A Festive Transition

 4 and a 1/2 min. read

Image: Hi Mac

As well as ruffling feathers at conferences, I also find time to host two successful December dinner parties. The first ends up being an unintentional dry run for Christmas. I don’t plan for it to be so close to Yuletide; more just a case of finding a suitable space in my diary. I realise it’s the first time I have hosted more than one person for a good while. Maybe that’s why unconsciously, in terms of numbers, this soirée will be my most ambitious to date.

I invite a mix of recently made acquaintances, in addition to my long-time confidante Karin. Guests include Vision, my University colleague originally from Zimba; Mélanie, who recruited me for a migration rights consultancy in Spring 2024; Anne-Marie, a thoughtful and beautiful young woman of Congolese, Rwandan and Eritrean heritage that I met at a Palestine solidarity event; Romana, a straight-talking, multi-lingual I know from a monthly language event, also of mixed-Congolese heritage and Kathleen; a Brit I’ve met at various cultural events and who generously offered me a ticket to see Robert Glasper in autumn.

My choice of diverse and intergenerational guests turns out to be propitious. After the initial awkwardness, a natural kismet emerges. The ambiance is celebratory. Luxury-loving Romana brings a bottle of champagne that will remain untouched all evening. (I’ll eventually gift it to my mother during her Christmas visit.)

We have a number of candid conversations about race, misogynoir, culture shocks and interracial dating, amongst multiple themes. In particular, Vision opens up about life adjusting to Belgium and the scandalous not-so-micro-agressions she has encountered living in Flanders. 

I couldn’t be more pleased about the amazing feedback over the coming days. Vision comments on how easy I make it look to find compatible friendships.  Being in a committed relationship, mothering a young child, and as a full-time post-doc, she struggles to find the time to socialise. She presumes it's easier for me as an outgoing singleton.

If only you knew, I reply, proceeding to outline in brief how difficult it has been, and to some degree continues to be, finding solid community in Brussels.

Image: Juan Gomez

In reality, the only guest in attendance I’ve known for longer than a year is Karin.  It’s also the first time I’ve hosted a group in years. Until late 2023, I had entertained a sole guest within the space of a year. Owing to the disposition of said invitee, it was a disaster. I needed to break out of this subconscious hosting moratorium.

My reluctance had a lot to do with the aforementioned bad experience and general relational disappointments, including the abrupt end to my friendship with Lorenzo.

Speaking of the devil, I happen to bump into my Italian former BFF en route to a shift at the Red Cross. That afternoon, I just about manage to board the close-to-full bus. I have little choice but to sit at the back. If I had sat in my usual spot, I’d have never seen Lorenzo. I don’t initially recognise him. He’s grown his fair locks to Rip Van Winkle lengths. I wonder whom this smiling hippy-like figure is. It’s not that he recognises me straight away either, he later admits. I'm differently coiffed to when we last saw each other, almost two years prior.

Lorenzo smiles not from recognition but because of the serene state of mind in which he’s currently in. I mention to him that, ironically, I have a long overdue call scheduled with our mutual friend, Melissa, the following day.

I am guarded at first. There is no apology or acknowledgement on Lorenzo's part for the way he torpedoed our friendship or the deep relational trauma caused by the insensitively-handled rupture. The bus ride is too short to address it, yet it’s something I’ll remain displeased about. Nevertheless, perhaps out of shock, the grace of God or both, we manage an organically cordial conversation before I have to rush off. If I could have anticipated our meeting, I wouldn't have responded with anything approaching magnanimity. As I alight the bus, I mutter to the Almighty that S/He has a wicked sense of humour...

Returning to the subject of my Christmas plans, I have no intentions to travel. I decide against it long before the PhD is even on the horizon, after the chaotic and stressful commute to the UK in 2023. 

Image: Debby Hudson

Whilst sis will also stay put in Japan this time, it is agreed mum will join me for the second half of the Yuletide pause, as is now habitual. For Christmas Day itself, I resume my custom of hosting non-relatives who also remain in situ over the festive break.

This year my guestlist is made up of my colleague Geraldine and Nadia; a Canadian-born, Italian-Libyan I know through my activism. She is unable to fly because of a health issue. Nadia is accompanied by her sister, Mariam- sleepy from jetlag. A good acquaintance from church, Wallace, makes a cameo. Originally from Uganda, she has a harrowing story that her ready smile belies. Living with a precarious migration status, travel isn't currently feasible. 

If this once again ends up being an all-female affair, it’s not for lack of trying. My male guests are no-shows. (One doesn’t even do the courtesy of letting me know. Despite his earlier confirmation, my efforts to follow-up are met with radio silence. My experience in Belgium reminds me once again of the male species' unreliability.)

On Christmas day itself, my stove decides to go on strike. This thus entails some improvising with the oven and microwave. Fortunately, I begin most of my Christmas meal preparations days in advance. However, it does mean my mashed potatoes aren’t as fluffy as I’d like and the veg is a little too crunchy. My guests are very kind and complimentary nonetheless; whether from a genuine place of contentment, pity or politeness, I can’t tell.

Soundtrack: California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet; a Christmas mix compiled by yours truly.

Happy 2025 to La Vie Continentale readers.

Resilience

 

After my brief but well-needed Portuguese excursion, I return to Belgium to an ever-complicated work situation. The trade union representatives (TUR), including my colleague Demetria, have been doing their best to defend me in my absence. They write a strongly-worded, well-argued letter to management to challenge their recent decision not to extend my contract. 

No complaints about my work have been raised. The funding -which management disingenuously feigned as ‘hanging in the balance’ - is confirmed whilst I’m on leave. Besides, we have surplus to carry over from this year, which Demetria and new manager, Gina herself, costed into the project proposal. Gina and the GS, Lauren, keep insisting that the format of the programme will change. Fine, I say, but not the substance. It’s not as if I’m suddenly required to become an accountant or civil engineer. The essence will remain the same. I was recruited on the basis I could adapt.

After receiving the TUR letter, the GS agrees to meet with them. It’s false hope. I am not party to this conversation and, for the sake of confidentiality, no notes are taken by the reps. At the very least, the TUR want to convince Lauren to allow me a transitional period. There’ll be a lot of loose ends to tie up in the New Year. She’s adamantly opposed. When asked how she could ignore that my contract is already accounted for, she apparently hints that she’s promised that money elsewhere; to a department filled with her (white) South African compatriots.

A lot transpires from that meeting, all of it supposedly off the record and not necessarily in my interests to divulge at this point. Suffice to say that management feel untouchable; not least because I have a less secure, fixed-term contract. The cronyism and double-standards are so blatant, that it’s positively sloppy. The TUR are devastated on my behalf. Alas, at this stage their hands are tied by internal politics. I’ve already started to look for opportunities elsewhere. I have a lot of annual leave to spare which management would prefer I take in one go, so I am out of their hair. Meanwhile, Gina has been studiously avoiding me since our confrontation at the meeting where she effectively gave me the boot.

This awful situation has nonetheless highlighted how well-supported I am within the organisation and without. On my London trip, sympathetic friends listen with sad incredulity. Several colleagues and affiliates express their chagrin as well as solidarity. My team organises a catch-up/pre-farewell lunch. My colleague Steve and his wife Sylvie stay in regular touch with supportive messages. At church the likes of Karin and Monica ask for regular updates. Pastor Mike sends me a text, remarking that he hasn’t seen me in church for a while (he’s unaware of my travel plans) and sends a prophetic prayer. Renzo’s is an ever-ready shoulder to cry on. I am rich in relationships. It’s nothing to be taken for granted. After so many months of pandemic-related isolation, the comfort of this is sweeter still.

The work stress has clearly taken its toll but my life hasn’t come to a stand still. 

I reunite with Renzo after my holidays at an exhibition he’s co-curating. He’s taking a break when I arrive. I fear I’ve missed him and send a mildly panicked text. His gallery colleagues have been looking at me askew.

I’m so relieved when he walks through the door, I’ve barely said hello before wrapping him in a tight embrace. We’re both a bit giddy, having not seen each other for a while. Renzo makes an unwittingly humourous comment and I double up with laughter. He turns crimson, wearing a confused smile, probably nervous that something has been lost in translation.

No, caro mio, you're just witty.

I wish I could be funny in multiple languages.

I don’t care much for the exhibition itself, which at first sight appear to be a series of misshapen hair nets. Renzo takes the time to expertly explain the intention and craft that the featured artist has put into each creation. It’s an enthused side of him that’s new to me. He's finally making inroads into his true vocation, after years wasting away in the corporate world. More than the work itself, my pleasure comes from seeing my friend in his element.

The last Sunday of the month, Renzo, Brenda and Roxanne will join me for a late lunch/early dinner -or “linner” as we dub it. They overlap with Bruno - a recent acquaintance I’ve made - of mixed Cape Verdean origin. 

Bruno organises conversation groups for men, where they discuss and deconstruct masculinity in contemporary society. We first make contact when in early autumn, I send him an email politely demanding to know why these events aren’t open to women. His response is gracious and studied, ending with an invitation to meet and talk. We’ve remained in touch since. He wants to take me up on the idea of a mixed-gender conversation circle. I invite him round to dine and discuss. I have to reschedule after he drops out at the last moment. When my plans for the following weekend extend to a group linner, Bruno gently informs me on arrival that he won’t be staying to eat. He wasn’t expecting a crowd. It’s Sunday; his day to recalibrate before the week ahead. I’m apologetic. It was a gamble to tell him last minute things had changed.

For the time we do have alone, Bruno asks me pointed questions about my objectives for the mixed circles and what role I envisage playing. Basic but still surprisingly difficult to answer. I respond with lots of my usual verbal processing and digressions. I’m already feeling disorientated about the misunderstanding over the afternoon’s events. Bruno seems to find it useful nonetheless. True to his word, he leaves as the rest appear. He and Renzo exchange a brief but courteous, if a little awkward greeting. They would be somewhat familiar to each other from the conversation circles.

There is an element of relief to be only entertaining three. It wouldn’t have been fair on Bruno or the others if he stayed against his will. Plus the layout of my otherwise attractive living room is not the most suited to hosting dinners for multiple guests. All three of them well and truly an integral part of my Brussels life, they’ve met on previous occasions. I’ve prepared a vegan curry for Renzo and my trademark mixed-meat tagine for the rest of us. We spread out between the Diner-style counter and the inviting couches. It works itself out. 

Despite ourselves, we end up talking shop. Roxanne and Brenda’s work schedules sound punishing. Of course, I update them on the latest twists and turns at the office, including Demetria's announcement she’ll be expecting in the spring. It’s the best news and a delicious irony, given management’s recent decision to downsize an already under-resourced team.

We while away easy hours in each other’s company. The night is still young as my guests start to troop home. They leave with enough leftovers to at least spare them a night or two of cooking.

I hope to make these “linners” a regular feature over the colder months. Especially as our options could be limited for external activities. Although Christmas is a lot more swinging this year than my first Brussels Noel (on lockdown), there’s a nervousness about the worrying infection rates in Belgium. It’s whilst attending a stimulating theatre performance about young Europeans drawn to the Far Right, that I first hear of the Omicron variant. The outing has been organised on Internations. A member of the party is anxious about the detection of cases in Belgium that day. And thus the pessimism begins.

The following week, I attend a DJ set -another Internations-related event – where rumours are circulating of a near-total shutdown. Again. 

I admit I have mixed-feelings on entering the bar. It’s a COVID-pass only event but still... There’s a heck a lot of people in a confined space. Various socials are going on at the same time. I don’t see anyone familiar and I’m about to forfeit my five euro entry fee when I run into man-about-town Aurélien. He informs me auntie Carol is in the house. I perk up. He shows me to the corner where they’ve congregated. An older Ecuadorian mulatto called Bonaparte apparently takes a shine to me. We talk a little about South American politics and the pink tide. With his transatlantic accent he describes his drift towards the centre from his Radical Left past.

 I’m cordial but wary. If the sting is less sharp than it once was, I'm still smarting from my many misadventures with heteros so far in Brussels. When Aurélien tries to invite himself over, I smile and inform him and Bonaparte that only gay men are allowed to hang out round mine. They think I’m joking.

The music is pretty cheesy; EDM remixes of Europop, The Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Boney M. I make an effort to dance all the same. Bonaparte flays his arms around enthusiastically, using this as a pretext to shimmy up to me. I try to be jovial but protect my personal space. The selection starts to perk up as I head out the door. Typical. It’s then that Aurélien speaks of rumours circulating around another closure of bars, restaurants and cafés. (In stereotypically French libertarian style, he's generally against restrictions). 

I’ve suggested we organise a surprise farewell for Carol at a bar, before she moves permanently back to the Caribbean. Aurélien's not convinced such events will be feasible for much longer.

Fortunately, the worst-case scenario is averted, for now. Nightclubs close and there are various other limitations. Mercifully, nothing as drastic as this time last year. Yet.

Some of Carol’s friends have already conspired to turn an Internations’ winter party into a send-off. It falls on a very busy Friday in early December. As far as Carol is aware, I'm not available that evening. 

I'm double-booked, having signed up to attend a film night at church about undocumented migrants in Belgium. It’s a subject about which I’m keen to have deeper knowledge. The low budget feature by a charity called Olivier, based on real-life events, is hard hitting. It’s thus frustrating to hear the moderator – himself supposedly involved in support work for the undocumented – use phrases such as ‘illegals’ and claim that ‘the population doesn’t like migrants, so politicians give the people what they want’. I can’t let these slide. Before exiting to surprise auntie Carol, I comment on the problematic use of phrases such ‘legality’ when it comes to migration -or any human being-and how politicians aren’t hostages of fortune. They often cynically drive the prejudices around certain types of migration to distract from the real causes of inequalities.

I rush out to auntie Carol’s farewell; grabbing mutual friend Roxanne’s present along the way. She has to stay and help with the clean-up after movie night.

New COVID rules dictate that venues close at 11pm. I arrive so close to the end of the social that I am not charged. Heck, it’s worth it to see auntie Carol’s surprise.  It takes me a while to locate her at first. I don’t recognise her from behind. She’s wearing a feathered black and ruby wig. 

I proudly hand her my gift (courtesy of a Brussels’ Christmas market artisan), after drawing a blank for so long.

 The room is throwing down to the last strains of music. It’s some sort of dancehall. Not really my cup of tea but I am in the mood to party, despite my could-sleep-standing-up fatigue. Predictably, Carol’s close friend and my one-time nemesis Rob is in the vicinity. He co-organised the gig with fellow Internations consul, Marcus. I give Rob a wide-berth except for a furtive wave goodbye. 

I'm more surprised to see Simon-Pierre mingling in the crowd. He’d dropped off the grid for so long, I began to assume he were sick. Evidently not. There’s a moment of mutual recognition. Perhaps. My new hairdo takes him longer to place me.

I reflect on my cool and fleeting interactions with SP and Rob. I know I can be good at holding a grudge and don’t want to indulge bad feeling. Yet, I also have enough quality relationships to not squander energy on those that aren’t. On one hand, it seems only right that SP and I have a conversation about why communication abruptly ended. Then again, as Renzo reminds me, it’s not a mystery why Simon evaporated. C’est toujours la mème ritournelle. Especially with these heteros. In the end, maybe there was never anything genuine to salvage.

Soundtrack: Befriended + We Walked in Song by The Innocence Mission, An Evening with...Silk Sonic, Geography by Tom Misch.

Summer Highlights: Part 1

 

A new acquaintance recently commented on the silence of these pages since the reflections on my dreamy Croatian holiday. I signed off to take a break over summer for an undefined period. (September still counts as (late) summer for me).

I’ve needed the respite. Maintaining two blogs amongs other interests and professional obligations can be quite a commitment. I gave myself permission not to feel guilty if I missed a few updates...

...And then my acquaintance's comments made that guilt resurge.

Besides. If I don’t resume now, I don’t know if or when.

As the weeks roll on, I have more to report which adds to the pressure. And so I decided to kickstart la rentrée de LVC with a fly-by-night retrospective.

On the work front many changes are afoot since the departure of my former manager, Ama in early summer.  It's forced me to become acquainted with internal political machinations that can be demoralising and distract from the work itself. Nonetheless, the job remains fulfilling and I pray to be able to continue in that vein.

On the social side, it's been a busy summer. I’ve made the most of what previously-cancelled activities have been available this year. 

I’ve also created my own fun.

Most significant of which is the belated 40^th birthday dinner I organise shortly after my return from Croatia. Despite taking place in mid-August and a number of potential invitées being away, I still have a decent turnout for the Senegalese buffet I have reserved in Matongé.  The alchemy is wonderful. My guests- encountered through work, church or social settings- develop an instant rapport. Whilst we don’t have much opportunity to mix and mingle at a sit-down dinner, the conversations flow freely in their respective corners. I have also invited Nik, the Dutch owner of the hotel where I first stayed on moving to Belgium. Although we’ve remained in touch fairly regularly, I’m still surprised at his enthusiastic RSVP. Later, a few other guests will remark on his eccentricism and provocative, no doubt facetious, commentary.

A handful of us hang around late into the night, feigning to leave only to continue our discussions outside the restaurant, slowly making our way to the metro. We talk some more, before finally descending into the bowels of Brussels. 

I receive a number of compliments on the calibre of friends I’ve managed to assemble over the months, in spite of the many challenges that the pandemic and human frailty have thrown up. It’s mad to think I’ve known these folks for a year at the most; some for a far shorter period.

Sis often reassured me it would work itself out; that we can be blessed with meaningful relationships in the blink of an eye. I am truly grateful and proud of the dynamic and multicultural community of which, by God’s grace, I am becoming part.

Elsewhere, I’ve been availing myself of the explosion of events on the Internations expat site. There are picnics, lunches, dinners and a five euro soirée with little to show for even that nominal sum. At the end of the evening, I try and tag along with auntie Carol and her crew of older ravers when they beg off to find somewhere to dance. Alas, the torrential rain that night literally puts a dampener on our plans.

I attend a Middle Eastern dinner in Antwerp organised by one of Carol's besties, Rob; my former frenemy and now just plain old nemesis. I have purposefully been avoiding the numerous activities he’s organised, even when he sends me direct invitations (something to which he'd never admit). However, I figure the odd group meal wouldn't hurt. It’s possible we’ll hardly have the chance to speak.

Still, I feel a nervous agitation, as is now normal whenever I have to interact with Rob. 

He is scandalously late to his own event. Annoyed, I make stilted conversation with the other (unknown) guests waiting at Gare Central, in between sending sanctimonious texts to Rob about disorganisation. We miss a couple of trains waiting for our errant host.

Subsequently, things are cordial enough. That is, until Rob and I have a blazing row towards the end of the evening triggered by another instance of his flakiness and cavalier attitude about other people’s time.

 I’m apologetic to the other guests on leaving. I hear a burst of laughter as I exit to catch the train with another attendee. I look down to see my treacherous belt has loosened. 

My mind is preoccupied with how this man-child always manages to get under my skin.

By some miracle my travel companion wants to remain in touch. We part ways at Gare Centrale. There, I bump into a sullen Rob and another guest from the dinner. It’s an awkward metro ride back, all the more so that the nemesis has parked his rented car in my neck of the woods for some reason. I’m voluble with his friend, a highly intelligent polyglot with apparent Aspergers. We’ve also had heated discussions in the past.

A few weeks later, I pop round to Rob’s office to pass on an article that might be of interest. It's a pretext for diplomacy. 

I hate that I lost control. 

Friendship is unrealistic but we can at least be on civil terms. 

It’s meant to be a quick stop over. I have other lunchtime plans. Before I know it, I’m sucked into another futile, revisionist conversation. Rob dissembles or self-contradicts when he believes it’s convenient. Failing that, he flat-out lies. There is an uncharacteristic moment of self-awareness on his part that’s promptly overridden by more bad faith. I am constantly surprised by my capacity to expect more from Rob than has ever been justified.

This impromptu meeting was motivated by a desire to live up to my Christian ideals. Instead, it’s a reminder that interacting with Rob is like trying to negotiate an emotional black hole. It sucks in everything around it and emits no light. I need to recognise my limits. Some people should be kept at a safe, City-wide distance.

Thankfully, there are more auspicious encounters. A week before our non-reconciliation I bump into one of Rob’s merry band of mulattos, Dénis. It's almost a year to the first and only time we met.  I recall his overall slickness and acerbic wit; entertaining for one night but would probably turn deadly in the long term. I imagine he'd be the kind of man always between girlfriends or ex-wives; past and future. On this occasion, with his adolescent daughter in tow, Dénis is on his best behaviour.

He explains he'll be relocating to Eastern Europe for work. By some bizarre social compulsion, I suggest we exchange numbers. As if we'll ever see each other again. 

I’m nonetheless glad our paths cross before Dénis' departure. I’d wondered what became of him.

There are more farewells as a couple of the younger sisters at church also relocate. One is going back to the UK before returning to mainland Europe to begin a placement in Geneva. The other, a former au pair, returns to South Africa, after being bullied by her mercurial boss. She has handled it with such grace and cheer, it’s hard to believe the stress she’s been under when she finally tells all.

It's generally been a great time for Christian fellowship. There are various dinners organised chez Dorian; a church sister from Guam. She also graced my 40th birthday guestlist and is one of the most generous individuals I’ve ever known. 

One Sunday after church I am invited to lunch at Karin and Felix’. This allows me to finally ingratiate myself with their kids. Result.

I am treated to some delicious homecooking over at my colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia’s house with their (now) multi-lingual brood. The couple are also both present at my 40^th dinner party. 

It’s now a running joke that Sylvia has appropriated me, with no objections on my part. We share a lot of cultural and political interests. She’s a thoughtful and effusive communicator. During supper at their house, I demand to know how her and Steve met. The two gladly regale me of the epic tale, with much predictable eye-rolling and interruption from the kids. Meanwhile, their obscenely fat feline, Gino lumbers around nonchalantly. Apparently, he was even heavier when they adopted him.

One mid-week evening I attend a multilingual social where I debate with a Frenchman over the existence of structural racism, or more specifically, white supremacy. Refusing to acknowledge the racial legacy of French colonialism, he whitesplains away discrimination as purely class-based, insisting that the concept of racism is an American import. Besides. Africans are super-racist to each other, he avers.

At the same venue a few nights later, after a solitary and vertiginous turn on the summer Ferris wheel in Louise, I show up for a DJ set. 

It’s a dead Saturday night, save for staff and a few stragglers. A girl with Jade-coloured hair whoops and dances madly to monotonous Trap. A crazy Caucasian pretends to fall off a stool for my benefit. He's inexplicably wasted when his entourage are clearly not. He moves to a corner to stare conspicuously at me then approaches to apologise for an unknown reason. 

When against my better judgment I ask why, that's the opening he's been looking for. He brags about being the best rapper in Brussels (or is it Belgium?), proceeding to show off his skills, track after indistinguishable track. I sip my everlasting Schweppes in bemused embarrassment until a waitress comes to my rescue and shoos him away. This story tickles everyone I tell.

I quit the establishment when it fails to become sufficiently lit. En route home, I pause at the foot of the Palais de Justice for some far better free entertainment courtesy of a multicultural funk band. They cover everything from Bobby Caldwell to James Brown, via Louis Armstrong. The lyrics are often fluffed but no-one apart from me appears to notice.

Heading to Parc station, a diminutive young man chases after me. I stop, wondering if he needs change. Instead he launches into some well-rehearsed, if charmingly delivered poetic chat-up lines. I don’t swallow the bait, and his request for a hug is declined. But I’ll take the compliment. It’s been one of those nights.

In early September, my pandemic-enforced theatrical hiatus ends with a whimper rather than a bang. I book tickets for an underwhelming piece supposedly based on the life of  late Hip-Hop icon, Tupac Shakur and Tupac Amaru; the Inca warrior after whom he was named. 2021 marks the 25^th anniversary of Shakur's death. The play is a multilingual, culturally-confused mess that’s nowhere as clever as it’s trying to be. It spreads itself too thin and badly so, becoming an unintentional parody of experimental theatre. The main subjects eventually become incidental to the chaos. 

There are better ways to spend 20€...

I Can Sing a Rainbow

 

Last week, during one of my daily walks, I see a huge double rainbow straddling a busy main road in my neighbourhood. It ends somewhere in a nearby field. Following a drop in temperature and return to more frequent rain, there have been a few of these multicoloured appearances in the past couple of weeks.

I’ve always been taken by this natural phenomenon. In the biblical story of Noah, it’s representative of God’s mercy and fresh starts. I also like the paradox of this hopeful emblem. Such a wonderful and reassuring sight is only possible after significant rainfall. A rainbow would never be found on a clear, sunny day.

In this prolonged Coronavirus season, it’s symbolic of my efforts to count my blessings amidst the trials. March marks the first anniversary since the WHO officially declared COVID19 a pandemic. The month has brought with it more crises of morale as I reach another slow descent in the rollercoaster analogy. The monotony of teleworking once again eats away at my soundness of mind and there’s no immediate relief in sight. Yet March has also brought some opportunities to interact with others in ways that have eluded me for a while.

On the first Friday of the month  my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) organise a mass sandwich making initiative on their premises. The following day we are to deliver and distribute hundreds of packed lunches alongside the Serve the City team at the Red Cross Centre. Owing to the scale of the operation, it’s been in the church diary for weeks. It nevertheless requires some time management on my part. Friday nights have recently been set apart for online Christian counselling sessions with specialists from FWM. With all that’s going on, it’s vital that I avail myself of whatever resource to improve my emotional and mental well-being.

After another evocative session, I rush to FWM HQ. Dozens of (fairly) physically-distanced church members are in the back hall, beavering away. It’s quite the slick process, broken down to its most basic components. Some are buttering, others do the filling, whilst others still wrap the finished product in clingfilm. 

There are ample treats around, both for the sandwich bags and to line the volunteers’ stomachs. Pastor Tasha asks me to join a group of Francophones doing some buttering. This is no time to be coy. After mildly awkward salutations and listening in for a bit on the girls’ talk, the conversation becomes more relaxed and inclusive. There’s an embarrassing episode where I mistakenly eat what I think is a stray slice of bread. Tya, one of my co-volunteers at the Red Cross, teases me all evening. Sensitive sort that I am, usually this would bother me to a small degree. But teasing denotes familiarity; like being officially initiated into the clan.

The simple act of being in a room full of people has taken on life-affirming significance in the past year. Moreover, this will be the first occasion I have had to meet some FWM members in the flesh, including Pastor Tasha. The atmosphere is full of bonhomie. We brave the near-freezing temperatures to load approx. 500 packed lunches into car boots, to be handed out the following day. On the way back home via the metro, I spot a couple from church heading in the same direction. I recognise the male contingent, Jean-Luc, from the welcome team. Not wanting to be the third wheel, I keep a polite distance. The two are pretty persistent nonetheless. They accompany me all the way to my interchange at Merode. It’s good French practice too. I’m in full flow by the time I have to switch trains.

Some of us reconvene the following day at the Red Cross Centre. I’m wrapped up warm, expecting to hand out sandwiches to rough sleepers as on a previous occasion. Instead, the RC have a soup-kitchen set-up to distribute the lunch bags. 

This is an even more rapid-fire operation than the sandwich-making. Recipients of the food packages are moved along a conveyor belt-style system. The international voluntary team set to work; some pouring out flavoursome soup and passing it around, the rest distributing various components of the food bags. We’re given strict instructions to hand out a maximum amount of food at the onset. Those with families are only allowed limited extras, to ensure everyone can eat their fill. A few chance it, hoping we won’t recall their faces when they return for second or third helpings.

The distribution goes so fast that we barely have time to speak to beneficiaries. Many are the walking definition of world-weary. They avoid my gaze, as if the burden of their circumstances has denied them of their dignity.

 I try and make eye contact, smile, ask Ça va ? or wish them a Bon Appetit.

The afternoon shift draws to a close before we know it. There are plenty of left overs, long after redistributing extra helpings. The rest is to be deposited at another centre to minimise any waste.

All the volunteers are dying to taste the tantalising, still-warm soup on offer.

At home time, I’m shown more backstage bounty by a confident young Anglo-Belgian man. He has a fascinating hybrid accent, that at first makes him hard to place. I’m not tempted by the sandwich bags so much as wanting to give some away en route home. Murphy's law, of all the many homeless in Brussels, I’d see none on my journey. I decide not to risk it. There are indulgently large bags of brownies and muffins on offer that I manage to resist. I take a respectable portion home and no more.

I’m on a high from this fulfilling start to my day. I’ve also been enjoying the respite from Rob the Frenemy. That afternoon will be the first time I’ve been in contact since taking a break from the drama. I send him a carefully curated email, hoping that we can come to an entente cordial. Or at least I'll understand why his overtures of friendship are so conflicted. I have to manage my expectations. Emotional intelligence is not one of Rob’s strengths. I hope nevertheless that being earnest might get us somewhere…

Instead he makes a glib comment about having ‘ulterior motives’ after all. I’m an Aphrodite Kallipygos, according to Rob. I have to look up the term.

Once apprised, I explain that I choose to overlook this remark. Considering he’s spent the last couple of months protesting his innocence; even when unsolicited. I re-direct Rob's attention to the rest of the email’s content, which he ignores.

So what if I’m attracted to you? Is it really a problem? he shoots back. He claims his admiration of my rear is the same as some women appreciating his height. 

No. It's not the bloody same.

Seeing we won’t have an adult conversation by email, I decide to call. I’m not prepared for what turns into an hour plus of drunken confessions. I don’t pick up anything untoward at first. I’m used to Rob mumbling. It’s only when he admits that he’s been drinking all evening; at first with a guest and then on his own, that I peg just how wasted he is. He proceeds to send me photographic evidence.

Alcohol notoriously loosens the tongue. Heck, Rob doesn't have much of a filter when relatively sober.

 Time won’t allow for me to go into the half of what he says. He tells me things that I know he’d regret in the plain light of day. Pretty much every suspicion I’ve had about his intentions, he confirms. He itemises all the ways he finds me attractive; physically, intellectually and spiritually.

 Half-way through inviting me to the park the next day, he mentions he just broke up with one of his girlfriends. As if that has anything to do with me. 

Rob admits that his hitherto refusal to meet up for a platonic walk is little more than petulance. He resents that I wont come round for dinner or invite him to mine; something on which he still insists. He claims that he doesn't have a history of sexual assault (how comforting). Besides, he says, if I try anything you can just push me off.

Likely flipping story. He's 6"6. It'd hardly be a fair fight.

Don’t take it personally, I say. Just ask your South American friend. This is a segue for Rob to begin some emotional exposé on my former crush that makes little sense in his intoxicated state. Something about the South American being ‘confused’ and hung up on an old girlfriend. Tempting as it is, I have no time for these revelations. It’s none of my business.

Then in probably the most startling admission of all, Rob interjects

You know, a girl like you, you shouldn’t even give a second thought to [men like] us.

Many a true word spoken in drunkenness. There’s a poignancy to the obvious complimentary element of Rob’s statement. I find it depressing that under current virus-related circumstances, my friendship options are so minimal that my most regular contact is with a man who has such muddled motives. Moreover, it appears Rob prefers some idealised version of me in his head than the one in the real world. He questions why his being attracted to me should pose a problem. Normally it wouldn’t. Except he seems less respectful towards me than other female acquaintances such as Carol; to whom he’s much more like a model friend.

Seeing I’m getting nowhere, I leave Rob to sleep off what is sure to be the mother of a hangover. His communication over the next few days is predictably sparse, although doesn’t drop off altogether. Our paths cross-again the following week at an online quiz he's co-organised.  On a couple of occasions he sends 11^th hour invitations to hang out with a variety of acquaintances. I demure. I’m not about to drop everything at the last minute for him.

Thankfully, not all my efforts to socialise are so fraught. I have female acquaintances round for late lunch on two consecutive Sundays. First it’s Brenda, a sweet 20-something Austrian sister from FWM. Having moved to Brussels around the same time, she’s one of the few other consistent contacts I have in Belgium.

I take care of starter and mains, whilst Brenda brings over a more-ish homemade trifle. My spinach soup entrée and main fish pie dish go down very well. She’s appreciative to the point I feel a tad embarrassed. With both of us stranded in Belgium for Easter, I suggest she comes over again for Resurrection Sunday lunch. The offer is accepted without hesitation, her enthusiasm reiterated by text a fortnight later.

The following week, I’ll be pleasantly surprised to find a ‘thank you’ card in my letter box courtesy of Brenda.

That Sunday, it’s the turn of mutual friend of Rob, Auntie Carol. Her being of West-Indian extraction, I’m especially keen for my flat to be in good order when she arrives. Nobody keeps house like Caribbeans. It’s mixed-meat tagine on the menu this time, albeit not as warm as I would have liked despite being fresh out of the oven. My lukewarm flat is also too chilly for Carol’s through-and-through tropical blood. She hops from one foot to the other. There’s not much I can do to alleviate her discomfort. The living room heating is on a timer.

Notwithstanding my eagerness to share my Rob-related gossip, I learn more about Carol’s adventures as a student in Spain, our shared faith, various exes and suitors as well as work-related drama. I’ve lived a sheltered life in comparison. As Carol recalls her pre-COVID nights on the town, I rue how much this bloomin' pandemic has robbed me of Brussels’ life.

By the time we’ve exhausted this round of conversation and I accompany Carol to the metro station, it is nightfall.

Soundtrack: Expansion by Speech

Loneliness and Christmas Lights

 

It’s official. The Christmas holidays have begun. Staff at The Trade Union Organisation can look forward to two additional weeks of annual leave, as is the custom.

We’ve been squeezing in as much activity as possible in the run-up. Crossing the ‘T’s and dotting the ‘I’s. Webinars, online office parties and a reassuringly constructive evaluation with my manager, Ama.

As the holidays approach, I detect a noticeable lightening of her mood. At the last team meeting, she gives us all glowing praise for punching above our weight. We’re the smallest department with the least resources but, she argues, we achieve more than most. All the more so under pandemic conditions. Having yet to have worked at TTUO for even six months, I feel uneasy about these plaudits. As rewarding as our work is, I’ve not been there long enough to have contributed a great deal.

On the last day before the office closure, I meet up for a mid-afternoon ramble around Parc George Henri with sweet Italian trainee, Gianna. It’s a sunny and invigorating winter’s day. She’s in good spirits. Her contract has been extended. Pending COVID test results, she’ll soon return home for an admittedly straitened Christmas as Italy plans for a harsh festive lockdown.

Gianna thanks me for introducing her to the park. It’s the first time I’ve been since the summer. The bare trees have not diminished its attractiveness. Gianna draws my attention to an adventure playground I either hadn’t noticed, or had ignored on the previous visit. There's a huge sculpture of an Easter Island figurehead lounging in the sand. The playground is practically deserted. We go mad on the slides and swings, before returning to our respective homes to join the online office party.

No end of year quizzes as I’d hoped. Just judging Chrimbo pet photos, colleagues’ prospective festive menus and alcohol recommendations I’ll never use. Colleagues exchange glamourous travel-related anecdotes from pre-COVID days. I see the faces of people whom I’ve only known by name. I long for real world contact with them all the more, especially at this time of year.

Parc Georges Henri (c) Luc Viatour

Most of my colleagues will be off for a good month, whilst I’ll only take a couple of extra days in the New Year. Whilst longer serving colleagues have been encouraged to use as much leave as they can before the cut-off point, I have to ration my pro-rata’d allocation. Besides, with Belgium still on 80 % lockdown and no relaxation of measures during festivities, there’s not much to keep me occupied at home.

There is a glimmer of hope. One that I only speak of with apprehension, as not to tempt fate. My mother is supposed to visit over Christmas. God willing and COVID restrictions permitting.

I have a couple of potential options in case it falls through. One comes from my colleague Steve, also newly arrived from the UK, his wife Sylvia and their wonderful, multi-cultural brood. Another is courtesy of a compassionate couple at my new church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM), who are opening their home to anyone who might be alone at this time. We’ve never met.

I appreciate the offers. It is better to have some choice than none. Still, I am doubtful I’d take them up even if, God forbid, I have to spend Christmas on my own. The thought occurs that being with comparative – or total- strangers somehow would intensify the loneliness.

By coincidence, as it became clear the Belgian authorities were pursuing a harsher festive anti-viral strategy, my few remaining outlets for social interaction have slowly fallen away. Inchoate friendships at church are put on hold, as new acquaintances return to their respective countries to spend the holidays with family. Auntie Carol warns me in advance she’ll be in hibernation before her seasonal trip back home to the West Indies. She texts me the day before she flies out.

The South American man-of-fashion has officially been downgraded to waste-man status. I won’t dignify this non-story with too much detail. Suffice to say I have had to give him the benefit of the doubt pretty much from the outset. He’s spent all his lifelines with one too many mind games and cruel, not to mention, childish antics. It’s always sad to come to the realisation you were so wrong about a person. In fairness, he did once warn me that he wasn't well-adjusted, as hard as it was to believe at the time. When people tell you about themselves, take them at their word.

Another would-be suitor (who, by chance also works in the fashion industry), FWM’s Gerry Rose (yep, that’s his government name), has also disappeared into the ether. I never like to string anyone along. Since I mentioned that my intentions were purely platonic, I’ve noticed a distinct cooling on his part. No more texts to check on my well-being or propose another park stroll. Hmm. I make a mental note to give fashion designers a wide berth in future.

Conversely, a number of blasts-from-the-past have re-emerged after several months, or even years, off the radar. I’m pleasantly surprised-or rather shocked – when a couple of emails from errant acquaintances drop into my inbox.

It’s been a good time to reconnect in general, albeit remotely. Rob-the-Kidnapper has also crept out of the woodwork recently. Very late one evening, he unceremoniously sends me a message demanding to know my thoughts on the US election. No greeting or pleasantries. I let him know I’m not impressed after months of radio silence (a chance meeting at a metro station notwithstanding), and ignore his request. He persists with some other topical news items. I relent. By text or email, we debate the crisis in Ethiopia, gender relations and various perspectives on scripture. Instead of calling, he sends excessive amounts of messages, despite my protests. I can’t lie. I’m glad for the stimulation even if he’s an arrant contrarian. Half the time I don’t know if he really believes what he says, merely wants to elicit a reaction or both.

Text controversies aside, real world stimuli is still lacking. After railing against the solitude, I have no choice but to embrace it and make my own fun. As I have so often had to do. I’m tired of being at the mercy of others’ whims or scheduling. Trips to the supermarket, bookshops and aimless wandering are elevated far above the mundane nowadays.

My attitude towards Christmas this year is notably ambivalent. I am sluggish to put up the decorations. I decide to wait until after the cleaning lady, Melissa, has done her pre-festive rounds. Since moving in, I’ve signed up to the Titres-Services programme. I pay a monthly subscription through which I can benefit from a pool of cleaning personnel. To ensure that I don’t completely mutate into a champagne socialist, I only avail myself of the service every fortnight. I still clean my own toilet bowl in between.

In these undesirably quiet times, I’m immensely grateful for the company. On this occasion, Melissa is particularly loquacious. I’m glad for the French practice and the interaction, although keen to get back to finalising my end-of-year blogs. She asks if I have kids. Not yet. If it's God's will. I don't know...but I love children anyway...

I'm the same she replies but I love other people's children.

I later realise that her verbosity is for my benefit not hers. She’s married with a house full of kids. She perceives my loneliness and her emotional intelligence kicks in. And to think domestic work is often described as ‘low-skilled’. Nonsense. As if there’s such a thing. How many therapists can offer solace whilst cleaning a whole flat inside three hours? There’s something intensely moving about her gesture. I well up at the thought of it.

Back to my subdued Christmas plans. After Melissa leaves, I dutifully put up the decorations, glad to have it out of the way. I’ve decided to switch on the fairy lights only if and when mum arrives.

Brussels City Centre

One concession to festive cheer is meandering around Brussels to enjoy the City in its yuletide splendour. Having relocated from Strasbourg, not undeservedly known as the ‘Capital of Christmas’, I must admit Brussels holds its own. Even with the absence of the Christmas market this year, which I’m yet to experience. With all that's happened this year, I didn't think local authorities would bother. Also for fear the lights would attract a crowd, as has happened.

I’m a woman of simple pleasures. An ordinary walk around tastefully-illuminated Bourse, Grande Place and Ixelles, with good music streaming through my ears, is enough to warm the heart. Even parts of my local Woluwe-Saint-Lambert neighbourhood are festively stunning. Thanks to these regular excursions, I'm also getting to know the city even better.

At home, I try to throw myself into Advent. I attend online Carol Services in which geographical distance would have otherwise precluded my participation. At night, I am comforted from the seasonal resources courtesy of a Chaplain friend, before I close my eyes for more fitful sleep.