Off the Grid...kind of....Part II

 3 and 1/2 min. read

Part I

In addition to my health issues, 2025 has brought with it a body-snatcher style shift in my landlord, Kojo’s behaviour. Up until recently, we've had a decent rapport. Based in South-East Asia, he passes by every couple of years to check on the place, normally during the festive period. He seems pretty pleased after his Christmas 2024 visit, as he did when he popped by two years earlier. I inform Kojo that the cooker went on the blink temporarily on Christmas Day. Kojo casually suggests I have the hob replaced, since it must be getting on a bit. Seeing the modest size of the T.V. (which he bought himself), he offers to purchase a new one - practically insists. I decline. I never watch it, I explain, it’s for my guests. 

On the other side of the New Year, let’s just say things take a sudden and inexplicable turn for the worst. I know at some point over the festive period, Kojo has suffered a bereavement. It's not clear to me if this has happened before he passes by in December - and he was in a state of shock and/or denial during his visit - or if it's occurred shortly after. In my more charitable moments, I try to be understanding; albeit imperfectly. Kojo's sudden about-turn makes it very hard. The acrimonious exchanges and borderline harassment add a great deal of unneeded stress to my already anxiety-inducing health issues. Fortunately, Kojo and I have arrived at some kind of entente-cordiale, although both acknowledging that my occupancy of the flat is less and less tenable. I will need to find alternative accommodation by the time my lease is up in early Autumn.

Thank God, my studies have been an oasis of sorts. The first quarter of 2025 has brought some encouraging news in the form of several of my abstracts being accepted for various conferences. I nevertheless feel I’m always running behind time. It hasn't helped that my recent health problems have slowed me down. 

One afternoon in late February, I attend a session with a new therapist, Sirin.  I’ve started seeing her in parallel to my (now less frequent) appointments with Sandrine.  Walking-dead exhausted, I catch Sirin up on all the drama that’s been going on lately. She advises I speak to my GP about taking a brief period off university to recuperate. I’m initially reluctant. My studies help redirect my thoughts elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want to fall further behind. Sirin points out that it’s better to take a break now as a pre-emptive measure, than eventually suffer burnout and lose a lot more time in the long run.

I come to appreciate this timely wisdom. When I do eventually see my GP, the pressure at uni has started to increase - as has my anxiety - with various deadlines. I must also find a way to pay for all those conferences fees and related expenses. That begins to weigh on me.

I begin to feel a familiar existential anger about moving from one crisis to another. 

'Lord, Jesus. Can't I catch a break?'

My thoughts become very dark at times.

Meanwhile, my supervisor and my teammates are supportive when I inform ahead of my absence.

My sick leave overlaps in part with Lent, as well as my first 2025 trip to the UK. It's a low-key, bus(wo)man's affair; part study and work, and part meeting up with a select few friends whom I haven't seen in a good while. I’ve already sensed that God wants me to slow down during the Lenten period- and beyond. Stubborn as I can be, if life didn’t intervene, it would be harder for me to do it of my own accord.

(c) Elena Mozhvilo

Since my PhD began last summer, I’ve been struggling with fitting the rest of my life around it. I've known several folk who've juggled doctorates with marriage, children and/or full time jobs. I assumed that, as a single person with no dependents, a PhD would surely be adaptable to my schedule. Not quite.

I once heard a pastor from my UK church advise: 'Don't compare yourself to freaks of nature'.

It’s the opposite to what happened when doing my MA. I forewarned my acquaintances at the time that I’d probably go off the radar quite a bit. Instead, my activities continued pretty much as normal until the last six months. I presumed the same dynamic would apply to my PhD. I willed it to. I have so many commitments that are close to my heart, particularly in the activist space and social action.  Some of these open up incredible opportunities to meet and learn from those who have already made a difference. In February for example, I have a great conversation with one-time anti-Apartheid activist, vocal anti-Zionist Jew and Keir Starmer's constituency nemesis, Andrew Feinstein at Intal's annual political education weekend - or Campus.

 I also want to make quality time for friendships; established and embryonic alike, not to mention a glut of cultural events I'd like to attend. Alas, something has to give. When I mention at the start of the year that time management will be a priority in 2025, my sis warns, You can’t simply add your PhD on top of an already busy schedule. Her words echo in my head.

Recent circumstances have accelerated the re-evaluation of how I distribute my time; negotiating what to maintain, reduce or put on hold until further notice. I know that self-care is central to any plan to make the world a better place. If I burn out, I can't show up for anybody. However, it remains a tricky and, at times, painful process. I have outgoing inclinations. Yet, haunted by Sirin and my sister’s admonitions, I’m aware it’s a necessary process too. Notwithstanding the numerous medical appointments or a problem landlord, I have a busy year ahead; purely on the academic front. 

That brings me full circle to my hiatus from this blog. Prior to recent crises, I would be content to meet my minimum of one post per month, all things considered. At the moment, I can’t guarantee that. My primary blog, I Was Just Thinking, as well as my editorial duties over at Afropean.com take precedence. That said, out of necessity, I'm also scaling back on those preoccupations to some degree. 

The recalibration is ongoing. It might be that some months I’m quite active on these pages followed by several weeks -if not longer - of radio silence.  Either way, it felt rude to proceed without any notice. 

So, until…whenever?

The Home Strait: No, I Mean Really, You Couldn't Make It Up

 

After the unexpected palaver of my outbound journey to the UK, I finally arrive at Hither Green station hoping to make my way to the Airbnb. I mistakenly choose an alternative route and am lost. I ring Kiki, my host, who agrees to meet me. I am not sure if she is driving or walking. I hope it’s the former. She shows up with her son and two dogs by foot, three quarters of an hour after I’ve been waiting in the cold and dark.

On arrival, the accommodation falls short of expectations to say the least. The few glowing reviews and limited pictures are misleading. The carpet and furniture is old and encrusted with dirt (making Kiki's request to remove shoes on entry rather pointless). The living room and kitchen are in a state of disarray. Dishes are stacked high and remnants of raw fish and stale bread are discarded on the counter. The sink in the toilet outside my room doesn’t work, with only a complicated shower head system. Kiki is not keen on me using it much, on account of it potentially flooding the facilities. The main bathroom is uninviting and she hasn’t bothered to empty the almost-full bin.

As well as two dogs Kiki has a couple of cats, one of which lounges imperiously on my bed and only responding when she's shooed away by her owner. The idea of sitting, let alone cooking or eating anywhere in the flat is unappealing. Unfortunately, already having experienced enough chaos journeying to London, it doesn't occur to me to look for somewhere new. Plus, Kiki has been kind and accommodating so far.

I am determined to pass by to see mum on my first night. It’s been two years, after all. As much as I loathe to step out without freshening up, I don’t have time to shower or change if I want to be back at a decent hour. Kiki has a strange rule about switching off the Wi-Fi from 11pm, claiming it gives her a headache. I find it odd but not wholly implausible (although I probably should).

It's an inconvenient rule. Kiki says guests usually just use their data. I explain I don’t have a smartphone. She seems to be sympathetic. She didn’t have a mobile of any kind until recently.

Meanwhile, mum has all sorts of long-awaited and unanticipated treats waiting for me. So many, that there’s no chance of me taking it all back to Brussels in one sitting. As has been the case since I emigrated, mum is in a spoiling mood, quite happy for me to eat her out of house and home if I so wish. I don’t and have to stop her from over-indulging me.

My diary the next day is full. I have my rescheduled lateral flow test first thing. If all goes well, I can head to church as planned. The customer service at the test centre is fantastic. I’m not used to such friendliness in the Big Choke. I have a good whinge to the young lady doing my swab about the lack of mask-wearing in the city; even on public transport where it’s supposed to be a requirement. To my horror, I'll see unmasked citizens - mostly men- coughing and not so much as covering their mouths. At the time, daily infection rates are well over 40,000. She concurs that a cloth over the face is no great sacrifice to protect others and oneself.

To my great relief, the clinic sends me a message giving me the all clear within half an hour. I kill some time at Waterloo station before heading to church. Too much time. I walk in part-way through the sermon; the latest in a series on Rebuilding the Church, based on the book of Nehemiah. 

I look around for recognisable faces. At first it takes a while to find them. After the service, I slowly but surely reconnect with my UK church family. I never cease to marvel at the time-lapse rate children seem to grow. Kids fixed as toddlers in my mind are almost pre-teens. There’s often a baby or two, I wasn’t previously aware of. 

 I’ve arranged a post-church brunch with some of the fam. A couple drop out last minute owing to pressing commitments but the party gains a couple more. My friend Pete invites along his former student, Whitney – a regular post-church luncher from back in the day-and a couple of others, including Jonas with whom I’m not familiar but who’s hard to miss given his penchant for loud exclamations during the service. I admit to finding them bloomin' distracting. Something of an irony that we’ll be lunching together.

Whitney recommends a café in the vicinity of which I was hitherto ignorant but has an impressively wide-ranging, not to mention tasty, menu. Whitney and I engage in a long and fascinating discussion about Christians navigating and flourishing within the arts. I have more appointments but find it hard to leave. When I do manage to tear myself away, one of the party very kindly offers to pick up the bill.

I breeze by Lidl, forever amazed at how the English iteration of this German company leaves its European analogues in the shade. I drop off my my shopping at Kiki’s. Her son is preparing to go trick-or-treating with a friend. I presume they’ll be up late. As a courtesy, I inform Kiki I’ll be back by 10pm.

After yet another encouraging catch-up and grabbing some takeaway from my favourite chicken shop, I find a grizzly Kiki waiting for me at the accommodation. She’s ready for bed. The internet is already switched off, earlier than the advertised time. I ask if I can still use it. She reluctantly agrees.

Most people have data, she adds uncharitably. I apologise and then regret doing so. I having nothing to be sorry about.

My Sunday night treats don’t taste so good, especially eating in that insalubrious environment. I am reconsidering the wisdom of having done shopping when I can’t envisage cooking in that mess of a kitchen. After eating, I prepare for a shower to avoid the Monday morning school-run bustle. To my surprise Kiki is up again, hovering around in the grubby kitchen. By then she’s done a 180. I start to wonder if there are mental health issues. She complains about me being up late for a second night. I respond calmly that I’m an adult. I’m not staying in her property for free. She continues with something about it being a family home (which she should have considered before renting on Airbnb). More irritated, I point out that the state of the premises doesn’t make it worth the money. She insists on not giving me a refund. Fine. I’ll raise a complaint with Airbnb, I warn.

I would start it immediately if it weren’t for Kiki's 'no internet at night' rule. 

By the morning, she’s beaten me to it. An email notification pops up about a refund; far too low given that I’ve only spent two nights in the property. 

It’s a frantic morning of phone calls to mum as well as Airbnb, querying the refund amount, searching for alternatives and requests from the company for visual evidence of the dodgy conditions. Other appointments are postponed or cancelled. Meanwhile, Kiki harasses me to get out of her house and threatens to charge me one more day if I don’t leave immediately.  I haven’t even had time to find another rental. 

I try to discreetly take pictures, noticing that she must have got wise and tidied a little. I can’t avoid running into her completely. She becomes even more enraged when she sees me taking photos. I refuse to cower and explain exactly why I need them. 

Mum offers to let me dump my stuff in her modest-sized digs until I find an alternative. I call a taxi, whilst Kiki roams around like a she-bear with a massive splinter in her paw. My cab can’t come quickly enough.

A Place to Call Home: Part 2

 

My last interaction with Verne rattles me. The stress of the flat search, especially the last week, has started once again to impact my sleep. I ask the Morphē Arts morning prayer group to remember me. I don’t like making personal requests but I am struggling to think clearly.

Verne’s phone call unnerves me so much, I make a last ditch attempt to search for something new on the Immoweb site. A see the resurgence of an old ad to which I once replied. It’s clearly a scam.

After what has been a dry few days, a new viewing appears at the top of the list. Usually I’d send an email and wait. I ring straight away. I tap the French option. I’m put through to an English-speaking assistant in Greece. I let her know that I am free that evening and would like to schedule a viewing immediately. She can’t guarantee that it’ll be so soon and will consult the Belgian HQ. The plan is to show me a number of properties that might be of interest.

Her Brussels-based colleague, Milo contacts me by mail. To my relief, a viewing that evening is possible. I am to meet him at the office, where he’ll drive me from property to property.

It’s not quite an office. More a multi-purpose building for both commercial and residential use. I sneak in with a gentleman just in front of me, heading for the same destination. Waiting in the small foyer, I wonder if he’s Milo.

He’s not. When he re-emerges however, he’s accompanied by a tall, toned and tanned individual whom I definitely hope is Milo. Even with half his face hidden by a disposable mask, I can see he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Good bones, flawless deep olive skin, thick lashes and eyebrows and a full head of curly jet black hair. Alas too young. Mid-20s, tops. Not even the same generation.

Never mind. This viewing is already off to a felicitous start. Whatever the outcome, I’ll be spending the evening in the company of great eye candy.

Milo ushers me into the office. The agency is a family business, with sites across Europe. Milo is stepping into his father’s shoes. He’s genuine, accommodating and polite. Good home training, as my grandmother might once have said. As different in comportment to Verne, as his swarthy beauty is different to that of the latter’s sunburnt Nordic features.

I keep my composure enough for bilingual banter. That will come to characterise our interactions.

Milo explains that all but one of the viewings he had planned that evening have been cancelled. Either the property has already been rented or he doesn’t yet have access. All that is, except the flat about which I originally enquired. As we head to his car, he admits that the property wasn’t supposed to be on the market. It was rented to a young Tahitian woman around the same time I moved to Belgium. Within a week, a personal crisis led her to vacate the property.

-Did she have to pay a forfeit? I ask

-Yes. But the landlord was kind about it. She only paid some of it.

-That’s auspicious, I reply. A decent landlord.

I enter the back seat. That’s one of the strange upsides to COVID. I never liked riding up front anyway.

I ask Milo questions about his Greek origins. Turns out that we’re both fans of Yanis Varoufakis.

En route, Milo takes a call on loudspeaker from another party interested in the flat. She’s too far from Brussels to make it to a viewing that evening. After the call, Milo confides she’s nervous about my visit.

He takes the scenic route. So scenic in fact that I toy with the idea that he’s a Gen Zed Ted Bundy; dazzling potential victims with his great looks and impeccable manners.

As if reading my mind, he tells me he’s avoiding the traffic.

Alma Metro Station, Woluwe-St-Lambert, Brussels

There seems to be a lot of green where we are. I don’t see much in the way of public transport. He assures me that there is a metro station in the vicinity. Seeing is believing.

We pull up at a leafy estate, sandwiched between university campuses. And indeed, there is a metro station, directly in front of the block of flats. I’ll discover later that it was purpose built to service the student population.

The foyer looks promising even if the corridors are more sombre. The flat is as pretty as the pictures. The bedroom is larger than my previous. The kitchen well-equipped with a good-sized, ice-making fridge (that opens the wrong way). There’s a storage room with, wait for it, a washing machine.

Milo can see that I’m impressed. I’m tempted to say ‘yes’ straight away but I’m curious about another property he has on his list. A second viewing is tentatively scheduled for the following day, provided he can pick up the keys from the landlord. I suggest submitting my dossier just in case. I ask what is needed. Unlike Verne, Milo is voluntarily upfront and transparent.

He offers to drop me off somewhere more central. Rounding the corner, to my very pleasant surprise, I realise we’re in Roodebeek. 

I adore Roodebeek, I beam. I’ve wanted to find a place in this area. It just hadn’t happened.

(A small part of me is conflicted. The Woluwe area is considered part of Brussels’ suburbia even if less expensive than other 'trendier' parts of town. I try to live modestly. Yet I’m worried that I might be turning into a Bourgeoisie sell-out. On the other hand, I ask myself, how would me slumming it help The Cause?)

We drive past a Cook & Book. Earlier that day, I tell Milo, the woman who did my online Belgian cultural sensitivity training was raving about this cultural hub. Unlike much of Brussels, it’s open on a Sunday.

There is coincidence. There are series of coincidences. And then there’s Providence.

I’ll definitely be sending you my dossier. I tell Milo. Before I leave, I add that it’s a shame he’s too young for me.

That’s very kind, madam.

He promises to keep me informed of the prospective viewing.

Early the next morning, I receive a missed call from Milo. I ring him back. The other property is now off the market. I take it as a sign. I instruct him to start the process.

Meanwhile, I have yet another viewing that evening; arranged long before the flat in Woluwe-Saint-Lambert came on the scene. I could cancel it but I'm inquisitive. In a way, I want it to be confirmation of the decision I’ve already made. I’m held up at work with the second day of cultural sensitivity training. I’m also having regular exchanges with Milo, forwarding bits and pieces of required paperwork.

I finish teleworking a few minutes later than planned. In my distraction, I take a different route than I’d intended. Then my connecting bus doesn’t show up. I’m in contact with the agent, Philippe. He can’t hang around. We re-schedule for the following morning.

He shows me two flats. It’s an academic exercise by this point. Milo has already informed me that the landlord has accepted my file.

Philippe explains that he’s one of many intermediaries for the properties. Sounds complicated.

The flats are attractive. In some ways better equipped than the place in Woluwe. The second doesn’t have a terrace, which I prefer. One less thing to clean. Yet on balance - be it proximity to transport, element of liveliness and the appeal of the surroundings – the Saint-Lambert apartment has the edge.

I pass by Milo’s office the following Monday to sign the lease. He mentions the great disappointment of the woman who had planned to visit the property after me. It would have ticked all her boxes. I feel for her and wish her well. I've been there a number of times.

In between more banter, I go over the document studiously. Milo hovers around to answer my questions about technical French terms. He has a nervous air; as if I might somehow change my mind before any financial commitment. Once I’m sure I’m not signing away my soul, I put my autograph at the bottom of the page. I promise Milo to buy him a celebratory drink once I’ve finished moving.

We pass by the flat again on my request. I want to have a measure of what additional furniture might be needed and to know where I deposit the bins. To my disgust, feathery spiders start to emerge everywhere. Despite the newness of the flat, I had noticed some cobwebs on the first viewing. Milo assures me it will be spotless by the time I move in. Still. It gives me the heebie-jeebs. A good thing it hadn’t been evident before.

In my arachnid-driven distraction, I completely forget about the bins.

Soundtrack: B7 by Brandy

A Place to Call Home: Part 1

 

After a charming parenthesis in Bruges, it’s back to reality. Shortly after my return, the news comes to light that a colleague has contracted the old 'Rona. Symptoms are mild and they're recovering well. However, anyone rostered to work in the office the previous couple of weeks is advised to quarantine and told not to return on site for a fortnight. My colleague, Demetria panics. She’s days away from a long French excursion. For her, self-isolation is not an option.

Thankfully, I’ve been spared; either on leave or having not been rostered in the office.

Alas, I’m not so fortunate the next time. The following week, another colleague comes down with symptoms; apparently unrelated. It’s one with whom I’ve interacted. She waives anonymity to send us all an email update. Be careful out there, she warns, I was.

Senior management reassures that the risk of any of us being possible carriers is low. According to occupational health, we haven’t been in close proximity for long enough for it to be a real threat. Management nevertheless errs on the side of caution. Most colleagues are instructed to stay away from the office for another fortnight or so. For much of August, the office will be deserted; colleagues either on leave or physically distancing.

I sympathise with the organisation’s decision but I’m still miffed. Ironically, as a result of TTUO’s current COVID policy, being in the office feels like a change of scene. The flexibility of teleworking is great but not five days out of five.

This unexpected confinement turns out to be a blessing in disguise. It allows more flexibility when it comes to flat viewings. If I exclude my brief Bruges holiday, it’s still been well over a month since I’ve been looking for accommodation. I will learn later from various sources that the market is tougher than I’ve been led to believe. 

Meanwhile, I’ve come to a deal with the hotel manager, Nik. I downgrade my room. He gives me a discount. My first salary allows me to comfortably pay him on a week by week basis as I keep him updated.

Returning from leave, Nik introduces me to new colleague, Steve also in the same lodgings. The HR team have mentioned a Brit would be relocating from the Midlands. By the end of the week I've met his Mauritian wife, Sylvia and all of their good-looking, well-behaved brood. We exchange notes on accommodation searches. It’s not automatically smooth-sailing for them either. Sylvia talks of a balancing act between keeping the children safe, without wanting them to be too sheltered and removed from the reality of others. Yet, perhaps the demands of family mean they take a more pragmatic approach. Within a couple of weeks they find somewhere not far from the hotel.

Speaking of which, one of my viewings is on the ground floor of the very same building where I stayed in the first month. I want so much to like it. I’ve come to have a soft spot for the area. It’s in the safer part of a neighbourhood with an otherwise mixed reputation. It has good transport links, only 15 minutes by bus from the office. 20, tops. The flat in question is also a duplex, my preferred option. 

The agent and I are are welcomed by the outgoing American tenant, starting in English and switching to very competent French. Fingers crossed and uncrossed again on entering. The flat is attractive but not the most practical use of space. There are hardly any doors, not even on the wardrobe. The current tenant’s fish lunch stinks out the place, drifting up to the mezzanine (not a proper second floor) where one would sleep and hang their exposed clothes.

And so on and so forth. I see a lot of flats. It most often comes down to a toss up between location (location, location), amenities and use of space. And a feeling. Yes, an ineffable feeling. It sounds fickle, I know but if the doubts niggle too much it’s not a good sign. I don’t know if the long search has started to affect good judgment. I attend viewings in the centre of town; attractive spaces and yet… I’m also beginning to question the wisdom of living in the middle of a bar and restaurant district. I want some liveliness but not all day and night. I envisage being harassed by boozy cohorts, returning home after dark.

One Belgo-Congolese estate agent shows me around several spaces within days. The first is gorgeous. And also in the middle of nowhere. No good for a single woman who doesn’t drive. The surrounding area is ever-so-louche. Come autumn/winter, I’d be cursing the long walk up a lonely road with only the odd sketchy-looking bloke around. He shows me more lovely spaces, some a bit out of my price range or, once again, in neighbourhoods where I wouldn’t feel wholly at ease. The umpteenth viewing he schedules turns out to be a place I visited a month prior, that wasn’t- and still isn’t-immediately available. He tacitly gives up after that.

As things start to become really desperate, there's a breakthrough of sorts. I respond to the ad for a spacious flat in the prestigious Woluwe-Saint-Lambert area. Even if its reputation didn’t precede it, I fall in love with the neighbourhood each time I pass through. There’s a busy interchange opposite the well-known shopping centre. It’s calm but not dead; attractive scenery with what appears to be a mix of social housing and private residences. And I just feel good each time I’m in the area.

To my surprise and mild disappointment, the viewing will be conducted by Verne, an agent whose path I’ve crossed a number of times. He makes a joke about third time lucky. There’s something of the used-car salesman about him. The stereotypical estate agent doing and saying anything to secure that commission.

Nevertheless, I am hoping this visit will be the one. Time is of the essence. Winter is coming and the appropriate clothing is still in France. My manager Ama has dropped gentle but pointed hints. Autumn promises to be hectic. It’s important that I’m settled; not just for work but my own peace of mind. I completely agree. The stress is no joke. Ama remains sympathetic but it bothers me that it even has to be raised. It’s already surpassed the six weeks it took me to be settled in Strasbourg. A helpful colleague sends me photos of ‘to let’ adverts he’s passed. I feel ashamed to admit I’m still looking.

I have good reason to be hopeful this time. The flat is reassuringly close to Tomberg station. The apartment block is in decent condition. The few residents I meet are friendly and polite. Inside, the flat is expansive. A capacious lounge/kitchen area with high ceilings and a sizeable bedroom. 

The view from the salon isn’t inspiring. The freezer space is on the stingy side. There are one too many cobwebs for comfort. Overall, however it’s a good fit. Plenty of storage space and room for guests. Most importantly, it’s great value for money. Almost all bills are included.

It’s all but a done deal. Verne and I joke about the heatwave. I pretend to fan him. I don’t even mind his facetious gift-of-the-gab salesman act.

If you don’t take this one, then I don’t know what. Better be quick...properties like this aren’t two-a-penny...

At the last minute, I remember to ask about the washing machine. That makes a difference, I insist, opening cupboards looking for the elusive appliance.

Verne knows this from past experience. He becomes ever-so-slightly evasive.  He eventually leads me down to the communal laundry in the basement.

It was going well until then. It’s infuriating that every single flat I’ve visited has a dishwasher – a comparatively useless appliance-but not all have something more essential like a washing machine. This might seem a mere trifle to some but is indispensable to me. In London, I had no choice but to share facilities of all kinds. Extortionate rents. Limited space. Needs musts. In Europe, one can live like an adult without having to earn a six-figure salary. I’d rather not have to wash my clothes out of earshot; at the mercy of potentially mischievous strangers.

It’s just a small compromise Verne protests, Otherwise, just install your own. Initially wary, I start to warm to that idea. I research appliance rentals. I allow myself to be optimistic, submitting my dossier to the landlord via Verne to express my interest. Except the landlord takes long enough to respond that hope begins to fade. He also has issue with me installing a washing machine.

I’m thrown into a panic. I worry this relative triviality (not to me) might be a sign. Maybe this isn’t for me. A positive harbinger of what might come but not the real thing. I hold off signing anything and parting with money as long as I can. Meanwhile Verne steps up the pressure, more so than other agents.

 It’s as if he has something to prove by getting me to rent something from his portfolio. The ‘fussy’ client that he talked round. This, even more than the washing machine affair, heightens my unease. Few good decisions are made in a rush. Moreover, he provides inconsistent information about the process of securing the tenancy. It makes me all the more suspicious. But I’m feeling the strain of the situation. I can’t trust my own decisions. 

I reluctantly give Verne a date to sign the lease.

You seem to have doubts, madam he observes. Have they cleared now?

I don’t like being put in this position but I can’t lie.

No. Nothing is a 100%. Of course there’ll be doubts.

The whole truth is that I already have a draft ‘thanks, but no thanks’ email saved in my inbox.

To be continued...

Soundtrack: What's Your Pleasure? by Jessie Ware

Déjà Vu

It’s a month since I arrived in Brussels. My concept of time is already warped. Some of the experience has passed in a blink of an eye. Other aspects feel like a distant memory. That’s nothing new. I felt the same living in Strasbourg. I was based in North-East France for roughly two and half years. A relatively brief period. Yet there are times those early memories from 2017/2018 feel so much further away than they are. I can’t blame it all on the distortions of living through a pandemic. It comes with the territory of getting older. Everything appears to speed up post-18. Back in my student days, a fellow undergrad put it down to the rapid life changes after leaving school. Up until that point so much is determined by a routine over which we had very little control.

20-odd years later, his theory still holds up.

Of course, there is no getting around the impact of a global health crisis on social norms. I have to keep reminding myself of the effect it is having on adapting to a new work environment. The physical distancing measures at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) are very strict. With our presence in office heavily constrained, I am meeting very few of my colleagues. Add to that the usual summer lull – which COVID-19 hasn’t changed the way I’d expected – and my whole initial one-year contract could pass before I’ve begun to form proper working relationships.

There is nonetheless a thick silver lining. I have the time to adjust to my new life at a slower pace. Working from home has its drawbacks. Contending with the morning commute is not one of them. Furthermore, in finding alternative spaces to WFH beyond my hotel room, I have become acquainted with the personnel at various eating establishments in central Brussels. There’s Mehmet, the red-head Belgian-Turk who in addition to his mother tongue speaks fluent English, Dutch, smatterings of German but hardly any French. Abdul, the gregarious proprietor of an organic café in Botanique, takes easy continental living to an extreme; shutting up shop days before a national holiday in the name of faire le pont. In the same neck of the woods, I meet Afro-Cuban festival curator, Leonardo (or Lenni) and Sanaa, his idiomatic-English speaking, Belgo-Afghan colleague, at the Point Culture; one of many such hubs dotted across the city.

Back in the office, I’m encouraged by the interactions I’ve had thus far. My team are doing their utmost to cooperate and maintain regular communication under the current restrictions. Emails are prefaced with Dear Sister, or less common Dear Brother... (Personally, I prefer Dear comrade. It's rooted in the workers' struggle and gender neutral. I appreciate the familial sentiment, however).

Before she goes on leave, my manager Ama instructs me to shadow another colleague, Demetria. Having only interacted via computer screens, we meet for the first time in person during my second week. I discover her to be as warm and down-to-earth as she has appeared from afar. In between brainstorming about projects related to GBV and harassment at work and the effects of the pandemic on migrant workers, we swap life experiences. Demetria relocated from her native Thessaloniki to Brussels to study International Relations. She speaks five languages and is learning her sixth. A similar age, we ponder the unfulfilled Brave New World promises that we Xennials/older millennials were fed growing up. We talk about cultural adaptation from our different perspectives.

Point Culture, Brussels

Over the coming weeks I’ll observe her weep genuine tears over the untimely death of one of our partners; a vibrant young Mexican trade unionist with whom she’d only very recently been in contact. I’ll watch Demetria both assert herself but maintain her sang-froid whilst an abrasive colleague is scandalously unprofessional during a conference call. I’ll listen as she comfortably conducts virtual meetings in her second, third and fourth languages (English, Spanish, French...). Demetria implores me to resume my long dormant Spanish study. TTUO works with many monolingual Hispanophone comrades. I’m less keen. I have enough basic knowledge to pick up bits and pieces but I fell out of love with Español many years ago. Neither do I want it interfering with my Portuguese study. Nevertheless, three weeks into the job, I concede it would at least be useful to improve my passive Spanish skills.

I soon have the opportunity to make myself useful. I contribute to the design of a survey on global migration, translate here and there, proof-read and facilitate online discussions, amongst miscellaneous tasks. Demetria organises introductory Zoom conversations with overseas partners. I’m finally discovering what has become the new normal for many office-based professionals. A substantial part of the working day is spent in online meetings and/or webinars. Being new, I want to avail myself of them all. Making a valiant effort at first, I realise it's impossible. A whole day could go past having done little else. Hard choices must be made.

I still have a growing backlog of background reading that I have less and less time to do during office hours. I squeeze in what I can whilst using public transport, alternating between work-related reading and Portuguese study.

Yet I really can’t complain on the work front. Ça va bien. Thank God for small mercies.

The ongoing hunt for a flat is less smooth. The TTUO only guarantee my temporary digs for a month. I’ll be paying my way after then. I had hoped to find somewhere by 21 July; Belgium’s national holiday. The office would be closed, making it easier for me to move and less reliant on the two days relocation leave afforded us. 

It is not to be. I spend a solitary Fête Nationale in my short-term studio rental, catching up on reading, podcasts and speaking to family and friends.

More and more of my viewings are cancelled before the chance to see the property. Someone has pipped me to the post. Others fill me with niggling doubts. Eerily quiet surroundings with limited transport connections or slap bang in the middle of commercial areas. Promising flats are marred by half-finished renovation and/or detritus still remaining from the previous tenant. If they can’t get their act together for a viewing, it doesn’t augur well for future relations. Some properties aren’t available before the autumn, as I discover on one occasion half-way through the visit.

I attend a viewing one lunch time, a stone’s throw from my office. There are several of us. The space is newly renovated but on closer inspection, something is amiss. The agent shrugs when I ask why the wardrobe appears to have had its doors removed. The main bedroom isn’t a room at all; just a sectioned off part of the living room. Worst of all are the poorly maintained communal areas. When a few of us make an early exit, we discover that the front door is missing its handle. A young lady spots the broken knob lying on the floor for residents to re-attach. Something the estate agent somehow concealed. Considering a bulk of the bills go towards the upkeep of said communal areas and little else, this is not reassuring.

Towards the end of my first month, I feel thoroughly demoralised. And frightened. I’m yet to receive my first salary. Tax at source is significant. I don’t want to gripe. I consider it my civic duty to contribute financially to the common good. It will however have a significant influence on my budget. I now have to consider extending my temporary accommodation; something I’d hoped wouldn’t happen. My mind frequently goes back to the stress of my early days in Strasbourg, where it took me six weeks to find a flat; hopping from one AirBnB to another.

With the confidence of those who know Brussels well, my TTUO colleagues assure me that I’ll find somewhere decent for a reasonable price. I am encouraged by these positive prognostications but time is of the essence.

The longer it takes to find accommodation, the longer it takes for me to settle in. The longer it takes to find and build community. Brussels makes up in vibrancy and culture what it lacks in general aesthetic appeal. There has been a (sometimes worrying) resumption of activity post-lockdown. Yet moving to a new City intensifies the sense of alienation that has characterised 2020 so far. I feel adrift, separated for so long from those who have known me longest and/or best. This rootlessness isn’t helped by the realisation that even some of these relationships are fractured. Emigrating has only made the cracks more evident. 

Much of the online spiritual nourishment that has been a lifeline these past months takes place during office hours. I still participate, not wanting to lose focus on what’s most important. Yet I do have to adapt to this new life season. 

Soundtrack: Women in Music III by Haim, Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo.

A Change of Scene: Part 2

Flat hunting allows me to kill two birds with one stone. As well as trying to secure accommodation, I am becoming acquainted with Brussels in all its damp and/or overcast glory. (On average, it rains more than half the year in Brussels. The climate has been true to form since my arrival. Summer? What summer?)

 I have visited the Belgian capital on a number of occasions. Now having relocated here for work, as oppose to floating around as a tourist, I see it with completely different eyes. A big city girl most of my life, I'm already out of the habit having lived in a glorified-village for two-and-a half-years. Brussels isn't a mega-city like London yet feels larger and more intimidating than I recall. Furthermore, I thought I’d already mentally prepared for the sense of isolation that accompanies moving to a new city with no connections. Clearly not entirely. I'm occasionally overwhelmed at the thought of being unmoored.

As well as looking for long term shelter, I also make my enquiries regarding sustenance of another kind. On my request, a Strasbourg-based uncle (cultural, no relation) who use to live in Brussels has provided me with a helpful survival list.

The unpronounceably-Dutch Colruyt falls into the budget-shopping category. Its vast warehouse set-up does include some genuine bargains including wholemeal pasta, a wide variety of cheeses and an impressive Pic-N-Mix. However, the meat section is exorbitant as are household goods. I don’t care much for the payment system either. There is no proper check out service. One is obligated to either hold their items or leave them in a trolley whilst a sales assistant scans each by hand. Looks as if it'll be a mix-and-match job, procuring different items from various retailers to ensure the best prices.

Fortunately, in that same corner of Schaerbeek (No, I don’t know how to pronounce it either) I stumble across Aldi (far better than what I came across in France or even Germany) and a world market where I can purchase meat at a much more sensible price.

As for spiritual bread, I've made my peace with the fact that finding a church in Brussels will be a longer process than anticipated. It's much larger than Strasbourg for a start. Online services in the wake of COVID makes it simultaneously easier and harder to gauge. I'm also keenly observing how Belgian churches have responded to the social unrest following George Floyd's murder. The response on the Continent has generally been unimpressive from what I've seen or heard so far. One minister goes as far as to call the protests a work of the Devil. Good grief. There's no perfect church of course but neither should I rush the decision. To be continued...

The day before I start my new role, my future line manager, Ama, schedules an informal meet up. She is the director of the Diversity & Inclusion Department (D&I). My specific projects will revolve around gender relations in the Trade Union context as well as supporting migrants' rights. Already having great salience before the pandemic, they're thrown into stark relief all the more now.

Ama and I meet in the Bourse area which has changed beyond recognition. Ama agrees.

She treats me to a delicious virgin cocktail whilst we discuss our similar West African backgrounds, international politics, work culture and natural Afro haircare. Over the next few days it becomes apparent how much our political worldview overlaps. We lament that Jeremy Corbyn has been replaced by Keir Starmer and the latter's complacency over Afrophobia and other double standards. We swap notes on insidious forms of racism, converge on the importance of political education and paraphrase Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Paolo Freira and Stuart Hall. It’s stimulating to say the least. I revise my initial impression of her diffidence. Ama doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

Turning to more practical matters, I ask about TTUO’s physical distancing guidelines. She explains that the usual office-based routine hasn’t resumed and colleagues are only permitted on site based on a rota. D&I has a generous WFH policy. In light of the Belgian government’s post-lockdown endorsement of teleworking, it’s all the more encouraged by the organisation.

After lunch with Ama, the afternoon is far spent. I head to my next viewing. En route I’m accosted by an attractive young Congolese fellow; full of compliments and wide-eyed, ahem, admiration. I’m flattered. He is polite, helpful and eager to meet up. I give him my business card. I would normally be on my guard but with no pre-existing networks in Belgium, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. On the other hand, I don’t want to mislead and hope my friendliness isn’t taken for more than just that. I needn't worry. I don't hear back from him.

I arrive at the viewing early, as has become my habit since missing one the previous week. The agent has no key to the property. We wait for the landlord to show up.

It’s a partially converted hotel. A gentleman sleeps rough outside. I am nervous about that, to my shame and latent hypocrisy.

Two oriental men let us into the building. The agent explains one of them is the proprietor, a new client. The flat itself isn’t what I expected. Let’s just say it doesn’t live up to the promise of the dazzling photos. It’s smaller, older and less pristine than advertised. The rent is pretty attractive. Not so low that it would be suspicious but a bargain considering it includes all bills and is in one of the most respectable parts of a capital city. Alas, if something seems too good to be true it probably is. By that stage I’ve viewed enough properties to have had this recurring experience. The apartment is taken under especially flattering light and/or photo-shopped or whatever the inanimate equivalent is. It’s a frustrating first few weeks for visits. There are a number of cancellations, false starts and general disappointment.

Thankfully, it's more auspicious on the professional front. I'm up early for my first day of work after less sleep than would be advisable. My office is slap bang in central Brussels. The immediate environs are pleasant, although that changes swiftly depending on which corner you turn. 

I arrive three quarters of an hour early. It’s either that or cutting it fine with an alternative route.
Head of HR, Émilie is an early bird too. She gives me a cheery welcome and good French practice.

Émilie spends most of the morning and some of the afternoon taking me through the organisational structure, work protocol, perquisites and introducing me to the very few colleagues scheduled to work in the office that day. Her brother, Serge oversees office supplies. He informs me that I have my pick of two swanky face masks, courtesy of TTUO.

Having previously communicated via email, I meet the sole IT technician on duty, Stijn. It takes him the whole day to set up my work laptop. Fortunately, I have come prepared with my basic PC. Efficient Stijn has the unintended curtness of the ever-so-slightly socially-challenged. I never cease to be amazed by how much IT personnel live up to the clichés. 

Émilie formally introduces me to all colleagues via email. One of the Comms team, Kimberley,  recognises my name from an unrelated webinar earlier on in the year. She had looked me up and wanted to approach me to write for a TTUO-related publication. Now, here I am. God is in the details.

I practise some Portuguese with Brazilian colleague Sandro. Bob, one of the assistant directors, introduces me to the main boss and fellow South African, Lauren. Her manner is at once salt-of-the-earth and somehow regal. She decides against hugging in respect of the physical distancing rules. She asks me how the flat-search is going.

Don’t settle, she advises. It’s a renter’s market. Hold out for what you really want. I find this reassuring given my experience thus far. And the fact it's TTUO currently paying for my hotel.

There’s more French practice later with the head of the West & Central African region, Rashidi.

Late that morning, I have a teleconference with the other members of the team. Ama re-introduces herself formally, as does project manager, Demetria whom I met during the interview. I’m yet to meet the others such as PA, Manuelle and project coordinator, Roos. They give me a comprehensive overview of the projects on which I’ll be working, conscious not to overwhelm me. By the end, I have a solid list of recommended reading to keep me busy until I start formal duties the following week. I discover later that, according to the roster, my physical presence is scarcely required in the office during my first month.

I have time for a brief lunch break in which I nab some winter essentials for a steal at a nearby high street.

It’s 6pm before I know it. My first few days follow a similar pattern. I'll meet and lunch with more colleagues, some of whom started working at TTUO before I was born.

A week later I’m still green and fresh, much to Ama's bemusement.  It’s invigorating to attend and/or contribute to numerous teleconferences on themes such as the plight of migrant farm workers during the global pandemic or encouraging more women to take up leadership roles in Trade Unions. My heart swells when I read about the campaigns on which I'll be working. I try to temper my excitement with realism. I can but take a day at a time. For today, at least, it feels very rewarding.

Soundtrack: What Kinda Music by Tom Misch & Yusef Dayes, Canyons by Young Gun Silver Fox.

A Change of Scene: Part 1

Brussels Grand Place.

I awake at 5am groggy, having spent a restless night not wanting to sleep through the alarm.

My train for Brussels via Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport leaves Strasbourg Central Station at 7am.

I wash, dress and put out the last remaining recycling and household rubbish. I package up the Internet Livebox to be posted on my behalf by my (now former) landlord. He’ll be coming round later that morning to prepare the flat for the next tenant, eager to move in ASAP.

I take a final look around what has been my home for the last two and a half years and give a salute. I drag my diabolically heavy suitcase downstairs. Spare keys are left on the dining table, originals in my old letterbox.

My  transport connections are straightforward, no time-wasting. Yet there are still only mere minutes to spare when I reach Gare Centrale terminus.

I’m leaving Strasbourg today.

I announce to the tram driver, as he steps out of his cabin. We continue to exchange pleasantries.

It’s a shame we didn’t meet before, he commiserates as we say our farewells.

I am leaving one bilingual region with a difficult history for another. One Germanic language (Alsatian) will be replaced by another (Dutch/Flemish) that I don't intend to learn.

En route, I update my blogs and check emails. The day before leaving, I formally notify all the members of my community Gospel choir who are not already aware. My email is accompanied by a personal recorded message of thanks and farewell. Incredibly supportive and affectionate responses pour in over the next few days.

At CdG Airport I log into the daily prayer meeting with Morphē Arts collective. It has been a lifeline since March. The regulars are surprised I've managed to join en route.

I’m exhausted but spend much of the journey unwisely fighting sleep. I finally succumb in the last half hour.

We pull into Brussels Midi Station. So far, so timely. No missed connections or delayed trains. I don't any time purchasing the monthly STIB travel card. I already have a flat viewing scheduled that afternoon. I just need to check in at my hotel in the Schaerbeek area and, if possible, sneak in a snooze.

Easier said than done. I have multiple itineraries (printed off Google maps) and a poor sense of direction. How the heck am I meant to know if I’m heading North-West or South-East? I’m not a bloody sailor.

The most reliable itinerary is locked inside aforementioned heavy suitcase. I’m too afraid to open it, for convenience’ sake. The instructions sent by the hotel turn out to be misleading. They assume I am travelling from Gare du Nord. I discover this the hard way, wandering around the wrong bus station, with its depressing stench of urine. Later, I spot a man emerging from a corner with his fly undone in broad daylight. It’s an unwelcome reminder that much of Brussels is less salubrious and aesthetically charming than its French near-neighbour.

Lugging my merciless suitcase around (not to mention stuffed back pack), I eventually work out a route to the hotel. The best part of my three hour window has been wasted. On the bus to Porte de Namur I finally open my suitcase to check the all but pointless itinerary. I’d have saved an hour if I’d done that sooner. As feared, I struggle to close the case again. A compromise is reached.

My new employers, The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) have put me up in studio flat-style accommodation, including breakfast and a laundry service. The establishment is run by Nik from The Netherlands. He responds to my French with English.

By the time I turn up at the reception I’m a little frazzled. He takes me through the check-in process in fluent but quaint Dutch English. I politely try to speed things along, aware that I don’t have much time before the viewing. I’ve already contacted the landlord to let him know I’m running late.

So you’re here for a month? asks Nik.

Well, for less I hope. I’m flat-hunting

His eyes light up. He was under the impression I was only in town for a short-term mission. He offers to show me available accommodation on the premises. That’s another viewing I can add to the growing list over the coming days.

I have just enough time to alleviate myself of the heavy load before I’m back out again. Not before I take a moment to appreciate the very attractive gigs.

My poor sense of orientation and increasing panic let me down again. I call the landlord, a jovial fellow called Guy, to let him know I have lost my bearings. He suggests a meeting point.
He is keen to show off his English. I am eager to maintain my French.

The accommodation is well equipped but a bit on the old side. The kitchen area is cramped and the bathroom is too close to the bedroom. It wouldn’t be convenient for guests. It’s the sort of place I’d have considered back when I was first flat-hunting in Strasbourg, before I eventually landed on my feet. I’m not looking to upgrade. Just something similar to what I have become accustomed.

I'm reconciled to higher rents. Being a capital, Brussels is more expensive than Strasbourg. However, there is a lot more chance of finding accommodation inclusive of all. I’ve adjusted my expectations accordingly but I will not be ripped off.

The first viewings are underwhelming.

Some flats are poorly lit. Or the kitchen area is too narrow and/or under-equipped. Sometimes it’s just a question of layout. Nik’s turns out to be one of the best of the bunch. The problem is the steep annual incremental rent increase. As with most of what I’ll see in my first few days or weeks, I’d potentially be paying more for less.

(courtesy of https://www.diaspordc.com/) 

I promise Guy I’ll be in touch with a response soon. I send a text the following the day. Sorry, it’s not the right fit.

Shortly after the viewing, curiosity leads me to explore the surrounding area. This is how I come to discover the famous Matonge neighbourhood; Brussels Quartier Africain. Some internal cultural compass instinctively leads me to the Black Quarters of these European cities. I had a similar experience in Strasbourg. Except Matonge is on another level.

Strasbourg’s paltry collection of African/Caribbean grocers and cosmetics suppliers is all the more risible in comparisons. If Brussels prices aren’t as competitive as London, they certainly have the same vast range of stock. Something else I missed in Strasbourg.

Much to my shock, UK Hair & Beauty chains have found their way to Matonge. And, similar to the UK, most of these establishments are run by South Asians. I get talking to Yusef, who moved from the Midlands to help run one of the Brussels-based chains. He explains how the empire has spread from the UK to Europe, buying up some of the competition. The comfort of brand familiarity is in conflict with my inner-socialist.

On one level I feel an instant affinity with the neighbourhood. I am disheartened nonetheless by signs of neglect. Unsightly refuse accumulating on street corners. The grubby condition of certain shops. I wonder if my disappointment/harsh evaluation is some form of internalised racism. Or just a frustration that too often in major European cities, local authorities don’t seem to invest as much in areas where much of the population are migrants from poorer nations. Can the degradation be blamed on divergent cultural norms? Could it be be that residents feel alienated and thus not as enthusiastic about environmental upkeep? Cleanliness is not a preserve of wealthier nations or even wealthy neighbourhoods. Anyone who has spent time in gentrified Shoreditch, East London could emphatically attest to that.

I duck into corners that lead into arcades heaving with activity. Nail shops and hairdressers one end, food vendors and clothes shops the other. Men of all descriptions loiter in groups. I feel the weed-thick air shift when I move into these spaces. As I circle the area, the female proprietors shoot daggers at me. It’s a strangely hostile reaction to a potential customer. Perhaps they already discern I’m a foreigner. Whatever their reasons, I can’t get out of that uninviting environment soon enough. So much for sis’ advice to find a hairdresser. (Thankfully, happenstance will lead me to friendlier and/or more professional-looking salons in the coming week).

I walk the length and breadth of the road, wanting to familiarise myself with the locality should any future guests wish to be escorted. I compare product prices and make a mental note of where to buy gari. By the time I complete this unexpected excursion, I am thoroughly unnerved by the scrutiny of the far-too-many-idle men in the vicinity.

I make another mental note to only come to this neck of the woods when I am on a specific mission.

Settling In...Finally

The first week of December is arguably my busiest yet. My supervisor Sophie has been poorly, as has her little one Aloise.  I'd like to tell her I'm praying for them. This early on in the job, it could be risky especially in super-secular France.  In her absence she forwards instructions on the most urgent tasks. When I later find out she’s been sending emails from her hospital bed, I mildly reprimand her. A bit rich, as I know how hard it is to switch off even when hospitalised. But still.

In between tasks I assist another colleague, Geri (hard ‘G’, not like Halliwell or whatever she goes by now). She’s helping to organise a conference in Algeria. When I first join the team, I’m not sure what to make of her. You usually hear Geri before you see her. She speaks very good French, very loudly with a noticeable Eastern European inflection (Hungarian, I’m told). Her laugh is louder still, almost forced. I’m polite towards her, even cordial but circumspect. Still, she’s a maven of all things administrative in the department and I’m grateful to have the chance to assist on another project.

Later that week, I’m invited to a new starters' HR training session. Just before I attend, I pass by Yotis’ office to sign the lease on my new flat. It’s really happening, folks. He has prepared a meticulous inventory of all the furniture and equipment and the few items that are not quite in pristine condition. I’m impressed with the integrity. He draws my attention to barely perceptible imperfections I wouldn’t otherwise notice. It has been agreed that I’ll move in that Friday. I manage to keep it from most of my colleagues save one of my three line managers, Lucia, from whom I must request special leave. I inform Sophie as casually as possible when she asks. I had intended to surprise her after I was bien installée.

At the HR meeting, I finally put faces to the names with which I’ve interacted regularly via email. There’s a session on the private health insurance that comes with the contract. All health care in France works on a private basis with government subsidies that cover (often a large) percentage of the costs in the form of reimbursements. Those who can afford it supplement the rest with private insurance. As employees of THRO, we have a global policy that replaces any other healthcare support -state or otherwise-to which we might have been entitled. That means bye-bye NHS. I am horrified. I had intended to stick with my UK GP whenever I were in town. The HR colleague gently admonishes that it would be fraudulent to benefit from a system into which I am not currently paying. Perish the thought. I apologise for giving her that impression. It’s just the alternative is so unpalatable; going to a private clinic. Thank God for walk-in centres. She suggests I could offer to pay my GP for any consultation. It’s worth a try. Anything is better than going private.

After the session, I swap stories with other organisation newbies. Ana has also recently relocated from the UK with her husband. She’s spent the past month, like myself, looking for accommodation. Consider yourself fortunate, says Romana. She’s a THRO veteran of sorts. She’s worked for the organisation for years as a temp and only just been offered a fixed term contract (or CDD-Contrat á Durée Déterminée). A month in limbo isn’t bad compared to some. Spare a thought for the temps and work placement candidates who receive no financial assistance from The Organisation and whose employment situation is too precarious for most landlords to risk. Ana and Romana compare THRO’s intricate bureaucracy with other public institutions. Ana has worked for several around the world. She considers this the most complex, even by public sector standards. Au contraire, I tell them. I find it reassuring. At least this way, there's more accountability with how money is spent.

End of an era...The late Johnny Hallyday
(courtesy of Melody magazine)

Back in the office I’m balancing work with sorting out all that needs to be done for my move. Internet access, electricity accounts, building insurance (in France, it's the tenant's responsibility)… Nearly every little formality comes with a processing charge, before you even get to the main tariff. I’m ever grateful for that substantial relocation allowance.

I also need to accustom myself to carrying my passport around more often. I am asked to present it even for relatively trivial purchases like a pay-as-you-go SIM. Cette maudite bureaucratie francaise ! It would hardly be worth the bother except my supposedly EU-friendly UK mobile isn’t very reliable these days.

THRO permits expats two days of special leave to move house. Most handy indeed. A few days before the move my AirBnb host Javier, God bless him, offers me a lift to my new digs. He won’t countenance me wasting the taxi fare. He asks if I’ve heard about the demise of French Rock Legend Johnny Hallyday. Bien sur. On the main page of the BBC website of all places. Hallyday’s death doesn’t have the cultural impact I expect at work but everywhere else is abuzz with the news. That weekend, to commemorate his burial, Strasbourg tram stations rather disconcertingly blast his greatest hits from their speakers. From what I do catch of live news coverage, French celebs give gushing eulogies at Hallyday’s memorial and Paris comes to a halt for a vigil.

When the day of moving arrives, it is a mercifully smooth transition. Javier takes time out of his lunch break to drop me off, as planned. Yotis and I go through some final formalities and, save for some initial issues with the heating, I’m good to go. I creep around my maisonnette like a guest. I’m still in Airbnb mode. I can’t believe I live here now. Look at all that fridge space! I buy almost a month’s worth of meat and still only fill one freezer tray. The place is so clean. I’m conscious of keeping it that way to the point of paranoia. I’ve even adopted my mum’s no-outdoor-shoes-in-the-house rule. It used to drive me round the bend.

A few days after the move, it’s an early start to my non-work day. Some workmen are coming round; one on Yotis’ behest to give the kitchen a spruce and the other to install my internet. They too become subject to the new shoes rule. It’s another potentially intimidating but ultimately useful linguistic exercise. When Hassan, the freckled, fresh-faced broadband engineer starts explaining the technical aspects of the installation process in as basic language as possible, I wonder if I’d completely follow him in English. It’s not the simple procedure that I expected. It’s a bit of a bloody rigmarole in fact, enlisting the help of neighbours and eventually the building maintenance company.

It’s turning out to be a somewhat chaotic day as far as strangers coming and goings are concerned. I’m also expecting the arrival of my belongings from London. Owing to bad weather (snow again) the removal company have postponed the delivery a number of times within just a couple of days. The control freak in me instinctively panics. I’m constantly re-arranging my schedule. Plans to make the flat more festive must be delayed until the basics are sorted. Thankfully, I've been organised enough to purchase other household goods in bulk the day before. The cost is temporary backache from carrying such a heavy load all the way back from Kehl, but it saves be future hassle.

I had hoped to have mum’s assistance if I’d found accommodation sooner. Ironically, the day my possessions are set to arrive, she’s flying out to Japan to spend Christmas with sis. Not to worry. I have a stack of podcasts lined up to keep me company as I organise my stuff. Provided I can manoeuvre around the workers.

That morning is a productive blur. The delivery from London arrives earlier than I anticipate. Hassan and the most congenial painter Pierrot are beavering away. I commence unpacking in between.

It takes much longer than I thought. Thanks to my early start, I still have most of the day. I’m full of energy and relieved to be finally setting up house. There’s enough storage space to ensure everything has its place and then some. All that’s left to do is make another extra set of keys (so expensive here) and start putting up those Christmas decorations I’ve bought.

I guess this is what the kids today call adulting.

It's off to the village-within-a-city that is my new neighbourhood. There's the cosy looking mediatheque. Another artisan boulangerie.  Farmers market on the weekend...

Lord, lead us not into bourgeois-fication...

The middle-aged cobbler/key-cutter Eli, makes shameless ouvertures. For my sins, he asks me out for a drink after I comment on the excitability of his chocolate Labrador and take a genuine interest in his Jewish-Algerian heritage. ‘Ce n’est pas de tout professionnel’ I playfully remonstrate.

The following evening, after a busy day in the office catching up on my backlog and finishing off moving-related life admin, I set about sprinkling some seasonal cheer around the flat. I’m not one for garish decorations; lurid streamers and the like. Just a few tasteful trimmings (I like to believe); a little tinsel and some LED fairy/tea lights.

Once done, I survey my demurely festive kingdom. I plan to add a few more bits and pieces here and there. Apart from that, it’s warm and cosy and beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Thank. You. Lord.