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.
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