Autonomous

 

As summer inches forward, so creeps up the one year anniversary of my arrival in Belgium. In light of all that has happened in between, my feelings are mixed at best. May finds me crying often. My forehead aches from continual unconscious scowling and I feel as if I've aged in weeks.

I’m profoundly grateful to have a job, let alone meaningful employment, at a time like this. However bitter much of the relocation experience has been thus far, ultimately I don’t regret the move.

Nevertheless, I am not inured to the widely-felt exhaustion engendered by the pandemic. Despite the restrictions slowly easing, the isolation doesn’t let up. With the rules around travel to the UK remaining strict, the two hour train ride to St Pancras still feels a long way off. This only intensifies the alienation. 

My closest relationships are far away. Whereas, pre-pandemic, I would hop across the Channel to recalibrate, no such relief has been forthcoming for a solid year and a half. And counting. Compulsory teleworking has turned my flat, what should by my haven, into a semi-fortress. The bloom of spring, which should comfort, often feels like a mockery. Surrounded by trees and living in a flimsy building, I’ve seen more critters indoors than I would care to. It exacerbates the neurosis.

I’m sensitive at the best of times. These days I seem to take everything to heart. If someone doesn’t follow up on loose plans or is slow to respond to a text, it feels like a personal affront. My embryonic relationships are suddenly all thrown into doubt. It’s not as if it’s completely unjustified. Building community is always a case of trial and error but it feels as it has been an inordinately bad run. Too many of the interactions I’ve had so far were dead in the water. Too many people not acting out of good faith. Too many non-committal. Not enough opportunities to replace the negative with the positive because of lockdown restrictions.

Then again, I tell myself, it could be worse. Which of course is true. Not that it always helps. COVID19 somehow has managed to set the already low cosmic bar of a fallen world even lower.

One Saturday in mid-May, I attend a solidarity rally for the Palestinian people in central Brussels following the recent escalation of violence. This is one week before the tentative ceasefire following fighting that has left a dozen or so Israelis dead and 20 times as many Palestinians.

To attend the demo, I’ve taken time out of a week of various ‘singleness’ conferences, each of them reminding me why I spent years giving such events a wide berth. Speakers for whom being single is a mere abstract, given that they married in their early 20s. Others reinforcing essentialist views on gender; going so far as to rehearse now discredited theories of ‘male’ and ‘female’ brains. Pass. 

Showing my support for the Palestinian cause is a far better use of my time.

An estimated three thousand people show up to the demo over the course of a few hours. That’s a lot for a small country like Belgium. Jew and Gentile stand side by side. The multi-cultural, multi-faith crowd chant slogans against the Israeli occupation. Green, White, Red and Black flags are draped over monuments. Nimble young men clamber up statues and balconies, setting off canisters of multicoloured gas. The police stand impassively on the sidelines, as if they’re casual observers.

For a variety of reasons, the following week is emotionally intense. It’s another bouncing-off-the-walls season. I default to my survival mechanism. Agency. I hate feeling powerless. I do whatever is within my control to ameliorate my situation. Often that means a lot more autonomy. Auntie Carol flakes yet again on plans to visit Marché du Midi? I go it alone. She has a lot on her mind. Julius and Habiba have all but evaporated from the scene? Tant pis. As the sage American spoken word artist/rapper Propaganda says - a dictum that I often call to mind - ...Friends are like wars. You win some, you lose some and some were never yours.

Besides, nature abhors a vacuum. That can go either way. More recently, new acquaintance Lorenzo has stepped into the void and my heart is glad for it. He knows a thing or two about feeling disconnected in a big city. After many years in Brussels, several erstwhile friends have moved on with their own projects of which he’s mostly not a part.

To my pleasant surprise, he’s proactive about staying in touch. Having celebrated his birthday earlier in the month, I promise him a drink. We hang out two rainy weekends in a row around Avenue Louise and Flagey. This is the healthiest sustained interaction I’ve had with a man since moving to Brussels. It’s surely no coincidence that he’s not straight. What an unspeakable relief to know that friendship is all that is expected. Not feeling entitled to more or trying to manipulate his way to achieve it. I don’t know what the long term holds. For now, I’m appreciating the sense of ease I have around Lorenzo. It’s something of a novelty around these parts.

The weekend of the Pentecost holiday, I attend a brunch organised by Internations in my neck of the woods. Auntie Carol has also signed up, as has Cynthia, a fellow Londoner whom I’ve met recently on the site. We strike up an online conversation after she compliments my profile pic. However, plans to meet offline prove trickier. She has a young child. The brunch gives us an occasion to properly break the ice.

First impressions are promising.  We both grew up in South-East London. Her brother and I went to the same school, albeit several years apart. We both are partial to conversational tangents before finding our thread several digressions down the line.

I assumed from Cynthia’s profile that she was new to Brussels. Au contraire, she’s lived in the Belgian capital for a decade. She relocated to be with her Flemish husband. Now the ink is drying on the divorce, she’s beginning life afresh. She’s resilient but it’s obvious that the last few years have taken their relational toil. 

After an auspicious start, I hope her schedule will permit us to reconnect soon.

That evening, I pass by my colleague Steve and his wife Sylvia’s capacious Schaerbeek home for the first time. With the forecast rather ominous – as it has been all month-they don’t fancy another park ramble in the rain. We (mainly Sylvia and I) talk work, literature, COVID policies and online Glastonbury recommendations. Their youngest, Zoe, is also a Haim fan. That deserves a high-five.

I love their family. Theirs are one of the few genuine connections I’ve made since my arrival. It’s only in consideration to the demands of their domestic life that I don’t hang out with them more frequently.

The following day is Pentecost Monday. It’s another wet and windy morning. As has been the case for too long, my efforts to have an uninterrupted lie-in are scuppered by my own body clock. It’s as if despite the fatigue, my body is in constant fight-or-flight mode. I join the Morphē Arts collective prayer group as usual and for a little bit longer, not having to worry about work. I mutter prayers of gratitude under my breath for this initiative. I can’t imagine the last year without their spiritual and moral support.

I’m nevertheless in a weepy state. I leave self-pitying voice notes for my sis. I’m especially tender after an act of kindness to some Belgian acquaintances (of which I was uncertain in any case) seems to have been predictably rebuffed. Not that I should have expected anything at all.

I have to re-apply my make-up a number of times that morning before leaving my flat. I am heading for Gare du Midi.

I have had the foresight to book a day trip to Namur, in defiance of the bad weather. Better to brave the showers for a change of scenery than spend a familiarly miserable day on my own in Brussels. (When I tell Lorenzo of my solo plans, he’s less than enthused. He finds it too melancholy).

The night before my trip, I do some quick research. Namur is an ideal day trip destination. Everywhere of importance is accessible by foot.

Namur Citadel

I make it to Midi with time to spare. My train awaits. My make up is still running when I board. I feel old and notice, not for the first time, I’ve lost some of my spark. Damn COVID.

Having only given myself the afternoon to explore (rather be busy than bored), I focus my attention on the Citadel. A good thing too. Being a public holiday, the town is otherwise dead. I ask a woman for directions. She’s hesitant but her instructions turn out to be on the nose.

A decent visit to the Citadel is said to take up at least half a day. I also hope to squeeze in a tour of the fortress’ underground passages but can't find where to book. Never mind. Enough time is spent on the picturesque hike up the steep walls, especially with plenty of stops to enjoy the view. The rain has made way for sunny intervals. I watch as ski-lifts fly overhead. Down below are attractive views of the town and its rivers. I already feel better for having had an excuse to leave the flat. It's not a wasted day. The site is dotted with Franco-Flemish accounts of the fortress’ construction and conversion from military to touristic use. There are more signs of life near the top with restaurants and the Four Seasons Garden.

I decide to treat myself to a late lunch at the well-named Panorama restaurant, with its belle vista. The biggest disappointment of the day comes in the form of the over-priced snack I order, assuming it’s a proper meal. I’m typically too tight-fisted to treat myself on a day trip. It’s irritating that it’s such a let down the one time I do. I buy a chocolate waffle to cheer myself up and leisurely make my way back to the town centre. I stumble across a short cut along the Citadel’s walls. I have enough time to pop in for a meditative moment in a couple of the historic churches. Alas, St Jean’s Église is under construction. A boys’ choir and orchestra perform in the inviting Saint-Loup church. A few of us catch snatches of the show behind the glass doors. So much for contemplative silence. 

Oh well. At least there’s no worry of being late for my return train.

Soundtrack: S. Fidelity -  Fidelity Radio Club

Shoots of Green?

 

As I write this, I confess to being in an odd head space. I should feel more upbeat. There are reasons for [very cautious] optimism. 

In early May, Belgium allows cafés and restaurants to open their terraces for the first time since the autumn.

That murky Saturday morning, there’s a flurry of activity in my neighbourhood. Establishments that have long been closed stir to life.

What a day for it, I consider ruefully. I doubt the Bruxellois would want to sit out in the rain, no matter how long it’s been.

I don’t have time to hang around to find out. I’m en route to the Red Cross centre in Tours & Taxi. Now I am in their database, I don’t have to wait every three weeks to do a shift with my church’s outreach group. Rather than sitting around feeling sorry for myself on a Saturday, I join the international team of volunteers to serve hot drinks, or supervise the showers or hand out masks at the centre's entrance. Thanks to my more frequent visits, I’m becoming familiar to regular volunteers like facetious Micah, whom I met on my first ever shift. The recognition is comforting.

The day centre is a godsend for those who benefit from the practical and emotional support it provides. Yet, it’s in constant threat of closure. May marks one more month of reprieve, although the regulars warn that it’s only a matter of time. There’s not the steady flow of funds to keep such an initiative open. Everyone agrees it’ll be a disaster if - or when - it closes its doors. Hundreds of men and (less so) women will be turned back out on to the streets with nowhere to go. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have mental health issues. The community and belonging they find at the centre offers some relief. Not always. Amongst others, I think of young Nahum, with his incoherent broken-English monologues, rictus grin and frenetic side glances. These give some insight into the horrors he’s experienced journeying to Europe from East Africa, via the only unsafe channels available to him.

Later that afternoon, on the way back from my shift, I discover how very wrong my initial predictions were about restaurant clientele. As I pass through the city centre, I observe terraces full to bursting. Failing that, revellers compete for space in and around the landmark St Catherine church. It’s both heartening to see the streets teeming with life but also a bit worrying, given the unpredictability of this virus. Some think merely being outside and the ever-so-slightly warmer weather make large gatherings  safe. This time last year a similar optimism prevailed. It proved naive when cities across the world started entering second and third lockdowns in the final quarter of 2020.

That doesn’t stop me attending an outdoors Internations restaurant event that night in Ixelles. It’s been in the works for a couple of months. At one stage it’s not even clear it’ll go ahead. To avoid cancellation, the venue is eventually changed to a favourite haunt of the organiser, Rob. It’ll be the first time I’ll be seeing my former frenemy since I cut ties. The abrupt end to the steady stream of attention he provided takes some getting used to. I do miss having someone so keen to discuss Diaspora history, politics and faith. Nevertheless, with time I begin to truly value the peace and quiet.

Although I’m usually content to attend these socials on my own, I try to convince Julius to be my plus one. He responds with some grammatically-mangled refusal, that I at first assume is a confirmation. I’ve noticed a sharp drop in interest on his end. He seems to have taken notes from the same playbook that the other Brussels-based wastemen appear to live by. Perhaps he’s distracted by a new potential conquest. Or it’s finally dawned on him that he won’t talk me around to his way of thinking. Tant mieux. I can’t pretend my motives for the restaurant invitation are completely honourable.

At the dinner, Rob greets me with more enthusiasm than I anticipate. I attempt to be civil but distant. I make faltering conversation with the guests who have already arrived. 

Apparently, I’m not as insouciant as I like to believe. Later, when I give the lowdown to sis via voice note, she says I speak about Rob as if he were an ex. It sounds like an accusation, a depressing one at that, even if it isn't meant this way.

The evening is off to a slow start. It’s scheduled to start at 7pm but we eat closer to 9pm. When auntie Carol shows up, I don’t bother to hide my relief, smiling ear-to-ear. Over the course of the evening I engage in cultured conversation with one of Rob’s many old chums, Simon-Pierre. Unlike Rob’s other Day One, Habiba, he’s not averse to the Afropean concept. He claims to rarely have the opportunity to discuss such matters. Most of his circle either aren’t interested or find the notion baffling. Once we’ve devoured the Senegalese barbecue, somewhat rationed considering the number of guests, we head out to the ‘official’ terraced area.

St Boniface is buzzing. A waiter drops some plates at another establishment. Punters start cheering and clapping as if they’re about to catch a show.

A couple of police officers walk past the crowds waving cordially.

Rob, the ever-considerate host, makes an unceremoniously early exit. Something about waking up at the break of dawn. On a Sunday? Best not to ask why.

Brussels veterans, Simon-Pierre and Aurélien (whom, like Habiba, I first met at the sunset picnic in March) reminisce about how cheap and accessible the city once was. Just as Carol and I start talking about making our exit, a load of police show up in multiple vehicles, as if they’re about to break up a riot. They gingerly walk amongst the tables, dispersing the crowd. We’re confused. The curfew has been lifted. The following week, during a team meeting, my manager Ama points out that the Fuzz are merely enforcing the newly-imposed 10pm restaurant closure time.

The following day, I meet up with Constantin, a blast from my Strasbourg past. He’s in town with his sister and some of her pals (of which he’s clearly not a fan). 

I find out about his Belgian excursion quite by chance. He’s been on my mind. I send him a text. He announces his plans.

How long did you intend to keep that to yourself, then?

It’ll be the first time I’m meeting an acquaintance offline that I knew before I relocated to Brussels. It's reassuring. Whatever the initial attraction there might or might not have been between us, Constantin has never demanded anything beyond the platonic. It is a refreshing change from the constant utilitarianism I’ve sadly become accustomed to in Brussels.

Handsome as ever, I note Constantin's new hair cut. I only recognise him as he approaches at our meeting spot in Flagey. It’s an atypically warm and sunny day sandwiched between grisly weather. I have my sandals out. Even with just the terraces open, the neighbourhood takes on the erstwhile liveliness I could only glimpse before the second lockdown. A few days later, I’ll hear of an illicit gathering of hundreds in the area just the night before.

Constantin and I stroll towards one of several ponds in the vicinity. He’s not that impressed with Brussels. Although still only in his 20s, he already favours idyllic country life. He wants to live somewhere rural with a town and the sea within short-ish driving distance.

Half-Tunisian Constantin has decided to observe Ramadan for the first time this year. He’s not religious, he claims, just a seeker. Not for the first time, our conversation turns to metaphysical matters by way of a debate over immunisation. Trainee nurse Constantin insists on not being vaccinated against COVID nor self-isolating if required. We take many existential digressions. He suddenly becomes irritable, confessing a few moments later that it has something to do with the hunger. He calms down. The discussion moves on. He thinks I’m very bright. I hear this a lot from the male population, particularly in the European context. Rather than being completely flattered, I suspect they underestimate other women’s intelligence. Or worse still, the women they know feel pressured to curb their intellect.

Does that mean you don’t know clever women? I probe.

Could be. Constantin replies, to my surprise. He makes a joke about my (future) husband having a tough job. It betrays the reasoning behind the ostensible compliment. Too many men have a hard time dealing with a woman who speaks her mind.

BrusselsPictures.com

Constantin asserts nonetheless that he’s not that demanding when it comes to the females. 

I’ll eat anything.

Cheeky sod.

On my request, he introduces me to his sister before we part ways. He’s interested in dining at the Senegalese restaurant I visited the previous night. He’d like me to join him again the same evening. I’m happy to know I haven’t overstayed my welcome. I do have work the next day, however and can’t follow his fast-breaking hours. Still, I’m touched at his willingness to spend time with me before he returns to Strasbourg.

Back to my opening statements about a melancholy state of mind. 

Things have started to slowly open up. Surely, I should be upbeat. And yet, when the Ascension public holiday rolls around that week and I realise I’ll be spending another day in my own company, an intense wave of loneliness once again engulfs me. To my embarrassment, I start to wish one of the wastemen would at least extend a perfunctory invitation.

Always preferring to be proactive, I contact Brenda from church, half-expecting her to already have plans. On the contrary, she takes up my suggestion for a scenic ramble around Bois des Cambres with enthusiasm.

Soundtrack: Lous & The Yakuza -Gore, Sevena - Be Somebody. 90s R&B - Various Artists.

Relational Spring Cleaning

Spring is slowly but surely taking over Belgium. You wouldn’t necessarily tell from the four-seasons-in one-month weather patterns. In early April, fierce blizzards come and go, although the snow never commits as it did in February. The extended daylight and abundance of green that would normally gladden my heart, now make me nervous. 'Tis the season the critters re-emerge. This neurosis over eight-legged creepers, has often felt like an externalisation of others I have confronted since relocating to Brussels.

Belgium inches closer to easing some COVID-restrictions. The ban on non-essential travel lifts mid-April. Friends ask about my immediate travel plans, in particular to the UK. I am not making any trips before June. I want to see how the situation evolves with required testing and quarantines. 

I nevertheless take one significant step towards facilitating the process when I can travel. Thanks to my voluntary work at the Red Cross via my church, I am eligible for residual doses of the vaccine; provided I am available at short notice. I keep my phone close at hand so I don’t miss any of the alerts. It’s happened once before. 

One Wednesday, late afternoon, I am summonsed to a vaccination centre just down the road. I am offered the Astra-Zeneca jab. Before handing over my consent form, I ask for another rundown of the risks. The youthful doctor mentions flu-like symptoms and reassures me that the most extreme side effects happen to only a handful. My second appointment is booked on the spot for the summer. After the jab, I’m told to wait half an hour to make sure I don’t have any immediate adverse affects. Whilst moving my shoulders to the waiting room music, I text friends excitedly about how I’ve managed to jump the relatively sluggish Belgian vaccine queue. The feverish symptoms of which I've been warned, hit hard the next day and are over within 24 hours.

Alas, the rules around compulsory teleworking are yet to be relaxed. There are days when I’m busy enough to all but forget the isolation. On others, a wave of loneliness seems to engulf me. That’s the nature of the beast, I suppose. For a change of scene, I steal away to the hotel where I passed my first couple of months in Brussels last year, with the full blessing of the proprietor.

Thank God for spring flowers. My favourite aspect of the season. There are disappointingly few cherry blossoms in my neighbourhood and in the city as a whole. It’s on the bus through the Schaerbeek area, on the way to the hotel, that I truly glimpse the pink splendour Brussels has to offer.

As part of my daily walks, I’m widening my selection of destinations. I have the Woluwe Park virtually on my door-step. At this early stage of the season change, it’s not yet in its intimidating forest state. I also discover-or rediscover- the grounds around the controversial Museum of Central Africa in Tervuren. The last time I was in this neck of the woods, a decade ago on my first ever Belgian excursion, both the Museum and surrounding estate were out of bounds. It was closed for an upgrade, after complaints that the cultural site white-washed Belgium's horrendous colonial past. Rumour has it, it’s not much improved.

Still, this doesn’t prevent me from enjoying an early evening stroll around the vicinity one clement Saturday, working my way through my Benny Sings catalogue. For all its reputation of dullness compared to some of its more glamourous European counterparts, Brussels has several lovely corners.

Relationally, it’s been an interesting few weeks. I meet up with Habiba; Rob’s Day One to whom I was introduced at March’s picnic. She warns that she'll be semi-incommunicado for Ramadan so I make the most of her company. She mentions that Rob knew we’d get along. You have a lot in common. He tells her cryptically. One lunchtime together and it becomes apparent why.

Things come to a head with the man himself. 

Dear patient readers, I won’t reproduce all the non-drama here. Suffice to say that after months of disrespect, ulterior motives and insincere apologies, I give up on any expectation that this will develop into a functional friendship. The last straw is the frequenting of my Internations profile by one of his side-chicks. I discover their connection purely by chance. I don’t know why the heck this woman is even aware of my existence. Naturally, Rob refuses to come clean.

It’s all far more trouble than its worth. Neither do I like the side of me it evinces. I haven't covered myself in glory this whole time. One evening, after several tense email exchanges I explain that I plan to part ways for the foreseeable future; save for bumping into each other at the odd Internations event. The online conversations spill into the next day. He employs all the usual Rob tactics to exculpate himself; denial, misdirection, gaslighting and when all else fails, bare faced untruths.

I don’t like cutting people off. It feels harsh and uncharitable, even when pushed. It’s always a measure of last resorts. But as a friend later quotes from the Good Book (although not being religious himself): I need to be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove. For too long, I have given Rob the benefit of the doubt; holding out the false hope that he would find it in himself to be decent as I've observed he can be with others. People are complex. And yet the more I’ve witnessed, the more I’m convinced the whole ‘deep down, he’s really a great guy’ defence from acquaintances, is just his finely-honed PR in effect. It never quite worked on me.

Oddly enough, around the same time, Rob’s South American friend texts me out of the blue. By that point in time, I no longer have his number. I ask for an identification. I hesitate over whether to respond, deciding finally it’ll be too mean-spirited after all this time not to do so. I’m nevertheless circumspect. Gauging from the manner in which this particular exchange unfolds, some of his bad habits die hard. He makes unspecified plans to catch up. I give an equally vague reply. 

Where one door closes, others could be opening.

Introducing Julius, another (younger) mulatto suitor that I’ve come across on my Belgian adventure. We first meet back around the Christmas period. He sidles up to me one evening on the platform of Arts-Loi metro, having expressed swivel-eyed admiration. We swap numbers, followed a few days later by an awkward phone conversation. When I describe my social-justice work at the TTUO and he mentions the illuminati, I'm left with the distinct impression we have little in common. He eventually begs off with what seems to be an everlasting toothache. Tant pis. Our interactions have been so fleeting, it barely warrants a mention on these pages.

Fast forward a few months. I’m participating in a nationwide solidarity strike for better wages in late March. Public transport is drastically-reduced. I’m walking back to my flat from Roodebeck station, when a young man approaches me on his bike with brazen familiarity. I don’t quite recognise him without his mask.

Julius, c’est toi ?

It’s fate he says, us running into each other once again this way. He insists he’s tried to reach out to me before, showing me his text history as proof. These messages never make it to my temperamental European phone. I’m sheepish. I don’t have his number any longer.

Whether or not it’s a strategy or something innate, Julius is a shameless romantic. A few minutes into our unexpected reunion, he wants to spirit me away to France for a couple of days. I don’t even clock the romantic overtone at first, more concerned with adhering to the still active non-essential travel ban.

I take his number once again. He texts shortly afterwards: You're magnificent. 

This is Julius’ way. He uses epithets like ‘beloved’, ‘sweetheart’ and once, the especially bold, ‘my lady’. He sends messages attempting to coax me to come out for a spontaneous walk or to be a plus one at a birthday lunch. He texts me links to obscure songs by otherwise well-known 90s R&B artists. Since the vast majority of our exchanges are Francophone, I have little opportunity to gauge his level of English. It seems respectable. Yet clearly something gets lost in translation when he sends songs with miserable lyrics that he presumes are endearing.  I point out their inappropriateness. Noticing a mild defensiveness, I acknowledge the well-intentioned gesture. It's a tricky balancing act; being affirming but not leading him on.

One mercilessly rainy Saturday afternoon, we take a trip through central Brussels by tram and foot. It almost doesn’t happen. He texts in the morning to cancel but then changes his mind. He later admits he doesn’t want me to think he's a flake. He gives la bise when he arrives. I can’t recall the last time someone tried to kiss both cheeks. There’s a whiff of nicotine. Later, when he starts a mild coughing fit and bends over to empty the contents of his throat (not impressive), I advise him to quit the fags. Surprised I picked it up, he assures me he’s only an occasional smoker. 

One less thing we have in common. 

But I’m not looking for a boyfriend.

To avoid any ambiguity, I tell him upfront that friendship is the objective. I put my celibacy out there too; to leave no room for equivocation. Julius is Chris Rock-style sceptical of platonic relations between the sexes. Rather incriminatingly, he claims one party is always biding their time. At best, it comes at great sacrifice, he rues. What if we are friends and develop feelings for each other? (My Anglophone male friends are never amused when I reference this part of the conversation). It usually doesn’t end well, is my response.

That doesn’t stop him from persevering. He stretches his arm around my shoulder, on the pretext of covering me with his umbrella (I have my own). From our discussions, I already glean he’s looking for a wife. 

I have no plans to fulfil that JD. I’m still very much on the simple (!) endeavour of establishing some kind of basic community here. I can’t lie, however. It’s an ego boost. I may be celibate but I'm still a red-blooded woman in my late 30s. Julius is younger. He has a very good bone structure (a light-skinned Patrice Lamumba type, with a SE Asian-ish twist). He's blessed with a great physique (if a little too short for my tastes). With all these things going for him, he’s probably used to getting his way. He routinely praises my looks. Eventually, I feel pressured to return the compliment, even if I strongly doubt he’s oblivious to it.

You’re not bad yourself.

Do you mean it, or are you just paying back the compliment?

...Men and their bloody insecurities...

Don’t read too much into it, Julius.

To his credit, he also values intelligence. During our rain-soaked ramble, he too proves to be more than just a pretty face. Our interests might diverge but he’s cultured in his own way. An architect by profession, he is clearly enthused by the topography of urban Belgium. He launches into impromptu history lessons, pointing out the intricacies of roof tops and window lattices. 

He's aspirational. Evidently, we have differing views on wealth accumulation. I don't take kindly to him complaining about a beggar woman, muttering something about a lack of work ethic.

Like most of the men I've met in Brussels, Julius speaks freely about his personal life. He casually mentions spending time in a children’s home, when his parents’ doomed marriage reached a particular nadir. This strikes me not only as sad but perturbing for the kid he was. I don’t know how to react. Julius is matter-of-fact about it; one might say even cheery.

I really didn’t mind. I was glad to escape the war zone.

People are complex. 

À suivre.

I have one more potentially positive connection in the pipeline, thanks to a long-time Italian friend currently based in southern Africa. She puts me in touch with Lorenzo, with whom she’s been closely acquainted since her teens. He's having a hard time maintaining meaningful connections in Brussels. He also happens not to be attracted to my gender. This makes for a change from all those sketchy heteros and their shenanigans. If Lorenzo and I do get on, there’ll be something poetic about an Italian gay man and West African straight chick becoming tight.

We agree to meet in his part of town in Northern Brussels. Lorenzo has sapphire blue eyes, dusty blond hair and altogether more Nordic traits than I anticipate (not that there is a uniform Italian look). We have an easy rapport. Another refreshing aspect. 

He seems a sweet but burdened soul.

Something of a Brussels veteran, changes in life cycles and various other challenges have left him socially adrift. I’m cautious not to overwhelm him with my enthusiasm. I nevertheless invite him to accompany me on my Sunday ritual the following sunny but brisk weekend. After breezing through Place Jourdain market and Parc Leopold, we settle down to chat and eat pastries in Cinquantenaire. 

 À suivre.

Soundtrack: Benny Sings: Music; Groove Theory; Lous & The Yakuza: Gore.