Winter Sun in Coimbra: Part Two

Terreiro do Paço, Lisbon (ionline.sapo.pt)

Part 1

I wake up on Sunday, half-way through my trip, in the state of disillusion that has characterised the last few weeks. My sleep is still not as regulated as it should be. During breakfast, I tune into the livestream of my Belgian church, FWM’s morning service. Pastor Mike speaks on the importance of testimonies. He asks us to recall something good that stands out this week. I remind myself of where I am. Even if I’m feeling somewhat miserable, I have the luxury of doing so on holiday in a beautiful country. Unlike the mainly overcast weather during my visit to La Côte Azur, I don’t lack for sunshine. My Coimbra trip so far has been consistently pleasurable. Or at least, there’s been no drama which is a mercy in itself. Despite my hotel apparently being near a sketchy part of town, I’ve been safe. Whatever ails me is either in my unreachable past or can wait for when I return to Brussels. I shouldn’t let it rob me of present enjoyment. I don’t want to look back on this moment and only remember it being eaten up by worry. Let tomorrow take care of itself. À chaque jour suffit sa peine.

I have booked myself on a day tour in Lisbon. This was before I found out how irregular the train service is between Coimbra and Lisbon on a Sunday. I do second guess my decision and consider staying within the confines of Coimbra. However, noting that I tend to become more mired in dark thoughts if I spend too much time on my own, I persist with the original plan. I manage to find a train route that will get me to the Portuguese capital around the same time the tour starts. I notify the tour guide, Hugo, that I’ll be running a few minutes late.

With the local transport service all but useless and not fancying the idea of another taxi for a relatively short journey, I take a spritely walk towards Coimbra-B station. I arrive in good time to buy my ticket and catch the train.

It’s been over 13 years since I last spent time in Lisbon. It was my very first experience of Portugal; a girls’ holiday with mum and sis. The beauty of its topography, its people, its cosmopolitanism and good food, all made a strong impression. I'd like a refresher of the City without doing exactly the same things I would have all those years ago. Hugo’s donations-based tour promises to be an alternative view of the Portuguese Capital, from a local’s perspective.

I arrive at the designated meeting place in time to see the group moving off. They’re easy to spot. It’s a sizeable collective; the opposite of the huddle on the previous day’s Coimbra tour. I rush up to whom I assume is Hugo, breathless.

It's fine. You’ve just missed the first part, he reassures.

The group is made up of all sorts. There’s a Spanish couple who lived in London and are now based in Lisbon. Then there’s the posse of garrulous Ukrainians, whom at one point I have to hush when they’re voices carry over the Guide’s.

Hugo himself is camp and jovial. However, early on in the tour, I detect an historical blindspot where Portuguese colonial history is concerned. My romantic memories of Lisbon have been challenged of late after (finally!) reading my Afropean co-editor-in-chief, Johny Pitts’ travel memoir Adventures in Black Europe. (Incidentally, I think his views on Marseille are too rose-tinted, but I digress). He approaches Lisbon with a healthy scepticism in relation to its historical amnesia. 

I perceive such forgetfulness in Hugo’s accounts of the so-called Golden Age of conquest and ‘discovery’, with no caveats about slavery or colonialism. That’s not to dismiss the validity of the entire tour. He details the extent of the 1755 Earthquake’s destruction very well. He ends with a summary of Salazar’s dictatorship and the eventual overthrow of his successor, Marcelo Caetano, in the Carnation Revolution of 1974. Hugo rightly includes a reference to the massacre of Lisbon’s Jewish population in the early 16^th Century under the ridiculous pretext of heresy. To his credit (and possibly because of my prompting) he mentions how stubbornly the Portuguese held on to their colonies; something notably missing from the Coimbra tour (which had similar weaknesses). Nonetheless, more generally, he’s a bit quiet when it comes to Portugal’s role in the exploitation and brutalisation of brown people. I bring this to his attention directly during one of the lulls between his expositions. Hugo claims to have mentioned the country’s role in the transatlantic slave trade at the start, which I missed. 

At least we weren’t as bad as the Dutch (he previously lived in the Netherlands).

I don’t allow him the comfort of that old chestnut, where former colonial powers play the what-aboutery game. All colonialism was bad, I remind him and he concedes. He acknowledges that the Age wasn’t so Golden for the enslaved and colonised but, he contends, should we judge the past by today’s standards? This is a common refrain; often – although not exclusively-from racially illiterate Caucasians. I respond, as casually as I can muster, that the effects of the past still play out today. Moreover, there were always those who morally objected to slavery and colonialism. Namely the subjugated and those who took up their cause. This is conveniently forgotten. Hugo agrees, but adds I try not to be too political. Everything is political, I counter, including what he chooses not to say.

Alfama, Lisbon (image: Civitatis)

Hugo widens the discussion to include the rest of the group, now focusing on Portugal’s current political situation and the upcoming election. He claims Portugal is a tolerant country and not given to extremes. I recall the concern expressed by Diana, the Italian guide on my Coimbra tour. By contrast, Hugo believes the support for the Far-Right is fringe compared to France, for instance. He might be a Portuguese native but I’m inclined to trust the outsider, more politically-engaged instincts of Diana. Hugo is knowledgeable and genial but I sense a complacency that is the preserve of the privileged. He takes shelter under the belief that racism is only evident in the Extreme-Right, something about which I am also keen to disabuse him.

I feel nevertheless obligated to keep this sensitive conversation as breezy as possible. Firstly, I am not the only one on the tour. Neither do I want any germane points I do make to be lost if I’m perceived as too ‘disruptive’.

Meanwhile, I overhear a conversation between a convivial elderly South-Asian man with a transatlantic accent, and a tall blonde of indeterminate origin. She has her camera perched on her right shoulder with some contraption that reminds me of a harmonica stand.

As the tour comes to a close, I catch the voluble older man’s attention. He asks about my background and shares about his own. Mo, as he’s called, is an Italian-raised Pakistani living in the US. He’s worked for various international institutions including IFI’s and the UN. He’s passing through Lisbon en route to Francophone West Africa, where he's to discuss his new book on France’s neo-colonial relationship with its former Empire.

Mo picks my brain about a host of subjects, including what was discussed with Hugo. He’s of the generation that believes colonialism wasn’t all terrible. It’s a debate I have quite frequently with one of my mentors from a similar part of the world. I maintain that even if some good emerged from the period as an incidental by-product, it doesn’t negate the evil that was done. Mo argues that we need to strike a balance. I proffer that since colonial propaganda determined the narrative for so long, for the discussion to be truly even-handed, we don’t need any more talk of the purported benefits of Imperial exploits. 

The tour concludes in the main Terreiro do Paço square, overlooking the sea on one side and the pastel-coloured houses of the Mediaeval Alfama district in the distance. It’s a stunning day. Apart from the temperature being a little fresh, we couldn’t have asked for better weather for such an excursion. 

As we overlook the bay, Mo is happy to resume the conversation where we left off. We move on to racism in terms of class struggle, the elites and establishment media, the role of political education in bridging divides and the state of British politics. When Mo mentions that he and his wife will soon be relocating to Addis-Ababa for work purposes, we each give our (admittedly limited) take on the ever-more complex Ethiopian conflict. 

Mo says he likes the way I think. He is surprisingly sympathetic to my political views considering his professional history. He won’t let me leave until I’ve given my email details.

It is a stimulating chat but I have a coach to catch. 

I just miss the 5pm bus to Coimbra. I regret that I won’t have the chance to do the trip again at dusk. With an hour to wait until the next coach, I head to the nearby Lidl to stock up on essentials such as fruit and water. I’ve barely seen a supermarket in Coimbra.

At the risk of repeating myself, outside of the UK, I find Portugal’s Lidl franchise to be the best. Not only in terms of product range but value for money. I pounce on some bargains I’m unlikely to find in Brussels. I’d stock up on more if I didn’t have such a restrictive luggage allowance. (Too bad that the Agave syrup that I purchase for a steal, is confiscated by Lisbon airport security for being over the 100ml limit. I'm miffed. Irony of ironies, my small suitcase eventually has to go into the hold anyway).

(image: Algarve Primeiro)

It’s another long-ish walk from Coimbra bus station to the hotel but I won’t begrudge the exercise. Besides being approached for some change by a man worse-for-wear, I am not hassled.

I decide to dine at an Italian establishment I’ve passed several times. I’m seated close to a multi-cultural group of young British females. For some reason, it’s never really a comfort to overhear anglophone accents whilst on holiday.

The inexplicably all-male waiting staff are also a cosmopolitan bunch. One is particularly attentive. He asks where I’m from before informing me of his own Colombian and Italian roots. He stares deep into my eyes with his pretty baby blues and lavishes me with multi-lingual compliments. I don’t know whether he’s sincere, angling for a tip or thinks I’m easy prey because I’m eating alone. On the other hand, I could just accept the compliment. I have been feeling rough lately (which is partly why I question his motives). 

I’m bemused by things I experience in mainland Europe that would almost never happen in the UK. Back in Blighty, even if I had the impression one of the waiters found me attractive, it would rarely, if ever, be as overt. Just some mild flirting within the confines of professionalism. There’s something almost shameless (or is that fearless?) about a certain kind of European male.

In between minestrone soup, a tasty seafood pizza and lemon tart with vanilla ice cream, my admirer finds any excuse to chat. I discover that in addition to Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and English he speaks a total of seven languages, including Thai and a bit of Russian. Or so he says. It’s entertaining enough and I could do with the pick-me-up. It might all be theatre but I don’t intend to follow it through. I can't remember if we even exchange names.

He asks what I’m doing later on. Rest, I answer.

Back in my hotel box, I watch some humorous clips online, shower and try to pray before lights out. Instead I pass out. It’s another night of fitful sleep and I’m exhausted the morning of the last full day of my Coimbra break. I feel and look awful. I open up about the disrupted sleep with my morning prayer group. It’s a vicious circle. Anxiety hums in the background like white noise. That adversely affects my sleep. I can’t even switch off my mind’s chatter for a catnap. Insufficient rest contributes to low morale which disrupts my sleep more and so on…

It’ll be a waste of time getting fully dressed and made-up before breakfast. I’m involuntary crying into my food. My make-up drips onto my T-Shirt. Thankfully, the restaurant is virtually empty. The few staff around are busying themselves elsewhere. If they see me upset, they’re discreet about it. 

I’ve been avoiding logging into Skype until my return to Brussels but I don’t want sis to worry. Sure enough, she’s wondering where I am.

I take my time over breakfast. I need to calm down. I’m trying to arrange a refund for another tour I have booked that morning. The Guide is unresponsive and there's a major mistake in the itinerary.

Não importa. It means I can attempt another siesta before heading to the beach earlier than I’d have been able to.

The nap isn’t entirely successful. I join my weekly Christian meditation session before boarding the train to Figueira da Foz. 

I already feel much better stepping outside of my box room into the daylight. Despite my general exhaustion, the loveliness of the day is not lost on me. The weather is Spring-like. It’s the warmest it's been so far during my stay. The surrounding landscape demands my attention once more, inviting me to benefit from it whilst I can. It’ll be after dark by the time I return from Figueira da Foz. I have an early-ish train to catch to the airport the following morning, so will be hurrying along.

I’ve selected the right day to go to the coast, although on arriving at my destination, it’s not immediately obvious. There’s water, yes but at first glance Figueira da Foz looks like a dock more than a beach. 

After stopping to check my coordinates a few times, I’m assured that there is something resembling the seaside nearby. My perseverance pays off. Best of all, there’s just the right amount of activity. Neither too busy nor totally deserted. 

I stop off at a kiosk for a snack. A man interrupts my order to charge his phone. He then proceeds to ask my origins. He feels the need to share that he lived and worked in Senegal for a time. He endeavours to educate me on the country’s ethnic diversity. He lists off the number of local languages he acquired, as well as French.

Figueira da Foz (image: Accor)

Congratulations, I say. Whether or not he discerns my mild sarcasm, I can’t tell.

He asks if I like Portugal. I reply in the affirmative and explain it’s my third visit to the country. I humour the conversation solely for the practice. Otherwise, I find him a little obtrusive.

I can’t understand everything he says. I pick up that he continues with his own life story-namely where else he’s lived in Europe – and says something about the low salaries in Portugal; in the region of 800-900 euros a month. This is a theme that’s recurred throughout my visit. If the wages are low, at least aspects of the cost of living are also economical, such as food. Rents are cheap compared to other European states but not in proportion to the average Portuguese salary. 

The conversation turns to varieties of Portuguese, as it has often done. I am frank about my Brazilian bias, reiterated by my current interaction. My interlocutor swallows his words. I’m only able to follow thanks to a few days of consistent exposure, which is a small encouragement in itself.

Once my toasted sandwich is ready, I bid farewell to the sales assistant and my fleeting acquaintance.

I eat lunch on the beach. Apart from a few families seated on nearby rocks, I have the modest sandy section to myself (there's much more to the beach that, alas, I don't have time to discover). A surly canine barks at me for no reason. Its owners hardly try to assuage it.

What’s your problem? Racist dog.

A creepy elderly fellow I first saw near the kiosk, keeps circling me from a distance. He doesn’t look away when I make eye-contact, or even try to hide his fascination. At what point this becomes fetishisation, I don’t know but his attention must cross that line. I forget about him, believing he’s become bored and moved on. Feeling sufficiently free of anyone’s gaze, I inconspicuously remove my tights.

A few minutes later, I look around and catch the old geezer watching me again from afar.

I won’t let this Peeping Tom steal this placid moment from me. I ignore him and enjoy the view. I don’t have long before I have to rush back to the station for the return to Coimbra.

My last night in the City is rather anti-climactic. Unbeknownst to me, many businesses don’t open on Mondays; similar to when I lived in Strasbourg. A restaurant next to the hotel that I’d had my eye on since my first night is closed. With no Plan B and not wanting to dine at the same eateries as before, I stumble across a promising-looking establishment in the vicinity. 

It seems busy. A little too busy. 

A group of 40-50 obnoxiously raucous youngsters have commandeered the joint. It’s the performative, self-conscious ‘fun’ of the insecure. 

They want attention. I’m determined to deny them that currency.

(image: Travelling Buzz)

There are frequents burst of a rowdy football-like chant. It’s all I can do not to scream "STFU!". I try to read instead and (unsuccessfully) drown out the noise by switching on my MP3. The mellowness of Alison Thorsteinsen's gorgeously doleful compositions can't cut through the racket.  I waste no time paying the bill after my Octopus and Shrimp meal. After a little small talk with the manager and his wife, I wish them good night and a cheeky Boa Sorte before stepping into the brisk night for a brisk walk. I hope to purchase an iced dessert from Burger King and pass by the hotel bar before bed. Both closed…

I don’t expect to sleep well the night before my departure. To my great surprise, I wake up better rested than the morning before. Not perfect but an answer to prayer nonetheless. I’ve reserved an earlier breakfast, expecting to see the luminous restaurant busier for a change. Still practically empty. The only unfamiliar face is that of a vibrant young waiter. From his more comprehensible Portuguese and ethnically-ambiguous features, I guess correctly that he’s from Brazil. São Paulo, to be precise. The hotel staff have all been friendly but he’s especially warm; as sunny as the climate I'll be leaving behind.

It’s a shame our paths didn’t cross sooner. I nevertheless take this brief encounter as an auspicious farewell, as I depart that crisp January morning for Lisbon airport.

Soundtrack: Sometimes I'm There by Alison Thorsteinsen 

Winter Sun in Coimbra: Part One

 

(Image: Cidadaniaja.com.br)

Yearning for a morale boost and some Vitamin D, I make good on my own promise for another change of scene. A mere few weeks since my aventure niçoise, neither my wanderlust nor my desire for some winter sunshine have abated.

Don’t mistake this for some lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous jet-setting. I’m in between jobs, after all. I cut my cloth according to my modest size. I’m aware of the immense privilege of accessible travel and the freedom that comes with having no responsibilities. There has to be some advantage to being single at my age.

It’s initially a toss up between Italy and Spain. Both meet my inexpensive budget requirements. Flights to Milan and Rome from Brussels are especially cheap. I just don’t feel safe travelling to Italy on my own as a West African woman, based on previous experience. I don’t have a particular affinity with Spain but Barcelona is a big deal and I’ve never been.

In the end, I choose neither. A chance encounter with some Lusophones at a language exchange shifts my focus to Coimbra, Portugal. One of my new acquaintances, José, is a native of the city. He assures me it’s worth the trip. Plus, as his friend and namesake suggests, it’ll be good linguistic practice; even if it’s not my preferred variety of Portuguese. True, I was only in Porto a couple of months ago but I like the country and language. Flights and accommodation are also reasonable. Why not?

Coimbra it is, then. I book my hotel and tickets before realising Portugal requires a pre-departure PCR regardless of vaccination status. Thank God, the results are negative despite some close shaves.

My usual camp-at-the-airport strategy backfires on this occasion. Airline company TAP cut it as fine as possible to open check-in. I might as well have enjoyed the comfort of my own bed and gone to the airport at dawn. Instead, I'm there for the best part of 12 hours with only an hour or so of sleep. 

I fly out on one of those bright, if near freezing, mornings with which Belgium is occasionally blessed. Coimbra is forecast to be even sunnier and significantly warmer. Not sandal-wearing hot but I shouldn’t need my winter coat.

Touching down in Lisbon, where I’ll catch my connecting coach to Coimbra, the weather is indeed glorious. Clear blue skies and mild enough to ditch that coat. 

I already feel better. I eventually make my way to Sete Rios station to purchase my bus ticket, a little intimidated by the sketchy-looking surroundings. I arrive in time to catch the very next coach to Coimbra, leaving in less than five minutes. The pleasant scenery en route continues to lift my mood; a sun-soaked city scape flanked by an azur sea and rolling hills. There’s a heck of a lot of green for this time of year.

We arrive in Coimbra at sunset. I put my Portuguese to work straight away asking for directions. I still get lost; even when a non-Lusophone tries to show me where I’m heading on their smartphone in English. In my defence, the roads aren’t well signposted. I eventually give up my stingy ways and opt for a taxi.  It’s more good language practice and at just over four euros, I can't quibble.

I persevere in faltering Portuguese with the accommodating receptionist at the hotel. After the COVID scare I had with AirBnB in Nice, I decide not to risk sharing facilities again. Hotel accommodation in Coimbra is cheap enough to be competitive with the short-term rental platform.

I’ve chosen to stay at the futuristic-looking Zero Box Lodge. The concept is simple: attractive if minimalist cabin-style units with all the essentials and few frills. It’s in the heart of the City and has received great reviews. I can see why. The hotel is brand new. Everything is so fresh and so clean, clean. The austere rooms are nevertheless spacious enough for one; particularly the bathroom. A pre-ordered Continental breakfast is included. The only thing missing is a view of the outside world. The sole (hidden) window faces out into the nightclub-esque corridor, with its dim red lighting.

The city centre is quiet for a Friday night. Depressingly so. By the time I step out, most of the shops are closed and there aren’t very many restaurants in the vicinity. I’m famished and have a hankering for seafood, at which Portuguese cuisine excels. I settle on a chic establishment with apparently friendly staff. The restaurant plays very familiar Bossa Nova renditions of 70s and 80s pop classics.

I order three courses and lots of bread. I’m pausing my detox whilst on holiday. My patient and convivial waiter entertains conversation in between courses, as I sound out the right vocabulary and grammar. Suddenly a wave of fatigue competes with my hunger. For a moment, I worry I’ll pass out face down in my food.

I enjoy the meal but something must not agree with me. Let’s just say I have some discomfort during the night. I’m not sure if it’s the restaurant food or just my body reacting in shock to regular eating after weeks of detox.

By the morning, I really begin to miss natural light. Once the mood lighting is switched off, the darkness in the room is thick; almost oppressive. Something feels off about the day rhythms and this contributes to my already disrupted sleep.

I’ve opted for a later breakfast. Natural light cascades into the bar/restaurant, as if to compensate for the sombre rooms. The space is empty except for one member of staff.  A novelty ‘ghost’ piano, plays jazz standards automatically. The breakfast portions are ideal. The hotel are economical with their supplies, so there's no opportunity to over-indulge. 

The solitary staff member gives me an impromptu language lesson. Even when slowed down, I still struggle to comprehend the European variety of Portuguese. Words are articulated very differently from the standard Brazilian that I’m used to.

I’ve booked myself on another donations-based City tour, a stone’s throw from my hotel. It’s so close in fact, I take it for granted and arrive over five minutes late. The sun is shining in another clear blue sky but it’s nippier than expected.

It’s the most intimate group I’ve encountered on one of these tours; just me and an elderly American couple travelling around the region. The multilingual tour guide, Diana, moved from her native Italy to Coimbra to study Law and never looked back.

It’s through Diana that I come to learn, (over a month late, to my shame), that the Portuguese parliament was dissolved in December ahead of a snap election at the end of this month. Despite the country’s Socialist party still enjoying strong support, it was only a minority government during its previous mandate. Diana is concerned about the rise in support for fascist parties and xenophobia – particularly against Brazilian migrants – in Coimbra. Nevertheless, the City has a long history of radicalism thanks to its significant student population. Revolutionary slogans are graffitied across town. One of the main train stations is decorated with artistic solidarity messages for Cuba. 

Coimbra University Clock Tower

Coimbra life turns around the principal attraction: the University. The distinctive caped uniforms, also seen elsewhere in Portugal, originated in these parts, according to Diana.

We do a loop of old and new Coimbra via the most famous spots such as Praça do Comércio, the almost 900-year old Santa Cruz church (and its scary depiction of a cross-carrying Jesus), Jardim de Manga and the Botanical Gardens. We then pass by the Roman aqueducts en route to the best known University buildings – including the nigh-mythical Biblioteca Joanina - at the highest point of the city. There are some great views of the striking landscape and the Rio Mondego from this height. Coimbra is a lot more capacious and ethnically-diverse than anticipated. Not being as well known as the two major cities between which it is sandwiched, it gets overlooked.

Diana explains the multiple factors behind why the City is currently rather subdued. It is partially pandemic-related. Some of it is down to locals frequenting the city centre less, as other neighbourhoods expand their shopping facilities. The most significant reason is that this is exam period and the students are currently incommunicado.

Perhaps because of Coimbra’s radical political history, I hear more about the terrors of living under almost 50 years of dictatorship than I did on the Porto tour. Diana believes the older generation's inculcated reticence is a hangover from this dark period. 

By contrast, Portugal’s colonial history is referred to only in ‘neutral’ terms; its influence on architecture or the Botanical Gardens, for instance. No mention of its brutality or that it was the last European power to resist decolonisation and bitterly so – well into the 1970s and long after the tide had turned. This oversight is the only major flaw of the tour.

Before parting company, Diana shares more about why she’s adopted Portugal as her home. She has no plans to return to Italy, citing the political instability and less liberal attitudes towards the LGBTQ community, of which she’s part. She plans to obtain Portuguese nationality, believing that the country is far more unlikely to leave the EU than Italy.

The tour concludes around the corner from my hotel. I return to freshen up before heading back out. I intend to make it to the coast at Figueira da Foz before nightfall. I discover too late that won't be possible by the time the next train arrives. 

I change my schedule and make my way to the nearby Parque Verde do Mondego. The temperature has picked up. The sun bounces off the glass structures, including a stainglass-patterned bridge straddling the Mondego River. There are plenty of people around. Whilst meandering, I stumble across the old Santa Clara monastery (Mosteira de Santa-Clara-a-Velha). Despite the pleasant surroundings, I still carry the melancholy I hoped to leave behind temporarily in Belgium. I’ve never been very good at switching off. It becomes more apparent when I’m completely on my own. Still, I make the best of it. I eat an enjoyable Middle-Eastern veggie lunch. I have one more stop before returning to the hotel for some pre-dinner rest; the New Santa Clara monastery ('new' is of course relative. It dates back to the 17th Century).

Coimbra Botanical Gardens

I arrive on the grounds at sunset. It’s worth the steep climb for the splendid view of the city. Inside the church itself is unnerving. The gaudy gold motif and the dimness aren’t inviting. It’s not one of those sacred spaces where I feel tranquil. On exiting, I accidentally wander into the parish office, giving flustered explanations to the man at the door.

I feel much better outside in the cool, crepuscular air. On the way back to the hotel my curiosity leads me to the Convento São Francisco. It has been modernised extensively. Any traces of antiquity aren’t immediately visible. One of the receptionists is so unwelcoming, I almost walk straight out. I just don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

Her colleague is more professional. The parts of the building of interest aren’t normally open to the public. I return to the hotel. I can’t shake the blues and my fatigue isn’t helping. Neither is the frustration of trying to express myself fluidly in Portuguese and not always succeeding.

Whatever it is, this too shall pass.

I ask for a taxi to be ordered for a journey I originally wanted to make by foot. On my request, Diana has recommended a Brazilian BBQ restaurant – or Churrasqueira. Its punned-name translates into Carnal Pleasures or literally, The Pleasures of the Flesh. Vegetarians and Vegans look away now.

The restaurant is in the vicinity but about a 20-minute walk. I’m tired and chary of getting lost.

According to the taxi driver, it's not a good neighbourhood for me to be out alone. He could just be saying that for business’ sake. He’s quite insistent about returning to drop me off at the hotel. I mumble something non-committal.

I figure it’ll be better for me to walk off all that meat and side orders.

I picked a good night to come. A solo male singer/guitarist plays Bossa Nova classics and other, less commercial songs from the Brazilian songbook. It’s not your cheesy background music. He’s good. I sing along where I can and try to encourage him by applauding discreetly, since nobody else seems to be paying any mind.

I haven’t had a Churrasco for a long time. I forget how overwhelming it can get and how fast. A lot of the meat is also served rare. Apart from not being to my tastes, I've been advised against it since being hospitalised for a stomach ulcer almost eight years ago.

I enjoy the meal better the more the meat samples are paced out. My Portuguese also improves as the night wears on. I relax. I’m more at ease with the Brazilian variety. I also become less self-conscious about being the only client eating alone. This is almost always the case when I dine out and it doesn’t usually bother me.

I quit whilst I’m ahead, pay the (surprisingly reasonable) bill and look forward to the exercise as I walk back to the hotel. On the way out, I ask the entertainment if he knows James Taylor’s Only a Dream in Rio feat. Milton Nascimento. He does not. I congratulate him anyway on a good show. It’s not as easy as it looks.

Soundtrack: Beat Tape II by Benny Sings, Asibi Happy by Kabza de Small

Part 2

Seasonal Melancholia and all that...

 

(courtesy of ArtStation)

Barely returned from my excursion to the French Riviera and I’m already looking for an excuse to head somewhere sunny again.

In the interim, there’s no escaping the reality of dull Belgian skies (with the odd day of sunshine), the post-Christmas detox and resuming my job hunt. I took a break from searching over the festive period. I needed the mental rest, as well as to have some distance from being screwed over by my previous employer, The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO). Or rather, the crooked GS and her Italian minion.

Alas, it can’t be avoided forever. Whilst waiting on TTUO's HR department for key documents to start the social security process, my union inform me that I must register with a nationwide work scheme. I go through the motions, completing my profile and attending online training voluntarily- so that I’m not accused of being uncooperative. 

I’m being targeted with my search. There are nonetheless some compromises I have to make if not to narrow the field too much. 

Until joining the Belgian job market, I didn’t realise how generous the salaries were at TTUO – especially when almost 50% went towards tax and other contributions. I'm applying for roles that would require a significant pay cut, save for some successful re-negotiation. Based on previous experiences with European short term contracts, I would prefer not to apply for anything with less than two years employment security. That would also exclude a number of options, however. I even consider working in a different Belgian city; less daunting in the era of pandemic-related 80% telework.

Whilst out on a social with Sylvia and Karin, they encourage me to apply for posts for which I feel woefully underqualified. Sylvia is insistent. Of Pakistani origin herself, she warns against succumbing to the 'imposter complex' that racialised women often (are made to) feel. I know what she means but maintain there’s a place for realism. I pass on one of the roles to a far more experienced ex-colleague, also disillusioned with TTUO.

Shortly after my meet up with Sylvia and Karin, the latter gets in touch to inform me she has COVID. Mercifully, my self-test kit returns a negative result. I am fully aware of how fortunate I am. I’ve had a few close calls of late. Aside from the brush with the virus in Nice, a number of colleagues at the Red Cross Centre emerge in January after a forced Corona-hiatus. Once during a shift, one of the Centre’s beneficiaries - an infirm-looking older Nigerian - admits that he might have tested positive the week before.

(courtesy of PicJumbo)

Ah-ah! 

I notify one of the staff members, after which the feverish-looking gent changes his story. He’s eventually convinced to take a free test at the adjacent medical centre.

Then there are the close friends and loved ones who are infected. As well as Karin, I receive a message from Em – my Christmas guest – that she’s tested asymptomatically positive. A day or two later, sis expresses concern she’s feeling ill following a video shoot. A PCR confirms she indeed has COVID. Like Karin and unlike Em, she doesn’t avoid the symptoms. Both come down with fever and fatigue. Both are fully vaccinated; Karin having only recently received her booster. It’s worrying when otherwise healthy 30-somethings are laid low by the virus. No doubt, it would have been more severe still if they hadn’t been jabbed.

I do my best to be sensible, particularly on the brimming public transport. Still, life can't grind to a halt. The alternative is to become a semi-recluse, avoiding anything that could attract a crowd. That would rule out the offline community at church (where strict measures are already in place); otherwise a lifeline. Or volunteering at the Red Cross, where I can take my mind off my own worries by serving others. Or meeting up with good friends not seen since before Christmas.

I haven't spent time with Brenda since her return from Austria, for instance. I reach out by text, to which she proposes a walk that Saturday.

Meanwhile, my S.A.D has returned this winter with force. That weekend my morale sinks to a low ebb, albeit with occasional respite. My time with Brenda is one such moment. As ever, it's an authentic exchange. Over a detox-friendly drink, I’m candid about the isolation I’ve felt over the Christmas season, related to not having my own brood. What makes this sensation more acute is speaking to other (Christian) women of a similar age in the same situation. It's hard to admit, since I never want to denigrate being single. I don't believe it's inferior to being coupled up. Neither do I believe any relationship is better than none. There are many blessings that come with the single life, so long as it doesn't seem to overstay its welcome.  

Brenda is mature and perhaps more emotionally pragmatic than I was in my mid-20s. She’s already countenancing the possibility of indefinite singleness and how to make the most of it, whilst not abandoning all hope.

The next day, I meet up with Renzo to see A Hero; an accomplished, if emotionally-draining film. Although it's I who suggests it, it turns out not to be suitable viewing for my current state of mind.

Earlier that week, Renzo and I catch-up briefly on the phone – properly, for the first time. It's a mini-milestone. He has returned from a soul-nourishing holiday in his native Italy feeling rather disenchanted with his lot in Belgium. He’s just quit an unsatisfying work placement following a needless COVID-safety breach. With his new-found freedom, Renzo is attending to his spiritual practices and launches a multilingual arts blog (hurrah!). He writes in the three languages in which he's most proficient and has an (annoyingly good) way with words - if his French and English pieces are anything to go by.

He is early for our cinema appointment, as usual. Sporting an iridescent burgundy puffa coat, he cradles a coffee whilst catching up on my blog when I arrive.  It's been a month since we last connected IRL (as he might say), and yet our reunion is more subdued than previous.

After the film, comme d'hab, Renzo appears to be in a rush to go home.    I'd hoped for a post-screening drink. Unbeknownst to me, the cinema bar is closed. I try to bring Lorenzo hastily up to speed about things on my end. Before I know it, we’re waiting on the underground platform for our trains. Mine arrives before Renzo’s. He attempts to send me off with an affectionate farewell.

What’s the hurry? I can take the next one, I protest. I need the company.

Renzo is hungry and tired. I don’t hide my mix of irritation and disappointment when he boards his train. I’m disproportionately upset on the way home. Much of it has to do with the lingering effects of the distressing movie but not all. A continued, low level anxiety is contributing to hyper-sensitivity.

Having been vulnerable with Renzo, more than normal to some extent, he seemingly still misses the cues. I don’t believe I could have been clearer about wanting more quality time. It’s not that I haven’t had the chance to unburden with other friends. My evening with Brenda is refreshing. I just feel compelled to give Lorenzo a thorough update. Plus, there was so much more I wanted to ask about his time away over Christmas.

Renzo senses something is amiss. He sends a follow-up text, just to check. I am as frank in my response as I can be, whilst trying to remain even-handed. He did say he was hungry.  

I don’t sleep well that evening and my malaise continues into the new week. I do a lot of reflecting. I decide to ignore my Belgian phone during this time, as it's often a source of above-mentioned anxiety.

The exchange with Renzo makes me re-evaluate the emotional boundaries of our friendship. He seems to be more adept at preserving his own. I, on the other hand, might have taken the ‘platonic boyfriend’ analogy too far. There’s a type of availability or engagement that isn't only limited to romantic commitments. Realistically, not everyone has the emotional bandwidth (to borrow a friend’s expression) to be that present all - or even most - of the time. I need to manage my expectations better.

Midweek, I charge my by now lifeless phone and go through the various messages I am yet to read. I see too late an invitation from Renzo to come round to his place for an afternoon chat over a hot drink. A rare offer - an opportunity missed. 

Soundtrack: Best of 2021 Mix (Part 2) + Beat Tape II by Benny Sings.

The Festive Interstice- Une Pause Niçoise (3)

 Part 1 & 2

The Gardens of Cimiez Monastery, Nice (lepoint.fr)

On my penultimate day in Nice, the sun finally comes out to play in earnest. By the time I’m awake, dressed and ready for the world, Christophe is already good to go. He informs me he’ll be out all day, as will I. 

I want to visit the monastery and gardens at nearby Cimiez, before heading on an afternoon tour of local village Eze and later Monte Carlo. Christophe is his usual zealous (and a little too tactile) self when I mention my plans to visit Cimiez (Pronounced Si-mi-yeh, apparently). He explains that I can easily go to the grounds on foot, showing me the route in relation to his flat.

 I try and nap before my excursion but Christophe is holding court with another one of the many impromptu (always female) guests he seems to entertain on a daily basis. When I emerge from the room, the flat is empty except for the stereo blasting R&B/Soul and Hip-Hop; a decoy for potential thieves. I’ll give it to Christophe, he has good taste in music.

However, it turns out he has exaggerated how quickly it’ll take to reach Cimiez. I have to verify several times that I’m on the right path. If I’d known, I’d have taken the bus. There’s only enough time for a jaunt around the Greco-Roman ruins and a curtailed moment at the Monastery gardens. I don’t even consider visiting any of the numerous museums in the locality.

It's worth the trek, nonetheless. The view of the Niçois landscape and coastline from that vantage point is gorgeous, not to mention serene. There are not too many other visitors around to disturb the peace. An affable older couple greet me and wish a Happy New Year. The husband lingers a little too long, taking particular interest in my necklace from Porto which, naturally, hangs above my bust.

It’s a shorter stop than I’d have liked but better than nowt. I rush back to the accommodation, fearing that I’ll miss my ride to Monaco. I take a circuitous bus route out of limited options and hot foot it the rest of the way. In the end, it’s the tour guide who’s running late.

Éze's Exotic Garden

We’re a small group; two girls from Corsica, me and Jérémie, the guide/driver. We’re apparently the same age but he looks about 10 years older.

Although I booked the trip in English, it’s pointless to enforce it on the others when I’m the only Anglophone. The other occupants of the car seem tickled by my quaint, text-book French.

Our first stop is the picturesque mediaeval town, Eze. We have just une petite heure to explore. The village highlight is the exotic garden; a real treat for the eyes even for those of us without a horticultural inclination. The garden sits at a dizzying height above the Riviera. As well as the array of fauna and flora from across the world, there’s a superb view of the region from the top. There’s even a corner for contemplative silence, flanked by a small waterfall. Alas, I have to end this blissful pause to grab something to eat before reconnecting with Jérémie and co. 

He's booked us on a short tour of Fragonard parfumerie. Given the brevity of my stay, I won’t have time to visit nearby Grasse, close to Cannes; said to be the world’s perfume capital. The Fragonard factory is thus the next best thing. It’s an interactive visit, with a test right at the start to see how well we know our scents and opportunities to sample the latest range. As a perfume fan, I’m nonetheless underwhelmed by what’s on offer. I don’t smell anything worth the eye-watering prices. The more appealing aromas already exist on the market, under a different name and at a more economical rate.

As a concession, I buy some expensive scented hand-cream.

Next up is Monte Carlo, Monaco. En route, Jérémie unhelpfully tells us that Grace Kelly met her untimely death on that very road. 

There've been a few accidents round these parts, he chirps, pointing out tell-tale signs. 

There really isn’t much separating us from a sharp drop off the cliff edge.

Monte Carlo, Monaco (courtesy of Ceetiz)

Mercifully, we make it to safe ground. Jérémie parks for a moment for a photo opp. of Monaco from on high, of which the two other passengers take advantage. He has a good knowledge of the region but chooses to share it in a casual, anecdotal-style; more well-informed local than official tour guide.

It’s nightfall as we approach Monte Carlo. The vista is splendid yet, as Jérémie reminds us of Monaco’s tax haven status, pointing out the palatial bank buildings or the ostentatious yachts of Saudi Sheiks, tech billionaires and Russian oligarchs, it turns my stomach. Being a true-blood socialist, all this tax-dodgers’ opulence sickens me. I feel a similar way visiting affluent neighbourhoods in the UK. Except Monte Carlo is Sloane Square on steroids. The hardworking people truly worthy of this sort of pampering- subsistence farmers in the Global South, domestic workers, health and social care workers...I could go on – come nowhere near this privilege.

I take a begrudging meander around the bay, looking for the nearest café to put down my thoughts. I find a gourmet burger joint where the staff seem compelled to make micro-agressive faux-pas. On more than one occasion, they assume Afrodescendant customers (including yours truly) all belong to one party by the mere fact we’re standing in the same vicinity. When I spot a Franco-African woman working in that very establishment, I’m so relieved I blurt out my appreciation. She listens sympathetically as I complain that her co-workers need some educating.

Back in the car, when Jérémie asks how we found Monaco, the divergence in perspective is obvious. The other two passengers are excited by the flashy cars and casinos. They are in their early 20s. Speaking in broad generalisations (not the best thing, I know), Gen Z/young millennials seem to be torn between radical socio-economic change through collective action and the kind of rugged, champagne-lifestyle individualism promoted by social media influencers. Maybe I’m being too harsh. After all, each generation has faced those temptations in some form.

Jérémie drops me off at Nice city centre as agreed, recommending an Italian restaurant favoured by his wife. Still well within budget, I nevertheless have to fight my financially-prudent urge when I glance at the menu. It is the last night of my holiday. I should live a little.

After a very filling plate of seafood pasta, I roam once more, hoping to find a Gelateria within easy walking distance. I abandon my quest and settle for some over-priced mediocre chocolate bars and another wander around La Promenade des Anglais. I pass an ivory-coloured house -now a deluxe block of flats-which boasts Anton Chekhov and Henri Matisse amongst its erstwhile occupants. 

It’s a subdued and maudlin affair at the seafront tonight, compared to the bustle of the weekend. 

Even Christophe has retired to his room by the time I get back. He texts to inform me that he’ll be leaving by 8am the following morning. In case our paths don’t cross again before I leave for the airport, he wishes me well. I apologise for coming back too late to catch him before bed. I express gratitude for his hospitality and suggest we meet up for a drink if or when we’re in each other’s respective corners of the world. By now I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to Christophe’s quirks and extreme manifestation of Provence friendliness. When some friends get in touch to check on my safety, I reassure them in all sincerity that I'm fine. God is in the details.

In and out of sleep the next morning, I hear Christophe pottering around long after 8am. Perhaps he banks on me appearing before he has to leave. Once it’s clear this won’t happen, he sends me another text, which I’ll only see after he’s gone. He communicates more well-wishes for my onward journey and hopes that we might have that drink one day. He signs off the message “...from a lonely sinner”. I suspect he’s only half-joking. Moved, I respond that we’re all sinners and remind him that he’s beloved of Christ…

“...Look at the lengths the Almighty would go to show you; turning my holiday plans askew [cheeky smiley]...”

I finish packing, strip the bed and put the linen in the washing machine alongside the used towels. I open the room window to allow for some fresh air. The steel-coloured skies have returned. Once the pull-out bed is tucked out of sight and everything cleared away, all that remains is a sad bareness.