Same Ol’, Same Ol’

* A (belated) Happy New Year to readers *

To update or not to update. When the days bleed one into the other, that is the question. Still, I couldn’t let the whole of January pass without a fresh post.

The New Year melancholy doesn’t wait for 2021 to rear its miserable head. With the exception of some much appreciated NYE fellowship and prayers, my post-Christmas day holidays are characterised by a mild, nagging gloom. 

Belgium has been under some form of continuous lockdown since the Autumn. For commercial reasons, several ‘non-essential’ businesses are allowed to remain open beyond Christmas for the winter sales (later extended for two weeks). All other restrictions stay in place, including stringent limits on personal interactions. Numbers of COVID infections have been falling incrementally. Yet with new strains on the rise and folk returning from their overseas festive breaks, the Belgian authorities are taking no chances.

By the time they announce (a few days earlier than scheduled) that these constraints will continue until at least early March, it’s not a surprise. The week before, on the phone to my hairdresser, she informs me that’s the word on the grapevine. At least, salons and similar businesses will not open again before spring. There’s word of stylists soliciting illicit trade online. Government officials hop up and down with indignation. Yet as Melissa, the lady who cleans my flat has cannily observed, these same officials look pretty slick in public themselves. Moreover, as of mid-January, out-of-business hairdressers still haven’t received the latest financial support from the State.

I take the closure of salons as a bellwether for everything else. The rumours are confirmed days later. A well-needed ban on loosely-defined ‘non-essential travel’ is also instated.

The lockdown extension is not a shock but nevertheless a disappointment. My mental well-being is in a delicate state. This sort of development doesn’t help.

There is some potential good news for salons when the government considers authorising limited services in mid-February. However, I don't envisage an easing of the rules on socialising.

I resign to the thought that come March, the Belgian government will find some pretext to prolong restrictions once more. That time, they'll cite concerns about the possibility of citizens' over-excitement during the Easter holidays, knowing all the while that that’s been the plan for months.

Whether or not this 85-90% lockdown is eased by early or late spring, it would have been several months since its enforcement. The authorities don’t appear to give a toss about the psychological effect of all these restrictions. They use infantilising language to blame the ‘naughty public’, instead of owning up to their own failures at the beginning of the global health crisis. Much like other parts of Western Europe whose response has also been a shambles.

I’m the first of my team to return to work in early January. I make the most of the fact that many colleagues and organisational partners are still on leave. I won’t be overwhelmed with emails. With teleworking still the default, there’s not much to distinguish the days. When I rage against the latest measures, my colleague Demetria suggests ways I can keep occupied. I appreciate her efforts but I want sympathy, not suggestions.  In any case, I’m already doing whatever is feasible to improve my lot.

Demetria can only relate to a degree. My other colleagues are either married, have family links or other long established ties to Brussels. I haven’t seen any of my family or close UK-based friends since 2019.  

I note how those who’ve resided in Belgium for years are still fussy about going out in bad weather. I don’t have the luxury. It’s either I brave the wet, the wind or even the snow or I go stir crazy at home. 

I begin to notice certain patterns regarding my morale. Early in the week tends to be especially difficult. Sometimes it spreads to other days. I do my best to take a day at a time and make lemonade. But some moments have less juice to squeeze than others. The isolation smothers. Its weight sometimes unbearable. Routine visits by officials or other professionals take on a new significance. I’m grateful for the fleeting company, even if they are only paid to be there. And yet, that doesn’t even always qualm the malaise.

An abundance of online spiritual content in January proves to be indispensable lifelines. It’s traditionally a month of prayer for many churches. There’s no shortage of virtual meetings and services. It helps with perspective to take my mind off my own situation and pray for the needs of others and the world at large. 

Still. There’s only so much one can ignore a lengthy absence of meaningful offline interaction.

My European phone becomes an unexpected source of torment. It’s as if all the alienation I feel living in Brussels is embodied in this basic Nokia device. Days can go by without a peep. A few of my most neurotic episodes are triggered by this radio silence. I take to leaving it off for as long as possible, only to have a stubborn and surreptitious hope dashed when I switch it back on.

I grow tired of making more or less unilateral effort with some of the embryonic connections I started to make on arrival. Several have dropped off the radar for reasons I can only guess. Erstwhile suitors tend to vanish when things don’t go their way. (One such recent chancer - after a phone call that feels more like a job interview and confirms how little we have in common - begs off with a toothache that apparently never heals). 

Rob the Nuisance, of course, is the exception. Who else? He still scrambles out of the woodwork from time to time, to provoke another heated online discussion. If need be, he’ll throw in the odd flippant remark about my faith to get a rise. Begrudgingly, to his credit, he does send me content with which he'd know I'd engage and agree, even if he doesn't. He also appears to have worked slightly on his poor manners.  We now have a (to my mind anyway) comedy routine where he invites me round to eat and I refuse. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. He even offers to have a third party in the room. I still pass. Knowing him and his hedonistic tendencies, that could be his way of proposing a ménage-à-trois. In any case, even if innocent, his footloose jet-setting and apparent disregard for quarantine measures don’t leave me confident that this would be a COVID-secure arrangement.

Marie-José in Ixelles

On one hand, there’s a perverse pleasure in him taking the initiative to remain in touch. Yet, it’s also perturbing that my most consistent contact in Belgium is someone about whom I’m ambivalent. At best, his motives are mixed.

With few options at my disposal, I make my own. I sign up for a ton of city-wide activities organised by my Belgian church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). I up my daily walks to two where I can. They make the world of difference. Not to mention my knowledge of the City is increasing manifold.

The few times I do receive genuine invitations for a stroll’n’chat, I snap at the chance. There’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes. So says Yvonne, who works for a partner organisation of TTUO and is a distant relative of my supervisor, Ama. One Saturday she shows me around her old stomping ground in Ixelles. I am introduced to a very pretty side of Brussels with which I was not familiar. Yvonne regales me with colourful tales of her life as a global citizen. She picked up the aforementioned adage living in Scandinavia.

Brenda, a new acquaintance from FWM, gets in touch on her return from visiting family in Austria. She also wants to schedule a walk and talk in the brisk weather. Now more than ever, these small acts of kindness go a long way.

Soundtrack: My Best of...2020 mix- Part 1 & 2. Be the Change by Jarrod Lawson.

Festive Alternative Part 2

 

Christmas can be a difficult time of year, even without factoring in a pandemic. Following the last minute change to my festive plans, for my own mental well-being, I can but take a day at a time. I’m still a little glum the Monday morning after mum’s trip is cancelled. I share the news with the Morphē Arts prayer group who, as customary, offer solidarity and thoughtful prayers. A similar repeats itself throughout the week via different media, as friends and acquaintances enquire about my Christmas schedule. My TTUO colleague, Steve wastes no time getting in touch after the UK's Tier 4 changes are announced.  I give him an update, thanking him for his kindness. I don’t take up his family’s offer to have me round for reasons previously explained. As not to appear either ungrateful or anti-social, I propose a Boxing Day jaunt around their local park instead.

I start to see the silver lining in the situation. I had been in an emotional state of limbo about mum’s trip. Planning anything in great detail has been frustrated by so much being in suspended animation.

Now I will be doing a lot less running around. I won’t need to spend as much on food if it’s just me. I can focus more on the Christ aspect of the holiday with fewer distractions. Moreover, a number of acquaintances will also have a solitary Christmas for sadder reasons than I; relationship breakdowns, family stranded abroad or a combination of other complicated factors. It’s an opportunity to look out for each other, without feeling guilty for not paying enough attention to my guest.

In the week leading up to Christmas day, I gradually-if not wholly successful-start to wind down some of my daily routine. You know, actually rest. 

Rob le Provocateur continues his antics with an unrelenting stream of material and comments that indulge his chauvinism. In telling him to back off, I let slip my Christmas plans have gone awry.

Watch out, sis warns he smells blood. Attention is a powerful currency.

She’s not wrong. At the culmination of this latest (rough) charm offensive, he invites me round for ‘dinner and to talk’.

I can squeeze you in between one of my other victims, he chides.

I reflect on his offer. I’d be content with chat but without the dinner at his place. I suggest we meet somewhere more neutral. Go for a brisk walk around the park, for instance. I expect he’d welcome the idea more than his South American friend, whose apparent sulk about my reluctance to come over is one of the reasons we’re no longer in contact (even though it's he that eventually cancelled our tête-à-tête) . If Rob’s vehement reaction is anything to go by, it turns out they’re as bad as each other. Rob throws in a bit of emotional blackmail for effect, also insinuating I’m uncivilised for turning down his offer.

Quel gonflé.

Notwithstanding valid concerns over personal safety, he’d literally have the home advantage. He could verbally misbehave in any manner of ways. Politeness, for a while anyway, might prevent me from keeping him in check.

Rob grumbles something about it being too cold. See you in May, he quips.

If you feel that way, too bad.  There's no point me coming over if I’m not comfortable. I’d only be bad company.

More sarcastic responses.

When I update sis, she’s furious. You owe him no explanation! He just wants to take advantage of you being on your own.

I unilaterally put a stop to the email exchanges. Not that Rob entirely desists. Over Christmas, whilst apparently somewhere in Eastern Europe, he attempts to drip feed controversial content to spark another debate. I don't engage, opting instead for ironic remarks about him having better things to do with his time.

I certainly do. There’s reading to catch up on. A pre-Christmas spring clean. Dropping off festive biscuits for acquaintances. Shopping for some rabbit for the stew and pie I plan to make to cover both Christmas and New Year’s Day. I also continue my relatively recent tradition of watching favourite Yuletide specials (Series 1 of The Boondocks, Series 3 of Community...). I'm peeved to note however, that some corporate Grinch has removed the full length version of A Charlie Brown Christmas from YouTube. 

My festive evening strolls are now an inviolable part of my daily routine. The city is fully in the swing of things, within COVID-circumscribed limits. On the metro, the voices of children singing transport-themed adaptations of Christmas ditties blast through the speakers.

Christmas Eve is eerily quiet. Earlier that day, at my local Aldi’s, I observe aloud to the cashier how strangely calm and sane it all is. Perhaps it’ll pick up later. She’s not sure. It is very strange, she concurs.

I’m back out again at night fall, leaving later than I planned having joined an online quiz (in which I came from the rear to wind up in second place. Not bad). Most shops are closed. The streets are semi-deserted. It can’t just be the damp and uninspiring weather. In particular quiet stretches of road, I dance with some abandon to my personal soundtrack; covered by the cloak of darkness.

At Mont des Arts, I pass a tenor saxophonist playing jazzy carols. I stop short when I hear the opening strains of my number one: God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman. I walk back down the steps to join in. He modulates to an unsuitable key. I switch to harmonising with the horn. To my consternation, I have no more change in euros. He’ll have to do with some Sterling coins. He thanks me in transatlantic- inflected English.

Having spent most of the week trying not to think of it too much, Christmas Day is peculiarly serene. In the best possible way. I wake up to sunshine that wasn't forecast. It lasts for most of the day. Numerous texts of well-wishes are exchanged. I attend multiple livestreams of shorter-than-usual Christmas morning services whilst eating brunch. Much of the afternoon is spent catching up with friends who are also alone. My Zoom chat with Temi takes nearly two hours alone, much of it dedicated to relationship issues. Having survived and thrived despite an acrimonious separation, I'm keenly open to her advice. Her kids are with her ex for the day. She’s in good spirits considering that she’s had a hellish few years, of which 2020 was only the latest iteration. She also comments on my bonhomie. Thank God for the grace, as has become my refrain this week.

While there’s still light in the sky, I make the most of the relatively good weather. Droplets appear on my window just as I’m about to step outside, very soon to cease. En route I note, to my pleasant surprise, that the local University Campus church is open to the public for a change. The interior is appealingly modern and understated. Whilst an inviting organ solo thunders in the background, I am drawn to the subdued nativity scene. This Baby Jesus is appropriately brown (in contrast to the Virgin Mary in Grande Place, who resembles Melania Trump). 

Like France, and unlike the UK, public transport still runs on Christmas Day in Belgium on a Sunday schedule. I catch the 29 bus from Roodebeek, descending at Diamant to enjoy the light show around the Telecoms tower. Ironic then that there’s no illumination on Christmas Day itself. 

Never mind. It’s an excuse for a ramble. 

The roads are busier than I expect. Convenience stores, run mostly by people for whom Christmas does not have the same significance, remain open. I get carried away for a couple of hours before it’s back home for dinner and the Netflix adaptation of Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Viola Davis is on fire. Having been ambivalent about the play, it’s a cinephile friend who convinces me to give it a go. Plus I'm drawn by the thought of seeing Chadwick Boseman do his swan song performance.

So far, so enjoyable.  The real test of morale normally comes in the interim period leading into the New Year. Sure thing, a sense of melancholy awaits me on Boxing Day. I have the stroll around Josephat Park with Steve, Sylvia and family later that day to break up the monotony. It's short and sweet. Literally. They bring some delicious cocoa to keep us all warm. The kids predictably torment each other. Out in the open, all restraints are off. This moment of precious offline interaction, confiding our shared frustrations around relocating during a pandemic, is welcome respite. Away from it, as well as the relative bustle of the world outside my flat, it only amplifies the isolation with which I have to contend otherwise.

Soundtrack: My own Best of...2018, 2019 + 2020 mixes.

Festive Alternative: Part 1

courtesy of Le Soir

The week before mum’s scheduled festive visit, she and I are in more regular communication than is our habit. We’re keeping each other abreast of any COVID-related changes to travel on either side of the Channel. Apart from the usual discretionary advice and possible quarantine measures, there aren’t any major upsets. No news is good news. Up until Saturday 19 December. Three days until mum’s series of Continental firsts. Her first time taking the Eurostar (she always came to Strasbourg by plane). Her first visit to Belgium...

At this stage, although my optimism remains cautious, our every-other-day updates are beginning to feel academic. That is until mum mentions rumours of a new tier of restrictions will be introduced by the UK government. The latest mutation of the virus is raging through Southern England and likely elsewhere. After weeks of dismissing the threat, Bojo is feeling the pressure to ‘cancel Christmas’ after all.

I have not been aware of this latest development. By the time mum informs me, the measures are already in place. I immediately start a panicked search of how this affects travel plans. Whether it’s the official UK government website or ITV news, it doesn’t look good. I make several update calls to mum. Eventually, the news gets too depressing. It’s late. I don’t want to keep disturbing her.

I weep tears of bitter disappointment. It’s official. I won’t have seen any of my UK-based loved ones in the flesh for the whole of 2020. I’m overcome with a strange Coronavirus-state of déjà-vu. Nine months earlier almost to the day, back in Strasbourg one anxious weekend, I was hunched over in tears days before the first wave of lockdowns and border closures disrupted all travel plans.

Saturday into Sunday, I fall into a fitful sleep; even more than usual. I wake up a little less distressed in the morning. Maybe there’s a way mum can still travel. She should at least show up at St. Pancras station on Tuesday and see what happens. I phone mum to share my thoughts. She is up for that idea. She has already completed the requisite Passenger Locator Form. There's nothing outright precluding travel thus far. The app even wishes her 'a good trip’. According to the Eurostar website, their trains are still in operation (most likely for those permitted to travel for professional purposes). 

However, by the middle of the day, successive European countries start to close their borders to Blighty. Belgium is one of the first amongst them. At this point, I’m starting to make peace with it all. It wouldn't be my first solo Christmas. However, at least I had some illusion of control over the situation the last time. 

Mum is way ahead of me. Even before news of the travel bans, she’s already decided it’s better to postpone. It’ll be less stressed, she explains. If she could visit, she’d almost definitely be subject to quarantine. The Belgian authorities have announced they are stepping up the monitoring process. I wouldn’t want mum to be effectively under house arrest. She says she wouldn’t mind being home all day. It would be a shame, nevertheless. For her to come to the City and not see any of it, even with the current restrictions. No twilight strolls admiring the luminous Christmas decorations...

You like to play by the rules, she reminds me, it won't be worth compromising.

Besides, she’ll be able to take longer leave in the New Year. There'll be less demand from other colleagues.

It's futile to fight it. Even if we didn’t both come to terms with the changes, the decision is taken squarely out of our hands when Eurostar cancels her train. I’ll have to wait longer to enjoy mum’s company and all the other knick-knacks I miss from the UK; either not available in Brussels or extortionately-priced.

Bloody 2020. It’s been that sort of year. Might as well finish as it went on; in solitary mode. 

Soundtrack: Personal Christmas Collection and Best of ...2017 Part 1 & 2

Loneliness and Christmas Lights

 

It’s official. The Christmas holidays have begun. Staff at The Trade Union Organisation can look forward to two additional weeks of annual leave, as is the custom.

We’ve been squeezing in as much activity as possible in the run-up. Crossing the ‘T’s and dotting the ‘I’s. Webinars, online office parties and a reassuringly constructive evaluation with my manager, Ama.

As the holidays approach, I detect a noticeable lightening of her mood. At the last team meeting, she gives us all glowing praise for punching above our weight. We’re the smallest department with the least resources but, she argues, we achieve more than most. All the more so under pandemic conditions. Having yet to have worked at TTUO for even six months, I feel uneasy about these plaudits. As rewarding as our work is, I’ve not been there long enough to have contributed a great deal.

On the last day before the office closure, I meet up for a mid-afternoon ramble around Parc George Henri with sweet Italian trainee, Gianna. It’s a sunny and invigorating winter’s day. She’s in good spirits. Her contract has been extended. Pending COVID test results, she’ll soon return home for an admittedly straitened Christmas as Italy plans for a harsh festive lockdown.

Gianna thanks me for introducing her to the park. It’s the first time I’ve been since the summer. The bare trees have not diminished its attractiveness. Gianna draws my attention to an adventure playground I either hadn’t noticed, or had ignored on the previous visit. There's a huge sculpture of an Easter Island figurehead lounging in the sand. The playground is practically deserted. We go mad on the slides and swings, before returning to our respective homes to join the online office party.

No end of year quizzes as I’d hoped. Just judging Chrimbo pet photos, colleagues’ prospective festive menus and alcohol recommendations I’ll never use. Colleagues exchange glamourous travel-related anecdotes from pre-COVID days. I see the faces of people whom I’ve only known by name. I long for real world contact with them all the more, especially at this time of year.

Parc Georges Henri (c) Luc Viatour

Most of my colleagues will be off for a good month, whilst I’ll only take a couple of extra days in the New Year. Whilst longer serving colleagues have been encouraged to use as much leave as they can before the cut-off point, I have to ration my pro-rata’d allocation. Besides, with Belgium still on 80 % lockdown and no relaxation of measures during festivities, there’s not much to keep me occupied at home.

There is a glimmer of hope. One that I only speak of with apprehension, as not to tempt fate. My mother is supposed to visit over Christmas. God willing and COVID restrictions permitting.

I have a couple of potential options in case it falls through. One comes from my colleague Steve, also newly arrived from the UK, his wife Sylvia and their wonderful, multi-cultural brood. Another is courtesy of a compassionate couple at my new church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM), who are opening their home to anyone who might be alone at this time. We’ve never met.

I appreciate the offers. It is better to have some choice than none. Still, I am doubtful I’d take them up even if, God forbid, I have to spend Christmas on my own. The thought occurs that being with comparative – or total- strangers somehow would intensify the loneliness.

By coincidence, as it became clear the Belgian authorities were pursuing a harsher festive anti-viral strategy, my few remaining outlets for social interaction have slowly fallen away. Inchoate friendships at church are put on hold, as new acquaintances return to their respective countries to spend the holidays with family. Auntie Carol warns me in advance she’ll be in hibernation before her seasonal trip back home to the West Indies. She texts me the day before she flies out.

The South American man-of-fashion has officially been downgraded to waste-man status. I won’t dignify this non-story with too much detail. Suffice to say I have had to give him the benefit of the doubt pretty much from the outset. He’s spent all his lifelines with one too many mind games and cruel, not to mention, childish antics. It’s always sad to come to the realisation you were so wrong about a person. In fairness, he did once warn me that he wasn't well-adjusted, as hard as it was to believe at the time. When people tell you about themselves, take them at their word.

Another would-be suitor (who, by chance also works in the fashion industry), FWM’s Gerry Rose (yep, that’s his government name), has also disappeared into the ether. I never like to string anyone along. Since I mentioned that my intentions were purely platonic, I’ve noticed a distinct cooling on his part. No more texts to check on my well-being or propose another park stroll. Hmm. I make a mental note to give fashion designers a wide berth in future.

Conversely, a number of blasts-from-the-past have re-emerged after several months, or even years, off the radar. I’m pleasantly surprised-or rather shocked – when a couple of emails from errant acquaintances drop into my inbox.

It’s been a good time to reconnect in general, albeit remotely. Rob-the-Kidnapper has also crept out of the woodwork recently. Very late one evening, he unceremoniously sends me a message demanding to know my thoughts on the US election. No greeting or pleasantries. I let him know I’m not impressed after months of radio silence (a chance meeting at a metro station notwithstanding), and ignore his request. He persists with some other topical news items. I relent. By text or email, we debate the crisis in Ethiopia, gender relations and various perspectives on scripture. Instead of calling, he sends excessive amounts of messages, despite my protests. I can’t lie. I’m glad for the stimulation even if he’s an arrant contrarian. Half the time I don’t know if he really believes what he says, merely wants to elicit a reaction or both.

Text controversies aside, real world stimuli is still lacking. After railing against the solitude, I have no choice but to embrace it and make my own fun. As I have so often had to do. I’m tired of being at the mercy of others’ whims or scheduling. Trips to the supermarket, bookshops and aimless wandering are elevated far above the mundane nowadays.

My attitude towards Christmas this year is notably ambivalent. I am sluggish to put up the decorations. I decide to wait until after the cleaning lady, Melissa, has done her pre-festive rounds. Since moving in, I’ve signed up to the Titres-Services programme. I pay a monthly subscription through which I can benefit from a pool of cleaning personnel. To ensure that I don’t completely mutate into a champagne socialist, I only avail myself of the service every fortnight. I still clean my own toilet bowl in between.

In these undesirably quiet times, I’m immensely grateful for the company. On this occasion, Melissa is particularly loquacious. I’m glad for the French practice and the interaction, although keen to get back to finalising my end-of-year blogs. She asks if I have kids. Not yet. If it's God's will. I don't know...but I love children anyway...

I'm the same she replies but I love other people's children.

I later realise that her verbosity is for my benefit not hers. She’s married with a house full of kids. She perceives my loneliness and her emotional intelligence kicks in. And to think domestic work is often described as ‘low-skilled’. Nonsense. As if there’s such a thing. How many therapists can offer solace whilst cleaning a whole flat inside three hours? There’s something intensely moving about her gesture. I well up at the thought of it.

Back to my subdued Christmas plans. After Melissa leaves, I dutifully put up the decorations, glad to have it out of the way. I’ve decided to switch on the fairy lights only if and when mum arrives.

Brussels City Centre

One concession to festive cheer is meandering around Brussels to enjoy the City in its yuletide splendour. Having relocated from Strasbourg, not undeservedly known as the ‘Capital of Christmas’, I must admit Brussels holds its own. Even with the absence of the Christmas market this year, which I’m yet to experience. With all that's happened this year, I didn't think local authorities would bother. Also for fear the lights would attract a crowd, as has happened.

I’m a woman of simple pleasures. An ordinary walk around tastefully-illuminated Bourse, Grande Place and Ixelles, with good music streaming through my ears, is enough to warm the heart. Even parts of my local Woluwe-Saint-Lambert neighbourhood are festively stunning. Thanks to these regular excursions, I'm also getting to know the city even better.

At home, I try to throw myself into Advent. I attend online Carol Services in which geographical distance would have otherwise precluded my participation. At night, I am comforted from the seasonal resources courtesy of a Chaplain friend, before I close my eyes for more fitful sleep.

Here We Go...Again?

Life and its ironies. My last blog was an account of the social ties I’ve been steadily establishing in Brussels. I called it Girl About Town. I was entertaining a follow up about charming evenings spent in the company of a thoughtful, bright, handsome and slightly effete South American. But then COVID.

As I write, the Belgian government is deciding whether to go the way of its French neighbour and instate a full lockdown.
I really shouldn’t be bewildered by the mayhem wreaked by this virus. If this year should have taught us (or rather reminded us of) anything, it’s to hold all plans loosely and expect the unexpected. Heck, my own life should have taught me that control is an illusion. And yet…

Maybe it’s the innate optimist in me. It’s not as if the signs weren’t already there. Perhaps I was too busy burying my head in the sand as news circulated that Belgium was regaining its disgraceful position of having one of the worst infection and death rates per capita. The piecemeal government has been tightening restrictions ; an illogical ban on bars and cafés whilst restaurants were still allowed to remain open. Nevertheless, I was genuinely blindsided by the month-long blanket closures of eating establishments (save for take-away) issued mid-October. Teleworking is all but compulsory, which means no breaking up of my week with occasional days in the office. 

Priorities. I understand that this is a deadly disease that has claimed the lives of well over a million people globally. Drastic times, drastic measures. But my already high concern for the psychological toll of quarantine-style orders only increases. Then there's the shadow pandemic of domestic violence that has seen a frightening surge over the past months.

Like many, I feel the heaviness of 2020’s fear, uncertainty and, maybe worst of all, isolation all the more as the year draws to an end.

Yes, the public might have become a little too eager to socialise after the lockdown but widespread government mismanagement and inconsistent instructions don’t help.  Belgian's notorious linguistic divide affects policy. There's also the significant -not to mention farcical- issue of having nine, yes nine, health ministers. Too many cooks...

Belgian prime minister Alexander De Croo, claims the situation is worse than six months ago. That now even those in semi or full isolation are catching the disease. Tu m’etonnes. Six or seven months ago the kids weren’t at school. That’s the major difference. Not to diminish the very difficult balancing act between children’s social and educational development and the general well-being of everyone else, we shouldn’t be astonished to see a spike in cases after schools have re-opened.

The weekend after the new measures are announced, I’m in a state. I can’t think or speak about it without crying. I look back on the past month’s or so activities; from the aforementioned socials to charitable endeavours. I weep for the promising connections I was beginning to form; still too fragile to be able to count on.

A friend from the UK calls just as I’m about to step out to the shops. I appreciate the gesture; touched that I came to mind. However, his Christian fatalism ticks me off. I wish I have the presence of mind to properly challenge it.

What a difference a day makes. Just the evening before, shortly before the announcements, I am out with my Caribbean auntie Carol at an even more disappointing DJ set (clue: no DJ) at Plein Publiek. The company is a mixed bag. Along for the ride is a St Lucian friend; a contrarian, who likes the sound of his voice. What he says is mostly horse manure. He asks if I ‘chat Caribbean’.

No. I’m African.

So you don’t chat Caribbean?

He brings along a younger Tunisian friend who appears to be drunk on arrival. He hits on me constantly. Perhaps partly out of vanity, I entertain it somewhat, to my regret. He keeps interrupting my conversations to make non-sequiturs such as ‘You look American. Doesn’t she look American?’ or to get angry with me for not paying him the requisite attention. At some point he offers to draw a cartoon animal version of me.

Mr Tunisia and Mr St Lucia don’t really have a language in common but somehow manage to communicate.

Thank goodness, Carol’s other acquaintance is far more agreeable. Originally from North-West England, Simon has lived in Belgium more than half his life. He’s very candid about various health issues and an unhappy domestic set-up. His first lockdown lasted longer than most, having had to shield because of a pre-existing condition. 

You can take away bars and cafés, he reasons, but please don’t take away all the places I can eat and talk with good company.

An hour or so later, after Simon has dropped Carol and I off at our respective homes, we learn of the tighter anti-COVID measures. I send him a supportive message.

By the following week, the Belgian government stops just short of a much-discussed second lockdown. All cultural venues and sports centres are to close from Monday. A 10pm-6am curfew is ordered. I go to the cinema twice that weekend, whilst I still can.

On top of the latest constraints, it’s another hectic week at work. Ama, already not exactly sunny by nature, is in an especially foul mood. Her sinuses are giving her grief. She’s overworked, fed up with all that 2020 has thrown at us and who-knows-what-else is going on. I get caught on the sharp end once or twice. I’m not the only one. I can never take it personally with her. It’s just how she is. 

I’m grateful for every kind word and thought elsewhere. For a good conversation with a friend whom I thought had dropped off the radar. For the surprise texts from acquaintances whom I haven’t heard from in a while. For another enchanting afternoon spent with the South American. For the sound life advice that one occasionally finds on YouTube. I greatly appreciate the reinvigorating fellowship of an (unintentionally) all female online church cell group I gatecrash.

All these are well-needed fortification for the weeks to come. I’m trying not to think further ahead.

(Not Quite) Resuming from Where We Left Off…

The rollback of France’ lockdown proceeds according to a traffic light system of green and red zones. As implied, the health crisis is less intense in green zones. Pretty much everything can re-open except eating establishments, cinemas, theatres and other entertainment venues. Strasbourg is in the Grand Est region; one of the worst afflicted in the country; coloured a  bright Code Red. The lifting of restrictions are supposedly less generous. In addition, individual municipalities still have a margin of discretion. Despite libraries technically being permitted to open as of 11 May - the official first day of déconfinement - the local prefecture insist they remain closed until further notice. I’m disappointed but hardly surprised. In its pre-COVID19 existence, the central library - the André Malraux Médiathèque - welcomed hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors per day. It is wishful thinking that this could resume in the current climate.

Returning to the spacious and luminous Médiathèque was nevertheless one of the aspects of post-lockdown life to which I have been most looking forward. My response to the easing back of restrictions has otherwise been apprehensive. Whilst speaking to a friend a few days before déconfinement, I wonder out loud if the Rivetoile shopping centre will re-open; yet another potential (surprising) concession. Either way she is reluctant to visit, she says, intending to maintain a similar level of caution even as prohibitions gradually lift. We both feel a level of unease. A part of me wouldn’t mind a lockdown extension. I acknowledge how twisted that sounds, with so many people needing to return to work. With so many women and children stuck at home, at the mercy of their abusers. Yet my concern for those worst affected in confinement doesn't wholly mitigate my overall trepidation about the hereafter. I come across a brief psychological breakdown that well articulates my ambivalence. A mental health expert tentatively compares lockdown to a prisoner approaching the end of their sentence. As distressing as incarceration is, there is a comfort in its familiarity. By contrast, the outside world is now a frightening unknown.

According to the same programme, this hesitancy is widespread. You wouldn’t know it from footage of customers in France and neighbouring Belgium forming snake-like queues outside department stores. I express my incredulity to my next door neighbour when our paths cross one morning. She can understand the eagerness of shoppers. She too needs to buy season-appropriate clothes for her infant children, hitherto having had to rely on ordering online.

The thought of resuming activity seems to have distracted much of the city, if not the country. I realise that balconies and windows fall silent at 8pm. A few scatterings of applause in the early days of déconfinement, eventually petering out altogether. The efforts of healthcare personnel and others who've kept essential services going aren't in the forefront of the collective consciousness as much.

Post-lockdown blues
(Image courtesy of Elle.fr)

When 11 May eventually rolls round, I have no intention of venturing out. I will slowly adapt to any new routine.  I want to take the lessons learned during lockdown forward into whatever my ‘new normal’ will be. I don’t have to go full throttle every single day.

The following morning however, I avail myself of the newly re-opened outdoor markets for fresh fruit and herbs. Changes are immediately noticeable. Public transport is running close to regular capacity. There are large, obtrusive red and white stickers everywhere designating where we can and cannot sit. More significantly, masks are mandatory on all transport networks. We are warned of impromptu inspections and heavy fines. To my relief, some custom-made fancy face-wear from Japan, courtesy of sis (via mum in the UK), arrives just before the 11 May deadline.

Later that week the local authorities provide each resident with a complimentary mask. Aforementioned friend also offers to drop some off, just in case. I’m grateful for these small but meaningful interventions.

The market is sparsely laid out. Only food stalls are allowed to set up. Physical distancing measures are still in place. It’s all a bit surreal if that still means anything in these quasi-dystopian times.

To my pleasant surprise, I bump into André; one of the security guards formerly of the Malraux Médiathèque. With work at the central library now indefinitely on hold, he hustles a living elsewhere. He’s still in touch with his old colleagues. Rumour has it that the Médiathèque won’t re-open until September, much to my slack-jawed dismay.

My journey continues into the city centre; partly for practical reasons as well as to see how much has changed.  The most obvious difference is the increase in road traffic. There are also more rough sleepers around. I note some familiar faces amongst them. It's as if, post-Lockdown, they've been turfed back out on to the streets en masse. Homelessness doesn't cease to be a problem. It should not once again become acceptable in the 'new normal'.

The Rivetoile shopping centre is busier but not jam-packed. That day however, only hair and beauty salons, opticians and, ahem, Vaping shops are open for business. Hairdressers appear to be doing especially good business. Understandably, we've missed professional grooming.

I stop off at a new butchers/bakers/grocery that launched mid-lockdown. I am quietly impressed by the range, cleanliness and professionalism compared to what came before. The numerous customers around now seem less concerned about physical distancing.

I’ll observe something similar as the week progresses. I step out a few days later for the main weekly shop. Whilst several shutters remain down, I note the doors of many a café, restaurant and clothes retailer are open. This isn't consistent with the prudence required in a Red Zone. For now at least, they are mostly empty.

I make an unplanned stop at a café; one of my old haunts. The young proprietor sports a beard (as do several Caucasian man of all ages these days, I gather). It’s been that long. I thought you weren’t allowed to open? I ask. (Or rather gabble, my lack of regular French conversation still taking its toll.) It’s just for takeaways, he responds.

There has always been the odd eatery which remained open for this purpose. I wonder why so many chose to resume this side of business now and not before. If, as one restaurateur friend informed me, it wasn’t sufficient to cover the overheads with takeaway orders during lockdown, that won’t necessarily have changed. Since proprietors have been patient this long, surely it’s better to wait until the rates of death and infection are lower still. Maybe they'd say I'm being naive.

I am even warier to see all shops re-opened at the Rivetoile; subject to mask-wearing and a squirt of disinfectant at the main entrance. The public are clearly exercising a degree of restraint. Foot traffic is far lower than pre-pandemic. For all my reservations, I decide to book an appointment at my usual beauty salon. My sensitive skin needs looking after. I have a knot at the nape of my neck which could do with a massage.

The staff are kitted out with masks and gloves. The hand sanitiser provided is to be applied by all customers. Facials are suspended until further notice. Service is stripped back to waxes and massages. I take advantage of what’s available. I still can’t shake the feeling that even this purely aesthetic appointment might not be wise.

If I’m conflicted over a more rapid déconfinement than I envisaged, there is one aspect about which I’m unequivocally pleased. Non-essential travel of less than 100 km is now permitted without a permission slip. I am no longer confined to my immediate locality for exercise.

Strasbourg Central Train Station

I use it as an excuse to put on some make-up and head to the Neudorf area; a stone’s throw from the (still closed) German border. An overcast morning has made way for a clear and mild spring day. Perhaps it's too fine a day. Groups of revellers assemble on the forecourt of the empty Malraux Médiathèque to profit from the sun. In the shadow of a possible second viral wave, what would usually be a cheery scene is rather ominous.  Hmm.

I’ve been hankering to spend a few serene moments in St Aloysius church, not having returned since mum’s Christmas visit. Michelle, a friend from HRGS choir, lives in the vicinity. I'll stop by unannounced for a chin-wag from a safe distance.

En route, a woman compliments my decorative mask. If the ubiquity of this protective measure is unnerving, the more imaginative varieties makes the situation a little lighter.

I am slightly indignant to find St Aloysius isn’t completely empty. As if I’m the only one with a right to quiet time in sacred spaces.

 I am distracted by the creakiness of my pew and the muttering of a woman who can’t seem to read in silence. I steal away to a tranquil adjacent prayer room.

My trip to Michelle’s doesn’t go to plan. Not that there really was one.

No-one is home. Even circumspect Michelle is making the most of this new found freedom. I leave a message on her landline. I mention an important update to share. It’ll have to wait until next time.

Soundtrack: Stevie Wonder Birthday Tribute Mix: Part 1 & 2.