Autumn in Porto

 

(Courtesy of Kyero.com)

Barely returned from my first trip to the UK post-2019, I’m off again down South for a few days of sun. Blame it on the generous amount of public holidays in this corner of Europe. You can really clean up in May and November.

The commemoration of the World War Armistice falls in the middle of the week this year. I take some time off either side of the holiday. 

Way back in the deepest darkest moments of the second lockdown, Brussels’ Internations Travel Group posted plans for an autumnal break in Portugal’s second city. I’ve heard only good things about Porto. Maybe too much. I don’t realise how high my expectations have been set until I arrive.

As is my practice when I have a flight that leaves before the early afternoon, I camp out at the airport all night to avoid any last minute hitches. I pay the price in a good night’s sleep but make up for it in peace of mind. Ironically, in the end, my flight is delayed by half an hour. 

On the plane, sleep catches up with me. The arm of the male passenger to my left brushes past me too often for comfort but it’s hard to prove malintent.

Flying into Porto, it’s sunny and the air is clear. It doesn’t take long to collect my small check-in luggage. I should be making up for lost time by rushing to my lodgings. Instead, I get caught up in a long conversation by text with my friend Izzi about ethnic nomenclature.

At the airport metro station, a peremptory older South African male curses and grumbles at the seemingly indecipherable ticket machine. Standing by, his timid significant other mutters banal suggestions. He then turns to me with the same sense of entitlement. I remind him that a ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ goes a long way. He dismisses me with a wave and a hollow ‘thanks very much’. He probably misses the good old days of Apartheid.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time I reach the stop closest to my accommodation, Casa da Música; named for the concert hall in the vicinity. Next to one of the exits is a homeless man under a mountain of layers, despite the clement – if a little fresh weather. The level of accommodation insecurity in major cities across Europe is depressing. Even in a country like Portugal, with a socialist government, they haven’t yet managed to stamp out this socio-economic blight.

(courtesy of localporto.com)

Despite my printed instructions, it still takes me a while to find my bearings. Asking for directions does provide me with an opportunity to start practising my Portuguese. My spoken level is, at best, lower-intermediate but having some of the language allows for a degree of autonomy. I eventually find my way to the digs. My guesthouse is situated in what the French would call a quartier populaire not far from the city centre.

The shops and restaurants aren't as glamorous as those in the touristic areas and it’s less clean. The guesthouse, on the other hand, is flawless. I couldn’t ask for a more pleasant accommodation. The house-proud property manager, Christina, runs a tight ship. There are special coverings for outdoor shoes and all remote controls – be it for the AC or TV – are embossed with clingfilm. As a host, however, she is not at all anal. Quite the opposite. Warm and welcoming, she patiently encourages my attempts to speak Portuguese. After she shows me to my splendid room and gives me some tourist tips, it remains for me to shower and change for an afternoon of exploring my immediate surroundings. I try and stay fed with various, unexciting pastry-based snacks I grab on the way. At least Portugal remains as inexpensive as I recall from my late 2000s visit to Lisbon with mum and sis.

Using some of the information Christina has shared, I take a twilight stroll near to the Casa da Música itself. I’m drawn to the tall cylinder edifice in the centre of the closest park. From a distance, I struggle to identify the sinister looking structure at the top of the plinth. On closer inspection, I make out an eagle subdued under the claws of a menacingly triumphant lion. It’s some kind of war memorial, judging by the other imagery at the base, but there's no inscription explaining that particular interspecies depiction. I later learn that this Rotunda da Boavista is a paean to colonialism (which the tourist website celebrates without irony) and that the crushed eagle supposedly represents the French during the Peninsula War with the Portuguese and British allies.

Although Christina reassures me the neighbourhood is safe, I don’t plan to stay out late. Not seeing any viable options for eateries, I stop off at a huge, well-stocked Lidl (next best to the UK) for a makeshift dinner. It'll be consumed in the cosy guesthouse lounge, watching The Late Show with Jimmy Fallon and Portuguese-dubbed cartoons. Before then, I do some short metro hopping, to see if I can get a feel for the city.

The next morning, I take advantage of Christina's sturdy Continental breakfast with the intention that it keeps me going until evening. During the meal, I have another opportunity to practise Portuguese with a couple of amiable Brazilians about to check out.

I’ve booked myself on a donations-based ‘free’ walking tour through central Porto. The guide is a typically-talented, multilingual Lusophone with an archaeological background called Adriano. He’s fiercely proud of his Porto roots, taking every opportunity to remind us. He frequently refers to the ongoing feud with Lisboans, only partly in jest. Porto natives are open and friendly, insists Adriano. They’d welcome anyone into the clan. Just don't p**s them off, or you’ve made an enemy for life, he warns.

The leisurely pace and breaks distract from the two and half hour running time. The tour takes in the centuries-long Portuguese/UK alliance, the (in)famous Livraria Lello said to be the ‘most beautiful bookshop in the world’ and connected to the Harry Potter novels (as if I care), ecclesiastical history and architecture and much more besides. The country itself is said to derive its name from Portus Cale, the Roman appellation for an ancient town once based in the region of modern Porto.

The weather is propitious. We stop off at various vantage points to have a good view of the City. And yet I’m still awaiting the ‘wow’ factor. Porto is attractive enough, like any number of European cities but I haven’t yet been as captivated as expected. I doubt it took me this long to fall in love with Lisbon.

The tour ends not far from where I am due to meet Internations’ host, Nathan and whomever else made good on signing up for the excursion.

En route I pass by another Porto landmark, the São Bento train station; somewhere Adriano refused to show us because it’s being renovated; like much of the City during my visit. 

I’m accompanied by a Filipino-American whom I’ve befriended on the tour. Whilst admiring the customary Azul-tile based frescas in the station, we somehow lose each other. 

Before heading to meet Nathan and others, I pass by a mobile confectioners to buy some treats for acquaintances. If I suspect the vendor of trying to flirt, he dispenses of any ambiguity by informing me, apropos of nothing, that he likes black women. That’s typical of Portuguese men I say, with some exasperation (not that I get much love from Porto compared to the Capital). I could do without being fetishised by an old geezer.

After the vendor makes a meal of handing me my change, I disappear to the Ladies. 

Meanwhile, I am determined to practise my Portuguese, mistakes and all, whilst still struggling to understand the European variation of the accent. Sometimes, I pleasantly surprise myself with how much I know, can make myself understood and -more or less- understand. Lusophones are on balance far more accepting of my tentative efforts than Francophones.  They’re willing to overlook imperfections and acknowledge the good intent. This helps build my confidence. To those less familiar with Portuguese, my level might sound more impressive than it is. I can attribute my decent pronunciation to years of singing with a Brazilian group.

The Internations posse are a baker’s dozen-strong. Most of only just arrived that afternoon. Nathan is the closest to my age and I hardly know anyone else. We stop off for some mid-afternoon refreshments, giving us a chance to become better acquainted. I am my usually moody self but relax as the hours roll by. I strike a particular affinity with an Hungarian called Donna. She’s generous with her time and resources, treating me to local Porto fish and cheese delicacy Bacalhau.

São Bento train station

Nathan has a full itinerary that might not be realistic. The main aim that afternoon is to catch the sunset at some of the best-known spots, starting with the Igreja e Torre da Irmandade dos Clérigos (The Church and Tower of the Clergy Brotherhood). All visitors benefit from a half-price reduction because, you guessed it, part of the tower is under (re)construction. For a bargain, we can wander around the church, museum and indeed see the sunset from as close to the top of the tower as the works will allow.

The rest of twilight is spent crossing the landmark Dom Luis I bridge. Way down at the bottom, I can hear someone murdering Bob Marley’s Is this Love? 

This musical mishap doesn’t detract from my enjoyment of the crepuscule vista. The flame-coloured sky complements the autumnal leaves just about hanging on to the trees marking the skyline. I’m finally beginning to appreciate the charms of Porto. At the other side of the bridge a woman sells local accessories for a steal. University students wander around in the distinctive white shirt, black tie and flowing black capes that are supposed to have inspired the Hogwarts’ uniform.

I part company with the group, having the intention of re-joining them later for dinner. The evening runs away with me. I end up eating a satisfying fish supper solo near the Trindade district.

For my penultimate day, I have arranged to see Porto from a different angle, via a Boat tour of the city’s six most significant bridges. My attempts to research the route to the departure point are in vain. In spite of my instructions, directions from locals and a couple of Brit tourists (themselves none the wiser), I end up on the wrong side of the Port and miss the departure. All's well that ends well. The view of the Riviera is gorgeous under the noon sun and the boat company are very flexible.

 A multilingual pre-recorded guide gives brief overviews of the record-breaking bridges and their surroundings. Dom Luis I was built by Belgian Téophile Seyrig, student of Gustav Eiffel, whilst the Maria Pia bridge was constructed by the civil engineering maestro himself, with all the hallmarks of his intricate wrought-iron designs. Other idiosyncrasies of Porto’s delightful bay area come alive. The perfect place to sit and write after the tour.

As I put my thoughts to paper, I catch sight of Donna with a few other members of the Bakers’ Dozen. They’re temporarily separated from the rest.

Meanwhile, a shirtless tanned fellow in flowing green and gold satin trousers spends an hour plus setting up his busking spot. Judging from his accent, he’s from Portugal’s largest former colony. I check just to be sure. Carioca? No, he says, Recife.

Mr Eccentric resembles an orange-hued Nik Kershaw and has a distinctive hollowed-out guitar that reminds me of Prince. He runs to and fro, grabbing a cigarette here; a bottle of whisky there. Donna claims to have noticed him in, ahem, an aroused state earlier whilst pacing the bay.

If the spirits are there to give him Dutch courage, it eventually does the trick (although the tremoring of his hands suggest that sadly, he might be over-reliant). He cocks his hip to one side like a seasoned rock star and plays guitar covers of Chico Barque and Caetano Veloso like a dream. A good thing too, since he has to compete with the numerous buskers in the vicinity, including Mr Butchering-Bob-Marley-Songs. With his snazzy guitar, the topless guitarist mimics shooting a machine gun in his rival’s direction. He otherwise has his passers-by in thrall. Donna shushes me whilst she films him, which I don’t appreciate. During the final strains of one performance, a drowning dog – no, I’m not joking- momentarily steals his thunder.

Nathan and the rest of the Internations crew eventually join us. I’ve spent more time at the bay than planned. I want to take a stroll at sunset around the Foz do Douro; an idea that coincided with Nathan’s itinerary until he changed his mind. I agree to meet up with them again for dinner.

Hopes for a siesta disappear as the day wears on and I still have one more sight on my checklist. The walk back to town is scenic, if longer than I anticipate. On the way, I pick up some more locally-produced accessories for future gifts.

After a quick, ill-advised stop off at the guesthouse, I make it to the beach at Foz do Douro just in time for sunset. Cleo Sol’s late summer release, Mother is suitably gorgeous and melancholy whilst I watch the pink and gold streaks fade into the horizon. The sea is choppy. I am conscious of keeping my balance as I venture in for a paddle. 

I have an early afternoon flight to catch in the morrow. With only three days in town, rest is a luxury I couldn’t afford if I wanted to become merely a little acquainted with the City. I’ve barely had a moment to catch my breath. I still prefer the ambiance and aesthetic of Portugal’s Capital; at least, the Lisbon of my memory. I nevertheless can understand why Porto enchants so many of its visitors.

After a short stroll around Douro, I auspiciously catch a direct bus to my accommodation, only to be delayed by traffic jams for half an hour. I have enough time to meet the Internations crew for dinner, albeit later than hoped and getting lost along the way. Only about half of the Bakers’ Dozen are in attendance, others already feeling the fatigue. The food is oversold, overpriced and underwhelming but it gives me a chance to say goodbye to the group. I sneak in a crepe and red velvet ice cream on the way back to the guesthouse.

The morning of my flight back to Brussels, I'm exhausted and deeply regretting the absence of rest over the past few days.

Christina has prepared another generous Continental breakfast. Her kindness and hospitality has made this one of my best Airbnb experiences. Thus, the farewell at the end of our fleeting interaction is tinged with a particular sadness.

Soundtrack: Mother by Cleo Sol.

The Home Strait: Finally Off the Ground

 

It’s fair to say my latest UK excursion has had its share of hitches. By day two I’m having to hunt for new accommodation. I find a new listing on Airbnb by a male host. I’d usually be wary of both factors. However, the pictures look decent, he apparently comes certified and the price is a steal; especially with the discretionary voucher I wrangled out of Airbnb. In my haste, I forget to check if it comes with Wi-Fi; a lesson I learned the hard way from past experience.

The host, Daniel's initial communication is not good. My request has been automatically accepted. He’s so slow to respond, I wonder if he’s even aware that he has a guest coming round. I plan to check-in after a few appointments and dinner with mum. I spend the afternoon and evening fretting if there’ll be anyone at the accommodation when I show up.

Daniel takes his time to answer the door and I can’t see any lights on inside. Very nervous, I knock a second time. He emerges, looking puzzled as he lets me in. I’m running late. He’s just been on the phone with Airbnb to enquire what happens if the guest doesn’t arrive.

He shows me to my room. It’s spacious with a couple of skylights and in good nick. The bathroom is less pristine but at least looks as if it’s cleaned on a fairly regular basis. By contrast, the kitchen is in a state. There’s moulding bread everywhere and stains all over the fridge. The following day I send a polite text requesting Daniel cleans up or I’ll have to notify the company. By the time I come home that evening, the rotting bread is gone and the room is in a more salubrious condition. As for the missing Wi-Fi, I pay BT for a few frustrating days of their temperamental hotspot service.

Outdoors, autumn is well underway in London compared to Brussels. I have to mentally adjust to not always alternating between French and English. Pardon springs to my lips more readily than excuse-me these days. I note with exasperation how lax the public are about mask-wearing, even where required (i.e. on public transport). With the ever imprudent Tory government leaving it to people’s discretion, it’s everyone for themselves and God for us all.

I also notice, to my embarrassment, that I’m having to remind myself of travel routes I used to know instinctively. What a difference two years make.

There are some more positive observations. I see  greater diversity in ad campaigns than I would in Europe or I recall before in the UK.

This trip gives me an opportunity to deal with some of the life admin that seems too laborious on the other side of the Channel; eye tests and dental check-ups, for instance. I stock up on treats that are either not available or exorbitantly priced in Belgium. I am tempted to do the same with fruit, if only it would last. It's all I can do not to weep at the price of berries or mangoes or grapes that are a fraction of the Continental price.  It’s not just the edibles that are a damn sight cheaper. I cautiously boost my supply of household goods, bearing in mind I have to carry it all back. My standard of living might be better overall living in mainland Europe where accommodation and travel costs are concerned. I spend far more on commuting during my eight-day London stay for example, than I would in a whole month in either Brussels or Strasbourg. There’s nevertheless a definite price gulf between the UK and the Continent when it comes to everyday items.

In between the initial mayhem of my visit, I manage to squeeze in a few catch-ups and appointments. I discuss Nigerian politics with my Yoruba hairdresser. Later that evening I meet auntie J, who, as I often assert, is the poster girl for single life. When she’s not travelling (pre-COVID) she has a new, exciting project on the boil. This time it’s short films and a semi-autobiographical book trilogy.

Once I’m settled into my new accommodation my meet-ups can start in earnest, with several on a trot. I'm aware that I can’t see everyone on this trip and have tried to be strategic. There are some encounters I'm also studiously avoiding for my mental well-being. My visits to mum are a constant. I’m at hers for dinner every other- if not every -evening. Even when we bicker over my coming round 'late' and she worries about me returning to the accommodation at an advanced hour. Whatever happens, she’s a mainstay.

With friends, there are the usual postponements, reschedules and cancellations. I go with the flow as much as my control-freak instincts permit. This flexibility also allows me to reach out to those with more fluid timetables.

I expect in-depth discussions with all about my latest highs and lows in Brussels but it’s not that predictable. A part of me is a little disappointed. On the other hand, as much as I like sharing details of my life with loved ones, it’s also a relief to speak about other things. There’s so much ground to cover in any case, the idea of where to start can be daunting. Almost everyone comes to know about my shambolic journey into Blighty and the volatile Kiki. If there’s an opportunity to organically discuss my current workplace drama, I don’t hesitate to go into it chapter and verse. Other moments, I hardly speak about myself at all. A couple of friends recount the latest about their contentious divorces; one of the sad, contemporary indicators of reaching a particular point in adulthood. My friend, Jen, introduces me to baby number two, Eliot; named after George and Thomas Stearns. 

King's Place, King's Cross London
(londontown.com)

Another friend, David takes me to an exhibition featuring work by one of his acquaintances and, as is our habit, we spend the afternoon conversing about art, culture and politics. We both happen to have another friend in common, Isabella. Ours is a tumultuous relationship of well over 15 years. We've been in and out of contact for a decade. She's more like an ex I couldn’t get over. My 2021 UK trip will be the first time we meet in the flesh for 10 years. She’s recovering at her family’s home after prolonged illness. If physically she’s been through the mill, her mind is as sharp as ever. Our talking points are incongruous but flowing, as they are at their best. It’s hard to tear away for my next rendez-vous, with a newer acquaintance, pleased nevertheless to have met up with Izzi.

I wish to prioritise some of my most recent friendships. The pandemic has precluded the offline interactions that would have helped forge bonds in a traditional way. Yet, the virtual format has its benefits. Several of my catch-ups are with folk I’ve befriended online during the past year and a half. People like Faith and Mona, from the Morphē Christian Arts collective, whom I meet in King’s Place for a mid-week offline reunion. I implore Mona, the former bassist of a once successful Brit-Pop band, to share her incredible journey from sex, drugs and rock & roll to Jesus. She’s still rock-and-rolling, just with a different, healthier motivation.

The following day, at the same venue, I meet Jack- a political satirist to whom I've drawn close of late. He’s recovering from a severe bout of depression. He’s also nursing a mild hangover after an otherwise modest night out with a friend. I feel a twinge of the maternal, although there’s only a few years age difference. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights; fragility in his baby blues. He’s congenial but not as chipper as our previous video calls. I feel especially appreciative of him making the time and let him know.

My chat with Jack overlaps with a visit from Taylor, another Morphē alumnus with whom I have bonded over the months. We discuss the nomenclature politics around creative media. Later that evening there’s more thoughtful reflections of a socio-political nature with my good mate, Anton. A dancer by vocation, I’ve watched him evolve over the years into a community leader. He has ample patience and goodwill to listen and understand the perspective of those with whom he might not agree.  I covet these qualities in Anton and have much to learn from his approach. 

As my holiday draws to a close, my interactions ever more enriching and mentally invigorating, I recognise how privileged - if not spoiled – I am to be surrounded by so many great minds. Whether it’s my 26-year-old, trainee teacher friend Samuel; one of the brightest and most informed individuals I know. Or Ré, a multi-lingual graduate, with an expansive musical vision yet still applying himself with admirable diligence to his day job as a cinema manager. Or my mentor, Vinoth Ramachandra, whose latest UK visit providentially correlates with mine. He treats me to Italian in Soho whilst we discuss the political corruption across the globe, discriminatory migration policies, and the ethics of AI. All this stimulating discourse keeps me on my intellectual toes. It can also make me forget -and be less tolerant of the fact - that not everyone has the time and/or inclination to contemplate the Big Questions.

Speaking of which, my UK homecoming coincides with COP 26 in Glasgow. En route to meet with uncle Vinoth, I stop by a mass demo organised around the Bank of England. With so little opportunity to participate in any direct action on British soil lately, I couldn’t pass it up. After lunch with Vinoth on my way to meet Portia, another Morphē lovely, I’ll come across an even bigger gathering in Trafalgar Sq. for a more artistic demonstration.

Portia is a triple-threat actress/singer/dancer whom I also met through Morphē. We became especially close during the second lockdown. She’s of Irish-Italian descent from South Carolina and now rooted in the UK. Although many ways still a Southern girl at heart, she defies many of the bible belt stereotypes. We’ve been trying to negotiate COVID-travel relations for her to come and visit Brussels for months but it’s yet to work out. We content ourselves with hours of thematically multi-dimensional chat.

Friends and family comment on how brief my stay is. Considering how long I’ve been away, a week at first seems like solid quality of time. And yet when the penultimate day of my trip rolls around, it feels like I’m only getting started. It’s never gone so fast.

At the end, what should have been an obvious observation comes into focus. It’s my new Brussels’ community with whom I now share the minutiae of my life. There are anecdotes I looked forward to recounting to my more established UK base but for which there isn’t time. Unless I force the issue. I have to speak in broad strokes or major events, if I talk about my news at all. Again, it can be a refreshing change not to have to. It nonetheless signifies a shifting dynamic, one of which I wasn’t so aware living in Strasbourg. Perhaps because, back then, there wasn’t a pandemic to interrupt my cross-Channel travel.

Soundtrack: Volume One by Jam & Lewis feat. Various Artists + Let It Die by Feist.

The Home Strait: No, I Mean Really, You Couldn't Make It Up

 

After the unexpected palaver of my outbound journey to the UK, I finally arrive at Hither Green station hoping to make my way to the Airbnb. I mistakenly choose an alternative route and am lost. I ring Kiki, my host, who agrees to meet me. I am not sure if she is driving or walking. I hope it’s the former. She shows up with her son and two dogs by foot, three quarters of an hour after I’ve been waiting in the cold and dark.

On arrival, the accommodation falls short of expectations to say the least. The few glowing reviews and limited pictures are misleading. The carpet and furniture is old and encrusted with dirt (making Kiki's request to remove shoes on entry rather pointless). The living room and kitchen are in a state of disarray. Dishes are stacked high and remnants of raw fish and stale bread are discarded on the counter. The sink in the toilet outside my room doesn’t work, with only a complicated shower head system. Kiki is not keen on me using it much, on account of it potentially flooding the facilities. The main bathroom is uninviting and she hasn’t bothered to empty the almost-full bin.

As well as two dogs Kiki has a couple of cats, one of which lounges imperiously on my bed and only responding when she's shooed away by her owner. The idea of sitting, let alone cooking or eating anywhere in the flat is unappealing. Unfortunately, already having experienced enough chaos journeying to London, it doesn't occur to me to look for somewhere new. Plus, Kiki has been kind and accommodating so far.

I am determined to pass by to see mum on my first night. It’s been two years, after all. As much as I loathe to step out without freshening up, I don’t have time to shower or change if I want to be back at a decent hour. Kiki has a strange rule about switching off the Wi-Fi from 11pm, claiming it gives her a headache. I find it odd but not wholly implausible (although I probably should).

It's an inconvenient rule. Kiki says guests usually just use their data. I explain I don’t have a smartphone. She seems to be sympathetic. She didn’t have a mobile of any kind until recently.

Meanwhile, mum has all sorts of long-awaited and unanticipated treats waiting for me. So many, that there’s no chance of me taking it all back to Brussels in one sitting. As has been the case since I emigrated, mum is in a spoiling mood, quite happy for me to eat her out of house and home if I so wish. I don’t and have to stop her from over-indulging me.

My diary the next day is full. I have my rescheduled lateral flow test first thing. If all goes well, I can head to church as planned. The customer service at the test centre is fantastic. I’m not used to such friendliness in the Big Choke. I have a good whinge to the young lady doing my swab about the lack of mask-wearing in the city; even on public transport where it’s supposed to be a requirement. To my horror, I'll see unmasked citizens - mostly men- coughing and not so much as covering their mouths. At the time, daily infection rates are well over 40,000. She concurs that a cloth over the face is no great sacrifice to protect others and oneself.

To my great relief, the clinic sends me a message giving me the all clear within half an hour. I kill some time at Waterloo station before heading to church. Too much time. I walk in part-way through the sermon; the latest in a series on Rebuilding the Church, based on the book of Nehemiah. 

I look around for recognisable faces. At first it takes a while to find them. After the service, I slowly but surely reconnect with my UK church family. I never cease to marvel at the time-lapse rate children seem to grow. Kids fixed as toddlers in my mind are almost pre-teens. There’s often a baby or two, I wasn’t previously aware of. 

 I’ve arranged a post-church brunch with some of the fam. A couple drop out last minute owing to pressing commitments but the party gains a couple more. My friend Pete invites along his former student, Whitney – a regular post-church luncher from back in the day-and a couple of others, including Jonas with whom I’m not familiar but who’s hard to miss given his penchant for loud exclamations during the service. I admit to finding them bloomin' distracting. Something of an irony that we’ll be lunching together.

Whitney recommends a café in the vicinity of which I was hitherto ignorant but has an impressively wide-ranging, not to mention tasty, menu. Whitney and I engage in a long and fascinating discussion about Christians navigating and flourishing within the arts. I have more appointments but find it hard to leave. When I do manage to tear myself away, one of the party very kindly offers to pick up the bill.

I breeze by Lidl, forever amazed at how the English iteration of this German company leaves its European analogues in the shade. I drop off my my shopping at Kiki’s. Her son is preparing to go trick-or-treating with a friend. I presume they’ll be up late. As a courtesy, I inform Kiki I’ll be back by 10pm.

After yet another encouraging catch-up and grabbing some takeaway from my favourite chicken shop, I find a grizzly Kiki waiting for me at the accommodation. She’s ready for bed. The internet is already switched off, earlier than the advertised time. I ask if I can still use it. She reluctantly agrees.

Most people have data, she adds uncharitably. I apologise and then regret doing so. I having nothing to be sorry about.

My Sunday night treats don’t taste so good, especially eating in that insalubrious environment. I am reconsidering the wisdom of having done shopping when I can’t envisage cooking in that mess of a kitchen. After eating, I prepare for a shower to avoid the Monday morning school-run bustle. To my surprise Kiki is up again, hovering around in the grubby kitchen. By then she’s done a 180. I start to wonder if there are mental health issues. She complains about me being up late for a second night. I respond calmly that I’m an adult. I’m not staying in her property for free. She continues with something about it being a family home (which she should have considered before renting on Airbnb). More irritated, I point out that the state of the premises doesn’t make it worth the money. She insists on not giving me a refund. Fine. I’ll raise a complaint with Airbnb, I warn.

I would start it immediately if it weren’t for Kiki's 'no internet at night' rule. 

By the morning, she’s beaten me to it. An email notification pops up about a refund; far too low given that I’ve only spent two nights in the property. 

It’s a frantic morning of phone calls to mum as well as Airbnb, querying the refund amount, searching for alternatives and requests from the company for visual evidence of the dodgy conditions. Other appointments are postponed or cancelled. Meanwhile, Kiki harasses me to get out of her house and threatens to charge me one more day if I don’t leave immediately.  I haven’t even had time to find another rental. 

I try to discreetly take pictures, noticing that she must have got wise and tidied a little. I can’t avoid running into her completely. She becomes even more enraged when she sees me taking photos. I refuse to cower and explain exactly why I need them. 

Mum offers to let me dump my stuff in her modest-sized digs until I find an alternative. I call a taxi, whilst Kiki roams around like a she-bear with a massive splinter in her paw. My cab can’t come quickly enough.

The Home Strait: You Couldn’t Make It Up

 

Calais Port

It’s been two years since my foot has stepped on British soil. The last time I was scheduled to visit friends and family I was still living in France. The first March 2020 lockdown began the evening before my departure. Since then, a mix of relocating to Belgium and successive onerous regulations have made it extremely difficult to travel.

Even now, I will still be required to test on entry to the UK, and test twice on my return to Brussels- despite my fully-vaccinated status. This is nevertheless the lesser of evils. Besides, I didn’t want my next UK visit to pass the two year mark.

A return Eurostar ticket proving to be on the dear side, I opt for a Flixbus on the way out and train back. I’ve done the overnight bus to the UK before. In theory, you travel all night and arrive in the UK early in the morning, giving you the whole day either side to go about your business. I’m optimistic enough to schedule my compulsory Lateral Flow Test an hour after arrival. 

It’s all running pretty smoothly until we arrive at Calais in the wee small hours of the morning. Passport control apparatchiks are imperious bureaucrats with shockingly little French. They are high off the petty power conferred on them by a state that, like its Continental counterparts, is preoccupied with hardening its borders. As if everyone entering the country who isn’t wealthy and/or white is a potential threat to security. 

A simple passport check thus becomes a thoroughly demoralising experience. Even those of us with ‘safe’ travel documents (e.g. European, American or Australian nationalities) are treated like cattle to be herded. Whilst lining up for the second repetitive procedure, I witness a French official barking at an African family, whilst the room looks on. I’m appalled at his naked contempt. There is some issue with expired documentation. The official orders the travellers back to his office. 

Outside, it begins to drizzle in earnest whilst we wait for our coach to drive round and collect us. It's taking especially long.  That should arouse my suspicion.

Once back on the bus, I nod off. I think nothing of the fact we haven’t moved for over an hour. My light sleep is interrupted by a Frenchwoman trying to explain, in broken English, that there is an issue with the bus and we won’t be leaving anytime soon. She isn’t impressed with the lack of communication from Flixbus. She attempts to rally us for an impromptu protest. Very French but not appropriate for the occasion, methinks. More details start to trickle in. The drivers are being detained by the authorities for questioning. Up to four undocumented migrants have been found on board, including the family being ordered around by the boorish official and someone allegedly hiding in the toilets. One of the drivers apparently notified the authorities about the latter, perhaps to save his own skin.

Another unsympathetic official with an emperor complex informs us that the drivers’ interrogation could last up to twelve hours. We’re advised to make our way by foot to Calais port HQ and try and board the next ferry as foot passengers. All 70 of us, approx. It’s around 4am CEST. It’s cold and damp. A mere inconvenience compared to whatever the migrant family is trying to flee. But still, it’s troubling. 

No-one wants to take responsibility. A kindlier member of personnel shares that he’s never seen anything like it in nearly 20 years of service. Of course, they’ve had stowaways and halted bus services before. The difference is that the coach company would usually arrange an alternative.

Disgruntled, we trundle to the port waiting room. Some of the group's self-appointed spokespersons try to negotiate a crossing. News travels fast that the ferry company is blocking any more bookings. Eurostar is prohibitively expensive at this stage. For several hours we’re given a range of holding responses and a whole lot of cock-and-bull by the ferry company. 

Some of the port personnel try to make us wait outside in the cold, dark and wet. This nearly kicks off a riot. Some of the French passengers yell. One woman bangs her luggage in furious protest. The officials look shaken and eventually back off.

I befriend a couple of Brits; Felicity, studying in Paris and Safi, a young professional based in Germany. She'd planned to surprise her family over the weekend. 

I also strike up a conversation with a French woman travelling to London for a long weekend, mainly for professional reasons. She has an exhibition in Brixton that, by the time the whole drama is over, she will have missed.

Some weary passengers appear to have made alternative plans. There is no joy from the ferry company. They have prevented us buying tickets en masse and are offering no alternative. We’re still wandering around like vagabonds, waiting for someone to take responsibility for our plight. 

I’m never normally one for hitch-hiking but I figure there is safety in numbers. 

Safi is desperate enough to ask the authorities if we can re-enter the checkpoint to flag down cars. Those of us with French and English take it in turns to translate. For safety reasons staff won’t let us back in. Obvs. We are nonetheless finally addressed by someone cheerful, polite and seemingly able to expedite a solution. They have no choice. By this point we’ve been joined by most of what’s left of the group. The ferry company have advised we apply more pressure on the immigration authorities, who should have the resources to come to a viable resolution.

It’s daybreak. After five or so sleepless hours, we hear that only one of the drivers has now been kept behind by the border police. He has allegedly been apprehended for people smuggling before. The other younger driver (ironically, the shiftier-looking of the two) is supposed to continue the journey. 

The vocal Frenchwomen amongst our motley crew start singing a mangled version of Oh Happy Day. I’m tempted to join in. There are cheers as the bus pulls away.

Alas, the driver claims that he is too tired (even though he hasn’t been driving for hours) and that Flixbus rules dictate there are two on duty. That means at least another four-hour wait. Yes, four hours. By then some passengers have been travelling for close to 24 hours, if not longer.

I’m hoping some of the fighting spirit remains to spook Flixbus into a speedier reaction, but none is forthcoming. Everyone is tired and resigned. A group of younger passengers calmly play cards. I dip in and out of sleep, if I’m not conversing with other passengers. One is another young Brit whom I initially found to be bullish but simmers down as the day progresses. He has been based in Paris for a few years and has a good enough command of French for me to presume he grew up there. I practise my faltering Portuguese with my neighbour; an older woman, living in Lisbon but originally from Guinea-Bissau, whom I previously ignored whilst grumpily trying to get some sleep.

Finally, the replacement driver arrives.  He is an acerbic sort. He goes over toilet etiquette several times: 

Make sure it only rains and doesn’t thunder.

He jokes about selling any left behind belongings or children on Ebay and spouts some sexist crap about wives not being left alone with their husband’s credit cards in expensive in London.

We still have to jump through administrative hoops, including yet another passport control process. There are far fewer travellers and staff than before. To my great consternation, I observe another red-faced border official- English this time-reprimanding a placid looking South Asian man. 

We must still await an on-board inspector to check our vaccine certificates and Passenger Locator Forms.

All this time waiting, we’ve missed several boats. I have had to reschedule my compulsory COVID test twice. I postpone my hair appointment and call my Airbnb hostess, Kiki to inform her of my as yet nebulous ETA. In her North American drawl, she offers expletive-ridden commiserations and remains reassuringly flexible.

By the time we board the boat, I’m exhausted but power on to jot my thoughts down and check for important emails. The crossing itself goes by in a flash, comparatively. Back on the coach, I nod off in between more drafts. The auntie from Guinea-Bissau taps me, telling me to put my laptop away and get some much-needed sleep. I obey.

When I stir again, the sky is dusky and we’re surrounded by streets well-known to me. The bus drives through the South-East London borough where I grew up. We're not too far from my accommodation but there’s no stopping before Victoria coach station.

Four years exactly since relocating to Europe, I feel an incongruent familiarity and disconnect to London. In one sense, I can always resume where I left off. Other moments, the changes-more luxury flats, shops and restaurants, the disappearance of others I expected to see- leave me disorientated.  Sometimes, I wonder if I am only connected to a city as long as I'm living there.

When we finally arrive, almost 10 hours late, there are whoops of joy -once again- from the rowdy Francophones. There is some parting irony from the driver before we descend to collect our baggage. Everyone is eager to make their onward journey, some only having very little time remaining in the Capital. I say farewell to the Guinea-Bissau auntie and others, looking around for Felicity and Safi. They must have already disappeared into the autumn night.

Soundtrack:  Gold: The Remixes by MF Robots

Win Some, Lose Some

 

What a difference a year makes. And ready access to vaccines. If activity hasn’t resumed to pre-pandemic levels, my diary is a damn sight busier than the previous autumn. I keep flashing back to what I was doing this time last year. I shudder at the thought of my first Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) also being my last before the second lockdown. That memorable conversation with Pastor Mike, both fateful and comforting. I think of how the few (mostly, not intentionally) male contacts I made started to act up and/or drop off. 

One of them was Gerry Rose, whom I have seen occasionally at FWM since doors re-opened.

After service one Sunday, he accosts me on the underground. My feelings are ambivalent at best. A bit hostile, to be frank. There’s a conversation we need to have but there never seems to be a good time. It doesn’t help that he barely engages with the church beyond the main Sunday service.

As nonchalantly as he can, not oblivious to my irritation, Gerry asks where I’ve been.

Where have you been? is more like it.

This precedes an hour or so of what is at first, tense if elucidating conversation before becoming just frustrating. Gerry explains he was sick for a number of weeks. Then his phone clapped out and he lost his numbers. He wondered why I hadn’t reached out during time and supposed I had definitively left town. On the other hand, I assumed he’d just reacted with the same whimsy as the majority of men I’ve met in Brussels; acting strange and/or disappearing completely when I promise nothing beyond friendship.

It’s clear that there’s been a misunderstanding based on a series of unfortunate, although not fatal, coincidences. This isn’t enough for Rose. Throughout this impromptu meeting, I have the sense that he holds me responsible for the breakdown of communication. He believes I still have his number. I eventually admit I do not. He asks why I didn’t approach him at church. I explain that I thought he was avoiding me. I’d seen him from a distance numerous times and could only presume he’d also spotted me. Since I believed he’d abandoned ship, shifty behaviour on his part would hardly be a shock, if disappointing. 

Gerry points to one occasion a few weeks back when he reacted to my presence with surprise. I recall being baffled whilst wondering if it were all for show.

Rose claims he looked for me after that service to no avail. I point out, multiple times, we should have had other chances to reconcile. That is, if he hadn’t been such a lone ranger; vanishing after service and never involving himself in the church community outside of a Sunday morning. This observation of his consumer-style attendance at FWM hasn’t endeared him to me. It only adds to the impression of a certain immaturity drawn from our earlier interactions. Back then, I had to overlook it. I didn’t have much choice.

Gerry follows me off the metro. He’s preventing me from getting on with my day. This drawn-out, repetitive epilogue grates me and any constructive element evaporates. Perhaps that’s why when he asks to exchange numbers again and meet up for a drink, I blurt that I’m no longer interested in the latter. There’s an irrational aspect to my reluctance, I’m aware. Gerry’s side of events is credible enough. However, our first encounters awfully resembled that of a man with romantic intentions, although he now denies this. Predictably. Yet I can’t shake that air of suspicion. And whilst our breakdown in communication can be attributed to crossed-wires, at this stage it makes no difference. Rose’ insistence on I-don’t-know-what doesn’t help his case either. It’s a relief to have finally cleared the air and I hope for civil relations going forward. However, when so much conspires against it, maybe it’s a sign that full-on friendship is not meant to be.

That’s not to say I’m not open to meeting new people. I’m just not as desperate as I was a year ago.

One Friday night, I attend one of my first proper indoor gigs in Brussels at the Music Village. A Jazz quintet is paying homage to Nat King Cole-one of the best male vocalists on wax, IMHO. The singer sounds as if he’s listened to Kurt Elling so often, he can’t help but channel everything from his tone to his phrasing (although, when I approach him during the interval, he claims he’s no acolyte). The event has been organised via Internations. Also in attendance is a middle-aged Pole, Lukasz, with a British inflection and enough of an appreciation for Jazz for us to have a pleasant muso-lite discussion. Having relocated for the second time to Belgium after a decade long stint back East, he’s hitting the town hard. Our paths cross again a few weeks later at a French language exchange.

On the way back from the concert, wading my way through the bustling Friday night central BXL crowd, I bump into Lauren, the head of TTUO. It’s a cordial exchange and I thank God for the grace to be...well, gracious. A couple of months to the end of my current contract, management haven’t done the courtesy of telling me where I stand. This is a stark contrast to the efficiency of my previous renewal. At best, it’s negligent, at worst malicious; for reasons that have both a lot and nothing to do with me. I have made enquiries about any potential breach of duty on the part of my employer but being on a fixed-term contract, my rights are lot more limited. My team, including my union rep Demetria, are wonderfully supportive. We’re all disconcerted by the appointment of our new manager, Gina; a woman with a chequered reputation- to say the least- and a penchant- no - a compulsion for micromanagement.

There’s more I could say but I exercise caution. As remote a chance it is that the bosses could read this, you never know.

The situation is highly stressful. It has been a drag on morale that I haven’t felt since the nadir of lockdowns.

À chaque jour suffit sa peine. I have a job for today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

There are always reasons to be grateful. I now have people whom I can call friends; who care about my fate in Brussels.

Back at work, a refreshing two-day course on Active Listening is the first offline training I’ve done in forever and a break from the tense norm. I’m even more pleased to meet the tutor; a Franco-Caribbean woman with luscious natural Afro hair. During the course, I have a chance to speak at length with Cheryl; a young Italian colleague with an elderly English woman’s name and a passing resemblance to a younger Jennifer Aniston. She also has good politics. When I hear she’s actively involved in the Free Palestine struggle, I tell her about a series of related events I plan to attend that weekend; at the unpronounceable Beursschouwburg in the city centre. We make plans to go together that do not materialise because of her hectic schedule.

By chance, this mini-festival is jointly-organised by a fellow I met exactly three years ago at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I didn’t expect to bump into him again.

The first event is a stimulating retrospective on the past 50+ years of Palestinian resistance via campaign posters, by Lucas Catherine; a long time veteran of the movement's Belgian contingent.

During the Q&A, I seem to spark some controversy when I ask a question about the contested use of Zionism, even by Jews on the radical left. I cite the belated David Graeber’s family as an example. Even if I doubt that Zionism can be redeemed as a concept, it’s not my place to ignore the disparate Jewish voices on the issue. I’m nonetheless interrogated to varying degrees; some more easy-going than others.

The second discussion is supposed to link the Palestinian resistance to other anti-colonial struggles by way of a book launch. The speaker, an African-American academic, is a disciple of one Dhoruba Bin Wahad, an obscure member of the Black Panthers, wrongfully imprisoned for almost two decades and with some tenuous link to Afeni Shakur, the mother of Tupac. The speaker appears to take Bin Wahad’s every word as Gospel.

What starts as veiled, vaguely anti-Christian salvos at the Civil Rights movement, transforms into outright barbs. He goes for BLM as well. I pull him up on his over-simplification. His gripe is rather with them being co-opted and sanitised, rather than perhaps the movements themselves. MLK was unpopular with white America in his lifetime and hounded by the FBI, before being assassinated. For crying out loud. Mr Academic goes on the defensive and is positively obnoxious. He qualifies the Civil Rights movement as a “pain in the a*s*” and I detect something that looks a lot like misogynoir in his critique of BLM; an observation I have no qualms vocalising. Sadly, it's a line of thinking with which I'm not unfamiliar.

For someone who himself is so disparaging of elitism, including that within academia, the speaker does a very good impression of the snobbish academic with a fragile ego. I note that apart from one of the other organisers, we’re the only Afrodescendants in the room. The audience looks uncomfortable; not sure what to make of this melanated clash. Others also take issue with some of his framing and certain inconsistencies (such as his admiration for Stokely Carmichael/Kwame Touré, who started out in the youth chapter of the MLK-led movement).

Noting that he would not be genuinely interested in a constructive debate, I head home just before the close.