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.
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