Une Touche-à-tout Incorrigible...and Proud of It

 6 min. read

One sure sign of the advent of Spring is that my diary fills up with no great effort on my part. Not that I’m ever at a loss of what to do. Je suis touche-à-tout incorrigible et j’en suis fière. Staying busy for me is not a form of avoidance. I am able to sit with uncomfortable feelings if need be. It does help me to avoid being consumed by them, however.

Towards the end of February, I have a couple of interviews within the same week. If I look at the cup as half-full, at least it shows I’m still an attractive prospect to recruiters. Alas, the most recent callbacks have been for unfulfilling roles that are not well paid, and/or I have it on good authority that the working environment is unpleasant. 

I still give it my best as I’m wont to do. The first interview for a Christian NGO, goes well; enjoyable even. Some of the questions take a philosophical slant. I manage to hide my wariness, based on what I’ve heard on the grapevine about high turnovers and a volatile GS. The other interview later that week is online and, well, a bit strange. It must go down as one of the shortest I’ve ever attended; 10 minutes of questions, if I’m being generous. The rest is spent discussing the practical aspects of the role. 

At some point the panel inform me that the role will begin on part-time (50%) hours and salary; roughly the same, if not less than unemployment benefit. This is a detail that has been studiously omitted from the vacancy on the organisation’s own website. I already had reservations about the job. The post itself is good but I’d struggle to be motivated by the organisation’s main campaign area. There’s a damned-if-I-do/damned-if-I-don’t aspect to both these employment prospects. In the end, the decision is made for me. Neither of them translate into a job offer. 

I’ve now reached a juncture where the adage (incorrectly) attributed to Einstein is becoming more pertinent. Something needs to change but I don’t know what and how. To complicate matters further, my attempts to obtain justice from the Belgian state against my former General Secretary for moral harassment leads nowhere after months of investigation and – to my mind – damning evidence. I can take small comfort in pursuing it as far as I could go, despite not having the means for legal support, my union’s refusal to support me and everybody from former so-called friends and my own mother wanting me to drop it. I feel overwhelmed, trapped and furious with God. I am not here because of any misdemeanour on my part. Even if there were, I could appeal to Divine Mercy.

So yep, staying busy prevents me going over the edge.

Solidarity demo for migrants
(image courtesy of Sudinfo)

I spend a few weekday evenings in February at coordination meetings for the launch of my Church, FWM’s compassion ministry; a pilot social action/justice project. 

I attend a fascinating debate on the ongoing crisis in Eastern Congo one evening at a VUB campus. I’ve been invited by one of the organisers, Elisabeth -or Lisa - an eloquent human rights lawyer. We meet at another highly informative event by the Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) on ‘uberisation’ and the gig economy in Belgium.

The discussion about the present Congolese conflict and the interference of international actors becomes heated. One Belgian gentleman’s remarks have such a neo-colonial undertone, the panel – not to mention many of us in the audience – aren’t sure whether he’s earnest or a troll. His exquisite significant-other – resembling a cocoa-coloured Joan Collins – keeps trying to catch my eye. My shallow admiration for her incredible bone structure turns to suspicion as she appears to be supporting her husband’s questionable POV. I refuse to meet her conspiratorial gaze.

I show solidarity at demos in early March for Migrants Rights and to commemorate International Women’s Day. I confess to being frustrated with my current level of activism. The symbolism of street demonstrations is all well and good but I’m on the lookout for opportunities to make a long term tangible difference.

My spiritual mentor Vinoth pays a visit to the low countries around the same time. He’s staying with a friend in Antwerp but has some business in Brussels, including catching up with me. 

The day he arrives, it’s sunny with a strong chill. 

I book us a place on a walking tour. Vinoth wants me to show him the city. I’d prefer to leave it to the professionals. The tour guide doesn’t keep things moving along fast enough for Vinoth. He’s eager to pull away from the group to find somewhere warm to sit. After a few attempts to convince him to wait it out, I concede. 

Later that evening, Vinoth has another engagement at the Anglican church Holy Trinity Brussels, where I also occasionally attend services. As he’s not familiar with the city, I accompany him to HTB. It’s an excuse for more quality time. En route, we debate the benefits of observing Lent (he being a sceptic, me fully convinced). 

Vinoth has been invited to discuss his oeuvre, Subverting Global Myths which is the HTB book club’s reading choice for the next quarter. We’re ushered to an upper room by a kindly minister, Pieter and Ronal, the book club facilitator. Vinoth talks me up to them - even though we’ve only all just met – mentioning that I’m in transition professionally. Both Pieter and Ronal are well connected to the NGO sector, it turns out.

Cook & Book literary complex, Woluwe-St-Lambert
(c) by2photographers)

Elsewhere, I am approached by a freelance filmmaker acquaintance, Bonaparte.  He produces online content for a local news and entertainment channel. He wants to do a brief feature on my life as an expat in Belgium. I agree; more as a challenge to myself to do something new and potentially daunting. I’m initially reluctant for Bonaparte to film the main interview at my home but I eventually come round to the idea.

With the bulk of the conversation out of the way, we shift outdoors. Bonaparte takes numerous incidental shots in populated spaces, observed by a bemused public.

The shoot is spread over a couple of weeks. We agree that I’ll take Bonaparte to a couple of my haunts; a literary arts complex in my neighbourhood one week, and B-Mol’s dynamic Afro Jam the next. 

To my consternation, the latter appointment is more frustrating. B-mol is held up for unforeseen reasons and the event starts later than scheduled. 

Meanwhile, Bonaparte is in a hurry to film. He has a date lined up after the shoot. I’m annoyed. He shouldn’t have been so ambitious with his schedule. I worry he's putting undue pressure on the band to have me perform before everybody else. I don't require special treatment. For their part, B-mol and co are most obliging. I’m unhappy about this arrangement nevertheless and let Bonaparte know. 

The stress makes it harder for me to be as relaxed on stage as the previous occasion. I already have enough trouble remembering all the lyrics to my song of choice; Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster. Quick glances at my crib sheet do little to fill in the gaps. I end up singing with lyrics in hand.

This mild ordeal over, to my surprise, B-Mol requests another. Before I can stop myself I suggest Could You Be Loved? It’s my favourite by Bob Marley but I’m even less sure of the lyrics than Master Blaster. Things turn more awkward still when we segue into Is this Love? and on B-Mol's request, Jammin’; another Marley favourite to which I can only mumble along at best. (I like the odd bit of reggae but I didn't exactly inherit my parents' fandom.) For a couple of the renditions, musically inclined guests provide impromptu harmonies for which I'm most grateful.

Bonaparte leaves for his rendez-vous shortly afterwards.

The rest of the night resumes its pleasantly febrile energy. By some coincidence, there are more Wailers’ covers to come, for which I’m not responsible this time. My mood starts to lift. It really is one of the best night’s out in Brussels; the only dubious aspects being white folk with blond dreads doing dodgy dance moves and me fluffing the lyrics on stage – again! - to Daft Punk & Pharrell’s Get Lucky.

On the way back home I stop off at a Jazz jam at Muntpunt Café. An unassuming young woman does a fine job working her way through some vocalised standards. As usual, the Jazz crowd’s reaction is too tepid for my liking. I come across a talented guitarist whom I routinely bump into at any number of open mic events. I recommend he pops down to the friendlier Afro Jam un de ces quatre.

Rushing to catch the last metro, somebody calls my name. It’s one of the regulars from the Red Cross. I give him a cheery wave before apologising for having to make a quick exit.

Soundtrack: É o que A Casa Oferece by Gabriel da Rosa, Medicine for My Pain and The Other Side by Lynden David Hall 

Still in Transit, Apparently

 6 min. read

(courtesy of The Healthy Epicurean)

On the social action front, I’ve added a couple more volunteering activities to my already very rewarding shifts at the Red Cross. In late 2022 I join the team of an excellent Belgian charity that supports those involved in the sex trade and provides routes out for those looking to leave. In some ways, it’s a resumption of the outreach work of which I was part in Strasbourg, except this organisation has an even more extensive support system. As was the case in France, I limit my participation for now to once a month. The work is fulfilling but emotionally and mentally heavy.

I also join the team at church responsible for translating English worship song lyrics into French. It’s led by Mark, a convivial young man, it seems. Owing to the lack of uptake elsewhere, he's responsible for several ministries at FWM, despite himself being a full time healthcare worker. We have a surprisingly good working relationship so far. I say surprisingly, because our first encounter at a retreat for young professionals a couple of years earlier, was not at all promising. We fell out over politics. I can’t speak to his current views on socio-economic justice but Mark is far less obnoxious than I recall. He’s affable even, to a coquettish extent.

In early February, Monica – one of my church home group leaders and the former coordinator of the Young Professionals group – invites me round for dinner. She’s been wanting it to happen for a while. Uncharacteristically, I hope she’ll forget. It’s not that Monica is a bad sort. She’s confident, proactive and has her heart in the right place. We get on well enough. It’s just she lacks self-awareness. I find her assertive to the point of being obtrusive; nay, bossy. In any gathering, she’s the self-appointed spokesperson. Perhaps it’s a clash-of-the-Alpha-females thing but I don’t find her company as easy as say, Karin or Brenda. I perceive that Monica and I wouldn’t be compatible enough to ever be close friends. 

 However, it reaches the point where I can no longer put off her dinner request. It’s an act of kindness after all; more so given that she’s had a rough time of it herself lately.

Overall, my feelings about the experience are mixed. Her honey, walnut and feta salad is very good and Monica makes an effort to ensure I feel welcome. My initial plan is to keep the focus of conversation on her and avoid going into detail about my life. That works for the first portion of the evening, until Monica starts asking pointed questions. I’m initially judicious about my responses but once in the flow, my guard comes down more than intended. Some of the discussion is genuinely enriching, particularly the theological elements. Monica has a specific take on the Prodigal Son story – a parable about which I've long been conflicted – that I find refreshing. Unfortunately, she also feels at liberty to proffer unsolicited advice. 

I already have a shrink and a close circle with whom I can confide.

In hindsight, I feel over-scrutinised. I'm annoyed with myself for not being firmer with my boundaries. Monica is in no position to comment on my life, no matter how well-meaning. Our relationship is not - and unlikely ever to be - that deep. 

I have a chance to share my misgivings sooner than anticipated the following day, when Monica and I see each other at another FWM event. She announces she’ll be accompanying me home afterwards, since she also has a function in my neighbourhood. I acquiesce before I can think of a plausible excuse. I’m miffed.

It does nonetheless provide a prime opportunity for me to be polite but frank about the previous evening and other misgivings. She takes it as graciously as she can. In the end, she is whom she is. 

It makes me reflect on when I’ve been on the other end of this kind of dynamic. I have more sympathy for some - not all - former budding acquaintances who have found me ‘too much’ and decided to walk away from any potential friendship. I can’t always take it too personally. Sometimes there isn’t sufficient kismet to make it work.

Meanwhile, I endeavour to redirect attention from a lack of connection and relational false starts to investing time and energy into my meaningful Brussels friendships. Karin welcomes a new addition to the family in January; chubby-cheeked Nehemiah.  To her immense credit, she still makes time amidst the busyness to see friends. Her now middle child and only daughter, Evita has a mixed reaction to her new sibling. No longer being the youngest, she oscillates between devotion and her diva antics. I bear witness during an awkward meet up at a shopping centre with the whole family, including dad Felix. More than once, I've insinuated to Karin that it'll do Evita a lot of good no longer being the baby of the bunch. 

The following week we have a far calmer morning catch-up over hot drinks at an agreeable South American establishment, for which I have Karin to thank for the discovery.

(image courtesy of Knox Box)

My cultural highlights of the year so far have mostly been musical. In mid-January I attend a Brazilian Jam and Open Mic session at an intimate venue in central Brussels. It turns out to be a good opportunity to practise my Portuguese with some habitually welcoming Brazilians, as well as dust off the odd Bossa Nova tune. I take to the stage for a rendition of Berimbau/Consolação. I am not best pleased with my performance. I feel it’s pitchy and I am not as self-assured as I’d like. Nonetheless, the reception from the crowd and musicians is warm. I'm back for more the next month.

The following evening, I join a group of relative strangers - via Meet Up - for a night of raucous Karaoke fun. It's the bar-style set up which I've historically avoided (compared to the traditional Japanese private booths that I prefer). The venue is nevertheless not the dive I expect it to be and our group has a good rapport. Most of the singing that night can scarcely be qualified as such. Guilty pleasures abound, such as a fixation with ABBA's cheesier output (no shade on the Swedish quartet's repertoire overall), mixed in with some more respectable numbers. It tickles me no end to see drunken young men singing along to Rihanna or Linkin Park as if they're at a football match. Hussein, a member of my group, convinces me to join him in Rick-Rolling the whole room. I regret not signing up for a solo. It's more of a blast than I imagined.

Later that month, I’ll pop to Marolles for an event organised by another recent acquaintance, B-mol. I’ve long given up on hearing from him, when he reaches out to inform me of a weekly Afro Jam/Open Mic he’s hosting in the old Jewish district. A singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist himself, B-mol warms the crowd with both originals and covers before leaving the stage open to whoever wants to have a go. 

It’s not my intention to sing, just observe. 

Famous last words.

Before I know it, I’m jamming with the musicians to Sade classics and hopping on the mic for an impromptu Bill Withers/Arrested Development mash-up. I am surprised by how comfortable I am on stage. It must be the ambiance. It’s one of those gloriously enjoyable moments I couldn’t plan. B-mol - and his wife, Luna in particular - are most encouraging. Ditto for the audience and musicians. It’s a different atmosphere from the previous open mics/jam sessions I’ve attended in Brussels. The quality of musicianship and song choices are solid, compared to some of the more liberal events I’ve frequented (A couple of females kill it on the bass and drums to my utmost pleasure). Yet, there’s none of the cliqueyness or withholding elitism of the Jazz crowd. It's -so far - a happy medium between the two. Much kudos to B-mol for pulling it off, despite only moving to Belgium a mere few months before. I tell him  -sans hyperbole - that it’s the best of this style of event I’m yet to attend; certainly in the Brussels context. I hope to make it one of my regular hotspots.

By sheer happenstance, B-mol and I will cross paths once more on the metro the following afternoon.

Soundtrack: Best of 2022 mixes, Now by Astrud Gilberto, Tropikadelic by Ireke

In Transit, Apparently

 4 min. read

January flows into February and the gradual tell tale signs of a seasonal transition become more apparent. Temperatures are still appropriately low for this time of year (which is a strange relief given how unseasonably warm February has been in recent years). Yet nightfall tarries ever so slightly and we no longer have to wait until 8am to see the sun. Perversely, the late sunrise is probably the aspect of Northern European winter I appreciate the most. The darkness helps my mind and body understand I need rest. My sleep hygiene is already compromised as it is. When it’s bright, it’s much harder to get some shut eye, particularly in the early hours. Spring and summer also tend to be busier, thus the desire to rest diminishes with the increased activity as well as daylight. 

I like to believe during winter, I can make up for some of the sleep I’ll lose at other points in the year. Not that I’m doing so well on that front, in any case. It’s the same old issue of heavy mental traffic. I have found that crossing the threshold into my naughty-40s, current life challenges and a general malaise make it even more difficult to still the mind. I persevere with meditative practices and therapeutic self-care. Whilst they no doubt take the edge off the worst of it, the beneficial effects of these habits are probably more long term than immediate.

On the practical end, I continue to put myself out there professionally. In late January, I am invited to an online interview for a remote position based in the US. Currently, my application process is split between roles of genuine interest and those for which I’m just going through the motions. This particular post falls into the latter category (as have a number of my most recent callbacks). The organisation does great work but I wouldn’t really be part of that. More of an administrative lackey with mediocre pay. I nevertheless try to prepare well for the interview. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing properly. 

I’m interviewed by two women, one of whom is the incoming president of the organisation. I had expected to meet her predecessor. I didn’t realise the turnover of that role was so swift. 

The two interviewers unwittingly fall into a good-cop-bad-cop dynamic. I don't appreciate the incumbent president's line of questioning. It makes me all the more apprehensive about joining this team. I’m told I’ll receive a response the following week. 

Hmm. Enough time elapses between the online screening and verdict for me to lose track of when exactly I was interviewed. 

It’s hard to read the situation. I’ve experienced delays even when the outcome was favourable, such as when I was previously recruited by TTUO. More recently however, I’ve begun to perceive it as poor etiquette when employers take inordinately long to update me. It doesn’t augur well. It’s thus a relief of sorts when, over a fortnight after being interviewed, this recruiter confirms what I’d already suspected; they’ve gone for another candidate. My hopes of resuming employment in February have faded even before I’m invited for that ill-fated interview. My morale plummets again. I focus my energies on getting back into work in March. TBC.

In the meantime, I endeavour as always to use my time constructively. I keep my mind active through sharpening my French and Portuguese language skills. I try to refresh my knowledge around my MA in Sociocultural Linguistics as well as other areas of study. I am not messing around with my workout regimen either, recently adding Body Combat to my routine. I ache in all the right places after my first session.

I ease into my political year with a New Year’s evening ceremony organised by the Belgian Worker’s Party (PTB). There I bump into Augustin – who convinced me to join – his wife, as well as a young Franco-Brazilian who, by some pleasing coincidence – I’ve met a couple of nights previously at a live music event. More on that later. 

The following month, I'll attend a two-day workshop on reimagining immigration policies in a more humane way at the Beurs culture venue. At the start I have the impression of walking into a parody on contemporary Western society. Participants seem to compete with each other for the most distinctive gender and/or queer identities. I quietly ignore the instruction to indicate my preferred pronouns. It feels inauthentic and like virtue signalling. However, once we get into the nitty-gritty of national and international policy and their underlying ideology, it's a lot more engaging, not to mention informative. It's good to find points of commonality in anti-imperialism and our desire for just migration laws.

Also in February, I attend a donations-based Brunch organised by Amitié Sans Frontières; a Migrants’ rights campaign group. I invite Cindy, a member of my church home group along for what turns out to be a slightly chaotic but aimable event of live music, rousing speeches and deliciously eclectic food. Elsewhere, I’ve resumed activities with the gender deconstruction (GD) group run by Bruno and his hottie of a partner-in-overturning-the-patriarchy, Miguel. More specifically, I’m attending this term’s Book Club discussion about bell hooks’ Will to Change (at the time of writing, my own copy is MIA at Karin’s house). Fortunately, my erstwhile friend Lorenzo – also part of the GD network - has given this particular event a miss. Apart from seeing him at the Group’s New Year’s meet-up - where we merely exchange a hasty farewell - we’ve not interacted since crossing paths at a summer 2022 silent retreat.

Une Belle Échappée Festive: Part II

6 min. read

Whilst a number of my friends will be overseas or otherwise indisposed during the festive period, sis and I do manage to pay a visit to heavily-pregnant Karin and family. My sis’ natural gift with children comes in handy and she swiftly wins over the affections of Karin’s brood. She teaches older boy, Amos, some Afrobeats and House moves. His little sister, Evita pleads with us not to leave when it’s finally time to go home. Even their dad, Felix is quietly won over by sis’ charm.

The next evening we meet up with newer acquaintance Jens, after much fuss on my part getting him to confirm the details. 

Sis is eager to try some authentic Belgian Beef Stew. A number of establishments are either closed, over-subscribed or plain inhospitable. The last option on our list, Falstaff, miraculously has a table for three on a Friday night. If the food is good, the service is bizarre, to say the least. Our waiter behaves like an emotionally-abusive lover. He showers us with attention and convivial conversation one moment; is curt and withholding the next. It’s not the most economic choice of restaurant, either. Whilst she enjoys the food, sis feels cheated having to pay that much for a shabby service.

After taking advantage of some of the special festive events in town – including the light show at Grande Place - Jens suggests we head to Flagey for a DJ set at Café Belga. 

The venue is full to bursting. Sis is temporarily dissuaded by the heaving crowd. We persevere nevertheless and are immediately rewarded with some choice selections on the decks. I lose it when the DJ drops, Go Deep, by Janet Jackson.  

As is his custom, Jens disappears for a portion of the evening. Sis suddenly wants to go home. As she leans into tell me, a white-adjacent female strokes sis’ hair extensions. I kick into defensive older sibling mode, immediately remonstrating her for daring to touch a black woman’s hair without being invited. As if Solange had not put this on record for all the world to know.

Sis is slightly bewildered, not having clocked what the young woman has done. I try to fill in the gaps on the ride back home, once Jens has finally reappeared. Sis also explains why, after initially having a good time, she quickly lost appetite for the event. She recounts how one of the other revellers took inordinate offence at me dropping my earring whilst dancing (it went nowhere near her). Sis intervened, polite but firm. From a distance, I assumed they were simply making friendly conversation.

Jens drops us off home. Before disembarking, we play a parting game of Name that Tune and Head’s Up. Jens' musical knowledge reveals itself to be broad but not deep. I’m unreasonably peeved by this, as if I've been duped somehow.

More worrying is his lack of socio-political awareness. Not for the first time, I challenge him on being culturally insensitive. He’s surprisingly dismissive about why I took issue with my sister’s hair being stroked by a stranger. It's as if he's ignored all the conversations in recent years, revived in the mainstream, around the interplay between structural racism and micro-aggressions. I'm shocked by his absence of humility and white-splaining. I recall a similarly frustrating exchange around gender-related issues. 

Despite his obvious privileges - and me teasing him for being a luxury car-driving bourgeoisie - I hadn’t pegged Jens as a middle-class-European-male cliché. I realise this is not coming from a place of bad faith. He is not a poser; he’s too sincere for all of that. He comes across at first as cosmopolitan, open-minded and quite down-to-earth. He’s dated black women in the past (of course, interracial dating does not automatically equate to enlightened views). Jens' lack of empathy and cultural curiosity thus disappoints me profoundly. That likely has more to do with my own (unfair? premature?) expectations than him wilfully misleading me. 

I get counter-productively worked up trying to make Jens understand. Moreover, sis doesn’t wholly take my side, much to my annoyance. She’s more conciliatory about Jens' reaction. He has made a positive impression. She commends him for being easygoing, as well as holding his own in a heated discussion without becoming truculent. Still, the evening will leave me rattled for a while to come.

Not enough to immediately hamper the rest of mine, mum and sis’ festive plans. I continue to show them the luminous charms of Brussels bathed in Christmas lights. There’s not much else going on otherwise. 

On New Year’s Eve, we eschew the fireworks at Parc Royal to pray into 2023 in the comfort and warmth of my flat. In the morning, we head to Fresh Wine Ministries for a shorter special New Year’s Day service. Pastor Mike admits to being laid low by 2022, as were many. The previous year has been intense; like a microcosm of everything that has frustrated me so far about adult life. Even if things are yet to materially change for me, I feel momentarily lighter just being able to draw a line psychologically under 2022. Pastor Mike is optimistic about 2023. Over the coming days, I’ll hear these sentiments echoed elsewhere. I, on the other hand, remain reserved about the coming 12 months. A chaque jour suffit sa peine.

I introduce mum and sis to Pastor Mike and other members of the Fresh Wine Ministries family after the service.

Later, I'll assume most of the cooking duties, having begun my preparations the day before. Mum and sis make very encouraging noises about my culinary efforts; a simple but apparently effective menu of game, red meat pie, mixed potato mash, vegetables and home-made gravy. We gather around Disney+ to watch the first instalment of the Die Hard franchise, unfamiliar to us all. Sis and I find it raucously entertaining, even if we’re sceptical about its gun-toting, patriotic, rugged-individualist messaging. I come down firmly on the side of the debate that this Bruce Willis vehicle can be classified as a Christmas movie.

It’s the last full day of our cross-Channel festive break.

I accompany mum and sis to Gare du Midi station the following afternoon, savouring the last few moments before we go our separate ways. Amongst the long queue for the Eurostar, I see a familiar face, Chibugo. She once interviewed me for a job for which I was eventually unsuccessful, although received positive feedback. By some twist of fate, we’ve run into each other on a number of random occasions since. 

Chibugo is also seeing her sister back off to London that afternoon. I find this encounter somewhat providential. We keep each other company after our family members disappear through the security checks. It takes some of the sting out of an emotional goodbye.

It’s not until that evening that I’ll feel mum and sis’ absence.  I return from Zumba that night to a dark and empty flat once again. I can hardly bring myself to switch on my fairy lights once my relatives have left. I dismantle the decorations before Twelfth Night. I’ll wake up disorientated in the early hours, on the way to the lavatory, remembering mum and sis are no longer camped out in my living room.

 The loneliness does not tarry.  The next day it’s back to the demoralising job hunt. That week, I apply for a role that seems like such a step backward, I feel sullied going through with it. To prevent cabin fever - and to take advantage of the dry mild weather – I fulfil a personal goal of walking the entirety of la fameuse Chaussée de Wavre. This major thoroughfare traverses several of Brussels’ communes and has long piqued my curiosity. I take my time, making numerous stops en route. Having benefitted from being surrounded by loved ones for a few weeks, I am becoming re-accustomed to my own company. 

Elsewhere, I find respite in resuming my work-out regimen and shifts at the Red Cross. It’s good to be back and of service after weeks away. The RC is a lifesaver in more ways than one, if that's not too melodramatic.

Soundtrack: Best of...2020 Part 1 & 2, Best of...2021 Part 1 & 2, Best of...2022 Part 1 & 2

Une Belle Échappée Festive: Part I

5 min. read

Happy 2023, readers.

I write this on the other side of une belle parenthèse festive, spent on both sides of the Channel.

Christmas 2022 was always going to be a homecoming of sorts. For various reasons, it will be the first Yuletide I spend in Blighty since I relocated to mainland Europe, over five years ago. It will also be the first time sis would be leaving Japan in well over three years, for COVID-related reasons, naturally. Japan's travel restrictions have been notoriously stringent, particularly for non-nationals. 

Our reunion trip is therefore months in the making. It has been agreed that mum and sis would join me  in Belgium after we all first converge in the UK to celebrate Christmas Day in mum’s new place. For me, her relocation is one of the few significant positive events of 2022. It’s the sole thing that would convince me to cross the Channel during the peak festive period; otherwise too hectic and travel too pricey.

Sis touches down almost a week before I’m due to arrive. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. I have been anxious that sis would be stranded en route. Perhaps apprehended by some officious personnel at Narita airport, owing to an obscure and unfulfilled administrative requirement connected to the pandemic. Fortunately, there are no such hitches. 

I make the outbound journey by the very wallet-friendly overnight coach. (Not Flixbus this time. I’m not a masochist.) Nonetheless, despite having switched coach provider, the journey is not entirely smooth. In advance of departure, I receive lots of confusing messages from the company about timetable changes. When the bus does eventually arrive, it departs roughly five hours later than the advertised time. There are only six of us travelling in total. The rucksack of a fellow longsuffering passenger mysteriously disappears. At Calais, we are delayed further when the British authorities detain an elderly gentleman amongst our party. His only luggage is a very large plastic shopping bag. His appearance is so dishevelled, I initially assume he’s one of the rough-sleepers who find shelter in and around Gare du Midi.

Mishaps notwithstanding, we somehow make it to London only a couple of hours later than scheduled.

I have the whole day ahead of me to enjoy quality time with mum and sis. We’ve worked out that this is the first Christmas all three of us have spent together since 2015. 

Sis and I natter away for several hours, in spite of my good intentions to shower immediately on arrival. Ahead of the visit, I anticipate being withdrawn and moody, weighed down by the preceding year. Yet, simply being around my closest family, I automatically feel lighter and am able (largely) to suspend worry. It helps that I have not overloaded my Christmas programme. I have a few choice meet-ups on my itinerary – including a sweet reunion with sis and a couple of our mutual friends. The rest is dedicated to family.

Christmas morning is spent at the one hour special service at my London church, conveniently walking distance from mum’s new home.

Sis announces that she’ll be in charge of the festive menu. True to her word, I’m regularly shooed away from the kitchen. My mum’s brother pops round on Christmas day itself, taking a premium rate cab for his efforts. It’s the turn of her younger sister and her son - my cousin, Israel – to visit on Boxing Day. I confess to some anxiety about spending Christmas with extended family. The holidays are infamous for the strain they can put on relations; all that pressure to be cheery and carefree. Thank God, this is as relaxing a break for which I could hope. Sis has the brilliant brainwave of playing contemporary parlour games whilst we graze on indulgent festive treats and leftovers. Much fun and hilarity ensues. I am especially fond of Head’s Up. Mum is astonished by the gaiety – not to mention competitiveness – of her eldest daughter.

I return to Brussels the following evening, ahead of mum and sis’ visit the next day. It'll be the first time baby girl is visiting me in my new-ish home. She coos admiringly at my flat.

Initially scheduled to spend a week in Belgium, alas, sis and mum are forced to shorten their trip when sis realises she’s made a mistake with her return date to Japan. We jettison plans to visit the famous Christmas market in Lille as well as a day trip to the French capital to reconnect with Paris-based acquaintances. 

The weather is not on our side for much of the stay but it doesn’t faze sis. She adores the leisurely stroll through the Winter Wonders (Les Plaisirs d’Hiver) festival and Christmas market in Brussels’ city centre. She says the light rain lends a romantic air to it all; the festive lights reflecting off the glistening streets. It provides many a great photo opp.

Soundtrack: Best of...2020 Part 1 & 2, Best of...2021 Part 1 & 2

Festive Limbo

 8 min. read

As the year draws to a close and I anticipate the luminous transformation of Brussels, I detect a disheartening trend. In an apparent bid to adapt to punishing energy costs, many of the city’s communes -or boroughs/districts - have minimised the decorative festive cheer. Where there are Christmas lights, they are not lit on a daily basis. Some neighbourhoods have delayed installation, reduced or dispensed with decorations altogether. I’m shocked and disappointed to see the Avenue Toison D’Or, near Louise – previously one of my preferred spots in Brussels for a Christmas stroll – is still dim after dark in early December. 

It’s not all in my head. 

Apart from central Brussels – where the Christmas market is concentrated – and sporadic illumination elsewhere, local authorities are making a conscious decision to save on electricity. It’s unsurprising but nonetheless a little depressing. I can’t be the only one who derives a morale boost from such simple pleasures. 

It also strikes me as ironic. I expected these austere measures during the first year of the pandemic. In 2020, I was pleasantly surprised that the City still made a concerted effort to brighten up an otherwise sedate Yuletide under lockdown. After travel restrictions put paid to plans for my mum to visit over Christmas, I found solace wandering the semi-deserted, albeit well-illuminated, streets of Brussels. Similarly, it was a silver lining in December 2021.

I'd argue we need even more reasons to be cheerful in 2022, despite the Pandemic not presently dominating our lives as much as it did. It’s been an arduous 12 months, amidst an already relentless start to a new decade. Energy crisis or not, this is not the time to dim the brightness. 

Light represents hope. God knows, we all could do with a lot of that right now.

As December nears, the weight of disappointment hits me with unexpected force. It’s not as if I am unaware of all that has gone before. It’s just the realisation of its duration sparks a fresh wave of grief for all that could have been. We hear of a bad mental health day or week. How about a Bad Mental Health year. Help me out here, people. I know I’m not the only one. I sense a collective existential heaviness, and I pray every day it will lift somehow.

Whilst I do my best to avail myself of good resources, continue counselling sessions and apply helpful practices, I have often found myself in a dysregulated and/or lachrymose state.

I have a low level dread as Christmas approaches. God willing, my holiday will be split between Belgium and the UK. Yet my budgetary limitations make me nervous. I am never one to spend outlandishly at this time of year but there still needs to be room to manoeuvre.

Brussels' Plaisirs d'Hiver

To not be consumed by the gloom, as usual I stay busy with as many meaningful activities as I can find. I carry on my shifts at the Red Cross. I attend training sessions to become a volunteer for an excellent organisation that supports women and trans-people in the sex trade, providing safe havens for those desiring to leave it. I join a brilliant, season-appropriate webinar about life under occupation in modern Bethlehem, and the long and rich history of Christian Palestinians. 

Clothilde, Agnès and I attempt to meet again for another sing-along. Unfortunately, Clothilde’s hectic schedule makes this impossible in the short-term. 

In the meantime another of Agnès acquaintances, Andrea, is keen to join the fun. 

Alas, it really isn’t the same without Clothilde. Her sunny disposition is missed, as are her notable musical gifts. Andrea gives us a warm welcome at her family home, and I steal a cuddle from her adorable young daughters. It’s nevertheless an underwhelming experience. Andrea doesn’t have much of a voice and poor musical instincts. Bref, it feels more like work than fun. When Agnès seeks to recreate that particular set-up, I politely decline. I’d rather we meet in our original trio, even if that proves sporadic for now.

Meanwhile, I am still debating whether to join the Gospel choir where all three of us first convened. I sit in on yet another rehearsal, thinking if I catch the chorale on a different day with a slightly different constitution, I might be more convinced. I am not. Membership is not free either. Even if it were, I still wouldn’t be that enthused. The group lacks the soulfulness associated with the genre and message. They are a Gospel outfit in name but an average-sounding chamber choir in execution. Not that I have much to choose from. There are so few options for this sort of thing in Brussels.

I need to face it. In the absence of a decision, a decision has been made. I feel bad. The choir director is kind and easygoing. The ambiance is friendly and the members welcoming...

...In any case it’s there, on my radar, if the urge to sing in a communal context is compelling enough for me to set aside my reservations.

Speaking of the Gospel, I endeavour to stay connected to my spiritual family in Belgium; in particular the midweek house gatherings. One evening when we’re due to meet at Karin’s, I’m in an especially foul mood; as dark as the cold December night. I am feeling atypically unsociable. I am running late to dine with the family before other guests arrive. Karin says the kids are looking forward to seeing me. I too miss them but fear I don’t have the emotional energy to hide my misery. 

When I arrive at the family home in Schaerbeek, the streets are in a state of happy chaos. Residents of Moroccan extraction shout ecstatically, toot their car horns and set off fireworks. I'm guessing it's to commemorate another successful World Cup match. I've not otherwise paid attention to the international tournament. 

The reaction this time is more wholesome compared to the riots that erupted after Morocco’s victory over Belgium a few weeks prior. I do admire the way Belgo-Moroccans so readily show allegiance to their roots. The few times in my youth that I was caught up in World Cup fever, and prioritised support for African teams over that of the national England team, it was treated as some sort of betrayal. One week later, Morocco's unsuccessful showdown with former colonisers, France will end the dream of an African World Cup victory on this occasion.

(Le Soir)

For now, the mayhem is prolonged. The incessant noise prevents Karin’s oldest, Amos, from falling asleep. At least I am able to wish the little ones goodnight whilst they’re being tucked in by their dad, Felix.

The group bible study is postponed yet again. Too few members are available or are running late, according to Karin. Felix is preoccupied with another World Cup game. 

I have no regrets, however, about surmounting my grouchiness to spend some time with Karin and anybody else who drops by. 

On the way home, a hop and a skip from my front door, a young savage spits on me when I don’t allow him to force his way through the metro turnstile behind me. For days, I self-remonstrate for not having made a speedier getaway.

That weekend, on a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon, the church house group reunite to hand out meals and some festive cheer to rough sleepers and refugees. The sense of teamwork and goodwill abound, if I must say so myself. Out and about doing the distribution at Gare du Nord, I notice a couple of regulars from the Red Cross. Whilst there’s the odd wariness amongst some we approach, the lunches and hot drinks are largely well-received.

Sundays are proving tough on the old emotions. The harder these last months have been, the more difficult I find it to attend main services at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It requires a mental and emotional energy that can be taxing at the best of times. Two Sundays in a row are especially rough. My heart is heavy from relational disappointments, to which I am especially sensitive these days. 

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the few good friends that I’ve found out here. I wouldn’t exchange them for the world. Yet, try as I might, I can’t ignore a relational deficit elsewhere. My modest friendship circle can only provide so much.

I make tentative steps towards befriending an impressive young woman from FWM called Albertine. She's gentle, cultured, well-informed and a dead-ringer for a young Lisa Bonet. Girl-crush time. 

We make plans for a musical outing after church one Sunday. She ghosts me, without so much of a word or an apology.

 Thankfully, my friend Em comes through that evening as planned. We make our way to another free concert at Jazz Station. 

Even whilst appreciating the band, it’s an effort for me to hold it together. My longstanding fears of abandon have been realised too frequently of late. Em can relate. She routinely shares about her disenchantment over some friendship or romance gone wrong. We both have a tendency to go all in too prematurely, and are learning to hold back for the sake of self-preservation. 

That evening, I hope to sing some of the blues away during the post-show jam session. A Jazzy interpretation of my seasonal favourite, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, would be my first choice. Failing that, a rendition of Donny Hathaway’s This Christmas. Unfortunately, the young cats on duty have too limited a repertoire – or are too unwilling to think outside the box - to comply. Em and I don’t hang around for too long.

The next week, I’m spinning out over some up-in-the-air arrangements to attend a River Jazz Festival gig with Jens. I plan to go with or without him. It’s just frustrating as heck getting a straight answer from him. I don’t know Jens well enough to discern if this is a pattern. I suspect he's also not in the best psycho-emotional state but with only scant communication, I cannot be sure. 

I repeat: I’m still tender. I acknowledge I need to be gracious but again, to muster the energy... 

I want to feel safe in any budding friendship, in order to build trust. Evasiveness and/or poor organisation rattles me. 

Jens drops out last minute, citing ice on the road. I see his text just before the curtain call. I’m not buying it.

I throw myself into the energetic set to defuse my irritation. 

After the show, I take a leisurely walk around the surrounding area – famous for the European institutions. Fortunately, this neighbourhood has not lost its festive vigour. 

The next day I’m still worked up over Jens’ no-show. 

I leave agitated voice messages for sis, explaining my disgruntlement. She’s sympathetic on one hand. Yet she warns that in my current state of mind, I could blow a mere slight completely out of proportion. It has also occurred to me that my perspective is distorted.

That Sunday, after another emotional church service, I walk around Parc Woluwe to calm my nerves. I have my good friend Brenda’s birthday celebrations to attend that afternoon. I must expunge all the killjoy out of me first.

I alternate between listening to my trusty Christmas mix, singing Gospel tunes and weeping. Pale blue skies and watery winter sunshine overlook the vestiges of an autumnal scene. It’s a necessary and cathartic exercise. I’m robust enough to attend Brenda’s low key bash wearing a smile. A cosy environment, classy decorations, a simple but delicious spread and - of course - la chaleur humaine await.

Soundtrack: MLDE by Marxist Love Disco Ensemble, Personal Christmas Mix, California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet.

I'm signing off here for 2022. Wishing you all a peaceful and light-filled Christmas/Festive season.