Blackouts, Picnics and The Joy of Conversation

One morning in late March, I awake earlier than usual after a fitful sleep. I switch on my computer. No internet. Nothing untoward about that. Sometimes it takes a while to warm up. Then I notice that my plug extension hasn’t lit up. I try to turn on my bedside lamp. Rien.

I assume it’s a general blackout and go to check the lights on the communal corridor. All’s well on that front. I politely accost one of my neighbours later, who confirms he’s had no issues.

I brave a cold shower in the dark. It’s hours before the electricity company’s switchboard will be open or before any of my colleagues are fully awake. No internet means no work. Cafés, restaurants, library workstations, or anywhere else that might have wi-fi, are still off limits under current COVID-restrictions. It’s one of several downsides to compulsory teleworking during a pandemic. You can’t get anything done if there’s a hitch.

The timing is particularly bad. I am due to co-faciliate a two-day work shop on ILO Convention 190 with my colleagues. Thankfully, my main slot isn’t until day two.

After a few failed attempts to contact my manager Ama, and colleague Demetria, the latter eventually calls back. I’m reliant on her to inform the others, which she duly does.

I call the electricity company. The helpful customer service rep tries to talk me through a few preliminary measures, in hopes of resolving the issue without a technician. The problem is, I can’t locate the electricity metres. When I moved in, it took so long for the estate agent to find them himself, I switched off (excuse the pun) once he did. By the time I do stumble upon the metres, I’ve been passed on to a less patient rep, who makes a meal of me not being a native Francophone. An electrician is called out. It’ll be several hours before he passes by. In the meanwhile, I do what I can offline. I kill some time reading outdoors, to escape my flat. It’s a mild day.

When the technician arrives, the problem is depressingly simple to solve. Just the flick of a switch above my metre. It’s after midday when I manage to reconnect for work. The first day’s webinar is almost over.

Later, I’ll discover none of the lights are working in the bathroom and the washing machine won’t come on. Another electrician is called out the following day. Once again, the issue is resolved by the flick of a switch. At least now I know. Both times I offer the technicians a hot drink for their trouble.

The main thing is I’m back online in time for the second day’s workshop. Between International Women’s Day and various other gender-related global conferences, March has been hectic for my team. It has also been especially rewarding on the professional front. It’s nearly nine months since I’ve joined *TTUO's Equality department. I feel myself being stretched and challenged in the best possible way. In addition to my usual duties, I am approached to draft an article for a trade union journal. I am asked to make an intervention at an online conference on the Care Economy for one of France’s largest workers’ organisations. I co-write the TTUO’s official statement for the UN’s International Day Against Racial Discrimination. Ama confirms that my contract will be renewed for another six months, subject to my approval. Heck, yeah.

*The Trade Union Organisation

Setting aside the frustrations of remote working, I am well aware of how privileged I am. First, to have work when millions are facing economic precarity. Moreover, to have a job that is fulfilling and pertinent to the issues that matter to ordinary people. Thank you, Jesus.

Offline, things are slowly starting to pick up, if in fits and starts. Belgian authorities have tightened restrictions once again after a disturbing surge in infections. One must seize the opportunities that still remain.

The last weekend in March, I meet up once more for a jaunt around Parc Josephat with my colleague Steve, his wife Sylvia and their brood. We’ve bonded these past months over our shared experience relocating to Belgium during the pandemic as Brit nationals. I love their family. Sylvia, a writer by trade, is a particularly good raconteuse. Her anecdotes draw you in like campfire tales. I’m introduced to the couple’s mutual friend/former colleague, Miranda. When Steve returns home with the kids, the three of us while away the rest of the afternoon deep in conversation about British politics, office politics, the flux of expat life and loneliness in its various guises. It takes Miranda at least half an hour to leave from first saying goodbye. Sylvia and I are clearly invigorated by these exchanges. She sends me detailed emails in French about how things are going on her end. I commend both her and Steve on the leaps and bounds they’ve made linguistically in a mere few months.

The next day, an invitation from the Frenemy, Rob, appears in my inbox. It’s for a midweek sunset picnic at Parc Cinquantenaire. Supplies are to come from a Lebanese restaurant in the vicinity. The weather forecast for that week is optimistic. Still, I hesitate. I’ve purposely been keeping my distance of late. I've told Rob I’ll be incommunicado, although don’t specify how long. His regular stream of emails around shared interests continue and eventually slow to a trickle over the weeks; stopping altogether for a time.

I prevaricate over whether to accept the invitation. Or rather, if it’s inconsistent with taking a mental break from all his drama. On the other hand, he does know a lot of usually interesting people. I’m still trying to put roots down in Brussels. Plus, it’ll be another opportunity to have conversation with real people, in the real world during a gorgeous weather week. I also adore food from the MENA region. I can hardly say ‘no’.

It’s a select few of us who finally show up that balmy Wednesday evening. The ever-faithful Auntie Carol is on hand. That’s at least one person I know apart from the Frenemy. La fameuse BFF Naida, she with whom he’s more ‘comfortable’ going for walks, is also in attendance and co-hosting the event. I’m also introduced to his Day One, Habiba. They’ve known each other since their teens and share a similar Belgo-Central African mixed heritage. I liken it to a marriage and commend her for her patience. I’ll joke about it all evening. 

When the eclectic guestlist is complete-one begging off before we’ve even begun- we head to the Lebanese establishment. Rob and his bon vivant acquaintance, Aurélien, decide its perfectly fine for to jump the queue ahead of us ladies. Carol and I despair over his boorishness. Notwithstanding, Rob is on his best behaviour. He usually is when there are witnesses about. Can’t spoil that life-and-soul brand now, can we? I find out later from Habiba that he only has good things to say about me when I’m not around. It’s evidently during our 1-2-1 interactions that his surly-meets-horny Mr Hyde alter-ego manifests. I’m tense and conscious of it. When Rob compliments my writing skills out of the blue, I react with scepticism. Carol and Habiba are mildly perplexed. I apologise to Rob by text later that night. I just never know where I stand with this individual.

In the end, Rob and I hardly engage directly during the whole evening. Cinquantenaire is predictably packed. The food is delicious, albeit the restaurant messes up my order. I’m pleasantly enough distracted by Carol and Aurélien, who seems to be in a constant state of mild inebriation. Whilst there are no real friendship sparks with Naida, Habiba and I hit it off straight away. We debate the term Afropean (she’s not a fan) and mock Rob’s shamefully poor musical knowledge, whilst singing 90s R&B/Hip-Hop hits at full volume. Naida praises our voices.

Aurélien has brought his own supply of booze, including a decanter of Martini. He’s not fazed by warnings from other revellers of police patrolling the grounds, threatening hefty fines for the consumption of alcohol. My teetotal self doesn’t want to be guilty by association. 

We’re approached twice by the Old Bill. The first set are very accommodating, encouraging whatever is left to be drunk up before their superiors pass by. Another couple of officers show up after dusk. One of them, who looks as if he’s been gulping whatever he’s confiscated, points an accusing finger at my alcohol-free wine. I protest, brandishing the bottle’s ‘0%’ label. He staggers off mumbling.

As I approach Holy Weekend, I decide to slow things down with an off-the-grid Good Friday. I’m still online to access virtual church services and other edifying content. However, all phones are switched off and I ignore my email accounts. In the afternoon, I head to town for a quiet walk around Louise, listening to Commissioned. The one-day mini-retreat does me good, not least as, unlike during my Christmas holidays, I am also able to recover something of a healthier sleeping pattern. 

Easter Saturday, I meet up with Carla, a member of my Belgian church FWM. We have already e-met through various online activities. When I make an off the cuff comment during one meeting -that I’ve never encountered any of the attendees offline- she suggests a leisurely ramble. She shows me more angles of her neighbourhood in Flagey; a part of town of which I am already fond.

Easter Sunday is spent in the company of fellow Teutonic church sister, Brenda. As during her previous visit, she takes care of dessert whilst I focus on the lamb-heavy lunch. My experiment with a traditional Greek Easter soup starter (courtesy of the wonderful Demetria) is rewarded with Brenda’s hearty approval, as is the main. She’s at ease and the conversation flows. It feels like a cementing moment in our friendship. We enjoy the now extended daylight as much as possible before I accompany her to the tram stop. The night is young. There’s no work tomorrow. I take a prolonged stroll through the Woluwe district, listening to Tonéx’s Oakpark; another Easter tradition.

Soundtrack: In Case You Missed It...by Fred Hammond & Friends. Matters of the Heart by Commissioned, Oakpark 1 & 2 by Tonéx/B-Slade.

Chin Up (Part 2)

 

I'm trying to exercise emotional intelligence in regards to my own moods.  To borrow the well-worn rollercoaster analogy, I'm becoming more apt  at anticipating the slow descent. If I have a bad day or week - or few- by God's grace I'll recover. It's not the end of the world. There are those suffering a far worse pandemic.

If I don't feel the weight of light depression that stalked me in January, it's not necessarily because things are any easier. I'm just more accustomed to the situation, if no happier about it.

Still, I do whatever is in my power to squeeze the most out of those lemons.

As well as my own daily excursions, I enjoy one-to-one walks with new 20-something acquaintances such as Regina from Tonga or Brenda from Austria; both church members. One day whilst walking with Brenda in the snowy Bois des Cambres, emotion gets the better of me and I burst into tears. Setting COVID paranoia aside, she gives me a hug. She can relate to the sense of solitude. We moved to Brussels around the same time. 

My colleagues (sans Ama) also organise a walk around the Heyser area, one gorgeous Sunday afternoon in late February. I suspect my mostly married or spoken-for colleagues take pity on yours truly; moving to a new country amidst pandemics and lockdowns. For the first time, I'm meeting half of my small 5-member team in the real world. We pass a delightful afternoon discovering the lovely parks dotted around the environs of the famous Atomium (above, right); a part of town I’ve long wanted to visit. Our bilingual conversations frequently return to a dearly missed pre-COVID life of music festivals and world travel.

Hovering in the metaphorical background is the bane that is my frenemy, Rob. Yep, him again. In fairness, relations seem to have thawed, or so I thought. I even feel charitable enough to buy a gift for his birthday in early February (the French translation of Richard Wright's Black Boy). After all, Rob is one of the first people I ‘befriended’ in Brussels. In his own dubious way, he’s also made the most consistent effort.

By some fluke, Rob happens to be stepping out of his flat whilst I try to inconspicuously deposit the professionally-wrapped present in his letter box. In an unguarded moment, he seems genuinely touched. He's on his way to his parents. Embarassed, I make as hasty an exit as politely possible.

The next few weeks are packed with intense and often emotionally-exhausting email discussions/debates. Rob complains that I suspect his intentions. He insists, almost too emphatically, that he has no ulterior motives. He thinks I’m delusional. I take him to task over his selective memory of our earlier encounters. Nonetheless, somewhat reluctantly, I start to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 He sends me reams of online content, keen to pick my brain. My feminism still greatly rankles him. I am infuriated about his cavalier attitude towards being COVID-secure, especially in light of regular visits to his elderly parents. For Rob's part, he goes through phases of being fixated with my celibacy and views around monogamy. He’s at once scoffing and fascinated.

His dinner invitations don’t desist. He mentions another once-potential conquest who shares my perspective on celibacy. I’m bemused yet intrigued by this acquaintance, not least as he seems to be more respectful of her than me. He asks me round to meet her one evening at his place for dinner. I baulk at the flagrant disregard of Belgium's virus precautions. 

 I discover later that he’s been going on regular walks with this friend. 

How come? I ask. I thought he didn’t like winter walks. Rob claims he’s 'more comfortable' in her company. She doesn’t make allusions to him wanting to take advantage. Pish-posh. It’s been a while since I’ve cast aspersions. More importantly, it makes no sense he’d be uneasy going for a walk but happy to have me round for dinner or to visit him at work. These invitations are the latest addition to his social overtures. It appeals to me far more than dinner at his diseased flat. I let Rob know Je suis partante, only for him to blow hot and cold about the idea.

 I wonder if, like his similarly fickle South American friend, Rob prefers mind games to sincere interaction. Just as I was letting my guard down, intoxicated by the continuous attention, I am re-evaluating once again whether I want this person in my life. No upgrade from Frenemy to Friend just yet; if ever. I take a welcome break from all the back-and-forth to figure things out, much to his apparent irritation.

My attempt to build community in this period thus continues to be a slow saga.

To help things along, I sign up for an online 80s/90s/2000s Zoom party. A reluctant decision turns out to be one of my best all month. Not only do I bump into mutual friend of Rob, auntie Carol but also Tatjana, a former colleague and friend from THRO. She’s been on my mind of late. We squeal in recognition and proceed to catch up, rather awkwardly for the rest of the online revellers. Most of those signed up for the event are a no show but this turns out to be a blessing in disguise. It’s a select but zealous few, shaking our collective booties to international, pop, soul and disco hits from the past few decades.

Soundtrack: Nostalgia: Beats of 2008-2020 by Beatchild; Dive by Daniel Weiss; Various from Daft Punk's back catalogue (well, I had to).

Chin Up (Part 1)

It’s been a February of extremes. Snow and sub-zero temperatures one moment, balmy late spring weather the next. Unnervingly splendid for this time of year. Shocking that some would still deny the threat of Climate Change.

Meanwhile, the Belgian authorities are rolling back some lockdown restrictions but at glacial speed. Hair and beauty salons are once again operational but with strict guidelines. Making an appointment even a week ahead is a mission. I’m so distracted by my failed attempts to squeeze one in on a forthcoming afternoon's leave, I am not concentrating when I use an ATM at my bank in Porte de Namur. I just about remember to withdraw my money but forget my card. A sketchy fellow hanging around smoking, grabs it just as I realise my error. He becomes overly defensive, swearing he only took what belonged to him. I’m so distressed, my French falters. 

I insist on searching his bag. Of course, he’s hid it elsewhere. He and his friend are off like a shot. Fortunately for me, I spread my money across accounts for budgeting purposes. After making my withdrawal, there wouldn’t be much left in my current account to steal (which my bank confirms later). Thanks to a kindly stranger who passes on the bank’s contact details ASAP, I am able to block the card fairly promptly. It precedes a frustrating few days of not being able to access any cash but it could have been worse. I am annoyed at my own absent-mindedness. I am angry at the offender's flagrant dishonesty but not livid. I don't bother filing a police report. If this fellow spends his time sleeping rough and skulking around banks hoping customers will forget their card, his life is already difficult enough. In the unlikely case that he's caught, a stint in prison won't improve his lot.

As far as the rest goes, I’m still taking a day at a time. My manager, Ama lets slip that the TTUO teleworking policy will remain in place for several months. It’s later confirmed by regional news sites that WFH will remain the new normal for a while to come. 

 The easing of some restrictions has nevertheless allowed me to add a few more activities to my calendar; albeit physically-distanced. 

This quarter I’ve signed up for a number of events organised by my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM).

Louisiana-native and Art-Deco enthusiast Doug, moved to Belgium with his family just before the pandemic hit. Not having had long enough to make deeper connections, he has started a church walking group. He plans intricate scavenger hunts, as a means of meeting new people as well as becoming more familiar with the city. The group walks in all kinds of weather. For the first hunt, I arrive too late to catch the main party. Doug, his 9-year old daughter and I gamely work through the clues (he created) in the pouring rain. The following session I attend falls on a cold and foggy Saturday morning, after a week of glorious weather. Nevertheless, the twin aims of socialising and discovery are readily attained.

In addition to these historically-themed rambles, I enrol on Monday evening piano lessons at the church site. The classes are led mainly by chalk and cheese brothers; Lionel (short, muscular-lean 'alpha male') and Lucien (tall, skinny and elaborately camp). I instantly develop a soft spot for Lucien. For the first lesson, we barely have enough time to go through our knowledge of music theory before we’re joined by the singing students. We spend the rest of the evening discussing one of my favourite things in life; harmonisation. It’s home time before we piano students even have a chance to play. I’m pretty zen about it all. I like the company. Plus, we do some impromptu harmonising before home time.

FWM have also set up voluntary sessions with the Red Cross at Molenbeek. COVID-restrictions dictate that our 15-strong volunteers have to break up into three groups of five and rotate our visits. 

 Not having a smartphone makes registering my interest a nightmare. It's only available through a special app. I speak to one of the team leaders at the Red Cross Centre, after she ignores my emails and texts. She denies any knowledge of my church’s involvement and becomes agitated at the (unsubstantiated) idea of us ‘proselytising’. Finally, I decide to chance it on the designated day. I communicate my intentions to our sympathetic group leader, Kwena (Belgian nationality, missionary parents, Ugandan name). Someone could always drop out at the last minute. Kwena agrees, encouraging me to come.

My gamble pays off. Our group of four is well-within the COVID limit.

The line of visitors snakes around the Red Cross building. We’re shown around the centre by handsome Syrian volunteers’ supervisor, Hamad. The mostly male beneficiaries eye up our all-female group with keen interest.

The centre is a sprawling complex. I am amazed to be in a building of that size with so many people, COVID-restrictions notwithstanding.

Red Cross, Brussels

Our group splits up according to tasks, to be reunited at the end of the afternoon. I elect to assist with shower duties; a complicated operation of swapping clothes for toiletries, bath slippers and the occasional sartorial donation. The men are very particular about what kind of underwear they’ll receive. Briefs are chucked back in favour of boxers. 

On a more serious note, the demographic of the visitors is a stark reminder of the issues around migration policy I address in my day job. The vast majority of the beneficiaries are brown and hail from the global South. The few Europeans at the centre are more often than not volunteers.

The shower team is supervised by laidback, charismatic music loving Eritrean, Micah. He brags, only half-joking, about being surrounded by a mostly female team. His eclectic taste in music encompasses Rod Stewart, 90s Hip-Hop, Blues Rock, Billy Ocean and Bobby Womack. The four-hour shift goes relatively quickly; all the more so considering I haven’t eaten lunch. It’s a thoroughly life-affirming experience. Simply being in a room full of people and activity is enough to boost my morale beyond measure.  I’ve missed this so much...

Social Detour

 

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

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

First, a little bit of background. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Stay where you are. I’ll meet you.

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

I can see you coming up the high street.

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

As I approach, he’s smiling mischievously.

What the heck happened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come again?

-I never said anything about a date!

-What would you call it then?

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

-An outing. I like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-But I was completely open about my ex.

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

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

-Oh no, uh-uh. No Netflix ‘n’ Chill.

-I don’t watch Netflix.

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

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

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

-Are you all right?

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

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

When I trip the second time, I say sheepishly

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

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

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

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

-What else would you have been doing?

-A lot!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Please drop me off at Roodebeek station.

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

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

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

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

Turn it off! I order in English.

His freckle-covered face spreads into another impish grin.

Non-English speakers, his Moroccan acquaintances are perplexed.

- Don’t you like the song?

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

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

- ...Saucy (me)

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

Rob passes the passenger side.

-Are you blogging?

-Yes, but not about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back in the van I quip,

-Even your sweet mum sees through your dirty tricks

I refuse to eat the food that is circulated.

-I’m watching my weight.

I nudge Bilal, pointing to his chocolate bar and tease

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

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

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

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

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

-Is the ordeal finally over? I ask

-It is, Rob confirms

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

En route, I ask why he’s limping.

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

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

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

-That’s obvious

-The perfect son.

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

No riposte is forthcoming, for once.

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

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

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

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

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

-I still can’t get rid of you!

Rob sits. I remain standing.

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

My expression must be as quizzical as it is bemused.

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

His humour edges ever more towards the scurrilous.

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

-What does that mean?

- It means I’m celibate.

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

-I have. His name is Jesus.

- Jesus is good. He has his niche…

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

-...And I have my talents.

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

-In what way?

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

I tell him not to mock my beliefs.

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

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

To be continued...

Or maybe not.

...Evolution Part 2

If the last few months have warped our collective notion of time, it might explain why my imminent departure seems to have come round with lightning speed. Or maybe it’s just age.

Making a head start on my packing allows me the freedom to meet up with as many of my Strasbourg circles as time would allow.

For some, like Nicole from High Rock Gospel Singers, it’ll be the first occasion we’ve had a chance to speak at length. She explains the frustrating conversations she’s had with fellow Caucasians about the latest socio-political unrest over systemic racism. Some whom we both thought would know better. Her little one, Safiya, takes a shining to Gael whilst we drink virgin aperos at Jabiru café. Again.

I want to introduce more of my acquaintances to my friend’s vibrant eaterie before I leave. Gael’s new waiter, his name sake, is also part of the draw. A cross between a Franco brother and a younger Russell Brand, he’s on the dishy side. I alternate between brief, flirty interactions and shy murmured greetings.

A few days later, at the same establishment, I treat Gustavo to tangy-sweet, deep red Bissap juice and my favourite caramelised peanut snack, Kudu. Gustavo is even more wistful and distracted than usual. He doesn’t engage much when Gael addresses him in Portuguese. He’s in between jobs and hoping to secure a scholarship for the expensive private institution he’s due to attend from September. He speaks fondly of the five women in his life (Mum, sister, adorable nieces and girlfriend). He wants to see me married off; a recurring theme, especially with male acquaintances. Gael has also affectionately hinted at my relationship status in the past.

It’ll be the last interaction with both before my move. Gael’s mum has made me a sizeable batch of kudu. I feel myself well up as we say our farewells. The urge nevertheless remains controllable. If I were to begin, it would be the full waterworks. The prolonged exit from Strasbourg- which technically started last year and has been interrupted by the pandemic - has taken the edge off some of the melancholy.

The evening is still very young. My house group from church have organised a goodbye outdoor gathering. I am nervous to the point of reluctance. I don’t like being the centre of attention. It’s one reason why I tend to spend birthdays on my own. On the other hand, I don’t want to be an ingrate. The point of the group is to build community beyond the large and sometimes impersonal main Sunday service (pre-Rona). Better to make an effort than none at all. It’ll also be the first time the group has reunited offline since before lockdown.

At least I get to choose the venue. As the lockdown restrictions have eased further, I opt for the man-made beach at Baggersee.

I have a precious few moments to myself before Raymond and the crew arrive. The beach is busier than I’ve seen it.

There are more bum cheeks of all sizes than I’d care to see. Even tots are in booty-squeezing speedos. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned trunks?

The others slowly arrive with food in tow. There was no mention of a picnic. Thanks to the generosity of Gael’s mother, I have the vat of kudu to save face.

Once we find an agreeable spot, some distance from the maddening crowd, we sit down to break bread. Raymond brings up the wave of uprisings in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Just your conventional icebreaker, then.  Notwithstanding that this has dominated my thoughts and discussions for the past few weeks, I wouldn’t want to go into depth in this context. I'm still tender from the disappointing, if not offensive, responses I’ve gleaned from both the church and some laypersons in Europe. I nevertheless oblige. The Caucasians in attendance tread with relative caution; at least acknowledging that police violence exists. Rather, it’s an elderly Ivorian woman who insists that Rayshard Brooks was to blame for his death at the hands of the police.

God. Help. Us.

I can’t let it pass. I endeavour to be as respectful as culture dictates. I (just about) keep my sang-froid as I fumble through my second language to talk about systemic racism, a targeting of African-Americans and very briefly referencing state-sanctioned violence in France. 

Mercifully, the rest of the evening is far more propitious. More guests trickle in. I relax, taken in by the picturesque surroundings and delicious pastries. I don’t normally have treats during the week. Something will have to be sacrificed later.

To my pleasant surprise, Catarina shows up on her bike. I didn't expect to see her again before my departure. More food and drink circulates, as does the laughter. A farewell card is indiscreetly passed around. Other guests discuss their own plans to relocate in the near future; to the other end of France or as far flung as French Polynesia.

Raymond becomes philosophical in his light-hearted way. We're always on the move in life, in some form or the other, he posits. Only the dead stand still.

Absolutely.

There are far worse ways to spend my last days in SXB. I can now fully appreciate the gesture. I knew if I let myself, I would have a good time.

After a moment of song, prayer and a group photo, it’s home time. Just beforehand I clear the air with a sister with whom I’ve had unspoken beef. I wouldn’t want to leave with any unfinished business. I had the impression she was mocking me, or rather my imperfect French. I’m self-aware enough to know it could have been me merely projecting. Her ambiguous manner didn’t help. Her presence that evening makes me reconsider. It was gracious of her to attend. I can’t say I would do the same.

The evening is balmy. One of the group spies a family of peacocks parading around the main gate. This incongruous sight within an urban setting is somehow auspicious to me. A strutting male with a bolt blue, iridescent neck refuses to denies us the privilege of seeing his full plumage.

At Etoile Bourse, I purposefully miss two buses for a stroll around the Common that surrounds the canal. It’ll replace the sentimental tram ride I’d planned to take from one end of the city to another but time will not permit.

The next morning, as the final (still fairly modest) tally of boxes and suitcases stack up in my living room, I am struck by the paradoxical banality and significance of relocation. I give the flat one more clean before the removal company arrives. Within half an hour, everything is itemised, labelled and carted off to storage.

In the absence of the boxes, I notice how much their presence changed the acoustics of the living room. An echo returns that I hadn’t had time to miss.

Soundtrack: 3.15.20 by Donald Glover.

...Evolution (Part 1)

Whilst the world undergoes a very necessary upheaval, I am negotiating one of my own; albeit of a far less dramatic kind. It’s still significant on a personal level.

La Vie Strasbourgeoise is in need of a name-change. After six months of unemployment, despite living through what could turn out to be one of the worst economic crises for several generations, I have experienced a miracle first hand. I have been blessed with the opportunity to join a trade union organisation in Brussels. From this summer I’ll be working on projects relating to marginalised groups in the heart of Europe and around the world. 

Relocating is challenging at any time, let alone during a pandemic. My former employer, The Human Rights Organisation (THRO) have agreed to pay for my goods to be transported. First, I have to procure three quotes. Pinning down removal companies isn’t as straightforward as I hoped. 

The task feels overwhelming. COVID-19 quarantines notwithstanding, mum would have crossed the Channel to help. It intensifies any sense of loneliness. My sleep becomes even more disrupted than it already has been for the last year and a half. It’s taking its toll on my short term memory. I struggle to be coherent in my already fragile second language as well as sometimes being at a loss for words in my first.

Out in the real world, France is adapting to post-lockdown life. The Strasbourgeois take it slowly. I meet up with a former colleague for a farewell in the Parc Orangerie, surprised by the calm considering the fine weather.

When I catch-up with Catarina later that week, we have trouble finding an open café. Two of my usual haunts are closed. The third has the same name but under new management. I note other establishments are closed or open at reduced hours. The detrimental economic effects of the necessary lockdown have already started to show. I feel a wave of melancholy. It's the nature of change, Catarina consoles.

Another source of dolefulness is the lack of physical contact. As I meet up with friends for goodbye drinks, I ache to embrace. There are awkward moments of not knowing what to do with our hands. The safe elbow-bump du jour isn’t really cutting it. I miss hugs. One evening, whilst meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi at Café Jabiru, Gael greets us at the door. I lament once more about the absence of embrace.

You should just go for it, then, he advises, ever-daring.

Thus I do. It feels so good. It’s contagious. I extend the bear-hug love to Kiasi. (As my departure date draws ever-closer, I’ll throw caution to the wind and hug anyone who is willing)

Kiasi has been eager to meet since I announced my official departure date. My French is relatively free-flowing for a change, which isn’t always the case faced with his easy bilingualism.We pass a very enjoyable few hours in candid conversation. It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to clear the air since that infamous choir meeting. Opinions diverge but there’s no animosity.  At least we have had our day in court. 

I’m saddened to hear Kiasi has no plans in the near future to return to the chorale. It shouldn’t matter, since I will no longer be around either. Yet there's a part of me that'll remain attached to HRGS. Kiasi maintains the choir is still like family to him. I joke that I will have to edit out the last couple of months. He long predicted that a break would be good for the group. He couldn’t have anticipated it would be enforced, however. We both agree this unexpected sabbatical might signal a fresh start. For now, it’s not known exactly when that’ll be.

As the evening progresses, whilst working our way through Afropean snacks, we talk life, relationships, family, his future career plans (PR in the humanitarian sector) and extra-curricular activities (21^st century talk show) and of course lots and lots of music. We gush over Fred vs Kirk legendary lockdown livecast, dispute the Teddy Riley vs. Babyface showdown and converge naturally over the musicality of Brandy…

Perhaps emerging from lockdown has renewed my taste for the simple pleasure of good company and good conversation. 

Maybe not. I don’t want to reach for lazy clichés. I do know that relocating during a pandemic complicates the process.

On one level, having mentally prepared to leave Strasbourg since last year, I’ve had time to grieve the loss of my new familiar. Add to that being separated from my social circles for months, to an extent I’ve made my peace with disconnection. Not being able to meet in the conventional sense means there’ll be a lot of folk I won’t physically have the chance to see before I leave. In some ways that takes the sting out of it. At least there’ll be no tearfully dramatic scenes, I tell people. On the other hand it does distort any sense of resolution.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I am more lachrymose, as I fill up cardboard boxes with trinkets encased in bubble wrap and reflect on my two and a half years living in Strasbourg. It’s no small thing saying goodbye to my first proper flat. My first experience of not sharing with family or an assortment of strangers.

After a rather lengthy, bureaucratic process THRO select a removal company using the quotes I forward. If I’m not packing I’m meeting more friends and former colleagues around Strasbourg. We talk about life during and post-lockdown. Some single. Some in relationships. Others with children. Some working. Some retired. The cross-section of my Strasbourg community is a testament to the better part of the experience. 

I have also been fortunate enough of late to bump into fleeting local acquaintances. The kind where you stop to chat but don’t necessarily exchange numbers or even names. I’m pleased for the opportunity to inform them of my move rather than disappear into the ether. I hand out by now rather weathered business cards, having been gathering dust in my bag. I don’t expect them to be used but it makes me feel better.  As much as possible, I try to pass by the local businesses I've patronised to also let them know I'm on the move. That's still feasible in Strasbourg. It might have city status but it's more like a large-ish town.

I head to the newly re-opened Temple Neuf for a workshop with Pastor Rohan on the origins of the Gospels. It’ll be one of the last occasions to stop by before I leave. As we wrap up, I tell him of my imminent move, to which he responds with his habitual affability. On the way to the bus stop, by sweet serendipity, I bump into Kiasi once more.

A couple of days later I am back at Temple Neuf for a moment of quiet at the weekly meditative sessions. Considering it’s my last it’s far from the best. I arrive just a little late, after an afternoon of enriching conversation, as usual, with Stacee.

There is very little available seating in the main hall given the imposed physical-distancing. A woman confusingly removes a ‘do not sit’ sign from a seat then rather coolly informs me it's not free. By the time one of the young pastoral assistants brings out some extra chairs, my mind is elsewhere. On top of the existing mind traffic, I’m already distracted by the cold reception from the largely older, culturally homogeneous attendees. This is not the respite for which I came. 

I’ve long thought it pointless for churches to re-open whilst the virus is still active. Physical-distancing and over-preoccupation with disinfecting shared spaces aren’t conducive to a warm welcome and easy-going fellowship. Sadly, this episode doesn't prove me wrong.

Soundtrack: Classic Boyz II Men albums, La Vita Nuova by Christine & The Queens, Irreplaceable Love by Commissioned