Summer in Full Effect: Part 2

 5 min. read

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

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@The Illusion Museum 
(image by MFD)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rites, Rituals and Milestones

7 min. read 

Image taken from Wedding Sparrow

The month of May is engulfed in busyness and significant events before I know it. Most notably, I return to the UK for the wedding of a dear friend, Winston. It’s such a special occasion that sis flies in for it from East Asia. Mum – an ‘adopted’ auntie of Winston’s - is also invited and thrilled at the prospect.

The trip has been on our radar for several months.

By the time the travel date rolls round, I’m in another deep life funk. I need the excuse to step away from the impasse in Belgium. What better reason than to celebrate with Winston and his soon to be bride, Shingai. I have already had the privilege of meeting this quietly remarkable woman last Autumn. I envisage myself appropriating her as a friend by virtue of their union.

Winston is from the Midlands, Shingai London-born and bred. To my great relief, the wedding will also be London-based. For entirely selfish reasons, it’s a load off not having to consider further travel and accommodation costs.

I book my ticket with a view to being gainfully-employed and having to work from home during the break. Since that doesn’t materialise, I’m left with a few extra days in London town. On the outbound journey, I arrive too late for plebs like me to board the train. It’s the first – and I pray only – time this has occurred. I underestimate the timing of the commute and encountering issues in transit. To my disgust, I learn that Eurostar’s early-boarding requirement has nothing to do with safety. The rules are different for those affluent enough to pay for business class.

Fortunately, I am able to rebook on the next train without extra cost, although it means arriving at St. Pancras very late.

The first few days of the trip are largely devoted to putting the finishing touches to our individual wedding styles. I’ve decided to go in traditional West African attire. My cream and violet outfit is already good to go. Little do I know mum and sis have been conspiring on how best to accessorise me.

On the morning of the wedding itself, our best laid plans to make the ceremony on time go awry. It takes substantially longer to prepare than we anticipate. Sis helps me and mum with some final make-up flourishes. The results are pretty spectacular, if I must say so myself. Our cab pulls up to the church just as the bride is making her entrance to Boyz II Men’s version of Ribbon in the Sky. We’re not the only stragglers who are made to drop back, so that we’re not caught on camera during this magical moment.

We’re permitted to make a mercifully discreet dash upstairs to the gallery. We spot Winston down below, dressed in an unconventional groom suit. Good for him. No hint of hesitation on his part regarding the commitment he’s about to make.

The building is filled to the rafters. The jubilation is palpable. Guests whoop and cheer as if we’re at a rock concert. With Winston and Shingai both being musically inclined, it’s no surprise that their guests are also. The officiating minister bursts into song at some point, demonstrating his own mellifluous tenor. I spot superstar choir director, Karen Gibson, amongst the crowd. A small (professional) Gospel group leads the praise and worship. I’m in my element as the harmonies from the audience sore up effortlessly. It’ll be the same during the reception.

The euphoria is tempered by a memorial segment dedicated to the couple’s late fathers, Winston only losing his dad a few months prior.

During the sermon(s), there’s more talk about wifely submission than is comfortable. (Funny how ministers readily overlook the same scripture’s admonition for couple’s to submit mutually.) As the couple are about to kiss, sis reaches for her phone to immortalise the moment. It dawns on her that the device has slipped out whilst leaving the taxi. Initially quite Zen about the temporary loss, she’ll become less serene as the day wears on. It’s a lot of palaver arranging the phone's return, which will have to wait for later that weekend.

Aside from this mini-drama and the cold overcast weather, it’s a glorious day. Mum, sis and I have made it on to the guestlist for the reception many miles away, in deepest darkest North London. It’ll take us the best part of an hour to get back by cab at the end of the night.

Caribbean delicacies and much joyous singing and dancing await. The reception overruns by two and a half hours; a surfeit of speeches, spontaneous merriment before the dancefloor is officially open, and so on. Please bear with us, Winston implores, This is nearly 40 years in the making.

We’re seated at a table with Winston’s old university friends, including Tonderayi; his now married-ex and (by coincidence) mutual friend of Shingai. Tonde and I have met and spoken several times. She once provided graphic design support way back when I used to run musical showcases in the Big Smoke. We’ve lost touch over the years, however. Given the current life season I’m in, I’m reluctant to engage in much conversation.

(image courtesy of Flawless Food)

In many ways, this characterises the day. Bitter-sweet. On one hand, it’s a wonderful occasion. Winston and Shingai are impressive in their own right but together, they are positively dynamic. The amount of love for them in the room attests to that. I can only imagine how much of the community their union will bring together. They are those kind of people. They already have almost 20 godchildren between them. They claim it comes from being single for so long. (Not that that theory seems to have applied to yours truly).

I admire what a well-rounded, good-natured individual Shingai is from the little I’ve observed. Hearing her share part of her story during the reception is a personal highlight. She had all but given up on settling down just before she and Winston became an item. The epic tale of how they came together- several years in the making – reads like a rom-com.

The party element of the reception does not disappoint, thanks to a canny DJ spinning Gospel, classic R&B, Drum & Bass, Dancehall, a slither of Garage and (too little) Afrobeats. He challenges us to a marathon stint of the Electric Slide/Candy dance as he switches tracks. I participate with gusto. It's been too long.

Whilst waiting for our taxi home, I hear strains of Tevin Campbell’s Can We Talk? and rush back in. Unusually, the couple aren’t in a hurry to leave. They’re on the dancefloor, mixing and mingling well into the evening. At almost midnight, the venue are desperate to kick us out. The wedding cake remains decorative as the catering staff refuse to cut and distribute.

Bitter-sweet. The day is also marked by those who could not be there. Sis contemplates the passage of time, whilst watching a group of teenagers on the dancefloor. That was me once, she ponders. Christenings, funerals, weddings, significant birthdays... life's milestones will do that to you. It turns out to be that kind of trip overall. Many a pensive moment. 

I consider all I hoped to be and I’m yet to attain at this stage of life.

Despite my best efforts to cultivate self-care and inner-healing, concern for me is written all over mum and sis’ face. There are a few tense family interactions, for which I cannot solely be blamed.

I do manage to catch up with a number of other good friends. The old question of in whom I should be investing re-emerges when an already elusive acquaintance finds it hard to commit to a meet-up, yet again. 

Nonetheless, when all is said and done, I’ll remember that the wedding itself was a joy. The sweet overrides the bitter. I don’t wish to make it all about the marriage, as much as it is a cause for celebration. It's more than that. Thinking of Winston and Shingai is an instant pick-me-up, especially during despondent moments. It’s not been an easy road for either of them but they’ve remained kind and generous individuals. Whether or not they found it each other, they deserve every happiness. It’s an encouraging story of God’s faithfulness, as well as their own integrity.

Ostende

Apart from weddings and catch-ups, I also make it to a couple of political and economic conferences whilst in town.

Sis and I return to our respective adoptive homes on the same day, purely by chance. Mum escorts sis to Heathrow (since she has further to go). I make it back to Brussels hassle-free, the low level dread of the grind notwithstanding.

On the other side of the Channel, in between the continued job hunt, my political and cultural excursions remain undiminished. After a late and underwhelming spring, the weather is clement throughout this period. 

A few days after my return, I join the Intal group for a decolonised guided trip around Ostende. The following weekend, Flora - a member of Intal - talks me into attending another (this time poorly-organised) meeting on her behalf, arranged by a partner association. It also happens to be the first day of Brussels’ annual Jazz weekend. I’m not best pleased that the meeting overruns and eats into my other evening plans. By the time I make it out, what's on offer doesn't inspire. 

A couple of days later, I’ll be compensated with a rewarding experience at the Bourse free stage in the company of Strasbourg's Emile Londonien’s Jazz-Funk trio and R&B act K.zia, daughter of the renowned Belgo-Congolese artist, Zap Mama.

That same weekend, there are more fun and frolics to be had at the Core Festival, tickets for which are a gift from sis. 

I count all these simple pleasures amongst my blessings. Thank God for small mercies.

A Jazzed-Up Spring

 7 min. read

Two years on from the last lockdown, there are things I am still discovering about life in Brussels. It’s been nearly three years since my relocation but it feels that I’ve only properly started to get a measure of the socio-cultural calendar as of 2022. One thing I’m coming to understand is how much the brighter, warmer seasons are accompanied by music. Beyond what have become my regular haunts, there are numerous festivals. These include the Brussels Jazz Weekend at the end of May, as well as the Fête de la Musique in late June. Jazz appears to have pride of place during this seasonal shift. Well-known establishments like L'Archiduc launch a programme of weekly (mostly free) concerts featuring artists from all over the world, for instance. I take advantage of this gratis entertainment; whether flying solo or with acquaintances. 

One weekend at the end of April, I drop in on a live competition for young, up-and-coming artists at Le Senghor cultural hub. I recognise most of the Jazz contingent from my relatively brief exposure to the scene so far.

Whilst I’d always have been keen on such artistic indulgences, they have been a lifeline as I navigate the limbo that is currently my life.

As I write, I’m still waiting for the outcome of an interview I had on Good Friday. It’s been well over a month. At this point, that’s just plain rude. 

The interview itself seemed to go well enough and the panel appeared eager to fill the role quickly. I suspect they’ve gone with another candidate and simply forgotten to inform me. It's unprofessional, not to mention inauspicious. Seen in that light, it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise that they didn't recruit me. 

Still, the lack of clarity is unsettling. I wasn’t over-invested in the job but neither was I indifferent. I thought I’d struck a good balance. 

A few days after mum returns to the UK following her Easter visit, I realise that the uncertainty has affected me more than I thought. I increasingly struggle with gut-churning angst at the start of the week, to the point of having physical symptoms. The Monday after mum’s departure, and a few days past the deadline given by the potential employer, my psycho-emotional state takes a slow but noticeable dive. This depressive episode takes longer to lift, despite my efforts. There’s not much that can be done but to ride it out as best as I can.

And so I return as always to music as a solace. It can be as much a means for me to connect with the Divine as more traditional Christian fellowship. 

I don’t confine my appetite for live music to Jazz. For one thing, that crowd is too exclusive. Jazz musicians -and to an extent, audiences - tend to be withholding in their affirmation. 

One evening, after a meeting with the social action team at church, I pass by central Brussels for the monthly Brazilian jam at Café Merlot. I don’t necessarily intend to sing that night. However, the atmosphere is so laidback and conducive, I end up performing a couple of Lusophone classics. 

I frequent the weekly Afro-Jam in Marolles at least once a month. One of the regulars, a Belgo-Cameroonian curiously called Roland-Heinrich – has taken a shine to me. He has committed to memory almost everything I’ve said to him, whereas our interactions have barely registered with me. When he asks to swap numbers, I’m apprehensive. I’m not romantically attracted to him and our exchanges are unremarkable. Then again, it’s better if I’m not overly-committed. I can chalk it up to experience; a social experiment. 

Roland-Heinrich wants to meet up immediately. I tell myself it’s better to get it out of the way. I have a window that Sunday afternoon, anyway. The Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) have organised a solidarity barbeque that same day, focusing on the cost of living crisis. I can meet Roland afterwards.

The BBQ itself is more relaxed and informal than I expect. There’s more emphasis on food and fraternising than political education. I’m just content to be a member of a party that isn’t afraid to embrace radical policies and denounce imperialism. Whilst the PTB proudly owns its Marxist roots, you don’t have to be one to find a home here. If the present British electoral system allowed this choice, such a party would surely attract anybody to the Left of the current rightward drift in mainstream politics-the Labour Party included. Parties like PTB appeal to those willing to challenge the Neo-Liberal consensus or left homeless after the Pasokification of so many mainstream centre-Left European parties; socialist in name only.

(Image courtesy of Thermo Fisher Science)

Guests leave the BBQ promptly once sufficiently fed. I stick around until the end, more out of politeness. My interlocutors have drifted off and I don’t fancy trying to integrate myself into groups already deep in conversation. I’m not a fan of small talk, especially in French.

I take a leisurely stroll towards town and still arrive far earlier than I’m scheduled to meet Roland-Heinrich. He doesn't live in Brussels. I either didn’t know or forgot. 

I pass by L'Archiduc to confirm there’s a free concert that evening. I’d already suggested it to Roland. It saves us wasting time finding something to do. 

Whilst waiting at De Brouckere, a man approaches me. He has that poetic directness that I've come to associate with being chatted up in mainland Europe. His name is Aziz. He’s in a wheelchair and appears to have some kind of palsy, which makes his speech sometimes difficult to understand. We nevertheless have a pleasant and innocently flirtatious exchange, much to the bemusement of a group of men sitting nearby. Aziz asks if his disability would be a problem. Instinctively, I say ‘no’. I’m uncomfortable with the framing of the question. We’re all made in God’s image, I reply. Yet, whilst it’s not the sole consideration, I do demure politely (with a smile) when Aziz asks for my number. I’m wracked by guilt that some ableism might be at play. Either way, Aziz seems quite pleased with how the interaction has gone. I thank him for the compliments and kiss him on the cheek before he moves off.

Roland-Heinrich shows up shortly afterwards. 

A multi-instrumentalist himself, he appreciates the musicianship as we catch the tail-end of the free gig at L'Archiduc. Once the music is over, the venue clears out almost entirely. 

Roland-Heinrich swiftly moves towards making his intentions known. He lists all his credentials (a paediatrician with a MSc from an American Ivy League institution. A stint with UNICEF...). Whilst I welcome honesty and commend his expressed appreciation of black women, I'm unhappy at how quickly the conversation takes this turn. We barely know each other and his interest in me seems largely based on the physical. That's far too little on which to go by for him to be making grand declarations. I feel obligated to itemise all the reasons why I’m not interested in him beyond the platonic. By the end of the night, even vague ideas of friendship are less appealing. 

Roland-Heinrich isn't taking no for an answer. I suspect he plans to bide his time.  I dislike that pressure and let him know outright. Apart from the absence of any physical attraction from my side, I don’t see much compatibility beyond our shared enthusiasm for music. Roland-Heinrich's far too comfortably indifferent about my political interests. He also comes with particular baggage. He has a young daughter living overseas. I love children but have my own personal reasons for not wanting to wade into that kind of situation. Roland-Heinrich replies that 'at our age' (he's quite a few years younger than me), there tend to be more complications. On the contrary, I riposte. I know several childless men in their 30s, 40s and older. Roland's attitude towards the mother of his child also leaves a lot to be desired. He seems to think that by being dismissive of her, this would win me over. Nope. 

Speaking to a dear male friend on the phone the next day, he assures me my appraisal of the non-date was not too harsh. On reflection, I’d rather not hang out with Roland-Heinrich again, even for politeness' sake. It just means things would be awkward if/when we see each other at the Afro Jam.

There’s more political engagement that week at the annual Worker’s Holiday festival in central Brussels (1 May). I’ve volunteered to help run the stand for Intal; an internationalist anti-colonial, peacebuilding initiative that I’ve recently joined. They have no shortage of folk willing to help but it’s a long shift. The more personnel to relieve the pressure, the better. 

I’m new to Intal. As I ease into the task, I need the more experienced members to be at hand. I eventually hit my stride, nonetheless. I feel useful and have a lot of fun. From my experience thus far, the Intal crew are a warm bunch.  I purchase a T-shirt commemorating the 50^th anniversary of Allende’s thwarted revolution in Chile. One lad from PTB’s junior collective approaches me at the stand, assuming I’m only slightly older than his 22 years. 

Why, were you trying to recruit me? I ask, chuffed at the thought. His response is ambiguous, a tad bashful. It’s been that kind of (long) weekend. When it comes to male attention, it tends to be feast or famine.

Later that evening, I connect with Dawn- a good acquaintance from church. Whilst she's lived in Belgium twice as long as I have, we've both had our seasons of feeling relationally disconnected. 

Dawn initially makes plans for a get-together with a larger group. She valiantly perseveres as others drop out. 

And then there were two. It works out fine all the same.

Soundtrack: Love2 by Reel People, Love is Energy by EMAMKAY.

Summer Diary: Part 2

 6 min. read

Tues. 5 July: I bump into Guy-the-Braggard again at a language exchange. It's my first time at said event. We lock eyes as he speaks to another guest. I pretend not to know him. Not very Christian, I'm aware. Strange, as I had planned to be honest with him about the bad impression he left a few days ago. Perhaps nobody has called him up on it. Or he surrounds himself with like-minded egos. Try to make amends on leaving but he’s long gone. Otherwise, a good night. Get some French practice and a little Portuguese with a Brazilian woman whose attention Guy has been commandeering earlier. A Scot with whom I recently became acquainted, breaks the news that Rishi Sunak and Sajid Javid have walked out on Boris Johnson’s cabinet.
By the end of the week, coordinated mass resignations force BoJo to quit as PM.

Fri. 8 July: Another rewarding afternoon at the Red Cross PSA Centre. Even at my lowest, it always picks me up. Just to be able to meet, in some small way, the momentary needs of those who have suffered – and continue to suffer – more than I can imagine. I understand it’s only temporary relief and not systemic change. But when that merciless system continues to treat certain migrants and refugees with contempt, I like to believe we play our part in affirming their dignity. Besides, meeting short term needs doesn't mean one can't have their eye on long term transformation.

Today, a healthy café chain has donated posh salads and sandwiches. Warmly received by the beneficiaries. 

Irresistibly cute sisters, Rachel and Celestina are scampering about, very happy with themselves. They're the youngest children of one of the regulars, originally from Albania. There are six older siblings. Their mother is so slight, a strong bowel movement might split her in half, let alone bearing eight children. We're all amazed by this feat.

Rachel insists she’s 7. I'm not buying it. She calls her mum over to confirm. I smile but still not convinced. Rachel is feisty and definitely as sharp as an older child but still...The petite family trait aside, I’d say 4-5 years old, tops.  They have their reasons for concealing her real age.

The RC Centre is en route to my therapist, Sandrine. Recently given to booking sessions the same day I’m in the vicinity. Always an emotional commute. Obligated to pass the neighbourhood of my former Italian friend. Involuntarily stirs all those complex feelings.

The hour flies by. So busy catching up Sandrine on my latest mood dips, don’t get round to the childhood stuff. Still, I’m relieved and grateful to be able to discuss my issues with a professional.

Sat. 9 July: Arranged to meet with Albertina, an acquaintance of Karin who’s involved in disability rights’ campaigns. I'm interested in volunteering opportunities.  It's not as ‘sexy’ as other issues despite the huge number of people living with disabilities worldwide. Often at the back of the queue, even amongst so-called progressives. If the voices of those living with disabilities were at the centre of policymaking, everybody would benefit. Been challenged by an interview I watched not too long ago with advocate Amanda Leduc, where she criticises mere lip service to disability rights without doing the ground work.

Lovely afternoon at a Colombian café with Albertina. Let’s me know the lay of the land vis-à-vis disability campaigning in Belgium. Also an opportunity to hear her own story; her early years in Italy, of how she came to work in human rights, her multilingualism and why she and her Togolese husband relocated to Belgium.

After chat with Albertina, I pass by a funk workshop at Parc Royale. Part of a summer festival. Participants are mainly maladroit Caucasians, excited about discovering rhythm. Tutors are an older African-American and a young Belgian woman. She has a better all-round groove but his popping game is sharper. DJ spins some old school Hip-Hop Funk, including Redhead Kingpin & The FBI's Do The Right Thing. Feels as if I haven’t heard it since Spike Lee’s film of the same name was released. I’m so old, I bemoan.

One of the maladroit Caucasians approaches me for a dance. Apparently, he’s been watching me groove on the sly in my deck chair. I politely refuse. He wonders if I’m shy.  He'd usually be, he confesses. It’s not a question of shyness. What I don’t say is that his over-zealous relationship with rhythm would make for a cringe-inducing dance partnership. I don't burst his bubble, though.

Another dance-related event awaits, at the elaborate beach-themed pop-up bar, Terrasse 02; near Bois-de-la-Cambre. It’s heaving. Most are dressed to the nines. In my usual smart-casual gear and still feel slightly-underdressed. By sheer fortune, I stumble across the activity organiser and a few other guests. Neglectful host... Abandons us to hang out with some mates he knows from Facebook. That’s his style, I'm told. 

A couple of us admire a petite brunette dancing solo, wearing a resplendent coral mini-dress and golden stiletto sandals. 

Seems very content on her own, sipping from her glass of Moet between puffs of successive cigarettes. She warms the dancefloor long before anyone else joins her. She's prematurely aged by sun damage. From the distance, it gives the false impression that she's a much older woman showing the youngsters how to do it.  

She coaxes other ladies on to the floor, doing some suggestive girl-on-girl dancing (clearly for the hetero males in the vicinity). 

I eventually make my way towards the DJ for Daft Punk’s Get Lucky. Speak to Miss Coral-Dress. She confirms she's by herself. Joined by others from our group. We compliment her élan and carefree attitude. It’s for the love of the music. You have to…

...I agree. 

 If Miss Coral-Dress came alone, she doesn’t leave alone; vanishing with an apparent suitor, significantly larger in both height and girth. 

I dance some more and make conversation with a couple of affable guests. A good end to what threatened to be an underwhelming night.

Sun. 10 July: Attend the afternoon service at Trinity Anglican Church for a change of scene. Appreciate the Pan-African style of Praise & Worship. Led by a young woman with a crystalline, baby-doll voice. Gives me a rush of nostalgia as they dust off choruses I haven’t heard in forever. A good break from the Bethel/Hillsongs/Redman Hegemony. Feels as if I interact with God differently, too.

That evening, to stave off the solitary Sunday evening blues, head to Parc Royale for the Kiosk Radio live broadcast. Have Jens to thank for the idea, even though I decide to go without him. 

 Most guests are too busy chatting or poisoning the air with fag and weed smoke to pay attention to music. Whilst waiting for a dance-worthy track, I use the opportunity to practise mindfulness. In the end, I take a leaf out of Miss-Coral-Solo-Dancer’s book and let the rhythm carry me.

Text Jens to thank him for the culture tip. Replies that he’s recovering from COVID. Symptoms began a day after we met at the Brosella festival. Uh-oh.

Terrasse 02 (La Capitale- Sudinfo

Mon. 11 July: After usual morning Zumba and Pilates classes, I catch up with dear friend from Strasbourg days, Gustavo. He asks how I am. I burst into tears. Just received news of another unsuccessful job application. Didn’t realise I was that upset about it. Feeling generally overwhelmed. Gustavo is a man of strong faith and preternaturally easygoing. Says he considers it a privilege that I would cry in his presence. Well, if I had to breakdown in front of somebody...

Some positive news today: I test negative for COVID.

Tues. 12 July: After requesting a GP referral to physio for some tension in my back, have first appointment this afternoon. Expecting a mature gentleman, slightly world-weary (for some reason); stereotypical pale Belgian features. Instead, physiotherapist is an enthusiastic swarthy young gentleman, who happens to be fit in every sense of the word. Great quality skin. Smooth, firm biceps. No tattoos. On one hand, delighted at the thought of a pretty man in his prime giving me a massage. On the other, it’s a heatwave. I’m sweaty. Make-up is running. Worse still, there’s to be no massage. Just strengthening exercises to be practised at home. The kind I’d do in Pilates. Except I’m not appropriately dressed in T-shirt and joggers. Forced to test out exercises in a Baby-T and elaborate summer skirt.

Evening ends more propitiously, thank goodness. Invited round for dinner at Sylvia and Steve’s. Some friends old and new are visiting. In attendance: Charlie, who will be house-sitting whilst Steve, Sylvia and the tribe are on summer hols; the similarly-named Charlene, Steve’s Franco-Belgian language exchange partner (it's the first time they’re meeting offline); Brandon – a childhood friend of Steve’s – and his girlfriend Hannah. Both international school teachers, just moved from Indonesia. Passing through Europe before starting new jobs, somewhere else in East Asia.

The food is sumptuous. A collective effort by the clan. Steve and Sylvia’s eldest, Shireen won’t let us forget it. (Going through the sarcastic insecure phase of adolescence.)

Weather is lovely. The company is great. Meal is healthy. Ideal for my no-meat-on-weekdays policy. Wasn't previously a fan of Indian food but Sylvia could well convert me.

Practise some French with Charlene. Since most of us have a Brit connection, conversation often returns to what’s going on across the Channel; reminiscing about Routemasters and Bendy Buses; lamenting the encroachment of gentrification in big cities, spiralling rent costs and political chaos.

I have to make it work in Brussels, somehow. I think out loud.

Yes you do, chimes in Sylvia.

Soundtrack: My JT Mix, Estrela Acesa by Sessa

Summer Diary: Part 1

 5 min. read

Weds. 29 June 2022: Gloria from Internations organises after-work drinks at a new bar in Flagey called The Gatsby. Turns out to be an alcohol-free establishment (although shisha smoking is indulged). For obvious reasons, I'm fine sans alcool, although it causes some consternation amongst a number of guests.  

Inside, it's all emerald green décor. Love the commitment to replicating the aesthetic of Fitzgerald’s literary classic – a personal favourite. Lovely ambiance; large flatscreen footage of dream tropical destinations. Speakers spill out calming and familiar Bossa Nova covers of Pop and Soul. The tee-total cocktails and smoothies are inviting, although price tag is comparatively high. Order a cheaper but still overpriced Lipton Ice. Strike up conversation with a genial half-Belgian, half-Brazilian polyglot, Emmanuella who has just moved back after a long stint in Spain. We’re joined later by Rik; an older, acerbic Englishman. He’s lived in Belgium for roughly the same time I’ve been alive. The sarcasm is too readily dispensed, though. Reminds me of the Oscar Wilde quip about the lowest form of wit... In hindsight, feel I’m too cordial about it. Maybe it’s because it’s our first proper conversation. I do protest when he takes a swipe at Sade whilst an interpretation of Your Love is King plays in the background.

Gloria – a fellow non-drinker herself – heeds her alcohol-deprived public and heads out to look for somewhere that sells booze and food. That’s my cue to head home. 

Thurs. 30 June:

A rude awakening. This month’s unemployment benefit comes through, significantly lower than expected. Was anticipating a drop but thought it started from late July. Once the essentials are paid, for the first time since this bout of joblessness, I wonder how I’m going to make ends meet the following month. Have a bit of a meltdown, prayers between tears. Job market is already sluggish. Slows down even more with the impending summer lull. Thankfully, much of my non-gratis summer activities have been paid in advance- when things weren't as constrained. Back then, I believed I’d already be back in work by early summer.

Herbie Hancock at Arena5 in the evening. An outdoor gig on the one day of the week when the weather is awful. Gloria is somewhere in the audience, as are a number of other Internations regulars. Hear word that they’re disgruntled about the venue’s poor organisation. Staff confiscate large umbrellas and there are not enough windbreakers to go round. Herbie deserves better, they say. The man himself is good-humoured about it all. Shame about disappointing weather but grateful to have caught an elderly living legend in action.

Fri. 1 July: Officially entered my birthday month. Hopefulness I felt after returning from the UK in June is slipping away. Not enough substantial change in my material circumstances, despite best efforts. Heavy blow to morale. Speak to mum about it on the phone. She shares my frustrations but her faith is robust.  Her prayers are very welcome.

Spend afternoon with Stéphanie; a transwoman I befriended last year. Been hesitant to put thoughts down on paper about our friendship, due to the sensitive nature of conversations. Stéphanie is often in extreme distress. More optimistic today however, looking forward to another round surgery. Over the weekend Stéphanie will call on the verge of tears. No family members willing or available to help with drop off and pick up from hospital in deep Wallonia. I don’t drive and Stéphanie insists it’s too difficult a journey by public transport. My morning prayer group suggest pooling resources together for a cab. Very proud of their kind gesture but by then, Stéphanie has already gone under the knife. We stay in touch during the recovery period, which proves even more complicated on a physical and psychological level.

Friday night: Invited round for dinner by Ludwig. Guest list is comprised of polyglots and/or linguaphiles, according to him. Assume he’s exaggerating.  He's not. Most in attendance speak at least four languages, with the host himself a hyper-polyglot (10 and counting). My linguistic tally is three-ish, if I’m being generous. Oh well. Already made my peace with leaving behind childhood dream to speak five languages to a high standard. Too many variables in the way. Only so much time and natural talent. I’ll be content to speak those I already know well.

French is the default for the evening. Would usually welcome the practice but super-tired and not on top form. I enjoy talking about language. I have a Masters in Linguistics. But this lot take it to another level.

Vegetarian meal is good; amazing starter. Ludwig has been customarily modest about his culinary skills. Modesty could not be attributed to one of his guests, Guy. A chronic braggard if I've ever had the misfortune to meet one. (Find out later from Ludwig that it’s an invitation he comes to regret.)

Can’t work out if it’s natural arrogance or the reverse side of insecurity. A few tell-tale signs suggests it's the latter. Much of a muchness, anyway. Never cease to be amazed by the extent to which some lack self-awareness. Mr Cocky will use any pretext to self-aggrandise. He's also a sanctimonious vegan – the worst kind. Boasts about his ‘gluten-free, no-waste, vegan-friendly’ brownies. He offers them long after everyone has eaten. I have a bona fide excuse. I’m stuffed. I could take some home, though I figure it would be cheeky, given my low opinion of their baker. His behaviour is a stark contrast to the other males in the room; namely Ludwig and younger guest Ramón. Also a gifted multi-linguist, the difference in behaviour is night and day. Ramón is kind enough to give a few of us a lift home.

Appreciate Ludwig opening up his home but have mixed feelings about a mentally exhausting evening. 

Sun. 3 July: Efforts to keep a low profile at church don’t quite work out. End up being sandwiched between two acquaintances; one of whom keeps disturbing me during the sermon to ask questions. Sundays take more emotional and psychological exertion these days than I can muster. Firm believer in fellowship but this season in particular, prefer smaller gatherings.

On the way back, Jake from my house group stops for a chat on the metro. Genuinely pleased to see him, ironically. Relieved even. It’s one-to-one, away from the (perceived) pressure to be upbeat after service. Jake is a gentle soul. He gets it. I leave the conversation refreshed.

Sunday night. I’m back again in the locality of the Atomium, a stone’s throw from where Herbie and his band have played a few days prior.  For the Brosella music festival, this time. Weather is much better. I realise at the last minute that Jazz-Harpist Brandee Younger is on the line up. Decide to hang around for her pre-finale set.

The whole event is class. The ‘children’s stage’ for example, is no watered-down substitute. More intimate but no less sophisticated.

A Flemish fellow named Jens randomly strikes up conversation. Sense some romantic interest on his end that I’m not willing to humour. However, happy to discuss music with someone who has a sound and broad knowledge. Sorely missed since moving to Brussels. For a city with its musical reputation,  met too few aficionados. 

Jens and I get so carried away, we're shushed by others in audience. I try to be quiet for Brandee's set.

Exchange some details with Jens (no more than an email address from me at this point). Not sure how willing I am to follow through. Generally cagey about making new acquaintances whilst I’m still healing from past disappointments. Head home after Brandee Younger wraps up.

Jens takes a break from the show to walk me to the tram stop and waits until it arrives.

Soundtrack: Gifts & Sacrifices by Heidi Martin