Still in Transit, Apparently

 6 min. read

(courtesy of The Healthy Epicurean)

On the social action front, I’ve added a couple more volunteering activities to my already very rewarding shifts at the Red Cross. In late 2022 I join the team of an excellent Belgian charity that supports those involved in the sex trade and provides routes out for those looking to leave. In some ways, it’s a resumption of the outreach work of which I was part in Strasbourg, except this organisation has an even more extensive support system. As was the case in France, I limit my participation for now to once a month. The work is fulfilling but emotionally and mentally heavy.

I also join the team at church responsible for translating English worship song lyrics into French. It’s led by Mark, a convivial young man, it seems. Owing to the lack of uptake elsewhere, he's responsible for several ministries at FWM, despite himself being a full time healthcare worker. We have a surprisingly good working relationship so far. I say surprisingly, because our first encounter at a retreat for young professionals a couple of years earlier, was not at all promising. We fell out over politics. I can’t speak to his current views on socio-economic justice but Mark is far less obnoxious than I recall. He’s affable even, to a coquettish extent.

In early February, Monica – one of my church home group leaders and the former coordinator of the Young Professionals group – invites me round for dinner. She’s been wanting it to happen for a while. Uncharacteristically, I hope she’ll forget. It’s not that Monica is a bad sort. She’s confident, proactive and has her heart in the right place. We get on well enough. It’s just she lacks self-awareness. I find her assertive to the point of being obtrusive; nay, bossy. In any gathering, she’s the self-appointed spokesperson. Perhaps it’s a clash-of-the-Alpha-females thing but I don’t find her company as easy as say, Karin or Brenda. I perceive that Monica and I wouldn’t be compatible enough to ever be close friends. 

 However, it reaches the point where I can no longer put off her dinner request. It’s an act of kindness after all; more so given that she’s had a rough time of it herself lately.

Overall, my feelings about the experience are mixed. Her honey, walnut and feta salad is very good and Monica makes an effort to ensure I feel welcome. My initial plan is to keep the focus of conversation on her and avoid going into detail about my life. That works for the first portion of the evening, until Monica starts asking pointed questions. I’m initially judicious about my responses but once in the flow, my guard comes down more than intended. Some of the discussion is genuinely enriching, particularly the theological elements. Monica has a specific take on the Prodigal Son story – a parable about which I've long been conflicted – that I find refreshing. Unfortunately, she also feels at liberty to proffer unsolicited advice. 

I already have a shrink and a close circle with whom I can confide.

In hindsight, I feel over-scrutinised. I'm annoyed with myself for not being firmer with my boundaries. Monica is in no position to comment on my life, no matter how well-meaning. Our relationship is not - and unlikely ever to be - that deep. 

I have a chance to share my misgivings sooner than anticipated the following day, when Monica and I see each other at another FWM event. She announces she’ll be accompanying me home afterwards, since she also has a function in my neighbourhood. I acquiesce before I can think of a plausible excuse. I’m miffed.

It does nonetheless provide a prime opportunity for me to be polite but frank about the previous evening and other misgivings. She takes it as graciously as she can. In the end, she is whom she is. 

It makes me reflect on when I’ve been on the other end of this kind of dynamic. I have more sympathy for some - not all - former budding acquaintances who have found me ‘too much’ and decided to walk away from any potential friendship. I can’t always take it too personally. Sometimes there isn’t sufficient kismet to make it work.

Meanwhile, I endeavour to redirect attention from a lack of connection and relational false starts to investing time and energy into my meaningful Brussels friendships. Karin welcomes a new addition to the family in January; chubby-cheeked Nehemiah.  To her immense credit, she still makes time amidst the busyness to see friends. Her now middle child and only daughter, Evita has a mixed reaction to her new sibling. No longer being the youngest, she oscillates between devotion and her diva antics. I bear witness during an awkward meet up at a shopping centre with the whole family, including dad Felix. More than once, I've insinuated to Karin that it'll do Evita a lot of good no longer being the baby of the bunch. 

The following week we have a far calmer morning catch-up over hot drinks at an agreeable South American establishment, for which I have Karin to thank for the discovery.

(image courtesy of Knox Box)

My cultural highlights of the year so far have mostly been musical. In mid-January I attend a Brazilian Jam and Open Mic session at an intimate venue in central Brussels. It turns out to be a good opportunity to practise my Portuguese with some habitually welcoming Brazilians, as well as dust off the odd Bossa Nova tune. I take to the stage for a rendition of Berimbau/Consolação. I am not best pleased with my performance. I feel it’s pitchy and I am not as self-assured as I’d like. Nonetheless, the reception from the crowd and musicians is warm. I'm back for more the next month.

The following evening, I join a group of relative strangers - via Meet Up - for a night of raucous Karaoke fun. It's the bar-style set up which I've historically avoided (compared to the traditional Japanese private booths that I prefer). The venue is nevertheless not the dive I expect it to be and our group has a good rapport. Most of the singing that night can scarcely be qualified as such. Guilty pleasures abound, such as a fixation with ABBA's cheesier output (no shade on the Swedish quartet's repertoire overall), mixed in with some more respectable numbers. It tickles me no end to see drunken young men singing along to Rihanna or Linkin Park as if they're at a football match. Hussein, a member of my group, convinces me to join him in Rick-Rolling the whole room. I regret not signing up for a solo. It's more of a blast than I imagined.

Later that month, I’ll pop to Marolles for an event organised by another recent acquaintance, B-mol. I’ve long given up on hearing from him, when he reaches out to inform me of a weekly Afro Jam/Open Mic he’s hosting in the old Jewish district. A singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist himself, B-mol warms the crowd with both originals and covers before leaving the stage open to whoever wants to have a go. 

It’s not my intention to sing, just observe. 

Famous last words.

Before I know it, I’m jamming with the musicians to Sade classics and hopping on the mic for an impromptu Bill Withers/Arrested Development mash-up. I am surprised by how comfortable I am on stage. It must be the ambiance. It’s one of those gloriously enjoyable moments I couldn’t plan. B-mol - and his wife, Luna in particular - are most encouraging. Ditto for the audience and musicians. It’s a different atmosphere from the previous open mics/jam sessions I’ve attended in Brussels. The quality of musicianship and song choices are solid, compared to some of the more liberal events I’ve frequented (A couple of females kill it on the bass and drums to my utmost pleasure). Yet, there’s none of the cliqueyness or withholding elitism of the Jazz crowd. It's -so far - a happy medium between the two. Much kudos to B-mol for pulling it off, despite only moving to Belgium a mere few months before. I tell him  -sans hyperbole - that it’s the best of this style of event I’m yet to attend; certainly in the Brussels context. I hope to make it one of my regular hotspots.

By sheer happenstance, B-mol and I will cross paths once more on the metro the following afternoon.

Soundtrack: Best of 2022 mixes, Now by Astrud Gilberto, Tropikadelic by Ireke

In Transit, Apparently

 4 min. read

January flows into February and the gradual tell tale signs of a seasonal transition become more apparent. Temperatures are still appropriately low for this time of year (which is a strange relief given how unseasonably warm February has been in recent years). Yet nightfall tarries ever so slightly and we no longer have to wait until 8am to see the sun. Perversely, the late sunrise is probably the aspect of Northern European winter I appreciate the most. The darkness helps my mind and body understand I need rest. My sleep hygiene is already compromised as it is. When it’s bright, it’s much harder to get some shut eye, particularly in the early hours. Spring and summer also tend to be busier, thus the desire to rest diminishes with the increased activity as well as daylight. 

I like to believe during winter, I can make up for some of the sleep I’ll lose at other points in the year. Not that I’m doing so well on that front, in any case. It’s the same old issue of heavy mental traffic. I have found that crossing the threshold into my naughty-40s, current life challenges and a general malaise make it even more difficult to still the mind. I persevere with meditative practices and therapeutic self-care. Whilst they no doubt take the edge off the worst of it, the beneficial effects of these habits are probably more long term than immediate.

On the practical end, I continue to put myself out there professionally. In late January, I am invited to an online interview for a remote position based in the US. Currently, my application process is split between roles of genuine interest and those for which I’m just going through the motions. This particular post falls into the latter category (as have a number of my most recent callbacks). The organisation does great work but I wouldn’t really be part of that. More of an administrative lackey with mediocre pay. I nevertheless try to prepare well for the interview. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing properly. 

I’m interviewed by two women, one of whom is the incoming president of the organisation. I had expected to meet her predecessor. I didn’t realise the turnover of that role was so swift. 

The two interviewers unwittingly fall into a good-cop-bad-cop dynamic. I don't appreciate the incumbent president's line of questioning. It makes me all the more apprehensive about joining this team. I’m told I’ll receive a response the following week. 

Hmm. Enough time elapses between the online screening and verdict for me to lose track of when exactly I was interviewed. 

It’s hard to read the situation. I’ve experienced delays even when the outcome was favourable, such as when I was previously recruited by TTUO. More recently however, I’ve begun to perceive it as poor etiquette when employers take inordinately long to update me. It doesn’t augur well. It’s thus a relief of sorts when, over a fortnight after being interviewed, this recruiter confirms what I’d already suspected; they’ve gone for another candidate. My hopes of resuming employment in February have faded even before I’m invited for that ill-fated interview. My morale plummets again. I focus my energies on getting back into work in March. TBC.

In the meantime, I endeavour as always to use my time constructively. I keep my mind active through sharpening my French and Portuguese language skills. I try to refresh my knowledge around my MA in Sociocultural Linguistics as well as other areas of study. I am not messing around with my workout regimen either, recently adding Body Combat to my routine. I ache in all the right places after my first session.

I ease into my political year with a New Year’s evening ceremony organised by the Belgian Worker’s Party (PTB). There I bump into Augustin – who convinced me to join – his wife, as well as a young Franco-Brazilian who, by some pleasing coincidence – I’ve met a couple of nights previously at a live music event. More on that later. 

The following month, I'll attend a two-day workshop on reimagining immigration policies in a more humane way at the Beurs culture venue. At the start I have the impression of walking into a parody on contemporary Western society. Participants seem to compete with each other for the most distinctive gender and/or queer identities. I quietly ignore the instruction to indicate my preferred pronouns. It feels inauthentic and like virtue signalling. However, once we get into the nitty-gritty of national and international policy and their underlying ideology, it's a lot more engaging, not to mention informative. It's good to find points of commonality in anti-imperialism and our desire for just migration laws.

Also in February, I attend a donations-based Brunch organised by Amitié Sans Frontières; a Migrants’ rights campaign group. I invite Cindy, a member of my church home group along for what turns out to be a slightly chaotic but aimable event of live music, rousing speeches and deliciously eclectic food. Elsewhere, I’ve resumed activities with the gender deconstruction (GD) group run by Bruno and his hottie of a partner-in-overturning-the-patriarchy, Miguel. More specifically, I’m attending this term’s Book Club discussion about bell hooks’ Will to Change (at the time of writing, my own copy is MIA at Karin’s house). Fortunately, my erstwhile friend Lorenzo – also part of the GD network - has given this particular event a miss. Apart from seeing him at the Group’s New Year’s meet-up - where we merely exchange a hasty farewell - we’ve not interacted since crossing paths at a summer 2022 silent retreat.