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.

Ready or Not...Part I

 

Hamburg (courtesy of Reisroutes)

5 min. read

Hello, is anybody out there? 

Following a lengthy-ish summer hiatus from posting on LVC, it was always going to be tricky working out if/when to return. It’s not as if I have an army of subscribers eagerly awaiting my titbits. In the end, it’ll be the compulsion to write that will have me coming back despite myself.

I’ve enjoyed the respite; just living life without the obligation to document everything. The past couple on months or so have been so packed, it would have been a challenge in any case.

Let’s get the less pleasant aspects out of the way first...

 I am still job hunting. It’s not how I would have liked to spend the aestival months but needs must. I have one interview in late August, during my mother’s first Belgium visit (more on that later), with an anti-racist organisation. I love the sound of the role but taking it would mean a significant pay cut and a continuous search for something more financially sustainable. I am upfront about this in the interview. Some might question the wisdom of this. I can’t say I’d be so bold again. Nonetheless, it feels like the sensible thing to do at the time. The interview otherwise goes swimmingly (as far as I can tell). The feedback in the rejection email is very encouraging. Yet, it is still a refusal when all is said and done. Psycho-emotionally, it’s the usual rollercoaster; some days I feel plucky enough to weather the storm. Other days are so dark I can’t see past them.

There have been moments of reprieve. I take the all-night bus to Germany in mid-August to spend the long Assumption weekend with my dear friend, Coral. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh since early 2020, mere weeks before the global lockdowns. Meanwhile, she’s left Dresden and moved across the country to begin a new job and life season in Hamburg. 

I arrive early Saturday morning but we don’t step out until evening, it takes that long to catch up on our news (well, mainly me and my monologues). Not being familiar with Hamburg, it’s also a chance to be acquainted with what turns out to be an attractive city (the main train station notwithstanding). 

My good friend, Brenda – a Hamburg native – provides some culture tips beforehand. I cross most off my list thanks to a comprehensive city tour, Coral’s guidance and my own curiosity. I also benefit from Germany’s subsidised nationwide summer deal, thanks to which one can traverse the country for a mere nine euros all month.

It’s a soothing break. Coral’s great listening skills and sagacity are forever welcome. Plus, she spoils me rotten, not allowing me to pay for anything.

Shortly after my return to Brussels, I host my mother for the first time since I moved to Belgium. Owing to other commitments, I can only entertain mum for under a week. One of the few advantages of being between jobs is that I can focus on her visit.

I make an itinerary, including a city tour (also a first for me in Brussels), an evening at a traditional Belgian restaurant, a ramble around my local environs, an indispensable trip to the African quarter, Matongé and as many park visits as can be squeezed in. At some point I start feeling flu-like symptoms. I’m too nervous to test in case I have to self-confine. Neither can mum afford to be holed up in Belgian for an extra week. I wait to see how things progress. I do make a swift recovery, save for some coughing and sneezing. I remain masked up and persevere with showing mother dearest a good time.

To my relief, mum likes my Brussels accommodation, as different as it is from my Strasbourg residence. She enjoys her five day visit and promptly books a follow up in the Autumn. TBC.

The famous Matongé Mural (courtesy of Le Vif)

Almost immediately after mum’s departure, I’m off to Namur, Wallonia for my first ever silent Christian retreat. It’s on the condition that my symptoms have  subsided enough not to expose anybody else to risk. I’ll discover on arrival that there are elderly and immuno-compromised guests present.  It’s a tough call. It would’ve been incredibly depressing to quarantine in my flat, especially so soon after mum’s visit. (I do test when I get back to Brussels and it shows up Corona-free).

The journey to Namur is a little madcap. There aren’t many participants in possession of a car and none that live in Brussels. I’m supposed to travel with friend and former church member, Jana, courtesy of a lift offered by another participant living in Flanders. When our ride pulls out, we’re left floundering. Jana researches alternative train routes. By a hair’s breadth, I miss the connection which would have reunited us en route. I remain in touch with Jana by phone whilst I catch a different train.

There is one plus about missing my original connection. I’m not forced to travel with Lorenzo. Yes, it’s a bitter irony that I still run into him at the events in which I once encouraged him to participate whilst we were on good terms. I am thankfully forewarned by Jana that he’ll be attending, she being apprised of the decline in relations. I am not shocked by the news. There was always the outside possibility. I can’t pretend his presence has no impact on the experience. 

By chance, a few weeks before the retreat I speak to Melissa, the mutual friend who introduced me to Lorenzo. At the time I’m unaware of how much she knows about the state of play. A lot, it turns out. He had apparently given up on the friendship long ago, citing flimsy and at times even judgmental reasons, from what I glean from Melissa. 

The River Meuse, Namur (Routard)

He appears to share more with her by IM than he ever does with me on or offline. This revelation sparks a fresh wave of grief. During the retreat I alternate between being courteous but distant (not so hard with most of it spent in silence) or avoiding him altogether. Lorenzo, for his part, prefers the latter. From what I can tell, he's done his utmost to disassociate from me and the situation. It sticks in my claw to see him play the perfect gentleman with others. 

Anger, hurt and betrayal stir within me. 

Before we depart, I nevertheless slip a note under Lorenzo’s door, as encouraged by one of the retreat organisers in the know. It’s with much apprehension. Lorenzo and I are long past reconciliation. Besides, it can’t be a unilateral decision. I’m tired of consistently being the one to reach out; remembering his birthday for example when he can’t be bothered to do the same.

Still, I recognise we need to clear the air. It would otherwise be hypocritical, particularly before breaking bread for Holy Communion on the last day. Lorenzo does acknowledge the note but confesses he’s yet to read it. We have a couple more civil exchanges before everyone goes their separate ways. 

At the time of writing, Lorenzo is yet to respond to my brief letter. No remorse shown. From cowardice or callousness, I have no idea.  It is a needless reminder that this person is not – and probably was never – good for me.

Yet, despite this added challenge, it doesn’t define the getaway. The retreat has an aquatic theme, owing to the centre’s proximity to the River Meuse. The workshops, shared sessions and a temporary art installation all have a therapeutic effect.  I find genuine solace and rest within the comfortable accommodation as well as the scenic surroundings. I while away time in the chapel or sat by the Meuse. The weather continues to be kind, which will soon change when September arrives. It’s a delicious novelty not having anywhere to be; not to be a slave to my own self-imposed schedule. It's something I usually struggle to achieve, even on holiday. The serenity naturally makes it easier to connect with God, although it takes a moment to reach this point. 

The retreat is not perfect, nothing is. The available literature and music is very Eurocentric and male-dominated, for instance. I am the only non-European in the group. However, I have no regrets about attending. It enables me to turn down the volume of my mental traffic, even if I can't completely switch it off. 

Once that precious long weekend is over, I reflect on how to carry forward the tranquillity into my everyday life.

Part II

Autonomous

 

As summer inches forward, so creeps up the one year anniversary of my arrival in Belgium. In light of all that has happened in between, my feelings are mixed at best. May finds me crying often. My forehead aches from continual unconscious scowling and I feel as if I've aged in weeks.

I’m profoundly grateful to have a job, let alone meaningful employment, at a time like this. However bitter much of the relocation experience has been thus far, ultimately I don’t regret the move.

Nevertheless, I am not inured to the widely-felt exhaustion engendered by the pandemic. Despite the restrictions slowly easing, the isolation doesn’t let up. With the rules around travel to the UK remaining strict, the two hour train ride to St Pancras still feels a long way off. This only intensifies the alienation. 

My closest relationships are far away. Whereas, pre-pandemic, I would hop across the Channel to recalibrate, no such relief has been forthcoming for a solid year and a half. And counting. Compulsory teleworking has turned my flat, what should by my haven, into a semi-fortress. The bloom of spring, which should comfort, often feels like a mockery. Surrounded by trees and living in a flimsy building, I’ve seen more critters indoors than I would care to. It exacerbates the neurosis.

I’m sensitive at the best of times. These days I seem to take everything to heart. If someone doesn’t follow up on loose plans or is slow to respond to a text, it feels like a personal affront. My embryonic relationships are suddenly all thrown into doubt. It’s not as if it’s completely unjustified. Building community is always a case of trial and error but it feels as it has been an inordinately bad run. Too many of the interactions I’ve had so far were dead in the water. Too many people not acting out of good faith. Too many non-committal. Not enough opportunities to replace the negative with the positive because of lockdown restrictions.

Then again, I tell myself, it could be worse. Which of course is true. Not that it always helps. COVID19 somehow has managed to set the already low cosmic bar of a fallen world even lower.

One Saturday in mid-May, I attend a solidarity rally for the Palestinian people in central Brussels following the recent escalation of violence. This is one week before the tentative ceasefire following fighting that has left a dozen or so Israelis dead and 20 times as many Palestinians.

To attend the demo, I’ve taken time out of a week of various ‘singleness’ conferences, each of them reminding me why I spent years giving such events a wide berth. Speakers for whom being single is a mere abstract, given that they married in their early 20s. Others reinforcing essentialist views on gender; going so far as to rehearse now discredited theories of ‘male’ and ‘female’ brains. Pass. 

Showing my support for the Palestinian cause is a far better use of my time.

An estimated three thousand people show up to the demo over the course of a few hours. That’s a lot for a small country like Belgium. Jew and Gentile stand side by side. The multi-cultural, multi-faith crowd chant slogans against the Israeli occupation. Green, White, Red and Black flags are draped over monuments. Nimble young men clamber up statues and balconies, setting off canisters of multicoloured gas. The police stand impassively on the sidelines, as if they’re casual observers.

For a variety of reasons, the following week is emotionally intense. It’s another bouncing-off-the-walls season. I default to my survival mechanism. Agency. I hate feeling powerless. I do whatever is within my control to ameliorate my situation. Often that means a lot more autonomy. Auntie Carol flakes yet again on plans to visit Marché du Midi? I go it alone. She has a lot on her mind. Julius and Habiba have all but evaporated from the scene? Tant pis. As the sage American spoken word artist/rapper Propaganda says - a dictum that I often call to mind - ...Friends are like wars. You win some, you lose some and some were never yours.

Besides, nature abhors a vacuum. That can go either way. More recently, new acquaintance Lorenzo has stepped into the void and my heart is glad for it. He knows a thing or two about feeling disconnected in a big city. After many years in Brussels, several erstwhile friends have moved on with their own projects of which he’s mostly not a part.

To my pleasant surprise, he’s proactive about staying in touch. Having celebrated his birthday earlier in the month, I promise him a drink. We hang out two rainy weekends in a row around Avenue Louise and Flagey. This is the healthiest sustained interaction I’ve had with a man since moving to Brussels. It’s surely no coincidence that he’s not straight. What an unspeakable relief to know that friendship is all that is expected. Not feeling entitled to more or trying to manipulate his way to achieve it. I don’t know what the long term holds. For now, I’m appreciating the sense of ease I have around Lorenzo. It’s something of a novelty around these parts.

The weekend of the Pentecost holiday, I attend a brunch organised by Internations in my neck of the woods. Auntie Carol has also signed up, as has Cynthia, a fellow Londoner whom I’ve met recently on the site. We strike up an online conversation after she compliments my profile pic. However, plans to meet offline prove trickier. She has a young child. The brunch gives us an occasion to properly break the ice.

First impressions are promising.  We both grew up in South-East London. Her brother and I went to the same school, albeit several years apart. We both are partial to conversational tangents before finding our thread several digressions down the line.

I assumed from Cynthia’s profile that she was new to Brussels. Au contraire, she’s lived in the Belgian capital for a decade. She relocated to be with her Flemish husband. Now the ink is drying on the divorce, she’s beginning life afresh. She’s resilient but it’s obvious that the last few years have taken their relational toil. 

After an auspicious start, I hope her schedule will permit us to reconnect soon.

That evening, I pass by my colleague Steve and his wife Sylvia’s capacious Schaerbeek home for the first time. With the forecast rather ominous – as it has been all month-they don’t fancy another park ramble in the rain. We (mainly Sylvia and I) talk work, literature, COVID policies and online Glastonbury recommendations. Their youngest, Zoe, is also a Haim fan. That deserves a high-five.

I love their family. Theirs are one of the few genuine connections I’ve made since my arrival. It’s only in consideration to the demands of their domestic life that I don’t hang out with them more frequently.

The following day is Pentecost Monday. It’s another wet and windy morning. As has been the case for too long, my efforts to have an uninterrupted lie-in are scuppered by my own body clock. It’s as if despite the fatigue, my body is in constant fight-or-flight mode. I join the Morphē Arts collective prayer group as usual and for a little bit longer, not having to worry about work. I mutter prayers of gratitude under my breath for this initiative. I can’t imagine the last year without their spiritual and moral support.

I’m nevertheless in a weepy state. I leave self-pitying voice notes for my sis. I’m especially tender after an act of kindness to some Belgian acquaintances (of which I was uncertain in any case) seems to have been predictably rebuffed. Not that I should have expected anything at all.

I have to re-apply my make-up a number of times that morning before leaving my flat. I am heading for Gare du Midi.

I have had the foresight to book a day trip to Namur, in defiance of the bad weather. Better to brave the showers for a change of scenery than spend a familiarly miserable day on my own in Brussels. (When I tell Lorenzo of my solo plans, he’s less than enthused. He finds it too melancholy).

The night before my trip, I do some quick research. Namur is an ideal day trip destination. Everywhere of importance is accessible by foot.

Namur Citadel

I make it to Midi with time to spare. My train awaits. My make up is still running when I board. I feel old and notice, not for the first time, I’ve lost some of my spark. Damn COVID.

Having only given myself the afternoon to explore (rather be busy than bored), I focus my attention on the Citadel. A good thing too. Being a public holiday, the town is otherwise dead. I ask a woman for directions. She’s hesitant but her instructions turn out to be on the nose.

A decent visit to the Citadel is said to take up at least half a day. I also hope to squeeze in a tour of the fortress’ underground passages but can't find where to book. Never mind. Enough time is spent on the picturesque hike up the steep walls, especially with plenty of stops to enjoy the view. The rain has made way for sunny intervals. I watch as ski-lifts fly overhead. Down below are attractive views of the town and its rivers. I already feel better for having had an excuse to leave the flat. It's not a wasted day. The site is dotted with Franco-Flemish accounts of the fortress’ construction and conversion from military to touristic use. There are more signs of life near the top with restaurants and the Four Seasons Garden.

I decide to treat myself to a late lunch at the well-named Panorama restaurant, with its belle vista. The biggest disappointment of the day comes in the form of the over-priced snack I order, assuming it’s a proper meal. I’m typically too tight-fisted to treat myself on a day trip. It’s irritating that it’s such a let down the one time I do. I buy a chocolate waffle to cheer myself up and leisurely make my way back to the town centre. I stumble across a short cut along the Citadel’s walls. I have enough time to pop in for a meditative moment in a couple of the historic churches. Alas, St Jean’s Église is under construction. A boys’ choir and orchestra perform in the inviting Saint-Loup church. A few of us catch snatches of the show behind the glass doors. So much for contemplative silence. 

Oh well. At least there’s no worry of being late for my return train.

Soundtrack: S. Fidelity -  Fidelity Radio Club