Firenze nella Primavera Part 2

 

Palazzo Pitti (courtesy of Guide du Routard)

Part 1 & 3

7 min. read

On the second day of my Florence trip, I wake up to the demoralising sound of incessant rain. The squally weather has continued throughout the night. For some, poor weather doesn't impede their enjoyment of a holiday. I’m not one of those people. It’s a bitter irony that I’ve left clear blue skies and mild climes in usually rainy Belgium to be soaked in Italy. 

I have booked a place on a sunset tour. I can only pray it won’t be a wash out.

I’ve heard so much about the beauty of Florence. It could be my moodiness or the bad weather - or both - but I’m yet to be floored. Don’t get me wrong, the city has an impressive topography. It often reminds me of Nice. Travelling for pleasure is a privilege. I’m grateful to be here. However, from all I’ve heard I expected to be left breathless. Perhaps I need to see more.

On Brenda’s recommendation, I’ve set half a day aside to visit the Palazzo Pitti. Brenda has a soft spot for castles and palaces. I’m not habitually one for museums or houses of artefacts unless there’s a particular exhibition I’m eager to see. Nonetheless, on my friend’s suggestion, I give it a go. It’s also well-timed. I can at least shelter from the downpour.

I bus it to the Palace, taking in more of Florence’ cityscape. The streets are more dated than I envisaged. It might sometimes be on the shabby side but there’s a defiance to it that I respect. As if the City has pushed against a certain interpretation of so-called modernity. Of course, there are still the usual-suspect high street shops, luxury-brand boutiques and European supermarket chains but the Centre is not as glossy as some major cities. Then again, my interpretation could be romanticised and it has more to do with economic limitations than active resistance to a contemporary upgrade.

The majestic-sized Palazzo is tucked away behind quiet side streets. So much so that en route, I worry I’m mistaken. 

There’s some issue with my reservation that delays my entry. It involves me panic-searching for wi-fi to download the voucher on my laptop once again.

Once safely inside, I wander at leisure. I dutifully visit as many of the opulent rooms as possible in the Medici-Hapsburg's old stomping ground. I take special interest in the freschi depicting biblical scenes as well as Roman and Greek mythology. I contemplate how so many of these images – or similar – are ingrained in the collective conscience. If we have a tendency to perceive God in our own likeness, then the Eurocentric ideal has been imposed on us all. I look upon portrait after portrait of chinless (mostly male) white folk, with almost nary a brown face to break up the monotony. A notable exception is a depiction of Balthasar – one of the visiting Magi at the Epiphany, and the only of African descent according to legend.

Between rooms, I glimpse the inviting sprawl of the Giardino di Boboli through the vast windows. The rain has stopped and the sun is attempting to peep through. It would be an opportune time to head out to the grounds. Yet, for some reason, I feel obligated not to rush my visit, even if by now the Garden is of more interest to me than the exhibits.

Giardino di Boboli (Viator)

I study Raphael’s portrait of Medici-spawned Pope Leo ‘Indulgences’ X. I glide through an immersive exhibition of son-of-Florence, Father-of-the-Italian-language Dante’s Divine Comedy. By then, the rains have returned. I head to the Boboli Garden anyway. It will be my only chance to do so on my brief Fiorentine visit. I don’t spend as long on that expansive terrain as I would or should. The rain is literally dampening my mood. I also need to grab some lunch and check emails before my sunset tour.

On quitting Il Palazzo, observing the gathering crowds, I'm relieved that - by pure coincidence - I chose a calmer moment to tour the site. 

I have plenty of time before my next appointment. Neither is it too far away. I give myself an over half an hour window. I shouldn't need to rush. 

By chance, I board a bus on diversion that drops me tantalisingly close to where the tour group is supposed to meet; Santa Maria Novella Square. There's a few more minutes to go. I’m having trouble locating the exact spot. I think I’m in the right place but see no group. I ask a passer-by in the most basic Italian. She confirms with much certitude. I wait. Still no group. I ask another, gruffer stranger if this is indeed Maria Novella Sq. 

No, the other side, she says waving vaguely behind her.

I arrive to find only Spanish and Italian groups gathered. Usually, guides stick around an extra 10 minutes or so for latecomers. Not this time. I circulate the Square in desperation, fuming that I’ve been given misleading information. I ask one of the other guides for help, when I see a gap in his discourse. He kindly gives me his colleague’s number and points me to where they've headed. I have no joy locating the group, nor getting hold of the guide. When he does finally answer, he’s in a hurry.  I'm none the wiser concerning his whereabouts.

I’m royally pissed off. It’s too early for dinner. My late lunch is still digesting. Although the rain has stopped, it remains gloomy overhead. I’m in no mood to wander the streets of central Florence. I need to sit somewhere and calm down without the pressure to buy anything. 

I jump on a random bus and take it wherever it leads. This mini-city hop is just what I need to defuse. Bus 23 takes me far from the tourist spots, into the suburbs and back again. From the warmth and relative comfort of the bus, I pass through ‘real’ Fiorentine neighbourhoods; not unlike where my AirBnB is based. All over the city I notice rainbow flags with Pace – or Peace – inscribed in white legend. I assume this is in solidarity with the people of Ukraine.

My detour lasts longer than I anticipate. I journey back to the City Centre, ready for a delicious gnocchi and shrimp supper in the Piazza di San Lorenzo area once again.

Tuttomondo by the late Keith Haring
(Turismo Pisa)

The following morning, I awake to the optimistic sight of blue skies and some sunshine from my loft room window. It’s a marked difference from the prior morning.

I hear low voices and moving outside the bedroom; as I have done late the previous night. My hosts, no doubt. (Or their meddlesome dog, who prowls around at all hours). I’m yet to meet Sandra or her husband. My only impression is formed from ample photos dotted around the house of when they were both young and incontrovertibly beautiful.

When I step out for my day’s excursion, they’re nowhere to be seen.

I have planned an afternoon trip to another celebrated Tuscany town, Pisa. Before I catch my train, I treat myself to crêpes, overlooking Santa Maria Novella Square. As the café staff converse, I enjoy the exaggerated musicality of the Italian language. Throughout my holiday, I will sound out numerous signs and street names, trying to revive my once dormant Italian knowledge. If the grammar escapes me, most of the pronunciation remains intact. The voice in my head isn’t usually my own, however. Rather that of my erstwhile, currently estranged, Italian BFF.

The train to Pisa is clean, modern and comfortable. Zipping out of Florence, as the verdant hills that survey the city gradually fade into the distance, it grows cloudy once more. I dip in and out of sleep, disturbed by the pungent body odour of the man sitting behind me. I flinch when a passenger takes up the adjacent seat. Since the pandemic, I’m not at ease with strangers sitting next to me on public transport.

I arrive half an hour before the tour starts. I order what’s to be the most indulgent hot chocolate I’ve had outside of Spain. 

The waitress makes it clear she doesn’t want to serve me. She feigns attending to other -paler- customers, glancing in my direction whilst I stand at the till with cash in hand. Her kinder elderly colleague shoots her a quizzical look before accepting my payment.

I connect with the guide, Alice (pronounced Ali-che) and the rest of the group at Vittorio Emanuele Square. Our first stop is the famous Keith Haring mural, Tuttomondo, behind Sant'Antonio church. 

Alice is vivacious and the small group are mostly a friendly bunch. I get speaking to a woman from Manchester, doing a tour of Northern Italy for a couple of weeks with a friend. She’s accompanied by another Brit gentleman, whom she has apparently just met.

 I find Pisa more immediately enchanting than Florence, maybe also because the weather has improved. We walk unhurriedly through the high street towards Miracle Square, with Alice indicating her favourite food spots and where to purchase the best gelato. Unlike my previous Italian excursions, I’ve exercised restraint in my ice cream purchases thus far, not yet conceding to the abundant temptation.

We approach the famed tower, by way of Piazza dei Cavalieri. I'm caught off guard by the verdant surroundings. The Leaning Tower is also smaller than I imagined. Yet, I’m pleasantly surprised rather than underwhelmed. Alice explains how the proximity to water and its impact on the tower's foundation has resulted in the slanted quality, as well as what has been done to stabilise it through the centuries. 

Across the picturesque Miracle Square, tourists strike  derivative poses in front of the tower, pretending that they are holding it askew.

As the tour draws to a close, I regret not coming earlier so I could take more digressions. Brenda suggested it could all be done in half a day. I took the advice too literally. There’s no time to see the Cathedral; free of charge but requiring reservation with a waiting list of a couple of hours. I won’t be able to obtain a slot before I have to catch a train back to Florence. 

There’s enough time to perambulate the grounds, pick up some souvenirs from a nearby market and find something to eat; a wonderful swordfish salad at a health-conscious café. I drop into Sant'Antonio before hopping a train back to Florence. I enter just before mass is about to begin. A homeless man, his entire head covered in benign tumours of various sizes, comes in and out of the sanctuary, asking each and everyone for spare change. I’m distracted by my own thoughts as well as all the movement.

I leave as mass starts.

That evening, I’ll indulge my pizza craving for the first time on my trip. 

 After dinner, en route to Stazione Nationale, I stop to buy some Tuscanised meringue from a Gambian-Fulani man who speaks five languages, three of them indigenous. I’m envious. You’re blessed, I tell him.

I’m a lot more confident now manoeuvring around Florence City Centre.

For the only time on the entire trip, I'm back at the accommodation before 10pm.

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun - Various artists: compiled by Paul Hillery (BBE records) + I Wish I Knew Natalie Portman (Can't Really Make You Love Me) - by K-Os.

Firenze nella Primavera Part 1

Florence City Centre ( (c) Life in Italy)

6 min. read

Sometime in March, Karin shares that she’s returning to her old Tuscany stomping ground after Easter. She plans to spend a week at her Alma Mater in Florence to make some progress on her PhD. 

Japan is still closed to tourists. Hopes of visiting my sister in the Spring are fast vanishing.

Why not come out whilst I'm in Florence? Karin suggests.

Despite a desire to see more of Italy, I have a number of reservations. It’s one part of Europe I’ve never visited alone and for good reason. My limited experience – namely Sicily, and, on that occasion, with family – has made me very wary of solitary travell within Italy. Particularly as a woman of West African descent. The attention alternates between flattering and perturbing. Based on my Sicilian experience, it felt very fetishised.

Moreover recently, for reasons both personal and professional, my feelings towards Italy - or rather some of its people - are somewhat complicated.

On the other hand, it would be an opportunity to visit the Italian mainland for the first time. I hear only good things about Florence – at least to visit. One of my Teutonic darlings, Brenda, just returned and has been effusive with praise. My Auntie. J raves about the City when, during my last UK trip, I mention that I might visit. 

I bump into a sweet Italian lass at a social in central Brussels one Friday night. She assures me Florence would be one of the safest places to visit for a solo female traveller… The signs are promising. Plus, the thought of Karin being in town at the same moment is comforting. She lived in the city for three years before relocating to Brussels.

Thanks to a recent, healthy-sized tax rebate from the Belgian state, I’m thus able to book a long weekend in Bella Firenze on a reasonable budget. Although, my dates will overlap with Karin’s, she warns she won’t have much availability. Not to worry, I reassure. I’m pretty seasoned at this solo travel thing. Based on a few of Brenda’s suggestions, I waste no time putting together a busy itinerary, including several guided tours. I’ll thus be content if Karin and I can meet up for dinner once or twice.

My connection to Florence goes without a hitch. For once, I don’t camp out at the airport, opting for a more comfortable night in my own bed and an early commute for a 9am flight.

To my relief, masks are still mandatory on the plane. I'll observe that this precaution is taken far more seriously in Italy than Belgium or the UK.

I call a friend from the airport, to wish him happy birthday.

Say hello to the Medicis for me, he quips.

San Lorenzo Basilicum (courtesy of The Florentine)

The skies are sombre when we touch down. Mere weeks ago when I booked, the forecast was far more optimistic. For that reason, I’ve packed mostly light clothing. 

Whilst negotiating the Florentine tram and bus system, the sun makes an encouraging appearance. 

In all my planning, I forget to research how to commute around Florence.  I'm apprehensive about asking for help. My two years of  GCSE Italian have evaporated. Blame it on only blagging my way to an 'A' based on prior knowledge of Latin and modern Romance languages, as well as lack of practice. I still have some passive knowledge. However, if I try to speak Italian my brain defaults to French, or more likely these days, my pre-intermediate Portuguese. I’m thus reliant on Italians whose linguistic palate overlaps with mine. With Florence being a major tourist destination, that turns out not to be a problem.

Moving around the City, my first impression is that it’s more multicultural than I presumed. I wouldn’t be a novelty here. During my short holiday I'll meet émigrés from the Philippines, Bangladesh, Francophone West Africa and the Middle East, to name a few. Many of the Africans I come across are  street vendors. It calls to mind something Karin said about the limited socio-economic prospects for migrants from that part of the Global South. She's experienced it first hand through her husband's travails.

Once I’ve pegged the transport system, I find my way to my accommodation without issue. Save for the disconcerting ammonia smell associated with urine, it appears to be a decent neighbourhood.

My host, Sandra, has already informed me she’ll be out of town. I find a Dental surgery when I rock up at the address. I study again my printed AirBnB information and Google Map instructions. It’s the correct address, all right. I ring the bell. A smiling brunette pokes her head out of the window. She introduces herself as Sandra’s daughter, Anna. Her dad is indeed a dentist. They live next door to his surgery.

Anna shows me around the capacious premises. The house is high and narrow; the guestroom too far from the shared bathing facilities. There are also no suitable European-standard plug sockets, which will be a small headache as far as charging my devices are concerned. 

I’ll be staying in Anna’s old bedroom; nicknamed the Sweet Cherry Room for its red and pink motif.

I compliment Anna on her command of English. Her maternal grandmother is from the West Country, she reveals. Anna has no problem understanding English but always responded to her mother in Italian as a child (A phenomenon I’ve never quite understood, although witnessing my mother do the same when my Nan spoke to her in Efik). Anna speaks English well enough, but not with the ease of someone who grew up fully bilingual.

I have a couple of hours to nap, freshen up and grab a bite before I head off to my first walking tour.

As I leave the accommodation, the weather is taking a turn for the worse. I arrive at the designated stop in good time. Except my Google map instructions don’t account for diversions. I’m far from the meeting point. With a few minutes to spare, I stop at a Middle Eastern Street Food café for refreshment and directions. The Palestinian waiter, with dazzling blue eyes and fluid English, assists with both. Alas, it’s not as straightforward a journey as I anticipate. I call the guide but he’s not responding. 

There are a number of multilingual groups in San Lorenzo square when I eventually reach. Hopeful, I join one. I’m told mine have already set off. I improvise and accompany a group led by Amanda, a Brazilian settled in Italy for many years.

Ponte Vecchio (courtesy of Florence Tips)

Not surprisingly, the tour focuses on one of Western history's most infamous families, the Medici, their dalliance with the equally well-known Hapsburgs and their sponsorship of oeuvres by various Renaissance greats. Amanda mentions in passing other sites on my itinerary such as the Palazzo Pitti and the Dome’s famous Clock Tower with its 400+ steps. The tour draws to a close at one of many great landmarks; Piazza della Signoria, where stands a replica of Michelangelo's iconic David, much larger than I anticipate. According to Amanda, the original is even bigger. Still, I don't have the overwhelming urge to visit the Uffizi gallery to see for myself.

After the tour concludes, I do a circuit around the Ponte Vecchio area before heading back towards San Lorenzo Square; recommended by Amanda for good eateries. She advises us to steer clear of the Ristorantes in favour of the Trattoria or Osteria, where we can find local food that won’t break the bank (tourism aside, eating out in Florence is not as economical as I’d expect from this part of Europe). 

In spite – or maybe because of – the rain, Ponte Vecchio takes on a romantic, if melancholy, charm as the sun slowly descends. 

I congratulate myself on tracing my steps back to San Lorenzo. I’m drawn to one establishment, partly because I spy an elegant young African waitress; some unconscious solidarity at play. I guess correctly that she’s from Senegal and avail myself of the French practice.

From experience, Italy is not the easiest place to watch one’s waistline. There’ll be no daily consumption of pizza or gelato for me. I remain vigilant, factoring in one ‘treat’ day over the weekend.

I order some stodgy traditional Fiorentine soup – closer to a thick casserole – and delicious Ricotta. For a change, I’m not the only person dining alone that evening. An American sits at the adjacent table. I assume he’s waiting for a friend. When I ask for the bill, I note he’s still on his own. I wonder if I should make conversation or if it will be misread. The moment passes.

I don’t see my Senegalese lovely when settling the bill. I’m left in the care of her icier colleague. I ask for directions to the Stazione Nazionale. They’re so vague and suspiciously simple, I don’t have much confidence in them. Rightly so. I spend the best part of the next hour, wandering around central Florence, relying on the (un)help of strangers; locals and tourists. Even when using their smartphones, some misjudge the instructions. 

En route, a couple of drunk young leery types call out, in broken English:

Mama Africa! I love woman Africa.

Almost at my wits end, I ask yet another passer-by. He's also heading to the station. I reluctantly follow. When he proves legit, I regret my initial trepidation. 

I reach the accommodation close to midnight. Anna is waiting for me with a smile. I explain sheepishly why it’s taken me so long to come back. Not that she asks.

 Part 2 & 3

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun - Various artists: compiled by Paul Hillery (BBE records)

Hard Pressed but not Crushed

 

7 min. read

Capricious April first announces itself with a drop in temperature drastic enough for it to snow. A few weeks later, the consistent balmy weather will resume.  The blossoms are in full, extravagant, coral-coloured bloom. (I'm forever enchanted by nature's confetti).

After my auspicious short break in the UK, reality hits hard and quick on my return to Belgium. 

 After several weeks on the blink, my boiler is no closer to being fixed. The miraculous patience I had for the situation wears rapidly thin, especially as the temperature plummets. I grow tired of my landlord’s lack of urgency and even more frustrated with reluctant, unresponsive or unreliable plumbers. When we eventually do find someone willing to do the job, he takes longer than he suggests to supply a quote. After at last he does, the landlord decides on an extra feature that would prevent the build-up of limescale. It’s something for which he could have asked from the outset. This leads to further delays. To expedite the process, I make the appointment for installation before the new quote is even approved by the landlord. 

The technician, Nadeem, comes round with his assistant. I remain in the kitchen whilst they’re fiddling with the new boiler for a while. They prepare to leave as the sun sets, to break their fast.

That is, not before Nadeem demands payment. I assure him I'll make the transfer ASAP. He also chooses this moment to reveal that he misinformed me about the original quote, even after I double checked. They are unable to install the additional features that same day. So much the better. My landlord would otherwise be paying an arm and a leg. To cap it all, Nadeem tells me that they don’t have the van space to dispose of my old boiler. He’ll have to collect it later.

It’s only after Nadeem and co have left that I notice what a shoddy job has been done. A part of the boiler is hanging loose. There is still no hot water. It takes longer than it should to schedule a follow-up, with a lot of evasiveness and some dissembling on Nadeem’s part. He comes round again. Does some more fiddling. Still no warm water. The old boiler continues to be an obstruction in my hallway. I wonder if Nadeem is doing it on purpose. I’ve already decided no payment will be made until the task has been completed to a satisfactory standard. The saga continues well into Easter weekend, to my consternation. This time, to make sure, I conspicuously observe Nadeem whilst he works. Even when I finally feel the trickle of hot water between my fingers under the bathroom taps, I won’t dare inform the landlord until days later. I don’t want to tempt fate.

First world problems, perhaps but it’s additional stress. 

I’m doing my best to manage the things within my control. I have to make my peace with spending Easter on my own. Mum will not be fully vaccinated in time to benefit from relaxed travel rules. Em does not reply when I invite her round for Resurrection Sunday dinner.

I launch my job search after returning from the UK. Not much about which to be optimistic so far. 

I finally get hold of the trade union liaison once responsible for my file, following the discrimination and harassment I faced at TTUO. He’s never had the decency to directly communicate with me, ignoring my requests via the Delegation. I call and, as calmly as possible, explain where I feel there is room for improvement in the support he provides, for future reference. 

The liaison's response is arrogant and self-justifying. 

Typical of white fragility, he plays the victim, accusing me of aggression. He admits no culpability nor concedes that things could have been done better. He has no proper answer for a complete absence of direct communication. Instead he defends the process, the lacklustre attitude of the Delegation towards its conclusion and even the Belgian law that offers too little protection for fixed term workers. What about my interests, I ask, where’s his compassion for me? He’s not there to offer ‘psychological support’ he repeats, ad nauseum. He shows more hostility towards me than he does the Gen. Sec who wrangled and harassed me out of a job.

The heated discussion is conducted in my second language. I'm angry and haven't (yet) mastered French to the level of my first language. I'm therefore not as fluid as I would be in English. Still, I communicate my indignation well enough for him to be hyper-defensive. Talk about closing ranks. His outrage is misplaced. I’m the one who should be offended.

I still believe in the union movement, I inform him, but it’s individuals like you that make me – and others – doubt its efficacy.

Utrecht (GetYourGuide)

I’m frequenting fitness classes yet results seem sluggish, even weeks into a chastened Lenten regime. 

As Holy Week approaches, I tweak my routine further.

I spend a couple of days in the lovely Dutch town of Utrecht, where I review an excellent set by British Funk/Soul outfit, Mamas Gun. The mixed-dorm that I accidentally booked is not an experience I’ll repeat again. At least the premises are clean and the staff are helpful. It’s a fly-by-night trip. There’s enough time before returning to Belgium to engage in lengthy conversation with a friendly Irish woman from the dorm and attend a city tour. The weather has been kind. It’s good to be away just for a bit from Brussels, a city increasingly associated in my mind with false starts and false hope.

Holy Week begins the day after my Holland excursion. I’ve felt somewhat out to sea this Lent. In 2021, for the first time in aeons, I didn’t abstain from anything for the 40 days. I missed that kind of observance. Nevertheless, this year Lent hasn’t been the transcendant or serene experience for which I’d hoped. 

For the final seven days, I immerse myself in Gospel music and endeavour to be more circumspect about what content I imbibe.

I’m not a hermit, however. I make time for friends and fellowship. I lead a bible study on Christ’s statement, I am the Resurrection and the Life. It's well received. I’m emotional by the end of the discussion. It certainly helps to get my head and heart in the right space. 

That weekend, I have the opportunity to become better acquainted over drinks with Elsa, a fellow congregant at my Belgian church, FWM. Of mixed heritage, originally from Cape Verde, she patiently encourages my efforts to practise Portuguese. She’s a remarkable woman; quite the maverick. Looking too youthful to have a daughter almost 30 years old, she married young and scandalised her old Catholic community by divorcing a few years later. She went on to forge a successful career as a Leftist politician in her adopted home in the Netherlands; blazing a trail as one of very few Afrodescendant women in the game. She faced down misogynoir on all sides, including horrific threats of sexual violence and death. Ours is a meeting of minds on several fronts. I'm always buoyed by encounters with politically-aware, socially-engaged Christians.

Réformé-Ch

A few days prior, I catch up with Gretchen, erstwhile member of FWM. I’m pleased to discover things are going better for her since we last met in the New Year. Gretchen mentions in passing that she saw Lorenzo at a one-day silent retreat in late March. It coincided with my trip to the UK. If I had been there, no doubt Lorenzo wouldn't have attended. It was I who informed him of the retreat, when we were still on regular speaking terms. I’m conflicted, glad that he availed himself of this spiritual exercise on one hand. On the other, not wanting a reminder of a friendship once so dear but appearing more moribund as each day passes. It puts me in a funk.

Seeing as FWM does not have any special programme for the season apart from Easter Sunday, starting from Maundy Thursday I attend services at Trinity; a High-Anglican church in the City Centre. It’s a lot more regimented than is my custom. There are rituals that are unfamiliar to me, such as being plunged in near darkness on Easter Saturday before the individual Paschal candles are lit. Yet, carving out this time over Passion Weekend is just what I need for personal reflection. There are pockets of silence during the extended Good Friday service that are close to bliss.

After a special Resurrection Sunday performance at FWM, part-endearing (the kids), part cringe-worthy (most of the rest), it’s back home for a post-Lent brunch and an epic Skype call with sis. I pop out in the evening to check out an open mic night in town. It has just restarted after two years in the pandemic wilderness. I’ve been slowly getting to know these establishments in recent weeks. At the beginning of the month, I try out a jazz jam. It’s dominated, as usual, by self-indulgent instrumentalists. I hope to make some musical connections but it's not to be that evening. The reaction to my sung rendition of Stella by Starlight – substantially drowned out by the musicians-is at best lukewarm.

(BigOven)

This Easter Sunday session, at a different bar, is more a guitar-based singer/songwriter affair. Except for a few punters on the terrace, the venue is empty when I arrive. The bartender assures me the jam is still going ahead. I do a circuit around the neighbourhood. It’s a fine Spring evening in Brussels city centre. There’s a solitary musician getting ready to play when I return to the bar. 

I spot he’s British from his heavily-accented French. I stay for one song out of politeness. After brief conversation, he hands me his business card, to stay abreast of future events.

It’s back home for Easter Dinner for one; a menu comprised of dishes from Greece and Lebanon (courtesy of a new cook book) and chocolate for dessert.

I’ll spend most of Easter Monday with friends in Schaerbeek. Karin has organised a Resurrection Weekend breakfast/brunch according to German tradition. When I arrive, it’s so busy they can barely hear the doorbell. I’m zealously welcomed by Karin and Felix’ son, Amos, one of his playmates in tow. As I converse with some guests, I feel a rustling of my skirt and a gentle pressure against my calves. I look down to see Evita, the couple’s toddler. I pick her up with delight, her simple, adorable gesture warming my heart beyond measure. Evita always plays coy with me, returning my cuddle before hastening to join her mum in the kitchen.

It’s good to get out. The alternative would be staying at home with my sombre thoughts. The Resurrection Breakfast is a blessing for several reasons. Good food and good company, yes. It’s also the occasion to make my peace with Miriam, a church sister to whom I have not been kind of late. As a recovering Pharisee, I’ve allowed a sanctimonious side to get the better of me. The Holy Spirit won’t allow it. I apologise unreservedly to Miriam and she graciously accepts.

Karin and Felix have more food left over than they know what to do with. I can’t bring myself to eat the boiled eggs beautifully decorated by Karin and the little ones.

As she prepares doggy bags, we discuss a forthcoming Italian excursion. 

TBC.

A Springtime Parenthesis in London: Part II

(courtesy of FeedsPortal.com)

Part 1

6 min. read

The UK’s Mothering Sunday falls half-way through my trip. It’s a happy coincidence.

Alas, the sun vanishes that morning. Just the day before, young women optimistically expose bare arms and legs at the sight of clear skies, defying the intermittent chill. As my older and more circumspect friends observe ‘It’s still only March’. 

The steel-coloured sky and unambiguous cold of Mother’s Day morning are a rude awakening.

I make my way to church, although not my ‘home’ branch this time. I don’t have the appetite neither to explain to my London church family all that’s been happening these past months, nor feign that everything is light and carefree. I decide to worship at another one of the sites. There are still familiar faces like Pastor Sammy, with whom I used to serve in youth ministry and Will, a former policeman. I'm privately pleased he's quit the force. When asked why, he explains that one of his goals in life was to grow old and jolly. He hadn't encountered many of those when he was part of the force. 

I receive a brief but warm welcome from Sammy before he preaches from John 4, one of my favourite passages in the Gospels. I look out for his wife, Lydia but see no sign of her or their baby girl, Hope. Lydia and Sammy’s wedding way back in 2017 was the last I recall attending, before I relocated to Europe. Those kind of mass celebratory events seem like another lifetime, following COVID and its Great Interruption.

Between Mother’s Day festivities and baby dedications, the service is busy. Guests are dressed up to the nines, particularly the West African contingent. After Will fills me in on his life news, I don’t hang around. My exit is perhaps a little too hasty. There are one or two others with whom I’d have liked to shoot the breeze. I just don’t want to be late for my next appointment with Amelia, around the corner from my AirBnB in Forest Hill.

Amelia has made a special effort to see me today. Between the pandemic and personal schedules, we haven’t been able to connect offline for a few years. She takes me to a local café, where one of the waiting staff is obviously smitten by her. He avails himself of every opportunity to converse. Amelia is polite but circumspect.

She informs me of her hectic programme at a primary school, juggling regular teaching duties with a senior administrative role. She’s also finding time to revive an old love for gymnastics, classical dance and singing. Amelia is a woman with many strings to her bow of which I was previously unaware. As she talks, my head swims with ideas about future collaborative projects. 

Once again, I try to summarise almost two years of life season in Belgium so far. She’s horrified, if hardly surprised, when I narrate my former work saga. She hears echoes of my story in some of her professional experience.

Greenwich Park (greenwich.gov.uk)

As we leave the establishment, Amelia is kind enough to foot the bill. For her troubles, she’s accosted again by her admirer and only just manages to escape. By the time we step out, the sun is shining again. 

All the better. I’m spending the rest of the day with mum (of course). We've scheduled a walk through Blackheath and Greenwich, as was once our custom. We have just about enough time before sunset. I drop off mum’s card, gift and flowers before we head back out.

En route, outside Blackheath station, a crowd are gathered around what threatens to be a serious physical altercation involving three men and a woman. It appears a couple of the men have tried to intervene in a domestic. As mum and I distance ourselves from the drama, the woman’s bloodcurdling screams follow us. When we loop back around, an ambulance has pulled up on the scene. Yet another example of the tensions I’ve been observing since I arrived.

In stark contrast, mum has a pleasant surprise for me. To be continued...

We beat sundown to make it across the Heath and Greenwich Park before the gates close. We take the bus back to Sydenham where mum has cooked some of my favourites, despite my protestations that she shouldn’t have on Mother’s Day. I marvel at my mum’s youthfulness. I’ve had a whole lifetime to get accustomed but I still can’t. Thank God for her genes. 

 It ends up being another late night, which naturally has a knock-on effect on my sleep. There has been a notable improvement, compared to the borderline insomnia I experienced a short while ago. I sleep even better away from Brussels, yet it’s still not uninterrupted.

I’m groggy and slow the morning of the penultimate day of my trip. My mind often strays to images of me rattling around my Brussels flat alone when I return. I try and will myself back to the present.

(churchsupplier.com)

I’m running behind schedule to reconnect with the Chaplain from Imperial College. We met when I worked for the University a number of years ago. He's the only former colleague with whom I'm still in contact. 

The combination of living in smaller cities, extended time away from London over the pandemic and wishful thinking have me constantly underestimating the time it takes to commute. I reach the good Reverend in time for a short and sweet catch-up before he begins a hybrid version of the weekly meditation session he runs. It’s been several years since I’ve participated offline. Over Lent he’s experimenting with different Christian meditation traditions. 

The Rev. is a calming presence. Even if our reunion is shorter than I would have liked, it does me good.

I bid a fond goodbye and take a circuitous route from South Kensington to King’s Cross. The Piccadilly line is suspended at South Ken. It’s not a good day for public transport. There’s also a partial bus strike.

I’m due to meet with Nneoma from my Morphē Arts Collective family at King's Place. The hope is that others will join us later but alas, timetables and transport disruption do not allow.

It’s a blessing in disguise. 

Nneoma and I have apparently moved in similar circles, long before our interactions with Morphē. However, prior to my visit we were yet to meet IRL. We have instead compensated with video calls that last several hours. It’s therefore fortuitous that we have this extended one-to-one time. Nneoma’s babyface belies long and rich life experience, albeit often painful. A multifaceted artist, she has rubbed shoulders with some of the biggest names of our generation. Nneoma’s is an honest, sometimes even cantankerous faith; rugged to the core. If she’s had to develop a tough skin to survive, by the grace of God, she maintains some tenderness of heart. I blush and gush at her generosity when she presents me with a gift package.

Our conversation covers the profound and the trivial; from pathos to bathos. It’s through her that I learn of Will Smith’s shameless display of toxic masculinity at the Academy Awards, for example. The discussion can just as quickly switch to a reflection on the hypocritical reactions to the Ukraine crisis or the frailties of the contemporary church. We meet mid-afternoon and part ways at sunset.

It’s one last stop off to see mum, before I depart the following afternoon. She has an Easter Egg and various other nick-nacks waiting for me; items that I’ve ordered and am yet to collect. Whilst tucking  into her fried yam, tomato stew and black-eyed beans, I fill mum in on the Oscar fiasco. 

She’s scandalised. 

Goodness! Whatever happened to decorum? There could be children watching.

It’s another very late night as I do some last minute packing, with YouTube Shorts keeping me company.

Before checking out, I have the opportunity to converse with my host Erika once more. We’ve hardly seen each other during my stay. For that reason she considers me the ideal guest; independent and unobtrusive. I discover that much of the artwork and photography on the premises are all her originals. 

I say farewell and head straight to St. Pancras station, several hours before my train. I have one more tête-à-tête with former colleague and now long time friend, Diana. I deflect when she asks me what’s going on in my world. She’s up-to-speed give or take the odd details. It does me more good to hear about her latest adventures; travel, concerts and recovering from injury.

Way back when I booked this trip, I wouldn’t have anticipated what a timely respite it would be. It’s been low-key and intimate. I only planned to meet with a select few over a long weekend. It paid off not to be too prescriptive. I've had lovely, understated break.

Soundtrack: Close to Your Heart by Ed Mount.

A Springtime Parenthesis in London Part I

 

(courtesy of London Perfect)

6 min read.

Back in deep winter, I make the most of Eurostar’s seasonal sales to book a short early Spring trip to the UK.  A lot has happened since I first made my reservation, making the break all the more timely.

The combination of minimal travel restrictions (zero on the UK side) and commuting by train spares me the drama of recent cross-Channel visits.

When I arrive at St. Pancras, the outpouring of support for Ukrainian arrivals is as zealous as ever. I continue to be very divided about the issue; not whether help should be given but rather how selective this goodwill has been on the part of European nations. During my visit, I'll discover that these sentiments will be shared by other Afrodescendant relatives and friends.

As usual, I’ve secured accommodation in South East London, this time even closer to my mum. I’ll be staying with Erika; an Austrian working in the arts whose made London her adopted home. The experience is a world away from my first post-Lockdown trip to the UK last November. 

Firstly, Erika’s home is pristine. The reviews haven’t done it justice. I am yet to meet an Austrian, German or Swiss who doesn’t live in spotless conditions. Erika is easy-going. No strenuous house-rules, apart from keeping an eye on the whereabouts of her errant cat.

It’s exactly the kind of environment I need for a restful, hassle-free trip. Plus, after one month of my boiler being out-of-action, I can finally enjoy a hot shower over these few days.

I assume Erika comes from money. There’s no other way that a young, jobbing artist from overseas could afford a sizeable house in London that she didn’t inherit. Prior to living in Lewisham, she had a flat in London Bridge. ‘Nuff said. In any case, Erika is welcoming and down-to-earth.

The UK is enjoying the same clement weather that has blessed Belgium and its neighbours lately. Whilst I welcome the sunshine in usually grey Brussels, it’s been tinged with melancholy. Perhaps it’s too much rattling around alone in my flat, despite my efforts to get out and be active. The main advantage of having a live-in AirBnB host is knowing one is never completely isolated.

More generally, I didn’t expect to enjoy sunny London as much I am. It feels different. I grew up here, after all. Sun is sun. And yet this temporary scene switch – being physically away from the little dramas that have characterised my Belgian experience – is very refreshing. A change is as good as a rest, they say.

I make my peace with the extremely lax Corona-precautions. Brussels isn’t too far behind these days. I must quickly readjust to longer commutes; spending up to three-quarters of an hour in transit without even leaving the borough. If I hadn’t been raised in a megapolis like London, it would swallow me alive. I don’t know how small town boys and girls manage the transition.

(courtesy of Vox)

Going about my business, it’s not long before I’m reminded of the tensions that accompany life in a mega-city. Within a short window I come across a number of heated verbal altercations, one of which ends up in a truculent customer being escorted out of a shop by security. Inner City Blues.

Aggressive exchanges notwithstanding, my holiday is off to a laidback start. I stock up on the usual bargains that I can’t take for granted in Belgium. (I will end up returning with more luggage than with which I came.) 

I have my eyebrows done expertly courtesy of my old beautician, Nab. It’s been years since we've seen each other, although I’ve stayed abreast of her news thanks to mum. Nab looks well, finally recovering from the blight that COVID has been on her business. For some reason, she's trying to convince me to relocate to the Gulf. She knows from experience that there’s a lot of money to be made, claiming that educated ‘native’ English speakers are sought after. I’m not at all enthused by the idea, especially in light of the region's terrible employment rights’ record for Asian and African migrant workers. I listen politely as Nab’s suggestion goes in one ear and out the other.

She does persuade me to dye my eyebrows. I’m in such a rush, the colour doesn’t have long enough to take. I am already late for my hair appointment in Peckham. 

 I keep my answers courteous but vague when Auntie Femi (as I call her affectionately) asks how life is in Brussels. As I have my kinky twists refreshed, she entertains an exasperated mixed Yoruba/English conversation with her facetious youngest son.

I have enough time after doing my hair to squeeze in a lastminute.com meet up with my auntie. J. She always has an endless supply of weird and wonderful anecdotes at her disposal, the magnet for colourful characters that she is. She regales me with a story about a funeral of a good friend. It has enough plot and tension to make a soap scriptwriter’s mouth water. As one of her latest ventures takes an unanticipated and rather disappointing turn, J is already bouncing back and making it work to her favour. Her uniquely customised self-portraits are garnering attention, enough for her to have some exhibited in a local library. She has various literary projects on the go, as well as travel plans. She is full of more verve and vision than folk half her age.

That same evening, I pass by to see mum. Hot food and more hair care awaits. Mum says she’s relieved to see me in a mellow mood. I’ve been tense during our latest phone conversations. I attribute this breeziness to positive effects of the trip so far.

The following day I’m set to meet my baby cousin, Israel. I say ‘baby’. He’s 22 and with his ‘Fro and Beatnik beard, he looks quite the hipster. He catches me up on his Uni and work news, before we move on to politics. I never cease to be amazed by how well-versed my half-Scottish, UK born and bred cousin is in West African linguistics, geography and history. He’s yet to step foot on African soil but has a knowledge so extensive it would put many in the diaspora to shame. I’m not a complete ignoramus myself but he’s always teaching me something new. I take literal notes for further research.

Later that afternoon, I meet with Olivia whom I've known the longest of all my friends. We met in primary school. This link-up is something of a small miracle. When you’ve been acquainted for so long, the relationship inevitably goes through various phases. This time two years ago, we were barely on speaking terms.

(courtesy of Open Table)

She’s looking well. We have a couple of hours together, yet it’s not enough to bring each other up to speed. A medical doctor, she’s recently switched specialities. I ask after her extended family. I try and synopsise the last two years but it’s still over too quickly. Olivia is based in the Midlands. It’s just by chance we’re both in town at the same time.  I pray this is the first of many bridge-building encounters.

The evening is crowned by a one-to-one in the Victoria area with Faith from my Morphē Arts family.  Half-Ghanaian, half-German, she is one of the few other Afrodescendant women in the group.

Connecting with this Christian Arts collective has been a saving grace over the pandemic period and my relocation to Belgium. I dread to think how I’d have coped – if at all - with all the ups and downs otherwise. 

Faith is talented, attractive, sharp and dynamic. One of many impressive women I know, still inexplicably single. The last time we met in November, I remarked that we’re priced out of the market. Grace’s hazle-green eyes lit up, before throwing her head back in hearty laughter.

On this occasion, she introduces me to a lively establishment with a versatile menu round the corner from Victoria station. We catch up over  healthy(ish), delicious, and reasonably-priced delicacies.

As her name suggests she is a powerhouse of faith and prayer. Her vibrancy and goodwill washes over me like a warm shower. I’m reinvigorated by the evening’s end. Whilst I head home, Faith makes her way to Soho for the DJ set of a mutual acquaintance’s husband. I'd be tempted to join her, if the clock’s weren't going forward and we weren't already foregoing an hour’s sleep.

Soundtrack: 1982 by Cabu.