Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part IV

Avignon (c) Hong Zhao

Part I

Part II

Part III

That evening the main event that lured me to Avignon takes place; the JAM aka Jazz Avignon Musics (dodgy English) Tremplin contest. In French, tremplin literally means ‘trampoline’ but could also be used in the metaphorical sense of a launchpad or boost. Three acts battle it out to be the JAM Tremplin laureate for this year. The winner is decided through a mix of public voting and jury deliberation. Alas, the transport links to the venue in Place des Carmes are extremely limited. By around 9pm, most of the buses stop altogether (summer hours). My enquiries about taxi services lead nowhere. That means I’m walking it back from the show to the accommodation after dark.

Since I’ll have to cover most of the outbound commute by foot as well, I decide to walk the whole way.  I bump into my Airbnb host, Didi near the canal. He informs me he’ll be out of town for the rest of my stay. I’ll have the space to myself. I’m taken aback but have enough presence of mind to express my appreciation for him as a host. As a parting gift, he recommends some more cultural events in the region that weekend and we go our separate ways.

Despite some unplanned detours and delays, I arrive at the Place des Carmes 10 minutes from the start of the event. However, I’m light-headed with hunger – unusual for me. Since my morning pastries, I have had a cookie and a slushy. I thought these would provide enough sugar-rush energy until dinner. Clearly not. Fortunately, the JAM venue is surrounded by restaurants.

Tonight, I’m determined to eat some local cuisine. I find a laidback restaurant with amicable staff serving a Provence fish specialty with some salad and copious amounts of bread (naughty, I know), added on request. 

In spite of the restaurant's efficient service, there’s a queue by the time I return to the JAM venue. It’s at full capacity inside.  We have to wait for others to leave before anyone can enter. To think that I arrived early enough to have avoided this nonsense. Damn my hunger.  If I miss out on the show, I’ll be furious. This is the main thing that brought me to Avignon in the first place. Given the rest of the underwhelming line-up, if I miss this, it’ll feel like a wasted trip. I could come to Provence any other time of the year.

Gradually, some punters start to vacate the venue. I enter just as the Gregori Hollis Quartet are rounding off their set. There’s no space to sit except for the edge of the stage. During the break some more seats become available. I can now relax into the evening. The venue, le Cloître des Carmes, is stunning. Initially a Carmelite convent dating back to the 14th Century, since 1967 it’s hosted open air concerts, the stage flanked by the original stone arch design.

The next set is by an auspicious French and Caribbean Piano/Alto Sax pairing called Crossing. I appreciate the pianist’s rhythm and voicing. They’re followed by Who Parked the Car?, a Jazz/Rock fusion sextet led by a female vocalist, who draw inspiration from the likes of Glasper and Snarky Puppy. My initial plan is to stay for just one or two numbers. The concert is already much longer than I thought. Famous last words. I’m too intrigued by the soundscape of Who Parked…? to leave early.

I’m also coaxed into staying by an obtrusively gregarious Parisian named Hanane. During one of the breaks, she stops to interrogate me about my Dutch wax skirt and the ornate tote bag I picked up from a conference in Kenya last year. She’s very keen on both (my get-up has already drawn the positive attention of a motorist earlier that day. ‘I love your style’, he yells).

Hanane manages to be sociable and yet greatly lacking in social intelligence. I wonder how she’s made it this far in life being so obliviously obnoxious. It occurs to me that she might also be neurodivergent. Then again, women on the spectrum are usually socialised into masking well enough for it not to be so obvious. Hanane is overly familiar and tactile, handling my skirt and bag before I’ve given permission. She has a habit of poking me so hard in the shoulder for emphasis, I tell her to knock it off. She is keen to swap details however, claiming she has cultured friends all over, including Brussels, through whom she can hook me up with comps. More importantly for my immediate concerns, she mentions multiple options for me to return accompanied to my accommodation.

After Who Parked…? close their set, there’s an indefinite period of deliberation by the jury.  The ballots have run out before I can cast my public vote. Maybe it’s for the best. I’d have been torn between the last two acts. In the interim, there’s supposed to be a jam (no pun intended) with all the musicians playing on stage. Judging from the sluggish uptake, most of them don’t seem interested in this option.  They’re probably too preoccupied with waiting for the results.

 

I’m exhausted. Meanwhile, Hanane alternates between offering to take photos of me ‘as a souvenir of the night’, and making passive aggressive comments about my eagerness to return to my accommodation because of fatigue. Well, I barely got any sleep yesterday but this kind of event doesn’t happen every day. No, but it happens every summer. No two shows are the same…but if you don’t have the patience to wait… Hold on a minute. I’ve already killed time waiting around for her entourage to exit but they aren’t ready to leave. I don’t want to be at the mercy of others’ schedules, I protest. Hanane keeps ‘volunteering’ the services of a friend to accompany me home. He seems non-committal and is not in a hurry. I am.

It’s past midnight and there’s no clear indication of when exactly proceedings will be over. I leave Hanane’s hot air and the strains of the half-hearted allstar jam behind me.

Before leaving, Hanane reassures me that Avignon is still active at this time of night. Didi tells me women walk alone all the time. 

Avignon Bridge (c) Compagnons

It's true that bars and restaurants are still thriving in the immediate vicinity. I follow a mixed gender group down a familiar road. They might have also been at the concert. Their presence puts me more at ease. One of the two men is pushing a woman in a wheelchair. I slow my pace to adjust to theirs. They eventually take a turn that I don’t recognise. I forge ahead, trusting it will work out.

It does, sort of.

I break out onto a busier main road near the city centre. I head in the wrong direction at first, stumbling upon a red light district before I course correct. I then follow a couple with a dog, walking (or cycling in the woman’s case) in the direction of my accommodation. I’m once again led down an unfamiliar street. The couple turn in the opposite direction. Fortunately, I’m closer to the Airbnb than I realise. I figure out my bearings. As I do, another group of women emerge, also walking their dogs at this ungodly hour. Still, I’m grateful. It means I’m not alone. Praise Jesus, I make it back all in one piece.

It’s the weekend. The start of a new month and the last full day of my Avignon trip. I’ve opted to stay in the area and return to some sites that I haven’t yet had time to explore. My first stop is the le fameux Pont Saint-Bénezet/Bridge of Avignon. En route, I stumble across the souvenir district and pick up one or two trinkets. 

For my student discount ticket, I get entrance to the bridge with an audio guide.

Next stop is Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, an adjunct village built during the papal era.  I have another video call with sis later that puts some time pressure on me. I pass by yet another re-purposed monastery, La Chartreuse. I’m not in the mood to pay for another attraction, nor do I have the luxury of time, so I take advantage of the deck chairs in the free space, Le Cloître Saint-Jean garden, for a little respite. Later, weaving my way through the charming streets of Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, I can’t resist a detour to La Colline des Mourgues, only to find it locked for risk of the forest fires that have recently blighted Southern Europe.  

Palais des Papes (c) Mike Von

Sis and I end up rescheduling our call anyway, so all the rushing was for nought. If I’d had a day or so extra, I’d have taken a trip to nearby Rochefort-du-Gard or returned to Arles to hang out on my own.

All in all, I feel a strange detachment to Avignon.  It’s something I'm reluctant to admit. I'm conscious that travelling for pleasure is a luxury for most of the world, and that being ambivalent about my holiday is a highly privileged position to be in.

I don’t know what it is. The region is attractive. I enjoyed the JAM festival, once I could get in. Maybe it’s just that I left it too long to visit Avignon. Unconsciously, expectations must have built up over the years and decades that couldn’t be met.

That night, it’s back to ÔCargo for dinner.  The theme that evening is a fiesta: Central and South America-style. The advised dress code is white and red. I know in advance but ignore it. I didn’t bring anything appropriate anyway. A live brass band plays what I assume are some traditional instrumentals. It’s not my cup of tea. That night, I skip the Tunisian to check out the Afro-fusion menu. I’ve been apprehensive up until that point, as I tend to judge this cuisine more harshly for a variety of reasons. I try the Bao bread rolls with fried chicken, a flavoursome onion and bell pepper garnish, guacamole sauce and sweet potato chips. Those are the only kind of fries I really enjoy and these are particularly good; some of the best I’ve had anywhere. My experience of sweet potato chips in similar establishments have thus far been disappointing.

Avignon @ sunset (c) Tao Qi

I leave not long after my meal, wanting to beat the sunset. I'll be saying farewell to Avignon the next day. Little do I know at the time how stressful my return journey to Brussels will be, with a cancelled train setting off a chain of heart-palpatating events.

For now, all I have to think about is the walk back to Didi’s. I’ve come to enjoy the quarter hour or so stroll along the motorway between ÔCargo and the accommodation. As I leave, I wish bonne soirée to the same woman working on security each night near the entrance of ÔCargo's converted depot. I feel to tell her that I’ll be leaving soon and wish her all the best but she’s distracted with incoming clients.

It occurs to me that the odds of us ever seeing each other again are extremely remote, even if I return to Avignon (I'm in no rush). I never even asked her name. It has me wondering about all the liminal relations we have with people who aren’t complete strangers but with whom familiarity is tenuous. It’s so easy for us to vanish out of each other’s lives from one day to the next. The thought makes me slightly maudlin.

Maybe we’ll meet in eternity, I assure myself.

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko; Masego by Masego

Une Touche-à-tout Incorrigible...and Proud of It

 6 min. read

One sure sign of the advent of Spring is that my diary fills up with no great effort on my part. Not that I’m ever at a loss of what to do. Je suis touche-à-tout incorrigible et j’en suis fière. Staying busy for me is not a form of avoidance. I am able to sit with uncomfortable feelings if need be. It does help me to avoid being consumed by them, however.

Towards the end of February, I have a couple of interviews within the same week. If I look at the cup as half-full, at least it shows I’m still an attractive prospect to recruiters. Alas, the most recent callbacks have been for unfulfilling roles that are not well paid, and/or I have it on good authority that the working environment is unpleasant. 

I still give it my best as I’m wont to do. The first interview for a Christian NGO, goes well; enjoyable even. Some of the questions take a philosophical slant. I manage to hide my wariness, based on what I’ve heard on the grapevine about high turnovers and a volatile GS. The other interview later that week is online and, well, a bit strange. It must go down as one of the shortest I’ve ever attended; 10 minutes of questions, if I’m being generous. The rest is spent discussing the practical aspects of the role. 

At some point the panel inform me that the role will begin on part-time (50%) hours and salary; roughly the same, if not less than unemployment benefit. This is a detail that has been studiously omitted from the vacancy on the organisation’s own website. I already had reservations about the job. The post itself is good but I’d struggle to be motivated by the organisation’s main campaign area. There’s a damned-if-I-do/damned-if-I-don’t aspect to both these employment prospects. In the end, the decision is made for me. Neither of them translate into a job offer. 

I’ve now reached a juncture where the adage (incorrectly) attributed to Einstein is becoming more pertinent. Something needs to change but I don’t know what and how. To complicate matters further, my attempts to obtain justice from the Belgian state against my former General Secretary for moral harassment leads nowhere after months of investigation and – to my mind – damning evidence. I can take small comfort in pursuing it as far as I could go, despite not having the means for legal support, my union’s refusal to support me and everybody from former so-called friends and my own mother wanting me to drop it. I feel overwhelmed, trapped and furious with God. I am not here because of any misdemeanour on my part. Even if there were, I could appeal to Divine Mercy.

So yep, staying busy prevents me going over the edge.

Solidarity demo for migrants
(image courtesy of Sudinfo)

I spend a few weekday evenings in February at coordination meetings for the launch of my Church, FWM’s compassion ministry; a pilot social action/justice project. 

I attend a fascinating debate on the ongoing crisis in Eastern Congo one evening at a VUB campus. I’ve been invited by one of the organisers, Elisabeth -or Lisa - an eloquent human rights lawyer. We meet at another highly informative event by the Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) on ‘uberisation’ and the gig economy in Belgium.

The discussion about the present Congolese conflict and the interference of international actors becomes heated. One Belgian gentleman’s remarks have such a neo-colonial undertone, the panel – not to mention many of us in the audience – aren’t sure whether he’s earnest or a troll. His exquisite significant-other – resembling a cocoa-coloured Joan Collins – keeps trying to catch my eye. My shallow admiration for her incredible bone structure turns to suspicion as she appears to be supporting her husband’s questionable POV. I refuse to meet her conspiratorial gaze.

I show solidarity at demos in early March for Migrants Rights and to commemorate International Women’s Day. I confess to being frustrated with my current level of activism. The symbolism of street demonstrations is all well and good but I’m on the lookout for opportunities to make a long term tangible difference.

My spiritual mentor Vinoth pays a visit to the low countries around the same time. He’s staying with a friend in Antwerp but has some business in Brussels, including catching up with me. 

The day he arrives, it’s sunny with a strong chill. 

I book us a place on a walking tour. Vinoth wants me to show him the city. I’d prefer to leave it to the professionals. The tour guide doesn’t keep things moving along fast enough for Vinoth. He’s eager to pull away from the group to find somewhere warm to sit. After a few attempts to convince him to wait it out, I concede. 

Later that evening, Vinoth has another engagement at the Anglican church Holy Trinity Brussels, where I also occasionally attend services. As he’s not familiar with the city, I accompany him to HTB. It’s an excuse for more quality time. En route, we debate the benefits of observing Lent (he being a sceptic, me fully convinced). 

Vinoth has been invited to discuss his oeuvre, Subverting Global Myths which is the HTB book club’s reading choice for the next quarter. We’re ushered to an upper room by a kindly minister, Pieter and Ronal, the book club facilitator. Vinoth talks me up to them - even though we’ve only all just met – mentioning that I’m in transition professionally. Both Pieter and Ronal are well connected to the NGO sector, it turns out.

Cook & Book literary complex, Woluwe-St-Lambert
(c) by2photographers)

Elsewhere, I am approached by a freelance filmmaker acquaintance, Bonaparte.  He produces online content for a local news and entertainment channel. He wants to do a brief feature on my life as an expat in Belgium. I agree; more as a challenge to myself to do something new and potentially daunting. I’m initially reluctant for Bonaparte to film the main interview at my home but I eventually come round to the idea.

With the bulk of the conversation out of the way, we shift outdoors. Bonaparte takes numerous incidental shots in populated spaces, observed by a bemused public.

The shoot is spread over a couple of weeks. We agree that I’ll take Bonaparte to a couple of my haunts; a literary arts complex in my neighbourhood one week, and B-Mol’s dynamic Afro Jam the next. 

To my consternation, the latter appointment is more frustrating. B-mol is held up for unforeseen reasons and the event starts later than scheduled. 

Meanwhile, Bonaparte is in a hurry to film. He has a date lined up after the shoot. I’m annoyed. He shouldn’t have been so ambitious with his schedule. I worry he's putting undue pressure on the band to have me perform before everybody else. I don't require special treatment. For their part, B-mol and co are most obliging. I’m unhappy about this arrangement nevertheless and let Bonaparte know. 

The stress makes it harder for me to be as relaxed on stage as the previous occasion. I already have enough trouble remembering all the lyrics to my song of choice; Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster. Quick glances at my crib sheet do little to fill in the gaps. I end up singing with lyrics in hand.

This mild ordeal over, to my surprise, B-Mol requests another. Before I can stop myself I suggest Could You Be Loved? It’s my favourite by Bob Marley but I’m even less sure of the lyrics than Master Blaster. Things turn more awkward still when we segue into Is this Love? and on B-Mol's request, Jammin’; another Marley favourite to which I can only mumble along at best. (I like the odd bit of reggae but I didn't exactly inherit my parents' fandom.) For a couple of the renditions, musically inclined guests provide impromptu harmonies for which I'm most grateful.

Bonaparte leaves for his rendez-vous shortly afterwards.

The rest of the night resumes its pleasantly febrile energy. By some coincidence, there are more Wailers’ covers to come, for which I’m not responsible this time. My mood starts to lift. It really is one of the best night’s out in Brussels; the only dubious aspects being white folk with blond dreads doing dodgy dance moves and me fluffing the lyrics on stage – again! - to Daft Punk & Pharrell’s Get Lucky.

On the way back home I stop off at a Jazz jam at Muntpunt Café. An unassuming young woman does a fine job working her way through some vocalised standards. As usual, the Jazz crowd’s reaction is too tepid for my liking. I come across a talented guitarist whom I routinely bump into at any number of open mic events. I recommend he pops down to the friendlier Afro Jam un de ces quatre.

Rushing to catch the last metro, somebody calls my name. It’s one of the regulars from the Red Cross. I give him a cheery wave before apologising for having to make a quick exit.

Soundtrack: É o que A Casa Oferece by Gabriel da Rosa, Medicine for My Pain and The Other Side by Lynden David Hall 

Still in Transit, Apparently

 6 min. read

(courtesy of The Healthy Epicurean)

On the social action front, I’ve added a couple more volunteering activities to my already very rewarding shifts at the Red Cross. In late 2022 I join the team of an excellent Belgian charity that supports those involved in the sex trade and provides routes out for those looking to leave. In some ways, it’s a resumption of the outreach work of which I was part in Strasbourg, except this organisation has an even more extensive support system. As was the case in France, I limit my participation for now to once a month. The work is fulfilling but emotionally and mentally heavy.

I also join the team at church responsible for translating English worship song lyrics into French. It’s led by Mark, a convivial young man, it seems. Owing to the lack of uptake elsewhere, he's responsible for several ministries at FWM, despite himself being a full time healthcare worker. We have a surprisingly good working relationship so far. I say surprisingly, because our first encounter at a retreat for young professionals a couple of years earlier, was not at all promising. We fell out over politics. I can’t speak to his current views on socio-economic justice but Mark is far less obnoxious than I recall. He’s affable even, to a coquettish extent.

In early February, Monica – one of my church home group leaders and the former coordinator of the Young Professionals group – invites me round for dinner. She’s been wanting it to happen for a while. Uncharacteristically, I hope she’ll forget. It’s not that Monica is a bad sort. She’s confident, proactive and has her heart in the right place. We get on well enough. It’s just she lacks self-awareness. I find her assertive to the point of being obtrusive; nay, bossy. In any gathering, she’s the self-appointed spokesperson. Perhaps it’s a clash-of-the-Alpha-females thing but I don’t find her company as easy as say, Karin or Brenda. I perceive that Monica and I wouldn’t be compatible enough to ever be close friends. 

 However, it reaches the point where I can no longer put off her dinner request. It’s an act of kindness after all; more so given that she’s had a rough time of it herself lately.

Overall, my feelings about the experience are mixed. Her honey, walnut and feta salad is very good and Monica makes an effort to ensure I feel welcome. My initial plan is to keep the focus of conversation on her and avoid going into detail about my life. That works for the first portion of the evening, until Monica starts asking pointed questions. I’m initially judicious about my responses but once in the flow, my guard comes down more than intended. Some of the discussion is genuinely enriching, particularly the theological elements. Monica has a specific take on the Prodigal Son story – a parable about which I've long been conflicted – that I find refreshing. Unfortunately, she also feels at liberty to proffer unsolicited advice. 

I already have a shrink and a close circle with whom I can confide.

In hindsight, I feel over-scrutinised. I'm annoyed with myself for not being firmer with my boundaries. Monica is in no position to comment on my life, no matter how well-meaning. Our relationship is not - and unlikely ever to be - that deep. 

I have a chance to share my misgivings sooner than anticipated the following day, when Monica and I see each other at another FWM event. She announces she’ll be accompanying me home afterwards, since she also has a function in my neighbourhood. I acquiesce before I can think of a plausible excuse. I’m miffed.

It does nonetheless provide a prime opportunity for me to be polite but frank about the previous evening and other misgivings. She takes it as graciously as she can. In the end, she is whom she is. 

It makes me reflect on when I’ve been on the other end of this kind of dynamic. I have more sympathy for some - not all - former budding acquaintances who have found me ‘too much’ and decided to walk away from any potential friendship. I can’t always take it too personally. Sometimes there isn’t sufficient kismet to make it work.

Meanwhile, I endeavour to redirect attention from a lack of connection and relational false starts to investing time and energy into my meaningful Brussels friendships. Karin welcomes a new addition to the family in January; chubby-cheeked Nehemiah.  To her immense credit, she still makes time amidst the busyness to see friends. Her now middle child and only daughter, Evita has a mixed reaction to her new sibling. No longer being the youngest, she oscillates between devotion and her diva antics. I bear witness during an awkward meet up at a shopping centre with the whole family, including dad Felix. More than once, I've insinuated to Karin that it'll do Evita a lot of good no longer being the baby of the bunch. 

The following week we have a far calmer morning catch-up over hot drinks at an agreeable South American establishment, for which I have Karin to thank for the discovery.

(image courtesy of Knox Box)

My cultural highlights of the year so far have mostly been musical. In mid-January I attend a Brazilian Jam and Open Mic session at an intimate venue in central Brussels. It turns out to be a good opportunity to practise my Portuguese with some habitually welcoming Brazilians, as well as dust off the odd Bossa Nova tune. I take to the stage for a rendition of Berimbau/Consolação. I am not best pleased with my performance. I feel it’s pitchy and I am not as self-assured as I’d like. Nonetheless, the reception from the crowd and musicians is warm. I'm back for more the next month.

The following evening, I join a group of relative strangers - via Meet Up - for a night of raucous Karaoke fun. It's the bar-style set up which I've historically avoided (compared to the traditional Japanese private booths that I prefer). The venue is nevertheless not the dive I expect it to be and our group has a good rapport. Most of the singing that night can scarcely be qualified as such. Guilty pleasures abound, such as a fixation with ABBA's cheesier output (no shade on the Swedish quartet's repertoire overall), mixed in with some more respectable numbers. It tickles me no end to see drunken young men singing along to Rihanna or Linkin Park as if they're at a football match. Hussein, a member of my group, convinces me to join him in Rick-Rolling the whole room. I regret not signing up for a solo. It's more of a blast than I imagined.

Later that month, I’ll pop to Marolles for an event organised by another recent acquaintance, B-mol. I’ve long given up on hearing from him, when he reaches out to inform me of a weekly Afro Jam/Open Mic he’s hosting in the old Jewish district. A singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist himself, B-mol warms the crowd with both originals and covers before leaving the stage open to whoever wants to have a go. 

It’s not my intention to sing, just observe. 

Famous last words.

Before I know it, I’m jamming with the musicians to Sade classics and hopping on the mic for an impromptu Bill Withers/Arrested Development mash-up. I am surprised by how comfortable I am on stage. It must be the ambiance. It’s one of those gloriously enjoyable moments I couldn’t plan. B-mol - and his wife, Luna in particular - are most encouraging. Ditto for the audience and musicians. It’s a different atmosphere from the previous open mics/jam sessions I’ve attended in Brussels. The quality of musicianship and song choices are solid, compared to some of the more liberal events I’ve frequented (A couple of females kill it on the bass and drums to my utmost pleasure). Yet, there’s none of the cliqueyness or withholding elitism of the Jazz crowd. It's -so far - a happy medium between the two. Much kudos to B-mol for pulling it off, despite only moving to Belgium a mere few months before. I tell him  -sans hyperbole - that it’s the best of this style of event I’m yet to attend; certainly in the Brussels context. I hope to make it one of my regular hotspots.

By sheer happenstance, B-mol and I will cross paths once more on the metro the following afternoon.

Soundtrack: Best of 2022 mixes, Now by Astrud Gilberto, Tropikadelic by Ireke