Return to Strasbourg

 

In late July, Belgium celebrates it’s National Holiday. The customary pomp and ceremony of the military parades naturally holds no appeal for me. The only significance is an extra day off. With plans to visit the UK shelved until further notice (again) and no intention to stay put, I plan a very short and, I’m hoping, sweet visit to my former stomping ground in Alsace. My annual leave allowance at the time is pitiable. I ration what I have to one extra day just before La Fête Nationale Belge. I figure that if I take the overnight coach to France and the train back, I’ll have one whole day and a half in Strasbourg.

With such a limited window, I have to be ruthless with my time. I make a shortlist of 'definites' and 'standby’s'. The selection criteria is based on the individual’s reliability, how regularly they’ve been in contact since my departure (or if the effort tends to be only one-sided) and whether they’ll still be around at this point in summer. 

 Of course my restaurateur chum, Gael is a must. Constantin insists I look him up whenever I'm in town. I’ve made a point to meet with a few of my former choir members, although hardly anyone from my former French church makes the list. That’s how the die falls, based on the process of elimination.

 Aware of past offers to lodge with friends, I nevertheless avoid this option. I want to be able to shower at all times and come and go without feeling like a nuisance. I research some decent and economical hotel stays. There’s no shortage but alas, none of them are willing to accommodate my 6am arrival and check-in. In the end I default to AirBnB and reserve a small rooftop studio near Observatoire with promising reviews. It’s cheapness allows me to reserve two nights. I will only need one but at least this way I can check in whenever, more or less.

Once travel and accommodation is sorted, I start to notify the Strasbourg posse. A couple are unavailable straight off the bat. Early holiday plans. Looking at the cup half-full, it will leave more space in the schedule to see others. My plans begin to take more optimistic form as other contacts respond positively.

A couple of days before my departure, Flixbus sends an email that makes me nervous. There’s talk of PCR tests being a pre-requisite, even for those resident in the EU. It’s not clear whether this is independent of vaccine certificates. Mine arrives promptly less than a week before my Strasbourg trip. I create virtual and physical duplicates, just in case.

The French government website is also ambiguous about what is required. I go into the office especially to print a passenger affidavit confirming I  am not knowingly carrying the virus. Whilst at my desk, my old French tutor Henri rings to catch up. He concurs that the rules are contradictory.

I arrive at the coach station that evening three-quarters of an hour early. I’m not taking any chances. I’ve tried to make my peace with possibly being turned away if I don’t have a PCR test. There hasn’t been time to arrange one. My heart nonetheless leaps into my throat when I see an aggressive notice asserting once again “No test, no travel”.

I start to ask around. The first passenger I approach is little comfort. Nonetheless, a few others claim they’ve been traversing Europe without so much as being asked to show a vaccine certificate, let alone a negative PCR. 

When the bus does arrive, I have all my COVID-related paperwork, recently obtained Belgian ID card and my passport at the ready. In the end, all the driver cares about is my ticket. I hang around to see if I can be of assistance to two fellow passengers, both of whom were left stranded by a coach that never turned up. 

I translate for one distressed Frenchwoman. She has a baby waiting for her in Strasbourg. The other is an Anglophone from Cameroon. The driver doesn’t care for their plight, even in English. I ask how much a replacement ticket would be. He ignores my question, indicating sullenly that my seat is on the upper deck. I’m relieved to later see both women boarding the bus. The Cameroonian sits behind me. In the end, they have had to pay for an error that wasn’t their fault and it’s not cheap. My interlocutor covered the cost of the other, a complete stranger. She couldn’t bear to see her upset.

I had a dream I’d spend a lot of money on this trip, she muses.

Don’t worry, I reassure, your kindness will eventually come full circle.

I fall into typically fitful, upright slumber. I’m so tired that I don’t stir in time to say farewell to the Cameroonian Coach Angel when she descends at Luxembourg.

I arrive in Strasbourg at half-past 5am, as scheduled. Believing it to be the last stop, it takes a few minutes to realise I need to hop off before the bus moves on.

I’ve arranged with the minder of the AirBnB lodgings to check-in early. He makes the exception without quibbling at first. He’s a lot less facilitating offline. I text him when I arrive at the building. It seems more discreet at that hour than a phone call. Instead, he grumbles it’s less practical. He also complains when I take the stairs instead of the lift. As he lets me into the property, he makes a point of how gracious he’s being so early in the morning. Inside, the digs are more basic than I thought. I knew they’d be modest but I didn’t expect it to be so dusty or for there to be a solitary sink in the kitchenette. That’s where teeth and after-toilet-handwashing would also be done. Thank God, I have no plans to cook. It reminds me of the bad-old-days of my Strasbourg flat search.

I make this observation to the minder.

I don’t know why people expect the Hilton at only 30 euros a night, he retorts.

I mumble my acquiescence for the sake of peace although I’m inclined to disagree. The 4+ star average rating and dozens of glowing reviews make no sense in this context, even if it is on the cheap. I’ve stayed in much better, still on a budget.

In any case, I can bear it for one night. I shower, take a nap to prepare for the day ahead and join in some communal online prayers before heading out for my first appointment. I’ve been anxious about some previously enthused acquaintances who have recently gone quiet. I take it to heart, as I am wont to do. A member of the prayer group, Joy, endeavours to soothe my anxieties. It doesn’t mean people don’t care. It’s just some, like herself, prefer to operate on a last-minute basis. What would make someone like me feel on edge, is far less stressful for others.

I have little to worry about. Most of the posse confirm, albeit last minute. Only one has to cancel owing to poor health. During the day, I zigzag from one eating establishment to another whilst organising multiple meet-ups at a time. I save my stomach for the evening, sticking to cool healthy-ish beverages and the odd indulgent ice-drink.

 Almost everyone is glowing from the July heatwave – more pronounced in Strasbourg than Brussels. A couple of my Caucasian female friends have gone blonde. 

One, Yvonne, is a former colleague from the security team at The Human Rights Organisation. She’s had a rough couple of years and was off the grid for a short while. She suffered a bad fall at work that still affects her joints. And yet, she’s made an effort to spend time with me; paying for my Oreo milkshake and treating me to a gift bag. I decide to save it for my looming birthday. 

A number of my acquaintances have found love since we last see each other in the flesh.

After emerging from a difficult season Beatrice, a fellow alumna from the High Rock Gospel Singers, is radiant with a new beau, slimmer frame and a calmer season at work. A couple of months older than me, she assures that her 40s are treating her well. I am particularly intrigued by the story of how she begun a romance with a neighbour, long after they’d first met. All organic. No need for dodgy dating sites. 

Everything has its time, she counsels.

With my experiences in Brussels leaving me particularly disillusioned with the male species, I need that burst of hope. 

She's sympathetic about my earlier difficulties settling in.

It couldn’t have been a harder time to move countries, she commiserates.

In the evening I head to Gael’s restaurant/culture hub in Krutenau. I’ve arranged to meet Constantin there for drinks. I am pleased to find I’ll get two portions of eye candy that evening, when he’s joined by his gorgeous big bro, Stefano. Even if they didn’t say a word, I could stare at these siblings all evening and the next day. It's as if by being in the same space, they collectively reinforce each other's beauty. I do worry that I am becoming shallower with age, in direct proportion to some of my recent male acquaintances being more handsome. My attraction nevertheless remains fairly innocent, detached and devoid of any intention to act on it.

It’s the first time Stefano and I have seen each other since our initial encounter. The fraternal resemblance is more striking than I recall, except that they’ve swapped hairstyles. It’s now Constantin who wears his hear close-cropped whilst Stefano has let his dark curls run free. 

Conversing with and observing the brothers, I’m reminded of the personality contrast I observed when we first met. Constantin and his sleeve tattoos. Stefano's arms as smooth and clear as a baby's. Stefano seems sage and calm. Constantin is hyperactive with a thousand thoughts a minute. I can relate to having so many ideas to process. Constantin can be at once extremely facetious and complimentary. He jokingly blows kisses in my direction during our interactions.

The brothers share a vaccine scepticism, a subject I’m not willing to revisit in detail after mine and Constantin’s previous debate. 

I accuse him of being a player. As the conversation takes a philosophical turn, it occurs that looks could be deceiving. It's Stefano who flitters from relationship to relationship. Constantin claims he’s a sensitive scoundrel à la Tupac. After flirting with his father's lax Islam, he now identifies as Muslim. He shares some of his poems and reprimands me for not being on social media so he can more easily send me sunset images and the like. 

He asks me the meaning of my forename. I gladly explain and he shows great admiration.

(c) Olivier Galleano

In between our lively chatter, Gael and staff take our orders. I fill in the main man himself as much as time allows. He shows me pictures of his younger sister’s wedding the previous weekend. The weather was fine and COVID restrictions loosened enough for the couple to invite a respectable number of guests.

The dishy brothers leave as we’re joined by another HRGS alumna, Aurélie shortly followed by Kiasi, the choir’s erstwhile director. Always on the provocative side, I find his stereotypically French scepticism especially controversial tonight (similar to Constantin- around vaccines, and even COVID itself). It’s hard to move past incredulity to counter such views, not least in a second language. He's disappointed to learn I have had my shots. I do my best to make the case for those worst affected and the risks of long-COVID before trying to divert the conversation elsewhere. 

Kiasi takes that opportunity to clear the air with Aurélie around some hearsay about him, of which she’s said to be the source. It’s not a brief conversation. If I’d known relations were tense, I would’ve arranged to meet them on separate occasions. I am aware that any interjections from me could stoke the tension. I thus keep them even-handed and to a minimum. Afterwards, the frank discussion seems to have had the desired effect. Both are relieved. The topic turns to my time in Brussels so far. I am used to giving the potted version by now. A part of me is tired of rehearsing it. Another side wishes I had the time and inclination to go into more details.

We start to disperse under crepuscule skies. I bid farewell to Gael and the rest of the Jabiru family. Aurélie walks me to my AirBnB, living only a stone’s throw away. I’m buoyed from a day full of goodwill and affection. There’s one more rendez-vous the following day before I have to catch my train, with Patrice from my old church.

 I feel little connection or nostalgia for Strasbourg itself, for all its aesthetic charm. It's too small-town for my tastes. It's beginning to feel like another lifetime, although in reality my departure was only a year ago. 

However, this trip is a brief yet welcome reminder of the meaningful bonds I did manage to forge in Alsace. I am touched and honoured. It took a while to find people with whom I could have a history but it did happen. As life begins to resume in Brussels and my circles gradually widen, I think of my Strasbourg breakthrough in the latter part of my sojourn. By God’s grace, I am building different but equally meaningful history this side of the Franco-Belgian border.

Music Festivals, Milestones and Mixed-Emotions…

25 June marks a full year since I arrived in Belgium. A week later I will celebrate my first anniversary at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO). As I approach these milestones, my feelings are mixed.

The experience so far has been coloured by the ripple effects of a global health crisis. Similarly to my time in Strasbourg (although for different reasons) it seems that the first 12 or so months have been trial and error, relationally. Slowly but surely, my friendship options start to widen. Yet memories of the disappointment and needless unkindness of some past acquaintances are still fresh. Wounds reopen when said acquaintances unexpectedly reappear; their sole purpose being to cause emotional mischief. Still, I persevere.

After some time, I also make my peace with no travel to the UK in either direction for the immediate future. Given the proliferation of the Delta variant across the Channel, the Belgian authorities instate a travel ban to and from Blighty; the only European country amongst a 27-strong blacklist.

Summer appears to be a write-off in that regard.

Thank God, I’m no longer as starved of regular human interaction as I have been. Over June I avail myself of numerous cultural activities – from musical festivals to book launches. Cultured Brussels gradually stirs to life, if still subdued under pandemic conditions.

The doors of church re-open mid-June. Under state orders, pre-registration is at first mandatory for attendance. Like a concert or club event. I sign up for every service as long as it remains a requirement. For some members, it’s too soon to return to indoor fellowship. Meanwhile, the church is taking its precautions. Seating is spaced out and there are no more than two chairs in close proximity.

This will only be my second Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries. I don’t yet have a true gauge for the core congregants. I probably won’t until post-pandemic. There’s a good showing nonetheless that Sunday. Pastor Mike is beaming even more than usual. For the next few Sundays he’ll gush about how reinvigorating it is to be in a room full of people again. Seconded.

We take Holy Communion that first service. This sacrament demands rigorous soul searching. I reflect on areas where I struggle to maintain a heart of forgiveness. I spot Gerry Rose seated not far from me. Some resentment surges for this church ‘brother’ who, at the start of Belgium’s second lockdown, unceremoniously ceased communication because I was only interested in friendship. Ibid disappointment and unkindness. 

In this context, what should be mere slights have taken on greater significance. And yet, I don’t want bitterness to have the upper hand. Jesus Himself mandates that any beef between the church family is resolved pronto. I know I’ll need to confront Gerry about his ghosting but it’s not yet the right time or place (even if I wanted to talk, he always vanishes after service). I offer these complicated feelings to God in prayer.

Post service, drinks and snacks are served in the courtyard. There I reconnect with Brenda and others with whom, in spite of prior restrictions, I’ve managed to forge ties over the months. 

New pal, Karin and I miss each other but will reunite the following weekend for the first day of a music festival. As in France, La Fête de la Musique is celebrated in Belgium on 21 June; the summer Solstice. Brussels makes a long weekend of it. There are plenty of free events of all musical styles on offer. Before I know it, I have a show to look forward to it each evening.

I reserve tickets for me and Karin one Friday night. An end-of-term concert is on the bill. I anticipate quaint and amateurish performances by mature students studying music part-time in the evenings. Instead it’s a sophisticated affair, with a raspy-voiced young contralto, performing a carefully curated setlist of jazz, blues and pop interpretations on the theme of addiction. She’s joined by her tutor on keys, whose soulful sensibilities come out in full force when she switches to the Rhodes. The band size varies according to the song. Sometimes it’s just drums and keys. On other occasions she’s also joined by bass, lead guitar, soprano sax or flute.

The whole classy affair takes place in the open air, on the grounds of the Arts College where she studied. It’s a heatwave week, with storms forecast if yet to materialise. The evening skies are still clear blue. Only the occasional (welcome) strong gust suggests more ominous weather ahead. We’re spared the rains for a few more days.

Later that evening Karin opens up about being the only Christian in her family; how following the Good Book has often put her at odds with her once-Hippy parents. Add to the mix her family’s dishonourable reaction to her marrying an African and complex theological questions around sexuality and gender identity that are close to home, she’s dealing with a lot. She does so with humility and an innate generosity of spirit.

Karin informs me of a church barbecue the next day that has escaped my no-social-media radar. I plan to pass by en route to meet Simon-Pierre for another live event in my vicinity.

It really is supposed to be just a cameo appearance at the BBQ. Famous last words. The food and company is so enticing, it’s hard to leave. When I arrive, mistress-of-ceremonies Monica is introducing an icebreaker. We have to divide into groups and identify the most prolific polyglot.

For the main meal, I’m sat on a table with Pastor Mike. I joke about us showing up to the same event wearing similar trilby-style straw hats.

Next time, let’s call ahead to better coordinate. He teases.

My concert awaits. I leave somewhat reluctantly. Too many interesting places to be at once. A good problem to have; especially emerging from lockdown.

I have researched directions to the gig on the dedicated Brussels’ city travel site. They seem simple enough. Hmm. A little over-simplified. The venue is in the middle of nowhere and there’s hardly anyone around to ask directions in this sleepy residential area. I call Simon-Pierre in a panic.

T’inquiète, the show has only just started.

Nevertheless, he leaves momentarily when it’s clear I’m hopelessly lost. By the time we locate each other a short distance from the show, the set is nearly over.

Simon-Pierre mentions a Maroon 5 vibe. He's not far off. The singer does vocally resemble Adam Levine with an even more feminine texture. On approaching and hearing his bell-clear mezzo, I expect to find a woman on stage.

Amidst the audience, I spot the elongated frame of a gentleman I happened to see at a lunchtime demo I attended the day before. He’s playing the role of hype-man. Tall, lanky and with curious stilts-like proportions, I admire his confidence. If he’s going to stand out regardless, he’ll do so on his own terms.

My unintentional lateness makes it hard to relax, more so when following a couple more songs the show is all over. Afterwards Simon-Pierre and I walk to the nearest Metro station in Stockel; a hop and a skip from home. He knows the route well.

Whilst recounting the frustrating experiences I’ve had with hetero men in Brussels, it’s an ideal opportunity to stress that my intentions are purely platonic. SP remains respectful in our interactions but I’m leaving nothing to chance.

We head to a local bar. Euro 2020 is in full swing. I'm my usual 'bah humbug' self about sports. Neither does a competition of its size seem very COVID-secure.

Apart from this concern, I’d forget there was an international football tournament going on; save for the occasional roars emanating from the bars in my neighbourhood. Or stepping out the evening Belgium is playing (and eventually loses to) Italy and every other man is wearing the national team strip; as if I've stumbled into a parallel Red, Gold and Black universe.

Simon-Pierre has a soft spot for one of the Eastern-European teams out of loyalty to his half-Slavic children. It’s through him I learn of the bitter football rivalry between France and Belgium (more rancour coming from the latter, apparently). I explain why, on anti-imperialist grounds, I don’t support the English team, to SP’s surprise.

The conversation becomes distinctly more melancholy when he broaches past loves and regrets. His whole life, he claims, he’s been accused of being emotionally unavailable. The death of a close acquaintance a couple of years ago forced a reappraisal, to which the pandemic and lockdowns have also contributed. The tap has been opened.

That’s the only way I can rationalise his effusive response to my follow-up text, thanking him for his company and emphasising (again) the strictly amicable aspect of our relations. Although he’s not the first to be complimentary, I’m taken aback by his declarations of affection and glowing praise. It makes me uncomfortable. I try to respond with tact. I acknowledge that it takes a level of vulnerability to be so direct; especially for someone who is ostensibly not very emotive. It would also be ungrateful to complain about being regularly affirmed. However, my experience with Brussels’ men so far suggests this affection eventually becomes a stumbling block to our future interactions. I enjoy my cultural excursions and discussions with Simon-Pierre. I hope it doesn’t go the way of the others but it’s wise to steel myself in case it does.

The following day, I share my apprehensions with Lorenzo; the one (non-hetero) man so far with whom I have managed to maintain healthy relations with in Belgium.

It’s the last of my weekend concerts and we almost don’t make it. Some confusion over me thinking Lorenzo has booked tickets on both our behalf. When he offers to abandon the gig for my sakes, I resist. My tenacity pays off and I secure an extra ticket after a bit of waiting. It’s the first time I’ve attended an indoor live gig in goodness knows how long. It’s an odd sensation, not least because of the obligation to keep our blasted masks on.

The Francophone electro-pop/rock band are fond of singing -and swearing- in English. Lorenzo is having a good time. As usual, I’m distracted by the rabbit-hole of my thoughts. I off-load post-show as we walk and talk in the still ridiculously bright, if increasingly chilly, late evening. Lorenzo listens with patience and sympathy, advising me to prioritise my female friendships for now; and maybe other gay men.

An opportunity to hang out with just the girls comes sooner than expected later that week. My manager Ama invites our small, all-female team to her farewell lunch. She leaves a couple of days shy of my one year anniversary in Brussels. Another occasion for mixed-feelings.