Expanding Horizons: Part 2

The first weekend of October, I am off to a retreat with my church, Fresh Wine Ministries, at a former monastery in the outskirts of Bruges.

I am apprehensive at first. The activity is organised by the Horizons team at FWM and aimed at ‘young adults’. The definition is already stretched to breaking point with a late 30s cut-off point. And I still fall outside that age bracket. I am finally convinced by my younger Germanic lovelies, Brenda and Karin, to come along. My arm doesn’t need much twisting.  It’ll be my first spiritual getaway in several years, even before the ‘Rona. Plus, this will be my first FWM retreat. I don’t intend to make a habit of sneaking into these youth spaces but with the pandemic, there have been precious few such opportunities lately.

It’s to be an intense three days of activity, with only one full day at the converted monastery. In the end we’ll be 50-odd 20 and 30-somethings (ahem), drawn from different church groups or none at all.

Somehow, Karin and I find ourselves preparing to host a Saturday afternoon workshop. We settle on the theme of making Christian worship spaces more inclusive.

On the evening of departure, Karin is also in charge of ferrying some of the group by train to Bruges. I’m tired and not especially chatty. Reminded it’s not very Christian to be grouchy, I rouse myself to make conversation with a fellow passenger. Amongst our group is a lanky and voluble Belgo-Rwandan, Joshua. He’s pleasant enough but seems inordinately enamoured with the sound of his own voice. Talkative is one thing. Wanting to be the centre of attention is another. 

I am often too transparent for my own good and not skilled at hiding my distaste.

At Bruges, we have the option of lifts to the monastery. I choose the smaller vehicle, hoping for a quiet ride with just Karin and the driver, Pawel. Before I can change my mind, Josh has slipped into the front seat. I roll my eyes at Karin. So much for a peaceful journey. A conversation about our countries of origin descends into the "Oppression Olympics". Newly-arrived from Poland, Pawel makes an unfortunate comparison between the Belgian atrocities in the Congo with the annexation of his country by the Germans. An awkward conversation with Karin present, and him being well-aware of her Teutonic connections. The interaction becomes more awkward still when Pawel’s bluntness and ESL converge into more insensitive comments, intended or otherwise.

Brenda awaits us at the castle. Everyone registered is obligated to take a rapid COVID-19 test, irrespective of vaccination status. Brenda oversees these self-test sessions like a pro. For some of us, myself included, this will be our first Coronavirus test of any kind. There are nervous jokes about the kit resembling a pregnancy test. Brenda will run the procedure a number of times over the next couple of days, as guests arrive in waves. Thankfully, it appears all are virus-free which allows for a level of freedom. Most significant of all, we don’t have to wear masks on the grounds.

The facilities are simple but more modern than expected. The central-heating is mercifully in working order and well-needed. The weather will be consistently wet and cold. The meals are cooked by volunteers. Some are more substantial than others. 

Brenda has used her coordinator privileges to arrange a room for just us two, for which I’m grateful. After an unsuccessful attempt to negotiate the top bunk, I cede it to my statuesque friend.

Following dinner the first night, there’s just about time for icebreakers. Brenda and main coordinator, Monica, do an admirable job of organising inventive games. Over the weekend, I’m pleased to meet a number of non-FWM members and those who are not regular churchgoers. We’re not just stuck in our Fresh Wine bubble (no pun intended). I'm also on the alert for those who look more mature than the rest. A bit of grey here, or laughter lines there. Alas, I turn out to be a good half a decade older than even those.

After the fun and games we retire, in theory, to our rooms. I catch a glimpse of senior Pastor Mike and give a hearty greeting. His wife and co-Pastor, Tasha, will arrive in the morning with the children.

The excitable voices of guests carry late into the night. I wait for some calm to take a midnight shower, to avoid having to jostle for the bathroom in the morning. I won’t know until later that I end up using the boys’ facilities. Fortunately, there are no unintended sitcom-style nude encounters.

The next morning I hear a melodious male voice singing with abandon. It takes a few moments to realise it’s Pastor Mike, doing a solo Praise & Worship session for the brief time he’ll have the space to himself.

After an excessively bread-based breakfast, we head to the main room for the morning activities. Karin and I are invited to announce our workshop. I fluff my lines but manage to work it into the routine with a self-deprecation that comes more easily than usual.

Later a skinny-jeans clad, barefoot Pastor Mike takes the floor. I'm glad to note he's not wearing product in his hair, letting his ethnically-ambiguous waves flow free. He leads us in more Holy Song and a moment of scriptural reflection. 

After the sermon, we break into our pre-assigned small groups for a time of intimate prayer. Katya, a self-effacing woman in her early/mid 30s, speaks frankly about navigating an extended season of singleness. She wants God to be enough but yearns for her own family. It’s a tension that I know all too well. When Jelena, our group leader, suggests I pray for Katya, it's already on my mind. I request that we have a moment alone.

As I move into a new decade, I’ve been reflecting even more on life's disappointments. I’m slowly beginning to appreciate how my own story and process allows me to be there for others. I'm finding comfort and joy in other types of relationships; different from- not inferior (maybe even superior) to romance. Friendships are taking on a new beauty and flavour. It might not have been so if everything had gone according to my plan. God doesn’t waste your pain, as my mother’s pastor is wont to say.

Katya wells up as we pray and share life stories. She’s so appreciative of my input that, at the end of the retreat, she presents me with a local delicacy.

The two of us are some of the last to arrive for lunch. I am sat next to a sweet South American chica. We affirm each other in an organic way. I tell her God has a sense of humour. This time last year, I spent in the company of somebody from the same corner of the world. At the time, I thought he was also sweet but it quickly turned sour. This positive exchange with his compatriot a year-to-the-day feels like cosmic consolation. Or rather a definitive full stop to a hurtful moment that seems both recent and distant.

That afternoon, Karin and I set up for our workshop. Once the tech is sorted, we wait. Potential participants turn out to just be lounging in the room before leaving to snooze, play games or take a walk in the rain. Others join and change their mind. Pastor Mike, squeezes my shoulder and wishes us all the best. Having grown up in Apartheid South Africa as a so-called Coloured, his participation would have been salient. (It turns out he isn't aware of the workshop's content).

In the end, five stay for the two-hour discussion, based around Sandra Van Opstal’s lovingly confrontational talk on Worship and Justice. Plans for breakout groups are shelved. Despite my intentions to leave it all up to Providence, I feel let down by the low turnout. 

Karin can relate but is more philosophical. 

The views of the group are as diverse as their backgrounds. Three hail from Eastern Europe, amongst them Pawel. His position relies on the ‘safety’ of Poland not being part of the colonial scramble. He claims to be colour-blind. There’s an unwise use of the word ‘civilised’. Karin tries to correct this misstep and make Pawel realise that as a Caucasian male, he enjoys privilege of which he’s not aware. I add, as tactfully as possible, that being "colour-blind" is not a virtue but a way of effacing difference and rendering whiteness as normative. Pawel is slightly defensive yet still in a posture to learn. He came for that purpose, he explains. Back home, there is so little engagement with these issues. He wouldn’t know where to start. He’s so far been reliant on online content.

Other attendees are challenged by some of Opstal’s observations as well as our own. Even those from racialised backgrounds have not really reflected on Western hegemony; still evident in churches that pride themselves on being multicultural. Diversity is not the same as inclusion, I point out.

The lively discussion continues around the snacks table, notably with Pawel and a dapper young gent with an inflated sense of himself, whose name I’m yet to memorise. I step away in time before this apparent contrarian can pursue some pointless controversy.

Before embarking on a long walk with Karin, I note that the Hip-Hop dance workshop is full, somewhat to my surprise. I thought inhibition would get the better of guests and they’d be more inclined towards stimulating discourse around a topical issue. Go figure.

Later that evening, Pastor Tasha and Mike submit themselves to a grilling by the guests. I’ve attended these ‘Ask Anything’ sessions before-albeit online-where questions are submitted anonymously. 

Normally, and predictably, these queries show a level of restraint. There are the usual theological conundra, often preoccupied with relationships (How do you know if he/she is the one?). This time however, the interrogation is far more exciting, if damn right impertinent. The pastors aren’t only queried about eschatology or dating but also their views on contraception, advice on getting out of abusive relationships and the use of kinky toys. Oh yes, and their preferred sex position.

I’m aghast. I can’t think of any context or anybody I’m so close to where that question would ever be appropriate. Except my future husband. If he exists.

Monica doesn’t flinch, reading out these cheeky probes as if it’s a shopping list. To Tasha and Mike’s credit, they’re far less scandalised than the rest of us. Perhaps they’re used to this level of curiosity. They maintain their sang-froid, are open and easy-going. It leaves a good impression. The culture of taboo should be minimised so that we can be authentic.

Afterwards, Pawel continues the candour. He opens up to me about the depression he suffered following the break-off of an engagement. Formerly agnostic, his interest in church and God began with the woman he’s currently dating. He believes now that it’s part of him, regardless of what becomes of the present relationship.

The evening events continue with a time of praise and prayers. Tired of the Coldplay-lite songs that dominate Western-style charismatic churches the world over, I retire to my room. The singing follows me. It does sound rapturous. I plan to make it downstairs for prayers but mismanage my time.

That night, guests stay up well into the wee-small hours, apparently playing raucous rounds of Uno and Jenga. I still hear the cheers as I nod off, long past 1am.

That already brings us to Sunday, the last day of the retreat. I skip another bread-based breakfast for some extra hours of kip. That morning, Pastor Natasha will share how she came to faith by recounting her troubled formative years in the Rainbow Nation. The daughter of co-dependent parents and one of a dozen siblings, she was passed from one relative to another. By the grace of God, she survived alcoholic step-parents, inter-continental moves, suicidal ideation and even, very briefly, rough-sleeping. She eventually worked in academia before becoming a full-time church minister. Tasha's unstable upbringing made her very intentional about her own life choices. Once again, by the grace of God, she's landed on her feet. It’s a well-rounded message, combining emotional and psychological factors with spiritual warfare.

Although my background was not as chaotic, there are elements of overlap in our stories. I’m drawn to Pastor Tasha’s testimonies of healing and forgiveness.

After her intervention, we divide into small groups again to pray for each other. Before lunch I grab the opportunity to speak to Natasha, one-to-one, albeit somewhat hurried.

Lunch is a light-hearted and cordial affair, with votes of thanks, the distribution of gifts and official farewells. 

An unexpectedly tense discussion with one of the song leaders, Mark, temporarily puts a dent in my good humour. 

Having perceived -rightly or wrongly – something of the exhibitionist in him, I have hitherto kept my distance. 

However, I’m feeling sufficiently upbeat after lunch to venture an introduction. I detect – and ignore – a needlessly sardonic tone to some of his responses. The pleasantries all but evaporate when the conversation takes on a political turn. A convinced centrist, Mark claims that even if the ecological and human cost of Capitalism is high, it’s still the best option in town. I counter that he’s speaking from a privileged Global North position, bearing in mind he’s a beneficiary of the status quo. He is defensive, claiming some taste of deprivation having been born in Burma. I point out that the experience of a European ex-pat would be very different from an impoverished Burmese.

Thanks for judging my life when you don't know me(!)

In any case, I add, he can’t afford to be so dismissive about Capitalism’s adverse affects on the environment. Even if he doesn’t consider it discredited by the substantial human cost (!), the Climate Crisis is an existential one.

I have been in this position many times, debating with a (usually, not always) cocky and/or overbearing white male. I stand my ground. Mark calms down abruptly, although I can’t read his intentions. The heated discourse is interrupted by chocolates passed round by the effete and endearing Claude; one of Mark's bandmates.

Whether from remorse or otherwise, Mark will make a point to be amicable whenever our paths cross in the near future.

Meanwhile, I rush to offload about this frustrating exchange with an ever-sympathetic, Karin.

It’s home time. Guests hurry around finalising their travel plans. I’ve bagged a free ride with Claude and a Dutch lass, recently moved to Belgium.

It’s a very pleasant journey back to Brussels, with the conversation flowing freely and unforced.

Once Claude drops us off at the Metro, I make my way to Mérode for some Lebanese takeaway. There I bump into a number of fellow travellers, including Mark, Jelena and chatty Josh. I’ve thawed towards him during the course of the weekend. He’s eager to probe an off-hand comment I made back at the castle about being a "tech-vegan".

Much to his credit, Josh asks intelligent questions and listens as well as he shares. 

I apologise for being stand-offish at the start. Josh has not been oblivious to it.  For him, it's a friendly challenge; a chance to converse. For me, a lesson in humility.

Soundtrack: Melodi by Kit Sebastian

Expanding Horizons: Part 1

 

I’ve been approaching autumn with a level of apprehension. Although not expecting another soul-sapping lockdown order from the Belgian authorities, I do anticipate some light restrictions. Brussels has had a high-level of vaccine hesitancy and the infection rates have been worrying. Whilst other regions are enjoying greater freedoms, the Brussels’ authorities are applying more caution. Yet not as much as I’d envisage. Nightclubs re-open in early October. Proof of vaccination isn't required until the middle of the month, even if some venues use their discretion to enforce this in advance.

Cynthia invites me to a literary event late September, situated in thriving Place Flagey. Renzo, the third element of our cultured trio, has another engagement so it’s just us girls. The reading takes place during a national strike. Earlier that day I attend my first solidarity demo in Belgium, alongside members of my union and other comrades. I’m surprised by the turnout. I expect a small gathering of the faithful not the hundreds, maybe thousands, that assemble to protest stagnating wages.

Most public transport is not running, as drivers stand in solidarity with their comrades. There’s a limited service that allows me to get to work and, in theory, to the event in Flagey. Cynthia and I live in the same neighbourhood. She is hesitating between driving down herself (good) or an Uber (monopoly platform with exploitative tendencies = bad). Although I’d appreciate a lift back, it doesn’t occur to me to ask for one to the venue. I underestimate how sporadic the bus service will be that evening. A couple of wrong decisions has me showing up to Flagey three-quarters of an hour later than the advertised time.

I still catch a good chunk of the event. A Scottish and a French writer discuss growing up gay in working-class communities and read from their latest work. It’s a stimulating conversation, even if the discourse around class seems to be grounded in a more static, 20^th Century understanding.

Cynthia and I reunite after the interview in the theatre lobby. I’m not that surprised to discover she's already made new friends; two young women who are also attending on their own. Numbers are exchanged before Cynthia and I head to find where she parked her expensive four-by-four, bought as an apology gift by an abusive ex. The Friday night madness is in full swing; notably too many men turning the streets of Brussels into a public toilet. I’ve seen a disturbing amount of that living here, day and night. We both wonder out loud why men can’t exercise the same control over their bladder as women generally do. Or whether the Bruxellois are afflicted by a urinary infection.

Cynthia pulls up outside my building. We spend an hour swapping notes on our various mis-adventures with the male species in Brussels. If she’s more experienced than me, it hasn’t been any easier for her. We come to similar conclusions around the levels of co-dependency in the City, encouraging each other not to get swept up in that game.

That Sunday I have the pleasure of being accompanied by Renzo to church. It’ll be his first experience in a Protestant assembly. So conscientious am I to break my occasional tardiness, I arrive well in advance of our meet-up time. Just as I look for a way to while away the wait, I spot Renzo outside the Metro, raring to go. He attributes my early arrival to the Lord.

 It’s reassuring that he’s made it. The week has been very hard on his morale.

Lorenzo approaches this unchartered territory with an open-mind and a gamely attitude. He endeavours to negotiate the worship music with his baritone. The repertoire would be unfamiliar to most of those outside of the contemporary charismatic movement. 

He’s attentive during the service. Perhaps more naturally introverted, Renzo is nonetheless cordial and conversational as I introduce him to some of the church family -including the senior pastors. He comments on the sense of community. I’m relieved that he hasn’t found the experience alienating.

After service, we have a lunch date with Brenda. The previous weekend, I join my lovely Austrian friend and some of her work and former-uni chums, to help her move into her shiny new home. Brenda makes the masochistic decision (IMHO) to furnish everything from scratch with Ikea goods. Over that weekend, friends will take informal shifts to aid the unpacking and set-up. I stick around a little to help with the sofa and some chairs.  The fellows stand around talking politics whilst us girls do most of the heavy-lifting. There's a lot of buzz around the new ABBA project. 

By the time Renzo and I come round for lunch the following weekend, Brenda’s abode looks almost show-room perfect, despite her insistance to the contrary.

Germans’ messy is most people’s perfection, I tease.

Lorenzo is a plant-based diet veteran, going veggie long before it was du jour. Brenda prepares accordingly, stocking up on vegan options down to the butter. She’s a most accommodating hostess. Renzo is intrigued by her year spent in Naples after secondary school, where she was linguistically immersed enough to emerge fluent in Italian, give or take a few years of regular practice. The discussion is expansive and unforced. Renzo is at ease. He’ll later remark what a solid and well-adjusted individual Brenda is.

Summer Highlights Part 2

I have been frequenting summer festivals, sometimes on my own, more often with company. 

Whilst attending the African and Latin American-influenced Percusounds festival on a rainy Sunday with my GBFF, Lorenzo, I see auntie Carol out with her crew. It’s through her that I learn of Fiesta Latina; a reasonably-priced three-day affair at the scenic Bois de la Cambre. I’m going in the hope of seeing some decent Brazilian acts. I ask Renzo if he’d like to join me. A Brussels veteran, he’s not so keen. He searches for a word to convey his apprehension.

Cheesy?

He accepts this descriptor, somewhat reluctantly. It's hard to pin down.

When I do attend, I sense what he means. If the queue is dishearteningly long on arrival, at least the weather is clement. There are two lines; one for those fully vaccinated with certificate, and one for those willing to take a quick test to gain entry. Once that palaver is over, we're not quite out of the woods yet (literally). There is another, shorter line for checking tickets. 

In the end, I spend less time at the event itself than I do in the queue. I do a circuit, soaking in the atmosphere. Everyone hangs around in groups, Strasbourg-style. The reggaeton and other Latin dance music emanating from various sound systems don't really entice me. Food is unsurprisingly overpriced. The only Brazilian presence relates to consumables. No Bossa Nova, Tropicalia or Lusophone Funk. To try and make it worth the 14 euros, I hover around the main stage and do some half-hearted salsa moves before heading home. The highlight of my evening is purchasing a faux-African wax tote bag. 

Curiosity satisfied, I won’t feel the urge to go to Fiesta Latina again. Thank goodness I only committed to one day of the festival. 

Anybody familiar with these pages knows I am not at all averse to solo experiences. However, this one leaves me feeling particularly alone. It's a maudlin start to my weekend.

On the way to the tram stop, I see Lorenzo has texted me about upcoming social plans. I concede he was right about Fiesta Latina.

Renzo and I have been amis comme cochons since we were first introduced by a mutual friend back in the Spring. He’s been my main festival companion. At my behest, one school night he even braves a hopelessly wet summer evening for a Back on Stage concert.

After so many false starts with the male species in Brussels, there’s a quasi-therapeutic nature to our friendship. 

Renzo and I have a shared cultural palate. He’s intelligent, thoughtful and well-read. He's also an enviably good multi-linguist. He speaks naturalistic French and a refined English, with the occasional literary flourish. Unlike 99% of the Italians I've ever met, you couldn't detect his origins from his accent. His is a curiously generic European inflection.

Renzo has an understated charisma, laced with an appealing Mediterranean bluntness that is somehow tempered by a soothing tone and overall gentleness. Like a silencer on a gun.

He makes for a discerning, nay tough, public. His taste can be more rarefied than mine. We seem to diverge as often as we overlap. His scathing critique of Elena Ferrante's hugely popular L'Amie Prodigieuse/L'Amica Geniale novels -all the more cutting for his soft voice-casts doubt over my enjoyment of them. 

Avenue de Toison d'Or

I sometimes tease him for being a snob. He responds with a scoff for instance, when I suggest that City planners had the Champs Elysées in mind for Avenue Toison D'Or.

Oh, pleee-ase!

Yet, Renzo doesn't take himself too seriously. We swap literary or theatrical notes as easily as we discuss 90s Europop or share tongue-in-cheek appreciation for satirical Italian funky-pop classics.

Of course, there’s more to our friendship than the above. Lorenzo is dependable and resilient. He shows up when he says he will, even whilst navigating his own mental health struggles. He's supportive. He reads my blogs unprompted. That's maybe more than I could expect from a boyfriend. Heck, my own family scarcely reads my posts, if at all.

He is considerate, self-aware, a good listener and routinely affirming. He gets on well with my other friends. 

We have a reciprocal respect for each other’s style. I can indulge my "girly" chic and know there's no hidden agenda when he acknowledges it. His dress sense is as super-sharp as one would anticipate from a gay Italian (I tell him he’s a good cliché).

When Renzo implies that he's fallen short of some idealised masculinity, it provokes a protective-if not defensive-reaction in me. I reprimand him for self-identifying as a "p**sy" (not only unkind to him but misogynistic). I regularly reassure that he's all man, in his own distinct Lorenzo way. There's no one-size-fits-all. Besides, society would do well to valorise the good qualities he displays, instead of warped notions about the 'alpha' male.

There remains a healthy gender complementarity between us. I can be carefree and tactile. No sexual tension to infuse compliments with double-entendre. We regard each other with an uncomplicated fondness.

We’ve developed a habit of speaking with authenticity and vulnerability; whether it’s about relational insecurities or heartfelt, if difficult, conversations around faith. Renzo and I differ theologically but his search is sincere. He engages with Christian content I forward him. He sends me little updates by text during a short, semi-retreat in Provence. 

Bref, I have a deep affection for Lorenzo. I can say I love him loads and mean it (although I have the impression this makes him a tad uncomfortable). It proves that the pure, platonic settlement that I’ve been seeking in vain from straight men isn’t completely unrealistic in this context. It’s not as if I don’t have male friends of various orientations elsewhere. It’s just proved particularly hard in Brussels.

I find myself often reflecting on mine and Renzo’s dynamic. The absence of sexual attraction no doubt is a contributing factor to the ease of our rapport. Yet I worry that in my regular jokey references to his sexuality, attributing to it all the positives of our interaction, I’m over-stating it. Perhaps I'm even being (inadvertently) reductive. Although a part of our identity, sexuality is not everything. I don’t believe anybody- of any orientation- should be defined by it. 

Neither do I wish to unconsciously turn Renzo into a surrogate boyfriend, whilst no viable options appear to be on the horizon.

Still, I can’t help comparing and contrasting with my erstwhile encounters in Brussels. Even cautious optimism now seems misplaced. As I write, Simon-Pierre- a hetero who appeared mature enough to buck the trend – has fallen off the grid since, ironically, he joined me and Renzo at Back on Stage. 

I’ve tried to give SP the benefit of the doubt. He could have a very good reason for the radio silence. More likely, I suspect that my presentiment has proven correct. The minute he tired of waiting for me to muster a romantic attachment, he did a disappearing act.

Perversely, the opposite experience with Renzo makes me panic. I withdraw momentarily for fear of over-exposure. Not long after his return from France, for the first time Lorenzo invites me round for a Sunday afternoon apéro. I decline. A missed opportunity to enjoy his company in what is no doubt an impeccable flat.

At first, I believe it's a wise decision. I miss him sorely but don't want to spoil a good thing. Past hurts, recent and distant, inform this paranoia and urge to control. The following weekend, on the advice of sis, I confess all to Renzo as we sip smoothies at a café in town. He's understanding, as is customary.

The heart-to-heart out of the way, we head out for a memorable night in Sablon with my fellow South-East Londoner, Cynthia. But that’s a story for another time. Maybe.

Summer Highlights: Part 1

 

A new acquaintance recently commented on the silence of these pages since the reflections on my dreamy Croatian holiday. I signed off to take a break over summer for an undefined period. (September still counts as (late) summer for me).

I’ve needed the respite. Maintaining two blogs amongs other interests and professional obligations can be quite a commitment. I gave myself permission not to feel guilty if I missed a few updates...

...And then my acquaintance's comments made that guilt resurge.

Besides. If I don’t resume now, I don’t know if or when.

As the weeks roll on, I have more to report which adds to the pressure. And so I decided to kickstart la rentrée de LVC with a fly-by-night retrospective.

On the work front many changes are afoot since the departure of my former manager, Ama in early summer.  It's forced me to become acquainted with internal political machinations that can be demoralising and distract from the work itself. Nonetheless, the job remains fulfilling and I pray to be able to continue in that vein.

On the social side, it's been a busy summer. I’ve made the most of what previously-cancelled activities have been available this year. 

I’ve also created my own fun.

Most significant of which is the belated 40^th birthday dinner I organise shortly after my return from Croatia. Despite taking place in mid-August and a number of potential invitées being away, I still have a decent turnout for the Senegalese buffet I have reserved in Matongé.  The alchemy is wonderful. My guests- encountered through work, church or social settings- develop an instant rapport. Whilst we don’t have much opportunity to mix and mingle at a sit-down dinner, the conversations flow freely in their respective corners. I have also invited Nik, the Dutch owner of the hotel where I first stayed on moving to Belgium. Although we’ve remained in touch fairly regularly, I’m still surprised at his enthusiastic RSVP. Later, a few other guests will remark on his eccentricism and provocative, no doubt facetious, commentary.

A handful of us hang around late into the night, feigning to leave only to continue our discussions outside the restaurant, slowly making our way to the metro. We talk some more, before finally descending into the bowels of Brussels. 

I receive a number of compliments on the calibre of friends I’ve managed to assemble over the months, in spite of the many challenges that the pandemic and human frailty have thrown up. It’s mad to think I’ve known these folks for a year at the most; some for a far shorter period.

Sis often reassured me it would work itself out; that we can be blessed with meaningful relationships in the blink of an eye. I am truly grateful and proud of the dynamic and multicultural community of which, by God’s grace, I am becoming part.

Elsewhere, I’ve been availing myself of the explosion of events on the Internations expat site. There are picnics, lunches, dinners and a five euro soirée with little to show for even that nominal sum. At the end of the evening, I try and tag along with auntie Carol and her crew of older ravers when they beg off to find somewhere to dance. Alas, the torrential rain that night literally puts a dampener on our plans.

I attend a Middle Eastern dinner in Antwerp organised by one of Carol's besties, Rob; my former frenemy and now just plain old nemesis. I have purposefully been avoiding the numerous activities he’s organised, even when he sends me direct invitations (something to which he'd never admit). However, I figure the odd group meal wouldn't hurt. It’s possible we’ll hardly have the chance to speak.

Still, I feel a nervous agitation, as is now normal whenever I have to interact with Rob. 

He is scandalously late to his own event. Annoyed, I make stilted conversation with the other (unknown) guests waiting at Gare Central, in between sending sanctimonious texts to Rob about disorganisation. We miss a couple of trains waiting for our errant host.

Subsequently, things are cordial enough. That is, until Rob and I have a blazing row towards the end of the evening triggered by another instance of his flakiness and cavalier attitude about other people’s time.

 I’m apologetic to the other guests on leaving. I hear a burst of laughter as I exit to catch the train with another attendee. I look down to see my treacherous belt has loosened. 

My mind is preoccupied with how this man-child always manages to get under my skin.

By some miracle my travel companion wants to remain in touch. We part ways at Gare Centrale. There, I bump into a sullen Rob and another guest from the dinner. It’s an awkward metro ride back, all the more so that the nemesis has parked his rented car in my neck of the woods for some reason. I’m voluble with his friend, a highly intelligent polyglot with apparent Aspergers. We’ve also had heated discussions in the past.

A few weeks later, I pop round to Rob’s office to pass on an article that might be of interest. It's a pretext for diplomacy. 

I hate that I lost control. 

Friendship is unrealistic but we can at least be on civil terms. 

It’s meant to be a quick stop over. I have other lunchtime plans. Before I know it, I’m sucked into another futile, revisionist conversation. Rob dissembles or self-contradicts when he believes it’s convenient. Failing that, he flat-out lies. There is an uncharacteristic moment of self-awareness on his part that’s promptly overridden by more bad faith. I am constantly surprised by my capacity to expect more from Rob than has ever been justified.

This impromptu meeting was motivated by a desire to live up to my Christian ideals. Instead, it’s a reminder that interacting with Rob is like trying to negotiate an emotional black hole. It sucks in everything around it and emits no light. I need to recognise my limits. Some people should be kept at a safe, City-wide distance.

Thankfully, there are more auspicious encounters. A week before our non-reconciliation I bump into one of Rob’s merry band of mulattos, Dénis. It's almost a year to the first and only time we met.  I recall his overall slickness and acerbic wit; entertaining for one night but would probably turn deadly in the long term. I imagine he'd be the kind of man always between girlfriends or ex-wives; past and future. On this occasion, with his adolescent daughter in tow, Dénis is on his best behaviour.

He explains he'll be relocating to Eastern Europe for work. By some bizarre social compulsion, I suggest we exchange numbers. As if we'll ever see each other again. 

I’m nonetheless glad our paths cross before Dénis' departure. I’d wondered what became of him.

There are more farewells as a couple of the younger sisters at church also relocate. One is going back to the UK before returning to mainland Europe to begin a placement in Geneva. The other, a former au pair, returns to South Africa, after being bullied by her mercurial boss. She has handled it with such grace and cheer, it’s hard to believe the stress she’s been under when she finally tells all.

It's generally been a great time for Christian fellowship. There are various dinners organised chez Dorian; a church sister from Guam. She also graced my 40th birthday guestlist and is one of the most generous individuals I’ve ever known. 

One Sunday after church I am invited to lunch at Karin and Felix’. This allows me to finally ingratiate myself with their kids. Result.

I am treated to some delicious homecooking over at my colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia’s house with their (now) multi-lingual brood. The couple are also both present at my 40^th dinner party. 

It’s now a running joke that Sylvia has appropriated me, with no objections on my part. We share a lot of cultural and political interests. She’s a thoughtful and effusive communicator. During supper at their house, I demand to know how her and Steve met. The two gladly regale me of the epic tale, with much predictable eye-rolling and interruption from the kids. Meanwhile, their obscenely fat feline, Gino lumbers around nonchalantly. Apparently, he was even heavier when they adopted him.

One mid-week evening I attend a multilingual social where I debate with a Frenchman over the existence of structural racism, or more specifically, white supremacy. Refusing to acknowledge the racial legacy of French colonialism, he whitesplains away discrimination as purely class-based, insisting that the concept of racism is an American import. Besides. Africans are super-racist to each other, he avers.

At the same venue a few nights later, after a solitary and vertiginous turn on the summer Ferris wheel in Louise, I show up for a DJ set. 

It’s a dead Saturday night, save for staff and a few stragglers. A girl with Jade-coloured hair whoops and dances madly to monotonous Trap. A crazy Caucasian pretends to fall off a stool for my benefit. He's inexplicably wasted when his entourage are clearly not. He moves to a corner to stare conspicuously at me then approaches to apologise for an unknown reason. 

When against my better judgment I ask why, that's the opening he's been looking for. He brags about being the best rapper in Brussels (or is it Belgium?), proceeding to show off his skills, track after indistinguishable track. I sip my everlasting Schweppes in bemused embarrassment until a waitress comes to my rescue and shoos him away. This story tickles everyone I tell.

I quit the establishment when it fails to become sufficiently lit. En route home, I pause at the foot of the Palais de Justice for some far better free entertainment courtesy of a multicultural funk band. They cover everything from Bobby Caldwell to James Brown, via Louis Armstrong. The lyrics are often fluffed but no-one apart from me appears to notice.

Heading to Parc station, a diminutive young man chases after me. I stop, wondering if he needs change. Instead he launches into some well-rehearsed, if charmingly delivered poetic chat-up lines. I don’t swallow the bait, and his request for a hug is declined. But I’ll take the compliment. It’s been one of those nights.

In early September, my pandemic-enforced theatrical hiatus ends with a whimper rather than a bang. I book tickets for an underwhelming piece supposedly based on the life of  late Hip-Hop icon, Tupac Shakur and Tupac Amaru; the Inca warrior after whom he was named. 2021 marks the 25^th anniversary of Shakur's death. The play is a multilingual, culturally-confused mess that’s nowhere as clever as it’s trying to be. It spreads itself too thin and badly so, becoming an unintentional parody of experimental theatre. The main subjects eventually become incidental to the chaos. 

There are better ways to spend 20€...

The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 4

 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

I now just have the weekend to separate me from my inevitable return to real life. I endeavour to resist the melancholy by living in the moment. I think of my empty flat waiting for me, bringing to mind a question Ciaran posed about romantic loneliness. An old friend writes a touching but frank birthday text about a wistfulness than can accompany this milestone. 

It must be said, that this has been a more sociable birthday trip than others. Staying in a hotel helps (as oppose to an AirBnB studio), as do amicable locals and fortuitous meetings with other tourists.

Following a local recommendation, I schedule a day trip to small town Ston, 15km from Slano. It is known for its rampart- even longer than its better known Dubrovnik counterpart – and dubbed the European equivalent to the Great Wall of China. 

The intimidating edifice is immediately visible on arriving. The steepness and perilous-looking height of some sections are worrying. Despite being lengthier, a day around Ston’s fortresses is a lot cheaper than Dubrovnik's. As it’s midday, I put off scaling the wall for a few hours, when it’ll be marginally cooler.

I while away time at the Veliki Castle Fort and stroll through nearby streets. I find a playground and have fun on the swings until the discomfort of the chains digging into my hips forces me off.

I order drinks at various establishments and make a video call. I grab some lunch on the go, staining my new cream cardigan to my annoyance.

Finally, the hour arrives. The man at the toll gate explains there’s a long and short version of the walk along the walls. He claims the longer is well over 1000 steps but takes just 40 minutes. I don’t hide my incredulity. It looks too narrow and steep to complete in that time.

You’re young, he counters, you can do it.

Young, he calls me. 

A mixture of vanity and tenacity powers me on, albeit with hesitation. On the way up, I bump into a helpful Peruvian who swears the walk is shorter than the prescribed time and not as risky as it looks. He does advise me to stock up on water. 

It’s well into the 30s. My H20 supply is almost gone. I head to town with my new informal tour guide. When he hears I live in Belgium he asks, in Dutch, if I speak Flemish. He’s studying in Holland. I explain I don’t care for the language.  As we reach the shops, he’s joined by his surprisingly plain girlfriend.

I resume my solo walk and promise myself I won’t look back and/or down. I hold off for some time but like Orpheus, I can’t resist. With much panting (not helped by carrying my small laptop), I make it to the top. As I feel a gentle wind start to cool me off, I begin singing the Isley Bros' version of Summer Breeze. The summit of the wall resembles a biblical film or TV set. Before heading back down, I take a minute to have a heart-to-heart with God on the deserted fortress. Since there’s no-one around, I hitch up my skirt and remove my T-Shirt for an even tan. I later scramble to put it back on when I hear voices. Two fellow tourists loom on the horizon.

The descent is less laborious but trickier to manoeuvre. I slow down at the most precarious points, conscious that the next set of tourists aren’t very far behind. The Peruvian's 10-20 minute round-trip estimation is exaggerated. And to think there’s an annual marathon along the walls in September.

Still, by the end it feels like a personal achievement. I don’t like fear to talk me out of a venture.

The expanse of the wall means by the time I reach the exit, I’ve left Ston proper without wholly being aware. I even take a moment to paddle my feet in the sea. Unbeknownst to me, I am a couple of kilometres away from the main town. Once again I find myself hurrying for the last bus to Slano.

That evening, conscious that my holiday is drawing to a close, I take a sunset walk around the bay similar to that of my first night. I continue to be in awe, willing myself to bask in the now and draw thoughts away from the unavoidable end. 

On my walk, I see a rogue local woman throwing remnants of dinner into the sea. I’m shocked and disappointment. I wonder how the water remains so clear with such antics.

The following morning, the last full day of my holiday, I head into town to spend a few hours at the Red History Museum; recommended by Ciaran. I’m not usually a museum enthusiast unless there’s an exhibition of exceptional interest. The communist history of Yugoslavia fits the bill. Somewhat familiar with Josep Tito and his connection to Post-Independent African states and the Non-Aligned Movement, I wish to fill the gaps. Namely, how Yugoslavia remained autonomous from the USSR.

The RHM is situated in a still-active factory dating back to the 1950s. That would explain why the toilets have a pre-1989 feel. On the day I visit, the reception is manned by the voluble, charismatic – not to mention super-hot – Chico, who talks me through all the interactive elements of the exhibition. He speaks a very fluid and naturalistic English from “TV and school” he claims. When I complain that the RHM brochure misleads by conflating socialism and communism, he commends me for noticing the difference.

The RHM opened its doors on the 20 April 2019 to mild controversy. Chico finds it amusing that it coincides with Hitler’s birthday. I grimace. It could have been worse, he says. If it had opened on 10 April – which fascists proclaimed as Croatian Independence Day in 1941 - the museum would have received more threats than they already had-or worse.

Courtesy of www.godubrovnik.com

It’s a fascinating exhibition, much of it comprised of a set piece modelling a typical Yugoslavian home during the Tito era. It’s a good balance of social, political and cultural history; with references to the winning Croatian entry for the Eurovision song contest as well as the steady descent into totalitarianism and hinting at the eventual bloody break-up of Yugoslavia. 

It’s always with a heavy heart that I consider the distortions of the vision for a worker-led economic system. Under Tito, progress- albeit shaky at times- was undoubtedly made in terms of education, access to housing and industrialisation. He was a very canny statesman, severing ties with Stalin and instating his own interpretation of Communism, whilst making economic and diplomatic overtures to the West. 

It speaks volumes that leaders from both sides of the Iron Curtain attended his funeral. 

Nevertheless, he was an autocrat. The Yugoslav Communist party suppressed all opposition and were vicious towards perceived enemies. Yugoslavia went the way of many other states asserting Communist ideals (the true objective of which I maintain has never been truly realised). I can’t turn away from this uncomfortable truth. Lessons are to be learned.

Towards the end of the exhibition are two conflicting accounts of the infamous prison camps; one from a former guard who predictably and vehemently denies their brutality and the other from an ex-prisoner detailing the unimaginable horror of life during and beyond the camps.

Afterwards, I have a soft drink at the bar, later joined by a couple of German tourists. Chico explains the origins of the RHM (a family affair started with his politically-conscious brother and sister-in-law). The discussion widens to the geo-political sensitivities that still dog the region. According to Chico the majority of the electorate is disengaged from contemporary politics. He is frustrated about the lack of dialogue around the 1990s Civil War.

courtesy of www.adriaticdmc.hr

Cheeky Chico offsets the gravity with dark humour. I admit to being quite smitten. I should really refrain from pointing out the obvious to handsome men. Chico is nonetheless a tad bashful when I pay him a parting compliment. 

It’s one quick jaunt back to the Old City for nostalgia’s sake. I hope to bump into Bruno to say farewell but it's not to be. I must arrive whilst he’s on his afternoon break. Ships passing in the night.

That evening before dinner, I decide to take one last walk around the bay and venture into the Adriatic for a dip. The novelty of my environment has not worn off. I stop to take it all in and be fully present; remind myself that I am really here, in case it all feels too distant and fanciful once I’m back in Brussels. I reflect on how safe I have felt. To my knowledge, in Slano I’m the only brown girl in the village (deep-tanned Caucasians notwithstanding). Yet I’ve not been mistreated or made to feel a freak. The same goes for my experience in the rest of the region, the odd leery look from some male admirers aside.

The customer service has been by and large exemplary. I grow to be fond of the staff at my guesthouse and the nearby bar/restaurant run by the same married couple.

I’m still turning these thoughts over when I find somewhere discreet enough to disrobe and slip into the water donning my bikini. The current occasionally picks up. With my very basic swimming knowledge, I try nothing too adventurous. The coast takes on a different beauty from the perspective of the sea. And to think, it was by error I booked accommodation in Slano and not central Dubrovnik. It's one of the best mistakes I've ever made.

With no-one close enough to make me self-conscious, I offer up prayers of thanksgiving aloud for this marvellous experience.

I dry off with the hotel towel I've borrowed and return to a quiet spot I discovered on my first night, with two chairs suspended over the shallow waters. Sunset is almost over. Dinner awaits but I’m reluctant to leave. Returning to the hotel, I see a crowd gathered around a pop-up stage where a guitarist and pianist are doing Jazz, Rock, Pop and Latin covers. I pause once again to soak in the tunes and atmosphere. They’ll play for several hours as I come and go from the guesthouse.

Later that evening, after dinner at the hotel and a virgin Strawberry Mojito (on the house) at my regular holiday haunt, I’ll catch the duo’s encore. A group of English tourists I’ve seen before are also present. I had the impression they wished to keep their distance but they are far more amicable tonight. One of them looks especially merry, breaking away from his group to do exaggerated camp, arrhythmic steps.

                                                 
When I politely turn down his beckoning to dance with a smile, he plants himself next to me for small talk. He claims he’s ‘only’ had three glasses. For someone who is tee-total, that sounds to me like enough to get him in his current state. He invites me to join him on stage for a sing-song. I demure again. When his female friend also calls on me, it seems rude not to humour them. I add my voice melodiously to their caterwaul of Wonderwall. Or rather, the group caterwauling over the poor duo. I know it’s time to slip away inconspicuously when they segue into Queen’s I Want to Break Free. Never one of my favourites by Mercury and co. On exiting, I note for the first time in Slano, another Afrodescendant female amongst the revellers.

Despite nightfall I detour to discover the other side of the coast that my drunken interlocutor has just mentioned. I can only go so far by foot.

As is usually the case when I have to be up and out for a specific reason, my sleep is interrupted. I wake up too early and can’t properly return to snoozing. In the morning, I open my window wide to benefit from the bay view one more time. I wish I’d done that more often. I savour the thought of everything that will prolong this experience until my mid-afternoon flight back West; one last breakfast at the guesthouse, the bus ride to Dubrovnik and then onward to the airport (a fraction of the taxi price)…

During my morning meal, I record video messages for my sister and friends. A tear drops involuntarily during one recording. On my way to the bus stop, I say a heartfelt farewell to the available guesthouse staff; a number of them sadly not yet on duty.

I text my friend, Nika en route to the airport ...I’m in love with your country... In the end, we were too far from each other to schedule a meet-up. That’s fine. It gives me a ready excuse to visit again soon, pandemics-permitting.

My newfound favourite descriptor for this Balkans excursion is “a wonderful parenthesis”. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday getaway. This is comfortably one of my best trips, especially solo travelling. The pleasure of it even momentarily distracted me from the solemnity of hitting 40. 

I try not to think too long about readjusting to the real world back in Belgium, grim weather forecasts and all. There’s a rip-the-plaster-off part of me that just wants to get it over and done with…

But not quite yet. Not while brilliant sunshine, aqua-marine waters and cloud-covered mountains are calling outside my coach window.

Soundtrack: All'n'All + That's the Way of the World by Earth, Wind & Fire

LVC is taking a break for the rest of summer. Bonnes vacances.

The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 3

 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

The morning after my birthday, I’ve reached the half-way point of my trip. I am doing my utmost to savour every moment, not to think of the inevitable return to reality. Time flies as it always does.

I have a very early start that Friday morning. I’ve booked myself on a one-day cruise around the three Elafiti islands - with lunch and drinks – for a nifty price. The only downside is, with my accommodation being so far from the main action, I have limited options for reaching the departure point on time. The buses into town aren’t regular before 9am. Either, I wake up at the crack of dawn to catch the first bus and reach Dubrovnik two hours ahead of setting sail. Or, I pay an exorbitant price for a taxi. Heck, if I lose out on a few hours kip to save 50-100 euros, so be it. I can always catch up on sleep during the bus ride.

The evening prior, I pass out very late after a full day of activity. That is, despite the raucous singing late into the night by some excitable gents out on the bay. So afraid of sleeping through the alarm, I wake up frequently nonetheless, eventually finding it too hard to return to slumber. I still find myself running to catch the bus with mere minutes to spare.

I’ve pre-arranged with the boat captain to be picked up from the main bus station in Dubrovnik. I kill time before calling him, knowing there’s no great rush.

He’s a jovial sort in that direct way that seems to be a trademark of the region. He drops me near the boat, not far from some German shops that have made their way to Croatia. I’ve missed DM and Muller’s since relocating from the Franco-German border. Being Dubrovnik, these shops are not as cheap as in their homeland but still better value than the rest of the region.

On the boat I make conversation with a camp and affable Irish-American named Ciaran. We’re born two years apart almost to the day. We swap pandemic anecdotes. A seasoned world traveller, Ciaran recounts how he took advantage of compulsory teleworking to travel around the US. We discuss COVID-management strategies across the globe, trans debates, colonialism past and present and whether communism could ever be truly realised. We have a lengthy conversation about the role of Christianity in imperialism as well as faith and sexuality.  It's true platonic kismet. Ciaran is respectful and considerate. I welcome the chance to have a thoughtful discussion about challenging issues.

Docking at the first island, he and most of the passengers are ready to go for a dip. Clothes fly off and bikini and trunk-clad bodies of all shapes and sizes leap into the water, squealing and cheering. I’m almost as green as the sea with envy. My hope is we’ll find somewhere fairly distant where I can paddle in shallow waters. I brought my own bikini just in case.

Each island is more picturesque than the last. Ciaran says the Croatian coastline has become his favourite. It really is a piece of paradise. At our final stop off, after a tasty and nutritious lunch, adventurous Ciaran goes for a hike. I grab some ice cream, catch up on my writing and head to a lovely stone church.  A woman comes in with a small bikini riding up her buttocks. She plants her virtually nude behind on the wooden pews. I wonder how many bare bum cheeks have previously sat in my very seat.

After some quiet time, I walk towards the other end of the beach. If the water proves too irresistible, I don’t want anyone from the boat to see me in my bikini. I still have a long way to go feeling at ease with my body on the beach. 

Sure enough, the call of the Adriatic is too strong. I see that one can go quite far with minimal swimming ability. I find a discreet corner to slip on my two-piece. I ask a kindly stranger to watch my stuff. I wade in to the sea as far as possible before removing my skirt. The water is surprisingly cool. I squat to avoid exposing my thighs and rear end. I feel somewhat liberated and pleased with the contrast of cold water and the heat.

Ciaran and I reconnect later, exchanging about our afternoon adventure. Back on the boat we continue a conversation with a couple who've met on that very holiday. Neither are proficient English speakers but it’s the sole language they have in common. Ciaran tries to draw them into our own discussion but there’s only so much they can follow. The nearly-eight hour excursion wizzes by. I tell Ciaran of my plans to ride the cable car to Mount Srd before sunset. He asks if I’d like to join him for dinner later. It would be a pleasure except there’s no time before the last bus. We settle for more in-depth conversation over late afternoon smoothies. Ciaran treats me for the second time. By the end of our chat, we’re already discussing him coming to visit me in Brussels later in the year.

I head back to town with apprehension, not certain I’ll be able to visit Mt. Srd and make it back in time for the bus. At the ticket office I’m told it’s an eight minute round trip. Great. My initial plan is go up and come straight back down.

I’m pretty nervous on the ascent. I look at the rocky terrain and laugh inwardly at prior plans to trek back down by foot.

Hell, no. 

At the top, the view of the Old City below, distant hills and islands is so captivating, it puts paid to the idea of a swift return. 

I came at the right time. The air is cooling and the sun is slowly beginning its descent. Only the call of the last bus to Slano pulls me away. Once again, coming full circle, I arrive at Dubrovnik just in time to catch my ride back.

At night, after dinner at the guesthouse, I watch shoals of diverse fish dance around the lights of a small ferry docked at the bay.

Soundtrack: All'n'All + That's the Way of the World by Earth, Wind & Fire