Summer in Full Effect: Part 2

 5 min. read

Aerial view of Namur's Citadelle
(courtesy of Ville Namur)

Part 1

Mini-Europe is one of the smoother excursions on mine and mum's itinerary. Others aren't as auspicious. Our plans to take a brief boat trip to enjoy supper at the Chalet Robinson island restaurant (Bois de la Cambre) are scuppered on arrival, for instance. Just as we’re about to board, the boatman informs us a private party has monopolised the premises. Mum and I, a couple on a date and a smattering of others are sent on our way. Trying to reserve in advance doesn’t help either. The restaurant is fully-booked for the rest of the month. 

A day out in Namur is also waylaid for reasons beyond our control. It’ll be my third trip to the Wallonian city and mum’s first. I’m keen to show her the landmark Citadel but this time, unlike my first visit, with the help of professionals. Things are off to a ropey start when the bus to the site shows up late. We’re almost booted off for not having the right change. Although I’ve apprised him of our destination, the driver still does a loop around town and takes us back to our starting point. My memory of the route is too hazy to be of much help. 

By providence, we bump into Yves, a colleague from the Red Cross. Or former colleague, I should say. He left the job almost six months ago. That will explain why our paths haven’t crossed in a while.

 Yves is only too happy to show us the way to the Citadel by foot, serving as a self-appointed tour guide in the meantime. The cityscape starts to become familiar once more, as we cut through side streets. When we eventually arrive at the Citadel, we walk past a young man smoking a crack pipe at the entrance (there’s a depressing motif of disaffected youth around town). At the top, we are told by a slightly sheepish-looking security agent that the venue is unavailable for the day because – wait for it – the local council have booked it for their employees’ summer party. Yves finds this more of an affront than the youngster getting stoned in broad day light. 

I thought in June we were still safe from this kind of disruptive summer madness. 

By now I am hungry or rather, ‘hangry’. I’ve been saving my belly for a post-tour lunch. The day is already fast spent.

 After sweet-talking the security guard into giving him a pass to the private event, Yves changes his mind when we mention we’re off to look for lunch. What initially seemed like Providence is starting to feel like a mixed-blessing. I realise how superficial my working relationship with Yves must have been. I’d always found him affable and easy-going. To an extent, that remains true. He’s also generous with his time as well as money, insisting on paying for our purchases in a local café. On the other hand, Yves is a blagger and a know-it-all. We waste more time than we should because he refuses to admit he's not sure where he’s going. He also overstays his welcome. Whilst I’m already irritable with hunger, he launches into a condescending lecture about the virtues of planning for eventualities and adapting to unexpected circumstances. Don’t even get me started on the mini-debate that ensues when he shares his casual attitude towards his supposedly ‘complicated’ marriage. It wasn’t hard to get along with Yves when I only saw him in fits and bursts at the Red Cross. Spending an entire afternoon with him is another matter.

@The Illusion Museum 
(image by MFD)

Meanwhile, mum sees the cup as half-full. The weather is better than forecast. She’s enjoyed what she has so far seen of Namur and appreciates Yves makeshift tour. My quibbles notwithstanding, I am relieved mum manages to have a good time. 

In contrast to the mishaps, other moments go better than planned. One Sunday we visit my life coach, Rev. Pieter’s parish after a successful morning of bargain-hunting at Midi market. We have a lovely exchange with some of the Reverend’s colleagues after the service, before wandering down to The View Ferris Wheel nearby, close to the Palais de Justice. Mum overcomes her vertigo with surprising ease, to take up my challenge to go on a ride. 

Hopes of getting some takeaway from a Palestinian restaurant in the vicinity fall apart on discovering it's closed, exceptionally. A blessing in disguise nonetheless. Whilst waiting for my order outside another Middle-Eastern restaurant near Grand Place, mum and I are approached by Bailey; a sweet acquaintance who attends my regular church, FWM. Whilst studying, she holds down several jobs, one of which is as a guide at the Illusion Museum. It happens to be just behind where we're waiting. Bailey invites us to check out the attraction for free, in exchange for a positive review.

I initially demure. I'm a little tired and not usually a fan of museums. I'd only go as a favour to Bailey. I suggest we return another day. Mum eventually talks me round and I will not regret that she did. We have so much fun with the tromps-l’ɶil and mind-scrambling gadgets and gizmos, we are the last guests to leave.  Mum will later describe the day as her favourite of that trip.

All in all, she spends just over two weeks with me; her longest visit so far. Towards the end, I feel a familiar funk start to hover. Loneliness crouches at the door, ready to pounce once mum steps onto the Eurostar back to St. Pancras.

Fortunately, I have a few bona fide reasons to be out and about in the coming days and weeks. 

There’ll be more job interviews in the offing. On the socio-political front, there are various seminars organised by or involving Intal to look forward to. I gladly take up the invitation to a post-service lunch arranged by a Japanese couple at FWM. The food is delicious, even if some of the social interaction leaves me fatigued and prone to over-scrutiny. 

Whilst the Afro-Jams in Marolles appear to be on hiatus, I become acquainted with a similar event up the road, hosted by one of its alumni. That weekend I’ll pass by Sylvia and Steve’s before they and the tribe disappear for summer holidays. The next day after church, I’m off to the Brosella music festival at Parc Osseghem. It just about goes ahead, with the local authorities ready to cancel because of stormy weather. When the heavens clear, a modified programme proceeds. 

With the changed timetable and some of the performances I hoped to catch no longer on the roster, it’s a truncated musical excursion. I restlessly sit through some experimental elements I could have done without. Later that evening, settling into my deck chair for a performance by British-Nigerian saxophonist Camilla George, I catch sight of an errant acquaintance, originally from the UK. He's accompanied by his new girlfriend- one of the few other brown faces in the mix -herself a fellow Brit. After months of radio silence on his part, the encounter is a chance to clear the air.

Soundtrack: Sim, Sim, Sim by Bala Desejo + Small Axes by Kris Tidjan.

Summer in Full Effect: Part 1

 4 min. read

Image courtesy of fr.depositphotos.com

The month or so between my last trip to the UK in May and my mum’s next visit to Belgium flies by. Mercifully. Once again, I’m in need of the moral support. I welcome being able to busy myself with hosting. When I have visitors, whilst not completely suppressing my feelings, it serves as a dam to them becoming overwhelming. I’m particularly conscious around mum. She’s naturally wont to take on my burdens. She has been a rock through this season. At the same time, since it's been more protracted than any of us anticipated, I am aware that it’s also started to weigh on her.

Mum’s early summer trip coincides with an especially hectic period in my calendar. The week of her arrival I have various important activities, including an inaugural community event held at my church and an interview all on the same morning.

The interview regards a job for which I've only applied reluctantly. It's brought to my attention by my life coach, Rev. Pieter. His support has been invaluable during this wave of job hunting. He’s relentless in putting me in touch with like-minded individuals, those who know the Brussels work terrain fairly well and/or those who might be able to offer something concrete.

A couple of his Church colleagues are looking for an administrator. The good Reverend knows enough about the position to send me the advert but is not at all involved in the recruitment process. (So much so that he's not even in the loop when I’m shortlisted for an interview.) 

I drag my feet in applying. The salary is modest. I’ve also been doing my best to avoid returning to admin. Recent circumstances nevertheless mean I’ve had to be more flexible in that resolve. In the end, I figure the role can serve as a stop gap, at least for the summer. 

The interview process itself is a confidence boost. The two-man panel gush over my skills and experience, effectively telling me I’m over-qualified. There’s a French language test which seems to go well. On seeing my voluntary experience organising webinars on decolonisation, they embark on a culturally-sensitive conversation about how unrepresentative religious leadership is in Europe (predominantly white and male, when global communities of faith are not). I am pleasantly surprised and (cautiously) impressed that they’re engaging in at least this much self-reflexivity. 

The job has some other attractive components, such as possible lobbying experience. It also turns out to be part-time, which means the salary is proportionally decent for the hours. As the interview concludes, one of the panel remarks that it's been an 'inspiring' conversation. Goodness. 

I am told it could take up to a fortnight to let me know the outcome. Unlike some, in that regard they under-promise and over-deliver, getting in touch after a week to let me down gently. They have chosen a polyglot (probably a Dutch-speaker, which I am not) who also has EU citizenship. There is apparently a legal obligation to prioritise candidates who are still part of The Club. The panel deliver the news in a measured and reassuring email, with the expressed intention of keeping me on their radar. In some ways, mum finds the news more difficult to take than I do. She and sis hoped it would be a good transition role. I am more disappointed in the immediate term. If successful, I’d have been in the rare position of choosing a start date before September. Very few organisations recruit during July and August because of the socially-reinforced lull. That puts paid to my summer job plans, at least for now. 

It helps that mum’s in town. It might have hit me harder otherwise.

Elsewhere I busy myself with the aforementioned community outreach church event. It goes well, in spite of a slow start. I am in and out of the kitchen during proceedings so have to rely on the little I glean directly and the appraisal of other participants. 

Mum’s stay also overlaps with the annual Fête de la Musique in late June. I find a local performance to attend, assuming it’ll be easier to convince mum to tag along. To her credit, she’s game. The concert line-up is less diverse than the previous year. We land upon a showcase for young Brussels-based Hip-Hop artists. After hearing a few acts indistinguishable from the last, it’s difficult to pay attention. We have a good time nonetheless. It’s sunny and warm and the show allows me the opportunity to introduce mum to a part of my locale with which she was not previously familiar.

Mini Europe
(image courtesy of Visit Brussels)

During mum's stay, we also pass by the Mini-Europe theme park in Heysel for the first time. In the shadow of the landmark Atomium edifice, the attraction should really be called Mini-EU – if that. It still features the UK, despite the acrimonious break-up. Under the guise of family fun, it's a most political display.  It is telling that their vision of Europe excludes anybody who is or has not been part of The Club. 

The day is so hot and languid that we spot another guest lying horizontal in the shade of what looks like a small gazebo on the grounds. 

Mum and I take the exhibition seriously, studying our booklets to avoid missing any of the miniature monuments or skipping over the relevant info. After a good few hours and sore feet, on exiting we splash out on the customised photo we took at the entrance with an employee dressed as a tortoise; the attraction’s mascot. Le Pauvre ! I exclaim. That get-up must be punishing in this heat.

Part 2

Soundtrack: Samba em Kigali by Tapioca + Sim, Sim, Sim by Bala Desejo