Starry-Eyed and Gravely Discontented

8 min. read

There are troubles without and troubles within.

Following the circumstances surrounding the end of my previous contract, I continue to feel the effects on my well-being. In late February I see a GP, who in turn refers me to a therapist. Both listen with compassion and neither dismisses my concerns. The doctor signs me off on medical leave for a limited period. The therapist, Gerard, practising just a stone’s throw from my flat, happens to be a Man of Faith. He encourages me to lean on mine. Our session is in French. I can get my point across well enough. However, if I want to speak with more nuance and from the heart about my emotional state, I function much better in English. Gerard is sympathetic, as he is to me wanting to find a more culturally-appropriate therapist. I nevertheless don’t rule out seeing him again. Empathy is key to effective therapy and Gerard has plenty.

It’s on Lorenzo’s advice that I see the doctor in the first instance. It didn’t occur to me that I could obtain help for work-related problems whilst I’m in between jobs. I therefore have my Italian friend to thank for this intervention.

blackhistorymonth.be

Alas, things are otherwise not so simple for us. There are more misunderstandings, including a sharp disagreement by email. I am especially fragile these days and it’s likely I’ve overreacted. Lorenzo and I patch up our differences enough to agree to meet for one of Brussels' inaugural March 2022 Black History Month events in the City Centre.

The theme of the discussion turns around the Ecological crisis from various points of view, including Black Ecofeminism. The event is marred by an obnoxious moderator. Priding themselves on their non-binary gender identity, they are a self-obsessed walking identity politics Gen-Z cliché. They make it very clear that White participants are not welcome in the space. This puts Lorenzo on edge. He’s not the only one. 

 Before the panel discussion and during the break, Renzo and I catch up on each other’s news. He’s getting back on his feet, ready to return to work. Just a month ago that wasn’t the case. The conversation inevitably turns to the recent problems we’ve been experiencing. For me, nothing fundamental has changed. I am not blind to a rather drastic dip in our rapport but any close friendship will have its issues. It's not insurmountable. I still love my friend and am invested in our relationship. 

Our chat nevertheless takes an unexpected turn. Or maybe not so unexpected. A week before this fateful encounter, I presciently watch a sermon on knowing when to let someone go.

The writing has been on the wall for some time. I just didn’t really believe– or want to believe- that the sharp decline in relations was that serious. Lorenzo confirms my suspicions that he’s been keeping me at arm’s length. It's felt like hard work maintaining his interest, because it is. He says I'm too demanding of his time and emotional energy of late. It’s not unconnected to my recent work troubles. He’s tried to be supportive but finds it increasingly difficult to be present. He claims I am angrier these days and it's made him uneasy...

There’s no point rehearsing the whole back-and-forth here.  Suffice to say it feels like a break-up. In the days to come, I’ll mourn it as such. I’ve had good friendships come to a formal end before, but not quite like this. I've experienced a Big Drift over time but not overnight.

It's less than a year since Lorenzo and I became acquainted thanks to a mutual friend. After a good run, maybe too good, he is visibly now less enthusiastic about the friendship. I almost don’t recognise this person. I remember the conscientious and attentive friend. The same friend who wasn’t in such a hurry to leave when we’d spend even more time together than we have recently. The one who would send thoughtful text messages when either of us went on holiday. Renzo, the sensitive soul, so caring and self-aware that he would pick up on supposed slights before I did – if at all. Who would seem genuinely pleased to see me, regard me with tenderness and be regularly affirming without being asked...

...Of course, we’ll stay in touch... This is just a beautiful challenge, navigating a new phase of our friendship…

(dreamstime.com)

No doubt, Renzo wants to believe in what he’s saying. I, on the other hand, am not so certain. He’s moved on. If in theory we’re still friends, in practice it feels as if something has been irretrievably lost.

Of course, there are two sides to a story. Lorenzo will have his own take. Mine is filtered through the lens of my hurt.

By the time Renzo is ready to go home, frustrated by  the arc of the conversation as well as the BHM event itself, he's brittle and impatient. He stands abruptly to leave, not before glancing down to see me looking crestfallen. For the first time, he says he loves me too. I give a rueful smile. Incredulous, even. His actions have never been further from these words.

In any other circumstance they would be reassuring to hear. I can't truly know his motives but presently, it comes across as one of only two things. Either: acknowledging I'm upset, in a last ditch attempt to salvage the situation, he tells me something he thinks I want to hear. Or, more cynically, it's an ace to be played by the emotionally-withholding.

Distraught? It's not the word. Everywhere, across Brussels there are sudden and unwanted reminders of our friendship. The beautiful Italian language, heard often in this international city, is now sad to my ears. I think of how well things were going until a few short months ago and I'm perplexed.

I understand there's no malice aforethought on Renzo’s part. I value the honesty. It's a conversation we needed to have. His intent wasn’t to be unkind or abandon the friendship at a moment when it means all the more. Yet if the outcome is the same, it might as well not matter. My legal training taught me that the only thing distinguishing murder from manslaughter is the mens rea. The actus reus remains a cold hard fact. A perpetrator and a lifeless body.

Mine and Renzo’s friendship, much like my former job, was symbolic of so much. Fresh beginnings and new chapters. Auspicious signs of a turnaround in what was a rocky start to my Belgian adventure. Such a pure friendship - particularly with a man -is a rare find in my experience, not to be taken lightly.  I believed - maybe naively- that being close friends with a gay man, we were sheltered from the usual gendered power dynamics and unnecessary drama.

I’m confused and question everything.

As much as I endeavour to avoid finding a meaning or reason for what has happened, my mind strays there. It’s instinctive to want to draw a lesson to avoid a ‘same script, different cast’ scenario in future.

My sister warns against vilifying Renzo. People change their minds, she says, we have that right. Nobody is necessarily to blame. I appreciate the wisdom in this, even if it doesn’t always ring true.

Over time, the intense shock and sorrow over the perceived rupture subsides to a dull, if persistent, ache. There is a bitter-sweet relief to knowing I wasn’t simply being paranoid. Renzo has been pulling away. I can now liberate some of the headspace and free time I’d become accustomed to reserving for him and spread them more evenly amongst other friendships; present and future.

Just over a week after our fraught conversation, Renzo sends me an unexpected email. He's saddened by the state of affairs. He hopes we can find a healthy new equilibrium, although neither of us knows what that looks like right now. 

Meanwhile, I need to take each day as it comes. The continuous early Spring sunshine -atypical for this part of the world - certainly helps. After a few false starts, I join a local gym and throw myself into  fitness classes. 

 I sign up for a number of other BHM activities. On World Women’s Day I attend an international panel discussion on black women’s experiences in the music industry. 

Malcom Ferdinand (courtesy of Outremer le 1ere)

The day after the infamous meet-up with Renzo, I am in the audience for a conversation with academic and author of Decolonial Ecology-Perspectives on Ecology from the Caribbean World, Malcom Ferdinand. I am already impressed by Ferdinand based on his contributions at the event the previous evening; one of the few highlights amongst a mixed bag. A graduate of UCL, he’s equally eloquent in French and English. 

He speaks for instance, of how the Maroons weren't just revolutionary in their resistance to slavery, but in their relationship with the land once they took back their freedom. It was a far cry from the exploitative practices on the plantations they'd escaped.

I intend to add the original French language version of his book to my wishlist. 

Sitting in that intimate Afro-bookshop space in Matongé, sunlight streaming through and surrounded by stimulating discourse, I can temporarily park my emotional woes. And yes, it doesn’t hurt that Malcom is a stunning specimen of a man. A tall, athletic Martinican Malcolm X with dreads. I admire his intellect and beauty from a safe distance.

A few days later I attend the final performance of a play riffing off my old A-level study text; Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? Some of the French dialogue and witticisms are too rapid fire for me but I catch much of the gist. There are thought-provoking and controversial polemics around privilege, race, migration and gender relations. 

Earlier that afternoon, I join the fun and frolics organised for the 35+ singles at FWM. It’s supposed to be a celebratory multicultural event but I’m one of the few who makes an effort. From memory, I prepare some specially-seasoned gizzard based on a recipe my mum and her mother before her would make. It goes down a treat, even if I don’t get to enjoy it. This Lent I’ve given up meat, amongst other things.

The following day, after church, I spend a substantial part of my afternoon and evening watching Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s wistful epic Drive My Car; based on Haruki Murakami’s short story of the same name. Its gentle melancholia is apt for my mood, livening up what would have otherwise been another lonely Sunday night.

Soundtrack: Starfruit by Moonchild, So Far to Go by Cabu, Cure the Jones by Mamas Gun.

Pause for Thought

  

African and Asian migrants stranded on Ukrainian border
(courtesy of bbc.com)

5 min. read

At the time of writing, it’s been over a fortnight since Vladimir Putin ordered Russian troops to invade Ukraine. In the European context, at least, it is in the backdrop of the everyday. Further afield, my West Africa-based father sends me a panicked email, asking how I am and worrying about the threat of nuclear Armageddon. 

Hearts understandably go out to the millions of refugees fleeing the war-torn region. 

An Ukrainian technician comes round to inspect my broken down boiler, on the behest of my landlord. I ask how he is and about his family back home. He’s preparing to welcome his ex-wife and their daughter. He eventually has to forego the works, his time taken up with hosting his newly-arrived relatives.

It’s good to see the Church rising to the occasion. Numerous prayer meetings are called in various nations. Pope Francis proposes a global day of prayer for peace on Ash Wednesday. 

Closer to home, a predominantly Nigerian Belgium-based church organises an emergency Zoom prayer call. My own church in Brussels arranges for members to donate urgent medical supplies. 

It’s right for there to be such an outpouring of solidarity for people dragged into war, for reasons over which they have no control; the ethno-nationalist whims of a mercurial autocrat and the imperialist expansion of NATO.  War is inhumane. If it's not injury and death in Ukraine, it's ordinary Russian citizens suffering under gruelling sanctions.

And yet I’m increasingly uneasy over the seeming partiality of this support and news coverage. This is not about playing Oppression Bingo. I'm just not about to customise anything with Blue & Yellow, if I wasn't previously conscientious about showing affinity with other populations suffering under warfare. It would be disingenuous and selective.

I don’t recall such a widespread groundswell of support for devastating conflicts in Yemen, the Sahel region or Ethiopia (where civil war has seen a similar number of inhabitants displaced as Ukraine). Nor at the start of disastrous NATO-led expeditions in Libya and Afghanistan. That aforementioned Nigerian church group have not, to my knowledge, organised similar intercessory meetings for wars taking place in the Motherland. Maybe their focus has narrowed since moving to Europe.

I can't remember PayPal or WeTransfer fundraising for various other geopolitical crises. Or Soundcloud changing their logo to the ban-the-bomb sign for the numerous conflict zones around the globe.

Don’t even get me started on the hierarchical treatment of refugees. In the lead up to another significant French election, Right-wing politicians in the country actively promote discriminating between which refugees to accept, based on nationality, ethnicity and/or religion.

I’m both impressed and relieved when an English member of my church house group points out the appalling treatment of darker-skinned refugees escaping the war in Ukraine. There are reports of African and Asian students being insulted, harassed, even hauled off vehicles to let indigenous Ukrainians board and flee, only to be left stranded. 

On the second week anniversary itself of the invasion, I attend a discussion which three guests with a connection to Ukraine join via Zoom. One is a Nigerian who settled in Ukraine over 30 years ago. After the outbreak of war, he crossed the Hungarian border with his family.  He claims that Western media has exaggerated the extent of discrimination against non-European refugees. Ukraine isn't racist compared to Russia, he asserts. According to those he's spoken to, these 'misunderstandings' come down to administrative errors or foreign students not having enough of the language to navigate the system. He insists it's not a systematic problem and that these 'isolated' incidents of racism have mainly happened on the Polish border. 

Another panellist - a Russian-speaking Ukrainian pastor who previously ministered to foreign students - reiterates that those who experienced hostility weren't singled out because of their ethnicity. Everyone was stressed given the circumstances, he argues. 

This exchange frustrates me. Whilst their comments provide an alternative perspective -and from the ground-I remain sceptical and for good reason. Wilfully or not, both speakers have a naïve understanding of how racism works. The Nigerian guest appears to have spent so much time assimilating, he's forgotten - or not aware - that racism doesn't have to be overt to be systematic. And just because one nation is less flagrantly racist than another, that doesn't mean it doesn't also have a problem. Like the rest of the world, Ukraine would not be inured to White Supremacy.

Elsewhere, there's suddenly much indignation over the bureaucracy that Ukrainian refugees are facing in European states, including the UK.  Tell that to the hundreds and thousands of mainly African migrants I meet at the Red Cross Centre near central Brussels, some of whom have been stuck in the quagmire of the dehumanising migration system for years. Where is the outrage in the mainstream on their behalf? There is none. Brown bodies are naturally more dispensable.

Then there’s the frankly racist media characterisation of this conflict as being somehow more tragic because it’s not taking place in a ‘third world country’ and that those being killed have ‘blond hair and blue eyes’. 

God help us. 

White Supremacy manages to taint humanitarian endeavour. When it underpins so much of the current world system, how could it not. The Church has sadly, if unconsciously, been at times complicit in this prejudice. We can't simply be swayed by Western mainstream media's whimsy. Situations don't cease to be concerning just because they're no longer top of the news agenda (cross-reference Afghanistan roughly six months ago), if part of the agenda at all.

All this is depressingly familiar, as are the arguments that justify the biases. "...Ukraine is geographically closer..." " ‘We’ have more in common culturally..." 

I once commented on similar responses to other incidents of violence taking place on European soil. These justifications were not convincing then and they still aren’t. Anything that tries to rationalise that some lives are more valuable than others never could be. 

One of the potential blessings in disguise of this horrifying situation is that it is already the impetus for well-needed dialogue. The hope -albeit tentative - is that long-term lessons will be learned and implemented, not conveniently forgotten. 

Staying Afloat, Just.

 

I write this blog through gritted teeth. I lack the energy and inclination. I don’t have legions, or even a modest-sized core, of loyal readers eagerly awaiting my next instalment. Nothing but the internal pressure under which I constantly put myself propels me to update after a mini-hiatus. It’s one of those moments where if I don’t write now, I can’t say when I will next.

In my current state of mind and circumstances as they are, I’m conscious of wallowing and that sentiment coming through on these pages.

Shortly after my return from Coimbra, I have an overdue chat scheduled with Bruno. We become acquainted indirectly through a series of events he organises in autumn 2021 discussing masculinity in the 21^st century. We strike an instant platonic rapport. I assume it’s the start of a beautiful friendship. Not quite. Bruno soon becomes less and less accessible.

After some radio silence, he reaches out with onward plans for a gender relations project on which he’s keen for us to embark. On my end, he’s been unresponsive for so long, I give up on maintaining contact. It’s part of the emotional spring-cleaning on which I set my mind at the end of 2021. When Bruno eventually does get in touch, I let him know exactly why I’m even less tolerant of any flakiness. He believes I’m projecting. I disagree.

He suggests we speak offline. No pressure.

We meet one Tuesday morning in early February.

Following the difficulties experienced towards the end of my contract at TTUO, my sleep has been significantly disrupted. I am thus very tired when I arrive at the agreed location near Place de la Monnaie. I blame the fatigue for being emotional during our discussion.

We discover that we had approached the interaction with different objectives. I was interested in getting to know Bruno as a friend. I believed I was riding an auspicious wave with gay acquaintances last year.

He saw me as a potential business partner. Friendship might develop organically later.

I couldn’t understand why he was being so pushy about this potential joint project. His ambitious seemed premature. He couldn’t understand why I was being so familiar and eager to socialise. My attempts to practise Portuguese were interpreted as being overly-affectionate; something Bruno only comes to realise as we’re clearing the air.

Perhaps I’m a little too accepting of his version of events. In the moment, all I can see is my own error; getting ahead of myself again. With the exception of one acknowledged oversight, Bruno effectively admits to ghosting me. He should have shared his misgivings from the outset. 

I tell him the conversation has been instructive. If nothing else there’s resolution. I’m happy to cut my losses and move on.

Place de la Monnaie, Brussels (courtesy of tripadvisor)

I do reflect on how I presumed such misunderstandings couldn’t happen if all I wanted was a platonic interaction with a gay man. Said out loud, it sounds naïve. Regardless of sexual orientation or outward displays of sensitivity, men are more or less socialised the same way. Consciously or otherwise, they participate in and perpetuate imbalanced gender dynamics. They can be withholding and err towards emotional unavailability.

A couple of days later, I spend the afternoon with Sylvia. She’s wants to know the Matongé area better. We lunch in Brussels’ famous Quartier Noir before taking a stroll to a pop-up African bookshop near Marolles. She asks if I’ve received news from my former workplace, following the outrageous behaviour of senior management before I left. A complaint has been escalated to my Union’s HQ via my former Delegation.

I’m playing with the idea of giving it another month before chasing up. Sylvia urges me not to delay any longer, lest my inaction be mistaken for indifference.

Perhaps deep down I have a negative presentiment about the whole affair. I nevertheless follow Sylvia’s advice and reach out to the Delegation. 

 They send an apologetic but ultimately disappointing response. 

Nothing can really be done... yada, yada…

No substantial reason is proffered as to why. In my response I point out that the Delegation and the Union itself should have been more proactive in updating me. I can only guess how long I’d have been not-so-blissfully ignorant if Sylvia hadn’t persuaded me to get in touch. I am frank about how angry and let down I am. 

I suspect that internal politics and concerns over bad optics is preventing my Union taking action, rather than any legal shortcomings. It’s not as if there’s any love lost between them and the offending party; the outgoing Secretary General of TTUO. I couldn’t think of a better time to hold her to account.

One of the Delegation has the temerity to reply in a ‘private capacity’, complaining that my message upset her feelings. I carefully draft a polite but strongly-worded response. 

 I am happy for her to share it with her colleagues, since my dissatisfaction pertains to a collective failure. If she does acknowledge a delay in contacting me in the first instance, she doesn’t have the courtesy to apologise. Between the seven members of which the Delegation is comprised, somebody surely could have taken the responsibility to notify me of the latest developments. Or just to ask how I was. One of them, Demetria, I considered a friend. Although they did a great job of supporting me at the start, lately the Delegation have put their own discomfort ahead of doing what was best by me.

They all have the luxury of not thinking about it. They have secure jobs, families, other preoccupations. My current situation is circumscribed by what has transpired until now. 

Not to mention the unprofessional behaviour of the Union liaison. He hasn’t had the decency to contact me once, let alone consult me about the decisions that have been taken on my behalf. It’s a disgrace. I request to be put in touch with him directly.

Beyond that, I let my ex-colleague know I am not interested in hearing any more self-justifications and excuses. Unless the Delegation can say something that substantially changes the state of play, I ask to be left alone. I need to process all that’s happened as well as look into what limited options there are for recourse. I make further enquiries elsewhere that leave me even more at a loss.

art-du-mojito.fr

This latest turn of events pushes me close to the edge. My sleeping patterns have been deteriorating for months and my general angst increases. I feel exhausted to my core. I notice I am even more garrulous than usual in others’ company. My constant nervous chatter is indicative of non-stop mind traffic.

Some days are better than others. I host another successful “linner”; this time with Em, Karin and Renzo. The latter two apparently feel so at home, they leave some of their belongings behind. Renzo invites me round the following weekend to return his goods and hang out. 

It’ll be my first visit to his abode, if brief. With plans later that day, he squeezes me in between engagements. 

 Renzo’s minimalist flat is as tasteful and impeccable as I imagined. Outside, it's brisk but sunny and dry. Natural light streams in through the many windows. A snazzy-looking imitation wireless radio blasts Funk and Soul grooves in the kitchen. 

I ogle Renzo’s impressive book collection, featuring black feminists and anti-imperialists. 

Renzo is welcoming, offering me a home-cooked lunch. I have a nibble of his delicious veggie equivalent of meat loaf. I've brought a bottle of virgin Mojito to share. It has all the makings of a relaxed time in good company. And yet. It feels like hard work and I can’t say why. I don’t feel uneasy when Renzo comes round to mine, most likely because I’m on my own turf. 

Nobody is to blame. We’re each struggling with our own internal battles. We’re each doing our best to navigate them in our respective ways, whilst trying to be there for the other. It’s just that day, the alchemy is off.

Winter Sun in Coimbra: Part Two

Terreiro do Paço, Lisbon (ionline.sapo.pt)

Part 1

I wake up on Sunday, half-way through my trip, in the state of disillusion that has characterised the last few weeks. My sleep is still not as regulated as it should be. During breakfast, I tune into the livestream of my Belgian church, FWM’s morning service. Pastor Mike speaks on the importance of testimonies. He asks us to recall something good that stands out this week. I remind myself of where I am. Even if I’m feeling somewhat miserable, I have the luxury of doing so on holiday in a beautiful country. Unlike the mainly overcast weather during my visit to La Côte Azur, I don’t lack for sunshine. My Coimbra trip so far has been consistently pleasurable. Or at least, there’s been no drama which is a mercy in itself. Despite my hotel apparently being near a sketchy part of town, I’ve been safe. Whatever ails me is either in my unreachable past or can wait for when I return to Brussels. I shouldn’t let it rob me of present enjoyment. I don’t want to look back on this moment and only remember it being eaten up by worry. Let tomorrow take care of itself. À chaque jour suffit sa peine.

I have booked myself on a day tour in Lisbon. This was before I found out how irregular the train service is between Coimbra and Lisbon on a Sunday. I do second guess my decision and consider staying within the confines of Coimbra. However, noting that I tend to become more mired in dark thoughts if I spend too much time on my own, I persist with the original plan. I manage to find a train route that will get me to the Portuguese capital around the same time the tour starts. I notify the tour guide, Hugo, that I’ll be running a few minutes late.

With the local transport service all but useless and not fancying the idea of another taxi for a relatively short journey, I take a spritely walk towards Coimbra-B station. I arrive in good time to buy my ticket and catch the train.

It’s been over 13 years since I last spent time in Lisbon. It was my very first experience of Portugal; a girls’ holiday with mum and sis. The beauty of its topography, its people, its cosmopolitanism and good food, all made a strong impression. I'd like a refresher of the City without doing exactly the same things I would have all those years ago. Hugo’s donations-based tour promises to be an alternative view of the Portuguese Capital, from a local’s perspective.

I arrive at the designated meeting place in time to see the group moving off. They’re easy to spot. It’s a sizeable collective; the opposite of the huddle on the previous day’s Coimbra tour. I rush up to whom I assume is Hugo, breathless.

It's fine. You’ve just missed the first part, he reassures.

The group is made up of all sorts. There’s a Spanish couple who lived in London and are now based in Lisbon. Then there’s the posse of garrulous Ukrainians, whom at one point I have to hush when they’re voices carry over the Guide’s.

Hugo himself is camp and jovial. However, early on in the tour, I detect an historical blindspot where Portuguese colonial history is concerned. My romantic memories of Lisbon have been challenged of late after (finally!) reading my Afropean co-editor-in-chief, Johny Pitts’ travel memoir Adventures in Black Europe. (Incidentally, I think his views on Marseille are too rose-tinted, but I digress). He approaches Lisbon with a healthy scepticism in relation to its historical amnesia. 

I perceive such forgetfulness in Hugo’s accounts of the so-called Golden Age of conquest and ‘discovery’, with no caveats about slavery or colonialism. That’s not to dismiss the validity of the entire tour. He details the extent of the 1755 Earthquake’s destruction very well. He ends with a summary of Salazar’s dictatorship and the eventual overthrow of his successor, Marcelo Caetano, in the Carnation Revolution of 1974. Hugo rightly includes a reference to the massacre of Lisbon’s Jewish population in the early 16^th Century under the ridiculous pretext of heresy. To his credit (and possibly because of my prompting) he mentions how stubbornly the Portuguese held on to their colonies; something notably missing from the Coimbra tour (which had similar weaknesses). Nonetheless, more generally, he’s a bit quiet when it comes to Portugal’s role in the exploitation and brutalisation of brown people. I bring this to his attention directly during one of the lulls between his expositions. Hugo claims to have mentioned the country’s role in the transatlantic slave trade at the start, which I missed. 

At least we weren’t as bad as the Dutch (he previously lived in the Netherlands).

I don’t allow him the comfort of that old chestnut, where former colonial powers play the what-aboutery game. All colonialism was bad, I remind him and he concedes. He acknowledges that the Age wasn’t so Golden for the enslaved and colonised but, he contends, should we judge the past by today’s standards? This is a common refrain; often – although not exclusively-from racially illiterate Caucasians. I respond, as casually as I can muster, that the effects of the past still play out today. Moreover, there were always those who morally objected to slavery and colonialism. Namely the subjugated and those who took up their cause. This is conveniently forgotten. Hugo agrees, but adds I try not to be too political. Everything is political, I counter, including what he chooses not to say.

Alfama, Lisbon (image: Civitatis)

Hugo widens the discussion to include the rest of the group, now focusing on Portugal’s current political situation and the upcoming election. He claims Portugal is a tolerant country and not given to extremes. I recall the concern expressed by Diana, the Italian guide on my Coimbra tour. By contrast, Hugo believes the support for the Far-Right is fringe compared to France, for instance. He might be a Portuguese native but I’m inclined to trust the outsider, more politically-engaged instincts of Diana. Hugo is knowledgeable and genial but I sense a complacency that is the preserve of the privileged. He takes shelter under the belief that racism is only evident in the Extreme-Right, something about which I am also keen to disabuse him.

I feel nevertheless obligated to keep this sensitive conversation as breezy as possible. Firstly, I am not the only one on the tour. Neither do I want any germane points I do make to be lost if I’m perceived as too ‘disruptive’.

Meanwhile, I overhear a conversation between a convivial elderly South-Asian man with a transatlantic accent, and a tall blonde of indeterminate origin. She has her camera perched on her right shoulder with some contraption that reminds me of a harmonica stand.

As the tour comes to a close, I catch the voluble older man’s attention. He asks about my background and shares about his own. Mo, as he’s called, is an Italian-raised Pakistani living in the US. He’s worked for various international institutions including IFI’s and the UN. He’s passing through Lisbon en route to Francophone West Africa, where he's to discuss his new book on France’s neo-colonial relationship with its former Empire.

Mo picks my brain about a host of subjects, including what was discussed with Hugo. He’s of the generation that believes colonialism wasn’t all terrible. It’s a debate I have quite frequently with one of my mentors from a similar part of the world. I maintain that even if some good emerged from the period as an incidental by-product, it doesn’t negate the evil that was done. Mo argues that we need to strike a balance. I proffer that since colonial propaganda determined the narrative for so long, for the discussion to be truly even-handed, we don’t need any more talk of the purported benefits of Imperial exploits. 

The tour concludes in the main Terreiro do Paço square, overlooking the sea on one side and the pastel-coloured houses of the Mediaeval Alfama district in the distance. It’s a stunning day. Apart from the temperature being a little fresh, we couldn’t have asked for better weather for such an excursion. 

As we overlook the bay, Mo is happy to resume the conversation where we left off. We move on to racism in terms of class struggle, the elites and establishment media, the role of political education in bridging divides and the state of British politics. When Mo mentions that he and his wife will soon be relocating to Addis-Ababa for work purposes, we each give our (admittedly limited) take on the ever-more complex Ethiopian conflict. 

Mo says he likes the way I think. He is surprisingly sympathetic to my political views considering his professional history. He won’t let me leave until I’ve given my email details.

It is a stimulating chat but I have a coach to catch. 

I just miss the 5pm bus to Coimbra. I regret that I won’t have the chance to do the trip again at dusk. With an hour to wait until the next coach, I head to the nearby Lidl to stock up on essentials such as fruit and water. I’ve barely seen a supermarket in Coimbra.

At the risk of repeating myself, outside of the UK, I find Portugal’s Lidl franchise to be the best. Not only in terms of product range but value for money. I pounce on some bargains I’m unlikely to find in Brussels. I’d stock up on more if I didn’t have such a restrictive luggage allowance. (Too bad that the Agave syrup that I purchase for a steal, is confiscated by Lisbon airport security for being over the 100ml limit. I'm miffed. Irony of ironies, my small suitcase eventually has to go into the hold anyway).

(image: Algarve Primeiro)

It’s another long-ish walk from Coimbra bus station to the hotel but I won’t begrudge the exercise. Besides being approached for some change by a man worse-for-wear, I am not hassled.

I decide to dine at an Italian establishment I’ve passed several times. I’m seated close to a multi-cultural group of young British females. For some reason, it’s never really a comfort to overhear anglophone accents whilst on holiday.

The inexplicably all-male waiting staff are also a cosmopolitan bunch. One is particularly attentive. He asks where I’m from before informing me of his own Colombian and Italian roots. He stares deep into my eyes with his pretty baby blues and lavishes me with multi-lingual compliments. I don’t know whether he’s sincere, angling for a tip or thinks I’m easy prey because I’m eating alone. On the other hand, I could just accept the compliment. I have been feeling rough lately (which is partly why I question his motives). 

I’m bemused by things I experience in mainland Europe that would almost never happen in the UK. Back in Blighty, even if I had the impression one of the waiters found me attractive, it would rarely, if ever, be as overt. Just some mild flirting within the confines of professionalism. There’s something almost shameless (or is that fearless?) about a certain kind of European male.

In between minestrone soup, a tasty seafood pizza and lemon tart with vanilla ice cream, my admirer finds any excuse to chat. I discover that in addition to Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and English he speaks a total of seven languages, including Thai and a bit of Russian. Or so he says. It’s entertaining enough and I could do with the pick-me-up. It might all be theatre but I don’t intend to follow it through. I can't remember if we even exchange names.

He asks what I’m doing later on. Rest, I answer.

Back in my hotel box, I watch some humorous clips online, shower and try to pray before lights out. Instead I pass out. It’s another night of fitful sleep and I’m exhausted the morning of the last full day of my Coimbra break. I feel and look awful. I open up about the disrupted sleep with my morning prayer group. It’s a vicious circle. Anxiety hums in the background like white noise. That adversely affects my sleep. I can’t even switch off my mind’s chatter for a catnap. Insufficient rest contributes to low morale which disrupts my sleep more and so on…

It’ll be a waste of time getting fully dressed and made-up before breakfast. I’m involuntary crying into my food. My make-up drips onto my T-Shirt. Thankfully, the restaurant is virtually empty. The few staff around are busying themselves elsewhere. If they see me upset, they’re discreet about it. 

I’ve been avoiding logging into Skype until my return to Brussels but I don’t want sis to worry. Sure enough, she’s wondering where I am.

I take my time over breakfast. I need to calm down. I’m trying to arrange a refund for another tour I have booked that morning. The Guide is unresponsive and there's a major mistake in the itinerary.

Não importa. It means I can attempt another siesta before heading to the beach earlier than I’d have been able to.

The nap isn’t entirely successful. I join my weekly Christian meditation session before boarding the train to Figueira da Foz. 

I already feel much better stepping outside of my box room into the daylight. Despite my general exhaustion, the loveliness of the day is not lost on me. The weather is Spring-like. It’s the warmest it's been so far during my stay. The surrounding landscape demands my attention once more, inviting me to benefit from it whilst I can. It’ll be after dark by the time I return from Figueira da Foz. I have an early-ish train to catch to the airport the following morning, so will be hurrying along.

I’ve selected the right day to go to the coast, although on arriving at my destination, it’s not immediately obvious. There’s water, yes but at first glance Figueira da Foz looks like a dock more than a beach. 

After stopping to check my coordinates a few times, I’m assured that there is something resembling the seaside nearby. My perseverance pays off. Best of all, there’s just the right amount of activity. Neither too busy nor totally deserted. 

I stop off at a kiosk for a snack. A man interrupts my order to charge his phone. He then proceeds to ask my origins. He feels the need to share that he lived and worked in Senegal for a time. He endeavours to educate me on the country’s ethnic diversity. He lists off the number of local languages he acquired, as well as French.

Figueira da Foz (image: Accor)

Congratulations, I say. Whether or not he discerns my mild sarcasm, I can’t tell.

He asks if I like Portugal. I reply in the affirmative and explain it’s my third visit to the country. I humour the conversation solely for the practice. Otherwise, I find him a little obtrusive.

I can’t understand everything he says. I pick up that he continues with his own life story-namely where else he’s lived in Europe – and says something about the low salaries in Portugal; in the region of 800-900 euros a month. This is a theme that’s recurred throughout my visit. If the wages are low, at least aspects of the cost of living are also economical, such as food. Rents are cheap compared to other European states but not in proportion to the average Portuguese salary. 

The conversation turns to varieties of Portuguese, as it has often done. I am frank about my Brazilian bias, reiterated by my current interaction. My interlocutor swallows his words. I’m only able to follow thanks to a few days of consistent exposure, which is a small encouragement in itself.

Once my toasted sandwich is ready, I bid farewell to the sales assistant and my fleeting acquaintance.

I eat lunch on the beach. Apart from a few families seated on nearby rocks, I have the modest sandy section to myself (there's much more to the beach that, alas, I don't have time to discover). A surly canine barks at me for no reason. Its owners hardly try to assuage it.

What’s your problem? Racist dog.

A creepy elderly fellow I first saw near the kiosk, keeps circling me from a distance. He doesn’t look away when I make eye-contact, or even try to hide his fascination. At what point this becomes fetishisation, I don’t know but his attention must cross that line. I forget about him, believing he’s become bored and moved on. Feeling sufficiently free of anyone’s gaze, I inconspicuously remove my tights.

A few minutes later, I look around and catch the old geezer watching me again from afar.

I won’t let this Peeping Tom steal this placid moment from me. I ignore him and enjoy the view. I don’t have long before I have to rush back to the station for the return to Coimbra.

My last night in the City is rather anti-climactic. Unbeknownst to me, many businesses don’t open on Mondays; similar to when I lived in Strasbourg. A restaurant next to the hotel that I’d had my eye on since my first night is closed. With no Plan B and not wanting to dine at the same eateries as before, I stumble across a promising-looking establishment in the vicinity. 

It seems busy. A little too busy. 

A group of 40-50 obnoxiously raucous youngsters have commandeered the joint. It’s the performative, self-conscious ‘fun’ of the insecure. 

They want attention. I’m determined to deny them that currency.

(image: Travelling Buzz)

There are frequents burst of a rowdy football-like chant. It’s all I can do not to scream "STFU!". I try to read instead and (unsuccessfully) drown out the noise by switching on my MP3. The mellowness of Alison Thorsteinsen's gorgeously doleful compositions can't cut through the racket.  I waste no time paying the bill after my Octopus and Shrimp meal. After a little small talk with the manager and his wife, I wish them good night and a cheeky Boa Sorte before stepping into the brisk night for a brisk walk. I hope to purchase an iced dessert from Burger King and pass by the hotel bar before bed. Both closed…

I don’t expect to sleep well the night before my departure. To my great surprise, I wake up better rested than the morning before. Not perfect but an answer to prayer nonetheless. I’ve reserved an earlier breakfast, expecting to see the luminous restaurant busier for a change. Still practically empty. The only unfamiliar face is that of a vibrant young waiter. From his more comprehensible Portuguese and ethnically-ambiguous features, I guess correctly that he’s from Brazil. São Paulo, to be precise. The hotel staff have all been friendly but he’s especially warm; as sunny as the climate I'll be leaving behind.

It’s a shame our paths didn’t cross sooner. I nevertheless take this brief encounter as an auspicious farewell, as I depart that crisp January morning for Lisbon airport.

Soundtrack: Sometimes I'm There by Alison Thorsteinsen