Summer Diary: Part 2

 6 min. read

Tues. 5 July: I bump into Guy-the-Braggard again at a language exchange. It's my first time at said event. We lock eyes as he speaks to another guest. I pretend not to know him. Not very Christian, I'm aware. Strange, as I had planned to be honest with him about the bad impression he left a few days ago. Perhaps nobody has called him up on it. Or he surrounds himself with like-minded egos. Try to make amends on leaving but he’s long gone. Otherwise, a good night. Get some French practice and a little Portuguese with a Brazilian woman whose attention Guy has been commandeering earlier. A Scot with whom I recently became acquainted, breaks the news that Rishi Sunak and Sajid Javid have walked out on Boris Johnson’s cabinet.
By the end of the week, coordinated mass resignations force BoJo to quit as PM.

Fri. 8 July: Another rewarding afternoon at the Red Cross PSA Centre. Even at my lowest, it always picks me up. Just to be able to meet, in some small way, the momentary needs of those who have suffered – and continue to suffer – more than I can imagine. I understand it’s only temporary relief and not systemic change. But when that merciless system continues to treat certain migrants and refugees with contempt, I like to believe we play our part in affirming their dignity. Besides, meeting short term needs doesn't mean one can't have their eye on long term transformation.

Today, a healthy café chain has donated posh salads and sandwiches. Warmly received by the beneficiaries. 

Irresistibly cute sisters, Rachel and Celestina are scampering about, very happy with themselves. They're the youngest children of one of the regulars, originally from Albania. There are six older siblings. Their mother is so slight, a strong bowel movement might split her in half, let alone bearing eight children. We're all amazed by this feat.

Rachel insists she’s 7. I'm not buying it. She calls her mum over to confirm. I smile but still not convinced. Rachel is feisty and definitely as sharp as an older child but still...The petite family trait aside, I’d say 4-5 years old, tops.  They have their reasons for concealing her real age.

The RC Centre is en route to my therapist, Sandrine. Recently given to booking sessions the same day I’m in the vicinity. Always an emotional commute. Obligated to pass the neighbourhood of my former Italian friend. Involuntarily stirs all those complex feelings.

The hour flies by. So busy catching up Sandrine on my latest mood dips, don’t get round to the childhood stuff. Still, I’m relieved and grateful to be able to discuss my issues with a professional.

Sat. 9 July: Arranged to meet with Albertina, an acquaintance of Karin who’s involved in disability rights’ campaigns. I'm interested in volunteering opportunities.  It's not as ‘sexy’ as other issues despite the huge number of people living with disabilities worldwide. Often at the back of the queue, even amongst so-called progressives. If the voices of those living with disabilities were at the centre of policymaking, everybody would benefit. Been challenged by an interview I watched not too long ago with advocate Amanda Leduc, where she criticises mere lip service to disability rights without doing the ground work.

Lovely afternoon at a Colombian café with Albertina. Let’s me know the lay of the land vis-à-vis disability campaigning in Belgium. Also an opportunity to hear her own story; her early years in Italy, of how she came to work in human rights, her multilingualism and why she and her Togolese husband relocated to Belgium.

After chat with Albertina, I pass by a funk workshop at Parc Royale. Part of a summer festival. Participants are mainly maladroit Caucasians, excited about discovering rhythm. Tutors are an older African-American and a young Belgian woman. She has a better all-round groove but his popping game is sharper. DJ spins some old school Hip-Hop Funk, including Redhead Kingpin & The FBI's Do The Right Thing. Feels as if I haven’t heard it since Spike Lee’s film of the same name was released. I’m so old, I bemoan.

One of the maladroit Caucasians approaches me for a dance. Apparently, he’s been watching me groove on the sly in my deck chair. I politely refuse. He wonders if I’m shy.  He'd usually be, he confesses. It’s not a question of shyness. What I don’t say is that his over-zealous relationship with rhythm would make for a cringe-inducing dance partnership. I don't burst his bubble, though.

Another dance-related event awaits, at the elaborate beach-themed pop-up bar, Terrasse 02; near Bois-de-la-Cambre. It’s heaving. Most are dressed to the nines. In my usual smart-casual gear and still feel slightly-underdressed. By sheer fortune, I stumble across the activity organiser and a few other guests. Neglectful host... Abandons us to hang out with some mates he knows from Facebook. That’s his style, I'm told. 

A couple of us admire a petite brunette dancing solo, wearing a resplendent coral mini-dress and golden stiletto sandals. 

Seems very content on her own, sipping from her glass of Moet between puffs of successive cigarettes. She warms the dancefloor long before anyone else joins her. She's prematurely aged by sun damage. From the distance, it gives the false impression that she's a much older woman showing the youngsters how to do it.  

She coaxes other ladies on to the floor, doing some suggestive girl-on-girl dancing (clearly for the hetero males in the vicinity). 

I eventually make my way towards the DJ for Daft Punk’s Get Lucky. Speak to Miss Coral-Dress. She confirms she's by herself. Joined by others from our group. We compliment her élan and carefree attitude. It’s for the love of the music. You have to…

...I agree. 

 If Miss Coral-Dress came alone, she doesn’t leave alone; vanishing with an apparent suitor, significantly larger in both height and girth. 

I dance some more and make conversation with a couple of affable guests. A good end to what threatened to be an underwhelming night.

Sun. 10 July: Attend the afternoon service at Trinity Anglican Church for a change of scene. Appreciate the Pan-African style of Praise & Worship. Led by a young woman with a crystalline, baby-doll voice. Gives me a rush of nostalgia as they dust off choruses I haven’t heard in forever. A good break from the Bethel/Hillsongs/Redman Hegemony. Feels as if I interact with God differently, too.

That evening, to stave off the solitary Sunday evening blues, head to Parc Royale for the Kiosk Radio live broadcast. Have Jens to thank for the idea, even though I decide to go without him. 

 Most guests are too busy chatting or poisoning the air with fag and weed smoke to pay attention to music. Whilst waiting for a dance-worthy track, I use the opportunity to practise mindfulness. In the end, I take a leaf out of Miss-Coral-Solo-Dancer’s book and let the rhythm carry me.

Text Jens to thank him for the culture tip. Replies that he’s recovering from COVID. Symptoms began a day after we met at the Brosella festival. Uh-oh.

Terrasse 02 (La Capitale- Sudinfo

Mon. 11 July: After usual morning Zumba and Pilates classes, I catch up with dear friend from Strasbourg days, Gustavo. He asks how I am. I burst into tears. Just received news of another unsuccessful job application. Didn’t realise I was that upset about it. Feeling generally overwhelmed. Gustavo is a man of strong faith and preternaturally easygoing. Says he considers it a privilege that I would cry in his presence. Well, if I had to breakdown in front of somebody...

Some positive news today: I test negative for COVID.

Tues. 12 July: After requesting a GP referral to physio for some tension in my back, have first appointment this afternoon. Expecting a mature gentleman, slightly world-weary (for some reason); stereotypical pale Belgian features. Instead, physiotherapist is an enthusiastic swarthy young gentleman, who happens to be fit in every sense of the word. Great quality skin. Smooth, firm biceps. No tattoos. On one hand, delighted at the thought of a pretty man in his prime giving me a massage. On the other, it’s a heatwave. I’m sweaty. Make-up is running. Worse still, there’s to be no massage. Just strengthening exercises to be practised at home. The kind I’d do in Pilates. Except I’m not appropriately dressed in T-shirt and joggers. Forced to test out exercises in a Baby-T and elaborate summer skirt.

Evening ends more propitiously, thank goodness. Invited round for dinner at Sylvia and Steve’s. Some friends old and new are visiting. In attendance: Charlie, who will be house-sitting whilst Steve, Sylvia and the tribe are on summer hols; the similarly-named Charlene, Steve’s Franco-Belgian language exchange partner (it's the first time they’re meeting offline); Brandon – a childhood friend of Steve’s – and his girlfriend Hannah. Both international school teachers, just moved from Indonesia. Passing through Europe before starting new jobs, somewhere else in East Asia.

The food is sumptuous. A collective effort by the clan. Steve and Sylvia’s eldest, Shireen won’t let us forget it. (Going through the sarcastic insecure phase of adolescence.)

Weather is lovely. The company is great. Meal is healthy. Ideal for my no-meat-on-weekdays policy. Wasn't previously a fan of Indian food but Sylvia could well convert me.

Practise some French with Charlene. Since most of us have a Brit connection, conversation often returns to what’s going on across the Channel; reminiscing about Routemasters and Bendy Buses; lamenting the encroachment of gentrification in big cities, spiralling rent costs and political chaos.

I have to make it work in Brussels, somehow. I think out loud.

Yes you do, chimes in Sylvia.

Soundtrack: My JT Mix, Estrela Acesa by Sessa