Here We Go...Again?

Life and its ironies. My last blog was an account of the social ties I’ve been steadily establishing in Brussels. I called it Girl About Town. I was entertaining a follow up about charming evenings spent in the company of a thoughtful, bright, handsome and slightly effete South American. But then COVID.

As I write, the Belgian government is deciding whether to go the way of its French neighbour and instate a full lockdown.
I really shouldn’t be bewildered by the mayhem wreaked by this virus. If this year should have taught us (or rather reminded us of) anything, it’s to hold all plans loosely and expect the unexpected. Heck, my own life should have taught me that control is an illusion. And yet…

Maybe it’s the innate optimist in me. It’s not as if the signs weren’t already there. Perhaps I was too busy burying my head in the sand as news circulated that Belgium was regaining its disgraceful position of having one of the worst infection and death rates per capita. The piecemeal government has been tightening restrictions ; an illogical ban on bars and cafés whilst restaurants were still allowed to remain open. Nevertheless, I was genuinely blindsided by the month-long blanket closures of eating establishments (save for take-away) issued mid-October. Teleworking is all but compulsory, which means no breaking up of my week with occasional days in the office. 

Priorities. I understand that this is a deadly disease that has claimed the lives of well over a million people globally. Drastic times, drastic measures. But my already high concern for the psychological toll of quarantine-style orders only increases. Then there's the shadow pandemic of domestic violence that has seen a frightening surge over the past months.

Like many, I feel the heaviness of 2020’s fear, uncertainty and, maybe worst of all, isolation all the more as the year draws to an end.

Yes, the public might have become a little too eager to socialise after the lockdown but widespread government mismanagement and inconsistent instructions don’t help.  Belgian's notorious linguistic divide affects policy. There's also the significant -not to mention farcical- issue of having nine, yes nine, health ministers. Too many cooks...

Belgian prime minister Alexander De Croo, claims the situation is worse than six months ago. That now even those in semi or full isolation are catching the disease. Tu m’etonnes. Six or seven months ago the kids weren’t at school. That’s the major difference. Not to diminish the very difficult balancing act between children’s social and educational development and the general well-being of everyone else, we shouldn’t be astonished to see a spike in cases after schools have re-opened.

The weekend after the new measures are announced, I’m in a state. I can’t think or speak about it without crying. I look back on the past month’s or so activities; from the aforementioned socials to charitable endeavours. I weep for the promising connections I was beginning to form; still too fragile to be able to count on.

A friend from the UK calls just as I’m about to step out to the shops. I appreciate the gesture; touched that I came to mind. However, his Christian fatalism ticks me off. I wish I have the presence of mind to properly challenge it.

What a difference a day makes. Just the evening before, shortly before the announcements, I am out with my Caribbean auntie Carol at an even more disappointing DJ set (clue: no DJ) at Plein Publiek. The company is a mixed bag. Along for the ride is a St Lucian friend; a contrarian, who likes the sound of his voice. What he says is mostly horse manure. He asks if I ‘chat Caribbean’.

No. I’m African.

So you don’t chat Caribbean?

He brings along a younger Tunisian friend who appears to be drunk on arrival. He hits on me constantly. Perhaps partly out of vanity, I entertain it somewhat, to my regret. He keeps interrupting my conversations to make non-sequiturs such as ‘You look American. Doesn’t she look American?’ or to get angry with me for not paying him the requisite attention. At some point he offers to draw a cartoon animal version of me.

Mr Tunisia and Mr St Lucia don’t really have a language in common but somehow manage to communicate.

Thank goodness, Carol’s other acquaintance is far more agreeable. Originally from North-West England, Simon has lived in Belgium more than half his life. He’s very candid about various health issues and an unhappy domestic set-up. His first lockdown lasted longer than most, having had to shield because of a pre-existing condition. 

You can take away bars and cafés, he reasons, but please don’t take away all the places I can eat and talk with good company.

An hour or so later, after Simon has dropped Carol and I off at our respective homes, we learn of the tighter anti-COVID measures. I send him a supportive message.

By the following week, the Belgian government stops just short of a much-discussed second lockdown. All cultural venues and sports centres are to close from Monday. A 10pm-6am curfew is ordered. I go to the cinema twice that weekend, whilst I still can.

On top of the latest constraints, it’s another hectic week at work. Ama, already not exactly sunny by nature, is in an especially foul mood. Her sinuses are giving her grief. She’s overworked, fed up with all that 2020 has thrown at us and who-knows-what-else is going on. I get caught on the sharp end once or twice. I’m not the only one. I can never take it personally with her. It’s just how she is. 

I’m grateful for every kind word and thought elsewhere. For a good conversation with a friend whom I thought had dropped off the radar. For the surprise texts from acquaintances whom I haven’t heard from in a while. For another enchanting afternoon spent with the South American. For the sound life advice that one occasionally finds on YouTube. I greatly appreciate the reinvigorating fellowship of an (unintentionally) all female online church cell group I gatecrash.

All these are well-needed fortification for the weeks to come. I’m trying not to think further ahead.

G.A.T.

Now I’m no longer looking for accommodation, I can focus on making a life in Brussels.

Things are hectic on the work front. We have successive online workshops from late September to mid-October. My manager, Ama asks if I’m ready to lead some sessions. Looking for an opportunity to pop my presentation cherry at the TTUO, I accept. I like feeling useful. 

I am immensely aware of the privilege of doing a job that potentially makes a positive difference in the real world; to be able to work on issues that are close to my heart. At the same time, I am soul searching over how much my personal views align with certain aspects of the movement. Particularly on social issues. I’ve always found myself at odds as a Christian engaged in politics. I often feel like an outlier. I’m either too economically to the left for some or too socially conservative for others. It’s an opportunity for growth nonetheless. A chance to wrestle with my own values and beliefs; fine tune or adapt if and where necessary.

Things on the socialising front are also starting to pick up. (As much as COVID restrictions allow, that is. Figures in the Brussels region are especially worrying.)

Unlike Strasbourg, I don't have a hard time meeting folk of the same generation who aren't already married and too ensconced in domestic life to fraternise.

Having survived being (sort of) abducted by Rob, we meet up a few weeks later. Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment. 

Rob has no filter. He treats me like his priest or therapist, making all sorts of personal confessions I have no business knowing. Some things can’t be unheard. 

He flirts with me in a quasi-aggressive way. As with his lurid anecdotes, I’m not sure if he’s trying to get a rise out of me. 

I’m not a tease. I let him know that he’s not getting any play. His romantic life sounds too complicated.  I accuse him of being slutty. I'm nobody's side chick.

Things become very interesting when I explain (not for the first time) that I’m celibate. He reacts with a mix of fascination and taking personal offence. In my experience, it’s a typical response from the male species; even if there were no romantic designs. Annoyed by the idea of one less potential conquest. 

He asks why I don't go for Christian men. As if it's that easy. I explain the pre-pandemic, vastly disproportionate female:male ratio in church. In that sense, it's a numbers game as much as destiny. Even in the less common cases where there's balance, the men are usually already spoken for. I don't get round to speaking about The Rest. Let's just say there are compatibility issues.  Whilst there's no shortage of vibrant and dynamic Christian women, the men often lack the same well-roundedness. Too 'churched'. Those who don't fall into that category usually aren't single. Et cetera, et cetera.

Ignoring the explicit faith-based reasons for my lifestyle choice, Rob presumes I've never been in love. Or that it's a result of trauma.

How condescending...(and insulting)...I haven't been molested if that's what you're getting at...

Rob brings out an irritable side for which I apologise more than once. 

He takes to sending me links to videos about the Christian faith or politics. He also emails choice scriptures, somewhat passive aggressive. 

Rob and I have talked about faith quite a bit. He's spent time in a monastery. He's intrigued and clearly searching. I want to be a help rather than a hindrance. Our complicated dynamic makes it a challenge, nonetheless.

For all his foibles, Rob is sharp and entertaining. He’s also a veritable M.A.T; Man About Town. He has a great circle of friends, some of whom speak very well of him; both beyond and within earshot. If that's anything to go by, he can’t be so bad. One evening, after a fraught conversation over drinks, we’re joined by Rob’s merry band of mulattos. My first impression is that they've been friends for years, if not decades. I'll later learn some of them have only known each other for mere months.

They're a cultured set too. I’m in my element. We discuss everything from semantics and international politics to West African cuisine and Brazilian music. I despair at the lack of Rob's knowledge of 90s R&B.  

A few days later, he invites me to an afternoon of board games and quizzes in the Ixelles area. 

It's the annual designated no-car day. The roads are eerily quiet, except for the odd thundering of skateboards collectively sailing down the empty streets. 

I get lost en route. By pure happenstance, I bump into one of Rob's crew, easy-on-the-eye Diego. I'm delighted to see him. We have already established a fast rapport. He's very complimentary about my outfit. Alas, he’s not staying for the festivities. I ask him not to leave me alone with his unruly friend. Rob’s so much better behaved when he’s with his chums. 

With mischief in his eye, Diego alludes to some suppressed attraction. I’m genuinely gutted to see him go. (A few weeks later, he and I will spend an enchanting Saturday evening in each other's company. But that's for another blog. Perhaps).

I win the quiz by fluke rather than comprehensive knowledge. Thus, despite my competitive streak, the victory feels a little hollow. 

Also along for the ride is Rob's friend, Carol. She’s a no-nonsense older Caribbean woman who keeps him in check. I take to her instantly. We exchange numbers. I invite her to an event the following weekend. I forward her the link. She passes, believing it too abstract for her taste.

She’s not wrong. The event is organised by some good acquaintances at one of my haunts at Botanique. It’s supposed to be a showcase and open mic. It’ll be the first such event I’ve attended in forever. My previous after-hours experience at the same venue was mixed to say the least. I attended for the sake of the vivacious and intelligent organiser, Fatima. The crowd is rather insular and monocultural. I duck out as soon as I can.

This time I imagine something quite different; more diverse and sophisticated. 

There’s a queue outside the venue. Once again, I’m not enthused to see the crowd is not as cosmopolitan as hoped. Fatima works her way down the line, only admitting those who intend to perform. I came prepared. 

Inside, I realise it’s not my crowd. I don't think they'd appreciate one of my acappella Jazz, Gospel or Bossa numbers. Maybe I’m too old. Or it’s too much of a Hip-Hop slam vibe. 

Thankfully, the bartender Mario comes to my rescue. He’s one of the first people with whom I had a real conversation in Brussels. We’re a similar age. Like me, he’s not a Brussels native. Originally from Costa Rica, he spent much of his formative years in Sicily. Our common language is French. 

We’re long overdue a drink, I tell him. I won’t sniff at any opportunity to build social ties.

The following week I meet up with Carol for a DJ set in town. A few days earlier Rob calls to invite me out for dinner. I decline. Too tired. I mention my plans with Carol.

Oh yeah? I’ll be there too.

So much for a ladies’ night out.

I arrive at the event half way, having finished work later than usual. Carol and her friends are about to leave. Charitably, she hangs around to keep me company. No sign of Rob. Ear infection, Carol explains.  She ran into him earlier in the day; another anecdote-worthy incident. Everything about Rob is a caper; as if he’s a real life sitcom character.

The music policy is more commercial than expected. The highlight is a mass singalong to Toto's Africa. Dancing is forbidden under COVID. (Why then, bother with the event?). That doesn’t prevent a drunk chick almost falling over me, leaping around to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now.

It’s a rainy, uninspired Brussels evening. The music selection is hit-and-miss. Yet Carol’s company is enough to compensate. She calls to mind another of my West Indian aunties. That would explain the instant fondness.

Soundtrack: The Eddy OST, Placebo by Carrie Baxter

Rude Awakening

A few weeks after moving in, I’m in for a rude awakening. Literally. Around half past three one Saturday night/early Sunday morning, a knock on the door wakes me.

Who is it? I ask groggily.

It’s the neighbour downstairs...he begins.

He claims that there’s flooding in his flat and that the source of the flow is coming from mine. He demands to be let in to check.

But it’s late…

He raises his voice and insists. As if I’m being unreasonable. 

I’m bewildered. 

It would be hard enough making myself understood in English at that time of night. I don’t have the presence of mind to ask him what the heck he intends to do, even if the leak were coming from my flat. Unless he’s a plumber. Neither do I consider calling the police, as I should. I’m concerned he’ll wake up the neighbours. Reluctantly -foolishly- I let him in. Another male hovers in the corridor, looking sheepish. I take it he’s the boyfriend. Judging from his nervous disposition, he has little control over this volatile character.

He storms into my flat, ignoring my polite request to put on the house slippers.

I don’t know if you’re aware, he proffers, but this is the third time water has leaked from your flat into ours.

No, I wasn’t aware.

How could I be when I’ve lived there less than a month? Besides, it rained heavily the evening before. It doesn't occur to me to remind him of that.

I show him the toilet, shower and laundry. No leak. To his great surprise.

A next door neighbour intervenes. He too has experienced flooding. The intruder leaves, nary an apology.

My sister is livid when I inform her of the sorry affair by voice note. I turn the victim blaming in on myself. I feel as if I've fulfilled the cliché of the weak, impressionable woman. If I had been male, he would have more likely backed off.

If only I didn't let him in...stood up for myself better.  

That's not the point, counters sis, He should have never thought it appropriate to bother you at that time of night. He's out of his mind...

She urges me to inform the landlord, Tete. I don’t anticipate he can do much, being based in Hong Kong but he’s more sympathetic than expected. 

Tete denies any history of flooding. He suggests I notify the building management company. Rumour has it they’re useless. On the other hand, I don’t have much choice. 

I ask a Francophone colleague to proofread my email to the team. She’s horrified. As are my other colleagues. As is pretty much everyone to whom I recount the incident. The guilty party himself, however, sees it another way.

By chance – or misfortune-we come across each other the following weekend. We’re both heading towards the metro. I barely recognise him by the light of day. We exchange greetings. He hastens to get away.

You’re my neighbour, no?

Before I interrogate further he blurts out..

Yes, apologies for the other night once again.

Again? I wasn’t aware he apologised the first time.

I’ve not been sleeping well all week (no thanks to him). Fatigue robs me of linguistic fluidity. Neither do I find it easy to defend myself in French, in most circumstances. Not that I should have to. Yet Mr Mercurial has a way of making it seem like I’m the irrational one. He keeps demanding I see it from his perspective. As if disturbing me in the wee small hours was as unnerving for him as it was for me.

He becomes aggressive. Again. I am reproached for not seeing his point of view.  

He flounces off, barking at me for not accepting his apology. After a few moments, I approach him on the platform.

FYI. If it happens again, I’m involving the authorities. I declare.

Our conversation continues on the train, with quizzical glances from onlookers.  I insist his apology his half-hearted and self-justifying. He rudely queries my linguistic capacities, assuming it’s a comprehension problem. 

No! I say, drawing the line This is unacceptable. 

He makes wild accusations about my landlord being taken to court over previous flooding. I discover later that they are unsubstantiated.  

I’m so distracted by the conversation I miss my stop. Softening slightly, he invites me round to discuss further. I have no intention of interacting with this unstable character more than necessary. The most useful element of the exchange was knowing exactly which flat he occupies. For future reference.