A Festive Transition

 4 and a 1/2 min. read

Image: Hi Mac

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.

Soundtrack: California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet; a Christmas mix compiled by yours truly.

Happy 2025 to La Vie Continentale readers.

The Festive Interstice- Une Pause Niçoise (2)

 

 Part 1 & 3

When I awake on New Year’s morning, the sun is still playing hide and seek. So much for optimistic weather forecasts. I’m praying it brightens up for the days I have a more structured itinerary.

Before I pop out for my loosely-planned activities, my host Héloïse, informs me that her daughter, Marie has caught COVID. I let slip an expletive.

The whole household is apparently vaccinated, Marie having just received her third dose. Héloïse herself has only recently recovered from catching the Delta variant.

Christophe has offered his spare room as an alternative. Héloïse shows me the space. It is smaller than hers but has the advantage of an ensuite shower (although no toilet). I really don’t know what to do. I'm doubtful that Christophe's offer is motivated by pure goodwill. I might have scarcely interacted with Marie but it could already be too late and I’ve been exposed. On the other hand, if I do have a chance of avoiding infection, I shouldn't waste it. I don’t want to take the risk, given that even my booster shot might not entirely protect me; albeit it's unlikely I would be seriously unwell.

Héloïse and Marie are keen to assure me how lovely Christophe is and that I have no need to worry about safety. We agree that I can keep the key to their flat if I should still feel uneasy. I call mum, who is surprisingly relaxed about it all.

With few options, especially on New Year’s Day, I take the plunge and move to Christophe’s room, manoeuvring my stuff around the very lived-in, although clean, space. Thankfully, he’s out visiting family. I notice a dodgy looking sketch of a near-naked woman. I’m glad for the lock on the room door. I don’t intend to spend too much time inside in any case, which shouldn’t be too hard come the rest of my trip.

Although I suspect little will be open, I need some fresh air. I take a walk around the neighbourhood, trying to recall the route Christophe showed me to the tram stop. I ask for directions, paying too much for fruit and household items at a cornershop on the way. 

I arrive hungry at Nice Old City. I look for the restaurant where I’ve eaten the night before. It’s not exceptional but it is familiar and they do have a wide-ranging menu. En route, I make a mental note of places of interest. Naturally, I get lost as I take detours into seasonal wonderlands and an open-air photography exhibition about the effects of Climate Change. Coming full circle a couple of times, I eventually find my desired location.

At the restaurant, I Skype sis to update her on the latest twists. I feel a little odd. I’m not sure if these are genuine COVID symptoms or the phantom kind I’ve had before when paranoid about being infected. They don't last but I make my peace with being tested on my return to Brussels.

I’ve come away for sunshine and respite but there hasn’t been much of either as of present. The lead up to this New Year has felt particularly heavy. I sense I'm not the only one. For several years, even before the pandemic, I’ve been glad to see the back of the previous 12 months. In my adult life so far, I can hardly- if at all- indicate a year that can be characterised as overall good. C’est la vie. With the past couple of years being more intense still, the soul is beleaguered. It feels too risky to hope; perhaps even reckless. If there’s ever a time to take each day as it comes, it’s now. Yet it’s that same dangerous hope, sly and persistent as it is, that gives any of us the will to face the day in the first place. Thank God for it.

Whilst eating I watch a video sent by one of my spiritual mentors - Vinoth Ramachandra – with lyrics penned by Christian martyr, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It speaks to the tentative hope and reassurance of Immanuel God’s presence during such turbulent times.

After lunch, I make my way to the soon-to-close Christmas fair for some fun and frolics on the Ferris Wheel. With each ride I regret my decision, yet can’t resist them. This one is especially rapid.  I then mosey my way back to the tram stop along the bay, listening to Part One of my 2020 Best Of...mixes.

A Nice Noël (RécréaNice)

I plan to dine at the local pizzeria that evening, hoping to return before Christophe is home. When I arrive mid-evening, the restaurant is already closed. They keep peculiar hours, even for this time of year. I have to make-do with a Kit-Kat and diet Fanta from the same over-priced cornershop, with their decrepit looking stock. Some of it has flagrantly been bought in bulk from Lidl and resold under sketchy circumstances.

At least I’m able to retire before Christophe is back. I send a text thanking him for his hospitality and letting him know I’m already preparing for bed. He replies with an invitation to join him and another neighbour for an apéro in the salon. I can hear the low hum of their voices and pesky cigarette fumes creep under my door. I thank him for the invite but decline.

The following morning, as I step out of the room to join a free walking tour, Christophe’s voice sings out a greeting before we’re within each other’s eye line. My new host is bestowed with what I dare say is a whimsy particular to straight Francophone - or more generally Latin - men. In and out of their feelings in the blink of an eye, romantic notions tripping off their tongue like the nothingness that they are.  Women are an idealised abstraction; mere cyphers on which to project whatever emotional need or predilection. Whether because of some early trauma, the quest for an impossible ideal, or simple male entitlement, they can't seem to commit. What's more in Christophe’s case, albeit not unique to him, there’s an air of constant tipsiness, even first thing in the a.m. It's as if an alcohol-fuelled energy never quite makes its way out of the bloodstream.

Christophe insinuates, light-heartedly, that I’m holed up in my room. I compliment him on the attractiveness of his living space, all of which Christophe personally designed. He’s working, although it’s a Sunday morning, yet desperate to show some more hospitality. He offers me coffee or tea, neither of which I’m a fan. Besides, I have to make a move. I try to be as courteous as possible whilst keeping a polite distance. As I’m about to leave, Christophe says something cryptic about remembering my reaction when we first encountered each other on the stairwell. If only he knew that I was wary from the get-go.

He follows it up with a comment implying that I shouldn’t be too much in my head. Hmm. That’s thought-provoking, I say before departing. (One good thing about my accommodation set-up so far is the immersive language experience. It’s doing wonders for the consistency of my French. I don’t have time to over-think everything).

Sun Fountain (ColourBox)

The walking tour group meet at the Sun Fountain in Massena Square. Ironically, the skies remain steel grey. Our guide is a former viticulture student originally from the Ukraine. She explains key historical points at a gentle pace, by way of the Old Town, up to the high point of the gardens and man-made waterfalls where the now demolished City castle once stood (La Colline du Château). 

We learn of Nice' ancient connections (taking its name from the Greek goddess of victory)-second only in Gallic antiquity to Marseille. We hear about the reign of the Savoy nobility and how the City came to be integrated into France. At the Palais de Justice, we listen to the fascinating saga of crafty Albert Spaggiari's ambitious bank robbery and escape from, well, justice before we visit the Cathedral of the Patron Saint Réparata. Our guide even squeezes in an anecdote about the infamous genius violinist Paganini’s stay in Nice, where he eventually died. It took nearly four decades for his body to find a resting place, owing to a superstition that his abilities derived from a diabolical pact. There’s also time to check out a local market en route. 

As well as an opportunity to catch some of the key sites on my list, the tour also allows me to enjoy at leisure the lurid quaintness of the City’s citrus-coloured buildings. Neighbouring Italy’s influence is felt strongly; from family names and the cuisine, to the local Niçois dialect in which every street name is written alongside French. Nice is also clearly a hot spot for Italian tourists.

After swapping some tourist tips with fellow travellers heading to Marseille, it’s back down towards the Cathedrale de Sainte Réparata before lunch. Ringing in my ear is the tour guide's recommendation of Niçois churches' Baroque designs. The Cathedral is still reassuringly festive, with multiple nativity scenes and carols playing through the speakers. There are graphic depictions of the martyred Réparata of Palestine's brutal demise at the hands of her torturers. One portrait shows blood spurting from her freshly decapitated neck. Meanwhile, she wears an expression of beatific long-suffering on her haloed, disembodied visage. 

Contrast this gory fixation with all the censorious, (and likely historically inaccurate) portrayals of the crucified Christ in loin cloths. It is on record that Romans preferred naked executions, to heap humiliation on the convicted. It does a disservice to the full humanity of Jesus. As if God didn’t create our reproductive organs. It calls to mind a story by the tour guide about the uproar from Conservative churchgoers over the naked Apollos statue at Place Massena. I think of the historic excessive prudishness of some Christians around genitalia; instantly sexualised and associated with the perverse. I too confess to a complicated relationship with nudity, although the reasons are more complex than a mere religious reflex.

Parc de la Colline du Chateau (Nice Tourisme)

After a savoury crêpe (yes!) and quinoa salad-based lunch (I’ve missed vegetables), I have another Skype session with sis. It’s whilst I’m busy in the café, the sun finally makes an appearance; not too long before nightfall. My plans to find more places of spiritual solitude are put on hold as I get lost searching for La Chappelle de Miséricorde. I settle for a dusky beach walk, making my way to the one patch of sand on the pebbly seaside. Unfortunately, a couple of loiterers spoil the atmosphere by blasting awful techno music.

Moving swiftly on, I lounge around La Promenade des Anglais, taking another easygoing walk down towards the famous Negresco hotel. I'm admiring the palm trees in all their illuminated festive splendour. 

During my ramble, I pass a couple of memorials to the victims of the Bastille Day terrorist attacks, five and a half years ago. It's with shame I admit that, despite being relatively recent, this tragedy had slipped my mind. It was sadly one of many dreadful occurrences in a period so notorious (2016/17), it took a pandemic to upstage it in global misfortune.

My aimless wandering turns into a search for the acclaimed pizzeria, Pizza Pili. I have the name, and vague recollections of the road from Google maps. However, with a poor sense of direction and no smartphone, I’m reliant on the kindness of several strangers-including a pedantic Parisian – to find the spot. As the evening wears on, I worry that I might arrive at peak time and there’ll be no room for me. 

When I finally find the establishment, it’s all but hidden away on a side street and only provides a takeaway service. It might be the ‘best Pizza in Nice’ but I’m in no mood to return to Christophe's with lukewarm food, heat it up in the microwave and then eat alone in my room. Accepting that I've made a wasted journey but still in the mood for Italian, I take a chance on an appealing brand new pizzeria, reasonably-priced, with good music and great customer service. As is often the case, as a female dining alone I notice a certain incredulity from the staff (not unfriendly) and other clientele (not so friendly).

SeeNice.com

Back home, Christophe greets me with his puppy-like enthusiasm. He gives me a more detailed tour of the flat, explaining how he re-built everything from scratch himself over a period of three years. Our attention turns to some designs on which he’s working; sofas in the shape of enormous breasts. 

I’m visibly perturbed. The whole thing seems crass and sleazy in a Playboy-esque fashion. Not to mention the sketches around the flat of dominatrix in various stages of nudity and/or suggestive poses. I think of my loved ones and what they’d make of me staying in the home of a man with such risqué taste in art. It's a delicate issue. I don't want my replacement host to feel I'm condemning him. Neither do I want to indulge any perversity. As I back away, Christophe endeavours to explain his thought-processes. 

I'm a feminist; more so than some women. He asserts, dubiously.

Christophe claims that his sofa idea is drawn from the comfort he finds in the female form. Plus, this bespoke furniture is apparently destined for some kind of boudoir rather than a living room. He wants to launch into an explanation about the connection to S&M but I put a halt to it.  

He blames religion for my aversion to the images. I point out that, on the contrary, I believe God created sexual pleasure. Yet one doesn't have to be religious to take issue with crude and reductive depictions of the female body. He could have designed the sofas around the male form. To not do so is a deliberate choice.

It ends up being a winding back-and-forth about objectification, patriarchy, consent, social mores and the concept of sin, with philosophical detours into memory and the role of speech in the understanding of self. It’s extremely good language practice, not least given my fatigue. Moreover, I'm always glad for an opportunity to have meaningful discourse about my faith even when – especially when – my interlocutor and I have different worldviews. 

Atheist Christophe jokes that it could well be God's plan for our paths to cross.

Soundtrack: Best of...2020 (Uptempo Mix) + 2021 (Uptempo Mix)

It’s A Wrap

 

(courtesy of The Guardian)

This December doesn’t just mark the end of the Gregorian calendar year. For me, it’s the end of a brief, prematurely-ended era.

My contract at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) comes to an end on New Year’s Eve. The office will close before Christmas and I have outstanding leave. My last working day is in mid-December.

Management continues to act in bad faith. Lauren, the head of TTUO, behaves so inappropriately that my union has to get involved. New-ish manager, Gina doesn’t have the courtesy to acknowledge my departure; not even so much to arrange a proper handover. Whether it’s a guilty conscience, bad manners, cowardice or all of the above, it’s pretty damn unprofessional.

My application efforts so far have not yet yielded any fruit, albeit feedback has been promising. I spend many a high-pressured day preparing for an internal interview with a different department. All my other plans are put on hold for several days whilst I'm consumed by this task. It’s clear during the process that I don’t have the required specialist knowledge but I can’t quit half-way.

The interview is a mixed-bag; inspired in places but exposing my inexperience in others. The already under-resourced team needs someone to hit the ground running. If they had more personnel, someone to mentor me, then they could take the risk. When I speak to the head of department, Kojo (who also happens to attend my church), he confirms my presentiment, explaining it was a tough decision. I’m nonetheless encouraged. Likewise when I receive the rejection letter after another interview; this time with SOUL (The Solidarity Union League), a partner organisation of TTUO. After digging for a bit more feedback following a generic email, they assure me my performance was strong. They just thought I’d flourish in a policy role, rather than the more administrative post I suspected this of being.

My last day at TTUO is, naturally, bitter-sweet. We conclude the programme I’ve jointly coordinated with an online farewell party, where everyone in attendance has her chance to play DJ. I receive lots of affirming messages in the lead up and on the day itself; from the participants of the programme, colleagues, consultants and even the interpretation team with whom we’ve collaborated. 

 I have a very candid exit interview with TTUO’s Human Resources department. I explain to my lovely (now former) colleague Émilie -as I’ve said to others- that given the circumstances in which I took up the post, it always felt like a dress-rehearsal; never the real performance. Émilie agrees. She say she’s only heard good things about me. That is a triumph, per se. I can leave with my head held high, knowing this is all on management. For definite, it’s not me. It’s them.

However, I still have to face the reality of an uncertain start to 2022. Coupled with the ongoing insecurity engendered by the pandemic, another Christmas separated from relatives and the unwelcome reminder that I don’t (yet?) have my own family, I have some dark mental well-being days. Sometimes, my mind feels like it’s eating itself. When I start crying for no particular reason, it’s a dead giveaway.

Yet, I must acknowledge that I’m in a stronger position than last year. Yes, I was employed but also incredibly isolated. My connections to the city were not half as strong as they are now. The few I had had either unceremoniously disappeared or already left to spend the festive period with their family. My mum’s own Christmas trip had to be cancelled at the last minute after travel from the UK was banned. If Christmas Day 2020 itself was serene, I recall a cliff-edge drop in morale swiftly afterwards. I don’t know what this festive period holds but I’m grateful for some forward movement.

I haven't spent a Christmas in the UK since relocating to Europe in 2017.  But for the pandemic, mum would have visited or I would have spent time with sis in a (now very closed) Japan. I decide on an Open-House set-up for Christmas Day.

The Belgian authorities allow for a limited number of guests for Yuletide socialising. Days before Christmas, my plans are in suspended animation. I’m still awaiting confirmation from particular acquaintances on whether they’ll accept my invitation. This includes Ciaran, the sweet Irish-American I befriended in Croatia. Failing that, there are invitations from friends elsewhere. The vague state of affairs means I’m having to be more last minute than is customary. It’s stressful. I try to be reasonable and understanding but radio silence makes me nervous. And it's rude.

Still, Christmas 2021 is so far more cheerful than its predecessor. My community has greatly enlarged. I am spiritually well-supported both in Brussels and elsewhere. My morning prayer group continues to be a lifeline; offering up supplications to the Almighty on my behalf before I ask.

I am able to engage offline in my Belgian church’s festive programme. A soup kitchen is organised each weekend in December – save for Christmas Day. More like a mobile kitchen, where we distribute packed lunches to those sleeping rough around Brussels. 

There’s a special advent service taken over by the kids and young adults, including a pretty slick, short pre-recorded re-enactment of the nativity story. If the praise and worship slot leaves me uninspired (as usual), I’m delighted to sing Joy to the World with the congregation at the top of my lungs; twice, on Pastor Mike’s request.

It’s a season of departures, as expected; some more long-term than others. Brenda invites me and Roxie around to her place for a birthday meal, mid-December. It’ll be the last time we hang out this side of the New Year, as Brenda is days away from taking the train to Austria to be with family.

Earlier that Sunday, straight after church, Auntie Carol and I meet for the last time before she relocates permanently back to the West Indies.

I am still wont to go on long, wistful walks enjoying the light displays in various communes. It’s just this time, there’s more activity going on (I admit, I miss some of the tranquillity of last year, although not its cause). 

It is my second Christmas in Brussels but it might as well be the first. It’s the first time I’m experiencing the Christmas market buzz; still going, to my surprise, despite surges in cases earlier in the month. Festivals cancelled last year, tentatively resume this December such as the Brussels African Market. A day after I join old colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia for a meal at their home with their lively, articulate and culturally-informed children, they accept my invitation to the BAM; round the corner from where they live. We pick up some great accessories crafted by European-based African artisans, as well as those directly from the Motherland. A couple of vendors have come all the way from Mali. I can only presume they’re touring markets across Europe. That’s the only way it would be worth their while. On exiting, I catch sight of that ol’ pain-in-the-proverbial, Rob. Lately, more than ever I’ve been successful at keeping him at arm’s length. I nod a greeting. He returns it, then proceeds to stare at me as if we’d never met.

(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

That evening, after a few weeks’ absence, I reconnect with my platonic boyfriend, Renzo. (That’s the facetious and affectionate descriptor I use with our mutual friend Clarissa, when we video chat a few days earlier.)

On his polite request, I join Renzo for an Italian-Catholic service near Porte de Namur. It’s a wholly new worship experience for me. After the initial good-humoured salutations I'm a little tense, trying to be on my best behaviour. Equally, I sense that Renzo is conscious of how alien it all might be. Remembering how much he threw himself into proceedings when he visited my church (which he describes as an ‘exotic experience’), I’m eager to be supportive.

I get a kick out of hearing my friend sing and recite the liturgy in his mother tongue. I’ve always had a soft-spot for the Italian language, one of the prettiest of the Romance family. I can comprehend bits and pieces; now more thanks to my exposure to Portuguese, than to the two years I studied it over 20 years ago.

Afterwards, I suggest we wander to Place Cocq-Fernand to gaze upon the Cinderella-like Christmas décor. Renzo is in playful mode. He challenges me to a running race, backwards. Concerned about falling over in my heels, I decline; to my later regret. I need to work on my spontaneity.

I convince Renzo to stroll to Flagey. I like the walk and want to enjoy the festive view. It’s also a route that at times, despite myself, I still associate with The South American. I came to know it through him. I look for opportunities to overlay it with new memories in alternative company.

Although ancient history, the relational disappointment of my early days in Brussels still occasionally haunts me. It tends to surface the moments when I’m generally anxious and/or unhappy.

Part of the way to Flagey, Renzo and I fall out. He recommends an exhibition he’s just visited, on sorcery from a feminist perspective. I’m irritated by anything that I perceive to glorify the occult; especially when it’s conflated with women’s liberation struggles. I have observed certain Westerners romanticise or treat the topic with a lightness; a mere socio or anthropological curiosity. Given my family history and cultural background, I find this inappropriate to put it mildly. In my strong reaction to Renzo’s suggestion, perhaps I’ve unfairly projected these tendencies on him. In any case, not for the first time, I feel he’s being inadvertently dismissive. 

We’ve had charged moments before but this is our first proper argument. Our first real test. We're two single-minded individuals, belonging to historically marginalised groups. The same attributes that have aided our affinity can at times also be sources of tension. We both feel the need to stand our ground.

After a short but excruciating silence, Renzo chooses the high road and changes the subject.

(Louise neighbourhood, Brussels. Courtesy of Foursquare)

It takes me a moment to recover but I go along with his goodwill. The flowing conversation resumes. We end up walking the scenic route to Louise, circling back to Porte de Namur. We’re due to part ways on the Toison D’Or Avenue. I plan to continue to Arts-Loi. Renzo isn’t keen on the idea of me going alone. 

It's a journey I make all the time by foot, I insist.

Stylish as ever in his warm-looking, well-coordinated burnt-orange overcoat and beanie, he offers to accompany me- on the proviso we take the metro. He’s freezing.

Not having work the next day, I go with Renzo some of the way home- in the opposite direction. Partly to prolong the time in his company. Maybe also to compensate for the moments lost to the disagreement. By the end of the evening, we’re as affectionate as ever; embracing and saying our Christmas farewells. I’m relieved and reassured that our friendship has reached a stage where it can withstand disputes. If I say I love my friend, then there must be room for us to get on each other's nerves. Anything less would be doomed to superficiality.

Yet by the next day, I’m still rattled. It feeds into a broader, exhausting neurosis that I endeavour to pinpoint. It can’t just be about my now unemployed status. Or facing another Christmas, effectively relying on the kindness of people whom I haven’t known for long, if I’m not to spend it alone again. Or the lack of natural light, cold and general malaise that I encounter as the New Year approaches. Or the absence of any illusion of control over my circumstances...

But thank God, tomorrow is another day. Another chance to (try and) surrender all to the Almighty and not get too lost in my own head.

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