Return to Strasbourg

 

In late July, Belgium celebrates it’s National Holiday. The customary pomp and ceremony of the military parades naturally holds no appeal for me. The only significance is an extra day off. With plans to visit the UK shelved until further notice (again) and no intention to stay put, I plan a very short and, I’m hoping, sweet visit to my former stomping ground in Alsace. My annual leave allowance at the time is pitiable. I ration what I have to one extra day just before La Fête Nationale Belge. I figure that if I take the overnight coach to France and the train back, I’ll have one whole day and a half in Strasbourg.

With such a limited window, I have to be ruthless with my time. I make a shortlist of 'definites' and 'standby’s'. The selection criteria is based on the individual’s reliability, how regularly they’ve been in contact since my departure (or if the effort tends to be only one-sided) and whether they’ll still be around at this point in summer. 

 Of course my restaurateur chum, Gael is a must. Constantin insists I look him up whenever I'm in town. I’ve made a point to meet with a few of my former choir members, although hardly anyone from my former French church makes the list. That’s how the die falls, based on the process of elimination.

 Aware of past offers to lodge with friends, I nevertheless avoid this option. I want to be able to shower at all times and come and go without feeling like a nuisance. I research some decent and economical hotel stays. There’s no shortage but alas, none of them are willing to accommodate my 6am arrival and check-in. In the end I default to AirBnB and reserve a small rooftop studio near Observatoire with promising reviews. It’s cheapness allows me to reserve two nights. I will only need one but at least this way I can check in whenever, more or less.

Once travel and accommodation is sorted, I start to notify the Strasbourg posse. A couple are unavailable straight off the bat. Early holiday plans. Looking at the cup half-full, it will leave more space in the schedule to see others. My plans begin to take more optimistic form as other contacts respond positively.

A couple of days before my departure, Flixbus sends an email that makes me nervous. There’s talk of PCR tests being a pre-requisite, even for those resident in the EU. It’s not clear whether this is independent of vaccine certificates. Mine arrives promptly less than a week before my Strasbourg trip. I create virtual and physical duplicates, just in case.

The French government website is also ambiguous about what is required. I go into the office especially to print a passenger affidavit confirming I  am not knowingly carrying the virus. Whilst at my desk, my old French tutor Henri rings to catch up. He concurs that the rules are contradictory.

I arrive at the coach station that evening three-quarters of an hour early. I’m not taking any chances. I’ve tried to make my peace with possibly being turned away if I don’t have a PCR test. There hasn’t been time to arrange one. My heart nonetheless leaps into my throat when I see an aggressive notice asserting once again “No test, no travel”.

I start to ask around. The first passenger I approach is little comfort. Nonetheless, a few others claim they’ve been traversing Europe without so much as being asked to show a vaccine certificate, let alone a negative PCR. 

When the bus does arrive, I have all my COVID-related paperwork, recently obtained Belgian ID card and my passport at the ready. In the end, all the driver cares about is my ticket. I hang around to see if I can be of assistance to two fellow passengers, both of whom were left stranded by a coach that never turned up. 

I translate for one distressed Frenchwoman. She has a baby waiting for her in Strasbourg. The other is an Anglophone from Cameroon. The driver doesn’t care for their plight, even in English. I ask how much a replacement ticket would be. He ignores my question, indicating sullenly that my seat is on the upper deck. I’m relieved to later see both women boarding the bus. The Cameroonian sits behind me. In the end, they have had to pay for an error that wasn’t their fault and it’s not cheap. My interlocutor covered the cost of the other, a complete stranger. She couldn’t bear to see her upset.

I had a dream I’d spend a lot of money on this trip, she muses.

Don’t worry, I reassure, your kindness will eventually come full circle.

I fall into typically fitful, upright slumber. I’m so tired that I don’t stir in time to say farewell to the Cameroonian Coach Angel when she descends at Luxembourg.

I arrive in Strasbourg at half-past 5am, as scheduled. Believing it to be the last stop, it takes a few minutes to realise I need to hop off before the bus moves on.

I’ve arranged with the minder of the AirBnB lodgings to check-in early. He makes the exception without quibbling at first. He’s a lot less facilitating offline. I text him when I arrive at the building. It seems more discreet at that hour than a phone call. Instead, he grumbles it’s less practical. He also complains when I take the stairs instead of the lift. As he lets me into the property, he makes a point of how gracious he’s being so early in the morning. Inside, the digs are more basic than I thought. I knew they’d be modest but I didn’t expect it to be so dusty or for there to be a solitary sink in the kitchenette. That’s where teeth and after-toilet-handwashing would also be done. Thank God, I have no plans to cook. It reminds me of the bad-old-days of my Strasbourg flat search.

I make this observation to the minder.

I don’t know why people expect the Hilton at only 30 euros a night, he retorts.

I mumble my acquiescence for the sake of peace although I’m inclined to disagree. The 4+ star average rating and dozens of glowing reviews make no sense in this context, even if it is on the cheap. I’ve stayed in much better, still on a budget.

In any case, I can bear it for one night. I shower, take a nap to prepare for the day ahead and join in some communal online prayers before heading out for my first appointment. I’ve been anxious about some previously enthused acquaintances who have recently gone quiet. I take it to heart, as I am wont to do. A member of the prayer group, Joy, endeavours to soothe my anxieties. It doesn’t mean people don’t care. It’s just some, like herself, prefer to operate on a last-minute basis. What would make someone like me feel on edge, is far less stressful for others.

I have little to worry about. Most of the posse confirm, albeit last minute. Only one has to cancel owing to poor health. During the day, I zigzag from one eating establishment to another whilst organising multiple meet-ups at a time. I save my stomach for the evening, sticking to cool healthy-ish beverages and the odd indulgent ice-drink.

 Almost everyone is glowing from the July heatwave – more pronounced in Strasbourg than Brussels. A couple of my Caucasian female friends have gone blonde. 

One, Yvonne, is a former colleague from the security team at The Human Rights Organisation. She’s had a rough couple of years and was off the grid for a short while. She suffered a bad fall at work that still affects her joints. And yet, she’s made an effort to spend time with me; paying for my Oreo milkshake and treating me to a gift bag. I decide to save it for my looming birthday. 

A number of my acquaintances have found love since we last see each other in the flesh.

After emerging from a difficult season Beatrice, a fellow alumna from the High Rock Gospel Singers, is radiant with a new beau, slimmer frame and a calmer season at work. A couple of months older than me, she assures that her 40s are treating her well. I am particularly intrigued by the story of how she begun a romance with a neighbour, long after they’d first met. All organic. No need for dodgy dating sites. 

Everything has its time, she counsels.

With my experiences in Brussels leaving me particularly disillusioned with the male species, I need that burst of hope. 

She's sympathetic about my earlier difficulties settling in.

It couldn’t have been a harder time to move countries, she commiserates.

In the evening I head to Gael’s restaurant/culture hub in Krutenau. I’ve arranged to meet Constantin there for drinks. I am pleased to find I’ll get two portions of eye candy that evening, when he’s joined by his gorgeous big bro, Stefano. Even if they didn’t say a word, I could stare at these siblings all evening and the next day. It's as if by being in the same space, they collectively reinforce each other's beauty. I do worry that I am becoming shallower with age, in direct proportion to some of my recent male acquaintances being more handsome. My attraction nevertheless remains fairly innocent, detached and devoid of any intention to act on it.

It’s the first time Stefano and I have seen each other since our initial encounter. The fraternal resemblance is more striking than I recall, except that they’ve swapped hairstyles. It’s now Constantin who wears his hear close-cropped whilst Stefano has let his dark curls run free. 

Conversing with and observing the brothers, I’m reminded of the personality contrast I observed when we first met. Constantin and his sleeve tattoos. Stefano's arms as smooth and clear as a baby's. Stefano seems sage and calm. Constantin is hyperactive with a thousand thoughts a minute. I can relate to having so many ideas to process. Constantin can be at once extremely facetious and complimentary. He jokingly blows kisses in my direction during our interactions.

The brothers share a vaccine scepticism, a subject I’m not willing to revisit in detail after mine and Constantin’s previous debate. 

I accuse him of being a player. As the conversation takes a philosophical turn, it occurs that looks could be deceiving. It's Stefano who flitters from relationship to relationship. Constantin claims he’s a sensitive scoundrel à la Tupac. After flirting with his father's lax Islam, he now identifies as Muslim. He shares some of his poems and reprimands me for not being on social media so he can more easily send me sunset images and the like. 

He asks me the meaning of my forename. I gladly explain and he shows great admiration.

(c) Olivier Galleano

In between our lively chatter, Gael and staff take our orders. I fill in the main man himself as much as time allows. He shows me pictures of his younger sister’s wedding the previous weekend. The weather was fine and COVID restrictions loosened enough for the couple to invite a respectable number of guests.

The dishy brothers leave as we’re joined by another HRGS alumna, Aurélie shortly followed by Kiasi, the choir’s erstwhile director. Always on the provocative side, I find his stereotypically French scepticism especially controversial tonight (similar to Constantin- around vaccines, and even COVID itself). It’s hard to move past incredulity to counter such views, not least in a second language. He's disappointed to learn I have had my shots. I do my best to make the case for those worst affected and the risks of long-COVID before trying to divert the conversation elsewhere. 

Kiasi takes that opportunity to clear the air with Aurélie around some hearsay about him, of which she’s said to be the source. It’s not a brief conversation. If I’d known relations were tense, I would’ve arranged to meet them on separate occasions. I am aware that any interjections from me could stoke the tension. I thus keep them even-handed and to a minimum. Afterwards, the frank discussion seems to have had the desired effect. Both are relieved. The topic turns to my time in Brussels so far. I am used to giving the potted version by now. A part of me is tired of rehearsing it. Another side wishes I had the time and inclination to go into more details.

We start to disperse under crepuscule skies. I bid farewell to Gael and the rest of the Jabiru family. Aurélie walks me to my AirBnB, living only a stone’s throw away. I’m buoyed from a day full of goodwill and affection. There’s one more rendez-vous the following day before I have to catch my train, with Patrice from my old church.

 I feel little connection or nostalgia for Strasbourg itself, for all its aesthetic charm. It's too small-town for my tastes. It's beginning to feel like another lifetime, although in reality my departure was only a year ago. 

However, this trip is a brief yet welcome reminder of the meaningful bonds I did manage to forge in Alsace. I am touched and honoured. It took a while to find people with whom I could have a history but it did happen. As life begins to resume in Brussels and my circles gradually widen, I think of my Strasbourg breakthrough in the latter part of my sojourn. By God’s grace, I am building different but equally meaningful history this side of the Franco-Belgian border.

Music Festivals, Milestones and Mixed-Emotions…

25 June marks a full year since I arrived in Belgium. A week later I will celebrate my first anniversary at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO). As I approach these milestones, my feelings are mixed.

The experience so far has been coloured by the ripple effects of a global health crisis. Similarly to my time in Strasbourg (although for different reasons) it seems that the first 12 or so months have been trial and error, relationally. Slowly but surely, my friendship options start to widen. Yet memories of the disappointment and needless unkindness of some past acquaintances are still fresh. Wounds reopen when said acquaintances unexpectedly reappear; their sole purpose being to cause emotional mischief. Still, I persevere.

After some time, I also make my peace with no travel to the UK in either direction for the immediate future. Given the proliferation of the Delta variant across the Channel, the Belgian authorities instate a travel ban to and from Blighty; the only European country amongst a 27-strong blacklist.

Summer appears to be a write-off in that regard.

Thank God, I’m no longer as starved of regular human interaction as I have been. Over June I avail myself of numerous cultural activities – from musical festivals to book launches. Cultured Brussels gradually stirs to life, if still subdued under pandemic conditions.

The doors of church re-open mid-June. Under state orders, pre-registration is at first mandatory for attendance. Like a concert or club event. I sign up for every service as long as it remains a requirement. For some members, it’s too soon to return to indoor fellowship. Meanwhile, the church is taking its precautions. Seating is spaced out and there are no more than two chairs in close proximity.

This will only be my second Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries. I don’t yet have a true gauge for the core congregants. I probably won’t until post-pandemic. There’s a good showing nonetheless that Sunday. Pastor Mike is beaming even more than usual. For the next few Sundays he’ll gush about how reinvigorating it is to be in a room full of people again. Seconded.

We take Holy Communion that first service. This sacrament demands rigorous soul searching. I reflect on areas where I struggle to maintain a heart of forgiveness. I spot Gerry Rose seated not far from me. Some resentment surges for this church ‘brother’ who, at the start of Belgium’s second lockdown, unceremoniously ceased communication because I was only interested in friendship. Ibid disappointment and unkindness. 

In this context, what should be mere slights have taken on greater significance. And yet, I don’t want bitterness to have the upper hand. Jesus Himself mandates that any beef between the church family is resolved pronto. I know I’ll need to confront Gerry about his ghosting but it’s not yet the right time or place (even if I wanted to talk, he always vanishes after service). I offer these complicated feelings to God in prayer.

Post service, drinks and snacks are served in the courtyard. There I reconnect with Brenda and others with whom, in spite of prior restrictions, I’ve managed to forge ties over the months. 

New pal, Karin and I miss each other but will reunite the following weekend for the first day of a music festival. As in France, La Fête de la Musique is celebrated in Belgium on 21 June; the summer Solstice. Brussels makes a long weekend of it. There are plenty of free events of all musical styles on offer. Before I know it, I have a show to look forward to it each evening.

I reserve tickets for me and Karin one Friday night. An end-of-term concert is on the bill. I anticipate quaint and amateurish performances by mature students studying music part-time in the evenings. Instead it’s a sophisticated affair, with a raspy-voiced young contralto, performing a carefully curated setlist of jazz, blues and pop interpretations on the theme of addiction. She’s joined by her tutor on keys, whose soulful sensibilities come out in full force when she switches to the Rhodes. The band size varies according to the song. Sometimes it’s just drums and keys. On other occasions she’s also joined by bass, lead guitar, soprano sax or flute.

The whole classy affair takes place in the open air, on the grounds of the Arts College where she studied. It’s a heatwave week, with storms forecast if yet to materialise. The evening skies are still clear blue. Only the occasional (welcome) strong gust suggests more ominous weather ahead. We’re spared the rains for a few more days.

Later that evening Karin opens up about being the only Christian in her family; how following the Good Book has often put her at odds with her once-Hippy parents. Add to the mix her family’s dishonourable reaction to her marrying an African and complex theological questions around sexuality and gender identity that are close to home, she’s dealing with a lot. She does so with humility and an innate generosity of spirit.

Karin informs me of a church barbecue the next day that has escaped my no-social-media radar. I plan to pass by en route to meet Simon-Pierre for another live event in my vicinity.

It really is supposed to be just a cameo appearance at the BBQ. Famous last words. The food and company is so enticing, it’s hard to leave. When I arrive, mistress-of-ceremonies Monica is introducing an icebreaker. We have to divide into groups and identify the most prolific polyglot.

For the main meal, I’m sat on a table with Pastor Mike. I joke about us showing up to the same event wearing similar trilby-style straw hats.

Next time, let’s call ahead to better coordinate. He teases.

My concert awaits. I leave somewhat reluctantly. Too many interesting places to be at once. A good problem to have; especially emerging from lockdown.

I have researched directions to the gig on the dedicated Brussels’ city travel site. They seem simple enough. Hmm. A little over-simplified. The venue is in the middle of nowhere and there’s hardly anyone around to ask directions in this sleepy residential area. I call Simon-Pierre in a panic.

T’inquiète, the show has only just started.

Nevertheless, he leaves momentarily when it’s clear I’m hopelessly lost. By the time we locate each other a short distance from the show, the set is nearly over.

Simon-Pierre mentions a Maroon 5 vibe. He's not far off. The singer does vocally resemble Adam Levine with an even more feminine texture. On approaching and hearing his bell-clear mezzo, I expect to find a woman on stage.

Amidst the audience, I spot the elongated frame of a gentleman I happened to see at a lunchtime demo I attended the day before. He’s playing the role of hype-man. Tall, lanky and with curious stilts-like proportions, I admire his confidence. If he’s going to stand out regardless, he’ll do so on his own terms.

My unintentional lateness makes it hard to relax, more so when following a couple more songs the show is all over. Afterwards Simon-Pierre and I walk to the nearest Metro station in Stockel; a hop and a skip from home. He knows the route well.

Whilst recounting the frustrating experiences I’ve had with hetero men in Brussels, it’s an ideal opportunity to stress that my intentions are purely platonic. SP remains respectful in our interactions but I’m leaving nothing to chance.

We head to a local bar. Euro 2020 is in full swing. I'm my usual 'bah humbug' self about sports. Neither does a competition of its size seem very COVID-secure.

Apart from this concern, I’d forget there was an international football tournament going on; save for the occasional roars emanating from the bars in my neighbourhood. Or stepping out the evening Belgium is playing (and eventually loses to) Italy and every other man is wearing the national team strip; as if I've stumbled into a parallel Red, Gold and Black universe.

Simon-Pierre has a soft spot for one of the Eastern-European teams out of loyalty to his half-Slavic children. It’s through him I learn of the bitter football rivalry between France and Belgium (more rancour coming from the latter, apparently). I explain why, on anti-imperialist grounds, I don’t support the English team, to SP’s surprise.

The conversation becomes distinctly more melancholy when he broaches past loves and regrets. His whole life, he claims, he’s been accused of being emotionally unavailable. The death of a close acquaintance a couple of years ago forced a reappraisal, to which the pandemic and lockdowns have also contributed. The tap has been opened.

That’s the only way I can rationalise his effusive response to my follow-up text, thanking him for his company and emphasising (again) the strictly amicable aspect of our relations. Although he’s not the first to be complimentary, I’m taken aback by his declarations of affection and glowing praise. It makes me uncomfortable. I try to respond with tact. I acknowledge that it takes a level of vulnerability to be so direct; especially for someone who is ostensibly not very emotive. It would also be ungrateful to complain about being regularly affirmed. However, my experience with Brussels’ men so far suggests this affection eventually becomes a stumbling block to our future interactions. I enjoy my cultural excursions and discussions with Simon-Pierre. I hope it doesn’t go the way of the others but it’s wise to steel myself in case it does.

The following day, I share my apprehensions with Lorenzo; the one (non-hetero) man so far with whom I have managed to maintain healthy relations with in Belgium.

It’s the last of my weekend concerts and we almost don’t make it. Some confusion over me thinking Lorenzo has booked tickets on both our behalf. When he offers to abandon the gig for my sakes, I resist. My tenacity pays off and I secure an extra ticket after a bit of waiting. It’s the first time I’ve attended an indoor live gig in goodness knows how long. It’s an odd sensation, not least because of the obligation to keep our blasted masks on.

The Francophone electro-pop/rock band are fond of singing -and swearing- in English. Lorenzo is having a good time. As usual, I’m distracted by the rabbit-hole of my thoughts. I off-load post-show as we walk and talk in the still ridiculously bright, if increasingly chilly, late evening. Lorenzo listens with patience and sympathy, advising me to prioritise my female friendships for now; and maybe other gay men.

An opportunity to hang out with just the girls comes sooner than expected later that week. My manager Ama invites our small, all-female team to her farewell lunch. She leaves a couple of days shy of my one year anniversary in Brussels. Another occasion for mixed-feelings.

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.