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