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.