The Home Strait: No, I Mean Really, You Couldn't Make It Up

 

After the unexpected palaver of my outbound journey to the UK, I finally arrive at Hither Green station hoping to make my way to the Airbnb. I mistakenly choose an alternative route and am lost. I ring Kiki, my host, who agrees to meet me. I am not sure if she is driving or walking. I hope it’s the former. She shows up with her son and two dogs by foot, three quarters of an hour after I’ve been waiting in the cold and dark.

On arrival, the accommodation falls short of expectations to say the least. The few glowing reviews and limited pictures are misleading. The carpet and furniture is old and encrusted with dirt (making Kiki's request to remove shoes on entry rather pointless). The living room and kitchen are in a state of disarray. Dishes are stacked high and remnants of raw fish and stale bread are discarded on the counter. The sink in the toilet outside my room doesn’t work, with only a complicated shower head system. Kiki is not keen on me using it much, on account of it potentially flooding the facilities. The main bathroom is uninviting and she hasn’t bothered to empty the almost-full bin.

As well as two dogs Kiki has a couple of cats, one of which lounges imperiously on my bed and only responding when she's shooed away by her owner. The idea of sitting, let alone cooking or eating anywhere in the flat is unappealing. Unfortunately, already having experienced enough chaos journeying to London, it doesn't occur to me to look for somewhere new. Plus, Kiki has been kind and accommodating so far.

I am determined to pass by to see mum on my first night. It’s been two years, after all. As much as I loathe to step out without freshening up, I don’t have time to shower or change if I want to be back at a decent hour. Kiki has a strange rule about switching off the Wi-Fi from 11pm, claiming it gives her a headache. I find it odd but not wholly implausible (although I probably should).

It's an inconvenient rule. Kiki says guests usually just use their data. I explain I don’t have a smartphone. She seems to be sympathetic. She didn’t have a mobile of any kind until recently.

Meanwhile, mum has all sorts of long-awaited and unanticipated treats waiting for me. So many, that there’s no chance of me taking it all back to Brussels in one sitting. As has been the case since I emigrated, mum is in a spoiling mood, quite happy for me to eat her out of house and home if I so wish. I don’t and have to stop her from over-indulging me.

My diary the next day is full. I have my rescheduled lateral flow test first thing. If all goes well, I can head to church as planned. The customer service at the test centre is fantastic. I’m not used to such friendliness in the Big Choke. I have a good whinge to the young lady doing my swab about the lack of mask-wearing in the city; even on public transport where it’s supposed to be a requirement. To my horror, I'll see unmasked citizens - mostly men- coughing and not so much as covering their mouths. At the time, daily infection rates are well over 40,000. She concurs that a cloth over the face is no great sacrifice to protect others and oneself.

To my great relief, the clinic sends me a message giving me the all clear within half an hour. I kill some time at Waterloo station before heading to church. Too much time. I walk in part-way through the sermon; the latest in a series on Rebuilding the Church, based on the book of Nehemiah. 

I look around for recognisable faces. At first it takes a while to find them. After the service, I slowly but surely reconnect with my UK church family. I never cease to marvel at the time-lapse rate children seem to grow. Kids fixed as toddlers in my mind are almost pre-teens. There’s often a baby or two, I wasn’t previously aware of. 

 I’ve arranged a post-church brunch with some of the fam. A couple drop out last minute owing to pressing commitments but the party gains a couple more. My friend Pete invites along his former student, Whitney – a regular post-church luncher from back in the day-and a couple of others, including Jonas with whom I’m not familiar but who’s hard to miss given his penchant for loud exclamations during the service. I admit to finding them bloomin' distracting. Something of an irony that we’ll be lunching together.

Whitney recommends a café in the vicinity of which I was hitherto ignorant but has an impressively wide-ranging, not to mention tasty, menu. Whitney and I engage in a long and fascinating discussion about Christians navigating and flourishing within the arts. I have more appointments but find it hard to leave. When I do manage to tear myself away, one of the party very kindly offers to pick up the bill.

I breeze by Lidl, forever amazed at how the English iteration of this German company leaves its European analogues in the shade. I drop off my my shopping at Kiki’s. Her son is preparing to go trick-or-treating with a friend. I presume they’ll be up late. As a courtesy, I inform Kiki I’ll be back by 10pm.

After yet another encouraging catch-up and grabbing some takeaway from my favourite chicken shop, I find a grizzly Kiki waiting for me at the accommodation. She’s ready for bed. The internet is already switched off, earlier than the advertised time. I ask if I can still use it. She reluctantly agrees.

Most people have data, she adds uncharitably. I apologise and then regret doing so. I having nothing to be sorry about.

My Sunday night treats don’t taste so good, especially eating in that insalubrious environment. I am reconsidering the wisdom of having done shopping when I can’t envisage cooking in that mess of a kitchen. After eating, I prepare for a shower to avoid the Monday morning school-run bustle. To my surprise Kiki is up again, hovering around in the grubby kitchen. By then she’s done a 180. I start to wonder if there are mental health issues. She complains about me being up late for a second night. I respond calmly that I’m an adult. I’m not staying in her property for free. She continues with something about it being a family home (which she should have considered before renting on Airbnb). More irritated, I point out that the state of the premises doesn’t make it worth the money. She insists on not giving me a refund. Fine. I’ll raise a complaint with Airbnb, I warn.

I would start it immediately if it weren’t for Kiki's 'no internet at night' rule. 

By the morning, she’s beaten me to it. An email notification pops up about a refund; far too low given that I’ve only spent two nights in the property. 

It’s a frantic morning of phone calls to mum as well as Airbnb, querying the refund amount, searching for alternatives and requests from the company for visual evidence of the dodgy conditions. Other appointments are postponed or cancelled. Meanwhile, Kiki harasses me to get out of her house and threatens to charge me one more day if I don’t leave immediately.  I haven’t even had time to find another rental. 

I try to discreetly take pictures, noticing that she must have got wise and tidied a little. I can’t avoid running into her completely. She becomes even more enraged when she sees me taking photos. I refuse to cower and explain exactly why I need them. 

Mum offers to let me dump my stuff in her modest-sized digs until I find an alternative. I call a taxi, whilst Kiki roams around like a she-bear with a massive splinter in her paw. My cab can’t come quickly enough.

The Home Strait: You Couldn’t Make It Up

 

Calais Port

It’s been two years since my foot has stepped on British soil. The last time I was scheduled to visit friends and family I was still living in France. The first March 2020 lockdown began the evening before my departure. Since then, a mix of relocating to Belgium and successive onerous regulations have made it extremely difficult to travel.

Even now, I will still be required to test on entry to the UK, and test twice on my return to Brussels- despite my fully-vaccinated status. This is nevertheless the lesser of evils. Besides, I didn’t want my next UK visit to pass the two year mark.

A return Eurostar ticket proving to be on the dear side, I opt for a Flixbus on the way out and train back. I’ve done the overnight bus to the UK before. In theory, you travel all night and arrive in the UK early in the morning, giving you the whole day either side to go about your business. I’m optimistic enough to schedule my compulsory Lateral Flow Test an hour after arrival. 

It’s all running pretty smoothly until we arrive at Calais in the wee small hours of the morning. Passport control apparatchiks are imperious bureaucrats with shockingly little French. They are high off the petty power conferred on them by a state that, like its Continental counterparts, is preoccupied with hardening its borders. As if everyone entering the country who isn’t wealthy and/or white is a potential threat to security. 

A simple passport check thus becomes a thoroughly demoralising experience. Even those of us with ‘safe’ travel documents (e.g. European, American or Australian nationalities) are treated like cattle to be herded. Whilst lining up for the second repetitive procedure, I witness a French official barking at an African family, whilst the room looks on. I’m appalled at his naked contempt. There is some issue with expired documentation. The official orders the travellers back to his office. 

Outside, it begins to drizzle in earnest whilst we wait for our coach to drive round and collect us. It's taking especially long.  That should arouse my suspicion.

Once back on the bus, I nod off. I think nothing of the fact we haven’t moved for over an hour. My light sleep is interrupted by a Frenchwoman trying to explain, in broken English, that there is an issue with the bus and we won’t be leaving anytime soon. She isn’t impressed with the lack of communication from Flixbus. She attempts to rally us for an impromptu protest. Very French but not appropriate for the occasion, methinks. More details start to trickle in. The drivers are being detained by the authorities for questioning. Up to four undocumented migrants have been found on board, including the family being ordered around by the boorish official and someone allegedly hiding in the toilets. One of the drivers apparently notified the authorities about the latter, perhaps to save his own skin.

Another unsympathetic official with an emperor complex informs us that the drivers’ interrogation could last up to twelve hours. We’re advised to make our way by foot to Calais port HQ and try and board the next ferry as foot passengers. All 70 of us, approx. It’s around 4am CEST. It’s cold and damp. A mere inconvenience compared to whatever the migrant family is trying to flee. But still, it’s troubling. 

No-one wants to take responsibility. A kindlier member of personnel shares that he’s never seen anything like it in nearly 20 years of service. Of course, they’ve had stowaways and halted bus services before. The difference is that the coach company would usually arrange an alternative.

Disgruntled, we trundle to the port waiting room. Some of the group's self-appointed spokespersons try to negotiate a crossing. News travels fast that the ferry company is blocking any more bookings. Eurostar is prohibitively expensive at this stage. For several hours we’re given a range of holding responses and a whole lot of cock-and-bull by the ferry company. 

Some of the port personnel try to make us wait outside in the cold, dark and wet. This nearly kicks off a riot. Some of the French passengers yell. One woman bangs her luggage in furious protest. The officials look shaken and eventually back off.

I befriend a couple of Brits; Felicity, studying in Paris and Safi, a young professional based in Germany. She'd planned to surprise her family over the weekend. 

I also strike up a conversation with a French woman travelling to London for a long weekend, mainly for professional reasons. She has an exhibition in Brixton that, by the time the whole drama is over, she will have missed.

Some weary passengers appear to have made alternative plans. There is no joy from the ferry company. They have prevented us buying tickets en masse and are offering no alternative. We’re still wandering around like vagabonds, waiting for someone to take responsibility for our plight. 

I’m never normally one for hitch-hiking but I figure there is safety in numbers. 

Safi is desperate enough to ask the authorities if we can re-enter the checkpoint to flag down cars. Those of us with French and English take it in turns to translate. For safety reasons staff won’t let us back in. Obvs. We are nonetheless finally addressed by someone cheerful, polite and seemingly able to expedite a solution. They have no choice. By this point we’ve been joined by most of what’s left of the group. The ferry company have advised we apply more pressure on the immigration authorities, who should have the resources to come to a viable resolution.

It’s daybreak. After five or so sleepless hours, we hear that only one of the drivers has now been kept behind by the border police. He has allegedly been apprehended for people smuggling before. The other younger driver (ironically, the shiftier-looking of the two) is supposed to continue the journey. 

The vocal Frenchwomen amongst our motley crew start singing a mangled version of Oh Happy Day. I’m tempted to join in. There are cheers as the bus pulls away.

Alas, the driver claims that he is too tired (even though he hasn’t been driving for hours) and that Flixbus rules dictate there are two on duty. That means at least another four-hour wait. Yes, four hours. By then some passengers have been travelling for close to 24 hours, if not longer.

I’m hoping some of the fighting spirit remains to spook Flixbus into a speedier reaction, but none is forthcoming. Everyone is tired and resigned. A group of younger passengers calmly play cards. I dip in and out of sleep, if I’m not conversing with other passengers. One is another young Brit whom I initially found to be bullish but simmers down as the day progresses. He has been based in Paris for a few years and has a good enough command of French for me to presume he grew up there. I practise my faltering Portuguese with my neighbour; an older woman, living in Lisbon but originally from Guinea-Bissau, whom I previously ignored whilst grumpily trying to get some sleep.

Finally, the replacement driver arrives.  He is an acerbic sort. He goes over toilet etiquette several times: 

Make sure it only rains and doesn’t thunder.

He jokes about selling any left behind belongings or children on Ebay and spouts some sexist crap about wives not being left alone with their husband’s credit cards in expensive in London.

We still have to jump through administrative hoops, including yet another passport control process. There are far fewer travellers and staff than before. To my great consternation, I observe another red-faced border official- English this time-reprimanding a placid looking South Asian man. 

We must still await an on-board inspector to check our vaccine certificates and Passenger Locator Forms.

All this time waiting, we’ve missed several boats. I have had to reschedule my compulsory COVID test twice. I postpone my hair appointment and call my Airbnb hostess, Kiki to inform her of my as yet nebulous ETA. In her North American drawl, she offers expletive-ridden commiserations and remains reassuringly flexible.

By the time we board the boat, I’m exhausted but power on to jot my thoughts down and check for important emails. The crossing itself goes by in a flash, comparatively. Back on the coach, I nod off in between more drafts. The auntie from Guinea-Bissau taps me, telling me to put my laptop away and get some much-needed sleep. I obey.

When I stir again, the sky is dusky and we’re surrounded by streets well-known to me. The bus drives through the South-East London borough where I grew up. We're not too far from my accommodation but there’s no stopping before Victoria coach station.

Four years exactly since relocating to Europe, I feel an incongruent familiarity and disconnect to London. In one sense, I can always resume where I left off. Other moments, the changes-more luxury flats, shops and restaurants, the disappearance of others I expected to see- leave me disorientated.  Sometimes, I wonder if I am only connected to a city as long as I'm living there.

When we finally arrive, almost 10 hours late, there are whoops of joy -once again- from the rowdy Francophones. There is some parting irony from the driver before we descend to collect our baggage. Everyone is eager to make their onward journey, some only having very little time remaining in the Capital. I say farewell to the Guinea-Bissau auntie and others, looking around for Felicity and Safi. They must have already disappeared into the autumn night.

Soundtrack:  Gold: The Remixes by MF Robots

Win Some, Lose Some

 

What a difference a year makes. And ready access to vaccines. If activity hasn’t resumed to pre-pandemic levels, my diary is a damn sight busier than the previous autumn. I keep flashing back to what I was doing this time last year. I shudder at the thought of my first Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) also being my last before the second lockdown. That memorable conversation with Pastor Mike, both fateful and comforting. I think of how the few (mostly, not intentionally) male contacts I made started to act up and/or drop off. 

One of them was Gerry Rose, whom I have seen occasionally at FWM since doors re-opened.

After service one Sunday, he accosts me on the underground. My feelings are ambivalent at best. A bit hostile, to be frank. There’s a conversation we need to have but there never seems to be a good time. It doesn’t help that he barely engages with the church beyond the main Sunday service.

As nonchalantly as he can, not oblivious to my irritation, Gerry asks where I’ve been.

Where have you been? is more like it.

This precedes an hour or so of what is at first, tense if elucidating conversation before becoming just frustrating. Gerry explains he was sick for a number of weeks. Then his phone clapped out and he lost his numbers. He wondered why I hadn’t reached out during time and supposed I had definitively left town. On the other hand, I assumed he’d just reacted with the same whimsy as the majority of men I’ve met in Brussels; acting strange and/or disappearing completely when I promise nothing beyond friendship.

It’s clear that there’s been a misunderstanding based on a series of unfortunate, although not fatal, coincidences. This isn’t enough for Rose. Throughout this impromptu meeting, I have the sense that he holds me responsible for the breakdown of communication. He believes I still have his number. I eventually admit I do not. He asks why I didn’t approach him at church. I explain that I thought he was avoiding me. I’d seen him from a distance numerous times and could only presume he’d also spotted me. Since I believed he’d abandoned ship, shifty behaviour on his part would hardly be a shock, if disappointing. 

Gerry points to one occasion a few weeks back when he reacted to my presence with surprise. I recall being baffled whilst wondering if it were all for show.

Rose claims he looked for me after that service to no avail. I point out, multiple times, we should have had other chances to reconcile. That is, if he hadn’t been such a lone ranger; vanishing after service and never involving himself in the church community outside of a Sunday morning. This observation of his consumer-style attendance at FWM hasn’t endeared him to me. It only adds to the impression of a certain immaturity drawn from our earlier interactions. Back then, I had to overlook it. I didn’t have much choice.

Gerry follows me off the metro. He’s preventing me from getting on with my day. This drawn-out, repetitive epilogue grates me and any constructive element evaporates. Perhaps that’s why when he asks to exchange numbers again and meet up for a drink, I blurt that I’m no longer interested in the latter. There’s an irrational aspect to my reluctance, I’m aware. Gerry’s side of events is credible enough. However, our first encounters awfully resembled that of a man with romantic intentions, although he now denies this. Predictably. Yet I can’t shake that air of suspicion. And whilst our breakdown in communication can be attributed to crossed-wires, at this stage it makes no difference. Rose’ insistence on I-don’t-know-what doesn’t help his case either. It’s a relief to have finally cleared the air and I hope for civil relations going forward. However, when so much conspires against it, maybe it’s a sign that full-on friendship is not meant to be.

That’s not to say I’m not open to meeting new people. I’m just not as desperate as I was a year ago.

One Friday night, I attend one of my first proper indoor gigs in Brussels at the Music Village. A Jazz quintet is paying homage to Nat King Cole-one of the best male vocalists on wax, IMHO. The singer sounds as if he’s listened to Kurt Elling so often, he can’t help but channel everything from his tone to his phrasing (although, when I approach him during the interval, he claims he’s no acolyte). The event has been organised via Internations. Also in attendance is a middle-aged Pole, Lukasz, with a British inflection and enough of an appreciation for Jazz for us to have a pleasant muso-lite discussion. Having relocated for the second time to Belgium after a decade long stint back East, he’s hitting the town hard. Our paths cross again a few weeks later at a French language exchange.

On the way back from the concert, wading my way through the bustling Friday night central BXL crowd, I bump into Lauren, the head of TTUO. It’s a cordial exchange and I thank God for the grace to be...well, gracious. A couple of months to the end of my current contract, management haven’t done the courtesy of telling me where I stand. This is a stark contrast to the efficiency of my previous renewal. At best, it’s negligent, at worst malicious; for reasons that have both a lot and nothing to do with me. I have made enquiries about any potential breach of duty on the part of my employer but being on a fixed-term contract, my rights are lot more limited. My team, including my union rep Demetria, are wonderfully supportive. We’re all disconcerted by the appointment of our new manager, Gina; a woman with a chequered reputation- to say the least- and a penchant- no - a compulsion for micromanagement.

There’s more I could say but I exercise caution. As remote a chance it is that the bosses could read this, you never know.

The situation is highly stressful. It has been a drag on morale that I haven’t felt since the nadir of lockdowns.

À chaque jour suffit sa peine. I have a job for today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

There are always reasons to be grateful. I now have people whom I can call friends; who care about my fate in Brussels.

Back at work, a refreshing two-day course on Active Listening is the first offline training I’ve done in forever and a break from the tense norm. I’m even more pleased to meet the tutor; a Franco-Caribbean woman with luscious natural Afro hair. During the course, I have a chance to speak at length with Cheryl; a young Italian colleague with an elderly English woman’s name and a passing resemblance to a younger Jennifer Aniston. She also has good politics. When I hear she’s actively involved in the Free Palestine struggle, I tell her about a series of related events I plan to attend that weekend; at the unpronounceable Beursschouwburg in the city centre. We make plans to go together that do not materialise because of her hectic schedule.

By chance, this mini-festival is jointly-organised by a fellow I met exactly three years ago at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I didn’t expect to bump into him again.

The first event is a stimulating retrospective on the past 50+ years of Palestinian resistance via campaign posters, by Lucas Catherine; a long time veteran of the movement's Belgian contingent.

During the Q&A, I seem to spark some controversy when I ask a question about the contested use of Zionism, even by Jews on the radical left. I cite the belated David Graeber’s family as an example. Even if I doubt that Zionism can be redeemed as a concept, it’s not my place to ignore the disparate Jewish voices on the issue. I’m nonetheless interrogated to varying degrees; some more easy-going than others.

The second discussion is supposed to link the Palestinian resistance to other anti-colonial struggles by way of a book launch. The speaker, an African-American academic, is a disciple of one Dhoruba Bin Wahad, an obscure member of the Black Panthers, wrongfully imprisoned for almost two decades and with some tenuous link to Afeni Shakur, the mother of Tupac. The speaker appears to take Bin Wahad’s every word as Gospel.

What starts as veiled, vaguely anti-Christian salvos at the Civil Rights movement, transforms into outright barbs. He goes for BLM as well. I pull him up on his over-simplification. His gripe is rather with them being co-opted and sanitised, rather than perhaps the movements themselves. MLK was unpopular with white America in his lifetime and hounded by the FBI, before being assassinated. For crying out loud. Mr Academic goes on the defensive and is positively obnoxious. He qualifies the Civil Rights movement as a “pain in the a*s*” and I detect something that looks a lot like misogynoir in his critique of BLM; an observation I have no qualms vocalising. Sadly, it's a line of thinking with which I'm not unfamiliar.

For someone who himself is so disparaging of elitism, including that within academia, the speaker does a very good impression of the snobbish academic with a fragile ego. I note that apart from one of the other organisers, we’re the only Afrodescendants in the room. The audience looks uncomfortable; not sure what to make of this melanated clash. Others also take issue with some of his framing and certain inconsistencies (such as his admiration for Stokely Carmichael/Kwame Touré, who started out in the youth chapter of the MLK-led movement).

Noting that he would not be genuinely interested in a constructive debate, I head home just before the close.

Expanding Horizons: Part 2

The first weekend of October, I am off to a retreat with my church, Fresh Wine Ministries, at a former monastery in the outskirts of Bruges.

I am apprehensive at first. The activity is organised by the Horizons team at FWM and aimed at ‘young adults’. The definition is already stretched to breaking point with a late 30s cut-off point. And I still fall outside that age bracket. I am finally convinced by my younger Germanic lovelies, Brenda and Karin, to come along. My arm doesn’t need much twisting.  It’ll be my first spiritual getaway in several years, even before the ‘Rona. Plus, this will be my first FWM retreat. I don’t intend to make a habit of sneaking into these youth spaces but with the pandemic, there have been precious few such opportunities lately.

It’s to be an intense three days of activity, with only one full day at the converted monastery. In the end we’ll be 50-odd 20 and 30-somethings (ahem), drawn from different church groups or none at all.

Somehow, Karin and I find ourselves preparing to host a Saturday afternoon workshop. We settle on the theme of making Christian worship spaces more inclusive.

On the evening of departure, Karin is also in charge of ferrying some of the group by train to Bruges. I’m tired and not especially chatty. Reminded it’s not very Christian to be grouchy, I rouse myself to make conversation with a fellow passenger. Amongst our group is a lanky and voluble Belgo-Rwandan, Joshua. He’s pleasant enough but seems inordinately enamoured with the sound of his own voice. Talkative is one thing. Wanting to be the centre of attention is another. 

I am often too transparent for my own good and not skilled at hiding my distaste.

At Bruges, we have the option of lifts to the monastery. I choose the smaller vehicle, hoping for a quiet ride with just Karin and the driver, Pawel. Before I can change my mind, Josh has slipped into the front seat. I roll my eyes at Karin. So much for a peaceful journey. A conversation about our countries of origin descends into the "Oppression Olympics". Newly-arrived from Poland, Pawel makes an unfortunate comparison between the Belgian atrocities in the Congo with the annexation of his country by the Germans. An awkward conversation with Karin present, and him being well-aware of her Teutonic connections. The interaction becomes more awkward still when Pawel’s bluntness and ESL converge into more insensitive comments, intended or otherwise.

Brenda awaits us at the castle. Everyone registered is obligated to take a rapid COVID-19 test, irrespective of vaccination status. Brenda oversees these self-test sessions like a pro. For some of us, myself included, this will be our first Coronavirus test of any kind. There are nervous jokes about the kit resembling a pregnancy test. Brenda will run the procedure a number of times over the next couple of days, as guests arrive in waves. Thankfully, it appears all are virus-free which allows for a level of freedom. Most significant of all, we don’t have to wear masks on the grounds.

The facilities are simple but more modern than expected. The central-heating is mercifully in working order and well-needed. The weather will be consistently wet and cold. The meals are cooked by volunteers. Some are more substantial than others. 

Brenda has used her coordinator privileges to arrange a room for just us two, for which I’m grateful. After an unsuccessful attempt to negotiate the top bunk, I cede it to my statuesque friend.

Following dinner the first night, there’s just about time for icebreakers. Brenda and main coordinator, Monica, do an admirable job of organising inventive games. Over the weekend, I’m pleased to meet a number of non-FWM members and those who are not regular churchgoers. We’re not just stuck in our Fresh Wine bubble (no pun intended). I'm also on the alert for those who look more mature than the rest. A bit of grey here, or laughter lines there. Alas, I turn out to be a good half a decade older than even those.

After the fun and games we retire, in theory, to our rooms. I catch a glimpse of senior Pastor Mike and give a hearty greeting. His wife and co-Pastor, Tasha, will arrive in the morning with the children.

The excitable voices of guests carry late into the night. I wait for some calm to take a midnight shower, to avoid having to jostle for the bathroom in the morning. I won’t know until later that I end up using the boys’ facilities. Fortunately, there are no unintended sitcom-style nude encounters.

The next morning I hear a melodious male voice singing with abandon. It takes a few moments to realise it’s Pastor Mike, doing a solo Praise & Worship session for the brief time he’ll have the space to himself.

After an excessively bread-based breakfast, we head to the main room for the morning activities. Karin and I are invited to announce our workshop. I fluff my lines but manage to work it into the routine with a self-deprecation that comes more easily than usual.

Later a skinny-jeans clad, barefoot Pastor Mike takes the floor. I'm glad to note he's not wearing product in his hair, letting his ethnically-ambiguous waves flow free. He leads us in more Holy Song and a moment of scriptural reflection. 

After the sermon, we break into our pre-assigned small groups for a time of intimate prayer. Katya, a self-effacing woman in her early/mid 30s, speaks frankly about navigating an extended season of singleness. She wants God to be enough but yearns for her own family. It’s a tension that I know all too well. When Jelena, our group leader, suggests I pray for Katya, it's already on my mind. I request that we have a moment alone.

As I move into a new decade, I’ve been reflecting even more on life's disappointments. I’m slowly beginning to appreciate how my own story and process allows me to be there for others. I'm finding comfort and joy in other types of relationships; different from- not inferior (maybe even superior) to romance. Friendships are taking on a new beauty and flavour. It might not have been so if everything had gone according to my plan. God doesn’t waste your pain, as my mother’s pastor is wont to say.

Katya wells up as we pray and share life stories. She’s so appreciative of my input that, at the end of the retreat, she presents me with a local delicacy.

The two of us are some of the last to arrive for lunch. I am sat next to a sweet South American chica. We affirm each other in an organic way. I tell her God has a sense of humour. This time last year, I spent in the company of somebody from the same corner of the world. At the time, I thought he was also sweet but it quickly turned sour. This positive exchange with his compatriot a year-to-the-day feels like cosmic consolation. Or rather a definitive full stop to a hurtful moment that seems both recent and distant.

That afternoon, Karin and I set up for our workshop. Once the tech is sorted, we wait. Potential participants turn out to just be lounging in the room before leaving to snooze, play games or take a walk in the rain. Others join and change their mind. Pastor Mike, squeezes my shoulder and wishes us all the best. Having grown up in Apartheid South Africa as a so-called Coloured, his participation would have been salient. (It turns out he isn't aware of the workshop's content).

In the end, five stay for the two-hour discussion, based around Sandra Van Opstal’s lovingly confrontational talk on Worship and Justice. Plans for breakout groups are shelved. Despite my intentions to leave it all up to Providence, I feel let down by the low turnout. 

Karin can relate but is more philosophical. 

The views of the group are as diverse as their backgrounds. Three hail from Eastern Europe, amongst them Pawel. His position relies on the ‘safety’ of Poland not being part of the colonial scramble. He claims to be colour-blind. There’s an unwise use of the word ‘civilised’. Karin tries to correct this misstep and make Pawel realise that as a Caucasian male, he enjoys privilege of which he’s not aware. I add, as tactfully as possible, that being "colour-blind" is not a virtue but a way of effacing difference and rendering whiteness as normative. Pawel is slightly defensive yet still in a posture to learn. He came for that purpose, he explains. Back home, there is so little engagement with these issues. He wouldn’t know where to start. He’s so far been reliant on online content.

Other attendees are challenged by some of Opstal’s observations as well as our own. Even those from racialised backgrounds have not really reflected on Western hegemony; still evident in churches that pride themselves on being multicultural. Diversity is not the same as inclusion, I point out.

The lively discussion continues around the snacks table, notably with Pawel and a dapper young gent with an inflated sense of himself, whose name I’m yet to memorise. I step away in time before this apparent contrarian can pursue some pointless controversy.

Before embarking on a long walk with Karin, I note that the Hip-Hop dance workshop is full, somewhat to my surprise. I thought inhibition would get the better of guests and they’d be more inclined towards stimulating discourse around a topical issue. Go figure.

Later that evening, Pastor Tasha and Mike submit themselves to a grilling by the guests. I’ve attended these ‘Ask Anything’ sessions before-albeit online-where questions are submitted anonymously. 

Normally, and predictably, these queries show a level of restraint. There are the usual theological conundra, often preoccupied with relationships (How do you know if he/she is the one?). This time however, the interrogation is far more exciting, if damn right impertinent. The pastors aren’t only queried about eschatology or dating but also their views on contraception, advice on getting out of abusive relationships and the use of kinky toys. Oh yes, and their preferred sex position.

I’m aghast. I can’t think of any context or anybody I’m so close to where that question would ever be appropriate. Except my future husband. If he exists.

Monica doesn’t flinch, reading out these cheeky probes as if it’s a shopping list. To Tasha and Mike’s credit, they’re far less scandalised than the rest of us. Perhaps they’re used to this level of curiosity. They maintain their sang-froid, are open and easy-going. It leaves a good impression. The culture of taboo should be minimised so that we can be authentic.

Afterwards, Pawel continues the candour. He opens up to me about the depression he suffered following the break-off of an engagement. Formerly agnostic, his interest in church and God began with the woman he’s currently dating. He believes now that it’s part of him, regardless of what becomes of the present relationship.

The evening events continue with a time of praise and prayers. Tired of the Coldplay-lite songs that dominate Western-style charismatic churches the world over, I retire to my room. The singing follows me. It does sound rapturous. I plan to make it downstairs for prayers but mismanage my time.

That night, guests stay up well into the wee-small hours, apparently playing raucous rounds of Uno and Jenga. I still hear the cheers as I nod off, long past 1am.

That already brings us to Sunday, the last day of the retreat. I skip another bread-based breakfast for some extra hours of kip. That morning, Pastor Natasha will share how she came to faith by recounting her troubled formative years in the Rainbow Nation. The daughter of co-dependent parents and one of a dozen siblings, she was passed from one relative to another. By the grace of God, she survived alcoholic step-parents, inter-continental moves, suicidal ideation and even, very briefly, rough-sleeping. She eventually worked in academia before becoming a full-time church minister. Tasha's unstable upbringing made her very intentional about her own life choices. Once again, by the grace of God, she's landed on her feet. It’s a well-rounded message, combining emotional and psychological factors with spiritual warfare.

Although my background was not as chaotic, there are elements of overlap in our stories. I’m drawn to Pastor Tasha’s testimonies of healing and forgiveness.

After her intervention, we divide into small groups again to pray for each other. Before lunch I grab the opportunity to speak to Natasha, one-to-one, albeit somewhat hurried.

Lunch is a light-hearted and cordial affair, with votes of thanks, the distribution of gifts and official farewells. 

An unexpectedly tense discussion with one of the song leaders, Mark, temporarily puts a dent in my good humour. 

Having perceived -rightly or wrongly – something of the exhibitionist in him, I have hitherto kept my distance. 

However, I’m feeling sufficiently upbeat after lunch to venture an introduction. I detect – and ignore – a needlessly sardonic tone to some of his responses. The pleasantries all but evaporate when the conversation takes on a political turn. A convinced centrist, Mark claims that even if the ecological and human cost of Capitalism is high, it’s still the best option in town. I counter that he’s speaking from a privileged Global North position, bearing in mind he’s a beneficiary of the status quo. He is defensive, claiming some taste of deprivation having been born in Burma. I point out that the experience of a European ex-pat would be very different from an impoverished Burmese.

Thanks for judging my life when you don't know me(!)

In any case, I add, he can’t afford to be so dismissive about Capitalism’s adverse affects on the environment. Even if he doesn’t consider it discredited by the substantial human cost (!), the Climate Crisis is an existential one.

I have been in this position many times, debating with a (usually, not always) cocky and/or overbearing white male. I stand my ground. Mark calms down abruptly, although I can’t read his intentions. The heated discourse is interrupted by chocolates passed round by the effete and endearing Claude; one of Mark's bandmates.

Whether from remorse or otherwise, Mark will make a point to be amicable whenever our paths cross in the near future.

Meanwhile, I rush to offload about this frustrating exchange with an ever-sympathetic, Karin.

It’s home time. Guests hurry around finalising their travel plans. I’ve bagged a free ride with Claude and a Dutch lass, recently moved to Belgium.

It’s a very pleasant journey back to Brussels, with the conversation flowing freely and unforced.

Once Claude drops us off at the Metro, I make my way to Mérode for some Lebanese takeaway. There I bump into a number of fellow travellers, including Mark, Jelena and chatty Josh. I’ve thawed towards him during the course of the weekend. He’s eager to probe an off-hand comment I made back at the castle about being a "tech-vegan".

Much to his credit, Josh asks intelligent questions and listens as well as he shares. 

I apologise for being stand-offish at the start. Josh has not been oblivious to it.  For him, it's a friendly challenge; a chance to converse. For me, a lesson in humility.

Soundtrack: Melodi by Kit Sebastian

Expanding Horizons: Part 1

 

I’ve been approaching autumn with a level of apprehension. Although not expecting another soul-sapping lockdown order from the Belgian authorities, I do anticipate some light restrictions. Brussels has had a high-level of vaccine hesitancy and the infection rates have been worrying. Whilst other regions are enjoying greater freedoms, the Brussels’ authorities are applying more caution. Yet not as much as I’d envisage. Nightclubs re-open in early October. Proof of vaccination isn't required until the middle of the month, even if some venues use their discretion to enforce this in advance.

Cynthia invites me to a literary event late September, situated in thriving Place Flagey. Renzo, the third element of our cultured trio, has another engagement so it’s just us girls. The reading takes place during a national strike. Earlier that day I attend my first solidarity demo in Belgium, alongside members of my union and other comrades. I’m surprised by the turnout. I expect a small gathering of the faithful not the hundreds, maybe thousands, that assemble to protest stagnating wages.

Most public transport is not running, as drivers stand in solidarity with their comrades. There’s a limited service that allows me to get to work and, in theory, to the event in Flagey. Cynthia and I live in the same neighbourhood. She is hesitating between driving down herself (good) or an Uber (monopoly platform with exploitative tendencies = bad). Although I’d appreciate a lift back, it doesn’t occur to me to ask for one to the venue. I underestimate how sporadic the bus service will be that evening. A couple of wrong decisions has me showing up to Flagey three-quarters of an hour later than the advertised time.

I still catch a good chunk of the event. A Scottish and a French writer discuss growing up gay in working-class communities and read from their latest work. It’s a stimulating conversation, even if the discourse around class seems to be grounded in a more static, 20^th Century understanding.

Cynthia and I reunite after the interview in the theatre lobby. I’m not that surprised to discover she's already made new friends; two young women who are also attending on their own. Numbers are exchanged before Cynthia and I head to find where she parked her expensive four-by-four, bought as an apology gift by an abusive ex. The Friday night madness is in full swing; notably too many men turning the streets of Brussels into a public toilet. I’ve seen a disturbing amount of that living here, day and night. We both wonder out loud why men can’t exercise the same control over their bladder as women generally do. Or whether the Bruxellois are afflicted by a urinary infection.

Cynthia pulls up outside my building. We spend an hour swapping notes on our various mis-adventures with the male species in Brussels. If she’s more experienced than me, it hasn’t been any easier for her. We come to similar conclusions around the levels of co-dependency in the City, encouraging each other not to get swept up in that game.

That Sunday I have the pleasure of being accompanied by Renzo to church. It’ll be his first experience in a Protestant assembly. So conscientious am I to break my occasional tardiness, I arrive well in advance of our meet-up time. Just as I look for a way to while away the wait, I spot Renzo outside the Metro, raring to go. He attributes my early arrival to the Lord.

 It’s reassuring that he’s made it. The week has been very hard on his morale.

Lorenzo approaches this unchartered territory with an open-mind and a gamely attitude. He endeavours to negotiate the worship music with his baritone. The repertoire would be unfamiliar to most of those outside of the contemporary charismatic movement. 

He’s attentive during the service. Perhaps more naturally introverted, Renzo is nonetheless cordial and conversational as I introduce him to some of the church family -including the senior pastors. He comments on the sense of community. I’m relieved that he hasn’t found the experience alienating.

After service, we have a lunch date with Brenda. The previous weekend, I join my lovely Austrian friend and some of her work and former-uni chums, to help her move into her shiny new home. Brenda makes the masochistic decision (IMHO) to furnish everything from scratch with Ikea goods. Over that weekend, friends will take informal shifts to aid the unpacking and set-up. I stick around a little to help with the sofa and some chairs.  The fellows stand around talking politics whilst us girls do most of the heavy-lifting. There's a lot of buzz around the new ABBA project. 

By the time Renzo and I come round for lunch the following weekend, Brenda’s abode looks almost show-room perfect, despite her insistance to the contrary.

Germans’ messy is most people’s perfection, I tease.

Lorenzo is a plant-based diet veteran, going veggie long before it was du jour. Brenda prepares accordingly, stocking up on vegan options down to the butter. She’s a most accommodating hostess. Renzo is intrigued by her year spent in Naples after secondary school, where she was linguistically immersed enough to emerge fluent in Italian, give or take a few years of regular practice. The discussion is expansive and unforced. Renzo is at ease. He’ll later remark what a solid and well-adjusted individual Brenda is.

Summer Highlights Part 2

I have been frequenting summer festivals, sometimes on my own, more often with company. 

Whilst attending the African and Latin American-influenced Percusounds festival on a rainy Sunday with my GBFF, Lorenzo, I see auntie Carol out with her crew. It’s through her that I learn of Fiesta Latina; a reasonably-priced three-day affair at the scenic Bois de la Cambre. I’m going in the hope of seeing some decent Brazilian acts. I ask Renzo if he’d like to join me. A Brussels veteran, he’s not so keen. He searches for a word to convey his apprehension.

Cheesy?

He accepts this descriptor, somewhat reluctantly. It's hard to pin down.

When I do attend, I sense what he means. If the queue is dishearteningly long on arrival, at least the weather is clement. There are two lines; one for those fully vaccinated with certificate, and one for those willing to take a quick test to gain entry. Once that palaver is over, we're not quite out of the woods yet (literally). There is another, shorter line for checking tickets. 

In the end, I spend less time at the event itself than I do in the queue. I do a circuit, soaking in the atmosphere. Everyone hangs around in groups, Strasbourg-style. The reggaeton and other Latin dance music emanating from various sound systems don't really entice me. Food is unsurprisingly overpriced. The only Brazilian presence relates to consumables. No Bossa Nova, Tropicalia or Lusophone Funk. To try and make it worth the 14 euros, I hover around the main stage and do some half-hearted salsa moves before heading home. The highlight of my evening is purchasing a faux-African wax tote bag. 

Curiosity satisfied, I won’t feel the urge to go to Fiesta Latina again. Thank goodness I only committed to one day of the festival. 

Anybody familiar with these pages knows I am not at all averse to solo experiences. However, this one leaves me feeling particularly alone. It's a maudlin start to my weekend.

On the way to the tram stop, I see Lorenzo has texted me about upcoming social plans. I concede he was right about Fiesta Latina.

Renzo and I have been amis comme cochons since we were first introduced by a mutual friend back in the Spring. He’s been my main festival companion. At my behest, one school night he even braves a hopelessly wet summer evening for a Back on Stage concert.

After so many false starts with the male species in Brussels, there’s a quasi-therapeutic nature to our friendship. 

Renzo and I have a shared cultural palate. He’s intelligent, thoughtful and well-read. He's also an enviably good multi-linguist. He speaks naturalistic French and a refined English, with the occasional literary flourish. Unlike 99% of the Italians I've ever met, you couldn't detect his origins from his accent. His is a curiously generic European inflection.

Renzo has an understated charisma, laced with an appealing Mediterranean bluntness that is somehow tempered by a soothing tone and overall gentleness. Like a silencer on a gun.

He makes for a discerning, nay tough, public. His taste can be more rarefied than mine. We seem to diverge as often as we overlap. His scathing critique of Elena Ferrante's hugely popular L'Amie Prodigieuse/L'Amica Geniale novels -all the more cutting for his soft voice-casts doubt over my enjoyment of them. 

Avenue de Toison d'Or

I sometimes tease him for being a snob. He responds with a scoff for instance, when I suggest that City planners had the Champs Elysées in mind for Avenue Toison D'Or.

Oh, pleee-ase!

Yet, Renzo doesn't take himself too seriously. We swap literary or theatrical notes as easily as we discuss 90s Europop or share tongue-in-cheek appreciation for satirical Italian funky-pop classics.

Of course, there’s more to our friendship than the above. Lorenzo is dependable and resilient. He shows up when he says he will, even whilst navigating his own mental health struggles. He's supportive. He reads my blogs unprompted. That's maybe more than I could expect from a boyfriend. Heck, my own family scarcely reads my posts, if at all.

He is considerate, self-aware, a good listener and routinely affirming. He gets on well with my other friends. 

We have a reciprocal respect for each other’s style. I can indulge my "girly" chic and know there's no hidden agenda when he acknowledges it. His dress sense is as super-sharp as one would anticipate from a gay Italian (I tell him he’s a good cliché).

When Renzo implies that he's fallen short of some idealised masculinity, it provokes a protective-if not defensive-reaction in me. I reprimand him for self-identifying as a "p**sy" (not only unkind to him but misogynistic). I regularly reassure that he's all man, in his own distinct Lorenzo way. There's no one-size-fits-all. Besides, society would do well to valorise the good qualities he displays, instead of warped notions about the 'alpha' male.

There remains a healthy gender complementarity between us. I can be carefree and tactile. No sexual tension to infuse compliments with double-entendre. We regard each other with an uncomplicated fondness.

We’ve developed a habit of speaking with authenticity and vulnerability; whether it’s about relational insecurities or heartfelt, if difficult, conversations around faith. Renzo and I differ theologically but his search is sincere. He engages with Christian content I forward him. He sends me little updates by text during a short, semi-retreat in Provence. 

Bref, I have a deep affection for Lorenzo. I can say I love him loads and mean it (although I have the impression this makes him a tad uncomfortable). It proves that the pure, platonic settlement that I’ve been seeking in vain from straight men isn’t completely unrealistic in this context. It’s not as if I don’t have male friends of various orientations elsewhere. It’s just proved particularly hard in Brussels.

I find myself often reflecting on mine and Renzo’s dynamic. The absence of sexual attraction no doubt is a contributing factor to the ease of our rapport. Yet I worry that in my regular jokey references to his sexuality, attributing to it all the positives of our interaction, I’m over-stating it. Perhaps I'm even being (inadvertently) reductive. Although a part of our identity, sexuality is not everything. I don’t believe anybody- of any orientation- should be defined by it. 

Neither do I wish to unconsciously turn Renzo into a surrogate boyfriend, whilst no viable options appear to be on the horizon.

Still, I can’t help comparing and contrasting with my erstwhile encounters in Brussels. Even cautious optimism now seems misplaced. As I write, Simon-Pierre- a hetero who appeared mature enough to buck the trend – has fallen off the grid since, ironically, he joined me and Renzo at Back on Stage. 

I’ve tried to give SP the benefit of the doubt. He could have a very good reason for the radio silence. More likely, I suspect that my presentiment has proven correct. The minute he tired of waiting for me to muster a romantic attachment, he did a disappearing act.

Perversely, the opposite experience with Renzo makes me panic. I withdraw momentarily for fear of over-exposure. Not long after his return from France, for the first time Lorenzo invites me round for a Sunday afternoon apéro. I decline. A missed opportunity to enjoy his company in what is no doubt an impeccable flat.

At first, I believe it's a wise decision. I miss him sorely but don't want to spoil a good thing. Past hurts, recent and distant, inform this paranoia and urge to control. The following weekend, on the advice of sis, I confess all to Renzo as we sip smoothies at a café in town. He's understanding, as is customary.

The heart-to-heart out of the way, we head out for a memorable night in Sablon with my fellow South-East Londoner, Cynthia. But that’s a story for another time. Maybe.

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€...