Seriously,...You Couldn’t Make It Up.

 

In early December, my mother celebrates her 60^th birthday. My sis has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure it’s as special as the occasion warrants. She organises a homage video; approaching mum’s friends, colleagues and of course, family. Sis’ true wish is that one, if not both of us could be there. Even before the emergence of the Omicron variant, Japan’s borders were relatively closed, all the more so now. One day in November, shortly after my return from the UK, sis confronts me. She claims I have been insensitive by deciding to cross the Channel so close to mum’s birthday, but not near enough to celebrate with her.

I acknowledge my error with sincere contrition, apologising to both mum and sis. I then begin scheming - without either of their knowledge - a fly-by-night visit for the church birthday celebration arranged the following Sunday. 

 I plan to arrive by Eurostar and return to Brussels by overnight coach. As much as is possible in advance, I comply with all the COVID-related travel requirements. I even squeeze in my third jab, thanks to Brussels' accelerated booster system. All seems to be tentatively going in favour of the trip. Until the UK announces tougher testing requirements in response to the threat of Omicron.

Now a lateral flow is no longer enough. A more expensive PCR test is required, even if only in town briefly, as I am. Self-isolation is essential until the results are received. At first, I believe my plans are scuppered. I confess all to sis. She initially seems more annoyed that I didn’t speak up earlier. I was thinking it would make it easier not to spill the beans.

I eventually come up with a cunning but legit manoeuvre. Since I need to self-isolate and I don’t have the keys to mum’s place, I re-book my new test for a time that allows me to pass by church, say hello and then head to the centre. I’d then have the rest of the evening with mum before my coach returns. I keep an eagle-eye out for any changes in the interim. When France announces tougher measures for those visiting from outside the EU, the news doesn't register. It’s not relevant to my plans.

My outbound journey is with good old reliable Eurostar. There’s a reason why it’s the most efficient, if not the cheapest, option. I arrive in London without any drama. I decide to hang around St. Pancras for a while. The idea is to sneak up on mum towards the end of the celebrations. Whilst waiting I tune into my Belgian church’s service online. 

Horrified, I observe how many passers-by are unmasked, although recent rule changes have made face coverings mandatory once more. There does seem to be marginally more compliance than my previous visit in autumn. But, still. When an unmasked woman near me coughs without covering her mouth, I am tempted to go vigilante on her. I leave irate video messages for sis on Skype, as if she can do anything about it.

I leisurely make my way to mum’s church. Too leisurely. It's all but over by the time I arrive. Mum's senior pastors are heading out. They give me a warm greeting but have no plans to hang around. I greet some of the now pre-adolescent children who, when I last saw them, were relative tots. I notice a few of mum’s guests, such as family friend Angela, and mum’s sister, Adriana. I commend my aunt on how much weight she’s lost in the two years since I last saw her.

I can’t yet catch the Birthday Girl’s eye. Later mum will explain how strange she thought it that someone in the room sounds like her daughter. The photographer manages to catch the evolution of mum’s facial expression; from confusion, shock, pleasant surprise- ending in us embracing.  Ironic, when so many of those she invited were indisposed, a guest arrives whom she was not expecting. She’s delighted. It’s her real present, she says.

Mum also has a bounty of tangible gifts. I arrive in time to help take down all the bunting, during which I catch Auntie Adriana up on my news. We are so lost in conversation that it’s hard for those left in the room to catch our attention and politely kick us out. My uncle Chris dispenses with all pleasantries. He yells at us to leave, dampening the otherwise good energy.

Mum, Auntie Adriana, Auntie Angela and I continue the discussion near Bethnal Green tube before going our separate ways. I’m running slightly late for my PCR test. Auntie Angela and I are heading in the same direction. I’m perturbed to see that, as a cancer survivor, she still refuses to wear her mask. She’s a vocal COVID-sceptic. Her doctor just about convinced her to be vaccinated. 

My jaw drops when I arrive at Waterloo for my PCR test. It would have made no difference if I made it on time. The queue snakes round towards the Southbank centre; nothing like when I had to come for my LFT in October. To while away the two-hour wait, I make conversation with a friendly couple, freshly arrived from a city-break in Paris. It’s a good thing I am returning to Belgium by coach in the late evening, or I would have no time left to spend with mum. 

It’s dark by the time I rock up to her digs in Sydenham, South-East London. She’s already started opening some of my gifts. I’d hoped to be around to give an explanation. We talk about everything and nothing. I tuck into some of the leftovers from her party. She gives me some birthday cake to take back with other goodies.

I make my way to Victoria Coach Station with time to spare, to my relief. After the previous debacle with Flixbus- who still refuse a full reimbursement for the trouble- I’ve opted for a different company. Unusually, the Eastern European drivers don’t have much English. No great issue. We board the half-empty bus. 

It’s not long before I nod off, only to be awoken for the passport checks at border control. I’m so dazed, I believe we’ve already crossed over to Calais somehow whilst we’re still only in Dover.

As we line up for passport control, news passes down the line that the French authorities are demanding a negative PCR test, in reaction to the rule change the night before. One of my fellow travellers begins to panic, calling a friend to see if it’s true. I ignore her, trying to keep my calm. Alas, she's right. French bureaucracy is as merciless as ever. Our COVID-safe certificates are insufficient, the guards insist. I inform them that I’m awaiting my test results. 

Not good enough.

Is there at least wi-fi for me to check if the email has come through? 

No.

One young man shows them a screenshot of his negative result. It still isn’t sufficient.

We try to point out a flaw in their logic. Some of us are only passing through France to our next destination. We’ll be crossing by ferry and barely touch French soil.

Ils s’en foutent.

Drunk with power, the guards confiscate our passports. They're not returned until the authorities are assured that our coach has left without us. Before they go, I try to explain to the bus driver what’s going on. He doesn’t have enough English and no French.

In the end, a group of 15-20 passengers are dumped at Dover port, with not a care about us. There’s much running around and panic. Some consider renting a hotel room. That’s vetoed at the thought of the expense. Some waste no time jumping into taxis, dividing the substantial fare amongst themselves. It’s the middle of the night and yet cab drivers are suspiciously present with morsels of ‘helpful’ information, that somehow boosts their own business. 

A few of us find our way to Dover Port reception, which is warm and has wi-fi. Another taxi driver materialises, luring away more desperate passengers. I like to be proactive but I don’t want to make a decision under this sort of stress. Returning to London at this hour would serve no purpose. Nothing is open. Besides, I don’t need to procure a test. I’ve already taken one. I just need to wait for my results.

And then there were two. By the time the group has scattered, it’s just me and Franco-Cameroonian, Léonard. He speaks only a little English. In my frazzled, sleep-deprived state, my French is all over the place; much to my consternation. I apologise for the mangling and basic mistakes.

Over the course of the night, whilst looking at alternative routes back to London, he explains he's been visiting his dad and siblings who, by one of many strange coincidences, live a stone’s throw from my old flat in the Lee/Hither Green area. Léo was raised by an extended family member in France with whom he has a complicated relationship.

As for being stranded in Dover, we’re not the only ones in that particular predicament. Others hanging around the Port office have also been kicked off their coaches by officious French officials. One woman suggests Léo and I board the replacement (Flixbus) that is supposed to return them to London. I’m willing to pay for a ticket, if I can find a cash machine. Léo searches for one in vain.

You can just say you’re one of us, the kindly stranger suggests.

I decline. If I’m not asked, I won’t volunteer any information. Neither am I willing to lie if interrogated. It won’t work out well for me in the end, I explain to her and Léo. Relying on me for English, he’s constrained to whatever decisions I make.

My reluctance to be economical with the truth is the impetus for Léo to enquire about my belief system. A Catholic by upbringing, he gave up on organised religion aged 13, confused by all the possible options. He’s turning 30 in January, he confides. Recent dark life events have motivated him to resume his spiritual quest. Ours is his second fateful encounter, Léo claims, in as many days. He had a similar conversation with a Muslim women after missing his original connection from Paris to London.

He’s been exploring Islam and thus is especially keen to debate the Holy Trinity. I don’t think my responses are theologically ground-breaking. Nevertheless for Léo, it appears it’s the first time he’s discussing these themes in depth. I encourage him in his search. God is clearly attentive.

A coach arrives but it’s not the replacement for which we had hoped. The courteous driver breaks the news that it’s unlikely we’d be allowed to board in any case, not being amongst the original passengers.

 Flanked by the famous white cliffs, Léo and I make our way through the eerie Dover streets to the train station. We aim to catch a cheaper half-4am train back to London. We miss it by seconds. Léo generously offers to pay for the next train to the Capital. He still has hopes of catching a morning coach back to France but will need my assistance to navigate the testing system.

We attempt to get some shut-eye on the ride, occasionally woken by ticket inspectors.

Back at Victoria station, we run into some of the fellow travellers who abandoned us at Dover. Peine Perdue. It gave them no advantage. They have passed a fruitless -and noticeably colder- night at the station.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon is spent accompanying Léo through the testing process and re-booking alternative transport. He’s forced to abandon his plans to leave for Paris that morning, given the scarcity of test slots and limited window. I have a lot of tasks on my own To-Do list but I make my peace with the situation. Léo is my mission for now. That’s where the grace is. If I left him to pursue my own agenda, I am certain I wouldn’t get much done. Plus, I’m pleased to be useful.

Traversing London, I notice the City is in full festive mode. It dawns on me it's the first time I've been in the Capital at Christmas time since I relocated to Europe late 2017.

I’m with Léo when his negative test result comes through. Once reassured he’s all set for his return trip by coach, I make my way back to mum’s. I’m dog tired but I have a lot of life admin to sort out.

Fortunately, my own test results come back negative; in time for me to travel the same day. I notify my colleague, Demetria, that I won’t be able to join an online activity that afternoon as planned.

I also request that she speaks to HR to arrange more annual leave to make up for the ‘lost’ day. I need to print out my negative test certificate and find an alternative route back to Belgium. Eurostar tickets are eye-watering at this eleventh hour. I’m seriously considering the free ticket Flixbus has offered for the previous inconvenience. My mother objects strongly. She’d rather help me pay for the train than have me risk another hitch. 

So, it’s decided.

I’m too tired to do any real work that day. I squeeze in a shower. Thankfully, I have had the presence of mind to bring a change of underwear or two.

Albeit a relatively straightforward journey to St. Pancras, I underestimate how long it’ll take. Or simply wishful thinking on my part.

I arrive at the Eurostar terminal with mere minutes to spare. Certain members of staff are only too eager to remind me. 

More optimistically, the personnel do not breathe a word about a negative COVID test. I board the train a few minutes before it’s scheduled to set off. Except it’s held up. The crew haven’t arrived. We remain stationary for half an hour.

On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is nearing the end of a national strike. Owing to the delayed Eurostar, I miss the last direct transport to my part of town. At De Brouckère station, I bump into Giacomo, whom I last saw in the summer, at the ill-fated Afghan dinner in Antwerp organised by mutual acquaintance Rob. We split a cab to Montgomery -Giacomo’s neighbourhood- and I decide to walk the rest of the way. A fool’s errand at that time of night. Giacomo keeps me awkward company part of the way, which is nonetheless appreciated.

I reach home close to midnight. I check-in with Léo, expressing my surprise at Eurostar’s comparatively easygoing COVID policy. Likewise, on his way back by coach, this time the authorities weren’t concerned about negative test results.

Our meeting wasn't by chance then, I suggest.

I’m certain of it, Léo shoots back.

Soundtrack: The Quarantine Sessions by Tom Misch. Intimidated EP by Kaytranada.