Festive Alternative Part 2

 

Christmas can be a difficult time of year, even without factoring in a pandemic. Following the last minute change to my festive plans, for my own mental well-being, I can but take a day at a time. I’m still a little glum the Monday morning after mum’s trip is cancelled. I share the news with the Morphē Arts prayer group who, as customary, offer solidarity and thoughtful prayers. A similar repeats itself throughout the week via different media, as friends and acquaintances enquire about my Christmas schedule. My TTUO colleague, Steve wastes no time getting in touch after the UK's Tier 4 changes are announced.  I give him an update, thanking him for his kindness. I don’t take up his family’s offer to have me round for reasons previously explained. As not to appear either ungrateful or anti-social, I propose a Boxing Day jaunt around their local park instead.

I start to see the silver lining in the situation. I had been in an emotional state of limbo about mum’s trip. Planning anything in great detail has been frustrated by so much being in suspended animation.

Now I will be doing a lot less running around. I won’t need to spend as much on food if it’s just me. I can focus more on the Christ aspect of the holiday with fewer distractions. Moreover, a number of acquaintances will also have a solitary Christmas for sadder reasons than I; relationship breakdowns, family stranded abroad or a combination of other complicated factors. It’s an opportunity to look out for each other, without feeling guilty for not paying enough attention to my guest.

In the week leading up to Christmas day, I gradually-if not wholly successful-start to wind down some of my daily routine. You know, actually rest. 

Rob le Provocateur continues his antics with an unrelenting stream of material and comments that indulge his chauvinism. In telling him to back off, I let slip my Christmas plans have gone awry.

Watch out, sis warns he smells blood. Attention is a powerful currency.

She’s not wrong. At the culmination of this latest (rough) charm offensive, he invites me round for ‘dinner and to talk’.

I can squeeze you in between one of my other victims, he chides.

I reflect on his offer. I’d be content with chat but without the dinner at his place. I suggest we meet somewhere more neutral. Go for a brisk walk around the park, for instance. I expect he’d welcome the idea more than his South American friend, whose apparent sulk about my reluctance to come over is one of the reasons we’re no longer in contact (even though it's he that eventually cancelled our tête-à-tête) . If Rob’s vehement reaction is anything to go by, it turns out they’re as bad as each other. Rob throws in a bit of emotional blackmail for effect, also insinuating I’m uncivilised for turning down his offer.

Quel gonflé.

Notwithstanding valid concerns over personal safety, he’d literally have the home advantage. He could verbally misbehave in any manner of ways. Politeness, for a while anyway, might prevent me from keeping him in check.

Rob grumbles something about it being too cold. See you in May, he quips.

If you feel that way, too bad.  There's no point me coming over if I’m not comfortable. I’d only be bad company.

More sarcastic responses.

When I update sis, she’s furious. You owe him no explanation! He just wants to take advantage of you being on your own.

I unilaterally put a stop to the email exchanges. Not that Rob entirely desists. Over Christmas, whilst apparently somewhere in Eastern Europe, he attempts to drip feed controversial content to spark another debate. I don't engage, opting instead for ironic remarks about him having better things to do with his time.

I certainly do. There’s reading to catch up on. A pre-Christmas spring clean. Dropping off festive biscuits for acquaintances. Shopping for some rabbit for the stew and pie I plan to make to cover both Christmas and New Year’s Day. I also continue my relatively recent tradition of watching favourite Yuletide specials (Series 1 of The Boondocks, Series 3 of Community...). I'm peeved to note however, that some corporate Grinch has removed the full length version of A Charlie Brown Christmas from YouTube. 

My festive evening strolls are now an inviolable part of my daily routine. The city is fully in the swing of things, within COVID-circumscribed limits. On the metro, the voices of children singing transport-themed adaptations of Christmas ditties blast through the speakers.

Christmas Eve is eerily quiet. Earlier that day, at my local Aldi’s, I observe aloud to the cashier how strangely calm and sane it all is. Perhaps it’ll pick up later. She’s not sure. It is very strange, she concurs.

I’m back out again at night fall, leaving later than I planned having joined an online quiz (in which I came from the rear to wind up in second place. Not bad). Most shops are closed. The streets are semi-deserted. It can’t just be the damp and uninspiring weather. In particular quiet stretches of road, I dance with some abandon to my personal soundtrack; covered by the cloak of darkness.

At Mont des Arts, I pass a tenor saxophonist playing jazzy carols. I stop short when I hear the opening strains of my number one: God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman. I walk back down the steps to join in. He modulates to an unsuitable key. I switch to harmonising with the horn. To my consternation, I have no more change in euros. He’ll have to do with some Sterling coins. He thanks me in transatlantic- inflected English.

Having spent most of the week trying not to think of it too much, Christmas Day is peculiarly serene. In the best possible way. I wake up to sunshine that wasn't forecast. It lasts for most of the day. Numerous texts of well-wishes are exchanged. I attend multiple livestreams of shorter-than-usual Christmas morning services whilst eating brunch. Much of the afternoon is spent catching up with friends who are also alone. My Zoom chat with Temi takes nearly two hours alone, much of it dedicated to relationship issues. Having survived and thrived despite an acrimonious separation, I'm keenly open to her advice. Her kids are with her ex for the day. She’s in good spirits considering that she’s had a hellish few years, of which 2020 was only the latest iteration. She also comments on my bonhomie. Thank God for the grace, as has become my refrain this week.

While there’s still light in the sky, I make the most of the relatively good weather. Droplets appear on my window just as I’m about to step outside, very soon to cease. En route I note, to my pleasant surprise, that the local University Campus church is open to the public for a change. The interior is appealingly modern and understated. Whilst an inviting organ solo thunders in the background, I am drawn to the subdued nativity scene. This Baby Jesus is appropriately brown (in contrast to the Virgin Mary in Grande Place, who resembles Melania Trump). 

Like France, and unlike the UK, public transport still runs on Christmas Day in Belgium on a Sunday schedule. I catch the 29 bus from Roodebeek, descending at Diamant to enjoy the light show around the Telecoms tower. Ironic then that there’s no illumination on Christmas Day itself. 

Never mind. It’s an excuse for a ramble. 

The roads are busier than I expect. Convenience stores, run mostly by people for whom Christmas does not have the same significance, remain open. I get carried away for a couple of hours before it’s back home for dinner and the Netflix adaptation of Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Viola Davis is on fire. Having been ambivalent about the play, it’s a cinephile friend who convinces me to give it a go. Plus I'm drawn by the thought of seeing Chadwick Boseman do his swan song performance.

So far, so enjoyable.  The real test of morale normally comes in the interim period leading into the New Year. Sure thing, a sense of melancholy awaits me on Boxing Day. I have the stroll around Josephat Park with Steve, Sylvia and family later that day to break up the monotony. It's short and sweet. Literally. They bring some delicious cocoa to keep us all warm. The kids predictably torment each other. Out in the open, all restraints are off. This moment of precious offline interaction, confiding our shared frustrations around relocating during a pandemic, is welcome respite. Away from it, as well as the relative bustle of the world outside my flat, it only amplifies the isolation with which I have to contend otherwise.

Soundtrack: My own Best of...2018, 2019 + 2020 mixes.

Festive Alternative: Part 1

courtesy of Le Soir

The week before mum’s scheduled festive visit, she and I are in more regular communication than is our habit. We’re keeping each other abreast of any COVID-related changes to travel on either side of the Channel. Apart from the usual discretionary advice and possible quarantine measures, there aren’t any major upsets. No news is good news. Up until Saturday 19 December. Three days until mum’s series of Continental firsts. Her first time taking the Eurostar (she always came to Strasbourg by plane). Her first visit to Belgium...

At this stage, although my optimism remains cautious, our every-other-day updates are beginning to feel academic. That is until mum mentions rumours of a new tier of restrictions will be introduced by the UK government. The latest mutation of the virus is raging through Southern England and likely elsewhere. After weeks of dismissing the threat, Bojo is feeling the pressure to ‘cancel Christmas’ after all.

I have not been aware of this latest development. By the time mum informs me, the measures are already in place. I immediately start a panicked search of how this affects travel plans. Whether it’s the official UK government website or ITV news, it doesn’t look good. I make several update calls to mum. Eventually, the news gets too depressing. It’s late. I don’t want to keep disturbing her.

I weep tears of bitter disappointment. It’s official. I won’t have seen any of my UK-based loved ones in the flesh for the whole of 2020. I’m overcome with a strange Coronavirus-state of déjà-vu. Nine months earlier almost to the day, back in Strasbourg one anxious weekend, I was hunched over in tears days before the first wave of lockdowns and border closures disrupted all travel plans.

Saturday into Sunday, I fall into a fitful sleep; even more than usual. I wake up a little less distressed in the morning. Maybe there’s a way mum can still travel. She should at least show up at St. Pancras station on Tuesday and see what happens. I phone mum to share my thoughts. She is up for that idea. She has already completed the requisite Passenger Locator Form. There's nothing outright precluding travel thus far. The app even wishes her 'a good trip’. According to the Eurostar website, their trains are still in operation (most likely for those permitted to travel for professional purposes). 

However, by the middle of the day, successive European countries start to close their borders to Blighty. Belgium is one of the first amongst them. At this point, I’m starting to make peace with it all. It wouldn't be my first solo Christmas. However, at least I had some illusion of control over the situation the last time. 

Mum is way ahead of me. Even before news of the travel bans, she’s already decided it’s better to postpone. It’ll be less stressed, she explains. If she could visit, she’d almost definitely be subject to quarantine. The Belgian authorities have announced they are stepping up the monitoring process. I wouldn’t want mum to be effectively under house arrest. She says she wouldn’t mind being home all day. It would be a shame, nevertheless. For her to come to the City and not see any of it, even with the current restrictions. No twilight strolls admiring the luminous Christmas decorations...

You like to play by the rules, she reminds me, it won't be worth compromising.

Besides, she’ll be able to take longer leave in the New Year. There'll be less demand from other colleagues.

It's futile to fight it. Even if we didn’t both come to terms with the changes, the decision is taken squarely out of our hands when Eurostar cancels her train. I’ll have to wait longer to enjoy mum’s company and all the other knick-knacks I miss from the UK; either not available in Brussels or extortionately-priced.

Bloody 2020. It’s been that sort of year. Might as well finish as it went on; in solitary mode. 

Soundtrack: Personal Christmas Collection and Best of ...2017 Part 1 & 2

Loneliness and Christmas Lights

 

It’s official. The Christmas holidays have begun. Staff at The Trade Union Organisation can look forward to two additional weeks of annual leave, as is the custom.

We’ve been squeezing in as much activity as possible in the run-up. Crossing the ‘T’s and dotting the ‘I’s. Webinars, online office parties and a reassuringly constructive evaluation with my manager, Ama.

As the holidays approach, I detect a noticeable lightening of her mood. At the last team meeting, she gives us all glowing praise for punching above our weight. We’re the smallest department with the least resources but, she argues, we achieve more than most. All the more so under pandemic conditions. Having yet to have worked at TTUO for even six months, I feel uneasy about these plaudits. As rewarding as our work is, I’ve not been there long enough to have contributed a great deal.

On the last day before the office closure, I meet up for a mid-afternoon ramble around Parc George Henri with sweet Italian trainee, Gianna. It’s a sunny and invigorating winter’s day. She’s in good spirits. Her contract has been extended. Pending COVID test results, she’ll soon return home for an admittedly straitened Christmas as Italy plans for a harsh festive lockdown.

Gianna thanks me for introducing her to the park. It’s the first time I’ve been since the summer. The bare trees have not diminished its attractiveness. Gianna draws my attention to an adventure playground I either hadn’t noticed, or had ignored on the previous visit. There's a huge sculpture of an Easter Island figurehead lounging in the sand. The playground is practically deserted. We go mad on the slides and swings, before returning to our respective homes to join the online office party.

No end of year quizzes as I’d hoped. Just judging Chrimbo pet photos, colleagues’ prospective festive menus and alcohol recommendations I’ll never use. Colleagues exchange glamourous travel-related anecdotes from pre-COVID days. I see the faces of people whom I’ve only known by name. I long for real world contact with them all the more, especially at this time of year.

Parc Georges Henri (c) Luc Viatour

Most of my colleagues will be off for a good month, whilst I’ll only take a couple of extra days in the New Year. Whilst longer serving colleagues have been encouraged to use as much leave as they can before the cut-off point, I have to ration my pro-rata’d allocation. Besides, with Belgium still on 80 % lockdown and no relaxation of measures during festivities, there’s not much to keep me occupied at home.

There is a glimmer of hope. One that I only speak of with apprehension, as not to tempt fate. My mother is supposed to visit over Christmas. God willing and COVID restrictions permitting.

I have a couple of potential options in case it falls through. One comes from my colleague Steve, also newly arrived from the UK, his wife Sylvia and their wonderful, multi-cultural brood. Another is courtesy of a compassionate couple at my new church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM), who are opening their home to anyone who might be alone at this time. We’ve never met.

I appreciate the offers. It is better to have some choice than none. Still, I am doubtful I’d take them up even if, God forbid, I have to spend Christmas on my own. The thought occurs that being with comparative – or total- strangers somehow would intensify the loneliness.

By coincidence, as it became clear the Belgian authorities were pursuing a harsher festive anti-viral strategy, my few remaining outlets for social interaction have slowly fallen away. Inchoate friendships at church are put on hold, as new acquaintances return to their respective countries to spend the holidays with family. Auntie Carol warns me in advance she’ll be in hibernation before her seasonal trip back home to the West Indies. She texts me the day before she flies out.

The South American man-of-fashion has officially been downgraded to waste-man status. I won’t dignify this non-story with too much detail. Suffice to say I have had to give him the benefit of the doubt pretty much from the outset. He’s spent all his lifelines with one too many mind games and cruel, not to mention, childish antics. It’s always sad to come to the realisation you were so wrong about a person. In fairness, he did once warn me that he wasn't well-adjusted, as hard as it was to believe at the time. When people tell you about themselves, take them at their word.

Another would-be suitor (who, by chance also works in the fashion industry), FWM’s Gerry Rose (yep, that’s his government name), has also disappeared into the ether. I never like to string anyone along. Since I mentioned that my intentions were purely platonic, I’ve noticed a distinct cooling on his part. No more texts to check on my well-being or propose another park stroll. Hmm. I make a mental note to give fashion designers a wide berth in future.

Conversely, a number of blasts-from-the-past have re-emerged after several months, or even years, off the radar. I’m pleasantly surprised-or rather shocked – when a couple of emails from errant acquaintances drop into my inbox.

It’s been a good time to reconnect in general, albeit remotely. Rob-the-Kidnapper has also crept out of the woodwork recently. Very late one evening, he unceremoniously sends me a message demanding to know my thoughts on the US election. No greeting or pleasantries. I let him know I’m not impressed after months of radio silence (a chance meeting at a metro station notwithstanding), and ignore his request. He persists with some other topical news items. I relent. By text or email, we debate the crisis in Ethiopia, gender relations and various perspectives on scripture. Instead of calling, he sends excessive amounts of messages, despite my protests. I can’t lie. I’m glad for the stimulation even if he’s an arrant contrarian. Half the time I don’t know if he really believes what he says, merely wants to elicit a reaction or both.

Text controversies aside, real world stimuli is still lacking. After railing against the solitude, I have no choice but to embrace it and make my own fun. As I have so often had to do. I’m tired of being at the mercy of others’ whims or scheduling. Trips to the supermarket, bookshops and aimless wandering are elevated far above the mundane nowadays.

My attitude towards Christmas this year is notably ambivalent. I am sluggish to put up the decorations. I decide to wait until after the cleaning lady, Melissa, has done her pre-festive rounds. Since moving in, I’ve signed up to the Titres-Services programme. I pay a monthly subscription through which I can benefit from a pool of cleaning personnel. To ensure that I don’t completely mutate into a champagne socialist, I only avail myself of the service every fortnight. I still clean my own toilet bowl in between.

In these undesirably quiet times, I’m immensely grateful for the company. On this occasion, Melissa is particularly loquacious. I’m glad for the French practice and the interaction, although keen to get back to finalising my end-of-year blogs. She asks if I have kids. Not yet. If it's God's will. I don't know...but I love children anyway...

I'm the same she replies but I love other people's children.

I later realise that her verbosity is for my benefit not hers. She’s married with a house full of kids. She perceives my loneliness and her emotional intelligence kicks in. And to think domestic work is often described as ‘low-skilled’. Nonsense. As if there’s such a thing. How many therapists can offer solace whilst cleaning a whole flat inside three hours? There’s something intensely moving about her gesture. I well up at the thought of it.

Back to my subdued Christmas plans. After Melissa leaves, I dutifully put up the decorations, glad to have it out of the way. I’ve decided to switch on the fairy lights only if and when mum arrives.

Brussels City Centre

One concession to festive cheer is meandering around Brussels to enjoy the City in its yuletide splendour. Having relocated from Strasbourg, not undeservedly known as the ‘Capital of Christmas’, I must admit Brussels holds its own. Even with the absence of the Christmas market this year, which I’m yet to experience. With all that's happened this year, I didn't think local authorities would bother. Also for fear the lights would attract a crowd, as has happened.

I’m a woman of simple pleasures. An ordinary walk around tastefully-illuminated Bourse, Grande Place and Ixelles, with good music streaming through my ears, is enough to warm the heart. Even parts of my local Woluwe-Saint-Lambert neighbourhood are festively stunning. Thanks to these regular excursions, I'm also getting to know the city even better.

At home, I try to throw myself into Advent. I attend online Carol Services in which geographical distance would have otherwise precluded my participation. At night, I am comforted from the seasonal resources courtesy of a Chaplain friend, before I close my eyes for more fitful sleep.