Life is Full of Surprises

 

Sounds Jazz Club, Brussels
(courtesy of Visit Brussels)

7 min. read

A few hours after my plane from Italy touches down, I’m back in the gym. That same evening, I attend a French conversation social.  The longer days and warmer weather bring more opportunities to socialise. I intend to avail myself of them all.

Meanwhile, my job search is ongoing. One upside to unemployment - I don’t have to worry about being too groggy for work in the morning.

I have a tendency to commit to things in advance, sometimes only to find my diary close to overload. I am in that exact position as April draws to a close. 

I continue my discovery of what Brussels has to offer on the open mic night front (these events have been some of the last to recommence post-lockdowns). 

One of the most proactive Internations consuls organises a midweek trip to Sounds Jazz club in Ixelles. 

The venue would normally be apprised of guests’ arrival, so we can all be seated in the same area. Not this time. My enquiries are met with blank expressions from staff. A petite woman with a fabulous dusty-blonde afro wanders around looking equally lost. We realise we’re part of the same group. She introduces herself as Delia; originally from Angola now based in Gent. She’s having trouble getting hold of the organiser. Another guest shows up - Emma- overhears our conversation and signals she’s also there for the same reason. 

The venue is fast filling up. I volunteer to speak to a small party near the stage who look as if they might be in the know. My gamble pays off. I’m signposted to a group in the corner, presided over by Helena – the co-organiser. I call over Delia and Emma. There's just about enough space for everyone. 

None of us have previously met. Most are relatively new to Brussels; some only moving to Belgium weeks beforehand. I’m almost a veteran in comparison. At less than two years in the country, I’m used to being amongst the newbies. Lively Helena has maintained a strong Antipodean accent, despite having spent at least half her life based in either North America or Europe. Part-Greek and Part-Italian (speaking neither), she has more official nationalities than anyone I’ve met. Four; including New Zealand and US. I didn’t think it were possible.

Delia and I discuss natural hair care and I speak about my recent trip to Florence with a gentleman originally from the Calabria region. I strike a particular rapport with Fredricka, a Half-Ugandan, Half-German director recently moved to Belgium after a brief stint in the UK. She’s in Brussels to research her next project. We discuss cultural liminality, colonial spillover, observations about the male species in the European context and exchange perspectives on living in France (she in the South, I in the North).

You must meet my friend, Karin. I insist.

The discussion is so enjoyable, we’re all distracted from the high quality musicianship on offer. After the House Trio finish their set, young bloods (all men, as usual) line up to jam. I had seriously played with the idea of adding some vocals (for a change), but the moment passes. It’s getting late.

Sons of Abraham (Théâtre National, BXL)

We all head home at a similar time, not before numbers are swapped and friendship requests sent. I’m buoyed by the night’s proceedings. I went with an open mind and my expectations have been exceeded. 

Quelle belle surprise.

Later in the week, I head to the National Theatre in Central Brussels for a performance of new play, Sons of Abraham. Months ago, Lorenzo and I had plans to see it together.  A lot has happened in the meantime. Instead, I attend with the Internations Theatre contingent. I’m almost tempted to bow out when I discover that a concert is being held that same night at Bozar, to commemorate what would’ve been the 100^th birthday of Belgian Jazz Legend, Toots Thielemans. The event boasts illustrious names like Brazilian singer/songwriter Ivan Lins and guitarist Philippe Catherine. Conflicted, I decide to honour my theatre commitment.

It’s not at all a bad trade off. Sons of Abraham is what experimental theatre should be like when done well. Fusing music with an interactive narrative, an Iranian refugee, his Israeli creative-collaborator and a Turkish-Kurdish singer examine the brutal reality of hostile migration policy. The biblical account of half-brothers Ishmael and Isaac is the source material. Raw, self-aware, irreverent and shockingly candid, the performers roam the sparse stage, engaging every element of their being in the story-telling process. The script is updated to include the recent invasion of Ukraine and the double-standards in Western reportage. No interval, no let-up. 

After roughly 90 minutes, we’re left reeling but impressed. There’s not too much lingering after the performance. I’ve been bracing myself to bump into Lorenzo. I don’t see him. I have mixed feelings about it. Mostly relief.

I head back towards the station with a fellow theatre-goer.  De Brouckère square has been commandeered by the Balkans Traffik festival. The music carries so far and wide, and the stage so visible from street level, you don’t need to have purchased a ticket to benefit.

I’ll be back at the theatre the following night. Before then, I attend an inaugural Mixed Conversation Circle, organised by a life coach - Bruno - with whom I became acquainted in late 2021. The aim is to have open discussions, irrespective of gender, about negotiating concepts of masculinity and femininity in the 21st century. Bruno is already experienced in running Masculinity circles. He credits me for the Mixed Conversation event, since it was my demand that they be open to women which gave him the spark.

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I fall short of my good intentions and arrive a quarter hour late. Bruno isn't fussed.

By the way, you’ll be the only woman present for this first session, he warns.

That’s odd, I reply, more nervous now. It's usually harder to convince the menfolk to attend these activities.

Bruno directs me upstairs. I hear him mention Lorenzo’s name.

Bruno knows we’re acquainted and that it was I who encouraged Lorenzo to attend last year’s Masculinity Circles. However, Bruno is not aware that we’re currently estranged. We haven't seen each other for a couple of months. Bar the odd email or a perfunctory text exchange over Easter, we have hardly communicated at all.

I don’t have enough time to fix a neutral expression. With a sheepish grin, I throw a cursory glance in Lorenzo’s direction. I expect a cool reception. Instead he smiles and winks, as if he’s not as surprised at my presence as I am at his. 

There are two empty seats; one next to Bruno and the other beside Lorenzo. I choose the former. Instinctively -if unconscious - I angle my body away from Lorenzo for the majority of the meeting. In retrospect, he’s the only one with whom I never make eye-contact when he takes the floor. (It’s not something I can completely avoid. At the end of the discussion, Bruno insists that we look into each other’s eyes. A disarming request at the best of times, it’s a moment I find too excruciating for words in these circumstances.)

I still have love in my heart for my erstwhile friend but I don't feel emotionally safe around him at present. I realise we can't go back to what was. Yet, neither do I see an immediate way forward. 

For the early part of the session, I am completely thrown off. I haven't had time to mentally prepare. This is supposed to be an intimate space. I don’t know how I am going to open up with someone in the room who makes me feel very uncomfortable. 

It doesn’t help that the other attendees stress the point about me being the only woman. It’s all affirmative. In a different context, I’d appreciate the show of respect. For now, I find the attention too intense. I take deep breaths. I try to be as honest about my unease as possible without being indiscreet. (Later, I’ll explain to Bruno by text message the reason for my disorientated state). I intend to listen more than I speak.

Orphelins (Varia Theatre)

I eventually calm down enough to make some meaningful contributions. The discussion doesn’t turn specifically around gender relations, so much as our individual self-image and thought patterns. For the sake of discretion, I won’t divulge more. Suffice to say, once I'm settled, I find the session overall constructive. From the positive feedback I receive from the others, the sentiment is mutual.

Once the mortifying eye-contact ritual is over, I remain only briefly to make conversation with everyone but the person whom I once considered a best friend. He’s not exactly forthcoming himself. I make a beeline for the door, giving a gesture vaguely resembling a wave as I leave. On exiting, I hear a burst of laughter. I try to dispel any paranoia. It’s not in the spirit of the Circle to be catty.

The theatre will be solace of sorts later that evening. A macabre and sophisticated piece about adult siblings - orphaned as children - and the lengths one would go to protect the other from the consequences of a heinous act. There’s much to hold my attention; the rapid-fire dialogue, intriguing plot developments and poignant performances. And yet, my mind occasionally roams. 

The following day, 1 May, is the National Holiday for Workers. After church and a quick detour to Midi market, I head to Mont des Arts in the Gare Centrale area for the official commemoration. I'm due to meet a new comrade, Augustin. This will be my first real Worker's Day experience since moving to Belgium. I expect the gathering to be a typical political rally. It's more like a carnival. The sun is out. There's a temporary stage, where a band with a female lead vocalist and bassist (woo-hoo!) are playing infectious Afro-funk. There are food vans and bouncy castles, as well as numerous stalls set up by Leftist European political parties and CSOs. I collect various flyers en route to meeting Augustin and co. He introduces me to his wife, Molly and their children. Belgian Augustin and Congolese Molly have a rainbow tribe that resembles the cast of Different Strokes, and then some. 

It's an upbeat way to spend my post-church afternoon and beat the solo Sunday blues. That evening, Fredricka and I will reconnect again at a DJ set in Parc Royale. The following week, we’ll make it a wholesome threesome with Karin.

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun compiled by Paul Hillery. Basically Sober by Suff Daddy.

Firenze nella Primavera Part 3

(NomAdvisor)

Part 1 & 2

9 min. read

Over half way through my holiday, and I bump into Sandra, my AirBnB host for the first time. I’m on my way out to meet Karin for a special one-off service at her old church, Tapestry. I’m worried I’ll miss my bus but don’t want to be impolite. It turns out that Anna is the spitting image of her mother. Sandra apologises for all the issues with the sporadic wifi.

I just manage to catch my bus to town to link up with Karin at Tapestry. She’s warned me that, although based in Italy with an international congregation, it’s very much culturally American. Tapestry hires an arthouse cinema for their Sunday services. 

 Karin does the rounds, introducing me to some of her old church family. I meet Ron, who will be taking the sermon. He seems nervous. I assume he’s just an extreme introvert.

Karin anticipates that I might not find the musical worship segment inspiring. It’s a part of corporate worship with which I’ve always struggled for some reason I'm yet to understand. More recently, the cultural hegemony of the song styles makes me disengage all the more. I don’t want to approach it like Christian Karaoke, only singing what pleases me. At the same time I've found the monotony discouraging, particularly at my Belgian church. 

 I sit and try to contemplate whilst the singing continues, occasionally joining in. I perk up at the Italian translation of the lyrics. After announcements, Ron takes to the podium to preach from Acts. The message is tepid, his communication of it wooden. I sense too limited an interpretation of -and thus expectation from -the role of prayer in the Christian life. Karin will explain to me that Tapestry don’t much believe in miracles or healing.  The whole atmosphere is quite staid. 

It’s only after the service, that things liven up. Karin asks me to join her in prayer for one of her friends, which is an encouragement all round. Before we leave, we speak to the only Afrodescendant regulars, Nathaniel from Cameroon and Aline from Congo, who will be shortly taking a sabbatical in Belgium. Karin and I insist we all meet up when she’s in town.

It’s raining again. That Sunday will be the worst weather day of the holiday; almost relentlessly wet and chilly. We walk into town to an establishment Brenda suggested for lunch. Despite it being Sunday, and a soaked one at that, the streets are crowded.

This is nothing, says Karin. You should have seen Ponte Vecchio before the pandemic. Packed like sardines, she claims. 

 There are numerous markets in session, something I’ve not paid much attention to on this trip.

When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s already familiar to Karin. She’s somewhat underwhelmed, having also heard it talked up by Brenda.

The restaurant is nonetheless inviting, with a good view of the Arno river. Over panini, salad, apple tart and hot drinks, Karin shares more insight into the spiritual climate in that part of Italy. It paints a grim picture of hierarchy, authoritarian forms of church leadership and beleaguered missionaries. She sheds some light on Ron’s dour sermon. She believes he’s lost his spark; under pressure to conform to the style and personal theology of the (currently absent) senior pastor.

It’s hard to have hope for the positive impact of the worldwide Church when I hear of leadership so set in their patriarchal, not to mention, monocultural ways. I believe God is ready to do a new thing but are we? The ripples of change will - must - come from below and not above, as another church sister recently posited.

Lunch ends up being on Karin.

The rain is torrential. We try to wait it out but there’s no let-up. Karin has come by bike but suggests we walk back to her friend’s flat, where she’s based. The downpour is so bad, she has to abandon the bicycle in town so we can catch the bus.

When it arrives, I realise it’s the same that I use to commute to and from my accommodation. It dawns on Karin that we’ve been staying in the same neighbourhood the whole time. We regret the days and nights that have passed when we could have reconnected more easily than we thought. We vow to make up for lost time in the last couple of days of my visit.

The flat is spacious, luminous and clean. Better still, Karin has it all to herself whilst her host is away. It’s one of the very few times since marrying that she’s had extended quality time on her own.

I spend a leisurely few hours at Karin’s temporary pad. I had considered an afternoon near the coast in Livorno. The awful weather has put paid to the idea. On the plus side, it means more quality time with Karin.

She has an engagement in the suburbs and I’m returning to town for dinner. We plan to see each other once more before I fly back to Brussels.

So much for a Sunday lull. Piazza di San Lorenzo seems busier than ever. There’s no room at the Inn when I ask for a table at a Trattoria I’ve had my eye on. I manage to talk my way into a cosy joint with a swanky Jazz soundtrack, where I order a traditional Tuscan red meat stew.

I move on after dinner; once again for a food-related trek on Brenda’s recommendation. I’m finally permitting myself a gelato break at an artisanal parlour the other side of Ponte Vecchio. 

Tour guides have advised which are the trustworthy establishments. The more mountainous the ice cream display, the lower the quality. The best places keep their wares out of sight in covered refrigeration. Brenda’s recommendation fits this description. I order a brioche stuffed with white chocolate and cinnamon and lavender iced dessert. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting but the experience is a tad anti-climactic. It’s not helped that I can’t enjoy my iced bounty in the shop itself, still under COVID-precautions. I have no choice but to eat whilst roaming the streets, romantic as they are whilst the last strains of sunlight leave the sky.

I feel I need another go at the gelato. I capitulate and buy some treats at a dessert bar where they serve eye-catching, tourist-bait mounds. Maybe because my expectations are lowered, I prefer the experience. One punter keeps giving me the eye. I make a swift and discreet exit.

Back at the accommodation, Sandra is up late. She introduces me to her husband, Pietro for whom, contrary to my assumptions, age has not diminished his dashing good-looks.

The following morning, I bump into Sandra again on my way out. It’s my last full day in Florence. The weather is forecast to be mercifully dry with sunny intervals. It's also a national holiday, as it is in Portugal, commemorating the end of fascist rule in Italy. Businesses and attractions will either be shut or heaving with people.

I optimistically don my sandals for the first time. They’ll come in handy. I ask Sandra for directions into town by foot. It’s supposed to be a relatively short jaunt from the house, according to the AirBnB reviews. 

I pass the neighbourhood where Karin is staying and only get temporarily lost at a junction. Apart from being harassed by a homeless man in an underpass, it's smooth sailing-or walking - once I find my bearings. I’ve already become fairly well-acquainted with central Florence since my early experience of being hopelessly lost.

I set out in plenty of time to make my first appointment of the day; an express tour of the City's jewel, the Cathedral Dome.  I stop to make brief conversation with a Senegalese street vendor. Strapped to her back is an adorable baby boy, his skin like deep, melted chocolate.  Before I even confirm her origin, I instinctively address her in French. Life is hard in Italy, she laments. She presumes it's easier in Belgium. I disabuse her of any illusions of a multicultural, egalitarian utopia. If racism is pervasive, I've found it takes on a strong flavour in mainland Europe, wherever I live. The racism in Belgium might simply be less flagrant than what she's experienced in Italy.  She generously offers me a free small bracelet. I insist on at least giving her a token amount.

Inside the Santa Maria de Fiore dome

Back at the Dome, the tour group gather in front of the Museo della Misericordia - The Museum of Mercy.  The ticket allows us to bypass the depressingly long queues to access the Cathedral Santa Maria de Fiore.  Our guide wizzes through the history of key features; the influence of geometrical advances on the marble floor design - commissioned by the Medici family - as well as portraits donated to the church. We're told it's built wide rather than high, in contrast to Gothic cathedrals, in order to accommodate more people.  The guide emphasises the innovative genius of the Dome's designer, Brunelleschi. Neither an architect nor engineer but a goldsmith by trade, his construction method still baffles the experts. Whilst we manoeuvre around the building, austere organ music follows us.  Visitors wave cameras aloft, snapping the Dome's fresco, apparently the largest in the world.

As I look up, I'm conscience of a numbness within me.  It has characterised much of my trip. It could be the miserable weather. It could be that Florence has been hyped up beforehand to such an extent, that a level of anti-climax is inevitable. It might be that much of what Florence is most famous for isn't normally of great interest to me. It could be remnants of the light depression in and out of which I've dipped for several months.  Or all of the above.

At the end of the tour, we're encouraged to visit the crypt downstairs, where lies Brunelleschi's remains and relics from bygone iterations of the Sanctum. The tour pass does not, as I thought, permit access to the Bell Tower but it does gain entry into the grounds of the Museo della Misericordia. 

I am fortunate enough to have the adjacent Chapel to myself. The tranquillity is a welcome respite from the hoards of tourists outside. I take my time in the chapel, left alone with myriad thoughts. The ceiling's intricate oak design calls to mind similarly elaborate motifs at the Palazzo Pitti.

Next door, in the bright and airy museum itself, more artefacts and masterpieces await. Dating back to the 13th Century, the Mercy Brotherhood are a group of volunteers engaging in health and charitable missions. (It's ironic that the former uniform of the Brotherhood -hooded to ensure humble anonymity-resembles that of an executioner rather than a saviour). Their courage and benevolence has attracted admirers over the ages, hence the many donated works.  

I have a couple of hours to spare until my last touristic amble in Florence; the rescheduled sunset tour.  I take a pause for lunch and to write at a Palestinian café I discovered early on in the holiday. When I enter, a young American woman is pontificating loudly to a friend about the ethics of bringing children into the world, or not.

The chef remembers me from my prior visit. The service overall is attentive.

After lunch, I step out into bright sunshine. Finally. I hurry to Piazza di Maria Novella for my farewell tour.  It will be conducted by the charismatic Chiara.  As well as an opportunity to see Florence at dusk on a clear day, Chiara's version of the tour covers a different side of the city.  It's not the carbon copy experience I feared. Although there are unavoidable overlaps with earlier expeditions - Ponte Vecchio, for example - she has her own intriguing selection of sites, facts and legends.  Beyond being the home of the Italian Renaissance, the region from where the 'standard' language originated and one-time Capital city, I learn that the first pianoforte was produced in Florence, as was the first commissioned opera.

My experience is heightened by the fine weather. The City is completely transformed in the sunlight. Alas, so late in my short sojourn.

Once the tour concludes, Chiara shows me a short cut to Stazione Nationale, where I need to catch a bus to meet Karin.  We have plans to eat locally. She's sacrificed her usual early dinner time to wait for me.

 The restaurant she has in mind is closed for the public holiday.

We improvise at an Osteria, apparently frequented by locals. We're the only non-Italian customers. Usually a good sign. 

Whilst we wait for our order, I'm distracted by a large flatscreen TV playing cynically-titillating promos.  

Karin and I exchange pizza slices as she fills me in on how she's progressing with her PhD.  The conversation takes a turn toward the more personal and profound.  Karin enquires about a recent first session I've had with a new, faith-based therapist. Promising, I reply.

Somehow, this segues into a heated discussion over sensitive - often divisive - theological issues and how the church is - or isn't - measuring up. 

The bill paid, we head in the direction of our respective accommodations.  We're stood on a street corner having a back-and-forth until almost midnight. We're both emotionally exhausted by the end. It's not how I'd have liked my last night on holiday to go, particularly in the company of a dear friend.

I regret not walking away sooner, with the intention to resume at an opportune time. When it's not so late or we're both tired. I can't afford another close friendship to go to the wall.

As I shower and prepare for bed, I pray pensively. After a couple of hours, I fall into a fitful sleep.

I awake to more of the bright sunshine that has evaded most of my Tuscan excursion. I prepare to leave for the airport. The house is empty, the lingering scent of long-finished morning coffee the only sign of life. 

Mockingly clear blue skies greet me as I make my way to the bus stop.

On the tram to Peretola Airport, I notice Karin has sent a heartfelt and conciliatory message. I'm overwhelmed with relief.

As I draft my reply, mum drops me a line to pray and wish me Buon viaggio.