Summer Highlights Part 2

I have been frequenting summer festivals, sometimes on my own, more often with company. 

Whilst attending the African and Latin American-influenced Percusounds festival on a rainy Sunday with my GBFF, Lorenzo, I see auntie Carol out with her crew. It’s through her that I learn of Fiesta Latina; a reasonably-priced three-day affair at the scenic Bois de la Cambre. I’m going in the hope of seeing some decent Brazilian acts. I ask Renzo if he’d like to join me. A Brussels veteran, he’s not so keen. He searches for a word to convey his apprehension.

Cheesy?

He accepts this descriptor, somewhat reluctantly. It's hard to pin down.

When I do attend, I sense what he means. If the queue is dishearteningly long on arrival, at least the weather is clement. There are two lines; one for those fully vaccinated with certificate, and one for those willing to take a quick test to gain entry. Once that palaver is over, we're not quite out of the woods yet (literally). There is another, shorter line for checking tickets. 

In the end, I spend less time at the event itself than I do in the queue. I do a circuit, soaking in the atmosphere. Everyone hangs around in groups, Strasbourg-style. The reggaeton and other Latin dance music emanating from various sound systems don't really entice me. Food is unsurprisingly overpriced. The only Brazilian presence relates to consumables. No Bossa Nova, Tropicalia or Lusophone Funk. To try and make it worth the 14 euros, I hover around the main stage and do some half-hearted salsa moves before heading home. The highlight of my evening is purchasing a faux-African wax tote bag. 

Curiosity satisfied, I won’t feel the urge to go to Fiesta Latina again. Thank goodness I only committed to one day of the festival. 

Anybody familiar with these pages knows I am not at all averse to solo experiences. However, this one leaves me feeling particularly alone. It's a maudlin start to my weekend.

On the way to the tram stop, I see Lorenzo has texted me about upcoming social plans. I concede he was right about Fiesta Latina.

Renzo and I have been amis comme cochons since we were first introduced by a mutual friend back in the Spring. He’s been my main festival companion. At my behest, one school night he even braves a hopelessly wet summer evening for a Back on Stage concert.

After so many false starts with the male species in Brussels, there’s a quasi-therapeutic nature to our friendship. 

Renzo and I have a shared cultural palate. He’s intelligent, thoughtful and well-read. He's also an enviably good multi-linguist. He speaks naturalistic French and a refined English, with the occasional literary flourish. Unlike 99% of the Italians I've ever met, you couldn't detect his origins from his accent. His is a curiously generic European inflection.

Renzo has an understated charisma, laced with an appealing Mediterranean bluntness that is somehow tempered by a soothing tone and overall gentleness. Like a silencer on a gun.

He makes for a discerning, nay tough, public. His taste can be more rarefied than mine. We seem to diverge as often as we overlap. His scathing critique of Elena Ferrante's hugely popular L'Amie Prodigieuse/L'Amica Geniale novels -all the more cutting for his soft voice-casts doubt over my enjoyment of them. 

Avenue de Toison d'Or

I sometimes tease him for being a snob. He responds with a scoff for instance, when I suggest that City planners had the Champs Elysées in mind for Avenue Toison D'Or.

Oh, pleee-ase!

Yet, Renzo doesn't take himself too seriously. We swap literary or theatrical notes as easily as we discuss 90s Europop or share tongue-in-cheek appreciation for satirical Italian funky-pop classics.

Of course, there’s more to our friendship than the above. Lorenzo is dependable and resilient. He shows up when he says he will, even whilst navigating his own mental health struggles. He's supportive. He reads my blogs unprompted. That's maybe more than I could expect from a boyfriend. Heck, my own family scarcely reads my posts, if at all.

He is considerate, self-aware, a good listener and routinely affirming. He gets on well with my other friends. 

We have a reciprocal respect for each other’s style. I can indulge my "girly" chic and know there's no hidden agenda when he acknowledges it. His dress sense is as super-sharp as one would anticipate from a gay Italian (I tell him he’s a good cliché).

When Renzo implies that he's fallen short of some idealised masculinity, it provokes a protective-if not defensive-reaction in me. I reprimand him for self-identifying as a "p**sy" (not only unkind to him but misogynistic). I regularly reassure that he's all man, in his own distinct Lorenzo way. There's no one-size-fits-all. Besides, society would do well to valorise the good qualities he displays, instead of warped notions about the 'alpha' male.

There remains a healthy gender complementarity between us. I can be carefree and tactile. No sexual tension to infuse compliments with double-entendre. We regard each other with an uncomplicated fondness.

We’ve developed a habit of speaking with authenticity and vulnerability; whether it’s about relational insecurities or heartfelt, if difficult, conversations around faith. Renzo and I differ theologically but his search is sincere. He engages with Christian content I forward him. He sends me little updates by text during a short, semi-retreat in Provence. 

Bref, I have a deep affection for Lorenzo. I can say I love him loads and mean it (although I have the impression this makes him a tad uncomfortable). It proves that the pure, platonic settlement that I’ve been seeking in vain from straight men isn’t completely unrealistic in this context. It’s not as if I don’t have male friends of various orientations elsewhere. It’s just proved particularly hard in Brussels.

I find myself often reflecting on mine and Renzo’s dynamic. The absence of sexual attraction no doubt is a contributing factor to the ease of our rapport. Yet I worry that in my regular jokey references to his sexuality, attributing to it all the positives of our interaction, I’m over-stating it. Perhaps I'm even being (inadvertently) reductive. Although a part of our identity, sexuality is not everything. I don’t believe anybody- of any orientation- should be defined by it. 

Neither do I wish to unconsciously turn Renzo into a surrogate boyfriend, whilst no viable options appear to be on the horizon.

Still, I can’t help comparing and contrasting with my erstwhile encounters in Brussels. Even cautious optimism now seems misplaced. As I write, Simon-Pierre- a hetero who appeared mature enough to buck the trend – has fallen off the grid since, ironically, he joined me and Renzo at Back on Stage. 

I’ve tried to give SP the benefit of the doubt. He could have a very good reason for the radio silence. More likely, I suspect that my presentiment has proven correct. The minute he tired of waiting for me to muster a romantic attachment, he did a disappearing act.

Perversely, the opposite experience with Renzo makes me panic. I withdraw momentarily for fear of over-exposure. Not long after his return from France, for the first time Lorenzo invites me round for a Sunday afternoon apéro. I decline. A missed opportunity to enjoy his company in what is no doubt an impeccable flat.

At first, I believe it's a wise decision. I miss him sorely but don't want to spoil a good thing. Past hurts, recent and distant, inform this paranoia and urge to control. The following weekend, on the advice of sis, I confess all to Renzo as we sip smoothies at a café in town. He's understanding, as is customary.

The heart-to-heart out of the way, we head out for a memorable night in Sablon with my fellow South-East Londoner, Cynthia. But that’s a story for another time. Maybe.

Summer Highlights: Part 1

 

A new acquaintance recently commented on the silence of these pages since the reflections on my dreamy Croatian holiday. I signed off to take a break over summer for an undefined period. (September still counts as (late) summer for me).

I’ve needed the respite. Maintaining two blogs amongs other interests and professional obligations can be quite a commitment. I gave myself permission not to feel guilty if I missed a few updates...

...And then my acquaintance's comments made that guilt resurge.

Besides. If I don’t resume now, I don’t know if or when.

As the weeks roll on, I have more to report which adds to the pressure. And so I decided to kickstart la rentrée de LVC with a fly-by-night retrospective.

On the work front many changes are afoot since the departure of my former manager, Ama in early summer.  It's forced me to become acquainted with internal political machinations that can be demoralising and distract from the work itself. Nonetheless, the job remains fulfilling and I pray to be able to continue in that vein.

On the social side, it's been a busy summer. I’ve made the most of what previously-cancelled activities have been available this year. 

I’ve also created my own fun.

Most significant of which is the belated 40^th birthday dinner I organise shortly after my return from Croatia. Despite taking place in mid-August and a number of potential invitées being away, I still have a decent turnout for the Senegalese buffet I have reserved in Matongé.  The alchemy is wonderful. My guests- encountered through work, church or social settings- develop an instant rapport. Whilst we don’t have much opportunity to mix and mingle at a sit-down dinner, the conversations flow freely in their respective corners. I have also invited Nik, the Dutch owner of the hotel where I first stayed on moving to Belgium. Although we’ve remained in touch fairly regularly, I’m still surprised at his enthusiastic RSVP. Later, a few other guests will remark on his eccentricism and provocative, no doubt facetious, commentary.

A handful of us hang around late into the night, feigning to leave only to continue our discussions outside the restaurant, slowly making our way to the metro. We talk some more, before finally descending into the bowels of Brussels. 

I receive a number of compliments on the calibre of friends I’ve managed to assemble over the months, in spite of the many challenges that the pandemic and human frailty have thrown up. It’s mad to think I’ve known these folks for a year at the most; some for a far shorter period.

Sis often reassured me it would work itself out; that we can be blessed with meaningful relationships in the blink of an eye. I am truly grateful and proud of the dynamic and multicultural community of which, by God’s grace, I am becoming part.

Elsewhere, I’ve been availing myself of the explosion of events on the Internations expat site. There are picnics, lunches, dinners and a five euro soirée with little to show for even that nominal sum. At the end of the evening, I try and tag along with auntie Carol and her crew of older ravers when they beg off to find somewhere to dance. Alas, the torrential rain that night literally puts a dampener on our plans.

I attend a Middle Eastern dinner in Antwerp organised by one of Carol's besties, Rob; my former frenemy and now just plain old nemesis. I have purposefully been avoiding the numerous activities he’s organised, even when he sends me direct invitations (something to which he'd never admit). However, I figure the odd group meal wouldn't hurt. It’s possible we’ll hardly have the chance to speak.

Still, I feel a nervous agitation, as is now normal whenever I have to interact with Rob. 

He is scandalously late to his own event. Annoyed, I make stilted conversation with the other (unknown) guests waiting at Gare Central, in between sending sanctimonious texts to Rob about disorganisation. We miss a couple of trains waiting for our errant host.

Subsequently, things are cordial enough. That is, until Rob and I have a blazing row towards the end of the evening triggered by another instance of his flakiness and cavalier attitude about other people’s time.

 I’m apologetic to the other guests on leaving. I hear a burst of laughter as I exit to catch the train with another attendee. I look down to see my treacherous belt has loosened. 

My mind is preoccupied with how this man-child always manages to get under my skin.

By some miracle my travel companion wants to remain in touch. We part ways at Gare Centrale. There, I bump into a sullen Rob and another guest from the dinner. It’s an awkward metro ride back, all the more so that the nemesis has parked his rented car in my neck of the woods for some reason. I’m voluble with his friend, a highly intelligent polyglot with apparent Aspergers. We’ve also had heated discussions in the past.

A few weeks later, I pop round to Rob’s office to pass on an article that might be of interest. It's a pretext for diplomacy. 

I hate that I lost control. 

Friendship is unrealistic but we can at least be on civil terms. 

It’s meant to be a quick stop over. I have other lunchtime plans. Before I know it, I’m sucked into another futile, revisionist conversation. Rob dissembles or self-contradicts when he believes it’s convenient. Failing that, he flat-out lies. There is an uncharacteristic moment of self-awareness on his part that’s promptly overridden by more bad faith. I am constantly surprised by my capacity to expect more from Rob than has ever been justified.

This impromptu meeting was motivated by a desire to live up to my Christian ideals. Instead, it’s a reminder that interacting with Rob is like trying to negotiate an emotional black hole. It sucks in everything around it and emits no light. I need to recognise my limits. Some people should be kept at a safe, City-wide distance.

Thankfully, there are more auspicious encounters. A week before our non-reconciliation I bump into one of Rob’s merry band of mulattos, Dénis. It's almost a year to the first and only time we met.  I recall his overall slickness and acerbic wit; entertaining for one night but would probably turn deadly in the long term. I imagine he'd be the kind of man always between girlfriends or ex-wives; past and future. On this occasion, with his adolescent daughter in tow, Dénis is on his best behaviour.

He explains he'll be relocating to Eastern Europe for work. By some bizarre social compulsion, I suggest we exchange numbers. As if we'll ever see each other again. 

I’m nonetheless glad our paths cross before Dénis' departure. I’d wondered what became of him.

There are more farewells as a couple of the younger sisters at church also relocate. One is going back to the UK before returning to mainland Europe to begin a placement in Geneva. The other, a former au pair, returns to South Africa, after being bullied by her mercurial boss. She has handled it with such grace and cheer, it’s hard to believe the stress she’s been under when she finally tells all.

It's generally been a great time for Christian fellowship. There are various dinners organised chez Dorian; a church sister from Guam. She also graced my 40th birthday guestlist and is one of the most generous individuals I’ve ever known. 

One Sunday after church I am invited to lunch at Karin and Felix’. This allows me to finally ingratiate myself with their kids. Result.

I am treated to some delicious homecooking over at my colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia’s house with their (now) multi-lingual brood. The couple are also both present at my 40^th dinner party. 

It’s now a running joke that Sylvia has appropriated me, with no objections on my part. We share a lot of cultural and political interests. She’s a thoughtful and effusive communicator. During supper at their house, I demand to know how her and Steve met. The two gladly regale me of the epic tale, with much predictable eye-rolling and interruption from the kids. Meanwhile, their obscenely fat feline, Gino lumbers around nonchalantly. Apparently, he was even heavier when they adopted him.

One mid-week evening I attend a multilingual social where I debate with a Frenchman over the existence of structural racism, or more specifically, white supremacy. Refusing to acknowledge the racial legacy of French colonialism, he whitesplains away discrimination as purely class-based, insisting that the concept of racism is an American import. Besides. Africans are super-racist to each other, he avers.

At the same venue a few nights later, after a solitary and vertiginous turn on the summer Ferris wheel in Louise, I show up for a DJ set. 

It’s a dead Saturday night, save for staff and a few stragglers. A girl with Jade-coloured hair whoops and dances madly to monotonous Trap. A crazy Caucasian pretends to fall off a stool for my benefit. He's inexplicably wasted when his entourage are clearly not. He moves to a corner to stare conspicuously at me then approaches to apologise for an unknown reason. 

When against my better judgment I ask why, that's the opening he's been looking for. He brags about being the best rapper in Brussels (or is it Belgium?), proceeding to show off his skills, track after indistinguishable track. I sip my everlasting Schweppes in bemused embarrassment until a waitress comes to my rescue and shoos him away. This story tickles everyone I tell.

I quit the establishment when it fails to become sufficiently lit. En route home, I pause at the foot of the Palais de Justice for some far better free entertainment courtesy of a multicultural funk band. They cover everything from Bobby Caldwell to James Brown, via Louis Armstrong. The lyrics are often fluffed but no-one apart from me appears to notice.

Heading to Parc station, a diminutive young man chases after me. I stop, wondering if he needs change. Instead he launches into some well-rehearsed, if charmingly delivered poetic chat-up lines. I don’t swallow the bait, and his request for a hug is declined. But I’ll take the compliment. It’s been one of those nights.

In early September, my pandemic-enforced theatrical hiatus ends with a whimper rather than a bang. I book tickets for an underwhelming piece supposedly based on the life of  late Hip-Hop icon, Tupac Shakur and Tupac Amaru; the Inca warrior after whom he was named. 2021 marks the 25^th anniversary of Shakur's death. The play is a multilingual, culturally-confused mess that’s nowhere as clever as it’s trying to be. It spreads itself too thin and badly so, becoming an unintentional parody of experimental theatre. The main subjects eventually become incidental to the chaos. 

There are better ways to spend 20€...