Seriously,...You Couldn’t Make It Up.

 

In early December, my mother celebrates her 60^th birthday. My sis has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure it’s as special as the occasion warrants. She organises a homage video; approaching mum’s friends, colleagues and of course, family. Sis’ true wish is that one, if not both of us could be there. Even before the emergence of the Omicron variant, Japan’s borders were relatively closed, all the more so now. One day in November, shortly after my return from the UK, sis confronts me. She claims I have been insensitive by deciding to cross the Channel so close to mum’s birthday, but not near enough to celebrate with her.

I acknowledge my error with sincere contrition, apologising to both mum and sis. I then begin scheming - without either of their knowledge - a fly-by-night visit for the church birthday celebration arranged the following Sunday. 

 I plan to arrive by Eurostar and return to Brussels by overnight coach. As much as is possible in advance, I comply with all the COVID-related travel requirements. I even squeeze in my third jab, thanks to Brussels' accelerated booster system. All seems to be tentatively going in favour of the trip. Until the UK announces tougher testing requirements in response to the threat of Omicron.

Now a lateral flow is no longer enough. A more expensive PCR test is required, even if only in town briefly, as I am. Self-isolation is essential until the results are received. At first, I believe my plans are scuppered. I confess all to sis. She initially seems more annoyed that I didn’t speak up earlier. I was thinking it would make it easier not to spill the beans.

I eventually come up with a cunning but legit manoeuvre. Since I need to self-isolate and I don’t have the keys to mum’s place, I re-book my new test for a time that allows me to pass by church, say hello and then head to the centre. I’d then have the rest of the evening with mum before my coach returns. I keep an eagle-eye out for any changes in the interim. When France announces tougher measures for those visiting from outside the EU, the news doesn't register. It’s not relevant to my plans.

My outbound journey is with good old reliable Eurostar. There’s a reason why it’s the most efficient, if not the cheapest, option. I arrive in London without any drama. I decide to hang around St. Pancras for a while. The idea is to sneak up on mum towards the end of the celebrations. Whilst waiting I tune into my Belgian church’s service online. 

Horrified, I observe how many passers-by are unmasked, although recent rule changes have made face coverings mandatory once more. There does seem to be marginally more compliance than my previous visit in autumn. But, still. When an unmasked woman near me coughs without covering her mouth, I am tempted to go vigilante on her. I leave irate video messages for sis on Skype, as if she can do anything about it.

I leisurely make my way to mum’s church. Too leisurely. It's all but over by the time I arrive. Mum's senior pastors are heading out. They give me a warm greeting but have no plans to hang around. I greet some of the now pre-adolescent children who, when I last saw them, were relative tots. I notice a few of mum’s guests, such as family friend Angela, and mum’s sister, Adriana. I commend my aunt on how much weight she’s lost in the two years since I last saw her.

I can’t yet catch the Birthday Girl’s eye. Later mum will explain how strange she thought it that someone in the room sounds like her daughter. The photographer manages to catch the evolution of mum’s facial expression; from confusion, shock, pleasant surprise- ending in us embracing.  Ironic, when so many of those she invited were indisposed, a guest arrives whom she was not expecting. She’s delighted. It’s her real present, she says.

Mum also has a bounty of tangible gifts. I arrive in time to help take down all the bunting, during which I catch Auntie Adriana up on my news. We are so lost in conversation that it’s hard for those left in the room to catch our attention and politely kick us out. My uncle Chris dispenses with all pleasantries. He yells at us to leave, dampening the otherwise good energy.

Mum, Auntie Adriana, Auntie Angela and I continue the discussion near Bethnal Green tube before going our separate ways. I’m running slightly late for my PCR test. Auntie Angela and I are heading in the same direction. I’m perturbed to see that, as a cancer survivor, she still refuses to wear her mask. She’s a vocal COVID-sceptic. Her doctor just about convinced her to be vaccinated. 

My jaw drops when I arrive at Waterloo for my PCR test. It would have made no difference if I made it on time. The queue snakes round towards the Southbank centre; nothing like when I had to come for my LFT in October. To while away the two-hour wait, I make conversation with a friendly couple, freshly arrived from a city-break in Paris. It’s a good thing I am returning to Belgium by coach in the late evening, or I would have no time left to spend with mum. 

It’s dark by the time I rock up to her digs in Sydenham, South-East London. She’s already started opening some of my gifts. I’d hoped to be around to give an explanation. We talk about everything and nothing. I tuck into some of the leftovers from her party. She gives me some birthday cake to take back with other goodies.

I make my way to Victoria Coach Station with time to spare, to my relief. After the previous debacle with Flixbus- who still refuse a full reimbursement for the trouble- I’ve opted for a different company. Unusually, the Eastern European drivers don’t have much English. No great issue. We board the half-empty bus. 

It’s not long before I nod off, only to be awoken for the passport checks at border control. I’m so dazed, I believe we’ve already crossed over to Calais somehow whilst we’re still only in Dover.

As we line up for passport control, news passes down the line that the French authorities are demanding a negative PCR test, in reaction to the rule change the night before. One of my fellow travellers begins to panic, calling a friend to see if it’s true. I ignore her, trying to keep my calm. Alas, she's right. French bureaucracy is as merciless as ever. Our COVID-safe certificates are insufficient, the guards insist. I inform them that I’m awaiting my test results. 

Not good enough.

Is there at least wi-fi for me to check if the email has come through? 

No.

One young man shows them a screenshot of his negative result. It still isn’t sufficient.

We try to point out a flaw in their logic. Some of us are only passing through France to our next destination. We’ll be crossing by ferry and barely touch French soil.

Ils s’en foutent.

Drunk with power, the guards confiscate our passports. They're not returned until the authorities are assured that our coach has left without us. Before they go, I try to explain to the bus driver what’s going on. He doesn’t have enough English and no French.

In the end, a group of 15-20 passengers are dumped at Dover port, with not a care about us. There’s much running around and panic. Some consider renting a hotel room. That’s vetoed at the thought of the expense. Some waste no time jumping into taxis, dividing the substantial fare amongst themselves. It’s the middle of the night and yet cab drivers are suspiciously present with morsels of ‘helpful’ information, that somehow boosts their own business. 

A few of us find our way to Dover Port reception, which is warm and has wi-fi. Another taxi driver materialises, luring away more desperate passengers. I like to be proactive but I don’t want to make a decision under this sort of stress. Returning to London at this hour would serve no purpose. Nothing is open. Besides, I don’t need to procure a test. I’ve already taken one. I just need to wait for my results.

And then there were two. By the time the group has scattered, it’s just me and Franco-Cameroonian, Léonard. He speaks only a little English. In my frazzled, sleep-deprived state, my French is all over the place; much to my consternation. I apologise for the mangling and basic mistakes.

Over the course of the night, whilst looking at alternative routes back to London, he explains he's been visiting his dad and siblings who, by one of many strange coincidences, live a stone’s throw from my old flat in the Lee/Hither Green area. Léo was raised by an extended family member in France with whom he has a complicated relationship.

As for being stranded in Dover, we’re not the only ones in that particular predicament. Others hanging around the Port office have also been kicked off their coaches by officious French officials. One woman suggests Léo and I board the replacement (Flixbus) that is supposed to return them to London. I’m willing to pay for a ticket, if I can find a cash machine. Léo searches for one in vain.

You can just say you’re one of us, the kindly stranger suggests.

I decline. If I’m not asked, I won’t volunteer any information. Neither am I willing to lie if interrogated. It won’t work out well for me in the end, I explain to her and Léo. Relying on me for English, he’s constrained to whatever decisions I make.

My reluctance to be economical with the truth is the impetus for Léo to enquire about my belief system. A Catholic by upbringing, he gave up on organised religion aged 13, confused by all the possible options. He’s turning 30 in January, he confides. Recent dark life events have motivated him to resume his spiritual quest. Ours is his second fateful encounter, Léo claims, in as many days. He had a similar conversation with a Muslim women after missing his original connection from Paris to London.

He’s been exploring Islam and thus is especially keen to debate the Holy Trinity. I don’t think my responses are theologically ground-breaking. Nevertheless for Léo, it appears it’s the first time he’s discussing these themes in depth. I encourage him in his search. God is clearly attentive.

A coach arrives but it’s not the replacement for which we had hoped. The courteous driver breaks the news that it’s unlikely we’d be allowed to board in any case, not being amongst the original passengers.

 Flanked by the famous white cliffs, Léo and I make our way through the eerie Dover streets to the train station. We aim to catch a cheaper half-4am train back to London. We miss it by seconds. Léo generously offers to pay for the next train to the Capital. He still has hopes of catching a morning coach back to France but will need my assistance to navigate the testing system.

We attempt to get some shut-eye on the ride, occasionally woken by ticket inspectors.

Back at Victoria station, we run into some of the fellow travellers who abandoned us at Dover. Peine Perdue. It gave them no advantage. They have passed a fruitless -and noticeably colder- night at the station.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon is spent accompanying Léo through the testing process and re-booking alternative transport. He’s forced to abandon his plans to leave for Paris that morning, given the scarcity of test slots and limited window. I have a lot of tasks on my own To-Do list but I make my peace with the situation. Léo is my mission for now. That’s where the grace is. If I left him to pursue my own agenda, I am certain I wouldn’t get much done. Plus, I’m pleased to be useful.

Traversing London, I notice the City is in full festive mode. It dawns on me it's the first time I've been in the Capital at Christmas time since I relocated to Europe late 2017.

I’m with Léo when his negative test result comes through. Once reassured he’s all set for his return trip by coach, I make my way back to mum’s. I’m dog tired but I have a lot of life admin to sort out.

Fortunately, my own test results come back negative; in time for me to travel the same day. I notify my colleague, Demetria, that I won’t be able to join an online activity that afternoon as planned.

I also request that she speaks to HR to arrange more annual leave to make up for the ‘lost’ day. I need to print out my negative test certificate and find an alternative route back to Belgium. Eurostar tickets are eye-watering at this eleventh hour. I’m seriously considering the free ticket Flixbus has offered for the previous inconvenience. My mother objects strongly. She’d rather help me pay for the train than have me risk another hitch. 

So, it’s decided.

I’m too tired to do any real work that day. I squeeze in a shower. Thankfully, I have had the presence of mind to bring a change of underwear or two.

Albeit a relatively straightforward journey to St. Pancras, I underestimate how long it’ll take. Or simply wishful thinking on my part.

I arrive at the Eurostar terminal with mere minutes to spare. Certain members of staff are only too eager to remind me. 

More optimistically, the personnel do not breathe a word about a negative COVID test. I board the train a few minutes before it’s scheduled to set off. Except it’s held up. The crew haven’t arrived. We remain stationary for half an hour.

On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is nearing the end of a national strike. Owing to the delayed Eurostar, I miss the last direct transport to my part of town. At De Brouckère station, I bump into Giacomo, whom I last saw in the summer, at the ill-fated Afghan dinner in Antwerp organised by mutual acquaintance Rob. We split a cab to Montgomery -Giacomo’s neighbourhood- and I decide to walk the rest of the way. A fool’s errand at that time of night. Giacomo keeps me awkward company part of the way, which is nonetheless appreciated.

I reach home close to midnight. I check-in with Léo, expressing my surprise at Eurostar’s comparatively easygoing COVID policy. Likewise, on his way back by coach, this time the authorities weren’t concerned about negative test results.

Our meeting wasn't by chance then, I suggest.

I’m certain of it, Léo shoots back.

Soundtrack: The Quarantine Sessions by Tom Misch. Intimidated EP by Kaytranada.

Resilience

 

After my brief but well-needed Portuguese excursion, I return to Belgium to an ever-complicated work situation. The trade union representatives (TUR), including my colleague Demetria, have been doing their best to defend me in my absence. They write a strongly-worded, well-argued letter to management to challenge their recent decision not to extend my contract. 

No complaints about my work have been raised. The funding -which management disingenuously feigned as ‘hanging in the balance’ - is confirmed whilst I’m on leave. Besides, we have surplus to carry over from this year, which Demetria and new manager, Gina herself, costed into the project proposal. Gina and the GS, Lauren, keep insisting that the format of the programme will change. Fine, I say, but not the substance. It’s not as if I’m suddenly required to become an accountant or civil engineer. The essence will remain the same. I was recruited on the basis I could adapt.

After receiving the TUR letter, the GS agrees to meet with them. It’s false hope. I am not party to this conversation and, for the sake of confidentiality, no notes are taken by the reps. At the very least, the TUR want to convince Lauren to allow me a transitional period. There’ll be a lot of loose ends to tie up in the New Year. She’s adamantly opposed. When asked how she could ignore that my contract is already accounted for, she apparently hints that she’s promised that money elsewhere; to a department filled with her (white) South African compatriots.

A lot transpires from that meeting, all of it supposedly off the record and not necessarily in my interests to divulge at this point. Suffice to say that management feel untouchable; not least because I have a less secure, fixed-term contract. The cronyism and double-standards are so blatant, that it’s positively sloppy. The TUR are devastated on my behalf. Alas, at this stage their hands are tied by internal politics. I’ve already started to look for opportunities elsewhere. I have a lot of annual leave to spare which management would prefer I take in one go, so I am out of their hair. Meanwhile, Gina has been studiously avoiding me since our confrontation at the meeting where she effectively gave me the boot.

This awful situation has nonetheless highlighted how well-supported I am within the organisation and without. On my London trip, sympathetic friends listen with sad incredulity. Several colleagues and affiliates express their chagrin as well as solidarity. My team organises a catch-up/pre-farewell lunch. My colleague Steve and his wife Sylvie stay in regular touch with supportive messages. At church the likes of Karin and Monica ask for regular updates. Pastor Mike sends me a text, remarking that he hasn’t seen me in church for a while (he’s unaware of my travel plans) and sends a prophetic prayer. Renzo’s is an ever-ready shoulder to cry on. I am rich in relationships. It’s nothing to be taken for granted. After so many months of pandemic-related isolation, the comfort of this is sweeter still.

The work stress has clearly taken its toll but my life hasn’t come to a stand still. 

I reunite with Renzo after my holidays at an exhibition he’s co-curating. He’s taking a break when I arrive. I fear I’ve missed him and send a mildly panicked text. His gallery colleagues have been looking at me askew.

I’m so relieved when he walks through the door, I’ve barely said hello before wrapping him in a tight embrace. We’re both a bit giddy, having not seen each other for a while. Renzo makes an unwittingly humourous comment and I double up with laughter. He turns crimson, wearing a confused smile, probably nervous that something has been lost in translation.

No, caro mio, you're just witty.

I wish I could be funny in multiple languages.

I don’t care much for the exhibition itself, which at first sight appear to be a series of misshapen hair nets. Renzo takes the time to expertly explain the intention and craft that the featured artist has put into each creation. It’s an enthused side of him that’s new to me. He's finally making inroads into his true vocation, after years wasting away in the corporate world. More than the work itself, my pleasure comes from seeing my friend in his element.

The last Sunday of the month, Renzo, Brenda and Roxanne will join me for a late lunch/early dinner -or “linner” as we dub it. They overlap with Bruno - a recent acquaintance I’ve made - of mixed Cape Verdean origin. 

Bruno organises conversation groups for men, where they discuss and deconstruct masculinity in contemporary society. We first make contact when in early autumn, I send him an email politely demanding to know why these events aren’t open to women. His response is gracious and studied, ending with an invitation to meet and talk. We’ve remained in touch since. He wants to take me up on the idea of a mixed-gender conversation circle. I invite him round to dine and discuss. I have to reschedule after he drops out at the last moment. When my plans for the following weekend extend to a group linner, Bruno gently informs me on arrival that he won’t be staying to eat. He wasn’t expecting a crowd. It’s Sunday; his day to recalibrate before the week ahead. I’m apologetic. It was a gamble to tell him last minute things had changed.

For the time we do have alone, Bruno asks me pointed questions about my objectives for the mixed circles and what role I envisage playing. Basic but still surprisingly difficult to answer. I respond with lots of my usual verbal processing and digressions. I’m already feeling disorientated about the misunderstanding over the afternoon’s events. Bruno seems to find it useful nonetheless. True to his word, he leaves as the rest appear. He and Renzo exchange a brief but courteous, if a little awkward greeting. They would be somewhat familiar to each other from the conversation circles.

There is an element of relief to be only entertaining three. It wouldn’t have been fair on Bruno or the others if he stayed against his will. Plus the layout of my otherwise attractive living room is not the most suited to hosting dinners for multiple guests. All three of them well and truly an integral part of my Brussels life, they’ve met on previous occasions. I’ve prepared a vegan curry for Renzo and my trademark mixed-meat tagine for the rest of us. We spread out between the Diner-style counter and the inviting couches. It works itself out. 

Despite ourselves, we end up talking shop. Roxanne and Brenda’s work schedules sound punishing. Of course, I update them on the latest twists and turns at the office, including Demetria's announcement she’ll be expecting in the spring. It’s the best news and a delicious irony, given management’s recent decision to downsize an already under-resourced team.

We while away easy hours in each other’s company. The night is still young as my guests start to troop home. They leave with enough leftovers to at least spare them a night or two of cooking.

I hope to make these “linners” a regular feature over the colder months. Especially as our options could be limited for external activities. Although Christmas is a lot more swinging this year than my first Brussels Noel (on lockdown), there’s a nervousness about the worrying infection rates in Belgium. It’s whilst attending a stimulating theatre performance about young Europeans drawn to the Far Right, that I first hear of the Omicron variant. The outing has been organised on Internations. A member of the party is anxious about the detection of cases in Belgium that day. And thus the pessimism begins.

The following week, I attend a DJ set -another Internations-related event – where rumours are circulating of a near-total shutdown. Again. 

I admit I have mixed-feelings on entering the bar. It’s a COVID-pass only event but still... There’s a heck a lot of people in a confined space. Various socials are going on at the same time. I don’t see anyone familiar and I’m about to forfeit my five euro entry fee when I run into man-about-town Aurélien. He informs me auntie Carol is in the house. I perk up. He shows me to the corner where they’ve congregated. An older Ecuadorian mulatto called Bonaparte apparently takes a shine to me. We talk a little about South American politics and the pink tide. With his transatlantic accent he describes his drift towards the centre from his Radical Left past.

 I’m cordial but wary. If the sting is less sharp than it once was, I'm still smarting from my many misadventures with heteros so far in Brussels. When Aurélien tries to invite himself over, I smile and inform him and Bonaparte that only gay men are allowed to hang out round mine. They think I’m joking.

The music is pretty cheesy; EDM remixes of Europop, The Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Boney M. I make an effort to dance all the same. Bonaparte flays his arms around enthusiastically, using this as a pretext to shimmy up to me. I try to be jovial but protect my personal space. The selection starts to perk up as I head out the door. Typical. It’s then that Aurélien speaks of rumours circulating around another closure of bars, restaurants and cafés. (In stereotypically French libertarian style, he's generally against restrictions). 

I’ve suggested we organise a surprise farewell for Carol at a bar, before she moves permanently back to the Caribbean. Aurélien's not convinced such events will be feasible for much longer.

Fortunately, the worst-case scenario is averted, for now. Nightclubs close and there are various other limitations. Mercifully, nothing as drastic as this time last year. Yet.

Some of Carol’s friends have already conspired to turn an Internations’ winter party into a send-off. It falls on a very busy Friday in early December. As far as Carol is aware, I'm not available that evening. 

I'm double-booked, having signed up to attend a film night at church about undocumented migrants in Belgium. It’s a subject about which I’m keen to have deeper knowledge. The low budget feature by a charity called Olivier, based on real-life events, is hard hitting. It’s thus frustrating to hear the moderator – himself supposedly involved in support work for the undocumented – use phrases such as ‘illegals’ and claim that ‘the population doesn’t like migrants, so politicians give the people what they want’. I can’t let these slide. Before exiting to surprise auntie Carol, I comment on the problematic use of phrases such ‘legality’ when it comes to migration -or any human being-and how politicians aren’t hostages of fortune. They often cynically drive the prejudices around certain types of migration to distract from the real causes of inequalities.

I rush out to auntie Carol’s farewell; grabbing mutual friend Roxanne’s present along the way. She has to stay and help with the clean-up after movie night.

New COVID rules dictate that venues close at 11pm. I arrive so close to the end of the social that I am not charged. Heck, it’s worth it to see auntie Carol’s surprise.  It takes me a while to locate her at first. I don’t recognise her from behind. She’s wearing a feathered black and ruby wig. 

I proudly hand her my gift (courtesy of a Brussels’ Christmas market artisan), after drawing a blank for so long.

 The room is throwing down to the last strains of music. It’s some sort of dancehall. Not really my cup of tea but I am in the mood to party, despite my could-sleep-standing-up fatigue. Predictably, Carol’s close friend and my one-time nemesis Rob is in the vicinity. He co-organised the gig with fellow Internations consul, Marcus. I give Rob a wide-berth except for a furtive wave goodbye. 

I'm more surprised to see Simon-Pierre mingling in the crowd. He’d dropped off the grid for so long, I began to assume he were sick. Evidently not. There’s a moment of mutual recognition. Perhaps. My new hairdo takes him longer to place me.

I reflect on my cool and fleeting interactions with SP and Rob. I know I can be good at holding a grudge and don’t want to indulge bad feeling. Yet, I also have enough quality relationships to not squander energy on those that aren’t. On one hand, it seems only right that SP and I have a conversation about why communication abruptly ended. Then again, as Renzo reminds me, it’s not a mystery why Simon evaporated. C’est toujours la mème ritournelle. Especially with these heteros. In the end, maybe there was never anything genuine to salvage.

Soundtrack: Befriended + We Walked in Song by The Innocence Mission, An Evening with...Silk Sonic, Geography by Tom Misch.

Here Comes the Sun

 

As May makes way for June, we see a shift in consistently wet and/or overcast weather. Storms are replaced by clear blue skies. I can dust off the summer clothes and put away (most) of my winter boots. It’s as if the climate itself is cautiously optimistic about the Belgian governments plans for further loosening of restrictions. Cafés and restaurants re-open in full. More indoors activities are permitted and more people allowed to meet inside. We can gather in bigger groups outdoors. It’s great news for places of worship. I attend a couple of church picnics within days of each other. The sun doesn't set until around 10pm. Parc Cinquantenaire is still alive with activity at this time.

There’s also upbeat news on the travel front. There is to be more or less free travel around the EU for those who are fully vaccinated and carry the coveted certificate. There are various other conditions to be met for those who do not. At least from July, Belgium will forego it’s quarantine and testing regimen even for those arriving from red zones, as long as they are fully vaccinated. My second dose, God willing, is on the horizon. 

Alas, that doesn’t ease the criteria for travel to and from the UK. It’s on Belgium’s red list. On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is classed as amber with (still) onerous testing and quarantine demands. Thus far, the UK doesn’t appear to factor in vaccine compliance (though that might soon change). I’d have to quarantine longer than I planned to visit. Until I’m fully vaccinated, I’d also have to quarantine on the Belgium end. Living alone, that’s too heavy a cost on my mental well-being. Mum’s plans for an early summer visit are indefinitely suspended, considering all the current exigencies. Ditto for another friend, wanting to schedule a late summer visit. It’s not just a blow to morale. More like a pistol-whip. It’s been over a year and a half since any contact with Blighty-based loved ones.

This mutual rigidity is as much political as it’s for health reasons. Admittedly, the proliferation of new strains in the UK is perturbing but the post-Brexit reality also plays a role.

On the relational front it’s still a work in progress. I’m balancing self-sufficiency with embryonic, albeit promising, efforts to build community. The recently-acquainted Lorenzo is great company. He’s mellow, we overlap on cultural interests and are never stuck for conversation.

 I can now attend more offline events organised by Internations. Brussels has adapted some of its early summer festivals to the current reality, such as its end of May Jazz weekend. Dubbed ‘The Balcony Edition’, musicians play on the verandas and rooftops of various administrative buildings and historical sites around the city. Mercifully, the weather is fine enough for it to all work. It’s designed so that audiences can do a tour of shows; ideally by bike, if not, alternative modes of transport. I have my colleague Demetria to thank for keeping me in the loop. We agree to meet up for a show on the last day of the festival.

The Saturday evening prior, I have made similar, vaguer plans with another recent-acquaintance, Simon-Pierre. We confirm at the last minute. 

On the plus side, it gives me a chance to attend one of the free gigs on my own. So determined am I to arrive on time, I skip out on a local show to catch an Etterbeek concert. For all the good it does. With bus diversions and numerous demos (of which I was unaware), I miss half the set. Not a huge deal. The alto sax solos are good but I don’t care for the accompanying contemporary dance choreo. It’s a little too oddball.

En route to meet Simon-Pierre at Ixelles, I encounter similar traffic-related mayhem. The bus driver eventually gives up at Luxembourg station, from where I have to hot-step it by foot. I’ve kept SP abreast of the transport issues. 

 On arrival, Fernand Coq Square is rammed. Excitable children and restless revellers push past us, momentarily distracting us from the agreeable trio playing Jazz standards. Afterwards, Simon-Pierre treats me to a virgin Mojito on a terrace in the once again vibrant St. Boniface area. Whilst waiting for our orders (the waitress/bar manager initially forgets mine), the conversation ironically (or maybe not) turns to clichés about black-owned establishments. 

SP seems more respectful and mature than the vast majority of heteros I’ve met so far in Brussels. I can’t resist an uncharitable vent about our mutual acquaintance and my former frenemy. Simon-Pierre has the most realistic estimation of his friend I’ve come across. Neither apologist nor traitorously critical.

I’m still disenchanted by my experiences with the male population here. What should have been mere emotional flesh wounds have turned septic. There hasn’t been much improvement of late, either. Unhelpful blasts from the past crawl out of the woodwork only to play more unwarranted mind games. 

Another character starts contacting me on Internations. We have never met offline but have some mutual contacts on the platform. He takes it far too personally that I’m not on social media nor own a smartphone. We nonetheless make plans to meet up for a drink. 

Distant alarm bells grow a little louder when he let’s slip he’s been looking me up online. He then complains that I don’t respond enthusiastically enough to his standard-issue text messages. I reply that they don't require a dissertation. He follows up by asking if I use a translation app to write my messages in French. (His written French is pretty dreadful, not uncommon in these parts). Once that initial indignation is past, I accept this is a textbook example of controlling and potentially abusive behaviour. If he doesn’t have the presence of mind to keep his stalker-instincts in check enough to make a decent first impression, it can only deteriorate. I dismiss whatever curiosity I have about his offline physique and persona. We know what they say about curious cats.

Thankfully, Simon-Pierre hasn’t displayed any such unhinged tendencies. It’s still early days. I endeavour to find an equilibrium between the benefit of the doubt and remaining circumspect.

At least my experiences with the female demographic has been by and large more auspicious. The following Sunday Demetria, myself and a couple of other female colleagues head to part two of the Jazz weekend. Demetria has brought her own transport. After the first set she proposes we pop along to another. 

The rest of us are grateful for the lift. The next venue is in a residential area, a good distance from any public transport. 

It's well worth the digression for what turns out to be my favourite balcony concert of the lot. A trio play Jazz guitar and bass on the first story of a cultural centre, each musician facing out of one of the large French windows. It feels very chic and continental, I remark to one of my colleagues. The sort of thing you fantasise about grown-up life as a kid.

Soundtrack: Fidelity Radio Club by S. Fidelity. 

Autonomous

 

As summer inches forward, so creeps up the one year anniversary of my arrival in Belgium. In light of all that has happened in between, my feelings are mixed at best. May finds me crying often. My forehead aches from continual unconscious scowling and I feel as if I've aged in weeks.

I’m profoundly grateful to have a job, let alone meaningful employment, at a time like this. However bitter much of the relocation experience has been thus far, ultimately I don’t regret the move.

Nevertheless, I am not inured to the widely-felt exhaustion engendered by the pandemic. Despite the restrictions slowly easing, the isolation doesn’t let up. With the rules around travel to the UK remaining strict, the two hour train ride to St Pancras still feels a long way off. This only intensifies the alienation. 

My closest relationships are far away. Whereas, pre-pandemic, I would hop across the Channel to recalibrate, no such relief has been forthcoming for a solid year and a half. And counting. Compulsory teleworking has turned my flat, what should by my haven, into a semi-fortress. The bloom of spring, which should comfort, often feels like a mockery. Surrounded by trees and living in a flimsy building, I’ve seen more critters indoors than I would care to. It exacerbates the neurosis.

I’m sensitive at the best of times. These days I seem to take everything to heart. If someone doesn’t follow up on loose plans or is slow to respond to a text, it feels like a personal affront. My embryonic relationships are suddenly all thrown into doubt. It’s not as if it’s completely unjustified. Building community is always a case of trial and error but it feels as it has been an inordinately bad run. Too many of the interactions I’ve had so far were dead in the water. Too many people not acting out of good faith. Too many non-committal. Not enough opportunities to replace the negative with the positive because of lockdown restrictions.

Then again, I tell myself, it could be worse. Which of course is true. Not that it always helps. COVID19 somehow has managed to set the already low cosmic bar of a fallen world even lower.

One Saturday in mid-May, I attend a solidarity rally for the Palestinian people in central Brussels following the recent escalation of violence. This is one week before the tentative ceasefire following fighting that has left a dozen or so Israelis dead and 20 times as many Palestinians.

To attend the demo, I’ve taken time out of a week of various ‘singleness’ conferences, each of them reminding me why I spent years giving such events a wide berth. Speakers for whom being single is a mere abstract, given that they married in their early 20s. Others reinforcing essentialist views on gender; going so far as to rehearse now discredited theories of ‘male’ and ‘female’ brains. Pass. 

Showing my support for the Palestinian cause is a far better use of my time.

An estimated three thousand people show up to the demo over the course of a few hours. That’s a lot for a small country like Belgium. Jew and Gentile stand side by side. The multi-cultural, multi-faith crowd chant slogans against the Israeli occupation. Green, White, Red and Black flags are draped over monuments. Nimble young men clamber up statues and balconies, setting off canisters of multicoloured gas. The police stand impassively on the sidelines, as if they’re casual observers.

For a variety of reasons, the following week is emotionally intense. It’s another bouncing-off-the-walls season. I default to my survival mechanism. Agency. I hate feeling powerless. I do whatever is within my control to ameliorate my situation. Often that means a lot more autonomy. Auntie Carol flakes yet again on plans to visit Marché du Midi? I go it alone. She has a lot on her mind. Julius and Habiba have all but evaporated from the scene? Tant pis. As the sage American spoken word artist/rapper Propaganda says - a dictum that I often call to mind - ...Friends are like wars. You win some, you lose some and some were never yours.

Besides, nature abhors a vacuum. That can go either way. More recently, new acquaintance Lorenzo has stepped into the void and my heart is glad for it. He knows a thing or two about feeling disconnected in a big city. After many years in Brussels, several erstwhile friends have moved on with their own projects of which he’s mostly not a part.

To my pleasant surprise, he’s proactive about staying in touch. Having celebrated his birthday earlier in the month, I promise him a drink. We hang out two rainy weekends in a row around Avenue Louise and Flagey. This is the healthiest sustained interaction I’ve had with a man since moving to Brussels. It’s surely no coincidence that he’s not straight. What an unspeakable relief to know that friendship is all that is expected. Not feeling entitled to more or trying to manipulate his way to achieve it. I don’t know what the long term holds. For now, I’m appreciating the sense of ease I have around Lorenzo. It’s something of a novelty around these parts.

The weekend of the Pentecost holiday, I attend a brunch organised by Internations in my neck of the woods. Auntie Carol has also signed up, as has Cynthia, a fellow Londoner whom I’ve met recently on the site. We strike up an online conversation after she compliments my profile pic. However, plans to meet offline prove trickier. She has a young child. The brunch gives us an occasion to properly break the ice.

First impressions are promising.  We both grew up in South-East London. Her brother and I went to the same school, albeit several years apart. We both are partial to conversational tangents before finding our thread several digressions down the line.

I assumed from Cynthia’s profile that she was new to Brussels. Au contraire, she’s lived in the Belgian capital for a decade. She relocated to be with her Flemish husband. Now the ink is drying on the divorce, she’s beginning life afresh. She’s resilient but it’s obvious that the last few years have taken their relational toil. 

After an auspicious start, I hope her schedule will permit us to reconnect soon.

That evening, I pass by my colleague Steve and his wife Sylvia’s capacious Schaerbeek home for the first time. With the forecast rather ominous – as it has been all month-they don’t fancy another park ramble in the rain. We (mainly Sylvia and I) talk work, literature, COVID policies and online Glastonbury recommendations. Their youngest, Zoe, is also a Haim fan. That deserves a high-five.

I love their family. Theirs are one of the few genuine connections I’ve made since my arrival. It’s only in consideration to the demands of their domestic life that I don’t hang out with them more frequently.

The following day is Pentecost Monday. It’s another wet and windy morning. As has been the case for too long, my efforts to have an uninterrupted lie-in are scuppered by my own body clock. It’s as if despite the fatigue, my body is in constant fight-or-flight mode. I join the Morphē Arts collective prayer group as usual and for a little bit longer, not having to worry about work. I mutter prayers of gratitude under my breath for this initiative. I can’t imagine the last year without their spiritual and moral support.

I’m nevertheless in a weepy state. I leave self-pitying voice notes for my sis. I’m especially tender after an act of kindness to some Belgian acquaintances (of which I was uncertain in any case) seems to have been predictably rebuffed. Not that I should have expected anything at all.

I have to re-apply my make-up a number of times that morning before leaving my flat. I am heading for Gare du Midi.

I have had the foresight to book a day trip to Namur, in defiance of the bad weather. Better to brave the showers for a change of scenery than spend a familiarly miserable day on my own in Brussels. (When I tell Lorenzo of my solo plans, he’s less than enthused. He finds it too melancholy).

The night before my trip, I do some quick research. Namur is an ideal day trip destination. Everywhere of importance is accessible by foot.

Namur Citadel

I make it to Midi with time to spare. My train awaits. My make up is still running when I board. I feel old and notice, not for the first time, I’ve lost some of my spark. Damn COVID.

Having only given myself the afternoon to explore (rather be busy than bored), I focus my attention on the Citadel. A good thing too. Being a public holiday, the town is otherwise dead. I ask a woman for directions. She’s hesitant but her instructions turn out to be on the nose.

A decent visit to the Citadel is said to take up at least half a day. I also hope to squeeze in a tour of the fortress’ underground passages but can't find where to book. Never mind. Enough time is spent on the picturesque hike up the steep walls, especially with plenty of stops to enjoy the view. The rain has made way for sunny intervals. I watch as ski-lifts fly overhead. Down below are attractive views of the town and its rivers. I already feel better for having had an excuse to leave the flat. It's not a wasted day. The site is dotted with Franco-Flemish accounts of the fortress’ construction and conversion from military to touristic use. There are more signs of life near the top with restaurants and the Four Seasons Garden.

I decide to treat myself to a late lunch at the well-named Panorama restaurant, with its belle vista. The biggest disappointment of the day comes in the form of the over-priced snack I order, assuming it’s a proper meal. I’m typically too tight-fisted to treat myself on a day trip. It’s irritating that it’s such a let down the one time I do. I buy a chocolate waffle to cheer myself up and leisurely make my way back to the town centre. I stumble across a short cut along the Citadel’s walls. I have enough time to pop in for a meditative moment in a couple of the historic churches. Alas, St Jean’s Église is under construction. A boys’ choir and orchestra perform in the inviting Saint-Loup church. A few of us catch snatches of the show behind the glass doors. So much for contemplative silence. 

Oh well. At least there’s no worry of being late for my return train.

Soundtrack: S. Fidelity -  Fidelity Radio Club

Shoots of Green?

 

As I write this, I confess to being in an odd head space. I should feel more upbeat. There are reasons for [very cautious] optimism. 

In early May, Belgium allows cafés and restaurants to open their terraces for the first time since the autumn.

That murky Saturday morning, there’s a flurry of activity in my neighbourhood. Establishments that have long been closed stir to life.

What a day for it, I consider ruefully. I doubt the Bruxellois would want to sit out in the rain, no matter how long it’s been.

I don’t have time to hang around to find out. I’m en route to the Red Cross centre in Tours & Taxi. Now I am in their database, I don’t have to wait every three weeks to do a shift with my church’s outreach group. Rather than sitting around feeling sorry for myself on a Saturday, I join the international team of volunteers to serve hot drinks, or supervise the showers or hand out masks at the centre's entrance. Thanks to my more frequent visits, I’m becoming familiar to regular volunteers like facetious Micah, whom I met on my first ever shift. The recognition is comforting.

The day centre is a godsend for those who benefit from the practical and emotional support it provides. Yet, it’s in constant threat of closure. May marks one more month of reprieve, although the regulars warn that it’s only a matter of time. There’s not the steady flow of funds to keep such an initiative open. Everyone agrees it’ll be a disaster if - or when - it closes its doors. Hundreds of men and (less so) women will be turned back out on to the streets with nowhere to go. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have mental health issues. The community and belonging they find at the centre offers some relief. Not always. Amongst others, I think of young Nahum, with his incoherent broken-English monologues, rictus grin and frenetic side glances. These give some insight into the horrors he’s experienced journeying to Europe from East Africa, via the only unsafe channels available to him.

Later that afternoon, on the way back from my shift, I discover how very wrong my initial predictions were about restaurant clientele. As I pass through the city centre, I observe terraces full to bursting. Failing that, revellers compete for space in and around the landmark St Catherine church. It’s both heartening to see the streets teeming with life but also a bit worrying, given the unpredictability of this virus. Some think merely being outside and the ever-so-slightly warmer weather make large gatherings  safe. This time last year a similar optimism prevailed. It proved naive when cities across the world started entering second and third lockdowns in the final quarter of 2020.

That doesn’t stop me attending an outdoors Internations restaurant event that night in Ixelles. It’s been in the works for a couple of months. At one stage it’s not even clear it’ll go ahead. To avoid cancellation, the venue is eventually changed to a favourite haunt of the organiser, Rob. It’ll be the first time I’ll be seeing my former frenemy since I cut ties. The abrupt end to the steady stream of attention he provided takes some getting used to. I do miss having someone so keen to discuss Diaspora history, politics and faith. Nevertheless, with time I begin to truly value the peace and quiet.

Although I’m usually content to attend these socials on my own, I try to convince Julius to be my plus one. He responds with some grammatically-mangled refusal, that I at first assume is a confirmation. I’ve noticed a sharp drop in interest on his end. He seems to have taken notes from the same playbook that the other Brussels-based wastemen appear to live by. Perhaps he’s distracted by a new potential conquest. Or it’s finally dawned on him that he won’t talk me around to his way of thinking. Tant mieux. I can’t pretend my motives for the restaurant invitation are completely honourable.

At the dinner, Rob greets me with more enthusiasm than I anticipate. I attempt to be civil but distant. I make faltering conversation with the guests who have already arrived. 

Apparently, I’m not as insouciant as I like to believe. Later, when I give the lowdown to sis via voice note, she says I speak about Rob as if he were an ex. It sounds like an accusation, a depressing one at that, even if it isn't meant this way.

The evening is off to a slow start. It’s scheduled to start at 7pm but we eat closer to 9pm. When auntie Carol shows up, I don’t bother to hide my relief, smiling ear-to-ear. Over the course of the evening I engage in cultured conversation with one of Rob’s many old chums, Simon-Pierre. Unlike Rob’s other Day One, Habiba, he’s not averse to the Afropean concept. He claims to rarely have the opportunity to discuss such matters. Most of his circle either aren’t interested or find the notion baffling. Once we’ve devoured the Senegalese barbecue, somewhat rationed considering the number of guests, we head out to the ‘official’ terraced area.

St Boniface is buzzing. A waiter drops some plates at another establishment. Punters start cheering and clapping as if they’re about to catch a show.

A couple of police officers walk past the crowds waving cordially.

Rob, the ever-considerate host, makes an unceremoniously early exit. Something about waking up at the break of dawn. On a Sunday? Best not to ask why.

Brussels veterans, Simon-Pierre and Aurélien (whom, like Habiba, I first met at the sunset picnic in March) reminisce about how cheap and accessible the city once was. Just as Carol and I start talking about making our exit, a load of police show up in multiple vehicles, as if they’re about to break up a riot. They gingerly walk amongst the tables, dispersing the crowd. We’re confused. The curfew has been lifted. The following week, during a team meeting, my manager Ama points out that the Fuzz are merely enforcing the newly-imposed 10pm restaurant closure time.

The following day, I meet up with Constantin, a blast from my Strasbourg past. He’s in town with his sister and some of her pals (of which he’s clearly not a fan). 

I find out about his Belgian excursion quite by chance. He’s been on my mind. I send him a text. He announces his plans.

How long did you intend to keep that to yourself, then?

It’ll be the first time I’m meeting an acquaintance offline that I knew before I relocated to Brussels. It's reassuring. Whatever the initial attraction there might or might not have been between us, Constantin has never demanded anything beyond the platonic. It is a refreshing change from the constant utilitarianism I’ve sadly become accustomed to in Brussels.

Handsome as ever, I note Constantin's new hair cut. I only recognise him as he approaches at our meeting spot in Flagey. It’s an atypically warm and sunny day sandwiched between grisly weather. I have my sandals out. Even with just the terraces open, the neighbourhood takes on the erstwhile liveliness I could only glimpse before the second lockdown. A few days later, I’ll hear of an illicit gathering of hundreds in the area just the night before.

Constantin and I stroll towards one of several ponds in the vicinity. He’s not that impressed with Brussels. Although still only in his 20s, he already favours idyllic country life. He wants to live somewhere rural with a town and the sea within short-ish driving distance.

Half-Tunisian Constantin has decided to observe Ramadan for the first time this year. He’s not religious, he claims, just a seeker. Not for the first time, our conversation turns to metaphysical matters by way of a debate over immunisation. Trainee nurse Constantin insists on not being vaccinated against COVID nor self-isolating if required. We take many existential digressions. He suddenly becomes irritable, confessing a few moments later that it has something to do with the hunger. He calms down. The discussion moves on. He thinks I’m very bright. I hear this a lot from the male population, particularly in the European context. Rather than being completely flattered, I suspect they underestimate other women’s intelligence. Or worse still, the women they know feel pressured to curb their intellect.

Does that mean you don’t know clever women? I probe.

Could be. Constantin replies, to my surprise. He makes a joke about my (future) husband having a tough job. It betrays the reasoning behind the ostensible compliment. Too many men have a hard time dealing with a woman who speaks her mind.

BrusselsPictures.com

Constantin asserts nonetheless that he’s not that demanding when it comes to the females. 

I’ll eat anything.

Cheeky sod.

On my request, he introduces me to his sister before we part ways. He’s interested in dining at the Senegalese restaurant I visited the previous night. He’d like me to join him again the same evening. I’m happy to know I haven’t overstayed my welcome. I do have work the next day, however and can’t follow his fast-breaking hours. Still, I’m touched at his willingness to spend time with me before he returns to Strasbourg.

Back to my opening statements about a melancholy state of mind. 

Things have started to slowly open up. Surely, I should be upbeat. And yet, when the Ascension public holiday rolls around that week and I realise I’ll be spending another day in my own company, an intense wave of loneliness once again engulfs me. To my embarrassment, I start to wish one of the wastemen would at least extend a perfunctory invitation.

Always preferring to be proactive, I contact Brenda from church, half-expecting her to already have plans. On the contrary, she takes up my suggestion for a scenic ramble around Bois des Cambres with enthusiasm.

Soundtrack: Lous & The Yakuza -Gore, Sevena - Be Somebody. 90s R&B - Various Artists.