Busy Days in Sunny June

 

It's back to reality, the day after the Brussels Jazz weekend festival. Another Monday, another morning bombshell. A few weeks earlier I received an email from my joint Labour International “BAME” officer that she was leaving the party, just after I’d come on board. This time, it’s the news of another significant departure. Amongst various emails, one jumps out from the Gen. Sec of TTUO. The subject line bids adieu to my manager, Ama. A few emails on, she’s sent a private message to the team, apologising that we found out this way. 

She’ll later explain that she planned to make the announcement the previous week but life interrupted. She’s not only leaving the organisation but Belgium itself, having landed a choice role elsewhere on the Continent. My own reaction to the news is rather self-centred and emotional, which comes as a surprise even to myself. Of course, this is great news for her. It’s obvious someone with Ama’s credentials would be snapped up once back on the job market. It's better that she's moving on. She seemed increasingly jaded by the TTUO. A change is as good as a rest, they say. Yet from a personal perspective, in the immediate term, it symbolises another upheaval in a season full of them. 

After a rocky start, it felt like Ama and I had finally started to find our rhythm. She hasn’t been the best manager I’ve had but far from the worst. Our personalities diverged even if our politics overlapped.  Highly competent as she is, there are aspects of her management style I won’t miss. Nevertheless, she was also the person who gave me this amazing opportunity. She could be relied upon to make an executive decision when needed. It has been reassuring to that extent. When I discover that Ama will log off for the final time, one week shy of my first anniversary in the job, this adds to the bitter-sweet flavour.

Beyond work, my circle continues to widen gradually. Karin, A young Swiss-German woman from church, also relatively new to Belgium, has been trying very hard to connect since we first (e-)met. My preconceptions make me initially sluggish to respond. She’s married to Felix, a Nigerian, ‘straight off the boat’. Or so I assume. It looks like a stereotypical immigration marriage from afar. Life humbles me, however. With my (so far) mixed record of friend-making in Brussels, I can’t afford to turn up my nose at someone making an earnest effort. A mother of three small children, it takes a few weeks for us to settle on a meet-up date. We eventually agree to drinks at Place Jourdan, one night of torrential summer rain. 

En route to our meeting point, a young man has a seizure after sipping some cola at Joséphine-Charlotte metro. Some passengers coldly step over him. The rest of us look on, stunned or incredulous. Others have phones at the ready. Thankfully, a first aider steps in. The young man slowly stirs to life whilst waiting for the paramedics. Despite only just emerging from his fit, he’s extremely reluctant to wait for the authorities to come. He makes several fatigued attempts to rise and leave. 

lesoir.be

I descend the train and call Karin whilst two security guards  are approaching. A voice over the tannoy announces the suspension of the service. I wait on the concourse above. In a lightning flash, I glimpse the young man trying to escape the paramedics and security. He clambers over the escalator railing, struggling in vain to go in the opposite direction of travel. Security nonchalantly walks up the parallel steps and waits for him at the top. I am slack-jawed at the scene-playing out, wondering if the youngster’s aversion to men in uniform is immigration related. By this time, my train has already departed. 

Karin meets me on the platform. I recount all the drama en route to Schuman station. Braving the showers to eventually find a spot outside a Beer specialists (not my thing), she starts to tell me the epic story of hers and Felix’ relationship. My dismissive first appraisal couldn’t have been further off. These two are in it for life. They met as volunteers in Zambia in the mid-2000s. Their love has traversed oceans and continents; spanned academic pursuits and career trajectories. 

At each turn, Felix’ Nigerian passport has thrown up red tape. The authorities across various states are as suspicious of their union as I was at first glance. All through these trials, she’s desperately tried to make sure their children have as much of a cultural balance as possible. Karin is blessed with all too rare character traits. Self-awareness and a readiness to learn. She grew up in a mono-cultural Swiss canton. If understanding structural racism has only come of late, she’s doing all she can to catch up. And not in that clichéd, condescending, over-zealous manner. Her sincerity allows me to be honest about my own presumptions on her part. We enjoy our time together so much we plan to meet up on successive weekends.

The day after this auspicious rendez-vous, I have another with a former colleague. Stephanos left the TTUO to work at the European Commission in the spring. We’ve stayed in touch over the months. He was one of the few colleagues I had a chance to meet before everything shut down again last autumn. He’s promised me a tour of St. Gilles and beyond. After a busy day at the Red Cross, I meet him at Hôtel des Monnaies for our city tour. 

During our walk-and-talk, Stephanos let's slip that he has a long-term girlfriend and a baby on the way. I was not aware of either. Although my intentions have never been romantic, I don't like the idea of his heavily pregnant significant other, alone on her own on a Saturday night. Stephanos assures me she's perfectly fine.

By now a veteran of Brussels, he has an astounding knowledge of the city. Probably better than many locals.

Neighbourhood of Marolles
(courtesy of Visit Brussels)

I like reading up on history, he claims.

You should do this for a living, I suggest.

We spend the hours strolling from St. Gilles to Central Brussels via Marolles, Stephanos pointing out landmarks and relics along the way. Some are familiar, others are not, to my shame. Clearly, I don’t look up enough on my own rambles. It’s my first time (at least of which I remember) visiting the infamous Manneken Pis and his (vulgar) sisterly equivalent.

Stephanos also has useful knowledge of the City’s culinary map; pointing out reputable Middle-Eastern, traditional Belgian and, of course, Greek establishments. I make a mental note for a time when, God willing, I can finally welcome overseas guests.

Soundtrack: Be Right Back by Jorja Smith

Here Comes the Sun

 

As May makes way for June, we see a shift in consistently wet and/or overcast weather. Storms are replaced by clear blue skies. I can dust off the summer clothes and put away (most) of my winter boots. It’s as if the climate itself is cautiously optimistic about the Belgian governments plans for further loosening of restrictions. Cafés and restaurants re-open in full. More indoors activities are permitted and more people allowed to meet inside. We can gather in bigger groups outdoors. It’s great news for places of worship. I attend a couple of church picnics within days of each other. The sun doesn't set until around 10pm. Parc Cinquantenaire is still alive with activity at this time.

There’s also upbeat news on the travel front. There is to be more or less free travel around the EU for those who are fully vaccinated and carry the coveted certificate. There are various other conditions to be met for those who do not. At least from July, Belgium will forego it’s quarantine and testing regimen even for those arriving from red zones, as long as they are fully vaccinated. My second dose, God willing, is on the horizon. 

Alas, that doesn’t ease the criteria for travel to and from the UK. It’s on Belgium’s red list. On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is classed as amber with (still) onerous testing and quarantine demands. Thus far, the UK doesn’t appear to factor in vaccine compliance (though that might soon change). I’d have to quarantine longer than I planned to visit. Until I’m fully vaccinated, I’d also have to quarantine on the Belgium end. Living alone, that’s too heavy a cost on my mental well-being. Mum’s plans for an early summer visit are indefinitely suspended, considering all the current exigencies. Ditto for another friend, wanting to schedule a late summer visit. It’s not just a blow to morale. More like a pistol-whip. It’s been over a year and a half since any contact with Blighty-based loved ones.

This mutual rigidity is as much political as it’s for health reasons. Admittedly, the proliferation of new strains in the UK is perturbing but the post-Brexit reality also plays a role.

On the relational front it’s still a work in progress. I’m balancing self-sufficiency with embryonic, albeit promising, efforts to build community. The recently-acquainted Lorenzo is great company. He’s mellow, we overlap on cultural interests and are never stuck for conversation.

 I can now attend more offline events organised by Internations. Brussels has adapted some of its early summer festivals to the current reality, such as its end of May Jazz weekend. Dubbed ‘The Balcony Edition’, musicians play on the verandas and rooftops of various administrative buildings and historical sites around the city. Mercifully, the weather is fine enough for it to all work. It’s designed so that audiences can do a tour of shows; ideally by bike, if not, alternative modes of transport. I have my colleague Demetria to thank for keeping me in the loop. We agree to meet up for a show on the last day of the festival.

The Saturday evening prior, I have made similar, vaguer plans with another recent-acquaintance, Simon-Pierre. We confirm at the last minute. 

On the plus side, it gives me a chance to attend one of the free gigs on my own. So determined am I to arrive on time, I skip out on a local show to catch an Etterbeek concert. For all the good it does. With bus diversions and numerous demos (of which I was unaware), I miss half the set. Not a huge deal. The alto sax solos are good but I don’t care for the accompanying contemporary dance choreo. It’s a little too oddball.

En route to meet Simon-Pierre at Ixelles, I encounter similar traffic-related mayhem. The bus driver eventually gives up at Luxembourg station, from where I have to hot-step it by foot. I’ve kept SP abreast of the transport issues. 

 On arrival, Fernand Coq Square is rammed. Excitable children and restless revellers push past us, momentarily distracting us from the agreeable trio playing Jazz standards. Afterwards, Simon-Pierre treats me to a virgin Mojito on a terrace in the once again vibrant St. Boniface area. Whilst waiting for our orders (the waitress/bar manager initially forgets mine), the conversation ironically (or maybe not) turns to clichés about black-owned establishments. 

SP seems more respectful and mature than the vast majority of heteros I’ve met so far in Brussels. I can’t resist an uncharitable vent about our mutual acquaintance and my former frenemy. Simon-Pierre has the most realistic estimation of his friend I’ve come across. Neither apologist nor traitorously critical.

I’m still disenchanted by my experiences with the male population here. What should have been mere emotional flesh wounds have turned septic. There hasn’t been much improvement of late, either. Unhelpful blasts from the past crawl out of the woodwork only to play more unwarranted mind games. 

Another character starts contacting me on Internations. We have never met offline but have some mutual contacts on the platform. He takes it far too personally that I’m not on social media nor own a smartphone. We nonetheless make plans to meet up for a drink. 

Distant alarm bells grow a little louder when he let’s slip he’s been looking me up online. He then complains that I don’t respond enthusiastically enough to his standard-issue text messages. I reply that they don't require a dissertation. He follows up by asking if I use a translation app to write my messages in French. (His written French is pretty dreadful, not uncommon in these parts). Once that initial indignation is past, I accept this is a textbook example of controlling and potentially abusive behaviour. If he doesn’t have the presence of mind to keep his stalker-instincts in check enough to make a decent first impression, it can only deteriorate. I dismiss whatever curiosity I have about his offline physique and persona. We know what they say about curious cats.

Thankfully, Simon-Pierre hasn’t displayed any such unhinged tendencies. It’s still early days. I endeavour to find an equilibrium between the benefit of the doubt and remaining circumspect.

At least my experiences with the female demographic has been by and large more auspicious. The following Sunday Demetria, myself and a couple of other female colleagues head to part two of the Jazz weekend. Demetria has brought her own transport. After the first set she proposes we pop along to another. 

The rest of us are grateful for the lift. The next venue is in a residential area, a good distance from any public transport. 

It's well worth the digression for what turns out to be my favourite balcony concert of the lot. A trio play Jazz guitar and bass on the first story of a cultural centre, each musician facing out of one of the large French windows. It feels very chic and continental, I remark to one of my colleagues. The sort of thing you fantasise about grown-up life as a kid.

Soundtrack: Fidelity Radio Club by S. Fidelity. 

Autonomous

 

As summer inches forward, so creeps up the one year anniversary of my arrival in Belgium. In light of all that has happened in between, my feelings are mixed at best. May finds me crying often. My forehead aches from continual unconscious scowling and I feel as if I've aged in weeks.

I’m profoundly grateful to have a job, let alone meaningful employment, at a time like this. However bitter much of the relocation experience has been thus far, ultimately I don’t regret the move.

Nevertheless, I am not inured to the widely-felt exhaustion engendered by the pandemic. Despite the restrictions slowly easing, the isolation doesn’t let up. With the rules around travel to the UK remaining strict, the two hour train ride to St Pancras still feels a long way off. This only intensifies the alienation. 

My closest relationships are far away. Whereas, pre-pandemic, I would hop across the Channel to recalibrate, no such relief has been forthcoming for a solid year and a half. And counting. Compulsory teleworking has turned my flat, what should by my haven, into a semi-fortress. The bloom of spring, which should comfort, often feels like a mockery. Surrounded by trees and living in a flimsy building, I’ve seen more critters indoors than I would care to. It exacerbates the neurosis.

I’m sensitive at the best of times. These days I seem to take everything to heart. If someone doesn’t follow up on loose plans or is slow to respond to a text, it feels like a personal affront. My embryonic relationships are suddenly all thrown into doubt. It’s not as if it’s completely unjustified. Building community is always a case of trial and error but it feels as it has been an inordinately bad run. Too many of the interactions I’ve had so far were dead in the water. Too many people not acting out of good faith. Too many non-committal. Not enough opportunities to replace the negative with the positive because of lockdown restrictions.

Then again, I tell myself, it could be worse. Which of course is true. Not that it always helps. COVID19 somehow has managed to set the already low cosmic bar of a fallen world even lower.

One Saturday in mid-May, I attend a solidarity rally for the Palestinian people in central Brussels following the recent escalation of violence. This is one week before the tentative ceasefire following fighting that has left a dozen or so Israelis dead and 20 times as many Palestinians.

To attend the demo, I’ve taken time out of a week of various ‘singleness’ conferences, each of them reminding me why I spent years giving such events a wide berth. Speakers for whom being single is a mere abstract, given that they married in their early 20s. Others reinforcing essentialist views on gender; going so far as to rehearse now discredited theories of ‘male’ and ‘female’ brains. Pass. 

Showing my support for the Palestinian cause is a far better use of my time.

An estimated three thousand people show up to the demo over the course of a few hours. That’s a lot for a small country like Belgium. Jew and Gentile stand side by side. The multi-cultural, multi-faith crowd chant slogans against the Israeli occupation. Green, White, Red and Black flags are draped over monuments. Nimble young men clamber up statues and balconies, setting off canisters of multicoloured gas. The police stand impassively on the sidelines, as if they’re casual observers.

For a variety of reasons, the following week is emotionally intense. It’s another bouncing-off-the-walls season. I default to my survival mechanism. Agency. I hate feeling powerless. I do whatever is within my control to ameliorate my situation. Often that means a lot more autonomy. Auntie Carol flakes yet again on plans to visit Marché du Midi? I go it alone. She has a lot on her mind. Julius and Habiba have all but evaporated from the scene? Tant pis. As the sage American spoken word artist/rapper Propaganda says - a dictum that I often call to mind - ...Friends are like wars. You win some, you lose some and some were never yours.

Besides, nature abhors a vacuum. That can go either way. More recently, new acquaintance Lorenzo has stepped into the void and my heart is glad for it. He knows a thing or two about feeling disconnected in a big city. After many years in Brussels, several erstwhile friends have moved on with their own projects of which he’s mostly not a part.

To my pleasant surprise, he’s proactive about staying in touch. Having celebrated his birthday earlier in the month, I promise him a drink. We hang out two rainy weekends in a row around Avenue Louise and Flagey. This is the healthiest sustained interaction I’ve had with a man since moving to Brussels. It’s surely no coincidence that he’s not straight. What an unspeakable relief to know that friendship is all that is expected. Not feeling entitled to more or trying to manipulate his way to achieve it. I don’t know what the long term holds. For now, I’m appreciating the sense of ease I have around Lorenzo. It’s something of a novelty around these parts.

The weekend of the Pentecost holiday, I attend a brunch organised by Internations in my neck of the woods. Auntie Carol has also signed up, as has Cynthia, a fellow Londoner whom I’ve met recently on the site. We strike up an online conversation after she compliments my profile pic. However, plans to meet offline prove trickier. She has a young child. The brunch gives us an occasion to properly break the ice.

First impressions are promising.  We both grew up in South-East London. Her brother and I went to the same school, albeit several years apart. We both are partial to conversational tangents before finding our thread several digressions down the line.

I assumed from Cynthia’s profile that she was new to Brussels. Au contraire, she’s lived in the Belgian capital for a decade. She relocated to be with her Flemish husband. Now the ink is drying on the divorce, she’s beginning life afresh. She’s resilient but it’s obvious that the last few years have taken their relational toil. 

After an auspicious start, I hope her schedule will permit us to reconnect soon.

That evening, I pass by my colleague Steve and his wife Sylvia’s capacious Schaerbeek home for the first time. With the forecast rather ominous – as it has been all month-they don’t fancy another park ramble in the rain. We (mainly Sylvia and I) talk work, literature, COVID policies and online Glastonbury recommendations. Their youngest, Zoe, is also a Haim fan. That deserves a high-five.

I love their family. Theirs are one of the few genuine connections I’ve made since my arrival. It’s only in consideration to the demands of their domestic life that I don’t hang out with them more frequently.

The following day is Pentecost Monday. It’s another wet and windy morning. As has been the case for too long, my efforts to have an uninterrupted lie-in are scuppered by my own body clock. It’s as if despite the fatigue, my body is in constant fight-or-flight mode. I join the Morphē Arts collective prayer group as usual and for a little bit longer, not having to worry about work. I mutter prayers of gratitude under my breath for this initiative. I can’t imagine the last year without their spiritual and moral support.

I’m nevertheless in a weepy state. I leave self-pitying voice notes for my sis. I’m especially tender after an act of kindness to some Belgian acquaintances (of which I was uncertain in any case) seems to have been predictably rebuffed. Not that I should have expected anything at all.

I have to re-apply my make-up a number of times that morning before leaving my flat. I am heading for Gare du Midi.

I have had the foresight to book a day trip to Namur, in defiance of the bad weather. Better to brave the showers for a change of scenery than spend a familiarly miserable day on my own in Brussels. (When I tell Lorenzo of my solo plans, he’s less than enthused. He finds it too melancholy).

The night before my trip, I do some quick research. Namur is an ideal day trip destination. Everywhere of importance is accessible by foot.

Namur Citadel

I make it to Midi with time to spare. My train awaits. My make up is still running when I board. I feel old and notice, not for the first time, I’ve lost some of my spark. Damn COVID.

Having only given myself the afternoon to explore (rather be busy than bored), I focus my attention on the Citadel. A good thing too. Being a public holiday, the town is otherwise dead. I ask a woman for directions. She’s hesitant but her instructions turn out to be on the nose.

A decent visit to the Citadel is said to take up at least half a day. I also hope to squeeze in a tour of the fortress’ underground passages but can't find where to book. Never mind. Enough time is spent on the picturesque hike up the steep walls, especially with plenty of stops to enjoy the view. The rain has made way for sunny intervals. I watch as ski-lifts fly overhead. Down below are attractive views of the town and its rivers. I already feel better for having had an excuse to leave the flat. It's not a wasted day. The site is dotted with Franco-Flemish accounts of the fortress’ construction and conversion from military to touristic use. There are more signs of life near the top with restaurants and the Four Seasons Garden.

I decide to treat myself to a late lunch at the well-named Panorama restaurant, with its belle vista. The biggest disappointment of the day comes in the form of the over-priced snack I order, assuming it’s a proper meal. I’m typically too tight-fisted to treat myself on a day trip. It’s irritating that it’s such a let down the one time I do. I buy a chocolate waffle to cheer myself up and leisurely make my way back to the town centre. I stumble across a short cut along the Citadel’s walls. I have enough time to pop in for a meditative moment in a couple of the historic churches. Alas, St Jean’s Église is under construction. A boys’ choir and orchestra perform in the inviting Saint-Loup church. A few of us catch snatches of the show behind the glass doors. So much for contemplative silence. 

Oh well. At least there’s no worry of being late for my return train.

Soundtrack: S. Fidelity -  Fidelity Radio Club

Shoots of Green?

 

As I write this, I confess to being in an odd head space. I should feel more upbeat. There are reasons for [very cautious] optimism. 

In early May, Belgium allows cafés and restaurants to open their terraces for the first time since the autumn.

That murky Saturday morning, there’s a flurry of activity in my neighbourhood. Establishments that have long been closed stir to life.

What a day for it, I consider ruefully. I doubt the Bruxellois would want to sit out in the rain, no matter how long it’s been.

I don’t have time to hang around to find out. I’m en route to the Red Cross centre in Tours & Taxi. Now I am in their database, I don’t have to wait every three weeks to do a shift with my church’s outreach group. Rather than sitting around feeling sorry for myself on a Saturday, I join the international team of volunteers to serve hot drinks, or supervise the showers or hand out masks at the centre's entrance. Thanks to my more frequent visits, I’m becoming familiar to regular volunteers like facetious Micah, whom I met on my first ever shift. The recognition is comforting.

The day centre is a godsend for those who benefit from the practical and emotional support it provides. Yet, it’s in constant threat of closure. May marks one more month of reprieve, although the regulars warn that it’s only a matter of time. There’s not the steady flow of funds to keep such an initiative open. Everyone agrees it’ll be a disaster if - or when - it closes its doors. Hundreds of men and (less so) women will be turned back out on to the streets with nowhere to go. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have mental health issues. The community and belonging they find at the centre offers some relief. Not always. Amongst others, I think of young Nahum, with his incoherent broken-English monologues, rictus grin and frenetic side glances. These give some insight into the horrors he’s experienced journeying to Europe from East Africa, via the only unsafe channels available to him.

Later that afternoon, on the way back from my shift, I discover how very wrong my initial predictions were about restaurant clientele. As I pass through the city centre, I observe terraces full to bursting. Failing that, revellers compete for space in and around the landmark St Catherine church. It’s both heartening to see the streets teeming with life but also a bit worrying, given the unpredictability of this virus. Some think merely being outside and the ever-so-slightly warmer weather make large gatherings  safe. This time last year a similar optimism prevailed. It proved naive when cities across the world started entering second and third lockdowns in the final quarter of 2020.

That doesn’t stop me attending an outdoors Internations restaurant event that night in Ixelles. It’s been in the works for a couple of months. At one stage it’s not even clear it’ll go ahead. To avoid cancellation, the venue is eventually changed to a favourite haunt of the organiser, Rob. It’ll be the first time I’ll be seeing my former frenemy since I cut ties. The abrupt end to the steady stream of attention he provided takes some getting used to. I do miss having someone so keen to discuss Diaspora history, politics and faith. Nevertheless, with time I begin to truly value the peace and quiet.

Although I’m usually content to attend these socials on my own, I try to convince Julius to be my plus one. He responds with some grammatically-mangled refusal, that I at first assume is a confirmation. I’ve noticed a sharp drop in interest on his end. He seems to have taken notes from the same playbook that the other Brussels-based wastemen appear to live by. Perhaps he’s distracted by a new potential conquest. Or it’s finally dawned on him that he won’t talk me around to his way of thinking. Tant mieux. I can’t pretend my motives for the restaurant invitation are completely honourable.

At the dinner, Rob greets me with more enthusiasm than I anticipate. I attempt to be civil but distant. I make faltering conversation with the guests who have already arrived. 

Apparently, I’m not as insouciant as I like to believe. Later, when I give the lowdown to sis via voice note, she says I speak about Rob as if he were an ex. It sounds like an accusation, a depressing one at that, even if it isn't meant this way.

The evening is off to a slow start. It’s scheduled to start at 7pm but we eat closer to 9pm. When auntie Carol shows up, I don’t bother to hide my relief, smiling ear-to-ear. Over the course of the evening I engage in cultured conversation with one of Rob’s many old chums, Simon-Pierre. Unlike Rob’s other Day One, Habiba, he’s not averse to the Afropean concept. He claims to rarely have the opportunity to discuss such matters. Most of his circle either aren’t interested or find the notion baffling. Once we’ve devoured the Senegalese barbecue, somewhat rationed considering the number of guests, we head out to the ‘official’ terraced area.

St Boniface is buzzing. A waiter drops some plates at another establishment. Punters start cheering and clapping as if they’re about to catch a show.

A couple of police officers walk past the crowds waving cordially.

Rob, the ever-considerate host, makes an unceremoniously early exit. Something about waking up at the break of dawn. On a Sunday? Best not to ask why.

Brussels veterans, Simon-Pierre and Aurélien (whom, like Habiba, I first met at the sunset picnic in March) reminisce about how cheap and accessible the city once was. Just as Carol and I start talking about making our exit, a load of police show up in multiple vehicles, as if they’re about to break up a riot. They gingerly walk amongst the tables, dispersing the crowd. We’re confused. The curfew has been lifted. The following week, during a team meeting, my manager Ama points out that the Fuzz are merely enforcing the newly-imposed 10pm restaurant closure time.

The following day, I meet up with Constantin, a blast from my Strasbourg past. He’s in town with his sister and some of her pals (of which he’s clearly not a fan). 

I find out about his Belgian excursion quite by chance. He’s been on my mind. I send him a text. He announces his plans.

How long did you intend to keep that to yourself, then?

It’ll be the first time I’m meeting an acquaintance offline that I knew before I relocated to Brussels. It's reassuring. Whatever the initial attraction there might or might not have been between us, Constantin has never demanded anything beyond the platonic. It is a refreshing change from the constant utilitarianism I’ve sadly become accustomed to in Brussels.

Handsome as ever, I note Constantin's new hair cut. I only recognise him as he approaches at our meeting spot in Flagey. It’s an atypically warm and sunny day sandwiched between grisly weather. I have my sandals out. Even with just the terraces open, the neighbourhood takes on the erstwhile liveliness I could only glimpse before the second lockdown. A few days later, I’ll hear of an illicit gathering of hundreds in the area just the night before.

Constantin and I stroll towards one of several ponds in the vicinity. He’s not that impressed with Brussels. Although still only in his 20s, he already favours idyllic country life. He wants to live somewhere rural with a town and the sea within short-ish driving distance.

Half-Tunisian Constantin has decided to observe Ramadan for the first time this year. He’s not religious, he claims, just a seeker. Not for the first time, our conversation turns to metaphysical matters by way of a debate over immunisation. Trainee nurse Constantin insists on not being vaccinated against COVID nor self-isolating if required. We take many existential digressions. He suddenly becomes irritable, confessing a few moments later that it has something to do with the hunger. He calms down. The discussion moves on. He thinks I’m very bright. I hear this a lot from the male population, particularly in the European context. Rather than being completely flattered, I suspect they underestimate other women’s intelligence. Or worse still, the women they know feel pressured to curb their intellect.

Does that mean you don’t know clever women? I probe.

Could be. Constantin replies, to my surprise. He makes a joke about my (future) husband having a tough job. It betrays the reasoning behind the ostensible compliment. Too many men have a hard time dealing with a woman who speaks her mind.

BrusselsPictures.com

Constantin asserts nonetheless that he’s not that demanding when it comes to the females. 

I’ll eat anything.

Cheeky sod.

On my request, he introduces me to his sister before we part ways. He’s interested in dining at the Senegalese restaurant I visited the previous night. He’d like me to join him again the same evening. I’m happy to know I haven’t overstayed my welcome. I do have work the next day, however and can’t follow his fast-breaking hours. Still, I’m touched at his willingness to spend time with me before he returns to Strasbourg.

Back to my opening statements about a melancholy state of mind. 

Things have started to slowly open up. Surely, I should be upbeat. And yet, when the Ascension public holiday rolls around that week and I realise I’ll be spending another day in my own company, an intense wave of loneliness once again engulfs me. To my embarrassment, I start to wish one of the wastemen would at least extend a perfunctory invitation.

Always preferring to be proactive, I contact Brenda from church, half-expecting her to already have plans. On the contrary, she takes up my suggestion for a scenic ramble around Bois des Cambres with enthusiasm.

Soundtrack: Lous & The Yakuza -Gore, Sevena - Be Somebody. 90s R&B - Various Artists.

Relational Spring Cleaning

Spring is slowly but surely taking over Belgium. You wouldn’t necessarily tell from the four-seasons-in one-month weather patterns. In early April, fierce blizzards come and go, although the snow never commits as it did in February. The extended daylight and abundance of green that would normally gladden my heart, now make me nervous. 'Tis the season the critters re-emerge. This neurosis over eight-legged creepers, has often felt like an externalisation of others I have confronted since relocating to Brussels.

Belgium inches closer to easing some COVID-restrictions. The ban on non-essential travel lifts mid-April. Friends ask about my immediate travel plans, in particular to the UK. I am not making any trips before June. I want to see how the situation evolves with required testing and quarantines. 

I nevertheless take one significant step towards facilitating the process when I can travel. Thanks to my voluntary work at the Red Cross via my church, I am eligible for residual doses of the vaccine; provided I am available at short notice. I keep my phone close at hand so I don’t miss any of the alerts. It’s happened once before. 

One Wednesday, late afternoon, I am summonsed to a vaccination centre just down the road. I am offered the Astra-Zeneca jab. Before handing over my consent form, I ask for another rundown of the risks. The youthful doctor mentions flu-like symptoms and reassures me that the most extreme side effects happen to only a handful. My second appointment is booked on the spot for the summer. After the jab, I’m told to wait half an hour to make sure I don’t have any immediate adverse affects. Whilst moving my shoulders to the waiting room music, I text friends excitedly about how I’ve managed to jump the relatively sluggish Belgian vaccine queue. The feverish symptoms of which I've been warned, hit hard the next day and are over within 24 hours.

Alas, the rules around compulsory teleworking are yet to be relaxed. There are days when I’m busy enough to all but forget the isolation. On others, a wave of loneliness seems to engulf me. That’s the nature of the beast, I suppose. For a change of scene, I steal away to the hotel where I passed my first couple of months in Brussels last year, with the full blessing of the proprietor.

Thank God for spring flowers. My favourite aspect of the season. There are disappointingly few cherry blossoms in my neighbourhood and in the city as a whole. It’s on the bus through the Schaerbeek area, on the way to the hotel, that I truly glimpse the pink splendour Brussels has to offer.

As part of my daily walks, I’m widening my selection of destinations. I have the Woluwe Park virtually on my door-step. At this early stage of the season change, it’s not yet in its intimidating forest state. I also discover-or rediscover- the grounds around the controversial Museum of Central Africa in Tervuren. The last time I was in this neck of the woods, a decade ago on my first ever Belgian excursion, both the Museum and surrounding estate were out of bounds. It was closed for an upgrade, after complaints that the cultural site white-washed Belgium's horrendous colonial past. Rumour has it, it’s not much improved.

Still, this doesn’t prevent me from enjoying an early evening stroll around the vicinity one clement Saturday, working my way through my Benny Sings catalogue. For all its reputation of dullness compared to some of its more glamourous European counterparts, Brussels has several lovely corners.

Relationally, it’s been an interesting few weeks. I meet up with Habiba; Rob’s Day One to whom I was introduced at March’s picnic. She warns that she'll be semi-incommunicado for Ramadan so I make the most of her company. She mentions that Rob knew we’d get along. You have a lot in common. He tells her cryptically. One lunchtime together and it becomes apparent why.

Things come to a head with the man himself. 

Dear patient readers, I won’t reproduce all the non-drama here. Suffice to say that after months of disrespect, ulterior motives and insincere apologies, I give up on any expectation that this will develop into a functional friendship. The last straw is the frequenting of my Internations profile by one of his side-chicks. I discover their connection purely by chance. I don’t know why the heck this woman is even aware of my existence. Naturally, Rob refuses to come clean.

It’s all far more trouble than its worth. Neither do I like the side of me it evinces. I haven't covered myself in glory this whole time. One evening, after several tense email exchanges I explain that I plan to part ways for the foreseeable future; save for bumping into each other at the odd Internations event. The online conversations spill into the next day. He employs all the usual Rob tactics to exculpate himself; denial, misdirection, gaslighting and when all else fails, bare faced untruths.

I don’t like cutting people off. It feels harsh and uncharitable, even when pushed. It’s always a measure of last resorts. But as a friend later quotes from the Good Book (although not being religious himself): I need to be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove. For too long, I have given Rob the benefit of the doubt; holding out the false hope that he would find it in himself to be decent as I've observed he can be with others. People are complex. And yet the more I’ve witnessed, the more I’m convinced the whole ‘deep down, he’s really a great guy’ defence from acquaintances, is just his finely-honed PR in effect. It never quite worked on me.

Oddly enough, around the same time, Rob’s South American friend texts me out of the blue. By that point in time, I no longer have his number. I ask for an identification. I hesitate over whether to respond, deciding finally it’ll be too mean-spirited after all this time not to do so. I’m nevertheless circumspect. Gauging from the manner in which this particular exchange unfolds, some of his bad habits die hard. He makes unspecified plans to catch up. I give an equally vague reply. 

Where one door closes, others could be opening.

Introducing Julius, another (younger) mulatto suitor that I’ve come across on my Belgian adventure. We first meet back around the Christmas period. He sidles up to me one evening on the platform of Arts-Loi metro, having expressed swivel-eyed admiration. We swap numbers, followed a few days later by an awkward phone conversation. When I describe my social-justice work at the TTUO and he mentions the illuminati, I'm left with the distinct impression we have little in common. He eventually begs off with what seems to be an everlasting toothache. Tant pis. Our interactions have been so fleeting, it barely warrants a mention on these pages.

Fast forward a few months. I’m participating in a nationwide solidarity strike for better wages in late March. Public transport is drastically-reduced. I’m walking back to my flat from Roodebeck station, when a young man approaches me on his bike with brazen familiarity. I don’t quite recognise him without his mask.

Julius, c’est toi ?

It’s fate he says, us running into each other once again this way. He insists he’s tried to reach out to me before, showing me his text history as proof. These messages never make it to my temperamental European phone. I’m sheepish. I don’t have his number any longer.

Whether or not it’s a strategy or something innate, Julius is a shameless romantic. A few minutes into our unexpected reunion, he wants to spirit me away to France for a couple of days. I don’t even clock the romantic overtone at first, more concerned with adhering to the still active non-essential travel ban.

I take his number once again. He texts shortly afterwards: You're magnificent. 

This is Julius’ way. He uses epithets like ‘beloved’, ‘sweetheart’ and once, the especially bold, ‘my lady’. He sends messages attempting to coax me to come out for a spontaneous walk or to be a plus one at a birthday lunch. He texts me links to obscure songs by otherwise well-known 90s R&B artists. Since the vast majority of our exchanges are Francophone, I have little opportunity to gauge his level of English. It seems respectable. Yet clearly something gets lost in translation when he sends songs with miserable lyrics that he presumes are endearing.  I point out their inappropriateness. Noticing a mild defensiveness, I acknowledge the well-intentioned gesture. It's a tricky balancing act; being affirming but not leading him on.

One mercilessly rainy Saturday afternoon, we take a trip through central Brussels by tram and foot. It almost doesn’t happen. He texts in the morning to cancel but then changes his mind. He later admits he doesn’t want me to think he's a flake. He gives la bise when he arrives. I can’t recall the last time someone tried to kiss both cheeks. There’s a whiff of nicotine. Later, when he starts a mild coughing fit and bends over to empty the contents of his throat (not impressive), I advise him to quit the fags. Surprised I picked it up, he assures me he’s only an occasional smoker. 

One less thing we have in common. 

But I’m not looking for a boyfriend.

To avoid any ambiguity, I tell him upfront that friendship is the objective. I put my celibacy out there too; to leave no room for equivocation. Julius is Chris Rock-style sceptical of platonic relations between the sexes. Rather incriminatingly, he claims one party is always biding their time. At best, it comes at great sacrifice, he rues. What if we are friends and develop feelings for each other? (My Anglophone male friends are never amused when I reference this part of the conversation). It usually doesn’t end well, is my response.

That doesn’t stop him from persevering. He stretches his arm around my shoulder, on the pretext of covering me with his umbrella (I have my own). From our discussions, I already glean he’s looking for a wife. 

I have no plans to fulfil that JD. I’m still very much on the simple (!) endeavour of establishing some kind of basic community here. I can’t lie, however. It’s an ego boost. I may be celibate but I'm still a red-blooded woman in my late 30s. Julius is younger. He has a very good bone structure (a light-skinned Patrice Lamumba type, with a SE Asian-ish twist). He's blessed with a great physique (if a little too short for my tastes). With all these things going for him, he’s probably used to getting his way. He routinely praises my looks. Eventually, I feel pressured to return the compliment, even if I strongly doubt he’s oblivious to it.

You’re not bad yourself.

Do you mean it, or are you just paying back the compliment?

...Men and their bloody insecurities...

Don’t read too much into it, Julius.

To his credit, he also values intelligence. During our rain-soaked ramble, he too proves to be more than just a pretty face. Our interests might diverge but he’s cultured in his own way. An architect by profession, he is clearly enthused by the topography of urban Belgium. He launches into impromptu history lessons, pointing out the intricacies of roof tops and window lattices. 

He's aspirational. Evidently, we have differing views on wealth accumulation. I don't take kindly to him complaining about a beggar woman, muttering something about a lack of work ethic.

Like most of the men I've met in Brussels, Julius speaks freely about his personal life. He casually mentions spending time in a children’s home, when his parents’ doomed marriage reached a particular nadir. This strikes me not only as sad but perturbing for the kid he was. I don’t know how to react. Julius is matter-of-fact about it; one might say even cheery.

I really didn’t mind. I was glad to escape the war zone.

People are complex. 

À suivre.

I have one more potentially positive connection in the pipeline, thanks to a long-time Italian friend currently based in southern Africa. She puts me in touch with Lorenzo, with whom she’s been closely acquainted since her teens. He's having a hard time maintaining meaningful connections in Brussels. He also happens not to be attracted to my gender. This makes for a change from all those sketchy heteros and their shenanigans. If Lorenzo and I do get on, there’ll be something poetic about an Italian gay man and West African straight chick becoming tight.

We agree to meet in his part of town in Northern Brussels. Lorenzo has sapphire blue eyes, dusty blond hair and altogether more Nordic traits than I anticipate (not that there is a uniform Italian look). We have an easy rapport. Another refreshing aspect. 

He seems a sweet but burdened soul.

Something of a Brussels veteran, changes in life cycles and various other challenges have left him socially adrift. I’m cautious not to overwhelm him with my enthusiasm. I nevertheless invite him to accompany me on my Sunday ritual the following sunny but brisk weekend. After breezing through Place Jourdain market and Parc Leopold, we settle down to chat and eat pastries in Cinquantenaire. 

 À suivre.

Soundtrack: Benny Sings: Music; Groove Theory; Lous & The Yakuza: Gore.

Blackouts, Picnics and The Joy of Conversation

One morning in late March, I awake earlier than usual after a fitful sleep. I switch on my computer. No internet. Nothing untoward about that. Sometimes it takes a while to warm up. Then I notice that my plug extension hasn’t lit up. I try to turn on my bedside lamp. Rien.

I assume it’s a general blackout and go to check the lights on the communal corridor. All’s well on that front. I politely accost one of my neighbours later, who confirms he’s had no issues.

I brave a cold shower in the dark. It’s hours before the electricity company’s switchboard will be open or before any of my colleagues are fully awake. No internet means no work. Cafés, restaurants, library workstations, or anywhere else that might have wi-fi, are still off limits under current COVID-restrictions. It’s one of several downsides to compulsory teleworking during a pandemic. You can’t get anything done if there’s a hitch.

The timing is particularly bad. I am due to co-faciliate a two-day work shop on ILO Convention 190 with my colleagues. Thankfully, my main slot isn’t until day two.

After a few failed attempts to contact my manager Ama, and colleague Demetria, the latter eventually calls back. I’m reliant on her to inform the others, which she duly does.

I call the electricity company. The helpful customer service rep tries to talk me through a few preliminary measures, in hopes of resolving the issue without a technician. The problem is, I can’t locate the electricity metres. When I moved in, it took so long for the estate agent to find them himself, I switched off (excuse the pun) once he did. By the time I do stumble upon the metres, I’ve been passed on to a less patient rep, who makes a meal of me not being a native Francophone. An electrician is called out. It’ll be several hours before he passes by. In the meanwhile, I do what I can offline. I kill some time reading outdoors, to escape my flat. It’s a mild day.

When the technician arrives, the problem is depressingly simple to solve. Just the flick of a switch above my metre. It’s after midday when I manage to reconnect for work. The first day’s webinar is almost over.

Later, I’ll discover none of the lights are working in the bathroom and the washing machine won’t come on. Another electrician is called out the following day. Once again, the issue is resolved by the flick of a switch. At least now I know. Both times I offer the technicians a hot drink for their trouble.

The main thing is I’m back online in time for the second day’s workshop. Between International Women’s Day and various other gender-related global conferences, March has been hectic for my team. It has also been especially rewarding on the professional front. It’s nearly nine months since I’ve joined *TTUO's Equality department. I feel myself being stretched and challenged in the best possible way. In addition to my usual duties, I am approached to draft an article for a trade union journal. I am asked to make an intervention at an online conference on the Care Economy for one of France’s largest workers’ organisations. I co-write the TTUO’s official statement for the UN’s International Day Against Racial Discrimination. Ama confirms that my contract will be renewed for another six months, subject to my approval. Heck, yeah.

*The Trade Union Organisation

Setting aside the frustrations of remote working, I am well aware of how privileged I am. First, to have work when millions are facing economic precarity. Moreover, to have a job that is fulfilling and pertinent to the issues that matter to ordinary people. Thank you, Jesus.

Offline, things are slowly starting to pick up, if in fits and starts. Belgian authorities have tightened restrictions once again after a disturbing surge in infections. One must seize the opportunities that still remain.

The last weekend in March, I meet up once more for a jaunt around Parc Josephat with my colleague Steve, his wife Sylvia and their brood. We’ve bonded these past months over our shared experience relocating to Belgium during the pandemic as Brit nationals. I love their family. Sylvia, a writer by trade, is a particularly good raconteuse. Her anecdotes draw you in like campfire tales. I’m introduced to the couple’s mutual friend/former colleague, Miranda. When Steve returns home with the kids, the three of us while away the rest of the afternoon deep in conversation about British politics, office politics, the flux of expat life and loneliness in its various guises. It takes Miranda at least half an hour to leave from first saying goodbye. Sylvia and I are clearly invigorated by these exchanges. She sends me detailed emails in French about how things are going on her end. I commend both her and Steve on the leaps and bounds they’ve made linguistically in a mere few months.

The next day, an invitation from the Frenemy, Rob, appears in my inbox. It’s for a midweek sunset picnic at Parc Cinquantenaire. Supplies are to come from a Lebanese restaurant in the vicinity. The weather forecast for that week is optimistic. Still, I hesitate. I’ve purposely been keeping my distance of late. I've told Rob I’ll be incommunicado, although don’t specify how long. His regular stream of emails around shared interests continue and eventually slow to a trickle over the weeks; stopping altogether for a time.

I prevaricate over whether to accept the invitation. Or rather, if it’s inconsistent with taking a mental break from all his drama. On the other hand, he does know a lot of usually interesting people. I’m still trying to put roots down in Brussels. Plus, it’ll be another opportunity to have conversation with real people, in the real world during a gorgeous weather week. I also adore food from the MENA region. I can hardly say ‘no’.

It’s a select few of us who finally show up that balmy Wednesday evening. The ever-faithful Auntie Carol is on hand. That’s at least one person I know apart from the Frenemy. La fameuse BFF Naida, she with whom he’s more ‘comfortable’ going for walks, is also in attendance and co-hosting the event. I’m also introduced to his Day One, Habiba. They’ve known each other since their teens and share a similar Belgo-Central African mixed heritage. I liken it to a marriage and commend her for her patience. I’ll joke about it all evening. 

When the eclectic guestlist is complete-one begging off before we’ve even begun- we head to the Lebanese establishment. Rob and his bon vivant acquaintance, Aurélien, decide its perfectly fine for to jump the queue ahead of us ladies. Carol and I despair over his boorishness. Notwithstanding, Rob is on his best behaviour. He usually is when there are witnesses about. Can’t spoil that life-and-soul brand now, can we? I find out later from Habiba that he only has good things to say about me when I’m not around. It’s evidently during our 1-2-1 interactions that his surly-meets-horny Mr Hyde alter-ego manifests. I’m tense and conscious of it. When Rob compliments my writing skills out of the blue, I react with scepticism. Carol and Habiba are mildly perplexed. I apologise to Rob by text later that night. I just never know where I stand with this individual.

In the end, Rob and I hardly engage directly during the whole evening. Cinquantenaire is predictably packed. The food is delicious, albeit the restaurant messes up my order. I’m pleasantly enough distracted by Carol and Aurélien, who seems to be in a constant state of mild inebriation. Whilst there are no real friendship sparks with Naida, Habiba and I hit it off straight away. We debate the term Afropean (she’s not a fan) and mock Rob’s shamefully poor musical knowledge, whilst singing 90s R&B/Hip-Hop hits at full volume. Naida praises our voices.

Aurélien has brought his own supply of booze, including a decanter of Martini. He’s not fazed by warnings from other revellers of police patrolling the grounds, threatening hefty fines for the consumption of alcohol. My teetotal self doesn’t want to be guilty by association. 

We’re approached twice by the Old Bill. The first set are very accommodating, encouraging whatever is left to be drunk up before their superiors pass by. Another couple of officers show up after dusk. One of them, who looks as if he’s been gulping whatever he’s confiscated, points an accusing finger at my alcohol-free wine. I protest, brandishing the bottle’s ‘0%’ label. He staggers off mumbling.

As I approach Holy Weekend, I decide to slow things down with an off-the-grid Good Friday. I’m still online to access virtual church services and other edifying content. However, all phones are switched off and I ignore my email accounts. In the afternoon, I head to town for a quiet walk around Louise, listening to Commissioned. The one-day mini-retreat does me good, not least as, unlike during my Christmas holidays, I am also able to recover something of a healthier sleeping pattern. 

Easter Saturday, I meet up with Carla, a member of my Belgian church FWM. We have already e-met through various online activities. When I make an off the cuff comment during one meeting -that I’ve never encountered any of the attendees offline- she suggests a leisurely ramble. She shows me more angles of her neighbourhood in Flagey; a part of town of which I am already fond.

Easter Sunday is spent in the company of fellow Teutonic church sister, Brenda. As during her previous visit, she takes care of dessert whilst I focus on the lamb-heavy lunch. My experiment with a traditional Greek Easter soup starter (courtesy of the wonderful Demetria) is rewarded with Brenda’s hearty approval, as is the main. She’s at ease and the conversation flows. It feels like a cementing moment in our friendship. We enjoy the now extended daylight as much as possible before I accompany her to the tram stop. The night is young. There’s no work tomorrow. I take a prolonged stroll through the Woluwe district, listening to Tonéx’s Oakpark; another Easter tradition.

Soundtrack: In Case You Missed It...by Fred Hammond & Friends. Matters of the Heart by Commissioned, Oakpark 1 & 2 by Tonéx/B-Slade.