Anything that can counter the socialised selfishness in men is a good thing.

My new sandals aren’t handling the cobbled streets so well. I take a tumble. A couple of times.

-Are you all right?

-Yeah, I’m fine. Bet you won’t want to date me now.

-It’s women who worry about clumsiness. Men don’t care about that.

When I trip the second time, I say sheepishly

You've seen me fall over twice. We’re true friends now.

And so that’s my evening. My ruined evening, I tell Rob several times. I scold him for luring me out on false pretences. We banter back and forth. There’s a freedom to be as direct with him as I please.

-I couldn’t deny you some time in my company he insists At least you won’t forget it. Soon you’ll be catching feelings for me…

-Catching feelings? What is this, 1998? Anyway, you're the one catching feelings. You couldn’t let me have a Friday night to myself.

-What else would you have been doing?

-A lot!

He never does give me a straight answer as to why he didn’t just reschedule. Or maybe that is a straight answer in Rob’s world. Many a true word spoken in jest.

We hop in and out of an uber. He picks up another van. At sunset, we collect his two Moroccan friends. I wonder where they'll sit. Rob suggests we cosy up. I hop out of the car. One of the mates, Bilal, sits in the middle; the other in the back.

Between errands, the conversation continues. We talk about his time working in Accra, race relations, reproductive ethics, polygamy, birthdays, shoe sizes and French vs Belgian flirtation. I try and fail to intercept most of his double-entendres.

He has some slick word play, I give him that.

Until that evening, Rob’s facetious charisma hasn’t been apparent. Based on our previous outing, I thought he was nice; even a little dull. Still waters run deep.

It’s getting dark. A waxing gibbous moon hangs in the sky. I admit, this crazy road trip has provided me with an opportunity to see Brussels in a different light.

The streets are getting darker and I don’t recognise where I am. I start to panic. Maybe I'm being an idiot. I’m travelling with three blokes I’ve barely met and nobody knows exactly where I am.

-Please drop me off at Roodebeek station.

-I will but not now. I have to return this van by 10pm.

Rob will later have the nerve to accuse me of Stockholm syndrome.

-A good thing my Christianity obliges me to forgive. Otherwise, if I make it out of this alive, I’d never speak to you again.

A Night to Remember by Shalamar plays on the radio. I point out the irony. Later on, Rob turns up James Brown’s Sex Machine.

Turn it off! I order in English.

His freckle-covered face spreads into another impish grin.

Non-English speakers, his Moroccan acquaintances are perplexed.

- Don’t you like the song?

- It’s not that. It’s just that he has ulterior motives...

- The lyrics are a little...(Rob)

- ...Saucy (me)

At some point, I bring out my laptop to distract myself whilst the men do some heavy-lifting.

Rob passes the passenger side.

-Are you blogging?

-Yes, but not about you.

I promise however, that I will blog about this evening. How a mad mulatto practically kidnapped me. By the time I'm finished, he won’t be able to find a woman in all of Europe who’d want to date him (as if this blog has that sort of reach. Dream on, girl).

Shortly before 10pm, the time he’s supposed to return the van, we’re driving down lonely country roads. I put away my laptop, still mildly anxious. I can only hope Rob really is driving me to his parents’.

I’ve already warned him that I’m not meeting them. I don’t want to give his mum the wrong idea. 

Rob leaves me no choice. He parks at the door. His mother meets us at the gate.

If he doesn’t have her diminutive size, he has inherited everything else.

I remain in the car, trying to be discreet. Rob and the boys go into the house, dropping off fixtures and raiding the fridge. When he re-emerges with his booty, he introduces me to his mum as a ‘friend’. My upbringing forces me out of the car. I greet her properly with a smile.

Rob’s mum is very welcoming, considering the hour.

-Ma pauvre. He’s taking you on quite the adventure, she sympathises

Back in the van I quip,

-Even your sweet mum sees through your dirty tricks

I refuse to eat the food that is circulated.

-I’m watching my weight.

I nudge Bilal, pointing to his chocolate bar and tease

-Don’t eat it. I don’t trust him. It’s drugged.

-Oh no! Rob is a great guy. Great! Always kidding around. Really kind...

It won’t be the last time he eulogises his mate/occasional employer.

-So what, are they your wing men? Talking you up?

At last, at almost half-10, we park around the corner from the Central Station.

-Is the ordeal finally over? I ask

-It is, Rob confirms

To disprove his Stockholm theory, I demand to be taken to the nearest bus stop. It’s a straightforward journey to my hotel from there.

En route, I ask why he’s limping.

-It’s not a limp. I walk with character, he retorts, grinning. Touché.

-You have incredible self-confidence, can’t lie

-Thanks to my mum’s love. I’m a mama’s boy.

-That’s obvious

-The perfect son.

I respond with something that is, on reflection, mean-spirited.

No riposte is forthcoming, for once.

Rob dutifully accompanies me to the station. His bus arrives. He feigns to leave. I’m not having it.

You spoil my evening then don’t have the courtesy to see me off safely? 

He tells his boys that they’ll catch the next one.

I take the opportunity to ask if his activity on Internations is just a ruse to pick up chicks. He plays along. Or maybe not. Many a true word spoken in jest.

My bus arrives at last. The boys follow me on.

-I still can’t get rid of you!

Rob sits. I remain standing.

-I’m going to escort you all the way to the hotel. Since I spoiled your evening, I have to find another way to make it up to you.

My expression must be as quizzical as it is bemused.

-You’re seriously asking yourself if I mean it, he chuckles.

His humour edges ever more towards the scurrilous.

-You know I’m a Christian-Christian, don’t you? - I remind him.

-What does that mean?

- It means I’m celibate.

-You just haven’t found the man to make you change your mind.

-I have. His name is Jesus.

- Jesus is good. He has his niche…

-Yeah like creating the universe, dying for our sins, eternal salvation, abundance of life…

-...And I have my talents.

As they’re about to descend at Madou, Rob says he’s also celibate.

-In what way?

-I’m saving myself for my wife so that when she touches my skin, it’s so soft it falls off the bone.

I tell him not to mock my beliefs.

Over the next few days, exchanging voice notes with sis, the memory of the evening becomes less of the caper I thought. Sis pulls me up on some of the unpleasant aspects of the repartée. 

In hindsight, I was uncomfortable. I'm not one for natural banter. The situation threw me off and I started to play a role. Je n'étais pas à la hauteur.

To be continued...

Or maybe not.

A Place to Call Home: Part 2

 

My last interaction with Verne rattles me. The stress of the flat search, especially the last week, has started once again to impact my sleep. I ask the Morphē Arts morning prayer group to remember me. I don’t like making personal requests but I am struggling to think clearly.

Verne’s phone call unnerves me so much, I make a last ditch attempt to search for something new on the Immoweb site. A see the resurgence of an old ad to which I once replied. It’s clearly a scam.

After what has been a dry few days, a new viewing appears at the top of the list. Usually I’d send an email and wait. I ring straight away. I tap the French option. I’m put through to an English-speaking assistant in Greece. I let her know that I am free that evening and would like to schedule a viewing immediately. She can’t guarantee that it’ll be so soon and will consult the Belgian HQ. The plan is to show me a number of properties that might be of interest.

Her Brussels-based colleague, Milo contacts me by mail. To my relief, a viewing that evening is possible. I am to meet him at the office, where he’ll drive me from property to property.

It’s not quite an office. More a multi-purpose building for both commercial and residential use. I sneak in with a gentleman just in front of me, heading for the same destination. Waiting in the small foyer, I wonder if he’s Milo.

He’s not. When he re-emerges however, he’s accompanied by a tall, toned and tanned individual whom I definitely hope is Milo. Even with half his face hidden by a disposable mask, I can see he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Good bones, flawless deep olive skin, thick lashes and eyebrows and a full head of curly jet black hair. Alas too young. Mid-20s, tops. Not even the same generation.

Never mind. This viewing is already off to a felicitous start. Whatever the outcome, I’ll be spending the evening in the company of great eye candy.

Milo ushers me into the office. The agency is a family business, with sites across Europe. Milo is stepping into his father’s shoes. He’s genuine, accommodating and polite. Good home training, as my grandmother might once have said. As different in comportment to Verne, as his swarthy beauty is different to that of the latter’s sunburnt Nordic features.

I keep my composure enough for bilingual banter. That will come to characterise our interactions.

Milo explains that all but one of the viewings he had planned that evening have been cancelled. Either the property has already been rented or he doesn’t yet have access. All that is, except the flat about which I originally enquired. As we head to his car, he admits that the property wasn’t supposed to be on the market. It was rented to a young Tahitian woman around the same time I moved to Belgium. Within a week, a personal crisis led her to vacate the property.

-Did she have to pay a forfeit? I ask

-Yes. But the landlord was kind about it. She only paid some of it.

-That’s auspicious, I reply. A decent landlord.

I enter the back seat. That’s one of the strange upsides to COVID. I never liked riding up front anyway.

I ask Milo questions about his Greek origins. Turns out that we’re both fans of Yanis Varoufakis.

En route, Milo takes a call on loudspeaker from another party interested in the flat. She’s too far from Brussels to make it to a viewing that evening. After the call, Milo confides she’s nervous about my visit.

He takes the scenic route. So scenic in fact that I toy with the idea that he’s a Gen Zed Ted Bundy; dazzling potential victims with his great looks and impeccable manners.

As if reading my mind, he tells me he’s avoiding the traffic.

Alma Metro Station, Woluwe-St-Lambert, Brussels

There seems to be a lot of green where we are. I don’t see much in the way of public transport. He assures me that there is a metro station in the vicinity. Seeing is believing.

We pull up at a leafy estate, sandwiched between university campuses. And indeed, there is a metro station, directly in front of the block of flats. I’ll discover later that it was purpose built to service the student population.

The foyer looks promising even if the corridors are more sombre. The flat is as pretty as the pictures. The bedroom is larger than my previous. The kitchen well-equipped with a good-sized, ice-making fridge (that opens the wrong way). There’s a storage room with, wait for it, a washing machine.

Milo can see that I’m impressed. I’m tempted to say ‘yes’ straight away but I’m curious about another property he has on his list. A second viewing is tentatively scheduled for the following day, provided he can pick up the keys from the landlord. I suggest submitting my dossier just in case. I ask what is needed. Unlike Verne, Milo is voluntarily upfront and transparent.

He offers to drop me off somewhere more central. Rounding the corner, to my very pleasant surprise, I realise we’re in Roodebeek. 

I adore Roodebeek, I beam. I’ve wanted to find a place in this area. It just hadn’t happened.

(A small part of me is conflicted. The Woluwe area is considered part of Brussels’ suburbia even if less expensive than other 'trendier' parts of town. I try to live modestly. Yet I’m worried that I might be turning into a Bourgeoisie sell-out. On the other hand, I ask myself, how would me slumming it help The Cause?)

We drive past a Cook & Book. Earlier that day, I tell Milo, the woman who did my online Belgian cultural sensitivity training was raving about this cultural hub. Unlike much of Brussels, it’s open on a Sunday.

There is coincidence. There are series of coincidences. And then there’s Providence.

I’ll definitely be sending you my dossier. I tell Milo. Before I leave, I add that it’s a shame he’s too young for me.

That’s very kind, madam.

He promises to keep me informed of the prospective viewing.

Early the next morning, I receive a missed call from Milo. I ring him back. The other property is now off the market. I take it as a sign. I instruct him to start the process.

Meanwhile, I have yet another viewing that evening; arranged long before the flat in Woluwe-Saint-Lambert came on the scene. I could cancel it but I'm inquisitive. In a way, I want it to be confirmation of the decision I’ve already made. I’m held up at work with the second day of cultural sensitivity training. I’m also having regular exchanges with Milo, forwarding bits and pieces of required paperwork.

I finish teleworking a few minutes later than planned. In my distraction, I take a different route than I’d intended. Then my connecting bus doesn’t show up. I’m in contact with the agent, Philippe. He can’t hang around. We re-schedule for the following morning.

He shows me two flats. It’s an academic exercise by this point. Milo has already informed me that the landlord has accepted my file.

Philippe explains that he’s one of many intermediaries for the properties. Sounds complicated.

The flats are attractive. In some ways better equipped than the place in Woluwe. The second doesn’t have a terrace, which I prefer. One less thing to clean. Yet on balance - be it proximity to transport, element of liveliness and the appeal of the surroundings – the Saint-Lambert apartment has the edge.

I pass by Milo’s office the following Monday to sign the lease. He mentions the great disappointment of the woman who had planned to visit the property after me. It would have ticked all her boxes. I feel for her and wish her well. I've been there a number of times.

In between more banter, I go over the document studiously. Milo hovers around to answer my questions about technical French terms. He has a nervous air; as if I might somehow change my mind before any financial commitment. Once I’m sure I’m not signing away my soul, I put my autograph at the bottom of the page. I promise Milo to buy him a celebratory drink once I’ve finished moving.

We pass by the flat again on my request. I want to have a measure of what additional furniture might be needed and to know where I deposit the bins. To my disgust, feathery spiders start to emerge everywhere. Despite the newness of the flat, I had noticed some cobwebs on the first viewing. Milo assures me it will be spotless by the time I move in. Still. It gives me the heebie-jeebs. A good thing it hadn’t been evident before.

In my arachnid-driven distraction, I completely forget about the bins.

Soundtrack: B7 by Brandy