5 min. read
Weds. 29 June 2022: Gloria from Internations organises after-work drinks at a new bar in Flagey called The Gatsby. Turns out to be an alcohol-free establishment (although shisha smoking is indulged). For obvious reasons, I'm fine sans alcool, although it causes some consternation amongst a number of guests.
Inside, it's all emerald green décor. Love the commitment to replicating the aesthetic of Fitzgerald’s literary classic – a personal favourite. Lovely ambiance; large flatscreen footage of dream tropical destinations. Speakers spill out calming and familiar Bossa Nova covers of Pop and Soul. The tee-total cocktails and smoothies are inviting, although price tag is comparatively high. Order a cheaper but still overpriced Lipton Ice. Strike up conversation with a genial half-Belgian, half-Brazilian polyglot, Emmanuella who has just moved back after a long stint in Spain. We’re joined later by Rik; an older, acerbic Englishman. He’s lived in Belgium for roughly the same time I’ve been alive. The sarcasm is too readily dispensed, though. Reminds me of the Oscar Wilde quip about the lowest form of wit... In hindsight, feel I’m too cordial about it. Maybe it’s because it’s our first proper conversation. I do protest when he takes a swipe at Sade whilst an interpretation of Your Love is King plays in the background.
Gloria – a fellow non-drinker herself – heeds her alcohol-deprived public and heads out to look for somewhere that sells booze and food. That’s my cue to head home.
Thurs. 30 June:
A rude awakening. This month’s unemployment benefit comes through, significantly lower than expected. Was anticipating a drop but thought it started from late July. Once the essentials are paid, for the first time since this bout of joblessness, I wonder how I’m going to make ends meet the following month. Have a bit of a meltdown, prayers between tears. Job market is already sluggish. Slows down even more with the impending summer lull. Thankfully, much of my non-gratis summer activities have been paid in advance- when things weren't as constrained. Back then, I believed I’d already be back in work by early summer.
Herbie Hancock at Arena5 in the evening. An outdoor gig on the one day of the week when the weather is awful. Gloria is somewhere in the audience, as are a number of other Internations regulars. Hear word that they’re disgruntled about the venue’s poor organisation. Staff confiscate large umbrellas and there are not enough windbreakers to go round. Herbie deserves better, they say. The man himself is good-humoured about it all. Shame about disappointing weather but grateful to have caught an elderly living legend in action.
Fri. 1 July: Officially entered my birthday month. Hopefulness I felt after returning from the UK in June is slipping away. Not enough substantial change in my material circumstances, despite best efforts. Heavy blow to morale. Speak to mum about it on the phone. She shares my frustrations but her faith is robust. Her prayers are very welcome.
Spend afternoon with Stéphanie; a transwoman I befriended last year. Been hesitant to put thoughts down on paper about our friendship, due to the sensitive nature of conversations. Stéphanie is often in extreme distress. More optimistic today however, looking forward to another round surgery. Over the weekend Stéphanie will call on the verge of tears. No family members willing or available to help with drop off and pick up from hospital in deep Wallonia. I don’t drive and Stéphanie insists it’s too difficult a journey by public transport. My morning prayer group suggest pooling resources together for a cab. Very proud of their kind gesture but by then, Stéphanie has already gone under the knife. We stay in touch during the recovery period, which proves even more complicated on a physical and psychological level.
Friday night: Invited round for dinner by Ludwig. Guest list is comprised of polyglots and/or linguaphiles, according to him. Assume he’s exaggerating. He's not. Most in attendance speak at least four languages, with the host himself a hyper-polyglot (10 and counting). My linguistic tally is three-ish, if I’m being generous. Oh well. Already made my peace with leaving behind childhood dream to speak five languages to a high standard. Too many variables in the way. Only so much time and natural talent. I’ll be content to speak those I already know well.
French is the default for the evening. Would usually welcome the practice but super-tired and not on top form. I enjoy talking about language. I have a Masters in Linguistics. But this lot take it to another level.
Vegetarian meal is good; amazing starter. Ludwig has been customarily modest about his culinary skills. Modesty could not be attributed to one of his guests, Guy. A chronic braggard if I've ever had the misfortune to meet one. (Find out later from Ludwig that it’s an invitation he comes to regret.)
Can’t work out if it’s natural arrogance or the reverse side of insecurity. A few tell-tale signs suggests it's the latter. Much of a muchness, anyway. Never cease to be amazed by the extent to which some lack self-awareness. Mr Cocky will use any pretext to self-aggrandise. He's also a sanctimonious vegan – the worst kind. Boasts about his ‘gluten-free, no-waste, vegan-friendly’ brownies. He offers them long after everyone has eaten. I have a bona fide excuse. I’m stuffed. I could take some home, though I figure it would be cheeky, given my low opinion of their baker. His behaviour is a stark contrast to the other males in the room; namely Ludwig and younger guest Ramón. Also a gifted multi-linguist, the difference in behaviour is night and day. Ramón is kind enough to give a few of us a lift home.
Appreciate Ludwig opening up his home but have mixed feelings about a mentally exhausting evening.
Sun. 3 July: Efforts to keep a low profile at church don’t quite work out. End up being sandwiched between two acquaintances; one of whom keeps disturbing me during the sermon to ask questions. Sundays take more emotional and psychological exertion these days than I can muster. Firm believer in fellowship but this season in particular, prefer smaller gatherings.
On the way back, Jake from my house group stops for a chat on the metro. Genuinely pleased to see him, ironically. Relieved even. It’s one-to-one, away from the (perceived) pressure to be upbeat after service. Jake is a gentle soul. He gets it. I leave the conversation refreshed.
Sunday night. I’m back again in the locality of the Atomium, a stone’s throw from where Herbie and his band have played a few days prior. For the Brosella music festival, this time. Weather is much better. I realise at the last minute that Jazz-Harpist Brandee Younger is on the line up. Decide to hang around for her pre-finale set.
The whole event is class. The ‘children’s stage’ for example, is no watered-down substitute. More intimate but no less sophisticated.
A Flemish fellow named Jens randomly strikes up conversation. Sense some romantic interest on his end that I’m not willing to humour. However, happy to discuss music with someone who has a sound and broad knowledge. Sorely missed since moving to Brussels. For a city with its musical reputation, met too few aficionados.
Jens and I get so carried away, we're shushed by others in audience. I try to be quiet for Brandee's set.
Exchange some details with Jens (no more than an email address from me at this point). Not sure how willing I am to follow through. Generally cagey about making new acquaintances whilst I’m still healing from past disappointments. Head home after Brandee Younger wraps up.
Jens takes a break from the show to walk me to the tram stop and waits until it arrives.
Soundtrack: Gifts & Sacrifices by Heidi Martin
No comments:
Post a Comment