Respite in Milan: Part III

(c) Mikita Lo

My last full day in Milan is set aside for a day trip to Lake Como, as recommended by Melissa and everybody else in the region, it appears. I’ve found a bargain return coach ticket. I just need to be able to arrive at Milan Porta Garibaldi in time. I sleep somewhat fitfully (again), no doubt worried about making the train connection at Garbagnate station. It also doesn’t help that the other guest is once more making a racket, as he prepares to leave for the day. The previous morning, he left as inconspicuously as a ninja.

It’s another morning shrouded in deep fog. Mel has mentioned that the Milanese mist is a well-known regional characteristic. I have researched an itinerary on Google Maps that should get me to Garibaldi with a good chunk of time to locate the coach station. I leave at least five minutes earlier than recommended to allow time to purchase my train ticket. I don’t want a repeat of the missed tour on New Year’s Eve.

So far, so good. Except when I arrive at Garbagnate, I learn that Google has misled me. The suggested itinerary doesn’t exist, at least not that morning. The next train to Garibaldi will only get me there two minutes before my coach departs. I don’t know the locality at all. It’ll take a miracle to catch the bus. I try to rebook my outbound for a later departure. No wifi.  The situation is complicated further

when the train terminates at Cardona. A helpful passenger explains Garibaldi is a 20 minute walk by foot. I don’t have that time, I explain. As I frantically look for an alternative, I notice that there’s a train directly to Lago di Como leaving in a quarter hour. Moreover, it’s cheap as chips- roughly the same price I’d have paid for a replacement coach ticket - and would get me to Como at more or less the same time. It means switching up my itinerary a little but it’s a positive resolution all the same.

Pulling into Como Nord Borghi station the fog finally begins to lift, revealing a breathtaking vista of Como’s magnificent hills and surrounding habitations.

At Como Nord Largo, the San Giuliano church catches my eye. Outside is a cardboard cut out nativity scene with (yet another) Aryan Mary and baby Jesus. It’s the same for every representation I come across. I scowl slightly and enter the tranquil church building.

During my trip, I consider how faithful a custodian Italy has been of cultural Eurocentrism (albeit exported around the world by various more powerful European colonial forces). Be it the Roman Empire and the Latin language, Christopher Colombus’ imperialist expeditions, the Renaissance or being the HQ of the Holy Roman Catholic church, there’s a narrative that puts this part of Europe as the erstwhile centre of Western civilisation and thus, as imperial arrogance would have it, the centre of the world. Like other colonial powers, there’s a tendency to cling to this past distorted form of glory. It should therefore come as no surprise (although hella frustrating) that these modern Italian artists stubbornly depict a young Middle-Eastern family, based in what would now be known as Palestine, in their own image. I find it somewhat ironic that Italians are so often (mis)treated by their Nordic siblings like the ‘blacks’ of Europe, as I like to joke. Historically, of course, in contexts like the US, Italians weren't always racialised as white. Maybe that partly explains this Eurocentric emphasis, reaching a nadir in the country's penchant to lurch to the extreme right. It's a way of asserting membership of the lilywhite club.

Lago di Como (Como Lake)
(c) Jef Willemyns

I make a mental note of the eating establishments that surround the church on the way to the cable car station. The closer the restaurants are to the cable cars - or Foniculare - the more expensive they become. 

It’s a punishing one and a half hour-long queue to purchase a ticket for the climb and to eventually board the car. My MP3 battery dies during the wait. I hope it’s worth it. The long-awaited ascent suggests it will be. I tap a boy in early adolescence, preoccupied with his phone, and point at the window. 

When we reach the mountain top village of Brunate, a safe distance from any sheer drop, I am stunned by the view of Lago Como, the homesteads sprinkled around, and the mountains in the distance. The haze that floats around the Alpine peaks, thickening the nearer we draw to sunset, lends the scene an eerie, interplanetary beauty.

I pause at a café for some transgressively thick, pudding-like hot chocolate and to recharge my MP3. I plan to do a little circuit around Brunate to justify such indulgence. 

The wait for the cable ride, although not a wasted endeavour, eats into my one-day itinerary. Dreams of a sunset cruise across the lake might have to be jettisoned if I’m to catch the other sights, have some lunch and make it back to San Giovanni station in time for my coach.

I prioritise two attractions in Brunate; the nearby Sant'Andrea church and chasing what I believe to be a waterfall, Pissarotino. After getting lost once along the away and finally locating the water feature, imagine my disappointment to discover that the ‘Fonte’ really is just a small alcove with spurting water. It's probably only significant because of some Catholic superstition associated with it. The accompanying paraphernalia appears to support my theory.  If I’d known, I’d have better spent the time walking to the local lighthouse. 

In the environs of Pissarotino is another incredible, if vertiginous view, with fewer guardrails.  It’s certainly one of the most picturesque detours I’ve taken.

Although my original plans included lunch in the main city, time is fast spent. I find a trattoria on the hill, if nothing else to wait out the crowds clambering to return on the cable car.  If the food is as mouthwatering as the view from the restaurant - and better than the head waitress’ customer service - it will be money worth spent. (In the end, the sea bass is tasty but overpriced for the stingy portions). The head waitress might be unwelcoming but her younger colleague is friendlier, smiling at me diffidently. I discover we have shared Ghanaian heritage.

After a late lunch, I try to make peace with having to truncate my itinerary even further. If I can take a peek at the Cathedral and the Piazza Cavour en route to San Giovanni, I’ll be pleased.

Unfortunately, the queue for the return cable car is still discouragingly long. The service runs every 15 minutes. However, the volume of people means that it’s not possible to get that many passengers on to the small-medium sized vehicle. Thus, the wait significantly exceeds a quarter hour. My itinerary rapidly shrinks with each passing minute. By the time I make it down to the station entrance, I only have time to hurry to San Giovanni. I’m told that it’s an estimated 10-15 minutes but that’s conservative. Como’s nocturnal iteration has its own strong appeal. I try to drink it in as I rush, looking with regret at the distant dome of the cathedral and the piazzas that I've run out of time to enjoy. The Lago di Como area at night reminds me of different places; aspects of the Dalmatian coast, the Nice/Monaco rivieras (without the obscene displays of wealth)...

Como at dusk
(c) Marco Angelo

I wonder if I made the right choice starting with the funicular. The mountain top views are amazing, arguably more so at dusk. However, I did lose hours just standing in line for the cable car. I initially planned to go straight up and back down again. In hindsight, it would have saved me a lot of time. Then again, I’d have missed out on so much of nature’s splendour from that vantage point. Make a decision and stick to it, irrespective of the outcome, sis likes to advise. It applies here. One thing is for sure. I wouldn’t recommend that a first time visitor to Como just stay for the day. It’s worth at least an overnight visit, with a whole day set aside for Brunate (including queueing time).

It’s on approaching San Giovanni station that it occurs to me that the online tickets I bought were for the train and not the coach after all. I play with the idea of taking a later train so that I can appreciate more of twilight Como. The bad connections to my accommodation back in Milan are nevertheless a deterrent.

That evening I return to the same restaurant for some flavourful custom-made Gorgonzola and kebab pizza. Back at the villa, I discover that the male guest has gone and been replaced by a young woman. I’m relieved.

I’m catching an evening flight back to Brussels the following day. It’s a Sunday. Since I have most of the day to spare, Mel suggests that the family pick me up from the villa with my travel gear, and I accompany them to their bilingual church that morning. I'm game. I’d played with the idea of visiting a church whilst I was in town but didn’t know where to start. It didn’t occur to me that I could tag along with Mel and the gang.

That morning, en route by car to the service, Mel mentions the leadership is North American. She forewarns that the church has ‘zero’ interest in social justice. A familiar refrain. I’ve come to expect little from the mainstream church in that regard, especially those heavily influenced by US evangelicalism. It’s a tragic irony given how much the bible has to say about justice in both testaments. Mel and I feel strongly about these issues but in our own way, each reconciles herself to doing the best with what’s available.

(c) Keagan Henman

Mel very much appreciates the diversity of the church, informing me of several Nigerians amongst many of African descent who attend. One of them, I’ll find out, is my exact namesake. He’s one of the volunteers who helps to interpret the service. Mel admits that she was won over when she saw a black man translating into Italian for the white pastors. The church also doesn’t impede women from leading or teaching.

Whilst I have not lost my faith in Christ, I find church spaces increasingly difficult. It’s partly a delayed reaction from past trauma - when I switched off critical engagement too readily and/or tolerated harmful theology in a misguided understanding of ‘obedience’. It’s also to do with the aforementioned deficiencies of mainstream charismatic/evangelical churches and the culture that engenders them. Mel’s family church, like so many others that boast of multiculturalism, is incredibly monocultural when it comes to musical worship, for example.

Regardless of how international their congregation is, for at least half an hour we’re subjected to bland imitations of soft rock. And because this so-called Christian Contemporary Music (CCM) is associated with white folk, it's considered more 'holy'. Racialised people who have not (yet?) disentangled their faith from colonial influences buy into this framing, usually without question.

All too rarely, if at all, do these supposedly international churches explore the sacred music traditions of African-Americans, let alone the Global South.  These days I mostly sit it out. Anything else feels like 'playing church' and people-pleasing. If God sees my internal conflict, there’s no point hiding it simply to impress other mere mortals. I believe God would prefer my musical worship to be muted rather than inauthentic. 

Before and after the service, I spend a significant period of time speaking to my namesake and his wife, Loveleen. My namesake and I discuss how uncommon it is to meet someone else with the exact appellation. It’s not especially popular even amongst Yorubas. Nigerians and non-Nigerians alike often mistakenly call me the more common ‘Tolu’.

I learn that my namesake came to Italy and threw himself into years of intense language learning for the love of his now wife. They met at the airport whilst Loveleen was dressing down a queue-jumping oaf in Italian. My namesake was intrigued and they swapped numbers. Fast forward some lapses and long-distance dating later, Italy-based Loveleen gave him an ultimatum; he would have to relocate if they were going to make it work. My namesake made the jump. I’m impressed, both by Loveleen’s refusal to upend her world for a man - as is so often the case - as well as his willingness to make the sacrifice. It’s rare for a man of his generation, all the more so given the cultural expectations.

After the service, we head for lunch. The majority vote for Indian. It wouldn’t be my instinctive choice but it’s better for gluten-free Mel. It’s an especially tough dietary requirement to have in a country like Italy. Eating out can be a challenge, albeit less so these days, observes Melissa. We eat well and relatively healthily at a cosily-sized café/restaurant with a reassuringly open view of the kitchen. Moreover, it’s popular with other South Asians, which is a positive sign. Another group from the church will eventually overlap with us.

 It’ll be my main meal of the day and stands me in very good stead. My flight will be delayed and I’ll be returning to a snowy Brussels much later than planned. Hunger pangs are one less worry.

(c) Lama Roscu

After lunch, the family has plans with other friends. We part company and exchange hugs. It’s been a truly special trip, made up of simple pleasures. Always the best kind. Poor sleep hygiene notwithstanding, I feel more rested, emotionally at least. (I'll need it for what awaits me back in Brussels). I couldn’t have asked for better. 

Mel instructs me how to walk to the nearest station to catch a metro directly to Linate airport. I surprise myself by not getting lost, having a dodgy sense of direction and only being guided by memory. It’s another brisk but bright day. I stop off at a gelataria for the first time during the whole trip and awkwardly make my way through the streets with an ice cream in one hand, a suitcase in the other and great music streaming through my ears.

I eventually find myself in what is by now the familiar territory of the high-end shopping district approaching San Babali station. I’m so focused on not losing my way that I don’t properly soak in the surroundings. Waiting on the platform for my train to the airport, I attempt to freeze frame the memory in retrospect.

Soundtrack: Best of...2023 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)

Part I

Part II

Respite in Milan: Part II

 6 min. read

(c) Bolivia Inteligente

Part I

Part III

After falling asleep late, I’m woken up earlier than I’d like by the movements of the other guest. Assuming it would be a woman I find out the following morning that it’s a bloke, much to my unease. To his credit, he’s very discreet and we do our best to avoid getting in each other’s way.

New Year’s Day is relaxed; dedicated to catching up virtually with family and a couple of local walks before and after dark. My temporary housemate is out for most of the day. For the first time on the trip, it’s overcast. To my relief, I find some establishments open where I can order takeaway for dinner. Most ‘proper’ restaurants in this highly residential area are closed for the holiday. My celebratory sit-down meal will have to wait until another evening. Instead, I order a Calzone which turns out to be bigger than my head and probably just as heavy. That’s not mentioning the free focaccia that comes with my cheese-based salad, as well as the mini arancini I ambitiously ordered. It won't all be consumed in one sitting, especially after my already rich and carb-heavy breakfast.

The second half of my Milanese excursion is set aside for exploring further afield. Mel and I book a girls-only day trip to nearby Turin; a steal at just over 20 euros return by train per person.

Pius and Mel collect me from the villa, sans boys, arriving early to negotiate the thick fog that has descended upon the city. The extra time comes in handy. Pius misses a couple of exits. Thanks to Mel’s foresight, we nonetheless arrive at Rho Fiera station with 20 minutes to spare. Melissa perks up at the sight of a young black woman also being dropped off. I thought you said Milan was diverse? I remark. Mel replies that it is not so diverse that it can be taken for granted. She approaches the young woman to ask for directions to the platform. I’m quietly impressed Mel addresses her in Italian, not assuming she speaks English. It turns out we’re all taking the same train. The young woman introduces herself; Lucia. Polyglot Mel asks if she speaks French or English, so that I can be included. (I have a fondness for Italian. I earned a shallow A at GCSE after two years of study. I can follow some basics but if I try to respond, my lower-intermediate Portuguese comes out instead).

Lucia answers in the affirmative, although she’s more comfortable speaking French. She explains she’s from Cameroon, where she started learning Italian long before moving to the country. Lucia already had a lot of family living in the region when she relocated to Italy, and is just returning from a festive visit with relatives. Judging by her name, it’s an Italophile family.

Turin
(c) Nikolai Kolosov

Whatever fatigue I thought would overcome me lifts in conversation with Mel and Lucia. Similarly, the deep mist suddenly clears revealing brilliant sunshine and more attractive views of the Alps.  Amongst other themes, we speak about Lucia’s good fortune in obtaining a job in engineering so soon after her masters, finding decent and affordable black hairdressers in Italy (for Mel’s oldest), the notorious (and in my experience, frequently unfounded) monolinguism of Italians, reputable places in Milan for West African dining, the Cameroonian Diaspora in Europe and Lucia’s tips on what to see in Turin. Her stop is earlier than ours and it’s a bit of a rush. We say our farewells. I have no business cards on me to share. Ships passing in the night.

The rest of the journey, and throughout the day, Mel and I will catch up properly for the first time in years, having the luxury of time that we’ve lacked for too long. Between our collective research efforts (of which Mel has been more conscientious) and Lucia’s suggestions, we begin at the extensive Porta Palazzo market in the shadow of the Porta Palatina: a Roman ruin which is one of the oldest preserved in the world.  We weave in between working class neighbourhoods and the more well-to-do...

...It’s a time of shared vulnerability. Whilst strolling or enjoying a tasty Moroccan seafood lunch, we discuss trauma past and, in relation to my current professional situation, trauma present as well as effective therapeutic treatments. I inform Mel about my ongoing quest to obtain a firm diagnosis for my not-so-nascent neurodivergence. I open up more with Mel than I am wont to do with many. After 20 years of friendship, not to mention her highly compassionate and discreet nature, I feel she’s earned it. Yet I find it’s always a tricky calculation, disclosing ‘my truth’. A person’s stories never solely belong to or implicate just them. I also worry that I’ve trauma dumped. Melissa is understanding and humbly offers some sage spiritual insight. Having a shared faith is a blessing.

The conversation is rich but not always heavy. 

Turin itself has a varied and appealing cityscape. Surrounded by the Alps and nearer hills, aspects of it remind me of Seoul. I explain to Mel that I find the presence of mountainous forms in the urban context strangely comforting. Not being much of a nature girl myself, I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s their constancy; the idea that these ancient formations have not been defeated by urbanisation.  We pass by the distinctively designed former Synagogue, Mole Antonelliana, heaving with visitors waiting to enter. We don’t even attempt to get in. In the environs of the temple, an elderly busker does a rendition of Simon & Garfunkel's Sound of Silence.

Our half-hearted Mole Antonelliana plans thwarted, Mel and I go in search for some Italian chocolate truffles that my sister has become besotted with. Afterwards, we leisurely make our way to the train station. The shops are still in Christmas mode. Mel explains that in Italy they take the 12 days of Christmas custom seriously. It ends, as it should, with Epiphany. Italy also has the peculiar Twelfth Night legend of a witch who deposits goodies for children into a dedicated stocking. 

Mole Antonellenia
(c) Tom Podmore

As the sun sets, we stop off at San Carlo Borromeo church which has caught our eye and, fortunately, is still open. Earlier, I mention to Mel how much I like exploring different Western orthodox spaces in countries with a strong Catholic tradition. My maternal family’s Catholicism was in the distant past by the time my sister and I came along, so it’s more a quirk of mine. Shattering my assumptions about all Italians being latent (at least culturally) Catholics, even if lapsed, Mel explains that she never had an affinity with the RC church. Her parents were left-wing agnostics who didn't humour the pretence of religion.

San Carlo has a wonderfully elaborate miniature nativity scene with little motorised devices; the kind I haven’t seen since I lived in Alsace.  Whilst the surrounding models of villagers reflect the multiethnic Middle East, the Holy Family is depicted as unapologetically white. Likewise for the lifesized cardboard nativity scene opposite Turin’s Porta Nuova train station; white Mary, white (red-head) Joseph and white Baby Jesus flanked by blond angels. 

Elsewhere in the city, I spot Palestinian flags, proudly-worn keffiyahs and anti-Zionist graffiti. It’s only very recently that I’ve come to learn of Italians’ longstanding staunch support for the Palestinian cause. The Zionist-sympathising Far Right government of Georgia Maloni is not, I'm told, representative.

Turin also has a number of eye-catching murals and what I imagine are pleasant park areas during warmer climes. I share with Mel that this is my idea of appreciating a new city. I’m not usually one for museums and galleries but I do like wandering the streets and letting curiosity guide me, with or without an itinerary. With its multifaceted character, Turin is a good place to get wistfully lost. 

Yet, I’m so used to doing this kind of thing on my own, it’s comparatively novel to have company. 

Despite growing up in the Piemontese region, it’s Mel’s first time in Turin. The verdict for both of us is that it has been well worth the visit.  The hours evaporate.

There’s just enough time before catching our train for me to grab some extravagantly thick Italian hot chocolate.

Pius picks us up from Rho Fiera station. The soundtrack to our journey is a mix of popular Burundian music and Afrobeats. On my request, Mel and Pius drop me off at a restaurant in the neighbourhood of the villa, recommended by my Airbnb host. He’s not wrong. I’m very pleased with my seafood gnocchi.

Soundtrack: Best of...2021 mix Part I & Part II ; Best of...2023 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)

A Summary of Summer 2023: Part I

4 min. read

As I write, North-West Europe has been enjoying freakishly good late summer weather. I’ve long been fond of September. It’s a month of transition and fresh starts, straddling two seasons and often accompanied by clement weather. Still, I can’t recall ever experiencing sustained, heatwave-like temperatures at this time of year. (Cue mixed feelings of cheer and climate change-related angst).

I never like to complain when it’s hot. I’ll take bright sunshine and sticky tropical climes over the typical cold and damp, any time. Heck, we’re owed extra heat and sunlight after the half-hearted, stop-start disappointment of the core summer months. I need all that Vitamin D and brightness to brace myself for the cooler and darker seasons.

Back in early August, returning from my latest excursion to Eastern Europe, I am greeted by mostly steel grey skies and weather cool enough to tempt me to switch on the heating. It does nothing at all to quell a resurging malaise, soon to evolve into another bout of light depression.

On the bright side, I have another visit from mum to look forward to; her last before Christmas. I’m not as buoyed by the idea as I should be. It’s another fortnight stay and I worry about how to fill the time. Mum is an easy-going guest but I don’t want to take anything for granted. The state of my finances also leaves me nervous. Mum has been self-sufficient and even generous with her resources. Yet it bothers me immensely that I’m still not in the position to treat her. It’s what I’d want for any guest, let alone a relative.

In the end, as usual, I upset myself mostly over nothing. Mum’s stay is smooth and more or less drama-free. The sun makes a reappearance. She’s now familiar enough with my local area to go out on autonomous trips to the gym and the park. We do one or two cultural events, including an exhibition on the connections between Belgium’s colonisation of the Congo and the rise of Art Nouveau. Understandably, it leaves mum feeling morose.

The bitter-sweet runs throughout her visit. Difficult discussions about the past and an unruly dog dampen an otherwise pleasant picnic experience at my local park, for example. Mum and I have a number of hard, revelatory conversations. Some bring a sense of resolution, others need to be revisited at a more propitious time.

The dread of being left to my own devices stirs days before her departure. I try not to pay it too much mind so it doesn’t take me out of the present.

It’s scant solace when she does eventually return to London. The absence hits harder than on her previous trip. The month of September, usually associated with some kind of renewal, stretches before me like an inscrutable void. I’m still feeling the aftershock of my most recent major recruitment let-down. I eventually press the pause button on applications, sensing that I’m reaching a point of job hunting burnout. Mum’s visit is the ideal excuse. I will resume towards the end of the trip, her presence providing some kind of moral support. When I do get back on the grind, I ease myself into the process as much as possible.

Even with the job search break, I’m still very busy during what would usually be a summer lull. Brussels itself seems busier than usual for August. Either the rising cost of travel has been a deterrent or folk have taken shorter breaks earlier in the summer.

I stay occupied with my freelance writing and copy editing exploits. I’m also becoming ever-more integrated into anti-imperialist peace initiative, Intal. I attend yet another meeting with the core team mid-August, where we plan activities for the coming months. I also sign up to volunteer with the group at this year’s Manifiesta festival in Ostende. 

It’s a sweltering hot day; a pleasing contrast to the wet and wind of the previous year. My shift at the pop-up Intal book shop coincides with an enriching panel discussion about the troubles in Africa's Sahel region. The panellists give interventions on how African states should resist Western interference whilst facing down the domestic enemy. With contributions from Guy Marius Sagna (Senegal) and Kambale Musavuli (Congo), I’m reassured once again that the flame of African socialism wasn’t completely extinguished with the fall of so many post-Independence struggles in the late 20^th Century. 

Other highlights include interacting with South African activist, Mikaela Nhondo Erskog, a rousing speech by US Amazon collective action pioneer, Christian Smalls and an address by the one and only Jeremy Corbyn. Compelled to cancel his previous Manifiesta invitation on the news of Queen Elizabeth II’s death, he receives a hero’s welcome this summer. The Socialist Left in Belgium still has a lot of love for Mr Corbyn.

 JC is due to make an appearance at the Intal camp but appears to be delayed, probably mobbed by some fellow-travellers after his intervention on the mainstage. As we wait around, I hear one of the other Intal volunteers declare with mock-impatience, ‘F*** Jeremy Corbyn!’ for which I pounce on him, only half-joking. 

Mr Corbyn finally makes an appearance. He resumes his previous thread not to relent on campaign efforts for peaceful resolutions to global conflicts. He looks rather sheepish as we launch into a spontaneous rendition of ‘Ohhhhh, Jeremy Corbyn!’ but receives it graciously. I’m hoping for just a quick selfie with the man himself. My modest expectations are exceeded. I wind up spending a good amount of time with the Corbyn entourage including his unassuming wife, Laura – the mastermind behind his post-Labour leadership Peace & Justice Initiative. I enquire about her past life in banking. Laura explains that, as a means of discrediting her and her husband's politics, the press portrayed her as some bigwig financier when she her position was far more modest.

I meet various members of the Corbyn team and their wider circles. Over the course of the day, I’ll bump into Hannah, the sister of my former manager, Ama. We’ll swap Labour party battle stories with Corbyn and his crew, many of us now having been expelled for spurious reasons. I’ll listen to similar frustrations from an Australian comrade about their own right-of-centre Labour government. 

These kind of serendipitous encounters characterise the day.

Soundtrack: Personal Design of a Decade mixes, 2010-2014, By the Water by Sondae

Summer in Full Effect: Part 2

 5 min. read

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

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@The Illusion Museum 
(image by MFD)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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