The Festive Interstice: Une Pause Niçoise (1)

 

 Part 2 & 3

There are a few predictable elements to this time of year. I’ll be reminding anyone who dares to make the mistake that Christmas only starts on 25 December and doesn’t end until the Epiphany, 12 days later. It’s a bête-noire when folk start to speak of it in the past tense from Boxing Day. 

On a more serious note, as much as I enjoy the build up to Christmas, there’s a melancholy that can attend the arrival of the New Year. This goes way back, although I recall years where there has been some respite.

Yet since relocating from the UK and living on my own, I’m increasingly aware of an early onset; in that interstitial period between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. At least this time, I’m not nearly as alienated as I was in December 2020.  A few of my close Brussels-based friends have left for the season but others have remained. I’m able to attend service offline and take advantage of the Christmas programme at FWM, including the Boxing Day Raclette after church. 

After being largely ignored by a group of Dutch-speakers where I’m seated, I join Pastors Talia and Mike at their table, with my Nigerian older brother-in-the-Lord, Chris whom I affectionately call uncle. It’s a fun time of Pan-African in jokes (Mike and Talia are of mixed-heritage from Durban) and complimenting professional chef Chris on his delicious Joloff. Before Coronavirus put paid to his culinary ambitions, he had a thriving Fusion restaurant in central Brussels.

That evening, I take a ride on the seasonal Ferris Wheel located in Sainte-Catherine. All around, the Brussels Christmas market stall holders are packing down; one week earlier than scheduled owing to COVID-19 concerns.

I’m enjoying my early evening ramble so much I stumble into the old Béguinage, only realising where I am once inside. It is now a refuge for undocumented migrants. The space is eerily dim. I’m the only female as far as my eyes can see in the poor light. A man starts a conversation at the door. Strangely, and carelessly on my part, this doesn’t make me turn right back around. 

I tell the man I'd like to see if there’s a nativity scene and move further in. I don’t want to automatically criminalise those of irregular migration status. Mainstream media and politicians do enough of that. At the same time, I’m aware dehumanising circumstances can make people act in inhumane ways. Women shouldn’t have to curtail their behaviour for fear of their safety. Alas, it’s the sad state of the world whilst change is painfully slow, if happening at all. 

I have a delayed reaction to what could have occurred. On exiting, it hits me how foolish my actions potentially were.

Raclette

During the week ahead, I lap up any opportunity to be in company and/or useful. Monday, I spend with Sylvia and Steve’s clan, playing charades and watching A Charlie Brown Christmas for the first time since it was removed from YouTube a couple of years ago. A few days later, I’m invited round to Karin’s for talk and Christmas cookies before we head out to pick up her kids from holiday camp. 

 I continue my now weekly shifts at the Red Cross, serving teas and coffees with an affable co-volunteer and fending off advances (to us both) by one or two of the majority male beneficiaries. Inappropriate overtures from users (and occasionally staff) aside, such a simple task is nonetheless incredibly rewarding. We’re meeting the most basic of needs; material and, in our conversations with beneficiaries, interpersonal. These are small gestures amidst their complex needs but important in their own way.

When I’m not active, it’s unnerving how quickly that melancholia returns. It’s particular to this time of year. Speaking to other single women, I realise I’m not alone (no pun intended). I can’t complain about lack of opportunities to socialise. I’m used to my own company and cultivate moments of conscious solitude. And yet. And yet...

..Isolation works its way inwards from the peripheries of my brain.

It doesn’t help that the Belgian weather is intent on being relentlessly miserable. If it’s not cold and damp it’s mild and damp; with that non-committal rain that coats everything with a patina of bleakness and dirt. Despite the continued spread of a potentially deadly virus, people (usually, if not always, men) insist on spitting; not just in the street but also indoors. I’m convinced it’s all part of a misguided notion of machismo. I wonder if they spray phlegm on the carpet or lino at home.

I need a change of scene as January rolls around. Thank God, I am in a privileged enough position to be able to afford a brief, if modest, break somewhere south and sunny. Having still not yet journeyed to the French Riviera and hearing only praise from acquaintances about Nice, I have the ideal excuse to visit. I never did manage it that far South whilst I was living in France.

I book a very reasonably-priced non-direct flight on New Year’s Eve. After carefully reviewing my options, I book a few nights at a popular and clean-looking AirBnB for a long weekend. Alas, I can’t postpone the reality of long winters and job searches forever but I can ease my way into it.

As is my usual precaution, I head to the airport the evening before my morning flight. For some reason, I pass a sleepless night, not feeling the lull until long after I’ve checked in five hours early (half-past 4am), have gone through security and am waiting at my departure gate. It’s still dark when I drift off after 7am. I awake to a dazzling fuchsia and orange dawn.

Clear blue skies greet us when we land in Zurich for the layover, to my great and pleasant surprise. From the departure gate, I see the hazy silhouette of mountains in the distance.

My flight is delayed. I’d hoped to be able to sneak in a pre-sunset ramble on arriving at my accommodation, after a nap and a shower. Not at this rate.

On board the connecting plane I’m sat next to a rather obnoxious adolescent couple, more interested in their phones than the stunning view outside. I’m blessed on both flights to have a window seat. En route from Zurich to Nice, we fly over the Alps. From this perspective, the range resembles gigantic angular mounds of cocoa, coated in powdered sugar.

courtesy of Alparc

I have my editor-at-large Johny Pitts’ Afropean: Adventures in Black Europe to keep me occupied. (Perhaps because of the personal connection, I’ve put off reading his acclaimed travelogue since its publication a couple of years ago). By some strange coincidence -or twist of fate – I’ve reached the Chapter where JP is touring the French Riviera. More specifically, he’s sneaking around the grounds of James Baldwin’s home and final resting place.

To my disappointment, on landing in Nice the clear azure skies (sorry, I couldn’t avoid it forever) concede to a muggy greyness. This is not the brilliant sunshine promised by the forecasts. 

Nice airport is chaotic. I wonder how many variants of COVID are floating around this space alone; even if vaccination and/or testing is a pre-requisite to travel.

Waiting for my bus to the AirBnB, an agitated homeless man paces the streets making erratic gesticulations whilst preaching some angry secular sermon. I can’t hear all he’s saying over my music but his reluctant audience seem more bemused than offended.

My AirBnB host, Héloïse is not yet home and has left precise instructions for entry. Once inside the flat, I’m impressed by the size and cleanliness of my room and the equally well-kept shared bathroom facilities.

Héloïse arrives shortly. She’s friendly and laidback in a paradoxically business-like manner. She’s a musician by day, lamenting how the pandemic has hit her sector hard. She informs me she plans to be out for NYE celebrations, although her daughter, Marie might be about with her boyfriend. Or not.

I have a rather chaste New Year’s Eve in mind. If I’m not celebrating in church, you’ll find me at home praying into the New Year solo and/or on an online prayer meeting. That’s the plan this NYE.

Before that, I’ll get some much-needed rest, ready to explore my surroundings and perhaps even take a night time ride to the beach, as recommended by Héloïse.

I stir from a blissful siesta to the voices of Marie and boyfriend. It’s only the latter I’ll encounter on my way out. On the landing, I meet Héloïse’ neighbour, Christophe, of whom she has spoken well. 

 From the minute he claps eyes on me, he asks me a flurry of questions. He insists on walking me to my next destination, a local Pizzeria mentioned by Héloïse. I don’t expect to have time to go to town and come back before the NYE crowds gather. I’m forced to be more flexible on finding all local establishments are closed. Christophe suggests we walk to the tram stop towards Nice City Centre and the seafront.

On the way he explains that he had party plans at his flat but has cancelled them as a precaution. In the relatively short time it takes for us to walk to the stop, he shares much of his life story; his French-Italian background, a stint as a bikini salesman and his career in architecture. I'm in the business of beauty, he boasts, pointing out the buildings that have caught his eye in the vicinity.

He seems enchanted by the way I speak French, particularly my flowery vocab. He in turn makes facetious jokes in English. Christophe has a frenetic energy -as I tell him frankly. He apologises for being full on. 

As he deposes me at the stop, he offers a quasi-serious invitation to dine at his place. He proposes I take his number in case I get lost on the way back.

I descend at Massena, near the famous Promenade des Anglais. The atmosphere is naturally buoyant. Back when I used to consider visiting Nice, I’d hardly envisaged experiencing it in festive mode.

Many of the restaurants are already closed or appear to be reservation only. I find a pleasant-looking, decently-priced establishment near the bay serving a mix of traditional Niçois and Italian cuisine. As I settle down to order, I see a text from Christophe, inviting me for a drink to toast in the New Year. He'll be joined by another female acquaintance. Fortunately, I have my midnight prayers as a genuine alibi.

For this holiday, I’m leaving my economical ways behind me (within reason). The restaurant has a special 15% NYE surcharge. Je m’en fiche. Life is for living, as my mother might say.

I’m less serene when I realise I might have to catch a taxi to beat the midnight NYE crowd.

After a scenic night time stroll down the Promenade des Anglais searching for my bus stop, panic kicks in as the clock strikes 11pm. I’ve already downed my dinner and skipped dessert to make up the time.

 When I eventually find the station, the bus has stopped running two hours prior. I have a conversation with an Afro-Lusophone in French and broken Portuguese. He sends me on a wild goose chase looking for a tram stop, claiming that taxis would be too exorbitant.

In the end, I take the L. It’s not as bad as the unintentionally unhelpful bystander makes out.

At least I’m back at the accommodation five minutes to midnight, still self-remonstrating in that masochistic way I do. To my relief, all other occupants of the flat are out revelling. I have the place to myself.

Before I hit the showers and the neighbourhood fireworks start to pop, Mum calls to pray with me. I like to believe it's a divine sign that God isn’t as hard on me as I am on myself.

Happy 2022 to all LVC readers.

Soundtrack: Best of 2020 (Part 1) mix.

The Festive Interstice: Part 1

As Christmas day hurtles ever closer, I remain a little unsure of how I’m to spend it. Ciaran is still AWOL.

I  want to be spontaneous, really putting my Open House Christmas plans into action.

When Cynthia informs me that she and her daughter Leah will be having a Bruxellois Christmas, I leap at the chance to invite them round. Cynthia's plans to drive through France to the UK are jettisoned, following the Hexagon’s announcement that all non-urgent travel to and from Blighty is suspended until further notice. I assume, not unfairly, that they’d want some respite from Cynthia’s apparently abusive-ex with whom she still lives because of economic imperative. I leap at the chance to invite mother and daughter round. My invitation is met with more radio silence.

A few days before Christmas I attend an Internations French language event where I bump into Em. It usually takes me a while to memorise names but with her, I have no excuse. She’s my mother’s namesake. How a West-African woman and a Franco-Belgian native born a decade and a half apart came to share the same Irish forename bemuses me. It could well have something to do with a long-abandoned Catholicism on both counts; albeit for different reasons.

I first meet Em thanks to the now Caribbean-bound auntie Carol, whom she’s fresh from dropping off at the airport.

The conversation around the table naturally turns to Christmas plans. Em matter-of-factly responds that she might well be flying solo for the festive season. She has a complicated relationship with her family – as Carol once forewarned- and would prefer her own company; as long as she doesn’t have to go it alone every year.

Later that evening, tucked in bed, I send a text invitation asking Em to join me for the main meal on the 25^th. Why not? 

Maybe it’s the late hour but Em does not reply.

By the next morning, the lack of uptake is a source of much anxiety. There's an ever closing window to shop if I’m to beat my personal deadline (23 December). I don’t know if I should risk the expense of shopping for potentially no-show guests, or just accept one of my other friends’ generous Yuletide invitations. I express my concerns with my morning prayer group. A couple of members encourage me to follow my heart and go ahead with the Open House idea. If you cook it, they will come; Field of Dreams-style. 

This simple, kindly nudge is nevertheless the morale boost I need. I feel much peace about moving ahead with my original plan. Like an answer to prayer, responses start to trickle in. Em takes up my offer with enthusiasm later that morning. Cynthia sends me a flurry of apologetic texts in the evening, claiming to have missed my original invitation. Her ex being out of town, she’s enjoying some much needed peace and quiet. Alas, they still can’t come for dinner. Leah has already has a menu in mind. It’s fine, I say. We can catch up another time. Cynthia won’t hear of it, insisting on coming round with dessert. Well, it’s certainly practical. It was the one part of the spread I didn’t plan to make from scratch, excluding the bread and cheese platter.

I choose to keep the menu relatively simple this year. A winter vegetable soup with a hint of fresh basil for starters. For the main course: Capon marinated in a lemon, honey, olive oil and fresh coriander seasoning. Homemade stuffing and bread sauce. Lamb chops coated in olive oil, fresh mint, garlic and a dash of cinnamon.  Fluffy mash potatoes with sprinklings of Emmental and fresh parsley. Peas, broccoli and smatterings of parsnips left over from the soup. Lots of non-alcoholic wine of various flavours. With Cynthia taking care of pudding, it’s all good. I do most of my purchases by 23 December, in a more upbeat mood. I can’t altogether avoid Christmas Eve shopping, having now to buy stocking fillers for my guests.

Still no word from Ciaran. I send him a reluctant reminder, claiming his absence is either worrying or rude. Till now, I don’t know what has become of him.

I spend the evenings catching up on the Christmas specials and other viewing/listening of interest in which I haven’t yet had time to indulge. Aside from my traditional watching (A Huey Freeman Christmas, Community’s Christmas special, third series), I dust off Blackadder’s Christmas Carol, which slipped off my radar in recent years. I had forgotten how hilarious this subversion of Dickens’ is.

My church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM), has arranged festive services across the weekend. I forego a lie-in for a briefer-than-usual Christmas morn gathering. I’ve not had the privilege of attending one since relocating from the UK. It wasn’t part of my French church’s annual programme and Christmas 2020...well, it was lost to another lockdown. 

Before I leave for church, I put the long-marinated Capon in the oven.

On entering the FWM building, I wonder if I have made a mistake.

A group of South Asians are performing a Christmas routine in traditional saris and the male equivalent. FWM has a diverse congregation but I’ve never seen this many members from the Indian subcontinent before. I wonder where they’ve all been hiding. Attendance is otherwise sparse, as I suspected. Most are probably conserving their energy for the Christmas Sunday service.

The highlight of Pastor Mike’s message is when he explains his rationale for back-to-back Christmas services. He wants to leave the door open for those who, like him back in the day, only step into a church at Christmas and/or Easter.

I go straight home for some unavoidable last minute prep whilst watching other online Christmas services and a siesta of sorts. A few hours before guests are due to arrive, Cynthia sends me a customarily rococo email about some Murphy’s Law turn of events. She and Leah have caught head lice, after it has apparently been doing the rounds at the latter’s school. 

Bad timing, no? She commiserates. 

I’d say.

Cynthia attaches photos of mother and daughter having fun in the kitchen. At first, I think nothing of taking her what she says at face value. Lice on Christmas Day. You couldn’t make it up. Only later do I reconsider; maybe you (she) could?

We haven't met up for months. The few unavoidable schedule clashes notwithstanding, this can't be mere coincidence.

Cynthia is vibrant, funny, authentic and resilient. She's easy to like. I have tried to be supportive and understanding in light of what appears to be an impossible situation. Nevertheless, my patience is wearing thin. Given all the recent drama surrounding the end of my contract and TTUO management's subsequent outrageous behaviour, I have limited emotional capacity of my own. Cynthia's cryptic messages and general elusiveness make it hard for me to know how - or if - to be present. Call it generalised anxiety or PTSD engendered by her circumstances but she gives the impression that my efforts feel more like impositions. Yet, there's a reluctance on her part to admit it. Hence the last minute changes of plan or cancellations that are not always to do with the vagaries of her ex.

Hers and Leah’s gifts are still gathering dust in one of my cupboards.

Thankfully, mercifully, Em is true to her word. She arrives half-an-hour late; perfect for me as I put the finishing touches to the preparations. By then, between Cynthia's cancellation and Ciaran's disappearing act, I’m a nervous wreck. I presciently bought some stand-by dessert, in case Cynthia didn’t come through, but it’s not much. Fortunately, there’s plenty of savoury food to go round. It’s a whole lot of cooking for two people but I’m ready with specially-purchased Tupperware.

After being complimentary about my flat, Em spots a sketch of Sade on my coffee table.

It turns out that both of us are fans of Ms Adu and her band. I pause the festive Jazz to put on my personally-curated Sade mix, which will be the soundtrack for the evening.

Em is an open book in many ways. Out of nowhere, she launches the bilingual dinner time conversation by informing me that a mutual acquaintance, Aurélien, is seriously crushing on me. I roll my eyes. I’ve only ever seen him as an amusing older fellow I come across at socials from time to time. Like many a Francophone, chatting up women is a past time for him. I didn’t think it was that deep. I didn’t want it to be. I certainly don’t share his sentiments. 

From there Em confides about fraught relations with her estranged family, broken friendships, as well as highs and lows with men folk, to which I chime in with my own experience in Belgium thus far. She’s familiar with a couple of the culprits. We have quite a few people in common.  Her perspective on faith and spirituality is also complex. I sense she wants to believe but is angry with God for the suffering that she has undergone, particularly in childhood.

It’s not always the most relaxing discussion. Like so many 40-somethings I know, myself included, Em is doing her best to process and surmount the aftermath of trauma experienced in the formative years and beyond.

I can’t say all my interventions are saintly and full of grace. Yet, I’m pleased to have opened my home to Em at what can be a solitary time for those of us living alone. It is mutually beneficial. I pray I have in some small way (albeit imperfectly) communicated Christ's love, as celebrated by many across the world particularly during this season.

 The hours fly by. As 9pm rolls around, I walk Em to her car with her festive bounty all safely film-wrapped or stored in air-locked containers.

Once safely back at her home on the outskirts of Brussels, she sends me a short but heartwarming message of thanks.

Meanwhile, any vague plans to have more guests drop by over the next few days are shelved. Hosting is a blessing, yes but it can be an exhausting one.

Soundtrack: Best of 2019 (1 & 2) + 2020 (Part 2) mixes.

It’s A Wrap

 

(courtesy of The Guardian)

This December doesn’t just mark the end of the Gregorian calendar year. For me, it’s the end of a brief, prematurely-ended era.

My contract at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) comes to an end on New Year’s Eve. The office will close before Christmas and I have outstanding leave. My last working day is in mid-December.

Management continues to act in bad faith. Lauren, the head of TTUO, behaves so inappropriately that my union has to get involved. New-ish manager, Gina doesn’t have the courtesy to acknowledge my departure; not even so much to arrange a proper handover. Whether it’s a guilty conscience, bad manners, cowardice or all of the above, it’s pretty damn unprofessional.

My application efforts so far have not yet yielded any fruit, albeit feedback has been promising. I spend many a high-pressured day preparing for an internal interview with a different department. All my other plans are put on hold for several days whilst I'm consumed by this task. It’s clear during the process that I don’t have the required specialist knowledge but I can’t quit half-way.

The interview is a mixed-bag; inspired in places but exposing my inexperience in others. The already under-resourced team needs someone to hit the ground running. If they had more personnel, someone to mentor me, then they could take the risk. When I speak to the head of department, Kojo (who also happens to attend my church), he confirms my presentiment, explaining it was a tough decision. I’m nonetheless encouraged. Likewise when I receive the rejection letter after another interview; this time with SOUL (The Solidarity Union League), a partner organisation of TTUO. After digging for a bit more feedback following a generic email, they assure me my performance was strong. They just thought I’d flourish in a policy role, rather than the more administrative post I suspected this of being.

My last day at TTUO is, naturally, bitter-sweet. We conclude the programme I’ve jointly coordinated with an online farewell party, where everyone in attendance has her chance to play DJ. I receive lots of affirming messages in the lead up and on the day itself; from the participants of the programme, colleagues, consultants and even the interpretation team with whom we’ve collaborated. 

 I have a very candid exit interview with TTUO’s Human Resources department. I explain to my lovely (now former) colleague Émilie -as I’ve said to others- that given the circumstances in which I took up the post, it always felt like a dress-rehearsal; never the real performance. Émilie agrees. She say she’s only heard good things about me. That is a triumph, per se. I can leave with my head held high, knowing this is all on management. For definite, it’s not me. It’s them.

However, I still have to face the reality of an uncertain start to 2022. Coupled with the ongoing insecurity engendered by the pandemic, another Christmas separated from relatives and the unwelcome reminder that I don’t (yet?) have my own family, I have some dark mental well-being days. Sometimes, my mind feels like it’s eating itself. When I start crying for no particular reason, it’s a dead giveaway.

Yet, I must acknowledge that I’m in a stronger position than last year. Yes, I was employed but also incredibly isolated. My connections to the city were not half as strong as they are now. The few I had had either unceremoniously disappeared or already left to spend the festive period with their family. My mum’s own Christmas trip had to be cancelled at the last minute after travel from the UK was banned. If Christmas Day 2020 itself was serene, I recall a cliff-edge drop in morale swiftly afterwards. I don’t know what this festive period holds but I’m grateful for some forward movement.

I haven't spent a Christmas in the UK since relocating to Europe in 2017.  But for the pandemic, mum would have visited or I would have spent time with sis in a (now very closed) Japan. I decide on an Open-House set-up for Christmas Day.

The Belgian authorities allow for a limited number of guests for Yuletide socialising. Days before Christmas, my plans are in suspended animation. I’m still awaiting confirmation from particular acquaintances on whether they’ll accept my invitation. This includes Ciaran, the sweet Irish-American I befriended in Croatia. Failing that, there are invitations from friends elsewhere. The vague state of affairs means I’m having to be more last minute than is customary. It’s stressful. I try to be reasonable and understanding but radio silence makes me nervous. And it's rude.

Still, Christmas 2021 is so far more cheerful than its predecessor. My community has greatly enlarged. I am spiritually well-supported both in Brussels and elsewhere. My morning prayer group continues to be a lifeline; offering up supplications to the Almighty on my behalf before I ask.

I am able to engage offline in my Belgian church’s festive programme. A soup kitchen is organised each weekend in December – save for Christmas Day. More like a mobile kitchen, where we distribute packed lunches to those sleeping rough around Brussels. 

There’s a special advent service taken over by the kids and young adults, including a pretty slick, short pre-recorded re-enactment of the nativity story. If the praise and worship slot leaves me uninspired (as usual), I’m delighted to sing Joy to the World with the congregation at the top of my lungs; twice, on Pastor Mike’s request.

It’s a season of departures, as expected; some more long-term than others. Brenda invites me and Roxie around to her place for a birthday meal, mid-December. It’ll be the last time we hang out this side of the New Year, as Brenda is days away from taking the train to Austria to be with family.

Earlier that Sunday, straight after church, Auntie Carol and I meet for the last time before she relocates permanently back to the West Indies.

I am still wont to go on long, wistful walks enjoying the light displays in various communes. It’s just this time, there’s more activity going on (I admit, I miss some of the tranquillity of last year, although not its cause). 

It is my second Christmas in Brussels but it might as well be the first. It’s the first time I’m experiencing the Christmas market buzz; still going, to my surprise, despite surges in cases earlier in the month. Festivals cancelled last year, tentatively resume this December such as the Brussels African Market. A day after I join old colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia for a meal at their home with their lively, articulate and culturally-informed children, they accept my invitation to the BAM; round the corner from where they live. We pick up some great accessories crafted by European-based African artisans, as well as those directly from the Motherland. A couple of vendors have come all the way from Mali. I can only presume they’re touring markets across Europe. That’s the only way it would be worth their while. On exiting, I catch sight of that ol’ pain-in-the-proverbial, Rob. Lately, more than ever I’ve been successful at keeping him at arm’s length. I nod a greeting. He returns it, then proceeds to stare at me as if we’d never met.

(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

That evening, after a few weeks’ absence, I reconnect with my platonic boyfriend, Renzo. (That’s the facetious and affectionate descriptor I use with our mutual friend Clarissa, when we video chat a few days earlier.)

On his polite request, I join Renzo for an Italian-Catholic service near Porte de Namur. It’s a wholly new worship experience for me. After the initial good-humoured salutations I'm a little tense, trying to be on my best behaviour. Equally, I sense that Renzo is conscious of how alien it all might be. Remembering how much he threw himself into proceedings when he visited my church (which he describes as an ‘exotic experience’), I’m eager to be supportive.

I get a kick out of hearing my friend sing and recite the liturgy in his mother tongue. I’ve always had a soft-spot for the Italian language, one of the prettiest of the Romance family. I can comprehend bits and pieces; now more thanks to my exposure to Portuguese, than to the two years I studied it over 20 years ago.

Afterwards, I suggest we wander to Place Cocq-Fernand to gaze upon the Cinderella-like Christmas décor. Renzo is in playful mode. He challenges me to a running race, backwards. Concerned about falling over in my heels, I decline; to my later regret. I need to work on my spontaneity.

I convince Renzo to stroll to Flagey. I like the walk and want to enjoy the festive view. It’s also a route that at times, despite myself, I still associate with The South American. I came to know it through him. I look for opportunities to overlay it with new memories in alternative company.

Although ancient history, the relational disappointment of my early days in Brussels still occasionally haunts me. It tends to surface the moments when I’m generally anxious and/or unhappy.

Part of the way to Flagey, Renzo and I fall out. He recommends an exhibition he’s just visited, on sorcery from a feminist perspective. I’m irritated by anything that I perceive to glorify the occult; especially when it’s conflated with women’s liberation struggles. I have observed certain Westerners romanticise or treat the topic with a lightness; a mere socio or anthropological curiosity. Given my family history and cultural background, I find this inappropriate to put it mildly. In my strong reaction to Renzo’s suggestion, perhaps I’ve unfairly projected these tendencies on him. In any case, not for the first time, I feel he’s being inadvertently dismissive. 

We’ve had charged moments before but this is our first proper argument. Our first real test. We're two single-minded individuals, belonging to historically marginalised groups. The same attributes that have aided our affinity can at times also be sources of tension. We both feel the need to stand our ground.

After a short but excruciating silence, Renzo chooses the high road and changes the subject.

(Louise neighbourhood, Brussels. Courtesy of Foursquare)

It takes me a moment to recover but I go along with his goodwill. The flowing conversation resumes. We end up walking the scenic route to Louise, circling back to Porte de Namur. We’re due to part ways on the Toison D’Or Avenue. I plan to continue to Arts-Loi. Renzo isn’t keen on the idea of me going alone. 

It's a journey I make all the time by foot, I insist.

Stylish as ever in his warm-looking, well-coordinated burnt-orange overcoat and beanie, he offers to accompany me- on the proviso we take the metro. He’s freezing.

Not having work the next day, I go with Renzo some of the way home- in the opposite direction. Partly to prolong the time in his company. Maybe also to compensate for the moments lost to the disagreement. By the end of the evening, we’re as affectionate as ever; embracing and saying our Christmas farewells. I’m relieved and reassured that our friendship has reached a stage where it can withstand disputes. If I say I love my friend, then there must be room for us to get on each other's nerves. Anything less would be doomed to superficiality.

Yet by the next day, I’m still rattled. It feeds into a broader, exhausting neurosis that I endeavour to pinpoint. It can’t just be about my now unemployed status. Or facing another Christmas, effectively relying on the kindness of people whom I haven’t known for long, if I’m not to spend it alone again. Or the lack of natural light, cold and general malaise that I encounter as the New Year approaches. Or the absence of any illusion of control over my circumstances...

But thank God, tomorrow is another day. Another chance to (try and) surrender all to the Almighty and not get too lost in my own head.

Seriously,...You Couldn’t Make It Up.

 

In early December, my mother celebrates her 60^th birthday. My sis has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure it’s as special as the occasion warrants. She organises a homage video; approaching mum’s friends, colleagues and of course, family. Sis’ true wish is that one, if not both of us could be there. Even before the emergence of the Omicron variant, Japan’s borders were relatively closed, all the more so now. One day in November, shortly after my return from the UK, sis confronts me. She claims I have been insensitive by deciding to cross the Channel so close to mum’s birthday, but not near enough to celebrate with her.

I acknowledge my error with sincere contrition, apologising to both mum and sis. I then begin scheming - without either of their knowledge - a fly-by-night visit for the church birthday celebration arranged the following Sunday. 

 I plan to arrive by Eurostar and return to Brussels by overnight coach. As much as is possible in advance, I comply with all the COVID-related travel requirements. I even squeeze in my third jab, thanks to Brussels' accelerated booster system. All seems to be tentatively going in favour of the trip. Until the UK announces tougher testing requirements in response to the threat of Omicron.

Now a lateral flow is no longer enough. A more expensive PCR test is required, even if only in town briefly, as I am. Self-isolation is essential until the results are received. At first, I believe my plans are scuppered. I confess all to sis. She initially seems more annoyed that I didn’t speak up earlier. I was thinking it would make it easier not to spill the beans.

I eventually come up with a cunning but legit manoeuvre. Since I need to self-isolate and I don’t have the keys to mum’s place, I re-book my new test for a time that allows me to pass by church, say hello and then head to the centre. I’d then have the rest of the evening with mum before my coach returns. I keep an eagle-eye out for any changes in the interim. When France announces tougher measures for those visiting from outside the EU, the news doesn't register. It’s not relevant to my plans.

My outbound journey is with good old reliable Eurostar. There’s a reason why it’s the most efficient, if not the cheapest, option. I arrive in London without any drama. I decide to hang around St. Pancras for a while. The idea is to sneak up on mum towards the end of the celebrations. Whilst waiting I tune into my Belgian church’s service online. 

Horrified, I observe how many passers-by are unmasked, although recent rule changes have made face coverings mandatory once more. There does seem to be marginally more compliance than my previous visit in autumn. But, still. When an unmasked woman near me coughs without covering her mouth, I am tempted to go vigilante on her. I leave irate video messages for sis on Skype, as if she can do anything about it.

I leisurely make my way to mum’s church. Too leisurely. It's all but over by the time I arrive. Mum's senior pastors are heading out. They give me a warm greeting but have no plans to hang around. I greet some of the now pre-adolescent children who, when I last saw them, were relative tots. I notice a few of mum’s guests, such as family friend Angela, and mum’s sister, Adriana. I commend my aunt on how much weight she’s lost in the two years since I last saw her.

I can’t yet catch the Birthday Girl’s eye. Later mum will explain how strange she thought it that someone in the room sounds like her daughter. The photographer manages to catch the evolution of mum’s facial expression; from confusion, shock, pleasant surprise- ending in us embracing.  Ironic, when so many of those she invited were indisposed, a guest arrives whom she was not expecting. She’s delighted. It’s her real present, she says.

Mum also has a bounty of tangible gifts. I arrive in time to help take down all the bunting, during which I catch Auntie Adriana up on my news. We are so lost in conversation that it’s hard for those left in the room to catch our attention and politely kick us out. My uncle Chris dispenses with all pleasantries. He yells at us to leave, dampening the otherwise good energy.

Mum, Auntie Adriana, Auntie Angela and I continue the discussion near Bethnal Green tube before going our separate ways. I’m running slightly late for my PCR test. Auntie Angela and I are heading in the same direction. I’m perturbed to see that, as a cancer survivor, she still refuses to wear her mask. She’s a vocal COVID-sceptic. Her doctor just about convinced her to be vaccinated. 

My jaw drops when I arrive at Waterloo for my PCR test. It would have made no difference if I made it on time. The queue snakes round towards the Southbank centre; nothing like when I had to come for my LFT in October. To while away the two-hour wait, I make conversation with a friendly couple, freshly arrived from a city-break in Paris. It’s a good thing I am returning to Belgium by coach in the late evening, or I would have no time left to spend with mum. 

It’s dark by the time I rock up to her digs in Sydenham, South-East London. She’s already started opening some of my gifts. I’d hoped to be around to give an explanation. We talk about everything and nothing. I tuck into some of the leftovers from her party. She gives me some birthday cake to take back with other goodies.

I make my way to Victoria Coach Station with time to spare, to my relief. After the previous debacle with Flixbus- who still refuse a full reimbursement for the trouble- I’ve opted for a different company. Unusually, the Eastern European drivers don’t have much English. No great issue. We board the half-empty bus. 

It’s not long before I nod off, only to be awoken for the passport checks at border control. I’m so dazed, I believe we’ve already crossed over to Calais somehow whilst we’re still only in Dover.

As we line up for passport control, news passes down the line that the French authorities are demanding a negative PCR test, in reaction to the rule change the night before. One of my fellow travellers begins to panic, calling a friend to see if it’s true. I ignore her, trying to keep my calm. Alas, she's right. French bureaucracy is as merciless as ever. Our COVID-safe certificates are insufficient, the guards insist. I inform them that I’m awaiting my test results. 

Not good enough.

Is there at least wi-fi for me to check if the email has come through? 

No.

One young man shows them a screenshot of his negative result. It still isn’t sufficient.

We try to point out a flaw in their logic. Some of us are only passing through France to our next destination. We’ll be crossing by ferry and barely touch French soil.

Ils s’en foutent.

Drunk with power, the guards confiscate our passports. They're not returned until the authorities are assured that our coach has left without us. Before they go, I try to explain to the bus driver what’s going on. He doesn’t have enough English and no French.

In the end, a group of 15-20 passengers are dumped at Dover port, with not a care about us. There’s much running around and panic. Some consider renting a hotel room. That’s vetoed at the thought of the expense. Some waste no time jumping into taxis, dividing the substantial fare amongst themselves. It’s the middle of the night and yet cab drivers are suspiciously present with morsels of ‘helpful’ information, that somehow boosts their own business. 

A few of us find our way to Dover Port reception, which is warm and has wi-fi. Another taxi driver materialises, luring away more desperate passengers. I like to be proactive but I don’t want to make a decision under this sort of stress. Returning to London at this hour would serve no purpose. Nothing is open. Besides, I don’t need to procure a test. I’ve already taken one. I just need to wait for my results.

And then there were two. By the time the group has scattered, it’s just me and Franco-Cameroonian, Léonard. He speaks only a little English. In my frazzled, sleep-deprived state, my French is all over the place; much to my consternation. I apologise for the mangling and basic mistakes.

Over the course of the night, whilst looking at alternative routes back to London, he explains he's been visiting his dad and siblings who, by one of many strange coincidences, live a stone’s throw from my old flat in the Lee/Hither Green area. Léo was raised by an extended family member in France with whom he has a complicated relationship.

As for being stranded in Dover, we’re not the only ones in that particular predicament. Others hanging around the Port office have also been kicked off their coaches by officious French officials. One woman suggests Léo and I board the replacement (Flixbus) that is supposed to return them to London. I’m willing to pay for a ticket, if I can find a cash machine. Léo searches for one in vain.

You can just say you’re one of us, the kindly stranger suggests.

I decline. If I’m not asked, I won’t volunteer any information. Neither am I willing to lie if interrogated. It won’t work out well for me in the end, I explain to her and Léo. Relying on me for English, he’s constrained to whatever decisions I make.

My reluctance to be economical with the truth is the impetus for Léo to enquire about my belief system. A Catholic by upbringing, he gave up on organised religion aged 13, confused by all the possible options. He’s turning 30 in January, he confides. Recent dark life events have motivated him to resume his spiritual quest. Ours is his second fateful encounter, Léo claims, in as many days. He had a similar conversation with a Muslim women after missing his original connection from Paris to London.

He’s been exploring Islam and thus is especially keen to debate the Holy Trinity. I don’t think my responses are theologically ground-breaking. Nevertheless for Léo, it appears it’s the first time he’s discussing these themes in depth. I encourage him in his search. God is clearly attentive.

A coach arrives but it’s not the replacement for which we had hoped. The courteous driver breaks the news that it’s unlikely we’d be allowed to board in any case, not being amongst the original passengers.

 Flanked by the famous white cliffs, Léo and I make our way through the eerie Dover streets to the train station. We aim to catch a cheaper half-4am train back to London. We miss it by seconds. Léo generously offers to pay for the next train to the Capital. He still has hopes of catching a morning coach back to France but will need my assistance to navigate the testing system.

We attempt to get some shut-eye on the ride, occasionally woken by ticket inspectors.

Back at Victoria station, we run into some of the fellow travellers who abandoned us at Dover. Peine Perdue. It gave them no advantage. They have passed a fruitless -and noticeably colder- night at the station.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon is spent accompanying Léo through the testing process and re-booking alternative transport. He’s forced to abandon his plans to leave for Paris that morning, given the scarcity of test slots and limited window. I have a lot of tasks on my own To-Do list but I make my peace with the situation. Léo is my mission for now. That’s where the grace is. If I left him to pursue my own agenda, I am certain I wouldn’t get much done. Plus, I’m pleased to be useful.

Traversing London, I notice the City is in full festive mode. It dawns on me it's the first time I've been in the Capital at Christmas time since I relocated to Europe late 2017.

I’m with Léo when his negative test result comes through. Once reassured he’s all set for his return trip by coach, I make my way back to mum’s. I’m dog tired but I have a lot of life admin to sort out.

Fortunately, my own test results come back negative; in time for me to travel the same day. I notify my colleague, Demetria, that I won’t be able to join an online activity that afternoon as planned.

I also request that she speaks to HR to arrange more annual leave to make up for the ‘lost’ day. I need to print out my negative test certificate and find an alternative route back to Belgium. Eurostar tickets are eye-watering at this eleventh hour. I’m seriously considering the free ticket Flixbus has offered for the previous inconvenience. My mother objects strongly. She’d rather help me pay for the train than have me risk another hitch. 

So, it’s decided.

I’m too tired to do any real work that day. I squeeze in a shower. Thankfully, I have had the presence of mind to bring a change of underwear or two.

Albeit a relatively straightforward journey to St. Pancras, I underestimate how long it’ll take. Or simply wishful thinking on my part.

I arrive at the Eurostar terminal with mere minutes to spare. Certain members of staff are only too eager to remind me. 

More optimistically, the personnel do not breathe a word about a negative COVID test. I board the train a few minutes before it’s scheduled to set off. Except it’s held up. The crew haven’t arrived. We remain stationary for half an hour.

On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is nearing the end of a national strike. Owing to the delayed Eurostar, I miss the last direct transport to my part of town. At De Brouckère station, I bump into Giacomo, whom I last saw in the summer, at the ill-fated Afghan dinner in Antwerp organised by mutual acquaintance Rob. We split a cab to Montgomery -Giacomo’s neighbourhood- and I decide to walk the rest of the way. A fool’s errand at that time of night. Giacomo keeps me awkward company part of the way, which is nonetheless appreciated.

I reach home close to midnight. I check-in with Léo, expressing my surprise at Eurostar’s comparatively easygoing COVID policy. Likewise, on his way back by coach, this time the authorities weren’t concerned about negative test results.

Our meeting wasn't by chance then, I suggest.

I’m certain of it, Léo shoots back.

Soundtrack: The Quarantine Sessions by Tom Misch. Intimidated EP by Kaytranada.