The Festive Interstice: Part 1

As Christmas day hurtles ever closer, I remain a little unsure of how I’m to spend it. Ciaran is still AWOL.

I  want to be spontaneous, really putting my Open House Christmas plans into action.

When Cynthia informs me that she and her daughter Leah will be having a Bruxellois Christmas, I leap at the chance to invite them round. Cynthia's plans to drive through France to the UK are jettisoned, following the Hexagon’s announcement that all non-urgent travel to and from Blighty is suspended until further notice. I assume, not unfairly, that they’d want some respite from Cynthia’s apparently abusive-ex with whom she still lives because of economic imperative. I leap at the chance to invite mother and daughter round. My invitation is met with more radio silence.

A few days before Christmas I attend an Internations French language event where I bump into Em. It usually takes me a while to memorise names but with her, I have no excuse. She’s my mother’s namesake. How a West-African woman and a Franco-Belgian native born a decade and a half apart came to share the same Irish forename bemuses me. It could well have something to do with a long-abandoned Catholicism on both counts; albeit for different reasons.

I first meet Em thanks to the now Caribbean-bound auntie Carol, whom she’s fresh from dropping off at the airport.

The conversation around the table naturally turns to Christmas plans. Em matter-of-factly responds that she might well be flying solo for the festive season. She has a complicated relationship with her family – as Carol once forewarned- and would prefer her own company; as long as she doesn’t have to go it alone every year.

Later that evening, tucked in bed, I send a text invitation asking Em to join me for the main meal on the 25^th. Why not? 

Maybe it’s the late hour but Em does not reply.

By the next morning, the lack of uptake is a source of much anxiety. There's an ever closing window to shop if I’m to beat my personal deadline (23 December). I don’t know if I should risk the expense of shopping for potentially no-show guests, or just accept one of my other friends’ generous Yuletide invitations. I express my concerns with my morning prayer group. A couple of members encourage me to follow my heart and go ahead with the Open House idea. If you cook it, they will come; Field of Dreams-style. 

This simple, kindly nudge is nevertheless the morale boost I need. I feel much peace about moving ahead with my original plan. Like an answer to prayer, responses start to trickle in. Em takes up my offer with enthusiasm later that morning. Cynthia sends me a flurry of apologetic texts in the evening, claiming to have missed my original invitation. Her ex being out of town, she’s enjoying some much needed peace and quiet. Alas, they still can’t come for dinner. Leah has already has a menu in mind. It’s fine, I say. We can catch up another time. Cynthia won’t hear of it, insisting on coming round with dessert. Well, it’s certainly practical. It was the one part of the spread I didn’t plan to make from scratch, excluding the bread and cheese platter.

I choose to keep the menu relatively simple this year. A winter vegetable soup with a hint of fresh basil for starters. For the main course: Capon marinated in a lemon, honey, olive oil and fresh coriander seasoning. Homemade stuffing and bread sauce. Lamb chops coated in olive oil, fresh mint, garlic and a dash of cinnamon.  Fluffy mash potatoes with sprinklings of Emmental and fresh parsley. Peas, broccoli and smatterings of parsnips left over from the soup. Lots of non-alcoholic wine of various flavours. With Cynthia taking care of pudding, it’s all good. I do most of my purchases by 23 December, in a more upbeat mood. I can’t altogether avoid Christmas Eve shopping, having now to buy stocking fillers for my guests.

Still no word from Ciaran. I send him a reluctant reminder, claiming his absence is either worrying or rude. Till now, I don’t know what has become of him.

I spend the evenings catching up on the Christmas specials and other viewing/listening of interest in which I haven’t yet had time to indulge. Aside from my traditional watching (A Huey Freeman Christmas, Community’s Christmas special, third series), I dust off Blackadder’s Christmas Carol, which slipped off my radar in recent years. I had forgotten how hilarious this subversion of Dickens’ is.

My church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM), has arranged festive services across the weekend. I forego a lie-in for a briefer-than-usual Christmas morn gathering. I’ve not had the privilege of attending one since relocating from the UK. It wasn’t part of my French church’s annual programme and Christmas 2020...well, it was lost to another lockdown. 

Before I leave for church, I put the long-marinated Capon in the oven.

On entering the FWM building, I wonder if I have made a mistake.

A group of South Asians are performing a Christmas routine in traditional saris and the male equivalent. FWM has a diverse congregation but I’ve never seen this many members from the Indian subcontinent before. I wonder where they’ve all been hiding. Attendance is otherwise sparse, as I suspected. Most are probably conserving their energy for the Christmas Sunday service.

The highlight of Pastor Mike’s message is when he explains his rationale for back-to-back Christmas services. He wants to leave the door open for those who, like him back in the day, only step into a church at Christmas and/or Easter.

I go straight home for some unavoidable last minute prep whilst watching other online Christmas services and a siesta of sorts. A few hours before guests are due to arrive, Cynthia sends me a customarily rococo email about some Murphy’s Law turn of events. She and Leah have caught head lice, after it has apparently been doing the rounds at the latter’s school. 

Bad timing, no? She commiserates. 

I’d say.

Cynthia attaches photos of mother and daughter having fun in the kitchen. At first, I think nothing of taking her what she says at face value. Lice on Christmas Day. You couldn’t make it up. Only later do I reconsider; maybe you (she) could?

We haven't met up for months. The few unavoidable schedule clashes notwithstanding, this can't be mere coincidence.

Cynthia is vibrant, funny, authentic and resilient. She's easy to like. I have tried to be supportive and understanding in light of what appears to be an impossible situation. Nevertheless, my patience is wearing thin. Given all the recent drama surrounding the end of my contract and TTUO management's subsequent outrageous behaviour, I have limited emotional capacity of my own. Cynthia's cryptic messages and general elusiveness make it hard for me to know how - or if - to be present. Call it generalised anxiety or PTSD engendered by her circumstances but she gives the impression that my efforts feel more like impositions. Yet, there's a reluctance on her part to admit it. Hence the last minute changes of plan or cancellations that are not always to do with the vagaries of her ex.

Hers and Leah’s gifts are still gathering dust in one of my cupboards.

Thankfully, mercifully, Em is true to her word. She arrives half-an-hour late; perfect for me as I put the finishing touches to the preparations. By then, between Cynthia's cancellation and Ciaran's disappearing act, I’m a nervous wreck. I presciently bought some stand-by dessert, in case Cynthia didn’t come through, but it’s not much. Fortunately, there’s plenty of savoury food to go round. It’s a whole lot of cooking for two people but I’m ready with specially-purchased Tupperware.

After being complimentary about my flat, Em spots a sketch of Sade on my coffee table.

It turns out that both of us are fans of Ms Adu and her band. I pause the festive Jazz to put on my personally-curated Sade mix, which will be the soundtrack for the evening.

Em is an open book in many ways. Out of nowhere, she launches the bilingual dinner time conversation by informing me that a mutual acquaintance, Aurélien, is seriously crushing on me. I roll my eyes. I’ve only ever seen him as an amusing older fellow I come across at socials from time to time. Like many a Francophone, chatting up women is a past time for him. I didn’t think it was that deep. I didn’t want it to be. I certainly don’t share his sentiments. 

From there Em confides about fraught relations with her estranged family, broken friendships, as well as highs and lows with men folk, to which I chime in with my own experience in Belgium thus far. She’s familiar with a couple of the culprits. We have quite a few people in common.  Her perspective on faith and spirituality is also complex. I sense she wants to believe but is angry with God for the suffering that she has undergone, particularly in childhood.

It’s not always the most relaxing discussion. Like so many 40-somethings I know, myself included, Em is doing her best to process and surmount the aftermath of trauma experienced in the formative years and beyond.

I can’t say all my interventions are saintly and full of grace. Yet, I’m pleased to have opened my home to Em at what can be a solitary time for those of us living alone. It is mutually beneficial. I pray I have in some small way (albeit imperfectly) communicated Christ's love, as celebrated by many across the world particularly during this season.

 The hours fly by. As 9pm rolls around, I walk Em to her car with her festive bounty all safely film-wrapped or stored in air-locked containers.

Once safely back at her home on the outskirts of Brussels, she sends me a short but heartwarming message of thanks.

Meanwhile, any vague plans to have more guests drop by over the next few days are shelved. Hosting is a blessing, yes but it can be an exhausting one.

Soundtrack: Best of 2019 (1 & 2) + 2020 (Part 2) mixes.

It’s A Wrap

 

(courtesy of The Guardian)

This December doesn’t just mark the end of the Gregorian calendar year. For me, it’s the end of a brief, prematurely-ended era.

My contract at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) comes to an end on New Year’s Eve. The office will close before Christmas and I have outstanding leave. My last working day is in mid-December.

Management continues to act in bad faith. Lauren, the head of TTUO, behaves so inappropriately that my union has to get involved. New-ish manager, Gina doesn’t have the courtesy to acknowledge my departure; not even so much to arrange a proper handover. Whether it’s a guilty conscience, bad manners, cowardice or all of the above, it’s pretty damn unprofessional.

My application efforts so far have not yet yielded any fruit, albeit feedback has been promising. I spend many a high-pressured day preparing for an internal interview with a different department. All my other plans are put on hold for several days whilst I'm consumed by this task. It’s clear during the process that I don’t have the required specialist knowledge but I can’t quit half-way.

The interview is a mixed-bag; inspired in places but exposing my inexperience in others. The already under-resourced team needs someone to hit the ground running. If they had more personnel, someone to mentor me, then they could take the risk. When I speak to the head of department, Kojo (who also happens to attend my church), he confirms my presentiment, explaining it was a tough decision. I’m nonetheless encouraged. Likewise when I receive the rejection letter after another interview; this time with SOUL (The Solidarity Union League), a partner organisation of TTUO. After digging for a bit more feedback following a generic email, they assure me my performance was strong. They just thought I’d flourish in a policy role, rather than the more administrative post I suspected this of being.

My last day at TTUO is, naturally, bitter-sweet. We conclude the programme I’ve jointly coordinated with an online farewell party, where everyone in attendance has her chance to play DJ. I receive lots of affirming messages in the lead up and on the day itself; from the participants of the programme, colleagues, consultants and even the interpretation team with whom we’ve collaborated. 

 I have a very candid exit interview with TTUO’s Human Resources department. I explain to my lovely (now former) colleague Émilie -as I’ve said to others- that given the circumstances in which I took up the post, it always felt like a dress-rehearsal; never the real performance. Émilie agrees. She say she’s only heard good things about me. That is a triumph, per se. I can leave with my head held high, knowing this is all on management. For definite, it’s not me. It’s them.

However, I still have to face the reality of an uncertain start to 2022. Coupled with the ongoing insecurity engendered by the pandemic, another Christmas separated from relatives and the unwelcome reminder that I don’t (yet?) have my own family, I have some dark mental well-being days. Sometimes, my mind feels like it’s eating itself. When I start crying for no particular reason, it’s a dead giveaway.

Yet, I must acknowledge that I’m in a stronger position than last year. Yes, I was employed but also incredibly isolated. My connections to the city were not half as strong as they are now. The few I had had either unceremoniously disappeared or already left to spend the festive period with their family. My mum’s own Christmas trip had to be cancelled at the last minute after travel from the UK was banned. If Christmas Day 2020 itself was serene, I recall a cliff-edge drop in morale swiftly afterwards. I don’t know what this festive period holds but I’m grateful for some forward movement.

I haven't spent a Christmas in the UK since relocating to Europe in 2017.  But for the pandemic, mum would have visited or I would have spent time with sis in a (now very closed) Japan. I decide on an Open-House set-up for Christmas Day.

The Belgian authorities allow for a limited number of guests for Yuletide socialising. Days before Christmas, my plans are in suspended animation. I’m still awaiting confirmation from particular acquaintances on whether they’ll accept my invitation. This includes Ciaran, the sweet Irish-American I befriended in Croatia. Failing that, there are invitations from friends elsewhere. The vague state of affairs means I’m having to be more last minute than is customary. It’s stressful. I try to be reasonable and understanding but radio silence makes me nervous. And it's rude.

Still, Christmas 2021 is so far more cheerful than its predecessor. My community has greatly enlarged. I am spiritually well-supported both in Brussels and elsewhere. My morning prayer group continues to be a lifeline; offering up supplications to the Almighty on my behalf before I ask.

I am able to engage offline in my Belgian church’s festive programme. A soup kitchen is organised each weekend in December – save for Christmas Day. More like a mobile kitchen, where we distribute packed lunches to those sleeping rough around Brussels. 

There’s a special advent service taken over by the kids and young adults, including a pretty slick, short pre-recorded re-enactment of the nativity story. If the praise and worship slot leaves me uninspired (as usual), I’m delighted to sing Joy to the World with the congregation at the top of my lungs; twice, on Pastor Mike’s request.

It’s a season of departures, as expected; some more long-term than others. Brenda invites me and Roxie around to her place for a birthday meal, mid-December. It’ll be the last time we hang out this side of the New Year, as Brenda is days away from taking the train to Austria to be with family.

Earlier that Sunday, straight after church, Auntie Carol and I meet for the last time before she relocates permanently back to the West Indies.

I am still wont to go on long, wistful walks enjoying the light displays in various communes. It’s just this time, there’s more activity going on (I admit, I miss some of the tranquillity of last year, although not its cause). 

It is my second Christmas in Brussels but it might as well be the first. It’s the first time I’m experiencing the Christmas market buzz; still going, to my surprise, despite surges in cases earlier in the month. Festivals cancelled last year, tentatively resume this December such as the Brussels African Market. A day after I join old colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia for a meal at their home with their lively, articulate and culturally-informed children, they accept my invitation to the BAM; round the corner from where they live. We pick up some great accessories crafted by European-based African artisans, as well as those directly from the Motherland. A couple of vendors have come all the way from Mali. I can only presume they’re touring markets across Europe. That’s the only way it would be worth their while. On exiting, I catch sight of that ol’ pain-in-the-proverbial, Rob. Lately, more than ever I’ve been successful at keeping him at arm’s length. I nod a greeting. He returns it, then proceeds to stare at me as if we’d never met.

(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

That evening, after a few weeks’ absence, I reconnect with my platonic boyfriend, Renzo. (That’s the facetious and affectionate descriptor I use with our mutual friend Clarissa, when we video chat a few days earlier.)

On his polite request, I join Renzo for an Italian-Catholic service near Porte de Namur. It’s a wholly new worship experience for me. After the initial good-humoured salutations I'm a little tense, trying to be on my best behaviour. Equally, I sense that Renzo is conscious of how alien it all might be. Remembering how much he threw himself into proceedings when he visited my church (which he describes as an ‘exotic experience’), I’m eager to be supportive.

I get a kick out of hearing my friend sing and recite the liturgy in his mother tongue. I’ve always had a soft-spot for the Italian language, one of the prettiest of the Romance family. I can comprehend bits and pieces; now more thanks to my exposure to Portuguese, than to the two years I studied it over 20 years ago.

Afterwards, I suggest we wander to Place Cocq-Fernand to gaze upon the Cinderella-like Christmas décor. Renzo is in playful mode. He challenges me to a running race, backwards. Concerned about falling over in my heels, I decline; to my later regret. I need to work on my spontaneity.

I convince Renzo to stroll to Flagey. I like the walk and want to enjoy the festive view. It’s also a route that at times, despite myself, I still associate with The South American. I came to know it through him. I look for opportunities to overlay it with new memories in alternative company.

Although ancient history, the relational disappointment of my early days in Brussels still occasionally haunts me. It tends to surface the moments when I’m generally anxious and/or unhappy.

Part of the way to Flagey, Renzo and I fall out. He recommends an exhibition he’s just visited, on sorcery from a feminist perspective. I’m irritated by anything that I perceive to glorify the occult; especially when it’s conflated with women’s liberation struggles. I have observed certain Westerners romanticise or treat the topic with a lightness; a mere socio or anthropological curiosity. Given my family history and cultural background, I find this inappropriate to put it mildly. In my strong reaction to Renzo’s suggestion, perhaps I’ve unfairly projected these tendencies on him. In any case, not for the first time, I feel he’s being inadvertently dismissive. 

We’ve had charged moments before but this is our first proper argument. Our first real test. We're two single-minded individuals, belonging to historically marginalised groups. The same attributes that have aided our affinity can at times also be sources of tension. We both feel the need to stand our ground.

After a short but excruciating silence, Renzo chooses the high road and changes the subject.

(Louise neighbourhood, Brussels. Courtesy of Foursquare)

It takes me a moment to recover but I go along with his goodwill. The flowing conversation resumes. We end up walking the scenic route to Louise, circling back to Porte de Namur. We’re due to part ways on the Toison D’Or Avenue. I plan to continue to Arts-Loi. Renzo isn’t keen on the idea of me going alone. 

It's a journey I make all the time by foot, I insist.

Stylish as ever in his warm-looking, well-coordinated burnt-orange overcoat and beanie, he offers to accompany me- on the proviso we take the metro. He’s freezing.

Not having work the next day, I go with Renzo some of the way home- in the opposite direction. Partly to prolong the time in his company. Maybe also to compensate for the moments lost to the disagreement. By the end of the evening, we’re as affectionate as ever; embracing and saying our Christmas farewells. I’m relieved and reassured that our friendship has reached a stage where it can withstand disputes. If I say I love my friend, then there must be room for us to get on each other's nerves. Anything less would be doomed to superficiality.

Yet by the next day, I’m still rattled. It feeds into a broader, exhausting neurosis that I endeavour to pinpoint. It can’t just be about my now unemployed status. Or facing another Christmas, effectively relying on the kindness of people whom I haven’t known for long, if I’m not to spend it alone again. Or the lack of natural light, cold and general malaise that I encounter as the New Year approaches. Or the absence of any illusion of control over my circumstances...

But thank God, tomorrow is another day. Another chance to (try and) surrender all to the Almighty and not get too lost in my own head.

Seriously,...You Couldn’t Make It Up.

 

In early December, my mother celebrates her 60^th birthday. My sis has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure it’s as special as the occasion warrants. She organises a homage video; approaching mum’s friends, colleagues and of course, family. Sis’ true wish is that one, if not both of us could be there. Even before the emergence of the Omicron variant, Japan’s borders were relatively closed, all the more so now. One day in November, shortly after my return from the UK, sis confronts me. She claims I have been insensitive by deciding to cross the Channel so close to mum’s birthday, but not near enough to celebrate with her.

I acknowledge my error with sincere contrition, apologising to both mum and sis. I then begin scheming - without either of their knowledge - a fly-by-night visit for the church birthday celebration arranged the following Sunday. 

 I plan to arrive by Eurostar and return to Brussels by overnight coach. As much as is possible in advance, I comply with all the COVID-related travel requirements. I even squeeze in my third jab, thanks to Brussels' accelerated booster system. All seems to be tentatively going in favour of the trip. Until the UK announces tougher testing requirements in response to the threat of Omicron.

Now a lateral flow is no longer enough. A more expensive PCR test is required, even if only in town briefly, as I am. Self-isolation is essential until the results are received. At first, I believe my plans are scuppered. I confess all to sis. She initially seems more annoyed that I didn’t speak up earlier. I was thinking it would make it easier not to spill the beans.

I eventually come up with a cunning but legit manoeuvre. Since I need to self-isolate and I don’t have the keys to mum’s place, I re-book my new test for a time that allows me to pass by church, say hello and then head to the centre. I’d then have the rest of the evening with mum before my coach returns. I keep an eagle-eye out for any changes in the interim. When France announces tougher measures for those visiting from outside the EU, the news doesn't register. It’s not relevant to my plans.

My outbound journey is with good old reliable Eurostar. There’s a reason why it’s the most efficient, if not the cheapest, option. I arrive in London without any drama. I decide to hang around St. Pancras for a while. The idea is to sneak up on mum towards the end of the celebrations. Whilst waiting I tune into my Belgian church’s service online. 

Horrified, I observe how many passers-by are unmasked, although recent rule changes have made face coverings mandatory once more. There does seem to be marginally more compliance than my previous visit in autumn. But, still. When an unmasked woman near me coughs without covering her mouth, I am tempted to go vigilante on her. I leave irate video messages for sis on Skype, as if she can do anything about it.

I leisurely make my way to mum’s church. Too leisurely. It's all but over by the time I arrive. Mum's senior pastors are heading out. They give me a warm greeting but have no plans to hang around. I greet some of the now pre-adolescent children who, when I last saw them, were relative tots. I notice a few of mum’s guests, such as family friend Angela, and mum’s sister, Adriana. I commend my aunt on how much weight she’s lost in the two years since I last saw her.

I can’t yet catch the Birthday Girl’s eye. Later mum will explain how strange she thought it that someone in the room sounds like her daughter. The photographer manages to catch the evolution of mum’s facial expression; from confusion, shock, pleasant surprise- ending in us embracing.  Ironic, when so many of those she invited were indisposed, a guest arrives whom she was not expecting. She’s delighted. It’s her real present, she says.

Mum also has a bounty of tangible gifts. I arrive in time to help take down all the bunting, during which I catch Auntie Adriana up on my news. We are so lost in conversation that it’s hard for those left in the room to catch our attention and politely kick us out. My uncle Chris dispenses with all pleasantries. He yells at us to leave, dampening the otherwise good energy.

Mum, Auntie Adriana, Auntie Angela and I continue the discussion near Bethnal Green tube before going our separate ways. I’m running slightly late for my PCR test. Auntie Angela and I are heading in the same direction. I’m perturbed to see that, as a cancer survivor, she still refuses to wear her mask. She’s a vocal COVID-sceptic. Her doctor just about convinced her to be vaccinated. 

My jaw drops when I arrive at Waterloo for my PCR test. It would have made no difference if I made it on time. The queue snakes round towards the Southbank centre; nothing like when I had to come for my LFT in October. To while away the two-hour wait, I make conversation with a friendly couple, freshly arrived from a city-break in Paris. It’s a good thing I am returning to Belgium by coach in the late evening, or I would have no time left to spend with mum. 

It’s dark by the time I rock up to her digs in Sydenham, South-East London. She’s already started opening some of my gifts. I’d hoped to be around to give an explanation. We talk about everything and nothing. I tuck into some of the leftovers from her party. She gives me some birthday cake to take back with other goodies.

I make my way to Victoria Coach Station with time to spare, to my relief. After the previous debacle with Flixbus- who still refuse a full reimbursement for the trouble- I’ve opted for a different company. Unusually, the Eastern European drivers don’t have much English. No great issue. We board the half-empty bus. 

It’s not long before I nod off, only to be awoken for the passport checks at border control. I’m so dazed, I believe we’ve already crossed over to Calais somehow whilst we’re still only in Dover.

As we line up for passport control, news passes down the line that the French authorities are demanding a negative PCR test, in reaction to the rule change the night before. One of my fellow travellers begins to panic, calling a friend to see if it’s true. I ignore her, trying to keep my calm. Alas, she's right. French bureaucracy is as merciless as ever. Our COVID-safe certificates are insufficient, the guards insist. I inform them that I’m awaiting my test results. 

Not good enough.

Is there at least wi-fi for me to check if the email has come through? 

No.

One young man shows them a screenshot of his negative result. It still isn’t sufficient.

We try to point out a flaw in their logic. Some of us are only passing through France to our next destination. We’ll be crossing by ferry and barely touch French soil.

Ils s’en foutent.

Drunk with power, the guards confiscate our passports. They're not returned until the authorities are assured that our coach has left without us. Before they go, I try to explain to the bus driver what’s going on. He doesn’t have enough English and no French.

In the end, a group of 15-20 passengers are dumped at Dover port, with not a care about us. There’s much running around and panic. Some consider renting a hotel room. That’s vetoed at the thought of the expense. Some waste no time jumping into taxis, dividing the substantial fare amongst themselves. It’s the middle of the night and yet cab drivers are suspiciously present with morsels of ‘helpful’ information, that somehow boosts their own business. 

A few of us find our way to Dover Port reception, which is warm and has wi-fi. Another taxi driver materialises, luring away more desperate passengers. I like to be proactive but I don’t want to make a decision under this sort of stress. Returning to London at this hour would serve no purpose. Nothing is open. Besides, I don’t need to procure a test. I’ve already taken one. I just need to wait for my results.

And then there were two. By the time the group has scattered, it’s just me and Franco-Cameroonian, Léonard. He speaks only a little English. In my frazzled, sleep-deprived state, my French is all over the place; much to my consternation. I apologise for the mangling and basic mistakes.

Over the course of the night, whilst looking at alternative routes back to London, he explains he's been visiting his dad and siblings who, by one of many strange coincidences, live a stone’s throw from my old flat in the Lee/Hither Green area. Léo was raised by an extended family member in France with whom he has a complicated relationship.

As for being stranded in Dover, we’re not the only ones in that particular predicament. Others hanging around the Port office have also been kicked off their coaches by officious French officials. One woman suggests Léo and I board the replacement (Flixbus) that is supposed to return them to London. I’m willing to pay for a ticket, if I can find a cash machine. Léo searches for one in vain.

You can just say you’re one of us, the kindly stranger suggests.

I decline. If I’m not asked, I won’t volunteer any information. Neither am I willing to lie if interrogated. It won’t work out well for me in the end, I explain to her and Léo. Relying on me for English, he’s constrained to whatever decisions I make.

My reluctance to be economical with the truth is the impetus for Léo to enquire about my belief system. A Catholic by upbringing, he gave up on organised religion aged 13, confused by all the possible options. He’s turning 30 in January, he confides. Recent dark life events have motivated him to resume his spiritual quest. Ours is his second fateful encounter, Léo claims, in as many days. He had a similar conversation with a Muslim women after missing his original connection from Paris to London.

He’s been exploring Islam and thus is especially keen to debate the Holy Trinity. I don’t think my responses are theologically ground-breaking. Nevertheless for Léo, it appears it’s the first time he’s discussing these themes in depth. I encourage him in his search. God is clearly attentive.

A coach arrives but it’s not the replacement for which we had hoped. The courteous driver breaks the news that it’s unlikely we’d be allowed to board in any case, not being amongst the original passengers.

 Flanked by the famous white cliffs, Léo and I make our way through the eerie Dover streets to the train station. We aim to catch a cheaper half-4am train back to London. We miss it by seconds. Léo generously offers to pay for the next train to the Capital. He still has hopes of catching a morning coach back to France but will need my assistance to navigate the testing system.

We attempt to get some shut-eye on the ride, occasionally woken by ticket inspectors.

Back at Victoria station, we run into some of the fellow travellers who abandoned us at Dover. Peine Perdue. It gave them no advantage. They have passed a fruitless -and noticeably colder- night at the station.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon is spent accompanying Léo through the testing process and re-booking alternative transport. He’s forced to abandon his plans to leave for Paris that morning, given the scarcity of test slots and limited window. I have a lot of tasks on my own To-Do list but I make my peace with the situation. Léo is my mission for now. That’s where the grace is. If I left him to pursue my own agenda, I am certain I wouldn’t get much done. Plus, I’m pleased to be useful.

Traversing London, I notice the City is in full festive mode. It dawns on me it's the first time I've been in the Capital at Christmas time since I relocated to Europe late 2017.

I’m with Léo when his negative test result comes through. Once reassured he’s all set for his return trip by coach, I make my way back to mum’s. I’m dog tired but I have a lot of life admin to sort out.

Fortunately, my own test results come back negative; in time for me to travel the same day. I notify my colleague, Demetria, that I won’t be able to join an online activity that afternoon as planned.

I also request that she speaks to HR to arrange more annual leave to make up for the ‘lost’ day. I need to print out my negative test certificate and find an alternative route back to Belgium. Eurostar tickets are eye-watering at this eleventh hour. I’m seriously considering the free ticket Flixbus has offered for the previous inconvenience. My mother objects strongly. She’d rather help me pay for the train than have me risk another hitch. 

So, it’s decided.

I’m too tired to do any real work that day. I squeeze in a shower. Thankfully, I have had the presence of mind to bring a change of underwear or two.

Albeit a relatively straightforward journey to St. Pancras, I underestimate how long it’ll take. Or simply wishful thinking on my part.

I arrive at the Eurostar terminal with mere minutes to spare. Certain members of staff are only too eager to remind me. 

More optimistically, the personnel do not breathe a word about a negative COVID test. I board the train a few minutes before it’s scheduled to set off. Except it’s held up. The crew haven’t arrived. We remain stationary for half an hour.

On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is nearing the end of a national strike. Owing to the delayed Eurostar, I miss the last direct transport to my part of town. At De Brouckère station, I bump into Giacomo, whom I last saw in the summer, at the ill-fated Afghan dinner in Antwerp organised by mutual acquaintance Rob. We split a cab to Montgomery -Giacomo’s neighbourhood- and I decide to walk the rest of the way. A fool’s errand at that time of night. Giacomo keeps me awkward company part of the way, which is nonetheless appreciated.

I reach home close to midnight. I check-in with Léo, expressing my surprise at Eurostar’s comparatively easygoing COVID policy. Likewise, on his way back by coach, this time the authorities weren’t concerned about negative test results.

Our meeting wasn't by chance then, I suggest.

I’m certain of it, Léo shoots back.

Soundtrack: The Quarantine Sessions by Tom Misch. Intimidated EP by Kaytranada.

Resilience

 

After my brief but well-needed Portuguese excursion, I return to Belgium to an ever-complicated work situation. The trade union representatives (TUR), including my colleague Demetria, have been doing their best to defend me in my absence. They write a strongly-worded, well-argued letter to management to challenge their recent decision not to extend my contract. 

No complaints about my work have been raised. The funding -which management disingenuously feigned as ‘hanging in the balance’ - is confirmed whilst I’m on leave. Besides, we have surplus to carry over from this year, which Demetria and new manager, Gina herself, costed into the project proposal. Gina and the GS, Lauren, keep insisting that the format of the programme will change. Fine, I say, but not the substance. It’s not as if I’m suddenly required to become an accountant or civil engineer. The essence will remain the same. I was recruited on the basis I could adapt.

After receiving the TUR letter, the GS agrees to meet with them. It’s false hope. I am not party to this conversation and, for the sake of confidentiality, no notes are taken by the reps. At the very least, the TUR want to convince Lauren to allow me a transitional period. There’ll be a lot of loose ends to tie up in the New Year. She’s adamantly opposed. When asked how she could ignore that my contract is already accounted for, she apparently hints that she’s promised that money elsewhere; to a department filled with her (white) South African compatriots.

A lot transpires from that meeting, all of it supposedly off the record and not necessarily in my interests to divulge at this point. Suffice to say that management feel untouchable; not least because I have a less secure, fixed-term contract. The cronyism and double-standards are so blatant, that it’s positively sloppy. The TUR are devastated on my behalf. Alas, at this stage their hands are tied by internal politics. I’ve already started to look for opportunities elsewhere. I have a lot of annual leave to spare which management would prefer I take in one go, so I am out of their hair. Meanwhile, Gina has been studiously avoiding me since our confrontation at the meeting where she effectively gave me the boot.

This awful situation has nonetheless highlighted how well-supported I am within the organisation and without. On my London trip, sympathetic friends listen with sad incredulity. Several colleagues and affiliates express their chagrin as well as solidarity. My team organises a catch-up/pre-farewell lunch. My colleague Steve and his wife Sylvie stay in regular touch with supportive messages. At church the likes of Karin and Monica ask for regular updates. Pastor Mike sends me a text, remarking that he hasn’t seen me in church for a while (he’s unaware of my travel plans) and sends a prophetic prayer. Renzo’s is an ever-ready shoulder to cry on. I am rich in relationships. It’s nothing to be taken for granted. After so many months of pandemic-related isolation, the comfort of this is sweeter still.

The work stress has clearly taken its toll but my life hasn’t come to a stand still. 

I reunite with Renzo after my holidays at an exhibition he’s co-curating. He’s taking a break when I arrive. I fear I’ve missed him and send a mildly panicked text. His gallery colleagues have been looking at me askew.

I’m so relieved when he walks through the door, I’ve barely said hello before wrapping him in a tight embrace. We’re both a bit giddy, having not seen each other for a while. Renzo makes an unwittingly humourous comment and I double up with laughter. He turns crimson, wearing a confused smile, probably nervous that something has been lost in translation.

No, caro mio, you're just witty.

I wish I could be funny in multiple languages.

I don’t care much for the exhibition itself, which at first sight appear to be a series of misshapen hair nets. Renzo takes the time to expertly explain the intention and craft that the featured artist has put into each creation. It’s an enthused side of him that’s new to me. He's finally making inroads into his true vocation, after years wasting away in the corporate world. More than the work itself, my pleasure comes from seeing my friend in his element.

The last Sunday of the month, Renzo, Brenda and Roxanne will join me for a late lunch/early dinner -or “linner” as we dub it. They overlap with Bruno - a recent acquaintance I’ve made - of mixed Cape Verdean origin. 

Bruno organises conversation groups for men, where they discuss and deconstruct masculinity in contemporary society. We first make contact when in early autumn, I send him an email politely demanding to know why these events aren’t open to women. His response is gracious and studied, ending with an invitation to meet and talk. We’ve remained in touch since. He wants to take me up on the idea of a mixed-gender conversation circle. I invite him round to dine and discuss. I have to reschedule after he drops out at the last moment. When my plans for the following weekend extend to a group linner, Bruno gently informs me on arrival that he won’t be staying to eat. He wasn’t expecting a crowd. It’s Sunday; his day to recalibrate before the week ahead. I’m apologetic. It was a gamble to tell him last minute things had changed.

For the time we do have alone, Bruno asks me pointed questions about my objectives for the mixed circles and what role I envisage playing. Basic but still surprisingly difficult to answer. I respond with lots of my usual verbal processing and digressions. I’m already feeling disorientated about the misunderstanding over the afternoon’s events. Bruno seems to find it useful nonetheless. True to his word, he leaves as the rest appear. He and Renzo exchange a brief but courteous, if a little awkward greeting. They would be somewhat familiar to each other from the conversation circles.

There is an element of relief to be only entertaining three. It wouldn’t have been fair on Bruno or the others if he stayed against his will. Plus the layout of my otherwise attractive living room is not the most suited to hosting dinners for multiple guests. All three of them well and truly an integral part of my Brussels life, they’ve met on previous occasions. I’ve prepared a vegan curry for Renzo and my trademark mixed-meat tagine for the rest of us. We spread out between the Diner-style counter and the inviting couches. It works itself out. 

Despite ourselves, we end up talking shop. Roxanne and Brenda’s work schedules sound punishing. Of course, I update them on the latest twists and turns at the office, including Demetria's announcement she’ll be expecting in the spring. It’s the best news and a delicious irony, given management’s recent decision to downsize an already under-resourced team.

We while away easy hours in each other’s company. The night is still young as my guests start to troop home. They leave with enough leftovers to at least spare them a night or two of cooking.

I hope to make these “linners” a regular feature over the colder months. Especially as our options could be limited for external activities. Although Christmas is a lot more swinging this year than my first Brussels Noel (on lockdown), there’s a nervousness about the worrying infection rates in Belgium. It’s whilst attending a stimulating theatre performance about young Europeans drawn to the Far Right, that I first hear of the Omicron variant. The outing has been organised on Internations. A member of the party is anxious about the detection of cases in Belgium that day. And thus the pessimism begins.

The following week, I attend a DJ set -another Internations-related event – where rumours are circulating of a near-total shutdown. Again. 

I admit I have mixed-feelings on entering the bar. It’s a COVID-pass only event but still... There’s a heck a lot of people in a confined space. Various socials are going on at the same time. I don’t see anyone familiar and I’m about to forfeit my five euro entry fee when I run into man-about-town Aurélien. He informs me auntie Carol is in the house. I perk up. He shows me to the corner where they’ve congregated. An older Ecuadorian mulatto called Bonaparte apparently takes a shine to me. We talk a little about South American politics and the pink tide. With his transatlantic accent he describes his drift towards the centre from his Radical Left past.

 I’m cordial but wary. If the sting is less sharp than it once was, I'm still smarting from my many misadventures with heteros so far in Brussels. When Aurélien tries to invite himself over, I smile and inform him and Bonaparte that only gay men are allowed to hang out round mine. They think I’m joking.

The music is pretty cheesy; EDM remixes of Europop, The Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Boney M. I make an effort to dance all the same. Bonaparte flays his arms around enthusiastically, using this as a pretext to shimmy up to me. I try to be jovial but protect my personal space. The selection starts to perk up as I head out the door. Typical. It’s then that Aurélien speaks of rumours circulating around another closure of bars, restaurants and cafés. (In stereotypically French libertarian style, he's generally against restrictions). 

I’ve suggested we organise a surprise farewell for Carol at a bar, before she moves permanently back to the Caribbean. Aurélien's not convinced such events will be feasible for much longer.

Fortunately, the worst-case scenario is averted, for now. Nightclubs close and there are various other limitations. Mercifully, nothing as drastic as this time last year. Yet.

Some of Carol’s friends have already conspired to turn an Internations’ winter party into a send-off. It falls on a very busy Friday in early December. As far as Carol is aware, I'm not available that evening. 

I'm double-booked, having signed up to attend a film night at church about undocumented migrants in Belgium. It’s a subject about which I’m keen to have deeper knowledge. The low budget feature by a charity called Olivier, based on real-life events, is hard hitting. It’s thus frustrating to hear the moderator – himself supposedly involved in support work for the undocumented – use phrases such as ‘illegals’ and claim that ‘the population doesn’t like migrants, so politicians give the people what they want’. I can’t let these slide. Before exiting to surprise auntie Carol, I comment on the problematic use of phrases such ‘legality’ when it comes to migration -or any human being-and how politicians aren’t hostages of fortune. They often cynically drive the prejudices around certain types of migration to distract from the real causes of inequalities.

I rush out to auntie Carol’s farewell; grabbing mutual friend Roxanne’s present along the way. She has to stay and help with the clean-up after movie night.

New COVID rules dictate that venues close at 11pm. I arrive so close to the end of the social that I am not charged. Heck, it’s worth it to see auntie Carol’s surprise.  It takes me a while to locate her at first. I don’t recognise her from behind. She’s wearing a feathered black and ruby wig. 

I proudly hand her my gift (courtesy of a Brussels’ Christmas market artisan), after drawing a blank for so long.

 The room is throwing down to the last strains of music. It’s some sort of dancehall. Not really my cup of tea but I am in the mood to party, despite my could-sleep-standing-up fatigue. Predictably, Carol’s close friend and my one-time nemesis Rob is in the vicinity. He co-organised the gig with fellow Internations consul, Marcus. I give Rob a wide-berth except for a furtive wave goodbye. 

I'm more surprised to see Simon-Pierre mingling in the crowd. He’d dropped off the grid for so long, I began to assume he were sick. Evidently not. There’s a moment of mutual recognition. Perhaps. My new hairdo takes him longer to place me.

I reflect on my cool and fleeting interactions with SP and Rob. I know I can be good at holding a grudge and don’t want to indulge bad feeling. Yet, I also have enough quality relationships to not squander energy on those that aren’t. On one hand, it seems only right that SP and I have a conversation about why communication abruptly ended. Then again, as Renzo reminds me, it’s not a mystery why Simon evaporated. C’est toujours la mème ritournelle. Especially with these heteros. In the end, maybe there was never anything genuine to salvage.

Soundtrack: Befriended + We Walked in Song by The Innocence Mission, An Evening with...Silk Sonic, Geography by Tom Misch.

Autumn in Porto

 

(Courtesy of Kyero.com)

Barely returned from my first trip to the UK post-2019, I’m off again down South for a few days of sun. Blame it on the generous amount of public holidays in this corner of Europe. You can really clean up in May and November.

The commemoration of the World War Armistice falls in the middle of the week this year. I take some time off either side of the holiday. 

Way back in the deepest darkest moments of the second lockdown, Brussels’ Internations Travel Group posted plans for an autumnal break in Portugal’s second city. I’ve heard only good things about Porto. Maybe too much. I don’t realise how high my expectations have been set until I arrive.

As is my practice when I have a flight that leaves before the early afternoon, I camp out at the airport all night to avoid any last minute hitches. I pay the price in a good night’s sleep but make up for it in peace of mind. Ironically, in the end, my flight is delayed by half an hour. 

On the plane, sleep catches up with me. The arm of the male passenger to my left brushes past me too often for comfort but it’s hard to prove malintent.

Flying into Porto, it’s sunny and the air is clear. It doesn’t take long to collect my small check-in luggage. I should be making up for lost time by rushing to my lodgings. Instead, I get caught up in a long conversation by text with my friend Izzi about ethnic nomenclature.

At the airport metro station, a peremptory older South African male curses and grumbles at the seemingly indecipherable ticket machine. Standing by, his timid significant other mutters banal suggestions. He then turns to me with the same sense of entitlement. I remind him that a ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ goes a long way. He dismisses me with a wave and a hollow ‘thanks very much’. He probably misses the good old days of Apartheid.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time I reach the stop closest to my accommodation, Casa da Música; named for the concert hall in the vicinity. Next to one of the exits is a homeless man under a mountain of layers, despite the clement – if a little fresh weather. The level of accommodation insecurity in major cities across Europe is depressing. Even in a country like Portugal, with a socialist government, they haven’t yet managed to stamp out this socio-economic blight.

(courtesy of localporto.com)

Despite my printed instructions, it still takes me a while to find my bearings. Asking for directions does provide me with an opportunity to start practising my Portuguese. My spoken level is, at best, lower-intermediate but having some of the language allows for a degree of autonomy. I eventually find my way to the digs. My guesthouse is situated in what the French would call a quartier populaire not far from the city centre.

The shops and restaurants aren't as glamorous as those in the touristic areas and it’s less clean. The guesthouse, on the other hand, is flawless. I couldn’t ask for a more pleasant accommodation. The house-proud property manager, Christina, runs a tight ship. There are special coverings for outdoor shoes and all remote controls – be it for the AC or TV – are embossed with clingfilm. As a host, however, she is not at all anal. Quite the opposite. Warm and welcoming, she patiently encourages my attempts to speak Portuguese. After she shows me to my splendid room and gives me some tourist tips, it remains for me to shower and change for an afternoon of exploring my immediate surroundings. I try and stay fed with various, unexciting pastry-based snacks I grab on the way. At least Portugal remains as inexpensive as I recall from my late 2000s visit to Lisbon with mum and sis.

Using some of the information Christina has shared, I take a twilight stroll near to the Casa da Música itself. I’m drawn to the tall cylinder edifice in the centre of the closest park. From a distance, I struggle to identify the sinister looking structure at the top of the plinth. On closer inspection, I make out an eagle subdued under the claws of a menacingly triumphant lion. It’s some kind of war memorial, judging by the other imagery at the base, but there's no inscription explaining that particular interspecies depiction. I later learn that this Rotunda da Boavista is a paean to colonialism (which the tourist website celebrates without irony) and that the crushed eagle supposedly represents the French during the Peninsula War with the Portuguese and British allies.

Although Christina reassures me the neighbourhood is safe, I don’t plan to stay out late. Not seeing any viable options for eateries, I stop off at a huge, well-stocked Lidl (next best to the UK) for a makeshift dinner. It'll be consumed in the cosy guesthouse lounge, watching The Late Show with Jimmy Fallon and Portuguese-dubbed cartoons. Before then, I do some short metro hopping, to see if I can get a feel for the city.

The next morning, I take advantage of Christina's sturdy Continental breakfast with the intention that it keeps me going until evening. During the meal, I have another opportunity to practise Portuguese with a couple of amiable Brazilians about to check out.

I’ve booked myself on a donations-based ‘free’ walking tour through central Porto. The guide is a typically-talented, multilingual Lusophone with an archaeological background called Adriano. He’s fiercely proud of his Porto roots, taking every opportunity to remind us. He frequently refers to the ongoing feud with Lisboans, only partly in jest. Porto natives are open and friendly, insists Adriano. They’d welcome anyone into the clan. Just don't p**s them off, or you’ve made an enemy for life, he warns.

The leisurely pace and breaks distract from the two and half hour running time. The tour takes in the centuries-long Portuguese/UK alliance, the (in)famous Livraria Lello said to be the ‘most beautiful bookshop in the world’ and connected to the Harry Potter novels (as if I care), ecclesiastical history and architecture and much more besides. The country itself is said to derive its name from Portus Cale, the Roman appellation for an ancient town once based in the region of modern Porto.

The weather is propitious. We stop off at various vantage points to have a good view of the City. And yet I’m still awaiting the ‘wow’ factor. Porto is attractive enough, like any number of European cities but I haven’t yet been as captivated as expected. I doubt it took me this long to fall in love with Lisbon.

The tour ends not far from where I am due to meet Internations’ host, Nathan and whomever else made good on signing up for the excursion.

En route I pass by another Porto landmark, the São Bento train station; somewhere Adriano refused to show us because it’s being renovated; like much of the City during my visit. 

I’m accompanied by a Filipino-American whom I’ve befriended on the tour. Whilst admiring the customary Azul-tile based frescas in the station, we somehow lose each other. 

Before heading to meet Nathan and others, I pass by a mobile confectioners to buy some treats for acquaintances. If I suspect the vendor of trying to flirt, he dispenses of any ambiguity by informing me, apropos of nothing, that he likes black women. That’s typical of Portuguese men I say, with some exasperation (not that I get much love from Porto compared to the Capital). I could do without being fetishised by an old geezer.

After the vendor makes a meal of handing me my change, I disappear to the Ladies. 

Meanwhile, I am determined to practise my Portuguese, mistakes and all, whilst still struggling to understand the European variation of the accent. Sometimes, I pleasantly surprise myself with how much I know, can make myself understood and -more or less- understand. Lusophones are on balance far more accepting of my tentative efforts than Francophones.  They’re willing to overlook imperfections and acknowledge the good intent. This helps build my confidence. To those less familiar with Portuguese, my level might sound more impressive than it is. I can attribute my decent pronunciation to years of singing with a Brazilian group.

The Internations posse are a baker’s dozen-strong. Most of only just arrived that afternoon. Nathan is the closest to my age and I hardly know anyone else. We stop off for some mid-afternoon refreshments, giving us a chance to become better acquainted. I am my usually moody self but relax as the hours roll by. I strike a particular affinity with an Hungarian called Donna. She’s generous with her time and resources, treating me to local Porto fish and cheese delicacy Bacalhau.

São Bento train station

Nathan has a full itinerary that might not be realistic. The main aim that afternoon is to catch the sunset at some of the best-known spots, starting with the Igreja e Torre da Irmandade dos Clérigos (The Church and Tower of the Clergy Brotherhood). All visitors benefit from a half-price reduction because, you guessed it, part of the tower is under (re)construction. For a bargain, we can wander around the church, museum and indeed see the sunset from as close to the top of the tower as the works will allow.

The rest of twilight is spent crossing the landmark Dom Luis I bridge. Way down at the bottom, I can hear someone murdering Bob Marley’s Is this Love? 

This musical mishap doesn’t detract from my enjoyment of the crepuscule vista. The flame-coloured sky complements the autumnal leaves just about hanging on to the trees marking the skyline. I’m finally beginning to appreciate the charms of Porto. At the other side of the bridge a woman sells local accessories for a steal. University students wander around in the distinctive white shirt, black tie and flowing black capes that are supposed to have inspired the Hogwarts’ uniform.

I part company with the group, having the intention of re-joining them later for dinner. The evening runs away with me. I end up eating a satisfying fish supper solo near the Trindade district.

For my penultimate day, I have arranged to see Porto from a different angle, via a Boat tour of the city’s six most significant bridges. My attempts to research the route to the departure point are in vain. In spite of my instructions, directions from locals and a couple of Brit tourists (themselves none the wiser), I end up on the wrong side of the Port and miss the departure. All's well that ends well. The view of the Riviera is gorgeous under the noon sun and the boat company are very flexible.

 A multilingual pre-recorded guide gives brief overviews of the record-breaking bridges and their surroundings. Dom Luis I was built by Belgian Téophile Seyrig, student of Gustav Eiffel, whilst the Maria Pia bridge was constructed by the civil engineering maestro himself, with all the hallmarks of his intricate wrought-iron designs. Other idiosyncrasies of Porto’s delightful bay area come alive. The perfect place to sit and write after the tour.

As I put my thoughts to paper, I catch sight of Donna with a few other members of the Bakers’ Dozen. They’re temporarily separated from the rest.

Meanwhile, a shirtless tanned fellow in flowing green and gold satin trousers spends an hour plus setting up his busking spot. Judging from his accent, he’s from Portugal’s largest former colony. I check just to be sure. Carioca? No, he says, Recife.

Mr Eccentric resembles an orange-hued Nik Kershaw and has a distinctive hollowed-out guitar that reminds me of Prince. He runs to and fro, grabbing a cigarette here; a bottle of whisky there. Donna claims to have noticed him in, ahem, an aroused state earlier whilst pacing the bay.

If the spirits are there to give him Dutch courage, it eventually does the trick (although the tremoring of his hands suggest that sadly, he might be over-reliant). He cocks his hip to one side like a seasoned rock star and plays guitar covers of Chico Barque and Caetano Veloso like a dream. A good thing too, since he has to compete with the numerous buskers in the vicinity, including Mr Butchering-Bob-Marley-Songs. With his snazzy guitar, the topless guitarist mimics shooting a machine gun in his rival’s direction. He otherwise has his passers-by in thrall. Donna shushes me whilst she films him, which I don’t appreciate. During the final strains of one performance, a drowning dog – no, I’m not joking- momentarily steals his thunder.

Nathan and the rest of the Internations crew eventually join us. I’ve spent more time at the bay than planned. I want to take a stroll at sunset around the Foz do Douro; an idea that coincided with Nathan’s itinerary until he changed his mind. I agree to meet up with them again for dinner.

Hopes for a siesta disappear as the day wears on and I still have one more sight on my checklist. The walk back to town is scenic, if longer than I anticipate. On the way, I pick up some more locally-produced accessories for future gifts.

After a quick, ill-advised stop off at the guesthouse, I make it to the beach at Foz do Douro just in time for sunset. Cleo Sol’s late summer release, Mother is suitably gorgeous and melancholy whilst I watch the pink and gold streaks fade into the horizon. The sea is choppy. I am conscious of keeping my balance as I venture in for a paddle. 

I have an early afternoon flight to catch in the morrow. With only three days in town, rest is a luxury I couldn’t afford if I wanted to become merely a little acquainted with the City. I’ve barely had a moment to catch my breath. I still prefer the ambiance and aesthetic of Portugal’s Capital; at least, the Lisbon of my memory. I nevertheless can understand why Porto enchants so many of its visitors.

After a short stroll around Douro, I auspiciously catch a direct bus to my accommodation, only to be delayed by traffic jams for half an hour. I have enough time to meet the Internations crew for dinner, albeit later than hoped and getting lost along the way. Only about half of the Bakers’ Dozen are in attendance, others already feeling the fatigue. The food is oversold, overpriced and underwhelming but it gives me a chance to say goodbye to the group. I sneak in a crepe and red velvet ice cream on the way back to the guesthouse.

The morning of my flight back to Brussels, I'm exhausted and deeply regretting the absence of rest over the past few days.

Christina has prepared another generous Continental breakfast. Her kindness and hospitality has made this one of my best Airbnb experiences. Thus, the farewell at the end of our fleeting interaction is tinged with a particular sadness.

Soundtrack: Mother by Cleo Sol.