Busy Days in Sunny June

 

It's back to reality, the day after the Brussels Jazz weekend festival. Another Monday, another morning bombshell. A few weeks earlier I received an email from my joint Labour International “BAME” officer that she was leaving the party, just after I’d come on board. This time, it’s the news of another significant departure. Amongst various emails, one jumps out from the Gen. Sec of TTUO. The subject line bids adieu to my manager, Ama. A few emails on, she’s sent a private message to the team, apologising that we found out this way. 

She’ll later explain that she planned to make the announcement the previous week but life interrupted. She’s not only leaving the organisation but Belgium itself, having landed a choice role elsewhere on the Continent. My own reaction to the news is rather self-centred and emotional, which comes as a surprise even to myself. Of course, this is great news for her. It’s obvious someone with Ama’s credentials would be snapped up once back on the job market. It's better that she's moving on. She seemed increasingly jaded by the TTUO. A change is as good as a rest, they say. Yet from a personal perspective, in the immediate term, it symbolises another upheaval in a season full of them. 

After a rocky start, it felt like Ama and I had finally started to find our rhythm. She hasn’t been the best manager I’ve had but far from the worst. Our personalities diverged even if our politics overlapped.  Highly competent as she is, there are aspects of her management style I won’t miss. Nevertheless, she was also the person who gave me this amazing opportunity. She could be relied upon to make an executive decision when needed. It has been reassuring to that extent. When I discover that Ama will log off for the final time, one week shy of my first anniversary in the job, this adds to the bitter-sweet flavour.

Beyond work, my circle continues to widen gradually. Karin, A young Swiss-German woman from church, also relatively new to Belgium, has been trying very hard to connect since we first (e-)met. My preconceptions make me initially sluggish to respond. She’s married to Felix, a Nigerian, ‘straight off the boat’. Or so I assume. It looks like a stereotypical immigration marriage from afar. Life humbles me, however. With my (so far) mixed record of friend-making in Brussels, I can’t afford to turn up my nose at someone making an earnest effort. A mother of three small children, it takes a few weeks for us to settle on a meet-up date. We eventually agree to drinks at Place Jourdan, one night of torrential summer rain. 

En route to our meeting point, a young man has a seizure after sipping some cola at Joséphine-Charlotte metro. Some passengers coldly step over him. The rest of us look on, stunned or incredulous. Others have phones at the ready. Thankfully, a first aider steps in. The young man slowly stirs to life whilst waiting for the paramedics. Despite only just emerging from his fit, he’s extremely reluctant to wait for the authorities to come. He makes several fatigued attempts to rise and leave. 

lesoir.be

I descend the train and call Karin whilst two security guards  ar approaching. A voice over the tannoy announces the suspension of the service. I wait on the concourse above. In a lightning flash, I glimpse the young man trying to escape the paramedics and security. He clambers over the escalator railing, struggling in vain to go in the opposite direction of travel. Security nonchalantly walks up the parallel steps and waits for him at the top. I am slack-jawed at the scene-playing out, wondering if the youngster’s aversion to men in uniform is immigration related. By this time, my train has already departed. 

Karin meets me on the platform. I recount all the drama en route to Schuman station. Braving the showers to eventually find a spot outside a Beer specialists (not my thing), she starts to tell me the epic story of hers and Felix’ relationship. My dismissive first appraisal couldn’t have been further off. These two are in it for life. They met as volunteers in Zambia in the mid-2000s. Their love has traversed oceans and continents; spanned academic pursuits and career trajectories. 

At each turn, Felix’ Nigerian passport has thrown up red tape. The authorities across various states are as suspicious of their union as I was at first glance. All through these trials, she’s desperately tried to make sure their children have as much of a cultural balance as possible. Karin is blessed with all too rare character traits. Self-awareness and a readiness to learn. She grew up in a mono-cultural Swiss canton. If understanding structural racism has only come of late, she’s doing all she can to catch up. And not in that clichéd, condescending, over-zealous manner. Her sincerity allows me to be honest about my own presumptions on her part. We enjoy our time together so much we plan to meet up on successive weekends.

The day after this auspicious rendez-vous, I have another with a former colleague. Stephanos left the TTUO to work at the European Commission in the spring. We’ve stayed in touch over the months. He was one of the few colleagues I had a chance to meet before everything shut down again last autumn. He’s promised me a tour of St. Gilles and beyond. After a busy day at the Red Cross, I meet him at Hôtel des Monnaies for our city tour. 

During our walk-and-talk, Stephanos let's slip that he has a long-term girlfriend and a baby on the way. I was not aware of either. Although my intentions have never been romantic, I don't like the idea of his heavily pregnant significant other, alone on her own on a Saturday night. Stephanos assures me she's perfectly fine.

By now a veteran of Brussels, he has an astounding knowledge of the city. Probably better than many locals.

Neighbourhood of Marolles
(courtesy of Visit Brussels)

I like reading up on history, he claims.

You should do this for a living, I suggest.

We spend the hours strolling from St. Gilles to Central Brussels via Marolles, Stephanos pointing out landmarks and relics along the way. Some are familiar, others are not, to my shame. Clearly, I don’t look up enough on my own rambles. It’s my first time (at least of which I remember) visiting the infamous Manneken Pis and his (vulgar) sisterly equivalent.

Stephanos also has useful knowledge of the City’s culinary map; pointing out reputable Middle-Eastern, traditional Belgian and, of course, Greek establishments. I make a mental note for a time when, God willing, I can finally welcome overseas guests.

Soundtrack: Be Right Back by Jorja Smith

Here Comes the Sun

 

As May makes way for June, we see a shift in consistently wet and/or overcast weather. Storms are replaced by clear blue skies. I can dust off the summer clothes and put away (most) of my winter boots. It’s as if the climate itself is cautiously optimistic about the Belgian governments plans for further loosening of restrictions. Cafés and restaurants re-open in full. More indoors activities are permitted and more people allowed to meet inside. We can gather in bigger groups outdoors. It’s great news for places of worship. I attend a couple of church picnics within days of each other. The sun doesn't set until around 10pm. Parc Cinquantenaire is still alive with activity at this time.

There’s also upbeat news on the travel front. There is to be more or less free travel around the EU for those who are fully vaccinated and carry the coveted certificate. There are various other conditions to be met for those who do not. At least from July, Belgium will forego it’s quarantine and testing regimen even for those arriving from red zones, as long as they are fully vaccinated. My second dose, God willing, is on the horizon. 

Alas, that doesn’t ease the criteria for travel to and from the UK. It’s on Belgium’s red list. On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is classed as amber with (still) onerous testing and quarantine demands. Thus far, the UK doesn’t appear to factor in vaccine compliance (though that might soon change). I’d have to quarantine longer than I planned to visit. Until I’m fully vaccinated, I’d also have to quarantine on the Belgium end. Living alone, that’s too heavy a cost on my mental well-being. Mum’s plans for an early summer visit are indefinitely suspended, considering all the current exigencies. Ditto for another friend, wanting to schedule a late summer visit. It’s not just a blow to morale. More like a pistol-whip. It’s been over a year and a half since any contact with Blighty-based loved ones.

This mutual rigidity is as much political as it’s for health reasons. Admittedly, the proliferation of new strains in the UK is perturbing but the post-Brexit reality also plays a role.

On the relational front it’s still a work in progress. I’m balancing self-sufficiency with embryonic, albeit promising, efforts to build community. The recently-acquainted Lorenzo is great company. He’s mellow, we overlap on cultural interests and are never stuck for conversation.

 I can now attend more offline events organised by Internations. Brussels has adapted some of its early summer festivals to the current reality, such as its end of May Jazz weekend. Dubbed ‘The Balcony Edition’, musicians play on the verandas and rooftops of various administrative buildings and historical sites around the city. Mercifully, the weather is fine enough for it to all work. It’s designed so that audiences can do a tour of shows; ideally by bike, if not, alternative modes of transport. I have my colleague Demetria to thank for keeping me in the loop. We agree to meet up for a show on the last day of the festival.

The Saturday evening prior, I have made similar, vaguer plans with another recent-acquaintance, Simon-Pierre. We confirm at the last minute. 

On the plus side, it gives me a chance to attend one of the free gigs on my own. So determined am I to arrive on time, I skip out on a local show to catch an Etterbeek concert. For all the good it does. With bus diversions and numerous demos (of which I was unaware), I miss half the set. Not a huge deal. The alto sax solos are good but I don’t care for the accompanying contemporary dance choreo. It’s a little too oddball.

En route to meet Simon-Pierre at Ixelles, I encounter similar traffic-related mayhem. The bus driver eventually gives up at Luxembourg station, from where I have to hot-step it by foot. I’ve kept SP abreast of the transport issues. 

 On arrival, Fernand Coq Square is rammed. Excitable children and restless revellers push past us, momentarily distracting us from the agreeable trio playing Jazz standards. Afterwards, Simon-Pierre treats me to a virgin Mojito on a terrace in the once again vibrant St. Boniface area. Whilst waiting for our orders (the waitress/bar manager initially forgets mine), the conversation ironically (or maybe not) turns to clichés about black-owned establishments. 

SP seems more respectful and mature than the vast majority of heteros I’ve met so far in Brussels. I can’t resist an uncharitable vent about our mutual acquaintance and my former frenemy. Simon-Pierre has the most realistic estimation of his friend I’ve come across. Neither apologist nor traitorously critical.

I’m still disenchanted by my experiences with the male population here. What should have been mere emotional flesh wounds have turned septic. There hasn’t been much improvement of late, either. Unhelpful blasts from the past crawl out of the woodwork only to play more unwarranted mind games. 

Another character starts contacting me on Internations. We have never met offline but have some mutual contacts on the platform. He takes it far too personally that I’m not on social media nor own a smartphone. We nonetheless make plans to meet up for a drink. 

Distant alarm bells grow a little louder when he let’s slip he’s been looking me up online. He then complains that I don’t respond enthusiastically enough to his standard-issue text messages. I reply that they don't require a dissertation. He follows up by asking if I use a translation app to write my messages in French. (His written French is pretty dreadful, not uncommon in these parts). Once that initial indignation is past, I accept this is a textbook example of controlling and potentially abusive behaviour. If he doesn’t have the presence of mind to keep his stalker-instincts in check enough to make a decent first impression, it can only deteriorate. I dismiss whatever curiosity I have about his offline physique and persona. We know what they say about curious cats.

Thankfully, Simon-Pierre hasn’t displayed any such unhinged tendencies. It’s still early days. I endeavour to find an equilibrium between the benefit of the doubt and remaining circumspect.

At least my experiences with the female demographic has been by and large more auspicious. The following Sunday Demetria, myself and a couple of other female colleagues head to part two of the Jazz weekend. Demetria has brought her own transport. After the first set she proposes we pop along to another. 

The rest of us are grateful for the lift. The next venue is in a residential area, a good distance from any public transport. 

It's well worth the digression for what turns out to be my favourite balcony concert of the lot. A trio play Jazz guitar and bass on the first story of a cultural centre, each musician facing out of one of the large French windows. It feels very chic and continental, I remark to one of my colleagues. The sort of thing you fantasise about grown-up life as a kid.

Soundtrack: Fidelity Radio Club by S. Fidelity.