Musical Solace: Part II

 

10 min. read

My weekends are up for grabs and easy enough to fill as Brussels resumes its pre-pandemic programme. One Saturday, en route to L’Archiduc, I’m unexpectedly caught up in a carnival I knew nothing about. The following week, crowds will gather once more in central Brussels for the annual Pride parade. I stick to the side streets as much as possible, to avoid being gridlocked again.

I’m on my way to a ‘speed friending’ event in the upper room of a bar in the heart of Brussels. As the name implies, it's the platonic alternative to the dating version. It’s such a simple concept, I don’t know why I haven’t come across it sooner. The cost ranges from five to 15 euros, locking in any commitment from those who have signed up. After so many false starts in the friendship game, I have no illusions about making any long-lasting connections that evening. It's a matter of sheer curiosity. 

The organiser, Rebecca still has a discernible South African cadence, despite leaving for good at the age of 10. Having lived in Brussels for well over a decade, she confesses it’s still difficult to make durable social ties. So it’s not just me then, or the poor timing of relocating during a pandemic. I’ve come across that sentiment elsewhere. Some blame Brussels' high turnover of expats. Yet having grown up in an international city myself, I don’t think that can wholly explain this fragmented phenomenon.

Once most of the guests finally arrive, we’re off. It’s a culturally diverse, mixed-gender group. We have 3-5 minutes to converse before moving along, with the aim of speaking to most, if not everybody, in attendance. It’s intense. The room swiftly becomes stuffy as more guests arrive. It’s nonetheless thoroughly enjoyable. The hours fly by. 

 I wouldn’t do speed 'friending' on a regular basis – there’s something about the novelty of it -yet neither would I rule it out in future. In spite of myself, numbers are swapped; one with a young man from an ex-Portuguese colony. I have the strong impression that he's fluid about the dating and ‘friending’ distinction and I'm wary. Perhaps he senses that. There's been no follow-up by either party since.

Whilst a few others head off for some late night entertainment, I go home for dinner. As fate will have it, I bump into a couple of these new acquaintances at one of my usual Meet-up events the following week.

nieuwsblad.be

Elsewhere, my cultural excursions continue to be dominated by music. I make my way to an exhibition about Belgian Jazz legend, Jean-Baptiste ‘Toots’ Thielemans. I have a good old time learning more about this national treasure and his intoxicating music. After the visit I hurry to Evere – coincidentally to a venue bearing Thielemans’ name - where dear friend Karin’s son, Amos has a recital. He spots me in the audience and gives a furtive wave. He’s coy in front of his friends. When the performance is over, a coax low-key high five out of him. 

My presence is a pleasant surprise for all the family.  Any excuse to hang out with Karin and the tribe. I’m aware of how much it meant to Amos who, the previous week, had pleaded with me to attend. Out of earshot of the kids, Karin and I remark, bemused, on how experimental the recital has been. The kooky music teacher has the children roaming the stage making animalistic shapes and noises, before improvising rhythms on various handheld percussion instruments.

I’m off again later that evening for more Jazz-related fun at the packed out Sounds bar in Ixelles. 

The following day is the Ascension bank holiday. I make good on a promise to visit my friend Em in the peripheries of Brussels. When we arrive at her home, her cat flees at the sight of me.  I perceive she's been modest about its size. It's luminous and spacious enough for it to pose a cleaning challenge; at least on her own. 

 Unprompted, Em explains at great length and with much emotion about why she spends less and less time in Brussels. She’s recovering from several relational disappointments. The hurt is fresh, something to which I can readily relate. 

Before I return to Brussels, Em shows me around her small town. Most establishments are closed because of the public holiday. Even the vast neighbourhood park isn’t as busy as I’d expect.

Bear in mind, it’s a suburb, says Em.

Indeed. I don’t know how she’s managed it for almost 10 years. I doubt I’d last 10 hours before boredom drove me cuckoo.

I’m back in Brussels in plenty of time for a reading group, co-moderated by Bruno. This month’s Mixed Conversation Circle has been postponed to an inconvenient date. I decide last minute to give the book group a go instead. I thus don’t have time to read the set text by Pauline Harmange, translated into English as I Hate Men (the original French meaning, Moi, les hommes, je les déteste is not as loaded as the translation). I do crib thanks to a helpful interview/review of the essay. It’s a wilfully provocative title that speaks to the author’s deep angst and frustration. Although I chafe at all the word ‘hate’ implies, the reasons for the author’s ire and exasperation strongly resonate. The turnout for the discussion is good - considering it’s a holiday - with a surprising number of men amongst us. I make conversation with Marcello, a sweet-natured, camp Italian fellow I met at the previous Mixed Conversation Circle. (Never fear, dear reader. I’m not looking for any Lorenzo substitutes. No new friends. At least for the time being).

The reading group is led by Bruno and his partner-in-gender-deconstruction,Miguel (a hot Dutchman with confusingly Iberian features and name). The discussion around the book is candid, dynamic and thoughtful.  I let rip, waxing lyrical about my own frustrations and resentments over men -regardless of sexual orientation – and their tendency towards power-play, self-interest and emotional unavailability. The men present are committed to examining their own complicity in the current social order, some even embracing the dubious misandry label. 

I’m intellectually invigorated by it all.

Afterwards, Bruno and I contrast my volubility with the unease I felt at the inaugural Mixed Conversation Circle. 

You were really in your waters. Watch you swim, girl. He quips.

Of course, the difference is that I’m not as caught off guard this time as I was the previous occasion. A certain somebody is absent. A part of me wishes he had heard my impassioned interventions for their pertinence to our friendship's impasse.

After an extra short shift at the Red Cross the following morning, I meet Sylvia in town for a long overdue catch-up. Conflicting schedules, travel and COVID-related illness on her end have stood in the way. We spend an afternoon at Point Culture in Botanique; one of my favourite haunts since I relocated to Brussels and sadly, soon to be no more. 

Sylvia keeps me abreast of a recent whistlestop trip to the UK – her first since 2020 and not for the happiest of reasons. I let her in on my post-work and personal related dramas. Sylvia is pleased to hear I’ve started counselling sessions again. I admit to a reluctance to engage with new relationships. Whilst I feel I’m very in touch with my emotions – I’m not one to suppress or dissimulate – Sylvia believes I would do well to make time to consciously sit with them. I’m too afraid of wallowing and giving into bitterness. Sylvia counters that carving out space to indulge them once in a while would help recovery.

It’s more therapy of the musical kind that evening. The Brussels Jazz weekend has begun in earnest. Star of Jazz guitar, Philip Catherine and his quartet (bass, piano, drums) headline the main stage at Grand Place. Somehow, I underestimated the scale of the event. Thousands are gathered for the free concert, in honour of none other than Thielemans, with whom Catherine regularly collaborated. Once I can wrangle a seat, I’m a lot more relaxed. 

 Alas, I’m dressed too optimistically for the weather in a cardigan, summer skirt and sandals. It’s sunny but windy. I’m tempted to stay after the Quartet’s two hour set but I need to keep moving and warm up. After the rousing encore, I spot an ex-colleague from TTUO in the crowd with her boyfriend. She’s delighted to see me, even if her significant other is in a hurry. Normally polite and friendly when we’ve met before, he pulls her away and bids me a hasty goodnight.

With a crowd that size, I’m bound to run into more people I know. On exiting, to my pleasant surprise, I stumble across some of the Red Cross crew in their civilian gear. 

After some pleasantries, I amble towards a number of temporary stages in central Brussels. I stop at Bourse to listen to Persian Rugs; an impressive young R&B-funk outfit from the South of France. All live instruments and solid songwriting -sung in fluid English, no accent. The good vibes make me forget the cold. Too bad about the sketchy-looking characters around. Or that so many men treat the surrounding area like a public toilet. 

A couple of revellers try to hit on me. One of them is especially persistent. I make sure I’m not followed on the way towards St. Catherine station.

It’s a crazy weekend for activity; Festivals, Parties as well as a 20K marathon. I don’t know why the many tempting cultural events couldn’t be spaced out over Spring and Summer. It’s a pity I can't  teleport. In the absence of that superpower, I cover as much ground as I can.

The Afropolitan Festival takes place at the famous Bozar culture centre. The spotlight this year is on the Continent's women. 

I attend the second half of a documentary screening on young African creatives: The Ones Who Keep Walking. 

The film is followed by a Q&A with the Nigerian-American director, Amarachi Nwosu, only 27 herself. Despite our similar heritage, I contemplate how much we diverge culturally, having been raised on different sides of the Atlantic. The audience lap up Nwosu's every word. For me, she spouts the rather twee kind of aphorisms of which some Americans seem to be fond. Even the more sagacious elements are saccharine-coated. 

Nwosu places emphasis on individual Africans providing solutions to the Continent’s challenges, such as underdeveloped refining processes; from natural resources to chocolate. 

I don't believe the problem is a shortage of ideas. There’s no mention of systemic obstacles such as lack of infrastructure. Or that, due to scale, some responses can only be carried out by an effective state. An absence of decent political analysis is at times missing from artistic discourses on Africa. There should also be room to consider collective grassroots political action - the kind that could lead to the structural changes required - and its intersection with art, where evident.

Afropolitan 2022 @ Bozar

I sneak away during a fashion homage to Chimamanda Adichie’s We Should All be Feminists. A refreshingly voluptuous African sister recites lines from the essay whilst modelling accessories.

Before leaving Bozar, I pass by the Afropolitan stalls. As much as I’d like to patronise certain vendors, prices are exorbitant, considering I'm currently out of work. I imagine a lot of time and energy goes into the craft but still. 50 euros for a tote bag, I think not. Even on a good day. Cost of living crisis, anybody?

For all the talk of solidarity, it’s not very inclusive if the target audience for these wares is a middle class elite. Perhaps it’s assumed to be the only demographic that would be interested in such an event. Whilst Afrodescendants might well be amongst those in the upper percentile, structural inequalities mean there would be proportionally fewer. Heck, such prices would lock out many working people, regardless of background. The creators might reason that these are indulgences rather than essentials. Let those who can afford it fork out the cash. Thus continuing socio-economic stratification. 

I speak to a Belgian vendor, married to a woman from Niger. They're surrounded by their vivacious small daughters, of whom the youngest – an impossibly cute one-year old - takes almost as much of a shining to me as I do her. I ask why none of his children have African names. I’m disappointed to hear that his wife was against it. I comment, as diplomatically as I can in my second language, that Africans born on the Continent can be more reluctant to embrace aspects of their heritage, than those of us in the Diaspora.

Elsewhere, Internations’ superhost Gloria has organised Brussels’ Jazz Weekend group outings. It's back to L’Archiduc and it’s the busiest I’ve seen it. Standing room only, at least for the first half. 

The Internations guests are scattered across the venue. I improvise a seat on the balcony, on the floor far from the stage. I don’t need to see the talent – The Fabrizio Graceffo Quartet- to appreciate them. The guitar, piano, drums and bass combo play expansive yet mellow Jazz. With so much to see and hear over the weekend and having to streamline my choices, I’ve not been disappointed thus far. I manage to connect with some of the fellow Jazz travellers from Internations before they move off on en masse to yet another event.

The night is still young. After the gig, I traverse the Bourse and St. Catherine square, soaking in more live music. My reverie is interrupted by the sight of a homeless black man self-harming. He cradles a beer in one hand, and viciously punches himself with the other. I wouldn't know where to start intervening.

Back at home, a wave of melancholia crashes over me. As Sylvia suggested, I consciously make room for it, not distracted or caught off guard as sometimes occurs. I cry and pray – or rather lament – using the Psalms to articulate some of my anguish. Other remedies, of the terrestrial sort, come in the form of the new series of Stranger Things and of course, more Jazz. I’m extremely grateful for the privilege of free and easy access to this musical solace. After church on Sunday, I return to the eponymous venue (the very same where Amos’ quirky performance took place) for further tributes to Toots. The last day of the Brussels’ Jazz festival weekend in his honour will be the first time I’m hearing bona-fide harmonica-based homages. 

Some of the performances are sublime; from Toots’ early career and his collaborations with Bill Evans and Jaco Pastorius to his Brazilian repertoire -with a reprise of Velas on my request. If the sparse, mainly elderly audience are too subdued, my own enthusiasm isn’t muted. 

I need this.

Soundtrack: Fingerpickin’ by Wes Montgomery, The Best of Ivan Lins by Ivan Lins & Voyage by Tapioca

Life is Full of Surprises

 

Sounds Jazz Club, Brussels
(courtesy of Visit Brussels)

7 min. read

A few hours after my plane from Italy touches down, I’m back in the gym. That same evening, I attend a French conversation social.  The longer days and warmer weather bring more opportunities to socialise. I intend to avail myself of them all.

Meanwhile, my job search is ongoing. One upside to unemployment - I don’t have to worry about being too groggy for work in the morning.

I have a tendency to commit to things in advance, sometimes only to find my diary close to overload. I am in that exact position as April draws to a close. 

I continue my discovery of what Brussels has to offer on the open mic night front (these events have been some of the last to recommence post-lockdowns). 

One of the most proactive Internations consuls organises a midweek trip to Sounds Jazz club in Ixelles. 

The venue would normally be apprised of guests’ arrival, so we can all be seated in the same area. Not this time. My enquiries are met with blank expressions from staff. A petite woman with a fabulous dusty-blonde afro wanders around looking equally lost. We realise we’re part of the same group. She introduces herself as Delia; originally from Angola now based in Gent. She’s having trouble getting hold of the organiser. Another guest shows up - Emma- overhears our conversation and signals she’s also there for the same reason. 

The venue is fast filling up. I volunteer to speak to a small party near the stage who look as if they might be in the know. My gamble pays off. I’m signposted to a group in the corner, presided over by Helena – the co-organiser. I call over Delia and Emma. There's just about enough space for everyone. 

None of us have previously met. Most are relatively new to Brussels; some only moving to Belgium weeks beforehand. I’m almost a veteran in comparison. At less than two years in the country, I’m used to being amongst the newbies. Lively Helena has maintained a strong Antipodean accent, despite having spent at least half her life based in either North America or Europe. Part-Greek and Part-Italian (speaking neither), she has more official nationalities than anyone I’ve met. Four; including New Zealand and US. I didn’t think it were possible.

Delia and I discuss natural hair care and I speak about my recent trip to Florence with a gentleman originally from the Calabria region. I strike a particular rapport with Fredricka, a Half-Ugandan, Half-German director recently moved to Belgium after a brief stint in the UK. She’s in Brussels to research her next project. We discuss cultural liminality, colonial spillover, observations about the male species in the European context and exchange perspectives on living in France (she in the South, I in the North).

You must meet my friend, Karin. I insist.

The discussion is so enjoyable, we’re all distracted from the high quality musicianship on offer. After the House Trio finish their set, young bloods (all men, as usual) line up to jam. I had seriously played with the idea of adding some vocals (for a change), but the moment passes. It’s getting late.

Sons of Abraham (Théâtre National, BXL)

We all head home at a similar time, not before numbers are swapped and friendship requests sent. I’m buoyed by the night’s proceedings. I went with an open mind and my expectations have been exceeded. 

Quelle belle surprise.

Later in the week, I head to the National Theatre in Central Brussels for a performance of new play, Sons of Abraham. Months ago, Lorenzo and I had plans to see it together.  A lot has happened in the meantime. Instead, I attend with the Internations Theatre contingent. I’m almost tempted to bow out when I discover that a concert is being held that same night at Bozar, to commemorate what would’ve been the 100^th birthday of Belgian Jazz Legend, Toots Thielemans. The event boasts illustrious names like Brazilian singer/songwriter Ivan Lins and guitarist Philippe Catherine. Conflicted, I decide to honour my theatre commitment.

It’s not at all a bad trade off. Sons of Abraham is what experimental theatre should be like when done well. Fusing music with an interactive narrative, an Iranian refugee, his Israeli creative-collaborator and a Turkish-Kurdish singer examine the brutal reality of hostile migration policy. The biblical account of half-brothers Ishmael and Isaac is the source material. Raw, self-aware, irreverent and shockingly candid, the performers roam the sparse stage, engaging every element of their being in the story-telling process. The script is updated to include the recent invasion of Ukraine and the double-standards in Western reportage. No interval, no let-up. 

After roughly 90 minutes, we’re left reeling but impressed. There’s not too much lingering after the performance. I’ve been bracing myself to bump into Lorenzo. I don’t see him. I have mixed feelings about it. Mostly relief.

I head back towards the station with a fellow theatre-goer.  De Brouckère square has been commandeered by the Balkans Traffik festival. The music carries so far and wide, and the stage so visible from street level, you don’t need to have purchased a ticket to benefit.

I’ll be back at the theatre the following night. Before then, I attend an inaugural Mixed Conversation Circle, organised by a life coach - Bruno - with whom I became acquainted in late 2021. The aim is to have open discussions, irrespective of gender, about negotiating concepts of masculinity and femininity in the 21st century. Bruno is already experienced in running Masculinity circles. He credits me for the Mixed Conversation event, since it was my demand that they be open to women which gave him the spark.

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I fall short of my good intentions and arrive a quarter hour late. Bruno isn't fussed.

By the way, you’ll be the only woman present for this first session, he warns.

That’s odd, I reply, more nervous now. It's usually harder to convince the menfolk to attend these activities.

Bruno directs me upstairs. I hear him mention Lorenzo’s name.

Bruno knows we’re acquainted and that it was I who encouraged Lorenzo to attend last year’s Masculinity Circles. However, Bruno is not aware that we’re currently estranged. We haven't seen each other for a couple of months. Bar the odd email or a perfunctory text exchange over Easter, we have hardly communicated at all.

I don’t have enough time to fix a neutral expression. With a sheepish grin, I throw a cursory glance in Lorenzo’s direction. I expect a cool reception. Instead he smiles and winks, as if he’s not as surprised at my presence as I am at his. 

There are two empty seats; one next to Bruno and the other beside Lorenzo. I choose the former. Instinctively -if unconscious - I angle my body away from Lorenzo for the majority of the meeting. In retrospect, he’s the only one with whom I never make eye-contact when he takes the floor. (It’s not something I can completely avoid. At the end of the discussion, Bruno insists that we look into each other’s eyes. A disarming request at the best of times, it’s a moment I find too excruciating for words in these circumstances.)

I still have love in my heart for my erstwhile friend but I don't feel emotionally safe around him at present. I realise we can't go back to what was. Yet, neither do I see an immediate way forward. 

For the early part of the session, I am completely thrown off. I haven't had time to mentally prepare. This is supposed to be an intimate space. I don’t know how I am going to open up with someone in the room who makes me feel very uncomfortable. 

It doesn’t help that the other attendees stress the point about me being the only woman. It’s all affirmative. In a different context, I’d appreciate the show of respect. For now, I find the attention too intense. I take deep breaths. I try to be as honest about my unease as possible without being indiscreet. (Later, I’ll explain to Bruno by text message the reason for my disorientated state). I intend to listen more than I speak.

Orphelins (Varia Theatre)

I eventually calm down enough to make some meaningful contributions. The discussion doesn’t turn specifically around gender relations, so much as our individual self-image and thought patterns. For the sake of discretion, I won’t divulge more. Suffice to say, once I'm settled, I find the session overall constructive. From the positive feedback I receive from the others, the sentiment is mutual.

Once the mortifying eye-contact ritual is over, I remain only briefly to make conversation with everyone but the person whom I once considered a best friend. He’s not exactly forthcoming himself. I make a beeline for the door, giving a gesture vaguely resembling a wave as I leave. On exiting, I hear a burst of laughter. I try to dispel any paranoia. It’s not in the spirit of the Circle to be catty.

The theatre will be solace of sorts later that evening. A macabre and sophisticated piece about adult siblings - orphaned as children - and the lengths one would go to protect the other from the consequences of a heinous act. There’s much to hold my attention; the rapid-fire dialogue, intriguing plot developments and poignant performances. And yet, my mind occasionally roams. 

The following day, 1 May, is the National Holiday for Workers. After church and a quick detour to Midi market, I head to Mont des Arts in the Gare Centrale area for the official commemoration. I'm due to meet a new comrade, Augustin. This will be my first real Worker's Day experience since moving to Belgium. I expect the gathering to be a typical political rally. It's more like a carnival. The sun is out. There's a temporary stage, where a band with a female lead vocalist and bassist (woo-hoo!) are playing infectious Afro-funk. There are food vans and bouncy castles, as well as numerous stalls set up by Leftist European political parties and CSOs. I collect various flyers en route to meeting Augustin and co. He introduces me to his wife, Molly and their children. Belgian Augustin and Congolese Molly have a rainbow tribe that resembles the cast of Different Strokes, and then some. 

It's an upbeat way to spend my post-church afternoon and beat the solo Sunday blues. That evening, Fredricka and I will reconnect again at a DJ set in Parc Royale. The following week, we’ll make it a wholesome threesome with Karin.

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun compiled by Paul Hillery. Basically Sober by Suff Daddy.

Summer Highlights Part 2

I have been frequenting summer festivals, sometimes on my own, more often with company. 

Whilst attending the African and Latin American-influenced Percusounds festival on a rainy Sunday with my GBFF, Lorenzo, I see auntie Carol out with her crew. It’s through her that I learn of Fiesta Latina; a reasonably-priced three-day affair at the scenic Bois de la Cambre. I’m going in the hope of seeing some decent Brazilian acts. I ask Renzo if he’d like to join me. A Brussels veteran, he’s not so keen. He searches for a word to convey his apprehension.

Cheesy?

He accepts this descriptor, somewhat reluctantly. It's hard to pin down.

When I do attend, I sense what he means. If the queue is dishearteningly long on arrival, at least the weather is clement. There are two lines; one for those fully vaccinated with certificate, and one for those willing to take a quick test to gain entry. Once that palaver is over, we're not quite out of the woods yet (literally). There is another, shorter line for checking tickets. 

In the end, I spend less time at the event itself than I do in the queue. I do a circuit, soaking in the atmosphere. Everyone hangs around in groups, Strasbourg-style. The reggaeton and other Latin dance music emanating from various sound systems don't really entice me. Food is unsurprisingly overpriced. The only Brazilian presence relates to consumables. No Bossa Nova, Tropicalia or Lusophone Funk. To try and make it worth the 14 euros, I hover around the main stage and do some half-hearted salsa moves before heading home. The highlight of my evening is purchasing a faux-African wax tote bag. 

Curiosity satisfied, I won’t feel the urge to go to Fiesta Latina again. Thank goodness I only committed to one day of the festival. 

Anybody familiar with these pages knows I am not at all averse to solo experiences. However, this one leaves me feeling particularly alone. It's a maudlin start to my weekend.

On the way to the tram stop, I see Lorenzo has texted me about upcoming social plans. I concede he was right about Fiesta Latina.

Renzo and I have been amis comme cochons since we were first introduced by a mutual friend back in the Spring. He’s been my main festival companion. At my behest, one school night he even braves a hopelessly wet summer evening for a Back on Stage concert.

After so many false starts with the male species in Brussels, there’s a quasi-therapeutic nature to our friendship. 

Renzo and I have a shared cultural palate. He’s intelligent, thoughtful and well-read. He's also an enviably good multi-linguist. He speaks naturalistic French and a refined English, with the occasional literary flourish. Unlike 99% of the Italians I've ever met, you couldn't detect his origins from his accent. His is a curiously generic European inflection.

Renzo has an understated charisma, laced with an appealing Mediterranean bluntness that is somehow tempered by a soothing tone and overall gentleness. Like a silencer on a gun.

He makes for a discerning, nay tough, public. His taste can be more rarefied than mine. We seem to diverge as often as we overlap. His scathing critique of Elena Ferrante's hugely popular L'Amie Prodigieuse/L'Amica Geniale novels -all the more cutting for his soft voice-casts doubt over my enjoyment of them. 

Avenue de Toison d'Or

I sometimes tease him for being a snob. He responds with a scoff for instance, when I suggest that City planners had the Champs Elysées in mind for Avenue Toison D'Or.

Oh, pleee-ase!

Yet, Renzo doesn't take himself too seriously. We swap literary or theatrical notes as easily as we discuss 90s Europop or share tongue-in-cheek appreciation for satirical Italian funky-pop classics.

Of course, there’s more to our friendship than the above. Lorenzo is dependable and resilient. He shows up when he says he will, even whilst navigating his own mental health struggles. He's supportive. He reads my blogs unprompted. That's maybe more than I could expect from a boyfriend. Heck, my own family scarcely reads my posts, if at all.

He is considerate, self-aware, a good listener and routinely affirming. He gets on well with my other friends. 

We have a reciprocal respect for each other’s style. I can indulge my "girly" chic and know there's no hidden agenda when he acknowledges it. His dress sense is as super-sharp as one would anticipate from a gay Italian (I tell him he’s a good cliché).

When Renzo implies that he's fallen short of some idealised masculinity, it provokes a protective-if not defensive-reaction in me. I reprimand him for self-identifying as a "p**sy" (not only unkind to him but misogynistic). I regularly reassure that he's all man, in his own distinct Lorenzo way. There's no one-size-fits-all. Besides, society would do well to valorise the good qualities he displays, instead of warped notions about the 'alpha' male.

There remains a healthy gender complementarity between us. I can be carefree and tactile. No sexual tension to infuse compliments with double-entendre. We regard each other with an uncomplicated fondness.

We’ve developed a habit of speaking with authenticity and vulnerability; whether it’s about relational insecurities or heartfelt, if difficult, conversations around faith. Renzo and I differ theologically but his search is sincere. He engages with Christian content I forward him. He sends me little updates by text during a short, semi-retreat in Provence. 

Bref, I have a deep affection for Lorenzo. I can say I love him loads and mean it (although I have the impression this makes him a tad uncomfortable). It proves that the pure, platonic settlement that I’ve been seeking in vain from straight men isn’t completely unrealistic in this context. It’s not as if I don’t have male friends of various orientations elsewhere. It’s just proved particularly hard in Brussels.

I find myself often reflecting on mine and Renzo’s dynamic. The absence of sexual attraction no doubt is a contributing factor to the ease of our rapport. Yet I worry that in my regular jokey references to his sexuality, attributing to it all the positives of our interaction, I’m over-stating it. Perhaps I'm even being (inadvertently) reductive. Although a part of our identity, sexuality is not everything. I don’t believe anybody- of any orientation- should be defined by it. 

Neither do I wish to unconsciously turn Renzo into a surrogate boyfriend, whilst no viable options appear to be on the horizon.

Still, I can’t help comparing and contrasting with my erstwhile encounters in Brussels. Even cautious optimism now seems misplaced. As I write, Simon-Pierre- a hetero who appeared mature enough to buck the trend – has fallen off the grid since, ironically, he joined me and Renzo at Back on Stage. 

I’ve tried to give SP the benefit of the doubt. He could have a very good reason for the radio silence. More likely, I suspect that my presentiment has proven correct. The minute he tired of waiting for me to muster a romantic attachment, he did a disappearing act.

Perversely, the opposite experience with Renzo makes me panic. I withdraw momentarily for fear of over-exposure. Not long after his return from France, for the first time Lorenzo invites me round for a Sunday afternoon apéro. I decline. A missed opportunity to enjoy his company in what is no doubt an impeccable flat.

At first, I believe it's a wise decision. I miss him sorely but don't want to spoil a good thing. Past hurts, recent and distant, inform this paranoia and urge to control. The following weekend, on the advice of sis, I confess all to Renzo as we sip smoothies at a café in town. He's understanding, as is customary.

The heart-to-heart out of the way, we head out for a memorable night in Sablon with my fellow South-East Londoner, Cynthia. But that’s a story for another time. Maybe.

Social Detour

 

After signing my new lease, comes the administrative headache of opening an account for the two months’ deposit required. I’m still awaiting my Belgian ID card which further slows down the process. So much for hopes that Belgium would be less bureaucratic than its French neighbour. It looks like I can no longer avoid setting up a Belgian account. The stress that came with looking for a flat, hasn’t completely subsided on finding one.

A few days after the signing, I’m exhausted. I do have one distraction to look forward to. I’m supposed to be meeting up for drinks with Robert (French pronunciation). 

First, a little bit of background. 

Rob -as he likes to be called- is the ethnically-ambiguous host of an Internations event I gatecrashed during my first few weeks in Brussels. At said event we have a fairly brief but enriching conversation about our origins (his mother Belgo-Rwandan, his father Dutch), Belgium’s refusal to confront its colonial past and the anti-imperialist Non-Aligned Movement, amongst other things.

Rob appears to have taken a shine to me, periodically getting in touch to invite me to various soirées that he organises both off and online. Over time, he’s been in contact with increased frequency. I keep missing his calls. We finally manage to catch each other. He invites me out for a drink one Saturday night. By the time I arrive, I’m in a churlish mood. My day hasn’t gone to plan.

I explain I’ll start off in English and switch to French when I’ve calmed down and can think clearly.

 Rob isn’t fazed by my saltiness. He proceeds with gentle Socratic questioning; about everything from why I’m teetotal to my thoughts on revolutionary leaders gone rogue. It feels more like a job interview than a casual night out, I half-joke. I try to turn the interrogation around on him.

He was born and raised in South Africa. I ask how this came to be. Casually, he mentions that his parents were engaged in the anti-Apartheid struggle. As you do.

Well, I should go home now. I reply I can’t really top that.

He seems to be a good listener. Or it could just be an excuse to check me out on the sly. He doesn’t exactly hide it. 

He has to leave early. I don’t know what I’ve said but he’s very keen to meet up again.

True to his word, Rob texts me during the week to ask about my availability. We’re both free Friday night. He texts the details of a restaurant in Ixelles.

Can’t wait to see you again, he adds. 

That’s sweet. I respond See you Friday, inshallah.

I arrive at the proposed restaurant. It’s deserted, with a note indicating they’re (just about) still closed for the summer. I text Rob. Messages trickle in. Then he calls. He rambles something about low phone battery and being stuck at Louise. He suggests I come and meet him. I am not amused. I head to Trône metro. Just as I’m about to step on the train, my phone goes off again.

-Stay where you are. I’ll meet you.

Except he won’t literally meet me at the station. Rob texts me some more instructions to come to a book shop near Trône. He phones again.

I can see you coming up the high street.

...Although I can’t see him. He instructs me to carry on walking in the same direction, towards the white van in the distance, where’s he’s parked.

As I approach, he’s smiling mischievously.

What the heck happened?

He tells me to hop in the van. I refuse. He’s 6”6 and of heavy build. It would hardly be a fair fight.

Oh come on! You know my friends from Internations. I’m not going to do anything…

He has a point. An assault rap wouldn't be good for his hosting rep. I hesitantly open the passenger door, sitting at a safe physical distance. It’s not just because of COVID-19.

He commences to tell me the convoluted story of his day. A sibling’s washing machine broke down. He had to replace it. Somehow this involves him also having to change vans, pass by said sibling’s flat and then stop off at his parents’ in the outskirts of Brussels. Oh yes, and he has to pick up a couple of mates to help him out.

-I don’t have time for this, I protest. I have an early start at the hairdressers the next morning.

-This is some crazy rom-com business. Why didn’t you just cancel? 

-Because. I wanted to spend time with you. We can talk and drive. I had this date planned…

Come again?

-I never said anything about a date!

-What would you call it then?

-I don’t know. Drinks with a new acquaintance? An outing?

-An outing. I like that.

Rob likes to go into deep discussion quickly. He says for example, that if a man hooks up with a woman whilst she’s drunk, it’s tantamount to rape. I’m impressed but shouldn’t be. That’s a minimum.

He volunteers to tell me about the latest woes of his ex with whom he was with for 10 years. They split five years ago but are still good friends.

-It took you a decade to work out you weren’t compatible?

-No, perfectly candid. We knew sooner. I even went to therapy about it. Haven’t you ever been in a similar…?

-...Ah. Sunken cost syndrome, I venture, Like Vietnam. You’ve already invested so much time, energy and money...it becomes a vicious circle.

-Exactly. Surely you know what that’s like?

He’s fishing. At this early stage, I say, I don’t owe him that much of my bio. There are no short cuts to emotional intimacy. I don’t want him all up in my business. In any sense of the expression.

-But I was completely open about my ex.

-Yes. Because you chose to be. I never asked you.

He has to pass by his flat for some keys and to charge his phone. He makes a joke about inviting me round.

-Oh no, uh-uh. No Netflix ‘n’ Chill.

-I don’t watch Netflix.

-In that case, there certainly won’t be any chillin’.

En route to his flat, we speak about the merits of chivalry. I maintain that it can be defended from a feminist perspective. My feminist perspective anyway. Anything that can counter the socialised selfishness in men is a good thing.

My new sandals aren’t handling the cobbled streets so well. I take a tumble. A couple of times.

-Are you all right?

-Yeah, I’m fine. Bet you won’t want to date me now.

-It’s women who worry about clumsiness. Men don’t care about that.

When I trip the second time, I say sheepishly

You've seen me fall over twice. We’re true friends now.

And so that’s my evening. My ruined evening, I tell Rob several times. I scold him for luring me out on false pretences. We banter back and forth. There’s a freedom to be as direct with him as I please.

-I couldn’t deny you some time in my company he insists At least you won’t forget it. Soon you’ll be catching feelings for me…

-Catching feelings? What is this, 1998? Anyway, you're the one catching feelings. You couldn’t let me have a Friday night to myself.

-What else would you have been doing?

-A lot!

He never does give me a straight answer as to why he didn’t just reschedule. Or maybe that is a straight answer in Rob’s world. Many a true word spoken in jest.

We hop in and out of an uber. He picks up another van. At sunset, we collect his two Moroccan friends. I wonder where they'll sit. Rob suggests we cosy up. I hop out of the car. One of the mates, Bilal, sits in the middle; the other in the back.

Between errands, the conversation continues. We talk about his time working in Accra, race relations, reproductive ethics, polygamy, birthdays, shoe sizes and French vs Belgian flirtation. I try and fail to intercept most of his double-entendres.

He has some slick word play, I give him that.

Until that evening, Rob’s facetious charisma hasn’t been apparent. Based on our previous outing, I thought he was nice; even a little dull. Still waters run deep.

It’s getting dark. A waxing gibbous moon hangs in the sky. I admit, this crazy road trip has provided me with an opportunity to see Brussels in a different light.

The streets are getting darker and I don’t recognise where I am. I start to panic. Maybe I'm being an idiot. I’m travelling with three blokes I’ve barely met and nobody knows exactly where I am.

-Please drop me off at Roodebeek station.

-I will but not now. I have to return this van by 10pm.

Rob will later have the nerve to accuse me of Stockholm syndrome.

-A good thing my Christianity obliges me to forgive. Otherwise, if I make it out of this alive, I’d never speak to you again.

A Night to Remember by Shalamar plays on the radio. I point out the irony. Later on, Rob turns up James Brown’s Sex Machine.

Turn it off! I order in English.

His freckle-covered face spreads into another impish grin.

Non-English speakers, his Moroccan acquaintances are perplexed.

- Don’t you like the song?

- It’s not that. It’s just that he has ulterior motives...

- The lyrics are a little...(Rob)

- ...Saucy (me)

At some point, I bring out my laptop to distract myself whilst the men do some heavy-lifting.

Rob passes the passenger side.

-Are you blogging?

-Yes, but not about you.

I promise however, that I will blog about this evening. How a mad mulatto practically kidnapped me. By the time I'm finished, he won’t be able to find a woman in all of Europe who’d want to date him (as if this blog has that sort of reach. Dream on, girl).

Shortly before 10pm, the time he’s supposed to return the van, we’re driving down lonely country roads. I put away my laptop, still mildly anxious. I can only hope Rob really is driving me to his parents’.

I’ve already warned him that I’m not meeting them. I don’t want to give his mum the wrong idea. 

Rob leaves me no choice. He parks at the door. His mother meets us at the gate.

If he doesn’t have her diminutive size, he has inherited everything else.

I remain in the car, trying to be discreet. Rob and the boys go into the house, dropping off fixtures and raiding the fridge. When he re-emerges with his booty, he introduces me to his mum as a ‘friend’. My upbringing forces me out of the car. I greet her properly with a smile.

Rob’s mum is very welcoming, considering the hour.

-Ma pauvre. He’s taking you on quite the adventure, she sympathises

Back in the van I quip,

-Even your sweet mum sees through your dirty tricks

I refuse to eat the food that is circulated.

-I’m watching my weight.

I nudge Bilal, pointing to his chocolate bar and tease

-Don’t eat it. I don’t trust him. It’s drugged.

-Oh no! Rob is a great guy. Great! Always kidding around. Really kind...

It won’t be the last time he eulogises his mate/occasional employer.

-So what, are they your wing men? Talking you up?

At last, at almost half-10, we park around the corner from the Central Station.

-Is the ordeal finally over? I ask

-It is, Rob confirms

To disprove his Stockholm theory, I demand to be taken to the nearest bus stop. It’s a straightforward journey to my hotel from there.

En route, I ask why he’s limping.

-It’s not a limp. I walk with character, he retorts, grinning. Touché.

-You have incredible self-confidence, can’t lie

-Thanks to my mum’s love. I’m a mama’s boy.

-That’s obvious

-The perfect son.

I respond with something that is, on reflection, mean-spirited.

No riposte is forthcoming, for once.

Rob dutifully accompanies me to the station. His bus arrives. He feigns to leave. I’m not having it.

You spoil my evening then don’t have the courtesy to see me off safely? 

He tells his boys that they’ll catch the next one.

I take the opportunity to ask if his activity on Internations is just a ruse to pick up chicks. He plays along. Or maybe not. Many a true word spoken in jest.

My bus arrives at last. The boys follow me on.

-I still can’t get rid of you!

Rob sits. I remain standing.

-I’m going to escort you all the way to the hotel. Since I spoiled your evening, I have to find another way to make it up to you.

My expression must be as quizzical as it is bemused.

-You’re seriously asking yourself if I mean it, he chuckles.

His humour edges ever more towards the scurrilous.

-You know I’m a Christian-Christian, don’t you? - I remind him.

-What does that mean?

- It means I’m celibate.

-You just haven’t found the man to make you change your mind.

-I have. His name is Jesus.

- Jesus is good. He has his niche…

-Yeah like creating the universe, dying for our sins, eternal salvation, abundance of life…

-...And I have my talents.

As they’re about to descend at Madou, Rob says he’s also celibate.

-In what way?

-I’m saving myself for my wife so that when she touches my skin, it’s so soft it falls off the bone.

I tell him not to mock my beliefs.

Over the next few days, exchanging voice notes with sis, the memory of the evening becomes less of the caper I thought. Sis pulls me up on some of the unpleasant aspects of the repartée. 

In hindsight, I was uncomfortable. I'm not one for natural banter. The situation threw me off and I started to play a role. Je n'étais pas à la hauteur.

To be continued...

Or maybe not.

Busybody

The autumn leaves haven’t all fallen and already Strasbourg is in festive mode.  Tasteful decorations have gone up. The giant tree stands unlit in Place Kleber and the stalls are setting up for the world famous Christmas Market.

The month has got off to a promising start. Thanks to the canny intervention of my colleague Clara, I receive some good news in the form of a 90% reduction in what would have otherwise been a substantial Taxe D’habitation bill (the French equivalent to Council Tax). Thank God for small miracles.

Meanwhile my cultural calendar is full to bursting, as tends to be the case this time of year. The Jazzdor festival takes place each November. The event has a special place in my heart. It was a welcome distraction from flat hunting a mere few weeks into my arrival in Strasbourg. It’s also where I met Jeanne, the first friend I made here. It is thus fitting that almost a year to the day, we attend a Jazzdor performance once again featuring her flatmate Annalise. It’s an unofficial anniversary.

Annalise’ trio is preceded by the abstract sounds of pianist Matthieu Mazué. Clearly inspired by Thelonius Monk (throwing in a cover of Monk’s Dream for good measure), Mazué’s style is characterised by choppy syncopation and elongated melodies twisted out of shape. My initial excitement turns to confusion when he introduces his interpretation of one of my favourite jazz standards Stella by Starlight. Save for the opening bars serving as a leitmotif, I wouldn’t recognise it.  It’s a suspenseful performance; a tension never to be resolved. This talented and incredibly dexterous musician has taken a notably subversive approach to his art.  Thus Annalise’ soulfully-inflected, equally agile performance is a healthy counterbalance. During the break, I reconnect with Jeanne and her mum, who is in town for the week.

That weekend I have signed up via Internations for a ‘free’ walking tour of Petite France, my favourite neck of the Strasbourg woods.  These multi-lingual Happy Tours are carried out by volunteers whose only payment is a freewill donation.  I opt for the French version for the practice.  Despite the sharp drop in temperature and harsh wind, our congenial guide, Rémy, cheerily recounts the history of Little France and its environs; from the Roman conquest to some of the quirky street names. The area has a more insalubrious history than I was aware. La Grand Rue for instance wasn’t always the cosmopolitan social hub it is now. Up until the regeneration effort in the 1960s, it was the City's underbelly. Most shocking of all is the sordid origin of the otherwise romantic-sounding appellation Little France. It dates back to the 15^th century when the Alsace region was under German rule (well, the precursor to the unified Germany). French soldiers, ridden with syphilis after fighting and cavorting in Naples, were banished to the area to be treated at a dedicated hospice. It became an unofficial colony for what was facetiously nicknamed ‘The French Disease’ and thus referred to by the rest of the population as…Petite France. 

It’s an informative and enjoyable jaunt. It's also one more activity to keep future guests entertained.

On the way back from the tour, my tram is held up by solidarity protests taking place throughout France against fuel taxes and the rising cost of living.

It’s set to be a socially-conscious week ahead. The Organisation is hosting the World Forum for Democracy events.  The theme this year is gender equality. It’s surely no coincidence that the event overlaps with International Men’s Day as well as the World Day for the Prevention of Child Abuse; both on 19 November. 

My group, the High Rock Gospel Singers, have been asked to perform as part of the opening ceremony. I mention it a few weeks beforehand to choir director, Kiasi, having been surprised to see us listed in the WFD programme. He is completely unaware. It’s not feasible anyway, he shrugs It’s a Monday morning.

Something clearly changes between then and the chaotic rehearsal we have the following week. Kiasi makes an announcement post-practice, inviting anyone who is available to sign up. It turns out one of the sopranos is also an events’ organiser and volunteered the services of HRGS á notre insu.

Kiasi must have reasoned it was best not to piss off The Organisation by being a no-show.

The performance falls on my day off. True, it’ll be odd performing at work. Apart from that I don’t have a bona fide excuse not to. Besides, I was going to be in the vicinity anyway. Not only do I plan to attend some of the inaugural events but my manager, Sophie will also be making an appearance for the first time since she went on maternity leave. She is performing with her husband, Marcel's percussion band as part of the day’s proceedings. The couple will be accompanied by their bouncing baby boy, Augustin. The team have collected a very respectable sum for the family’s gift, as well as organising a little get together to mark the occasion. Given that it was a difficult pregnancy and both mummy and baby have come through the other side safe and well, there is even more reason to celebrate.

 

That morning, on the way out to Le Chateau to meet the rest of the choir, I check my post box for a long awaited package. I spot instead another copy of the building regulations. The part about noise has been highlighted in the same aggressive orange, this time with a note attached. Apparently, this mystery neighbour objects to me cleaning my flat. On a Saturday. At noon. Fuming, I crumple the note and toss it in the nearest bin.

I arrive at Le Chateau a little flustered. Fastidious neighbours notwithstanding, Kiasi has taken his sweet time to confirm when and where we are meeting. I’ve already left the flat by the time I see his text. Thankfully I arrive long before show time. Being a Monday morning, there are a choice few of us. We have a surfeit of sopranos with just Élise holding the fort for the contraltos. Since we are only performing two numbers, one of which I actually know quite well, I alternate between soprano and alto to help balance the sound. Not that Élise really needs it. It’s a pretty slick affair if I must say so myself. Or so I think. When the video is made available, I note with anguish that I'm singing flat for most of the second number. The audience are more forgiving. Later that week, I am stopped by a guest during a lunch break to congratulate me on the group’s behalf.

HRGS @ the World Forum for Democracy
(c) Catherine Monflis

 I return home after the show to vent to sis on Skype about my implacable neighbour. That's followed by a whinge about the grammatical mistakes I made conversing to my fellow choristers. Perfectly bi-lingual Kiasi teases my London inflection. Evidently, too much of my self-worth is wrapped up on my linguistic progress. I hardly enjoy the learning process these days.

Sis shows me some well-needed tough love. 

I’m not going to indulge your pity-party. 

Amongst her usual nuggets of wisdom she implores me to be kind to myself. For the rest of the day, each time I think upon this simple statement, so difficult to practise, it reduces me to tears.

Back at Le Chateau several colleagues from my department and elsewhere have gathered in the freezing cold to watch Sophie and Marcel's group perform. Whistles are handed out and we are instructed to blow carnival style, in support of the launch of a campaign to tackle sexual abuse in sports.

I reunite with Sophie after the performance. I must confess that I am looking to angle my way out of Le Pot that has been organised back at the office. At least this way she knows I have come out to support her before I sneak off. It becomes apparent however, that I couldn’t execute my plan without it being perceived as anti-social.  It’s better to grin and bear it for Sophie’s sake. She seems genuinely pleased I came. Marcel is an urbane and cordial man. I would say charming but I believe he's more sincere than that. Little Augustin sleeps through the loud performance and most of the post-show festivities, despite being passed around. They make a lovely family.

 

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of WFD activities. As is often the case with these sorts of conferences, there are a number of overlapping sessions vying for my attention.  During the morning slot, one discussion stands out from the rest. I attend a stimulating roundtable about faith and feminism. The Abrahamic Three are well represented. I do wonder about the absence of other faith groups (as is vocalised by another attendee) and Protestant voices. But let me not be too sectarian.

The two Catholic speakers notably diverge. On one hand Hajnalka Juhász from the Hungarian Christian Democracy Party admits to a more conservative perspective; her essentialist views on ‘male’ and ‘female’ character traits for instance and not questioning male-dominated leadership.  Polish theologian Zuzanna Radzik on the other hand takes a thoroughly egalitarian approach. When asked if women can bring particular qualities to religious institutions, she replies that she doesn’t subscribe to the idea of inherently feminine attributes. It’s a matter of individual character and strengths. In that regards, she is a woman after my own heart. She reminds those in the church that the fight for equality has a biblical basis; not least in the Apostle Paul’s revolutionary (for the time) words in Galatians 3:28. This, she rightly asserts, is our starting point.

Buoyed by Radzik's comments, I add that the church in general needs to do more to reach men than offer them merely spiritualised male entitlement. In the end, it gives no respite from the inevitable disadvantages of the patriarchal system such as unrealistic masculine ideals.

 Later that afternoon I’m torn between interactive events about the fight against sexual exploitation and re-examining how masculinity is defined as a means of combatting violence against women. It’s a tough decision but I choose the latter. I have a presentiment that I’ll be riled up by one of the speakers at the sex trafficking discourse, who appears to belong to the school of thought that  propose solutions such as calling sexually-exploited women ‘sex workers’ and giving them ‘better working conditions’ as opposed to challenging and upending the skewed paradigm altogether. Phew. Mini-rant over. For now.

The Masculinities Re-examined discussion is a breath of fresh air, drawing speakers from within and beyond Europe’s borders, such as the UK’s Chris Green of the White Ribbon Campaign and India’s Harish Sadani from NGO Men Against Violence & Abuse (MAVA). (Alas, the French authorities denied Gambia’s Lamin S. Fatty a visa). Sadani is doing superb work in a country whose struggles with gender-based violence have caught the world’s attention in recent years.

I am heartened to meet other Christians at the event wholly committed to gender-equality and reconciliation of the sexes. When the moderator Simone Fillipini asks what a gender utopia would look like, one audacious interlocutor cries ‘Christian!’

Fillipini opens up to the floor for ideas on how to dissuade men from cashing in on the short term 'patriarchal dividend' as it is described by panellist Robert Franken. I suggest that the rate of suicide amongst men, with some recent high profile cases, makes this a public health issue. The immediate benefits of prescribed ideas of masculinity and patriarchy are oppressive in the long term.  I add that women also play a key role in dismantling the social conditioning we not only imbibe but perpetuate.

My contributions are apparently well received. Several men thank me post event. Thanks to this impromptu networking, my plans to rush back to the office fall by the wayside.