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
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