One morning in late March, I awake earlier than usual after a fitful sleep. I switch on my computer. No internet. Nothing untoward about that. Sometimes it takes a while to warm up. Then I notice that my plug extension hasn’t lit up. I try to turn on my bedside lamp. Rien.
I assume it’s a general blackout and go to check the lights on the communal corridor. All’s well on that front. I politely accost one of my neighbours later, who confirms he’s had no issues.
I brave a cold shower in the dark. It’s hours before the electricity company’s switchboard will be open or before any of my colleagues are fully awake. No internet means no work. Cafés, restaurants, library workstations, or anywhere else that might have wi-fi, are still off limits under current COVID-restrictions. It’s one of several downsides to compulsory teleworking during a pandemic. You can’t get anything done if there’s a hitch.
The timing is particularly bad. I am due to co-faciliate a two-day work shop on ILO Convention 190 with my colleagues. Thankfully, my main slot isn’t until day two.
After a few failed attempts to contact my manager Ama, and colleague Demetria, the latter eventually calls back. I’m reliant on her to inform the others, which she duly does.
I call the electricity company. The helpful customer service rep tries to talk me through a few preliminary measures, in hopes of resolving the issue without a technician. The problem is, I can’t locate the electricity metres. When I moved in, it took so long for the estate agent to find them himself, I switched off (excuse the pun) once he did. By the time I do stumble upon the metres, I’ve been passed on to a less patient rep, who makes a meal of me not being a native Francophone. An electrician is called out. It’ll be several hours before he passes by. In the meanwhile, I do what I can offline. I kill some time reading outdoors, to escape my flat. It’s a mild day.
When the technician arrives, the problem is depressingly simple to solve. Just the flick of a switch above my metre. It’s after midday when I manage to reconnect for work. The first day’s webinar is almost over.
Later, I’ll discover none of the lights are working in the bathroom and the washing machine won’t come on. Another electrician is called out the following day. Once again, the issue is resolved by the flick of a switch. At least now I know. Both times I offer the technicians a hot drink for their trouble.
The main thing is I’m back online in time for the second day’s workshop. Between International Women’s Day and various other gender-related global conferences, March has been hectic for my team. It has also been especially rewarding on the professional front. It’s nearly nine months since I’ve joined *TTUO's Equality department. I feel myself being stretched and challenged in the best possible way. In addition to my usual duties, I am approached to draft an article for a trade union journal. I am asked to make an intervention at an online conference on the Care Economy for one of France’s largest workers’ organisations. I co-write the TTUO’s official statement for the UN’s International Day Against Racial Discrimination. Ama confirms that my contract will be renewed for another six months, subject to my approval. Heck, yeah.
*The Trade Union Organisation
Setting aside the frustrations of remote working, I am well aware of how privileged I am. First, to have work when millions are facing economic precarity. Moreover, to have a job that is fulfilling and pertinent to the issues that matter to ordinary people. Thank you, Jesus.
Offline, things are slowly starting to pick up, if in fits and starts. Belgian authorities have tightened restrictions once again after a disturbing surge in infections. One must seize the opportunities that still remain.
The last weekend in March, I meet up once more for a jaunt around Parc Josephat with my colleague Steve, his wife Sylvia and their brood. We’ve bonded these past months over our shared experience relocating to Belgium during the pandemic as Brit nationals. I love their family. Sylvia, a writer by trade, is a particularly good raconteuse. Her anecdotes draw you in like campfire tales. I’m introduced to the couple’s mutual friend/former colleague, Miranda. When Steve returns home with the kids, the three of us while away the rest of the afternoon deep in conversation about British politics, office politics, the flux of expat life and loneliness in its various guises. It takes Miranda at least half an hour to leave from first saying goodbye. Sylvia and I are clearly invigorated by these exchanges. She sends me detailed emails in French about how things are going on her end. I commend both her and Steve on the leaps and bounds they’ve made linguistically in a mere few months.
The next day, an invitation from the Frenemy, Rob, appears in my inbox. It’s for a midweek sunset picnic at Parc Cinquantenaire. Supplies are to come from a Lebanese restaurant in the vicinity. The weather forecast for that week is optimistic. Still, I hesitate. I’ve purposely been keeping my distance of late. I've told Rob I’ll be incommunicado, although don’t specify how long. His regular stream of emails around shared interests continue and eventually slow to a trickle over the weeks; stopping altogether for a time.
I prevaricate over whether to accept the invitation. Or rather, if it’s inconsistent with taking a mental break from all his drama. On the other hand, he does know a lot of usually interesting people. I’m still trying to put roots down in Brussels. Plus, it’ll be another opportunity to have conversation with real people, in the real world during a gorgeous weather week. I also adore food from the MENA region. I can hardly say ‘no’.
It’s a select few of us who finally show up that balmy Wednesday evening. The ever-faithful Auntie Carol is on hand. That’s at least one person I know apart from the Frenemy. La fameuse BFF Naida, she with whom he’s more ‘comfortable’ going for walks, is also in attendance and co-hosting the event. I’m also introduced to his Day One, Habiba. They’ve known each other since their teens and share a similar Belgo-Central African mixed heritage. I liken it to a marriage and commend her for her patience. I’ll joke about it all evening.
When the eclectic guestlist is complete-one begging off before we’ve even begun- we head to the Lebanese establishment. Rob and his bon vivant acquaintance, Aurélien, decide its perfectly fine for to jump the queue ahead of us ladies. Carol and I despair over his boorishness. Notwithstanding, Rob is on his best behaviour. He usually is when there are witnesses about. Can’t spoil that life-and-soul brand now, can we? I find out later from Habiba that he only has good things to say about me when I’m not around. It’s evidently during our 1-2-1 interactions that his surly-meets-horny Mr Hyde alter-ego manifests. I’m tense and conscious of it. When Rob compliments my writing skills out of the blue, I react with scepticism. Carol and Habiba are mildly perplexed. I apologise to Rob by text later that night. I just never know where I stand with this individual.
In the end, Rob and I hardly engage directly during the whole evening. Cinquantenaire is predictably packed. The food is delicious, albeit the restaurant messes up my order. I’m pleasantly enough distracted by Carol and Aurélien, who seems to be in a constant state of mild inebriation. Whilst there are no real friendship sparks with Naida, Habiba and I hit it off straight away. We debate the term Afropean (she’s not a fan) and mock Rob’s shamefully poor musical knowledge, whilst singing 90s R&B/Hip-Hop hits at full volume. Naida praises our voices.
Aurélien has brought his own supply of booze, including a decanter of Martini. He’s not fazed by warnings from other revellers of police patrolling the grounds, threatening hefty fines for the consumption of alcohol. My teetotal self doesn’t want to be guilty by association.
We’re approached twice by the Old Bill. The first set are very accommodating, encouraging whatever is left to be drunk up before their superiors pass by. Another couple of officers show up after dusk. One of them, who looks as if he’s been gulping whatever he’s confiscated, points an accusing finger at my alcohol-free wine. I protest, brandishing the bottle’s ‘0%’ label. He staggers off mumbling.
As I approach Holy Weekend, I decide to slow things down with an off-the-grid Good Friday. I’m still online to access virtual church services and other edifying content. However, all phones are switched off and I ignore my email accounts. In the afternoon, I head to town for a quiet walk around Louise, listening to Commissioned. The one-day mini-retreat does me good, not least as, unlike during my Christmas holidays, I am also able to recover something of a healthier sleeping pattern.
Easter Saturday, I meet up with Carla, a member of my Belgian church FWM. We have already e-met through various online activities. When I make an off the cuff comment during one meeting -that I’ve never encountered any of the attendees offline- she suggests a leisurely ramble. She shows me more angles of her neighbourhood in Flagey; a part of town of which I am already fond.
Easter Sunday is spent in the company of fellow Teutonic church sister, Brenda. As during her previous visit, she takes care of dessert whilst I focus on the lamb-heavy lunch. My experiment with a traditional Greek Easter soup starter (courtesy of the wonderful Demetria) is rewarded with Brenda’s hearty approval, as is the main. She’s at ease and the conversation flows. It feels like a cementing moment in our friendship. We enjoy the now extended daylight as much as possible before I accompany her to the tram stop. The night is young. There’s no work tomorrow. I take a prolonged stroll through the Woluwe district, listening to Tonéx’s Oakpark; another Easter tradition.
Soundtrack: In Case You Missed It...by Fred Hammond & Friends. Matters of the Heart by Commissioned, Oakpark 1 & 2 by Tonéx/B-Slade.
