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.
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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment