As well as ruffling feathers at conferences, I also find time to host two successful December dinner parties. The first ends up being an unintentional dry run for Christmas. I don’t plan for it to be so close to Yuletide; more just a case of finding a suitable space in my diary. I realise it’s the first time I have hosted more than one person for a good while. Maybe that’s why unconsciously, in terms of numbers, this soirée will be my most ambitious to date.
I invite a mix of recently made acquaintances, in addition to my long-time confidante Karin. Guests include Vision, my University colleague originally from Zimba; Mélanie, who recruited me for a migration rights consultancy in Spring 2024; Anne-Marie, a thoughtful and beautiful young woman of Congolese, Rwandan and Eritrean heritage that I met at a Palestine solidarity event; Romana, a straight-talking, multi-lingual I know from a monthly language event, also of mixed-Congolese heritage and Kathleen; a Brit I’ve met at various cultural events and who generously offered me a ticket to see Robert Glasper in autumn.
My choice of diverse and intergenerational guests turns out to be propitious. After the initial awkwardness, a natural kismet emerges. The ambiance is celebratory. Luxury-loving Romana brings a bottle of champagne that will remain untouched all evening. (I’ll eventually gift it to my mother during her Christmas visit.)
We have a number of candid conversations about race, misogynoir, culture shocks and interracial dating, amongst multiple themes. In particular, Vision opens up about life adjusting to Belgium and the scandalous not-so-micro-agressions she has encountered living in Flanders.
I couldn’t be more pleased about the amazing feedback over the coming days. Vision comments on how easy I make it look to find compatible friendships. Being in a committed relationship, mothering a young child, and as a full-time post-doc, she struggles to find the time to socialise. She presumes it's easier for me as an outgoing singleton.
If only you knew, I reply, proceeding to outline in brief how difficult it has been, and to some degree continues to be, finding solid community in Brussels.
Image: Juan Gomez
In reality, the only guest in attendance I’ve known for longer than a year is Karin. It’s also the first time I’ve hosted a group in years. Until late 2023, I had entertained a sole guest within the space of a year. Owing to the disposition of said invitee, it was a disaster. I needed to break out of this subconscious hosting moratorium.
My reluctance had a lot to do with the aforementioned bad experience and general relational disappointments, including the abrupt end to my friendship with Lorenzo.
Speaking of the devil, I happen to bump into my Italian former BFF en route to a shift at the Red Cross. That afternoon, I just about manage to board the close-to-full bus. I have little choice but to sit at the back. If I had sat in my usual spot, I’d have never seen Lorenzo. I don’t initially recognise him. He’s grown his fair locks to Rip Van Winkle lengths. I wonder whom this smiling hippy-like figure is. It’s not that he recognises me straight away either, he later admits. I'm differently coiffed to when we last saw each other, almost two years prior.
Lorenzo smiles not from recognition but because of the serene state of mind in which he’s currently in. I mention to him that, ironically, I have a long overdue call scheduled with our mutual friend, Melissa, the following day.
I am guarded at first. There is no apology or acknowledgement on Lorenzo's part for the way he torpedoed our friendship or the deep relational trauma caused by the insensitively-handled rupture. The bus ride is too short to address it, yet it’s something I’ll remain displeased about. Nevertheless, perhaps out of shock, the grace of God or both, we manage an organically cordial conversation before I have to rush off. If I could have anticipated our meeting, I wouldn't have responded with anything approaching magnanimity. As I alight the bus, I mutter to the Almighty that S/He has a wicked sense of humour...
Returning to the subject of my Christmas plans, I have no intentions to travel. I decide against it long before the PhD is even on the horizon, after the chaotic and stressful commute to the UK in 2023.
Image: Debby Hudson
Whilst sis will also stay put in Japan this time, it is agreed mum will join me for the second half of the Yuletide pause, as is now habitual. For Christmas Day itself, I resume my custom of hosting non-relatives who also remain in situ over the festive break.
This year my guestlist is made up of my colleague Geraldine and Nadia; a Canadian-born, Italian-Libyan I know through my activism. She is unable to fly because of a health issue. Nadia is accompanied by her sister, Mariam- sleepy from jetlag. A good acquaintance from church, Wallace, makes a cameo. Originally from Uganda, she has a harrowing story that her ready smile belies. Living with a precarious migration status, travel isn't currently feasible.
If this once again ends up being an all-female affair, it’s not for lack of trying. My male guests are no-shows. (One doesn’t even do the courtesy of letting me know. Despite his earlier confirmation, my efforts to follow-up are met with radio silence. My experience in Belgium reminds me once again of the male species' unreliability.)
On Christmas day itself, my stove decides to go on strike. This thus entails some improvising with the oven and microwave. Fortunately, I begin most of my Christmas meal preparations days in advance. However, it does mean my mashed potatoes aren’t as fluffy as I’d like and the veg is a little too crunchy. My guests are very kind and complimentary nonetheless; whether from a genuine place of contentment, pity or politeness, I can’t tell.
It’s
fair to say my latest UK excursion has had its share of hitches. By
day two I’m having to hunt for new accommodation. I find a new
listing on Airbnb by a male host. I’d usually be wary of both
factors. However, the pictures look decent, he apparently comes certified
and the price is a steal; especially with the discretionary voucher I
wrangled out of Airbnb. In my haste, I forget to check if it comes
with Wi-Fi; a lesson I learned the hard way from past experience.
The host, Daniel's initial communication is not good. My request has
been automatically accepted. He’s so slow to respond, I wonder if
he’s even aware that he has a guest coming round. I plan to
check-in after a few appointments and dinner with mum. I spend the afternoon and evening fretting if there’ll be anyone at the accommodation when I show up.
Daniel
takes his time to answer the door and I can’t see any lights on inside. Very nervous, I knock
a second time. He emerges, looking puzzled as he lets me in. I’m
running late. He’s just been on the phone with Airbnb to enquire
what happens if the guest doesn’t arrive.
He
shows me to my room. It’s spacious with a couple of skylights and
in good nick. The bathroom is less pristine but at least looks as
if it’s cleaned on a fairly regular basis. By contrast, the kitchen is in a state. There’s
moulding bread everywhere and stains all over the fridge. The
following day I send a polite text requesting Daniel cleans up or
I’ll have to notify the company. By the time I come home that
evening, the rotting bread is gone and the room is in a more salubrious
condition. As for the missing Wi-Fi, I pay BT for a few frustrating days of their temperamental hotspot service.
Outdoors,
autumn is well underway in London compared to Brussels. I have to mentally adjust to not always alternating between French and English. Pardon springs to my lips more readily than excuse-me these days. I note with exasperation how lax the public are about mask-wearing,
even where required (i.e. on public transport). With the ever
imprudent Tory government leaving it to people’s discretion, it’s
everyone for themselves and God for us all.
I
also notice, to my embarrassment, that I’m having to remind myself
of travel routes I used to know instinctively. What a difference two
years make.
There are some more positive observations. I see greater diversity in ad campaigns than I would in Europe or I recall before in the UK.
This trip gives me an opportunity to deal with some of the life admin that seems
too laborious on the other side of the Channel; eye tests and dental
check-ups, for instance. I stock up on treats that are either not
available or exorbitantly priced in Belgium. I am tempted to do the
same with fruit, if only it would last. It's all I can do not to weep at the price of
berries or mangoes or grapes that are a fraction of the Continental
price. It’s not just the edibles
that are a damn sight cheaper. I cautiously boost my supply of
household goods, bearing in mind I have to carry it all back. My
standard of living might be better overall living in mainland Europe where accommodation and travel costs are concerned. I spend far more on
commuting during my eight-day London stay for example, than I would in a whole
month in either Brussels or Strasbourg. There’s nevertheless a
definite price gulf between the UK and the Continent when it comes to everyday items.
In
between the initial mayhem of my visit, I manage to squeeze in a few
catch-ups and appointments. I discuss Nigerian politics with my
Yoruba hairdresser. Later that evening I meet auntieJ,
who, as I often assert, is the poster girl for single life. When she’s
not travelling (pre-COVID) she has a new, exciting project on the
boil. This time it’s short films and a semi-autobiographical book trilogy.
Once
I’m settled into my new accommodation my meet-ups can start in
earnest, with several on a trot. I'm aware that I can’t see everyone
on this trip and have tried to be strategic. There are some encounters I'm also studiously avoiding for my mental well-being. My visits to mum are a
constant. I’m at hers for dinner every other- if not every -evening. Even when we bicker over my coming round 'late' and she worries about me returning to the accommodation at an advanced hour.
Whatever happens, she’s a mainstay.
With
friends, there are the usual postponements, reschedules and
cancellations. I go with the flow as much as my control-freak
instincts permit. This flexibility also allows me to reach out to
those with more fluid timetables.
I
expect in-depth discussions with all about my latest highs and
lows in Brussels but it’s not that predictable. A part of me is a little disappointed. On the other hand, as much as I
like sharing details of my life with loved ones, it’s also a
relief to speak about other things. There’s so much ground to cover
in any case, the idea of where to start can be daunting. Almost
everyone comes to know about my shambolic
journey into Blighty and
the volatile Kiki. If there’s an opportunity to organically discuss my
current workplace drama, I don’t hesitate to go into it chapter and
verse. Other moments, I hardly speak about myself at all. A couple of
friends recount the latest about their contentious divorces; one of
the sad, contemporary indicators of reaching a particular point in
adulthood. My friend, Jen, introduces me to baby number two, Eliot;
named after George and Thomas Stearns.
King's Place, King's Cross London (londontown.com)
Another friend, David
takes me to an exhibition featuring work by one of his acquaintances
and, as is our habit, we spend the afternoon conversing about art,
culture and politics. We both happen to have another friend in
common, Isabella. Ours is a tumultuous relationship of well over 15 years. We've been in and out
of contact for a decade. She's more like an ex I
couldn’t get over. My 2021 UK trip will be the first time we meet
in the flesh for 10 years. She’s recovering at her family’s home
after prolonged illness. If physically she’s been through the
mill, her mind is as sharp as ever. Our talking points are
incongruous but flowing, as they are at their best.
It’s hard to tear away for my next rendez-vous, with a newer
acquaintance, pleased nevertheless to have met up with Izzi.
I wish to prioritise some of my most recent friendships. The
pandemic has precluded the offline interactions that would have helped forge bonds in a traditional way. Yet, the virtual format
has its benefits. Several of my catch-ups are with folk I’ve
befriended online during the past year and a half. People like Faith and Mona, from the Morphē Christian Arts collective, whom I meet in King’s
Place for a mid-week offline reunion. I implore Mona, the former
bassist of a once successful Brit-Pop band, to share her incredible journey from sex, drugs and rock & roll to Jesus.
She’s still rock-and-rolling, just with a different, healthier motivation.
The
following day, at the same venue, I meet Jack- a political satirist to whom I've drawn close of late. He’s
recovering from a severe bout of depression. He’s also nursing a
mild hangover after an otherwise modest night out with a friend. I
feel a twinge of the maternal, although there’s only a few years
age difference. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights; fragility in his baby blues. He’s congenial but
not as chipper as our previous video calls. I feel especially
appreciative of him making the time and let him know.
My
chat with Jack overlaps with a visit from Taylor, another Morphē alumnus with whom I have bonded over the months. We discuss the nomenclature
politics around creative media. Later that evening there’s more thoughtful
reflections of a socio-political nature with my good mate, Anton. A
dancer by vocation, I’ve watched him evolve over the years into a
community leader. He has ample patience and goodwill to listen
and understand the perspective of those with whom he might not
agree. I covet these qualities in Anton and have much to learn from his approach.
As my holiday draws to a close, my interactions ever more enriching and
mentally invigorating, I recognise how privileged - if not spoiled –
I am to be surrounded by so many great minds. Whether it’s my 26-year-old, trainee teacher friend Samuel;
one of the brightest and most informed individuals I know. Or Ré,
a multi-lingual graduate, with an expansive musical vision yet still
applying himself with admirable diligence to his day job as a
cinema manager. Or my mentor, Vinoth Ramachandra, whose latest UK
visit providentially correlates with mine. He treats me to Italian in Soho whilst we
discuss the political corruption across the globe, discriminatory
migration policies, and the ethics
of AI. All this stimulating discourse keeps me on my intellectual toes. It can also make me forget -and
be less tolerant of the fact - that not everyone has the time and/or
inclination to contemplate the Big Questions.
Speaking
of which, my UK homecoming coincides with COP 26 in Glasgow. En route
to meet with uncle Vinoth, I stop by a mass demo organised around the Bank of England. With so little opportunity to participate
in any direct action on British soil lately, I couldn’t pass it up.
After lunch with Vinoth on my way to meet Portia, another Morphē lovely,
I’ll come across an even bigger gathering in Trafalgar Sq. for a
more artistic demonstration.
Portia is a triple-threat
actress/singer/dancer whom I also met through Morphē. We became
especially close during the second lockdown. She’s of Irish-Italian
descent from South Carolina and now rooted in the UK. Although
many ways still a Southern girl at heart, she defies many of
the bible belt stereotypes. We’ve been trying to negotiate
COVID-travel relations for her to come and visit Brussels for months but it’s
yet to work out. We content ourselves with hours of thematically
multi-dimensional chat.
Friends
and family comment on how brief my stay is. Considering how long I’ve
been away, a week at first seems like solid quality of
time. And yet when the penultimate day of my trip rolls around, it feels
like I’m only getting started. It’s never gone so fast.
At
the end, what should have been an obvious observation
comes into focus. It’s my new Brussels’ community with whom I now share the minutiae of my life. There are anecdotes I looked forward
to recounting to my more established UK base but for which there isn’t time. Unless I force the issue. I have to speak in broad strokes or major events,
if I talk about my news at all. Again, it can be a refreshing change
not to have to. It nonetheless signifies a shifting dynamic, one of
which I wasn’t so aware living in Strasbourg. Perhaps because, back then, there
wasn’t a pandemic to interrupt my cross-Channel travel.
Soundtrack: Volume One by Jam & Lewis feat. Various Artists + Let It Die by Feist.
The
first weekend of October, I am off to a retreat with my church,
Fresh Wine Ministries, at a former monastery in the outskirts of Bruges.
I
am apprehensive at first. The activity is organised by the Horizons
team at FWM and aimed at ‘young adults’. The definition is
already stretched to breaking point with a late 30s cut-off point.
And I still fall outside that age bracket. I am finally
convinced by my younger Germanic lovelies, Brenda and Karin, to come along. My
arm doesn’t need much twisting. It’ll be my first spiritual getaway in
several years, even before the ‘Rona. Plus, this will be my first FWM retreat. I don’t intend to make a
habit of sneaking into these youth spaces but with the pandemic, there have been precious few such opportunities lately.
It’s
to be an intense three days of activity, with only one full day at
the converted monastery. In the end we’ll be 50-odd 20 and
30-somethings (ahem), drawn from different church groups or none at
all.
Somehow,
Karin and I find ourselves preparing to host a Saturday afternoon workshop. We settle on
the theme of making Christian worship spaces more inclusive.
On
the evening of departure, Karin is also in charge of ferrying some of the
group by train to Bruges. I’m tired and not especially chatty.
Reminded it’s not very Christian to be grouchy, I rouse myself to
make conversation with a fellow passenger. Amongst our group is a
lanky and voluble Belgo-Rwandan, Joshua. He’s pleasant enough but
seems inordinately enamoured with the sound of his own voice.
Talkative is one thing. Wanting to be the centre of attention is
another.
I am often too transparent for my own good and not
skilled at hiding my distaste.
At
Bruges, we have the option of lifts to the monastery. I
choose the smaller vehicle, hoping for a quiet ride with just Karin
and the driver, Pawel. Before I can change my mind, Josh has
slipped into the front seat. I roll my eyes at Karin. So
much for a peaceful journey. A conversation about our countries of
origin descends into the "Oppression Olympics". Newly-arrived from
Poland, Pawel makes an unfortunate comparison between the Belgian
atrocities in the Congo with the annexation of his country by the
Germans. An awkward conversation with Karin present, and him being
well-aware of her Teutonic connections. The interaction becomes more
awkward still when Pawel’s bluntness and ESL converge into more
insensitive comments, intended or otherwise.
Brenda
awaits us at the castle. Everyone registered is obligated to take a
rapid COVID-19 test, irrespective of vaccination status. Brenda
oversees these self-test sessions like a pro. For some of us, myself included,
this will be our first Coronavirus test of any kind. There are
nervous jokes about the kit resembling a pregnancy test. Brenda
will run the procedure a number of times over the next couple of
days, as guests arrive in waves. Thankfully, it appears all are
virus-free which allows for a level of freedom. Most
significant of all, we don’t have to wear masks on the grounds.
The
facilities are simple but more modern than expected. The
central-heating is mercifully in working order and well-needed. The
weather will be consistently wet and cold. The meals
are cooked by volunteers. Some are more substantial than others.
Brenda
has used her coordinator privileges to arrange a room for just us
two, for which I’m grateful. After an unsuccessful attempt to
negotiate the top bunk, I cede it to my statuesque friend.
Following dinner the first night, there’s just about time for icebreakers. Brenda and main
coordinator, Monica, do an admirable job of organising inventive games. Over the weekend, I’m pleased
to meet a number of non-FWM members and those who are not regular
churchgoers. We’re not just stuck in our Fresh Wine bubble (no pun
intended). I'm also on the alert for those who look more mature than the rest. A bit of grey here, or laughter lines there. Alas, I turn out to be a good half a decade older than even those.
After
the fun and games we retire, in theory, to our rooms. I catch a
glimpse of senior Pastor Mike and give a hearty greeting. His wife
and co-Pastor, Tasha, will arrive in the morning with the children.
The
excitable voices of guests carry late into the night. I wait for
some calm to take a midnight shower, to avoid having to jostle for the bathroom in the morning. I won’t know until later that I end up using
the boys’ facilities. Fortunately, there are no unintended
sitcom-style nude encounters.
The
next morning I hear a melodious male voice singing with abandon. It
takes a few moments to realise it’s Pastor Mike, doing a solo
Praise & Worship session for the brief time he’ll have the
space to himself.
After
an excessively bread-based breakfast, we head to the main room for
the morning activities. Karin and I are invited to announce our
workshop. I fluff my lines but manage to work it into the routine
with a self-deprecation that comes more easily than usual.
Later
a skinny-jeans clad, barefoot Pastor Mike takes the floor. I'm glad to note he's not wearing product in his hair, letting his ethnically-ambiguous waves flow free. He leads us in more Holy
Song and a moment of scriptural reflection.
After
the sermon, we break into our pre-assigned small groups for a time of
intimate prayer. Katya, a self-effacing woman in her early/mid 30s,
speaks frankly about navigating an extended season of singleness. She
wants God to be enough but yearns for her own family. It’s a
tension that I know all too well. When Jelena, our group leader,
suggests I pray for Katya, it's already on my mind. I request that we have a moment alone.
As
I move into a new decade, I’ve been reflecting even more on life's disappointments. I’m slowly beginning to appreciate how my own
story and process allows me to be there for others. I'm finding comfort and joy in other types of relationships; different from- not inferior (maybe even superior) to romance. Friendships are taking on a new beauty and flavour. It might not
have been so if everything had gone according to my plan. God doesn’t
waste your pain, as my mother’s pastor is wont to say.
Katya
wells up as we pray and share life stories. She’s so appreciative
of my input that, at the end of the retreat, she presents me with a
local delicacy.
The
two of us are some of the last to arrive for lunch. I am sat next
to a sweet South American chica. We affirm each other in an
organic way. I tell her God has a sense of humour. This time last year, I spent in the company of somebody from the same
corner of the world. At the time, I thought he was also sweet but it quickly turned sour. This positive exchange with his
compatriot a year-to-the-day feels like cosmic
consolation. Or rather a definitive full stop to a hurtful moment that seems both recent and distant.
That
afternoon, Karin and I set up for our workshop. Once the tech is
sorted, we wait. Potential participants turn out to just be lounging
in the room before leaving to snooze, play games or take a walk in
the rain. Others join and change their mind. Pastor Mike, squeezes my
shoulder and wishes us all the best. Having grown up in Apartheid South Africa as a so-called Coloured, his participation would have been salient. (It turns out he isn't aware of the workshop's content).
In the end, five stay for the
two-hour discussion, based around Sandra Van Opstal’s lovingly
confrontational talk on Worship and Justice. Plans for breakout groups are
shelved. Despite my intentions to leave it all up to Providence, I feel let down by the low turnout.
Karin can relate but is more
philosophical.
The views of the group are as diverse as their
backgrounds. Three hail from Eastern Europe, amongst them Pawel. His position relies on the ‘safety’ of Poland not being part of the colonial
scramble. He claims to be colour-blind. There’s an unwise use of
the word ‘civilised’. Karin tries to correct this misstep and
make Pawel realise that as a Caucasian male, he enjoys privilege of
which he’s not aware. I add, as tactfully as possible, that being "colour-blind" is not a virtue but a
way of effacing difference and rendering whiteness as normative. Pawel is
slightly defensive yet still in a posture to learn. He came for that
purpose, he explains. Back home, there is so little
engagement with these issues. He wouldn’t know where to start. He’s
so far been reliant on online content.
Other
attendees are challenged by some of Opstal’s observations as well
as our own. Even those from racialised backgrounds have not really
reflected on Western hegemony; still evident in churches
that pride themselves on being multicultural. Diversity is not the same as
inclusion, I point out.
The
lively discussion continues around the snacks table, notably with
Pawel and a dapper young gent with an inflated sense of himself,
whose name I’m yet to memorise. I step away in time before this apparent contrarian can pursue some pointless controversy.
Before embarking on a long walk with Karin, I note that the Hip-Hop dance workshop is full, somewhat to my surprise. I thought inhibition would
get the better of guests and they’d be more inclined towards
stimulating discourse around a topical issue. Go figure.
Later
that evening, Pastor Tasha and Mike submit themselves to a grilling
by the guests. I’ve attended these ‘Ask Anything’ sessions
before-albeit online-where questions are submitted anonymously.
Normally, and predictably, these queries show a level of restraint.
There are the usual theological conundra, often preoccupied with
relationships (How do you know
if he/sheis
the one?). This time however,
the interrogation is far more exciting, if damn right impertinent.
The pastors aren’t only queried about eschatology or dating but
also their views on contraception, advice on getting out of abusive
relationships and the use of kinky toys. Oh yes, and their preferred sex position.
I’m
aghast. I can’t think of any context or anybody I’m so close to where that question would ever be appropriate. Except my
future husband. If he exists.
Monica
doesn’t flinch, reading out these cheeky probes as if it’s a
shopping list. To Tasha and Mike’s credit, they’re far less
scandalised than the rest of us. Perhaps they’re used to
this level of curiosity. They maintain their sang-froid,
are open and easy-going. It
leaves a good impression. The culture of taboo should be minimised so that we can be authentic.
Afterwards,
Pawel continues the candour. He opens up to me about the
depression he suffered following the break-off of an engagement.
Formerly agnostic, his interest in church and God began with the
woman he’s currently dating. He believes now that it’s part of
him, regardless of what becomes of the present relationship.
The
evening events continue with a time of praise and prayers. Tired of
the Coldplay-lite songs that dominate Western-style charismatic churches the world over,
I retire to my room. The singing follows me. It does sound rapturous.
I plan to make it downstairs for prayers but mismanage my time.
That
night, guests stay up well into the wee-small hours, apparently
playing raucous rounds of Uno and Jenga. I still hear the cheers as I
nod off, long past 1am.
That
already brings us to Sunday, the last day of the retreat. I skip another bread-based breakfast for some extra hours of kip. That
morning, Pastor Natasha will share how she came to faith by recounting her troubled formative years in the Rainbow Nation. The daughter of co-dependent parents
and one of a dozen siblings, she was passed from one relative to
another. By the grace of God, she survived alcoholic step-parents,
inter-continental moves, suicidal ideation and even, very briefly,
rough-sleeping. She eventually worked in academia before becoming a
full-time church minister. Tasha's unstable upbringing made her very
intentional about her own life choices. Once again, by the
grace of God, she's landed on her feet. It’s a well-rounded message,
combining emotional and psychological factors with spiritual warfare.
Although
my background was not as chaotic, there are elements of overlap in
our stories. I’m drawn to Pastor Tasha’s testimonies of healing
and forgiveness.
After
her intervention, we divide into small groups again to pray for each
other. Before lunch I grab the opportunity to speak to Natasha,
one-to-one, albeit somewhat hurried.
Lunch
is a light-hearted and cordial affair, with votes of thanks, the distribution of gifts and
official farewells.
An unexpectedly tense discussion with one of
the song leaders, Mark, temporarily puts a dent in my good humour.
Having perceived -rightly or wrongly – something of the
exhibitionist in him, I have hitherto kept my distance.
However, I’m
feeling sufficiently upbeat after lunch to venture an introduction. I
detect – and ignore – a needlessly sardonic tone to some of his
responses. The pleasantries all but evaporate when the conversation
takes on a political turn. A convinced centrist, Mark claims that
even if the ecological and human cost of Capitalism is high, it’s
still the best option in town. I counter that he’s speaking from a
privileged Global North position, bearing in mind he’s a
beneficiary of the status quo. He is defensive,
claiming some taste of deprivation having been born in Burma. I
point out that the experience of a European ex-pat would be very
different from an impoverished Burmese.
Thanks for judging my life when you don't know me(!)
In
any case, I add, he can’t afford to be so dismissive about Capitalism’s adverse affects on the environment. Even if he doesn’t
consider it discredited by the substantial human cost (!),
the Climate Crisis is an existential one.
I
have been in this position many times, debating with a (usually, not always) cocky and/or overbearing white male. I stand my ground. Mark calms down abruptly, although I can’t read
his intentions. The heated discourse is interrupted by chocolates passed round by the effete and endearing Claude; one of Mark's bandmates.
Whether
from remorse or otherwise, Mark will make a point to be
amicable whenever our paths cross in the near future.
Meanwhile,
I rush to offload about this frustrating exchange with an
ever-sympathetic, Karin.
It’s
home time. Guests hurry around finalising their travel plans. I’ve
bagged a free ride with Claude and a Dutch lass, recently moved
to Belgium.
It’s
a very pleasant journey back to Brussels, with the conversation
flowing freely and unforced.
Once
Claude drops us off at the Metro, I make my way to Mérode for some
Lebanese takeaway. There I bump into a number of fellow travellers, including Mark, Jelena and chatty Josh. I’ve
thawed towards him during the course of the weekend. He’s eager to
probe an off-hand comment I made back at the castle
about being a "tech-vegan".
Much
to his credit, Josh asks intelligent questions and listens as well as
he shares.
I apologise for being stand-offish at the start. Josh
has not been oblivious to it. For him, it's a friendly challenge; a chance to converse. For me, a lesson in humility.
Now I’m no longer looking for
accommodation, I can focus on making a life in Brussels.
Things are hectic on the work front. We
have successive online workshops from late September to mid-October. My manager, Ama
asks if I’m ready to lead some sessions. Looking for an opportunity
to pop my presentation cherry at the TTUO, I accept. I like feeling useful.
I am immensely aware of the privilege
of doing a job that potentially makes a positive difference in the
real world; to be able to work on issues that are close to my heart. At the same time, I am soul searching over how much my
personal views align with certain aspects of the movement.
Particularly on social issues. I’ve always found myself at odds as
a Christian engaged in politics. I often feel like an outlier. I’m
either too economically to the left for some or too socially
conservative for others. It’s an opportunity for growth
nonetheless. A chance to wrestle with my own values and beliefs; fine
tune or adapt if and where necessary.
Things
on the socialising front are also starting to pick up. (As much as COVID restrictions allow, that is. Figures in the Brussels region are especially worrying.)
Unlike Strasbourg, I don't have a hard time meeting folk of the same generation who aren't already married and too ensconced in domestic life to fraternise.
Having survived being
(sort of) abducted by Rob, we meet up a few weeks later.
Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment.
Rob has no filter. He treats
me like his priest or therapist, making all sorts of personal
confessions I have no business knowing. Some things can’t be unheard.
He flirts with me in a quasi-aggressive way. As with his lurid
anecdotes, I’m not sure if he’s trying to get a rise out of me.
I’m
not a tease. I let him know that he’s not getting any play. His romantic life sounds too complicated. I
accuse him of being slutty. I'm nobody's side chick.
Things become very interesting when I
explain (not for the first time) that I’m celibate. He reacts with a mix of fascination and taking personal offence. In my experience, it’s a typical response from
the male species; even if there were no romantic designs. Annoyed by the idea of one less potential conquest.
He asks why I don't go for Christian men. As if it's that easy. I explain the pre-pandemic, vastly disproportionate female:male ratio in church. In that sense, it's a numbers game as much as destiny. Even in the less common cases where there's balance, the men are usually already spoken for. I don't get round to speaking about The Rest. Let's just say there are compatibility issues. Whilst there's no shortage of vibrant and dynamic Christian women, the men often lack the same well-roundedness. Too 'churched'. Those who don't fall into that category usually aren't single. Et cetera, et cetera.
Ignoring the explicit faith-based reasons for my lifestyle choice, Rob presumes I've never been in love. Or that it's a result of trauma.
How condescending...(and insulting)...I haven't been molested if that's what you're getting at...
Rob brings out an irritable side for which I apologise more than once.
He takes to sending me links to videos about the Christian faith or politics. He also emails choice scriptures, somewhat passive aggressive.
Rob and I have talked about faith quite a bit. He's spent time in a monastery. He's intrigued and clearly searching. I want to be a help rather than a hindrance. Our complicated dynamic makes it a challenge, nonetheless.
For
all his foibles, Rob is sharp and entertaining. He’s also a veritable M.A.T;
Man About Town. He has a great circle of friends, some of whom speak very well of him; both beyond and within earshot. If that's anything to go by, he can’t be so
bad. One evening, after a fraught
conversation over drinks, we’re joined by Rob’s merry band of mulattos. My first impression is that they've been friends for years, if not decades. I'll later learn some of them have only known each other for mere months.
They're a cultured set too. I’m in my element. We discuss everything from semantics and international politics to West African cuisine and Brazilian music. I despair at the lack of Rob's knowledge of 90s R&B.
A few days later, he invites me to an afternoon of board games and quizzes in the Ixelles area.
It's the annual designated no-car day. The roads are eerily quiet, except for the odd thundering of skateboards collectively sailing down the empty streets.
I get lost en
route. By pure happenstance, I bump into one of Rob's crew, easy-on-the-eye Diego. I'm delighted to see him. We
have already established a fast rapport. He's very complimentary about my outfit. Alas, he’s not staying for
the festivities. I ask him not to leave me alone with his unruly friend.
Rob’s so much better behaved when he’s with his chums.
With
mischief in his eye, Diego alludes to some suppressed attraction.
I’m genuinely gutted to see him go. (A few weeks later, he and I will spend an enchanting Saturday evening in each other's company. But that's for another blog. Perhaps).
I
win the quiz by fluke rather than comprehensive knowledge. Thus,
despite my competitive streak, the victory feels a little hollow.
Also along for the ride is Rob's friend, Carol. She’s a no-nonsense older Caribbean woman who keeps him in check. I take to her instantly. We
exchange numbers. I invite her to an event the following weekend. I
forward her the link. She passes, believing it too
abstract for her taste.
She’s
not wrong. The event is organised by some good acquaintances at one
of my haunts at Botanique. It’s supposed to be a showcase and open mic. It’ll be the first such event I’ve attended in forever. My previous after-hours experience at the same venue
was mixed to say the least. I attended for the sake of the vivacious
and intelligent organiser, Fatima. The crowd is rather insular and
monocultural. I duck out as soon as I can.
This
time I imagine something quite different; more diverse and sophisticated.
There’s a queue outside the venue. Once again, I’m not enthused
to see the crowd is not as cosmopolitan as hoped. Fatima works her
way down the line, only admitting those who intend to perform. I came
prepared.
Inside, I realise it’s not my crowd. I don't think they'd appreciate one of my acappella Jazz, Gospel or Bossa numbers. Maybe I’m
too old. Or it’s too much of a Hip-Hop slam vibe.
Thankfully, the bartender Mario comes to my rescue. He’s one of the first people
with whom I had a real conversation in Brussels. We’re a similar
age. Like me, he’s not a Brussels native. Originally from Costa
Rica, he spent much of his formative years in Sicily. Our common
language is French.
We’re long overdue a drink, I tell him. I won’t sniff at any opportunity to build social
ties.
The
following week I meet up with Carol for a DJ set in town. A few days
earlier Rob calls to invite me out for dinner. I decline. Too tired.
I mention my plans with Carol.
Oh yeah? I’ll be there too.
So
much for a ladies’ night out.
I
arrive at the event half way, having finished work later than usual.
Carol and her friends are about to leave. Charitably, she hangs
around to keep me company. No sign of Rob. Ear infection, Carol
explains. She ran into him earlier in the day; another
anecdote-worthy incident. Everything about Rob is a caper; as if he’s
a real life sitcom character.
The
music policy is more commercial than expected. The highlight is a mass singalong to Toto's Africa. Dancing is forbidden
under COVID. (Why then, bother with the event?). That doesn’t prevent a
drunk chick almost falling over me,
leaping around to Queen’s Don’t
Stop Me Now.
It’s
a rainy, uninspired Brussels evening. The music selection is
hit-and-miss. Yet Carol’s company is enough to compensate. She
calls to mind another of my West Indian aunties. That would explain the instant
fondness.
Disclaimer: I’m under no delusion that this blog has
legions of followers. Yet, for the sake of the faithful few I don’t wish to
sound like a stuck, miserable record. If my lost-in-translation-melancholy is
starting to grate, look away now.
My first August in Strasbourg is a slow-burning shock to the
system. I am finding whatever neurosis that has been encroaching on my peace of mind is compounded
by the solitude. It has entered my very soul. The last time I recall experiencing similar isolation I was a socially-maladroit teenager.
Living in Strasbourg, in the absence of friends
and/or family invested in my well-being or relationships that are tried and tested,
I feel untethered.
Work is like a ghost town, as is the main City. Spring/Summer is usually my favourite time of year for the profusion of
light alone. That has nevertheless not been enough to completely
temper the gloom. No doubt, it still helps a great deal. I need to steel
myself for Autumn/Winter.
The absence of activity is a contributing
factor to my malaise. Both at church and in the wider Strasbourg community,
things grind to a halt as so many of the residents disappear on holiday. It's as if everything is in suspended animation, I moan to affable colleague and fellow expat, Gordon.
I contact Kiasi, the director of the HRGS choir to let me gate-crash another rehearsal. He doesn’t think it’s worth
my time as the team are practising for a wedding that weekend. I beg to differ.
The atmosphere and harmonies enliven my soul, I explain.
The rehearsal takes place in another part of town of which I’d
be blissfully unaware, save for the choir. The venue is tucked away on an estate. I stand
out like a sore thumb in my work gear. The choir’s harmonies eventually reach
me, floating through the air. I follow their voices to a community centre. It’s
another sweltering evening. One member lounges in the doorway alongside
relatives of her fellow choristers, along for the ride. She apparently has no intention of re-joining
them and leaves early. The group rehearse in the dark to avoid the heat generated by
artificial light. Anyone wishing to switch them on is met with squeals of
protest.
The choir are practising The Beatles’ All You Need is Love. I’m not a fan of the Fab Four and less still
of that song but Kiasi’s vocal arrangement is appealing. I quietly sing along
to the contralto harmony which that section is struggling to memorise. At one stage, as a memory aid,
Kiasi improvises an Afrobeat remix alongside impromptu dance steps. The good vibes are infectious. His right-hand
man and soloist, Evan starts twerking. I don’t see them going home before midnight.
I can’t hang around past night fall in this unfamiliar territory.
The musical boost has nonetheless done me good.
With close acquaintances either already on holiday or
otherwise indisposed, I leap at any opportunity to socialise. It becomes all
the more pressing when my computer gives up the ghost. Despite valiant attempts
to resolve the issue by the IT team at work, I have no choice but to send my netbook to
the UK to be repaired by my insurance company. My stance against smart tech means
it’s going to be a quiet few weeks. Without the device I realise how much an
illusion of company it provides. Still, I miss the radio. I download political and
spiritual podcasts on to my trusty old Phillips's MP3 and mete them out as I go about my chores or eat dinner.
I realise it isn’t as hard to read for leisure at home (as opposed to in transit or elsewhere) as I once thought. In between
the inevitable silences I send mute and frustrated prayers up to heaven about
the myriad reasons I can’t quite shake this monkey off my back. Patient friends
of faith on both sides of the Channel listen to my rants and existential
questions. It's a painful but necessary process. The additional silence might not be wholly welcome but is an opportunity in the making.
New language exchange chum Thomas is getting, well rather
too chummy. He sends umpteen texts in between meet-ups and insists on lengthy
rendez-vous. He offers to take me to dinner on more than one occasion. He
casually makes reference to his parents’ home being unoccupied whilst they are
on holiday and would like me to ‘pass-by’. He rightly judges that I am not in
favour of that idea. I ignore his non-request.During our second meeting he’s rather tactile, grabbing my knee once
too often. I wonder if I should nip it at the bud now or wait to see if it
fizzles out naturally. The English part of the exchange isn’t going well. He's not focused. He
defaults to French, apologising for not being able to kick his brain into gear
after speaking his native language for most of the conversation thus far. Part of me questions his motivation. On the other hand, I can
well relate and try to be sympathetic. Aware that I recently celebrated my
birthday, he asks my age.
Guess.
40?
I’m used to having a few years
knocked off, not added. My vanity takes a hit when he ages me.
But you’re still
beautiful anyway.
Too late. My ego is bruised.
Things come to a
head of sorts that weekend. He wants to meet again on Sunday. I explain that I
will be preparing for the visit by a friend from London the following week (true). Plus I have
vague plans with Sérafine (also true).
I’m sure an hour or
two won’t make a difference to your plans.
Sufficiently guilt-tripped, I agree to keep him informed if I have a window.
In the meantime, I’ve accepted another Internations invitation to take in the
sights and sounds of Farse street art festival organised that weekend. I need
the company and the French practice.
I text Thomas to let him know I have a window between church and the event. If it doesn’t suit
him, we’ll have to reschedule until later that month. He prefers to postpone so
we can speak for longer. He has an unrealistic expectation of how much time we can-
or should- spend together. We're not dating.
He asks if I’m disappointed
about his decision to reschedule. That’s too odd for me. I decide to be frank
about my uneasiness. I thought it could wait and text is not the ideal medium but…
I explain I am not looking for a boyfriend, just an innocuous language exchange.
He replies that he has a girlfriend.
Good. I’m glad we’re
clear.
He’s ‘disappointed’
by my response.
Why disappointed? It's important we're honest with each other. You were making me uncomfortable.
Plus, you never
mentioned you had a girlfriend.
You didn’t ask.
I wouldn’t. It’s
not my business. Besides, you have plenty of free time for a single man and
have made some very confusing remarks.
My girlfriend is out of the country. What confusing remarks? etc. etc.
Plausible deniability on his part. I tell him to greet his
girlfriend on my behalf.
This frees up my Sunday afternoon for a siesta before
popping back out to the street art festival.
It's perfect weather; warm, sunny but with a noticeably forgiving breeze.
It’s an all-female group by accident, not design. Other
guests arrive too late. I sulk slightly to discover that not everyone
is comfortable with French and I’ll be using more English than I’d planned.
Between underwhelming street circuses and bizarre, slapstick theatrical pieces
about a loving, accident prone elderly couple, I speak to Suisse-German event
organiser Jana and New-York girl Megan. Both of them are living in/near Strasbourg
on account of French boyfriends. Megan learned German from scratch by
immersion as a teenager. Current professional demands prevent her from dedicating herself to
the French language as much as she’d like.
Jana sympathises with my difficulties integrating into the city. I don't believe however that she can truly empathise. She has family who live
near the French/German border as well as her boyfriend for moral support. Speaking to the
girls, I am reminded of the additional challenge of being single in a city like Strasbourg. As Sérafine once alluded, it might well be why it takes so long to establish a community here. Be they expats or
born-and-bred, many residents seem to be allergic to single life. They already have
their ready-made, self-contained support units.
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