Jam-Packed

 9 min. read

The Equinox is behind us and Northern Hemisphere Autumn is well underway. Whilst I’ll miss the abundant light, longer days and (snatches) of good weather, my memories of summer 2024 might not be as tinged with the usual nostalgia. The season has been challenging for my morale; particularly at its height in August. 

I return from my second excursion to Croatia exhausted.  I-need-another-break-to-recover-from-my-holiday-cliché exhausted. The excess scrutiny from certain yokels contributes to my mental fatigue.  Compared to my first, now almost mythic trip to Croatia, this one is less charmed.  

The exhaustion continues well after my return to Belgium. Post-birthday angst,  about all the things I haven’t achieved at my age, hits with a vengeance. I’ve also not recovered financially as quickly as I’d hoped after years of precarity. Perhaps I was naïve to think it would be that easy. It isn't straightforward moving on without the cushion of savings. Several things I couldn’t afford to do before, important but not urgent, now require my attention. Furthermore, due to a shift in contractual T&Cs and energy companies’ overall greed, I suddenly have a hefty annual electricity bill. 

My anxiety is sky high, leading to a malaise that itself sets off a vicious cycle. I’m too agitated for decent sleep, flooded by invasive thoughts. The lack of rest in turn contributes to the malaise and so on. I’m bouncing off the walls. I continue to go on campus so that I don’t feel too isolated at home. I sense that generally fewer Bruxellois-e-s take lengthy breaks in August. Nevertheless, at one point, there are only two of us in the sizeable open plan workspace.

Despite my efforts to socialise and take advantage of several attractive summer activities happening across Brussels, I still feel intensely alienated. The malaise starts to affect my motivation. The plan is to spend August on focused reading. I make the error of starting with some of the driest and most technical aspects of my studies. In addition, the University requires new PhD candidates to complete compulsory online courses. These are broadly soul-sapping administrative affairs.  Although I power through, all this consumes mental energy that I hardly have to spare. 

(image courtesy of Buzzfeed)

It's an odd experience. The whole concept of summertime sadness has largely been alien to me. I didn’t even know some folk dealt with vernal-related depression until fairly recently. Unlike the gloomy, dark and wet hibernal seasons, how could anybody begrudge light and sunny summer? True, I’ve had the occasional emotionally difficult summer but that had more to do with insufficient social stimulation.  This feels like a different animal, more akin to what I've frequently experienced before spring begins in earnest. 

In any case, this isn’t related to the weather so much as my current life season, notwithstanding the reprisal of my studies. I’m full of gratitude for my PhD adventure; a thick silver lining in my otherwise ambiguously grey Belgian experience.  

That’s another thing I’ve been coming to terms with. My ambivalence towards Belgium isn’t just a passing phase. Nor is it limited to one particular crisis such as a pandemic or job insecurity. 

Whether it’s the bureaucracy, the unimpressive infrastructure (in spite of very high taxes), how hard it is to create a community, or the generalised discourteousness, it’s just not my cup of tea.  That's the verdict after four years of more or less giving it the benefit of the doubt. The benchmark used to be whether I felt better in Belgium than when I left France. For the first time, I must admit a similar disenchantment has set in. And yet the Almighty clearly has plans for me in the Land of Waffles, Beer and Chocolate; at least, for the next few years. I therefore make my peace with it, like being in a (privileged) state of exile. Similarly, the timely reading of A War of Loves by David Bennett helps me be better reconciled with my longer-than-anticipated single status.

Elsewhere, from late summer until well into autumn my diary will be replete with meaningful activity. At the end of August, I attend a well-needed one-day silent retreat. These events are unsettling and emotionally demanding in the most beautiful and constructive ways. The following day, I attend a Pan-African cultural festival to support dance session en masse led by my most talented Afro-Zumba instructor. A number of other regulars from the class also show up. I feel like I'm in a musical. Without a doubt, it's one of the highlights of the summer.

Early September also marks my third trip to the socio-political and cultural festival, Manifiesta. For the first time, I’m more directly involved in organising events which demands a weekend long stay, as opposed to my usual day visit. I book a delightful en suite that alas, I’m too busy to properly enjoy beyond showers and bedtime. En route to the festival on the first day, happenstance would have it that I stumble across Auntie J from the UK, flanked by a couple of mates. Ever since I told her about the festival, she’s been itching to attend. Her initial plan was to bring a sizeable posse but in the end, it whittles down to a trio.

I’m co-moderating a Francophone event organised by peace and anti-colonial campaigners, Intal. The panel discussion covers resource sovereignty in Africa, ever-draconian European migration policies concerning inflows from the Global South, and the success of popular uprisings in Senegal. It’s one of the first events of the festival, so we’re not expecting a big turnout. Yet the room is jam-packed and there’s not enough time to take all the questions during the Q&A session.  The team is left feeling exuberant.

Apart from the illustrious international roster of guest speakers – from UK economist Grace Blakeley to the dynamic Franco-African domestic worker turned trade unionist and politician, Rachel Kéké  – it’s like a Who’s Who from the world of CSO’s and activism on the ground. I bump into many a comrade. Amongst them is Suki, whom I met when I was working on the Equality Pact in Marseille, where she's normally based. She’s since quit the project, disillusioned with management. 

Whilst volunteering at one of the pop-up bars, I serve an American pundit, with whom I’m familiar from his occasional stints on Novara Media. He’s a lot more obnoxious in real life. I meet a Dutch woman who studied Portuguese and happened to have taken lessons with one of my former bandmates from my Bossa Nova/MPB days. I bump into an amiable young Afro-Caribbean fellow whom I recognise from a predominantly black church that I sometimes visit. I’m ecstatic to meet another Christian in this context. I bound over to him, effusive with encouraging words about how important it is for us to be there. Social justice is Kingdom Business too.

Once again, I hang out with some of Jeremy Corbyn’s crew. JC is back this year, promoting a book he’s co-written with one time anti-Apartheid campaigner, ex-ANC politician and vocal anti-Zionist, Andrew Feinstein.  Music is also an indispensable part of the Manifiesta programme, with both local and international guests performing. Tiken Jah Fakoly and the UK rapper-activist, Lowkey are amongst this year's high profile line-up. Intal have invited a musician acquaintance of mine, Diese Mbangue, to perform after he lit up one of our smaller events earlier in the year with a solo acoustic set. For Manifiesta, Diese returns with his full band for what turns out to be an electrifying performance.

A couple of weeks after the festival, I’m off to Strasbourg for the first time since 2021.

En route by coach, I’m witness to a theft in plain sight. At Brussels Midi station, a dubious looking fellow boards the bus shortly after I get on. The inspector doesn't stop him, and yet he has too sketchy an air to go unnoticed. I can't tell if he's about to hold up the coach or have a funny turn. I eventually presume he's legit however, since none of the other passengers intervene when he takes a bag from the luggage rack. Nevertheless, sensing something suspect, a few of them spring to action to check on their own belongings. 

By the time the girlfriend/wife of the unfortunate proprietor realises what’s happened, the culprit is too far and too quick for the couple to chase him down. Her significant other alternates between expletive rage and tearful distress. He exclaims that all his possessions - except his passport - are in that rucksack. After screaming (understandably) at the driver and inspector for their incompetence over security, the couple alight to make what will most likely be a futile police report. I offer to provide a witness statement but the fellow is too distracted. I feel distraught for him, as well as guilty. I was immediately suspicious but didn’t react when none of the passengers seemed fazed.  

Several hours later, an old friend, Françoise, collects me from Strasbourg coach station in the wee small hours of the morning.  Françoise has kindly invited me to stay with her and her bibliophile sister, Magritte. That not only takes care of accommodation but provides plenty of opportunity for Françoise and I to catch-up. (Ironically, although we do have a number of lengthy conversations about the dire state of French politics, the siblings’ favourite 70s and 80s pop/rock bands and Magritte’s enviably vast personal library, I barely update Françoise on what’s been happening on my end.)

The aim is to squeeze in as many visits over a long weekend, as well as to hop across the French/German border for some (still) mouth-watering bargains in Kehl. It’s an overly-ambitious itinerary, which circumstances will curb in an ultimately helpful way. A number of friends happen to be out of town that weekend. Another acquaintance definitively quits Strasbourg for the countryside mere weeks before my visit. The upshot is that I spend quality time with those I do manage to see. In the three years since my last trip there have been weddings, pregnancies, sicknesses, recoveries, trials, tribulations and triumphs.

The weather is marvellous for this time of year; ideal for several wistful strolls through the city. I pass by Temple Neuf for its ongoing weekly meditation session. I've missed it. In the absence of the main pastor, members of the congregation step in to hold a special commemorative service marking the World Week for Peace in Palestine & Israel. I’m somewhat impressed by how much Palestinian suffering is centred; something that is shamefully absent from many mainstream church spaces. 

That same evening, Françoise generously offers to accompany me to the weekly rehearsal of HRGS; the choir to which we once belonged and where we first met. I plan to make an unannounced cameo. A few members are aware I’m in town but I’ve made no official arrangements to drop by. 

We are warmly received. Whilst much of the choir is now unfamiliar, there’s enough of the old guard to bridge the gap between past and present. I’m asked to reprise one of my old solos, which in itself shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’m still more unprepared than I should be. Blame it on nerves, says Françoise. I'd rather not.

Meanwhile, after several of the veterans demand where she’s been, she decides to rejoin the choir. (Privately, she will later divulge that she took an indefinite hiatus by being reluctantly dragged into internal choral politics.)

My visit to my old Strasbourg church becomes fraught for reasons too long to elaborate here. Once again, internal politics to which I’m not otherwise privy are at play. The day is fortunately redeemed by plans to spend the afternoon with erstwhile Strasbourg acquaintance, Sérafine, at her capacious flat in Kehl. She prepares a delicious pasta lunch and we while away hours covering a gamut of weighty themes. Both of us have lived through substantial changes in the intervening years.

I round off my Strasbourg trip by meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi. Dividing his time now between Paris and Alsace, he's obtained a set of wheels for the commute. We catch-up in his car, whilst Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album provides the nostalgic soundtrack to our overdue exchange.

Soundtrack: Timeless by Kaytranada, Milton + Esperanza by Milton Nascimento & Esperanza Spalding and Open Hearts by Joya Mooi.

A Summer Break in Budapest: Part 3

 5 min. read

Part 1 & Part 2

Sunday 30.07:

Scenes from the Citadel, Budapest
(image: TrustIndex)

A lazy-ish day. In theory. I don’t find it easy – or especially enjoyable - to lounge around all day in bed. Not least in a basement flat with minimal natural light. I must get out into the elements. I dodge the heavy rain, stepping out just as the sun is re-emerging. I head to a nearby cliché hipster café (exposed brick, incomplete décor, etc.), for some pastry. I bump – literally – into that old Germanophone creep, I saw on the first night I arrived. He insists on following me, to the extent of stalking me inside a local supermarket. I shoo him away furiously, mouthing an expletive, to my shame. The cashier regards the scene, puzzled. I’m rattled for a good moment.

My sole plan that evening, apart from supper, is to visit the old Citadel. It’s not the easiest part of the city to reach. Once I’m in the vicinity, I only locate it by chance, nosily following other stragglers. Unbeknownst to me, the citadel is temporarily closed for restoration. That would explain the crossed out street signs en route. Brief and melodramatic summaries of the citadel’s history surround what is now a construction site. A sad-looking Hungarian flag blows listlessly in the grounds. Fortunately, there are breathtaking vistas in the environs as well as an inviting park. I realise how high I am when I come across the Lady Liberty statue up close; usually appearing so far in the distance. I take the scenic route through the park, back to public transport. I have no clear idea of where I’m going but convinced I’ll muddle through. I appreciate this part of a city break, normally around Day Two or Three, when I’m familiar enough with the layout to be self-sufficient. No longer reliant on the often unhelpful Google Maps journey planner. I’m feeling immensely grateful for the loveliness of the environment, the privilege of travel and the joy of discovery.

Following a leisurely pre-sunset walk through Budapest’s shopping district, I’m on the hunt for some traditional Hungarian food, with a decent enough reputation. Not that easy a task. I walk the length and breadth of the old Jewish district, crossing paths with one of the Italians I met at Friday’s social. At last, just as I’m about to give up, I spot a respectable-looking establishment with a TripAdvisor sticker. An elderly gent plays Jazz interpretations on the house piano all evening. I order a budget friendly starter, some Goulash (finally!) and another recommended traditional dish, Flódni layered cake. The so-so customer service notwithstanding (something of a recurring theme round these parts), it’s a pleasurable experience. Good food and good music. Can’t go wrong.

A grumpy-looking bust near the Citadel,
Budapest
(c) me

Monday 31.07:

The last full day of my first trip to Budapest. A wave of familiar melancholy washes over me. I acknowledge it, with the aim of being more present. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

I have an evening boat tour reservation. Before then, I make two important stops. I drop by the landmark indoor Central Market. It pops up as a must-see on most Budapest bucket lists. Plus, I’m on the lookout for souvenirs. Although overwhelming, I feel compelled to traverse as much of the market as I can withstand. Too many stalls, too many people, too compact a space. The so-called street food is pricier than an average restaurant. Tourist bait. I’m not biting.

I escape the Hall with some trinkets and make my way to Margaret Island, named after one of Budapest’s saints. It’s another scenic and semi-isolated spot, replete with thermal baths and a vast park including the ruins of old holy sites, an open-air theatre, a singing fountain and a Japanese garden, where I’ll while away most of my visit. 

Surrounded by the Danube, on a sunny day it’s worth the bus ride to the Island just for the wonderful views in transit. I return to my accommodation with plenty of time to spare before my evening cruise. So much so, that I lose track and find myself hurrying to the bus stop. I plan to reach the dock 20 minutes ahead of setting sail. I miss my initial connection and only arrive 10 minutes in advance. This wouldn’t be so bad if, in a sliding doors moment, I didn't resist my instinct and set off in the wrong direction. The docks' numbering system is not intuitive. I arrive at the correct dock just in time to see the boat moving off. I have to wait for the next cruise (thank goodness that’s an option), and pay six extra euros for the privilege. Still, one advantage is that this tour takes place closer to sunset. The weather is ideal. We receive a complementary drink. Being tee-total, I’m given a low quality mango squash that apparently doesn’t agree with me. I’ll partly attribute to it the gastric discomfort that afflicts me on and off for the rest of the evening.

A Park on Margaret Island, Budapest
(image: Expedia)

As usual, it appears I’m the lone solo traveller on board. Classic West Coast Jazz streams through the speakers. I note the main Budapest landmarks take on a crepuscular loveliness as dusk approaches. Apart from tactile couples and an overweight chick who insists on sitting in an ill-advised short dress with her legs agape, it's picture perfect. 

For my last evening in the Hungarian capital, I opt to dine somewhere I’ve spotted en route to the indoor market. I expect a lot, given all the visible accolades. I order another flavoursome Goulash starter and a traditional paprika chicken dish. I don’t know if it’s the quality of the cooking, Hungarian cuisine itself or my dodgy tummy but I’m fairly underwhelmed by the main. More broadly, I’ve not been amazed by the customary savoury dishes I’ve tasted, although I’m partial to the desserts.

The initial missed-cruise drama has put my schedule back. I hurry to Deác Fenanc to ride the giant Ferris Wheel before it shuts for the evening. To my surprise, it’s still teeming long after 10pm. Couples, groups of adolescents, families with small children...

Despite my mild vertigo, I covet a bird’s eye view of the city by night. It seems a fitting conclusion to my five-day échappée belle. I contemplate one last romantic ramble through the city centre but time and my contorting belly won’t allow. Instead, I’ll briefly join other starry-eyed loafers gathered round the pool-like water feature at Elizabeth square.

Soundtrack: After Dinner We Talk Dreams + Side Dishes by MICHELLE

LVC is now on a break for the rest of summer 2023.

A Summer Break in Budapest: Part 2

 5 mins. read

Part 1 & Part 3

Saturday 29.07:

Birthday D-Day. I don’t have time this morning to lament what's left of my youth vanishing over the horizon (40 is the old age of youth, according to Victor Hugo, one of my favourite quotes). Nor how underwhelming my 40s have been thus far. I like to keep busy, as you should know. I’ve booked a place on a tour of Budapest’s Jewish quarter; a tiny district with a vast history. 

En route, I make eye contact with an older black woman. I smile and do the universal nod of recognition/solidarity. I’m especially keen to acknowledge my Afrodescendant sisters. The respect is mutual. More generally, I'm relieved to see several melanated faces about.

Once again, a huge group gathers for the tour. Divided in two, our half is led by Andor- a guide of sharp, deadpan wit and broad pop culture knowledge. He’s mastered English enough to convey his dry as a bone humour with no difficulty at all. He’s also extremely well travelled. He has far more extensive first hand experience of the African continent than I, having traversed more than half of it. 

First stop of the tour is the Dohány synagogue (above right), the second only in size to that in Jerusalem on a world scale. Tivador Herzl, the founder of political Zionism, was born a stone’s throw away. He was bilingual in Hungarian and German, with nary a word of Hebrew. 

The synagogue is most Hungarian in that it’s a mish-mash of the country’s cultural influences. A Moorish façade, strong hints of Eastern orthodox design and a Baroque/Roman Catholic interior (including an organ once played by Franz Liszt). We are told that actor, Tony Curtis (né Bernard Schwartz) - the son of Hungarian-Jewish émigrés - funded some of the building. It is out of bounds to the general public that day, being Sabbat. To my great regret, I'll miss the chance to explore the resplendent interior later on in the trip.

Hungarian Jews had assimilated so much before the Second World War, they saw themselves as Austro-Hungarian first and Jewish second. And yet for all their patriotism, they were held responsible for the region’s unfavourable outcome in the Great War. When asked about the surviving Jewish population, the guide gives an overly-complicated answer, narrowly focusing on religious practice as an indicator more so than ethnicity. (None of my Jewish friends or acquaintances are especially observant, if at all). 

There could be another more plausible reason for Andor’s equivocation. As he and one of his colleagues point out just before we set off, Hungarians are a melting pot of ethnicities.

The inevitable grotesque history of murderous racism and scapegoating soon comes to the fore. Hungary was said to have had the second largest Jewish population in Europe prior to the Second World War. The Hungarian authorities approached the slaughter of Jews with an exceptionally perverse zeal. According to our guide, every one in 10 Holocaust victims was believed to have been Hungarian, with up to 600,000 of the country’s Jewish population wiped out; over 400,000 sent to Auschwitz alone.

During a water break , an Australian participant asks about Viktor Orbán’s attitude towards Hungary’s Jewish population. ‘He’s an Anti-Semite!’, I reply. Andor confirms. He also draws parallels between Orbán’s Hungary and Russian authoritarianism; albeit being a lighter version. 

St. Michael's Church in Budapest's Castle District
(image: Buda Castle)

The tour ends in the remnants of what was once a Jewish ghetto. Andor explains the presence of metal shoes that I have noticed lining some banks of the Danube. They are a memorial for Hungarian Jews ordered by Nazis to strip naked before being shot into the river. Andor believes it’s too easy to blame this on madness. He attributes it to pure evil. I remind him that the seed of evil exists in us all. It's not just "those bad people over there". We don't know of what we're capable in particular circumstances. Blame it on my own Judaeo-Christian upbringing. I believe human nature is fallen without exception, although not irredeemable. 

Andor shares a story about family friend, Eva Székely, who survived the Jewish ghetto to become an Olympic swimming champion. The story goes that her would-be executioner switched to join the Communist forces once the Nazis were defeated.

Andor sticks to his promise to end the tour by lunchtime. I say farewell to a couple of participants with whom I’ve become acquainted; the aforementioned Australian and another solo female traveller from the Netherlands (again), Amy. I appreciate her independent mindset. I’m quick to commend intrepid women. We have snatches of thought-provoking conversation between stops. 

She wants to reconnect before we both leave Budapest. I mention a Jazz concert that evening for which I’ve reserved tickets at a bargain price. Amy is keen. We make plans to meet up at the venue. We don't think to exchange numbers. It’s not to be. I’ll discover that the concert has sold out, which might explain why Amy is a no-show. Ships passing in the night.

(image: Trip Advisor)

After the tour, I go on the hunt for the famous Retró Lángos restaurant where, according to all the tour guides, I can enjoy the best of the traditional Hungarian bread-based dish. After a few wrong turns, I locate Retró thanks to the help of a kindly older American couple based in the neighbourhood. 

The pastry tastes very similar to Jamaican dumpling, except it’s flat rather than cylinder. It’s nice enough, but not earth-shaking. The chicken topping is too curried and salty. Once I’ve consumed something savoury, I head to the Chimney Cake Shop near Elizabeth Square for a highly indulgent pastry and ice cream dessert. 

Before going home, I’m adamant about crossing the river to the Castle district. The vista - both in the hills and of the Pest side of the City below – is marvellous. Alas, being a Saturday it’s also heaving with tourists. Neither is the beautiful St. Michael church open to visitors. I rush back to my rented studio for a useless attempt at a power nap. I’m back out again to the classy Opus Bar for dinner and Jazz. 

I’m becoming familiar with Budapest’s Metro for the first time. It’s efficient and consistently newer and cleaner than the underground systems of Brussels or London.

Before I alight, a sweet and diffident young woman pays me a lovely compliment whilst exiting the train.

At the Jazz club, I’m due to meet a small group from Internations, through which I first hear of the event. I’m a little apprehensive on entering, taken aback by the bigger than expected group. The organiser, an American with Hungarian ancestry, helps put me at ease.

Entertainment is courtesy of the delightful Czakó Virág Quartet; guitar, bass, drums and vocals. The stars of the night are guitarist Attila Rieger and of course, Virág herself. She is much younger than I anticipate, barely in her 20s. Although Virág’s range is not extensive, she plays to her strengths. Blessed with an enchanting tone - a tad reminiscent of Melody Gardot - she has a solid Jazz vocabulary with unforced and accomplished improv. Her English pronunciation is near flawless and, where relevant, her Portuguese isn’t bad either. Virág’s repertoire includes Jazz standards and lesser known compositions, Bossa and even an Elvis cover; all regaled with her particular flair. She isn’t too much in her own head. Her technique complements rather than interferes with the feeling. Bref, the combined effect is understated yet mesmerising. The audience remains attentive, none of the usual low hum of chatter. 

Throughout Virág’s performance, I’m making mental notes. I like being both impressed and challenged by other singers. I’m reminded that I remain only an aspiring Jazz vocalist. This is the Real McCoy. I’m effusive with praise during the interval. Czakó humbly receives my accolades, informing me she’s continuing her Jazz studies at the Hague. I also learn that the quartet is a family affair. The bassist is her father and the drummer her boyfriend.

I linger long after the show to converse with other guests, including a handsome Flemish man who relocated from Brussels in 2022. We swap notes on our favourite Jazz haunts in the Belgian capital, before what’s left of the group escorts me back to the Metro.

Soundtrack: After Dinner We Talk Dreams + Side Dishes by MICHELLE

A Summer Break in Budapest: Part 1

 6 min. read

The Chain Bridge, Budapest
(image courtesy of The Savvy Backpacker)

Thursday 27.07.2023:

Another year. Another summer. Another birthday. Another excursion to Eastern Europe. This year it’s a toss up between Prague and Budapest. I’ve heard wonderful things about both. Ultimately, it’ll be my budget that decides. Despite these otherwise straitened times, I am able to plan a modest birthday break thanks to yet another tax rebate. Travel is a lot more expensive post-COVID and Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. I'm therefore blessed to find a reasonably priced indirect flight to the Hungarian capital and a bargain studio rental on Airbnb. (I have been trying to wean myself off the site but hotels proved too expensive. That said, now I’m more aware of Airbnb’s complicity with oppressive regimes, I have greater motivation to avoid the platform in future.)

I'm in desperate need of a change of scene. Just before my trip, I receive bad news regarding what seemed to be a very promising job prospect. The disappointment shatters me. It takes me a couple of days to regain any perspective, thanks to family -church and biological – and some divinely-inspired words of encouragement. Still. My life feels too complicated at the mo’. Roll on an excuse not to have to think about what comes next, at least for a few days.

I spend another night at BXL airport so there’s no chance of missing my early a.m. flight. The airport is active throughout the wee small hours; customers and rough sleepers alike. I’ve never seen it this busy at this time. An elderly woman keeps locking eyes with me, hostile. There’s too much activity. I barely sleep a wink. It’ll catch up with me on the first flight, sandwiched in the middle of two other exhausted travellers. I use the long-ish layover in Vienna to listen to podcasts and some R&B Gospel hits. 

The distance between the Austrian and Hungarian capitals is so short, I feel guilty for covering it by plane. They were once part of the same empire, after all. 

I have a window seat, nobody next to me. I permit myself the chocolate treats distributed by the flight attendants. Guilt once again. It’s tough snapping out of diet mode, even for a justifiable reason. 

It takes a while to work out the best route to my accommodation. I arrive three hours after touch down. The basement studio is discreet and clean enough. All I miss is the regular interaction that I would enjoy in a hotel.

I’m knackered. After, praying, unpacking and taking a shower, I pass out. Siestas don’t usually come so easy these days. My supposed power nap is prolonged. 

I decide to stay local tonight. The sun still beckons. The forecast for Budapest these coming days is mercifully much better than the miserable weather I’ve left behind in Belgium. Before stepping out, I hastily research survival phrases in Hungarian. I should have done it beforehand. I need more time to memorise the basics.

Apart from the nearby majestic Keleti pályaudvar train station, my immediate surroundings seem on the sketchy side. I see a lot of unidentified liquid on the ground (I'll come to realise that Budapestians are very fond of small dogs). Plus, I receive one too many dodgy, slack-jawed stares.  An elderly German-speaking man keeps stopping to look at me, muttering some rubbish about “Afrika-Frau”. I make up my mind to not spend too much time in the area. Just pass through and go home.

On the upside, the neighbourhood is extremely well serviced by public transport. I also find a pleasant enough residential area on the next street with a playground, shopping centre and indoor market. I am also cheered by the sight of multi-purpose German store, DM. I'll spot more branches here than I recall seeing on visits to Germany. (Tesco is also popular in Budapest, for some reason).

I stop off at a supermarket for groceries. A friendly shop assistant wants to practise his English with me. I wonder what he’d have done if I weren't Anglophone. He asks if I’m wearing dreads.

Dinner is at a Turkish café in the vicinity. Convenience and familiarity. Traditional Hungarian food will have to wait.

The personable staff at the café also automatically communicate with me in English. Meanwhile, I try to get my head around all the zeros of the Hungarian Forint currency.

Friday 28.07:

(image courtesy of Rearview
Mirror)

I've booked my first official tour of Budapest this morning. Our huge group is divided into two. Mine is led by a cheery and petite brunette, Lara. She condenses a thousand years of Hungarian history into the first 10 minutes of the two and a half hour tour. We hear of the country’s earliest inhabitants, a nomadic people believed to have originated from what is now central Asia. Since then the Ottomans, Austrians, Nazi Germany and the Soviets have all wanted a piece. The diverse Hungarian aesthetic reflects the many centuries of invasion and occupation they’ve endured; from pale, stereotypically Nordic features to olive-skinned and dark-eyed like Lara.

Budapest (Buda = a slavic word for water / Pest = ‘cave’ or ‘oven’) came into existence in the late 19^th Century; an amalgamation of three smaller towns. The city is still split economically, with Buda being the more gentrified half. Pest is the newer part, having been rebuilt 150 years ago after a devastating flood. Like Bucharest, much of the cityscape takes inspiration from Paris. We learn of Hungary’s ceramic and porcelain industries and the difference between the two.

Hungarians pay up to 40% tax, similar to Belgium. Unlike Belgium however, the tax revenue seems to be better invested; a comprehensive health care system (including dental) for example, and up to two years paid maternity leave. Yes, paid.

We reach the riverside, overlooking the castle district. The city’s famed beauty finally comes to light.  High up in the distance is Hungary’s own Lady Liberty statue, repurposed after the fall of communism in the early 90s. Lara claims, without irony, that she represents true democracy and freedom today. It rings somewhat false given that a Far-Right wing PM with authoritarian tendencies has been in power for the past 12 years.

Later we hear Hungary boasts at least 16 Nobel Prize winners. The world can also thank inventive Hungarians for soft contact lenses, Biros (ballpoint pens), vitamin C and the Rubik’s cube, amongst others. 

At St. Stephen’s Basilica, I’m surprised to discover Hungary is mostly RC; one of a few Catholic enclaves in a region either historically associated to the Eastern Orthodox tradition or with state-enforced atheism. We stop at a controversial war monument. Lara mentions in passing that it’s contested, without going into much detail. I glimpse an English language explanation. Prime minister Orbán is accused of erecting a memorial in 2014 under clandestine conditions and without consulting the community, in an attempt to whitewash Hungarian history-presumably its complicity with Nazi Germany. 

Lara does speak in more depth about the atrocities committed during the puppet Soviet regime, as well as subsequent revolutions. The tour ends outside the Parliament building. I am not expecting it to be so stunning. I say farewell to Lara and a lovely fellow solo traveller from Holland, kind enough to make conversation during the tour. 

After refreshments, I follow Lara’s advice and hop a number 2 tram from which I can view several of Budapest’s famous bridges. I spend the rest of the afternoon tram-hopping, enjoying the sun-soaked, picturesque scenes along the Danube river. I beat the rain on returning to my accommodation. 

Budapest Parliament building
(image: Viator.com)

I'm back out that evening for a Meet-Up event in town. I’m a bit apprehensive on arrival. The bar is so small that most clients have to stand outside. It’s also largely male. I chat to an Italian who unintentionally identifies himself as the one in charge. The real host, rumoured to be the bar owner, is nowhere to be seen. I ease up as more join, including another Italian and an amiable woman from Strasbourg, my old stomping ground. Several of us are tourists. I find that curiously comforting.

I leave the group to look for a nearby restaurant serving traditional Hungarian food, recommended by the tour guide. It’s a self-service set-up, where you pay by weight. A clever way to overcharge, especially when weighing salad in ceramic bowls.

It’s a Friday night after sunset. I have a well-needed, post-supper jaunt around the lively old Jewish quarter, before taking a circuitous route back to my lodgings.

Soundtrack: Radio Sechaba by Bokani Dyer + After Dinner We Talk Dreams + Side Dishes by MICHELLE

Part 2 + Part 3

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.

A Different Lens

 

Allaboutvision.com

8 min. read

Late June marks exactly two years since I relocated to Belgium. Earlier that month, I return from my latest UK excursion with a deepened resolve to improve my morale. If my circumstances haven’t materially changed, there’s been a notable shift in my perspective. I still feel low and am wont to tearful interludes. My melancholy has nonetheless taken on a different flavour. I come to realise how much despondency had camped outside my door. That’s no longer the case. I feel less spiritually adrift. I endeavour to be even more conscientious about my well-being. My visits to the gym are now as much about the mental benefits as the physical. By chance – or AI interference – I stumble across an incredibly helpful YouTube channel on psychological health and start putting into action some of the practical pointers. God has been at work in the algorithm, I joke to loved ones. These tutorials are not however, a replacement for my therapy sessions, which I continue with renewed energy.

In addition, there are several external boosts to my morale. The longer days and (mostly) good weather are always a plus. The Brussels cultural calendar continues to be full to overflowing. Great for staying busy, not so good for early nights and solid rest; another important factor for well-being. I’ll eventually have to revise the density of activity. Easier said than done, especially when I don’t have to be in the office first thing. 

 My job hunt is ongoing. It becomes apparent that I’m unlikely to find a role that starts before September. I make my peace with this development and I’m all the better for it. 

I have another interview in late June at the same trade union organisation that has previously invited me on a number of occasions. Fourth-time-not-so-lucky. It’s disappointing news in the short-term but overall a positive experience. As usual, they provide detailed and constructive feedback. I nevertheless don’t plan to make a fifth application. At least not any time soon.

In mid-June, I am pleasantly surprised by the return of my honorary Jamaican auntie, Carol, for a fortnight’s visit to Belgium. It’s all touch-and-go, I’ll later find out, after the Belgian embassy in Jamaica messed up her application. Owing to the delay, she just about reaches the airport in time to catch her flight. I learn of her visit through Internations and email her straight away. Little do I know we’re destined to attend the same early summer cocktail party the following evening. 

When I arrive, the DJ is playing some enticing 80s soul, auguring well for the night’s proceedings. I approach a group with whom I’m familiar only to take my leave – politely, if hurriedly – when I see Carol in the distance. She’s already surrounded by a posse of acquaintances old and new, one of whom is an ethnically-ambiguous gentleman who aims a vaguely seductive grin in my direction. I pay him little mind until it becomes overtly discourteous not to make conversation with him. 

(courtesy of Pickpic)

My interest perks up when I discover he’s from Brazil. I couldn’t tell from his very English sounding name – Roger – or the Anglo-Caribbean inflection when he speaks English. We switch to French and Portuguese, for which I’m glad for the practice. Roger is very affirming of my linguistic skills, although I’m suspicious of his motives. He makes an early - not to mention tactile - exit. Carol and I continue to work the room; or rather the terrace. It feels as if the whole of Internations Brussels is in attendance – or close enough. There are few known faces that I don’t see that evening. Internations regular Aurélien introduces me to Annabelle, a young Nigerian woman settled in the Low-Countries with a Flemish husband. She's decked out in a gold lamé dress, with bling hanging off her very eyelashes. She’ll spend much of the night streaming her activities to her Instagram followers. 

Whilst much of the sizeable crowd are content to remain on the veranda, Auntie Carol and I are itching to hit the dancefloor. We like what we’ve heard from the DJ so far. In the end, his latter selection isn’t as classy as his initial repertoire but it’ll suffice. Mostly. Some 90s Pop-R&B and Europop, guilty-pleasures, a little Afrobeats and a healthy dollop of salsa. Carol and I hold the fort for much of the time with some synchronised fail-safe moves. At last, I properly learn the steps to Jerusalema. Aurélien angles for a dance but I'm not having it.

I watch in awe the artful salsa steps executed by Diego - a very recent acquaintance - and his most graceful female dance partner. She's a natural mover whose effortless groove has caught my attention earlier that evening. Another recent acquaintance, Ludwig – a German hyper-polyglot I meet at a previous Internations shin-dig - miraculously throws aside his habitual crutches to join the salsa fun. He puts more able-bodied men to shame, like erstwhile suitor and errant ‘friend’, Simon-Pierre, who makes an appearance towards the end of the night. I’d planned to leave before 10pm. Famous last words. Carol and I are having such a blast, it’s close enough to midnight before we make earnest attempts to exit. Thankfully, I am assured a lift by kindly Ludwig, who lives in the same neighbourhood.

I’ll bump into Ludwig, Diego, Carol, Aurélien and co again that weekend at the O Melhor de Portugal (Best of Portugal) festival in Parc Cinquantenaire. The month is chock-full with festivals. That weekend, the annual Fête de la Musique celebrations also take place.

It’ll be my first O Melhor de Portugal experience. It was postponed twice because of the unstable pandemic conditions. There are numerous stalls flogging food or membership to Lusophone associations. A fully-clothed man commandeers the stage, flanked by two scantily-dressed brunettes in tangas doing mirrored choreography. I’m not impressed.

Our contingent of Internations guests move to a pop-up bar for refreshments to take the edge off the heatwave. Annabelle will join us later, sporting the colours of the Nigerian flag, including bright green box braids. En route, Diego comments on how well I speak English.

I grew up in the UK, I reply I had no choice.

It’s not the first time someone has made this observation in Belgium.  It strikes me as odd. As if there’s some dissonance between my accent and my ethnicity. Diego has visited the UK. He’d be aware that there are Afrodescendants who’ve grown up with English as a first language. Not to mention the migration engendered after the British Empire colonised a substantial part of the African continent.

I can’t hold it against Diego too much. He generously offers me a drink. Plus, his is not the worst cultural gaff of the afternoon, believe it or not. That dubious honour goes to another Caucasian acquaintance, who is shocked to learn that Nigeria and Niger are not one and the same country. Good grief.

After a tasty virgin, strawberry-laced Mojito and some light conversation, I head to a Fête de la Musique concert around the corner. The yearly music festival will dominate my weekend plans, with me traversing the city to catch various shows. The night before I head to Anderlecht for a gig. On arriving, I discover there are two venues in the area with exactly the same name. I am at the wrong one. It’s only down to the kindly intervention of a local resident that I locate the correct venue. I manage to catch the best part of a lively set by Belgian MC Onha, whom I’ve seen on stage before. For the rest of the weekend, I’ll stay local for some Bossa Nova covers of Brazilian classics and pop hits – some more credible than others. That Sunday, I also become familiar with the Funk/Soul/Hip-Hop influenced oeuvre of bassist and producer Gabriel Massa in my own neighbourhood. The only thing to mar proceedings is the creepy presence of one of Simon-Pierre’s friends, whom I run into far more than I’d appreciate. 

The same could be said for another mutual acquaintance - Rob. Our paths cross again on my way back from a concert in Merode. He’s keen as ever to pick my brain about politics. I humour him, albeit with my usual air of exasperation. It’s the same ol’ dynamic. He’s prone to making excuses and gaslight and I’m prone to calling him out on his crap, if a little readily. The current fits-and-bursts nature of our interactions is thus for the best. I don’t miss the frustration of our past, more regular exchanges.

The following week my activities will be more cerebral in nature. I attend an excellent Saturday morning training session on Belgian asylum law and the geopolitical crises - in which the country is also complicit - that provoke refugee flows. It’s a grim but eye-opening event. I learn of the fragrantly callous methods employed by the Belgian state to circumnavigate its duties under international law. (It takes a lot to compete with the UK's dreadful immigration track record.) It helps me understand much better why I meet so many migrants stuck in a merciless bureaucratic limbo, whilst volunteering at the Red Cross. The second session is taken by Nabil Boukili, a member of parliament for the Workers’ Party of Belgium (PTB) who co-organised the event with Amitié Sans Frontières (Friendship without Borders). I’ve recently joined the PTB as a basic member, after some convincing by Augustin, also part of Rob’s wider circle.

Earlier that week, I attend a couple of summer farewells. My church home group organise a bring-and-share before what is likely to be a 3-4 month aestival hiatus. Monica regales us with her adventures as an extra on the set of the popular US-based bible adaptation, The Chosen. Karin formally announces her third pregnancy to the group, having let a handful of us already in on the news. She’ll be away for a number of weeks, the thought of which fills me at first with mild panic. Thankfully, I’ve been doing a lot better at reclaiming time spent in my own company. I’m therefore not out to sea whilst Karin is indisposed.

A few days later, I’m delighted to be re-joining Bruno and Miguel at the RoSa feminist library for their gender-deconstructing book club. That week, the focus of discussion is Sam Mills’ Chauvo-Feminism. I come to adore this set text -enough to blog about it - and I happily wax-lyrical. Given the learned constitution of the Book Group, it’s another buoyant and enriching conversation. This time, Lorenzo is also about. Before the session starts, he says hello and asks how I am. His tone and demeanour are so quiet and solemn, he could be offering me condolences. There’s a delayed reaction as I realise it’s a simple greeting. I’m also still very ambiguous about our relationship. We’re so far from the easy rapport we once had, it’s as if it never existed. 

We have been in touch by text a handful of times in the few months since things disintegrated. Mostly, I've been the one to initiate contact, usually on special occasions (although after a while, even that starts to feel like too much.) I send him a heartfelt message on his birthday. He responds with gratitude and kindness.

I still care deeply for my one-time friend but feel irate about the current state of affairs. We are where we are because of his inexplicable decisions. Trust has been broken that I can't see being restored any time soon. Neither has he been very proactive in making amends.

Instinctively, I reply to Lorenzo’s question with a whispered ‘hot’, fanning myself and walking past him rather imperiously to find a seat. His compatriot, Marcello sits between us, unaware of any tension. I relent, speaking across Cello to ask Lorenzo how work is going.

There is no job, he responds. It shows how little we know about each other’s lives nowadays. What I thought was a steady new role, turned out to be only freelance and intermittent.

It’s a brief interaction and the sole time we’ll talk for the whole evening. At least I feel less of a hypocrite when I extol Sam Mills for her generosity of spirit towards those who have hurt her.

It’ll be my last time with the book group before the Summer holidays. I won’t be able to make the final session. I do stumble upon Miguel once again that weekend, whilst meandering through Bois de la Cambre with Brenda. Compared to aforementioned surprise encounters, it's definitely one of the more pleasing. Once Miguel is out of earshot, I gush about how handsome and genuinely sweet he seems to be. A far too rare combination. Men don't need beauty as an excuse to misbehave. It's admirable that, rather than exploit both his male and pretty privilege, Miguel is actively resisting the poisoned perks of patriarchy. I can’t hardcore crush on him, however. He's too young for me. So much the better. I can save my emotional energy for worthier pursuits. Brenda is tickled by my reaction. She’s in a good place. On the spiritual, professional and personal front she’s found a healthy equilibrium. I’m glad for my younger friend.

In the distance some bass lines are calling me. Brenda is wary of the crowds (and, I suspect, anything that could be classified as 'urban' music). She makes her way home. My curiosity leads me to discover the sounds are emanating from the Afrodisiac festival. It's been poorly publicised. If I'd known, I'd have made more time for it over an already busy weekend. I stay for a bit of live entertainment -partly out of sympathy for the act trying to liven up a tepid crowd - before heading home for some dinner and Sunday night rest.

Soundtrack: Mahel by Toro Y Moi, Three Dimensions Deep by Amber Mark