Expanding Horizons: Part 1

 

I’ve been approaching autumn with a level of apprehension. Although not expecting another soul-sapping lockdown order from the Belgian authorities, I do anticipate some light restrictions. Brussels has had a high-level of vaccine hesitancy and the infection rates have been worrying. Whilst other regions are enjoying greater freedoms, the Brussels’ authorities are applying more caution. Yet not as much as I’d envisage. Nightclubs re-open in early October. Proof of vaccination isn't required until the middle of the month, even if some venues use their discretion to enforce this in advance.

Cynthia invites me to a literary event late September, situated in thriving Place Flagey. Renzo, the third element of our cultured trio, has another engagement so it’s just us girls. The reading takes place during a national strike. Earlier that day I attend my first solidarity demo in Belgium, alongside members of my union and other comrades. I’m surprised by the turnout. I expect a small gathering of the faithful not the hundreds, maybe thousands, that assemble to protest stagnating wages.

Most public transport is not running, as drivers stand in solidarity with their comrades. There’s a limited service that allows me to get to work and, in theory, to the event in Flagey. Cynthia and I live in the same neighbourhood. She is hesitating between driving down herself (good) or an Uber (monopoly platform with exploitative tendencies = bad). Although I’d appreciate a lift back, it doesn’t occur to me to ask for one to the venue. I underestimate how sporadic the bus service will be that evening. A couple of wrong decisions has me showing up to Flagey three-quarters of an hour later than the advertised time.

I still catch a good chunk of the event. A Scottish and a French writer discuss growing up gay in working-class communities and read from their latest work. It’s a stimulating conversation, even if the discourse around class seems to be grounded in a more static, 20^th Century understanding.

Cynthia and I reunite after the interview in the theatre lobby. I’m not that surprised to discover she's already made new friends; two young women who are also attending on their own. Numbers are exchanged before Cynthia and I head to find where she parked her expensive four-by-four, bought as an apology gift by an abusive ex. The Friday night madness is in full swing; notably too many men turning the streets of Brussels into a public toilet. I’ve seen a disturbing amount of that living here, day and night. We both wonder out loud why men can’t exercise the same control over their bladder as women generally do. Or whether the Bruxellois are afflicted by a urinary infection.

Cynthia pulls up outside my building. We spend an hour swapping notes on our various mis-adventures with the male species in Brussels. If she’s more experienced than me, it hasn’t been any easier for her. We come to similar conclusions around the levels of co-dependency in the City, encouraging each other not to get swept up in that game.

That Sunday I have the pleasure of being accompanied by Renzo to church. It’ll be his first experience in a Protestant assembly. So conscientious am I to break my occasional tardiness, I arrive well in advance of our meet-up time. Just as I look for a way to while away the wait, I spot Renzo outside the Metro, raring to go. He attributes my early arrival to the Lord.

 It’s reassuring that he’s made it. The week has been very hard on his morale.

Lorenzo approaches this unchartered territory with an open-mind and a gamely attitude. He endeavours to negotiate the worship music with his baritone. The repertoire would be unfamiliar to most of those outside of the contemporary charismatic movement. 

He’s attentive during the service. Perhaps more naturally introverted, Renzo is nonetheless cordial and conversational as I introduce him to some of the church family -including the senior pastors. He comments on the sense of community. I’m relieved that he hasn’t found the experience alienating.

After service, we have a lunch date with Brenda. The previous weekend, I join my lovely Austrian friend and some of her work and former-uni chums, to help her move into her shiny new home. Brenda makes the masochistic decision (IMHO) to furnish everything from scratch with Ikea goods. Over that weekend, friends will take informal shifts to aid the unpacking and set-up. I stick around a little to help with the sofa and some chairs.  The fellows stand around talking politics whilst us girls do most of the heavy-lifting. There's a lot of buzz around the new ABBA project. 

By the time Renzo and I come round for lunch the following weekend, Brenda’s abode looks almost show-room perfect, despite her insistance to the contrary.

Germans’ messy is most people’s perfection, I tease.

Lorenzo is a plant-based diet veteran, going veggie long before it was du jour. Brenda prepares accordingly, stocking up on vegan options down to the butter. She’s a most accommodating hostess. Renzo is intrigued by her year spent in Naples after secondary school, where she was linguistically immersed enough to emerge fluent in Italian, give or take a few years of regular practice. The discussion is expansive and unforced. Renzo is at ease. He’ll later remark what a solid and well-adjusted individual Brenda is.