There are a few predictable elements to this time of year. I’ll be reminding anyone who dares to make the mistake that Christmas only starts on 25 December and doesn’t end until the Epiphany, 12 days later. It’s a bête-noire when folk start to speak of it in the past tense from Boxing Day.
On a more serious note, as much as I enjoy the build up to Christmas, there’s a melancholy that can attend the arrival of the New Year. This goes way back, although I recall years where there has been some respite.
Yet since relocating from the UK and living on my own, I’m increasingly aware of an early onset; in that interstitial period between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. At least this time, I’m not nearly as alienated as I was in December 2020. A few of my close Brussels-based friends have left for the season but others have remained. I’m able to attend service offline and take advantage of the Christmas programme at FWM, including the Boxing Day Raclette after church.
After being largely ignored by a group of Dutch-speakers where I’m seated, I join Pastors Talia and Mike at their table, with my Nigerian older brother-in-the-Lord, Chris whom I affectionately call uncle. It’s a fun time of Pan-African in jokes (Mike and Talia are of mixed-heritage from Durban) and complimenting professional chef Chris on his delicious Joloff. Before Coronavirus put paid to his culinary ambitions, he had a thriving Fusion restaurant in central Brussels.
That evening, I take a ride on the seasonal Ferris Wheel located in Sainte-Catherine. All around, the Brussels Christmas market stall holders are packing down; one week earlier than scheduled owing to COVID-19 concerns.
I’m enjoying my early evening ramble so much I stumble into the old Béguinage, only realising where I am once inside. It is now a refuge for undocumented migrants. The space is eerily dim. I’m the only female as far as my eyes can see in the poor light. A man starts a conversation at the door. Strangely, and carelessly on my part, this doesn’t make me turn right back around.
I tell the man I'd like to see if there’s a nativity scene and move further in. I don’t want to automatically criminalise those of irregular migration status. Mainstream media and politicians do enough of that. At the same time, I’m aware dehumanising circumstances can make people act in inhumane ways. Women shouldn’t have to curtail their behaviour for fear of their safety. Alas, it’s the sad state of the world whilst change is painfully slow, if happening at all.
I have a delayed reaction to what could have occurred. On exiting, it hits me how foolish my actions potentially were.
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| Raclette |
When I’m not active, it’s unnerving how quickly that melancholia returns. It’s particular to this time of year. Speaking to other single women, I realise I’m not alone (no pun intended). I can’t complain about lack of opportunities to socialise. I’m used to my own company and cultivate moments of conscious solitude. And yet. And yet...
..Isolation works its way inwards from the peripheries of my brain.
It doesn’t help that the Belgian weather is intent on being relentlessly miserable. If it’s not cold and damp it’s mild and damp; with that non-committal rain that coats everything with a patina of bleakness and dirt. Despite the continued spread of a potentially deadly virus, people (usually, if not always, men) insist on spitting; not just in the street but also indoors. I’m convinced it’s all part of a misguided notion of machismo. I wonder if they spray phlegm on the carpet or lino at home.
I need a change of scene as January rolls around. Thank God, I am in a privileged enough position to be able to afford a brief, if modest, break somewhere south and sunny. Having still not yet journeyed to the French Riviera and hearing only praise from acquaintances about Nice, I have the ideal excuse to visit. I never did manage it that far South whilst I was living in France.
I book a very reasonably-priced non-direct flight on New Year’s Eve. After carefully reviewing my options, I book a few nights at a popular and clean-looking AirBnB for a long weekend. Alas, I can’t postpone the reality of long winters and job searches forever but I can ease my way into it.
As is my usual precaution, I head to the airport the evening before my morning flight. For some reason, I pass a sleepless night, not feeling the lull until long after I’ve checked in five hours early (half-past 4am), have gone through security and am waiting at my departure gate. It’s still dark when I drift off after 7am. I awake to a dazzling fuchsia and orange dawn.
Clear blue skies greet us when we land in Zurich for the layover, to my great and pleasant surprise. From the departure gate, I see the hazy silhouette of mountains in the distance.
My flight is delayed. I’d hoped to be able to sneak in a pre-sunset ramble on arriving at my accommodation, after a nap and a shower. Not at this rate.
On board the connecting plane I’m sat next to a rather obnoxious adolescent couple, more interested in their phones than the stunning view outside. I’m blessed on both flights to have a window seat. En route from Zurich to Nice, we fly over the Alps. From this perspective, the range resembles gigantic angular mounds of cocoa, coated in powdered sugar.
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| courtesy of Alparc |
I have my editor-at-large Johny Pitts’ Afropean: Adventures in Black Europe to keep me occupied. (Perhaps because of the personal connection, I’ve put off reading his acclaimed travelogue since its publication a couple of years ago). By some strange coincidence -or twist of fate – I’ve reached the Chapter where JP is touring the French Riviera. More specifically, he’s sneaking around the grounds of James Baldwin’s home and final resting place.
To my disappointment, on landing in Nice the clear azure skies (sorry, I couldn’t avoid it forever) concede to a muggy greyness. This is not the brilliant sunshine promised by the forecasts.
Nice airport is chaotic. I wonder how many variants of COVID are floating around this space alone; even if vaccination and/or testing is a pre-requisite to travel.
Waiting for my bus to the AirBnB, an agitated homeless man paces the streets making erratic gesticulations whilst preaching some angry secular sermon. I can’t hear all he’s saying over my music but his reluctant audience seem more bemused than offended.
My AirBnB host, Héloïse is not yet home and has left precise instructions for entry. Once inside the flat, I’m impressed by the size and cleanliness of my room and the equally well-kept shared bathroom facilities.
Héloïse arrives shortly. She’s friendly and laidback in a paradoxically business-like manner. She’s a musician by day, lamenting how the pandemic has hit her sector hard. She informs me she plans to be out for NYE celebrations, although her daughter, Marie might be about with her boyfriend. Or not.
I have a rather chaste New Year’s Eve in mind. If I’m not celebrating in church, you’ll find me at home praying into the New Year solo and/or on an online prayer meeting. That’s the plan this NYE.
Before that, I’ll get some much-needed rest, ready to explore my surroundings and perhaps even take a night time ride to the beach, as recommended by Héloïse.
I stir from a blissful siesta to the voices of Marie and boyfriend. It’s only the latter I’ll encounter on my way out. On the landing, I meet Héloïse’ neighbour, Christophe, of whom she has spoken well.
From the minute he claps eyes on me, he asks me a flurry of questions. He insists on walking me to my next destination, a local Pizzeria mentioned by Héloïse. I don’t expect to have time to go to town and come back before the NYE crowds gather. I’m forced to be more flexible on finding all local establishments are closed. Christophe suggests we walk to the tram stop towards Nice City Centre and the seafront.
On the way he explains that he had party plans at his flat but has cancelled them as a precaution. In the relatively short time it takes for us to walk to the stop, he shares much of his life story; his French-Italian background, a stint as a bikini salesman and his career in architecture. I'm in the business of beauty, he boasts, pointing out the buildings that have caught his eye in the vicinity.
He seems enchanted by the way I speak French, particularly my flowery vocab. He in turn makes facetious jokes in English. Christophe has a frenetic energy -as I tell him frankly. He apologises for being full on.
As he deposes me at the stop, he offers a quasi-serious invitation to dine at his place. He proposes I take his number in case I get lost on the way back.
I descend at Massena, near the famous Promenade des Anglais. The atmosphere is naturally buoyant. Back when I used to consider visiting Nice, I’d hardly envisaged experiencing it in festive mode.
Many of the restaurants are already closed or appear to be reservation only. I find a pleasant-looking, decently-priced establishment near the bay serving a mix of traditional Niçois and Italian cuisine. As I settle down to order, I see a text from Christophe, inviting me for a drink to toast in the New Year. He'll be joined by another female acquaintance. Fortunately, I have my midnight prayers as a genuine alibi.
For this holiday, I’m leaving my economical ways behind me (within reason). The restaurant has a special 15% NYE surcharge. Je m’en fiche. Life is for living, as my mother might say.
I’m less serene when I realise I might have to catch a taxi to beat the midnight NYE crowd.
After a scenic night time stroll down the Promenade des Anglais searching for my bus stop, panic kicks in as the clock strikes 11pm. I’ve already downed my dinner and skipped dessert to make up the time.
When I eventually find the station, the bus has stopped running two hours prior. I have a conversation with an Afro-Lusophone in French and broken Portuguese. He sends me on a wild goose chase looking for a tram stop, claiming that taxis would be too exorbitant.
In the end, I take the L. It’s not as bad as the unintentionally unhelpful bystander makes out.
At least I’m back at the accommodation five minutes to midnight, still self-remonstrating in that masochistic way I do. To my relief, all other occupants of the flat are out revelling. I have the place to myself.
Before I hit the showers and the neighbourhood fireworks start to pop, Mum calls to pray with me. I like to believe it's a divine sign that God isn’t as hard on me as I am on myself.
Happy 2022 to all LVC readers.
Soundtrack: Best of 2020 (Part 1) mix.
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