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