Across the Channel and Back Again

 

(courtesy of The Bulletin)

8 min. read

Early November sees me back in the UK for another quarterly visit. It couldn’t come a moment too soon. 

(I’m aware that I sound like a broken record by now.)

October has been busy, in a positive way. However, by the end of the month the stark reality of my current "between-jobs" status remains. 

In early October, I had reasons for now what looks like false hope. 

An interview. A potential employer wishing to speak to my references. Said organisation insists I procure phone numbers for all my referees. For some reason, email won’t suffice. Meanwhile, no firm offer of employment is forthcoming.

Much ado about nothing. It’s probably for the best. I heard only bad things about the head of department to whom I would have been subordinate. As much as I want to resume work, I don’t want to be re-traumatised either.

Thus, my one week excursion in Blighty is the pause that I need. I have a comfortable place to stay, at mum’s new flat. After some trial and error on previous trips, I am careful not to overload my itinerary. I limit my meet-ups to one or two a day. There’s the odd cancellation but most go according to plan. I meet with friends I haven’t seen at all so far this year; some not since before COVID-19 hit. Amongst them is Winston, one of my oldest friends (as in length of time, not age). He's recently announced his engagement; some welcome good news. There’s a wonderful origin story to the union – a case of right person, wrong time for years – I don’t have space to go into now.

Winston drives down from the Midlands to meet up with me in central London. His fiancée, Shingai, also happens to be a Londoner. I have the pleasure of spending an afternoon in their invigorating company; talking life, spirituality, music and pop culture references with two fellow older Millennials. Undoubtedly, the highlight of this trip.

Alas, I don’t get to indulge my Guy Fawkes nostalgia as hoped. Many, if not all, of the free Fireworks displays in South London are cancelled- including my local at Blackheath. It seems the pandemic was the perfect pretext to put them on hold. The real reasons appear to be financial, although some boroughs try to green-wash their rationale, citing care for the environment. Please.

As usual, melancholy hits me like a freight train as soon as my UK parenthesis is over, before my feet have had the chance to touch the concourse at Gare du Midi. All the things I allowed myself to push to the periphery whilst I have been away, await my arrival. In addition, I sense my annual bout of S.A.D coming on. Usually bracing myself for it in the first quarter of the year – when winter is at its most stubborn in the Northern Hemisphere – it seems to be making a head start.

Mindful to put all that’s necessary in place during this psycho-emotionally fragile time, it’s best for me to stay active. I grab moments of joy where I can or try to create them otherwise. I attend a Jazz gig the evening I return from the UK. I catch up with friends when schedules permit. It helps to take my mind off myself as well as warding off a creeping sense of isolation. 

I continue to volunteer at the Red Cross PSA Centre, more or less once a week. The demand seems as high as it’s ever been in the one and a half years since I joined the team. I see a lot more women passing through. A shift at the Centre never fails to lift my spirits, even if the systemic degradation of undocumented migrants is nothing to smile about.

On the cultural front, I waste no time in catching the laudable latest instalment of the Black Panther series.

I still regularly log-in to Morphē Arts morning prayer sessions and I’m still plugged into my Belgian Church. The midweek home group is my main lifeline.

In mid-November, a group of Native American missionaries take over for a special Sunday evening service. Frequently frustrated by the hegemony of White Western ways of ‘doing’ church, I’m elated that Fresh Wine Ministries have arranged this guest appearance. I make it a priority to attend. I am fascinated by a cultural expression of Christian worship about which I would otherwise remain ignorant. The group hail from many different tribes across what is now the US and Canada, and are conversant in their indigenous languages. They perform a mix of traditional Native American and Grunge-Rock/Heavy Metal worship songs. It makes a change from the often insipid, diluted-Coldplay fare that characterises much of modern Western P&W. Despite my malaise, I throw myself enthusiastically into the service.

The following evening, I head once again to La Tricoterie for their variegated open mic night. I’m flying solo this time. I notice many of the same faces I saw during my first outing over a month ago. 

A group of older hippy folk – including an excitable gentleman with a long silver ponytail and reeking of Mary Jane – come to sit at my table. His female friend/companion shoots him daggers when he gets a little too animated. Wariness on my part soon thaws. I practise Portuguese with the woman and discover that the two men are flamenco guitarists from Spain.

It’s the usual mixed-bag of performances. There’s a surfeit of Rock acts of varying quality; an arresting spoken word artist; a young black man with Little Richard hair, promoting his Trap-influenced single and a talented songwriter accompanying herself on ukulele. I’m squeezed in after one of the poets and do a brief acappella rendition of one of my go-to Jazz standards, Stella by Starlight. Apart from the spontaneous conversations with fellow punters, the peak of the evening is a male/female duo and their Simon & Garfunkel-esque folk interpretation. The song is not familiar but I’m swiftly humming along with a third harmony. As I sneak out before the (potentially cacophonous) jam begins, I stop to praise their all too-short set. It’s a warm exchange. We are mutually appreciative of each others’ performances.

Later that week, I find myself at another open mic night, this time more local. I want to leave almost as soon as I walk in. The event is new and, whilst in theory it’s supposed to be eclectic, it’s completely dominated by Blues-Rock. By some irritating irony, I've passed up a monthly Brazilian-flavoured jam in central Brussels to support this local effort.

C’est pas ma came, as I tell the host. His warm welcome aside, I feel I’ve wasted my time. 

Not completely. 

As I’m making an early exit, I bump into a few other would-be performers similarly disappointed with what’s on offer. By coincidence, we’re all partial to Jazz and Latin styles. We swap musical tips. 

The Jean-Luc Pappi trio (image courtesy of Jazz04) 

I am buoyed by the conversation with these fellow travellers and return home more upbeat. The evening would have been salvageable, if it weren’t for some creep following me off the Metro. I have to take a detour and hop the train in the opposite direction so he won’t know exactly where I live.

The following night’s musical excursion is a lot more propitious. I join some Internations acquaintances to see a Latin Jazz trio (pictured right) performing at the Art Base Gallery. The ensemble is led by an outstanding pianist who plays from the depths of his soul.

Sunday afternoon, I assemble a posse for (the not so exclusively) all-female DJ set at Soulful Sundays in Café Metteko. The group is comprised of some recent Brazilian acquaintances, Clara and Loïs, as well as my new favourite muso, Jens. 

Whilst half Franco-Belgian Loïs is a polyglot with a facility in both French and English, Clara has only some of the former and very little of the latter.

I didn’t realise. I’m used to speaking to her in my B1 Portuguese.

She and Jens have barely a language in common. It’s not such a problem when Loïs is around. I also interpret where I can. My oral Portuguese is nevertheless somewhat limited. Jens slips in and out of his third language (French). He and I are used to communicating to each other in English. It’s been a little while since we hung out and have lots to catch up on. I try to include Clara but my attention lapses.

Jens is his usual conscientious self, routinely offering to buy drinks. Whilst he orders food, I catch him staring with fascination as the light hits a wine glass at a certain angle. He can be adorable in his own facetious way.

The music selection is hit and miss. I dance with one of the friendly regulars to Funkin’ for Jamaica but not much else. By some miracle, Clara enjoys herself. The set is over by 8pm. Jens, as always, wants to continue the party elsewhere. 

 I spot one of the DJ’s I befriended the last time I was at Metteko. He jokes that I shouldn’t trust Jens.

Clara is feeling the chill and heads home. I also would prefer to take advantage of the early finish. Most of Jens’ haunts are closed in any case. I convince him to walk me to Arts-Loi station, so I can take the train directly home. He obliges, like a gent. He is not aware of how long the walk will be.

According to Jens’ whimsy, we make several stops en route, to indulge the aesthetics of store front galleries, or tourist-bait selling over-priced tat, or admire the view of a drizzly Brussels from the top of Mont des Arts.

Soundtrack: Ticket to Shangri-La by Young Gun Silver Fox; Motherland Journey by Blue Lab Beats; Nightfever compilation feat. various artists; The Anchorman Mixtape by K-Os

Autumn Reprisals

7 min. read

Grounds of the Africa Museum, Belgium (image courtesy of Vestiaire Ouvert)

October ushers in a new season with a flurry of activity. Chief amongst these is another visit from mum. It’ll be her second in six weeks and slightly longer than the last.

When these plans were initially made, I’d banked on being back in full time employment. As it happens, I am still a free agent and thus have more time to dedicate to her visit. With her staying a full week this occasion, it also feels less time-pressured. I still draft an itinerary adapted according to my now even more modest budget and the less temperate weather. Mum’s first visit was at the height of an unusually warm and consistent summer. The drop in temperature and more frequent rains certainly shifts the mood, for me at least. There remain a number of Brussels attractive green spaces I’m yet to show mum. I’m less inclined to do so in the damp. 

Mother is far less fussed. This flexibility is a saving grace. Moreover, there are a few decent weather days – or spells, at least – than anticipated. Enough for us to ramble the grounds of the Africa Museum one afternoon, for example, which mum enjoys as much as I’d hoped. In that regards, she is a low maintenance guest. I don’t have to plan the extraordinary in order for mum to have a fine time. She’s more than content with trips to local and not-so-local markets for some good old fashioned bargain-hunting. A quick jaunt around Parc George Henri after the rains is also appreciated. 

In between we have a nostalgic giggle over wry retrospectives on BBC’s infamous Halloween hoax, Ghostwatch. She canerows my hair whilst watching the highly addictive Dr. Pimple-Popper (mum’s corrupting influence). We bicker over personal boundaries and miscellaneous misunderstandings. One evening, I leave mum to her devices whilst I attend a mostly underwhelming 80s Party in Auderghem. I remember it for touchy-feely Frenchmen and a clueless DJ playing bastardised versions of classics. One of the sole advantages is that I get to hang out with Em, after not seeing her for a little bit.

Mum’s visit ends with a swing by one of her new favourite markets in Schaerbeek and a quick meet-up with one of my Brussels besties, Sylvia. They hit it off easily.

I say farewell to mum later that afternoon at Gare du Midi, where awaits a hassle-free Eurostar ride back to Blighty. Meanwhile, I’m leading another home group bible study on Justice that same evening.

During her visit, mum remarks on how busy I remain between jobs. As well as drafting applications and receiving my autumn COVID booster shot, my cultural calendar is buoyant as always.

 Brussels autumn theatre season has much to offer on the cheap, if not completely pro-gratis. I see a poignant one-man show about parenting teenagers in middle-age and an arresting Get Out-esque psychological thriller (pictured below). 

Je Te Promets @ Varia Theatre (image courtesy of L'Echo)

I attend a matinee for another one-man piece; this time, extremely interactive. A young-ish Belgian of North African descent opines about his generation’s justifiable mistrust of the police, whilst cooking a chicken tagine live on stage. I have the dubious honour of being called on at random to be a jury member for a fictitious hearing on the death of a Belgo-Arab man in police custody. I let my co-jurors do most of the talking, pointing out that French is not my first language (although I participate in the post-show discussion once my tired brain is a bit more alert). The actor offers us some tagine for our trouble, albeit whilst we’re still on stage. I barely touch it. 

I can’t wait to rush back to the safety of my seat. After the performance, I inform the production team that I wasn't best pleased about this unscripted cameo.

In a couple of weeks I’ll be back at the same venue, the Senghor culture centre in Etterbeek, for an enriching all day conference on Afropeanism at the intersections of Faith and Gender.

I’m also increasingly preoccupied with my musical exploits. I am introduced to an evening of dance, Samba de Gafieira-style, by new Brazilian acquaintance, Ana-Carolina. We first connect at the Afro-European conference I attend in September. She's a visiting professor in Brussels, although hopes to make the move to Europe long term. We hang out at a couple of musically-based events before she returns to Brazil.  She helps me with Portuguese and we agonise over the forthcoming second round of Brazilian elections.  

My inchoate friendships with Clotilde and Agnès gets a boost when we meet in early October to harmonise at Parc Royale.  (In an ideal world, I could spend all day harmonising with like-minded folk.) After a hesitant start, the trio hits its stride. Our voices start to make a pleasant blend. Agnès has come equipped with song sheets. We swap musical tips and anecdotes. I’m horrified to learn that the girls are both unfamiliar with En Vogue and Boyz II Men. I’m the oldest of the bunch by quite a margin. Clotilde is in her early 20s - a whole generational difference - whilst Agnès, although in her 30s, is nonetheless the best part of 10 years my junior. But still, Boyz II Men and En Vogue people! Indispensable to the canon of anyone serious about harmonising. Or so I thought. There’s nothing left to do but educate the young ‘uns.

We grab a rich hot chocolate before home time. Alas, whilst we’ll reconnect separately, our conflicting schedules won’t allow all three of us to resume our harmonising whimsy for several weeks to come.

The following evening, Clotilde and I are joined by Jens at an open mic night in the St Gilles vicinity. Once again, I plan to take to the stage. I am told the crowd at this establishment are friendly. That is indeed the case. Clotilde opens the night with a couple of improvised piano solos. She is the woman of the moment, known to regulars and respected for her facility with multiple instruments. My rendition of a negro spiritual sans accompagnement is warmly received. Overall however, the night is something of a menagerie. 

There are skilled MCs rapping acapella, alongside mediocre singers (much to my disappointment), alongside arresting young actors performing expressive monologues, alongside singer/songwriters of varying ability. A flamboyantly camp South American poet insists on gatecrashing others’ sets, flashing his tight stomach and equally tight-fitting white underwear at every opportunity. 

Despite mine and Clotilde's plans for an early night, we remain for the chaotic after-show jam. Jens turns beetroot red trying to suppress laughter, as a tone deaf young woman butchers her way through an Eagles’ hit. He tries to catch my eye. I turn my back to him. It’s all I can do not to dissolve into hysterics myself. 

As I become better acquainted with the Brussels live circuit, I am confronted with a familiar dilemma. The Jazz jams are generally snobbish and less welcoming but high quality performances are a constant.  The regular open mic nights are comparatively laidback but the quality is more unreliable.

Open Mic night @La Tricoterie (c) @PGAV

By the end of the month, I’ll have spent quite a lot of time in the company of my new chums, especially Jens. He he is my plus-one at a performance by the Gospel choir I’m interested in joining. We are both left somewhat underwhelmed. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s certainly the most diverse chorale I’ve come across so far in this context (albeit the bar is set pretty low here). Yet it lacks soulfulness. There are no stand out soloists either. 

Still, it’s not terrible. I wonder if the purpose of attending that fateful choir rehearsal in September was just to bring Clotilde, Agnès and I into each others’ orbit. (Both of them have also incidentally cooled to the idea of joining). Time will tell…

As it will for my incipient friendship with Jens the Dandy. He is easy company; inhabiting his own quirky, neuro-divergent planet. Then again, in some ways, so am I. We are on a similar wavelength, and not just musically. I have my first all-nighter in Brussels at a DJ set, thanks to Jens. Our conversations quickly go deep and candid, even amidst this sort of party atmosphere. Romance is not on the table and it’s a relief. Jens nonetheless remains present and generous with his time. He is pensive, frank, has surprisingly good manners (apart from the expletives), is smartly-turned out and gives great hugs. Nothing is perfect (he doesn't regard the oeuvre of Boyz II Men, for instance). Nevertheless, I find our interactions invigorating.

Bref, I am excited about this burgeoning friendship and it terrifies me. I’m like a kid fixated with a new toy, at risk of breaking it from over-use. It's already too intense. I need to slow the heck down.

I note familiar unhelpful habits and thought patterns that I believe have contributed to the implosion of previous relationships. Then there are all the hang-ups and hurts from recent disappointments. I’m still figuring out how to navigate these relational waters; how to turn past mistakes into lessons learned. I wouldn’t want this potentially good friendship to be a casualty of my neuroses. I'm unsure if I’m yet ready to invest in new relationships of any kind. 

I explain to Jens that a recent high friendship turnover has put me on guard. I've already been misled by too many seemingly sweet-natured camp men in the past couple of years. I stay vigilant. Maybe hyper-vigilant. I swing the pendulum to the other end, emphasising my purely platonic intentions to an insensitive extent. Jens is gracious about it. I’m keen to get it all under control. If not now, then when? There’ll always be new and intriguing people to meet.

I’ll have a lot to catch my therapist up on next session.

Ready or Not...Part II

 6 min. read

Part I

A day after catching R&B singer/songwriter Amber Mark live at Botanique, I spend a windy Sunday in Ostend, at the annual Manifiesta political festival. It's the first since the onset of the pandemic and therefore my first occasion to attend. As is almost uniformly the case with this sort of event, there are numerous great things going on at the same time. If only I could clone myself. I go to sessions about successful union organising at Starbucks in the US and Ibis Hotel in France’s capital, both led by Afrodescendant women. I rub shoulders with gifted young socialist economist from the UK, Grace Blakeley and the extended family of celebrated Palestinian activist, Ahed Tamimi. Former UK Labour Party leader, Jeremy Corbyn is also supposed to be a guest of honour. Alas, he pulls out. It's the eve of the late Queen Elizabeth II's funeral. A fellow socialist-republican, JC decides it's better to lay low lest his presence at Manifiesta be wilfully misconstrued by the cynical British press. 

I come across various comrades and those I wouldn’t consider amongst them, such as my old nemesis, Rob.

Before hopping on the coach for the traffic-heavy ride back to Brussels, I enjoy an ecstatic set by the dynamic Ivorian musical outfit, Magic System.

A few days later there’s further intellectual and cultural invigoration at the Afro-European conference held in VUB university, Etterbeek. It is another first for me. As suspected, I bump into representatives from the anti-racist organisation that interviewed me a few weeks prior. It’s initially a little awkward but there’s no beef. 

It’s an intense three days. The theme this year is intersectionality, with the aim of understanding its complexities beyond just being a buzzword. 

Like Manifiesta, I’m torn between myriad presentations and discussions that overlap. I attend multilingual sessions covering topics such as Black Feminisms, the role of race in healthcare in Europe, racialisation in policymaking and knowledge construction by Afro-Brazilian women filmmakers. 

Other highlights include all three keynote speeches. On Day One the honour goes to the first Afrodescendant female professor in the UK, Olivette Otele. The following day it's the turn of fellow academic, the provocative Kehinde Andrews and to close, the fearlessly candid activist, Mireille-Tsheusi Robert. 

There's also a chance to visit the infamous Africa Museum in Tervuren. The museum has rightly come under fire in the past for completely effacing Belgium’s sanguineous track record in its former colonies, notably Congo. Whilst I’ve been to the Museum’s sprawling grounds many times, I wouldn’t have ventured inside unless it were for a more historically honest guided visit. This is my opportunity. 

We divide into two groups. Most are keen to follow the Belgo-Congolese guide, Frédéric (who, I’m later told, gives an unfiltered tour of the premises). The rest of us, perhaps out of sympathy, join the Flemish guide, Marieke, who is beginning to feel left out. She does her best to be culturally sensitive and acknowledges the remaining controversies but naturally, she wouldn't bring the same perspective as Frédéric. 

On the way back from the Museum by tram, our group analyses the visit; both its strengths and oversights. One African-American participant raises the salient point that without the guide or foreknowledge of Belgium’s colonial past, the museum's coverage of this historical violence remains muted.

After the Conference closing ceremony, a posse of us heads to Flagey for drinks and food. I’m exhausted but sad it’s all over. I’ve made several more new acquaintances, spread throughout Continental Europe and the UK.

The day after, I make my way to a new Jam at the Jazz Station bar in St. Josse. I’ve passed the venue many times, my curiosity yet to be satiated. I am accompanied by a couple of very recent acquaintances, Clothilde and Agnès. We meet for the first time a few weeks earlier, sitting in on a rehearsal for a Gospel choir that we're all interested in joining. Clothilde and Agnès are such fast friends, I assume they’re already well-acquainted. Once I let down my guard, we’re all chatting away easily about harmonies and previous singing experience.

The ladies follow through on their promise to stay in touch and reconnect for musical excursions, hence my proposal to head to Jazz Station.

I’ve also invited for the ride another kindred spirit in music, Jens. It’s a been a while since we hung out. I am a bit paranoid he’s avoiding me. On the contrary. He’s just been busy. Jens accepts my last minute invitation with alacrity.

The Jazz Station event comes recommended by a flirty French musician I meet at an open mic night in Laiterie café, where I’ve performed a few weeks prior. 

Alas, the set-up at the Jazz Station is more stereotypically uptight than the easygoing Laiterie gang. We still have a great time, albeit Agnès finds the house band too esoteric. I see her point.

The event does seem more welcoming of singers compared to others I’ve attended. I give it a go. The feedback is positive. I’m relieved to have gone through it, even if I’m not wholly satisfied with my performance.

Jazz Station (c) Visit Brussels

The best part of the evening is seeing my guests all get along, as well as meeting other musically-inclined folk. Like the producer, Bémol and his wife, Alessa. The couple have only just moved to Brussels after several years spent in Southern Europe and North Africa. Agnès mentions that Bémol is looking for vocalists to provide BGVs on a forthcoming project. Whilst open to the idea, privately I maintain a healthy scepticism about its likelihood. On verra.

By the end of the night, numbers have been exchanged, as well as information on similar events.

Before Jens drops us off home in his pristine, upmarket car, multi-instrumentalist Clothilde avails herself of the chance to perform the improvised piano piece that she was denied before. (Only Jazz standards can be performed during the jam). She’s more accomplished than I assumed. 

Clothilde radiates a childlike exuberance; one of those rare beings yet untainted by the world. It moves me to tears. Never change, I tell her.

Ready or Not...Part I

 

Hamburg (courtesy of Reisroutes)

5 min. read

Hello, is anybody out there? 

Following a lengthy-ish summer hiatus from posting on LVC, it was always going to be tricky working out if/when to return. It’s not as if I have an army of subscribers eagerly awaiting my titbits. In the end, it’ll be the compulsion to write that will have me coming back despite myself.

I’ve enjoyed the respite; just living life without the obligation to document everything. The past couple on months or so have been so packed, it would have been a challenge in any case.

Let’s get the less pleasant aspects out of the way first...

 I am still job hunting. It’s not how I would have liked to spend the aestival months but needs must. I have one interview in late August, during my mother’s first Belgium visit (more on that later), with an anti-racist organisation. I love the sound of the role but taking it would mean a significant pay cut and a continuous search for something more financially sustainable. I am upfront about this in the interview. Some might question the wisdom of this. I can’t say I’d be so bold again. Nonetheless, it feels like the sensible thing to do at the time. The interview otherwise goes swimmingly (as far as I can tell). The feedback in the rejection email is very encouraging. Yet, it is still a refusal when all is said and done. Psycho-emotionally, it’s the usual rollercoaster; some days I feel plucky enough to weather the storm. Other days are so dark I can’t see past them.

There have been moments of reprieve. I take the all-night bus to Germany in mid-August to spend the long Assumption weekend with my dear friend, Coral. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh since early 2020, mere weeks before the global lockdowns. Meanwhile, she’s left Dresden and moved across the country to begin a new job and life season in Hamburg. 

I arrive early Saturday morning but we don’t step out until evening, it takes that long to catch up on our news (well, mainly me and my monologues). Not being familiar with Hamburg, it’s also a chance to be acquainted with what turns out to be an attractive city (the main train station notwithstanding). 

My good friend, Brenda – a Hamburg native – provides some culture tips beforehand. I cross most off my list thanks to a comprehensive city tour, Coral’s guidance and my own curiosity. I also benefit from Germany’s subsidised nationwide summer deal, thanks to which one can traverse the country for a mere nine euros all month.

It’s a soothing break. Coral’s great listening skills and sagacity are forever welcome. Plus, she spoils me rotten, not allowing me to pay for anything.

Shortly after my return to Brussels, I host my mother for the first time since I moved to Belgium. Owing to other commitments, I can only entertain mum for under a week. One of the few advantages of being between jobs is that I can focus on her visit.

I make an itinerary, including a city tour (also a first for me in Brussels), an evening at a traditional Belgian restaurant, a ramble around my local environs, an indispensable trip to the African quarter, Matongé and as many park visits as can be squeezed in. At some point I start feeling flu-like symptoms. I’m too nervous to test in case I have to self-confine. Neither can mum afford to be holed up in Belgian for an extra week. I wait to see how things progress. I do make a swift recovery, save for some coughing and sneezing. I remain masked up and persevere with showing mother dearest a good time.

To my relief, mum likes my Brussels accommodation, as different as it is from my Strasbourg residence. She enjoys her five day visit and promptly books a follow up in the Autumn. TBC.

The famous Matongé Mural (courtesy of Le Vif)

Almost immediately after mum’s departure, I’m off to Namur, Wallonia for my first ever silent Christian retreat. It’s on the condition that my symptoms have  subsided enough not to expose anybody else to risk. I’ll discover on arrival that there are elderly and immuno-compromised guests present.  It’s a tough call. It would’ve been incredibly depressing to quarantine in my flat, especially so soon after mum’s visit. (I do test when I get back to Brussels and it shows up Corona-free).

The journey to Namur is a little madcap. There aren’t many participants in possession of a car and none that live in Brussels. I’m supposed to travel with friend and former church member, Jana, courtesy of a lift offered by another participant living in Flanders. When our ride pulls out, we’re left floundering. Jana researches alternative train routes. By a hair’s breadth, I miss the connection which would have reunited us en route. I remain in touch with Jana by phone whilst I catch a different train.

There is one plus about missing my original connection. I’m not forced to travel with Lorenzo. Yes, it’s a bitter irony that I still run into him at the events in which I once encouraged him to participate whilst we were on good terms. I am thankfully forewarned by Jana that he’ll be attending, she being apprised of the decline in relations. I am not shocked by the news. There was always the outside possibility. I can’t pretend his presence has no impact on the experience. 

By chance, a few weeks before the retreat I speak to Melissa, the mutual friend who introduced me to Lorenzo. At the time I’m unaware of how much she knows about the state of play. A lot, it turns out. He had apparently given up on the friendship long ago, citing flimsy and at times even judgmental reasons, from what I glean from Melissa. 

The River Meuse, Namur (Routard)

He appears to share more with her by IM than he ever does with me on or offline. This revelation sparks a fresh wave of grief. During the retreat I alternate between being courteous but distant (not so hard with most of it spent in silence) or avoiding him altogether. Lorenzo, for his part, prefers the latter. From what I can tell, he's done his utmost to disassociate from me and the situation. It sticks in my claw to see him play the perfect gentleman with others. 

Anger, hurt and betrayal stir within me. 

Before we depart, I nevertheless slip a note under Lorenzo’s door, as encouraged by one of the retreat organisers in the know. It’s with much apprehension. Lorenzo and I are long past reconciliation. Besides, it can’t be a unilateral decision. I’m tired of consistently being the one to reach out; remembering his birthday for example when he can’t be bothered to do the same.

Still, I recognise we need to clear the air. It would otherwise be hypocritical, particularly before breaking bread for Holy Communion on the last day. Lorenzo does acknowledge the note but confesses he’s yet to read it. We have a couple more civil exchanges before everyone goes their separate ways. 

At the time of writing, Lorenzo is yet to respond to my brief letter. No remorse shown. From cowardice or callousness, I have no idea.  It is a needless reminder that this person is not – and probably was never – good for me.

Yet, despite this added challenge, it doesn’t define the getaway. The retreat has an aquatic theme, owing to the centre’s proximity to the River Meuse. The workshops, shared sessions and a temporary art installation all have a therapeutic effect.  I find genuine solace and rest within the comfortable accommodation as well as the scenic surroundings. I while away time in the chapel or sat by the Meuse. The weather continues to be kind, which will soon change when September arrives. It’s a delicious novelty not having anywhere to be; not to be a slave to my own self-imposed schedule. It's something I usually struggle to achieve, even on holiday. The serenity naturally makes it easier to connect with God, although it takes a moment to reach this point. 

The retreat is not perfect, nothing is. The available literature and music is very Eurocentric and male-dominated, for instance. I am the only non-European in the group. However, I have no regrets about attending. It enables me to turn down the volume of my mental traffic, even if I can't completely switch it off. 

Once that precious long weekend is over, I reflect on how to carry forward the tranquillity into my everyday life.

Part II

Birthday in Bucharest (Part 3)

 

Arcul de Triumf, Bucharest 
(courtesy of Deposit Photos)

(Part 1 & Part 2)

8 min. read

By Sunday, I’m more than half-way through my stay. I plan to take it easy for the first part; church streaming, breakfast, siesta, a Skype call to sis. In the afternoon I hope to head to the Village Museum before taking a summer stroll organised by a Belgian based in Romania.

I can’t mentally switch off enough to benefit from the siesta. I am also hesitant to call sis. We haven’t had any face time for a while. I’ve already postponed our chat whilst I’ve been away. On the other hand, when I speak to sis, other plans tend to fly out of the window. What’s meant to be an hour max, turns into several hours. There’ll be no way I’ll be able to do everything on my itinerary if we overrun.

And that’s exactly what happens. I have to scrap my plans for the Village Museum, at least for that afternoon. There’s no time to see more of the hotel's locality, which I'd also hoped to squeeze in. I leave late for the Summer walk in the park and call the organiser, Alvin to let him know. I’m still finding Bucharest very tricky to navigate. 

I should never have cut it so fine. I give up on the printed Google instructions, which lead me astray. I eventually make it to Piata Romana metro station. A middle-aged woman stands in front of me, and stretches her hand out as if to block my way. I’m confused. I wasn’t planning on jumping ahead. She looks at me, a smile that is polite but terse. She signals a different door. I assume she’s being helpful and thank her. Perhaps there’s some problem with the train door, or a Bucharest metro custom of which I’m unaware. 

No, that’s not it. 

The door works fine. 

She walks in my direction. I presume she’s about to get off the train. 

No, that’s not it. 

She stands over me. 

I don’t know if this is some form of intimidation but I will not be moved. I stay put until my stop approaches, making a point to walk directly in front of her when I descend from the train. 

Out on the surface, I have no idea where Alvin and his fellow walkers are. I call him. None of the landmarks he mentions are in view. It becomes apparent I’m in the completely wrong part of the vast King Mihai I park. Alvin explains they’ll be reconvening at the Hard Rock Café. A passer-by tells me it’s half an hour by foot. I’ve come this far and would hate to make a wasted journey. I’m tempted to take a taxi but see none heading in my direction. By the time I arrive at the café – a combination of walking and bus – I’m flustered and grumpy.

King Mihai I Park (courtesy of Inn Your Pocket)

 I don’t intend to stay for dinner and I’m not sure about the company. My recent Bolivian acquaintance, David had indicated he’d be happy to meet up again. I invited him to the walk. He’s not there. Thankfully, Alvin’s Belgian connection gives us a lot to speak about. He’s lived in Romania for five years. Having come from the small city of Bruges, he finds Bucharest more vibrant. Alvin speaks little Romanian. His job only demands his native Dutch and his friends all speak English. 

He wishes more Western Europeans would discover his adopted country beyond the clichés of misery and deprivation. It’s misrepresentative. 

He asks me a number of Belgium-related questions and pays a good deal of attention to what I’m saying; to the point I worry other guests feel excluded. We leave the restaurant en masse.  Alvin offers to walk me back to the right metro stop. One of his Romanian guests tells him to ‘behave’ with a facetious smile.

‘Should I be nervous?’ I ask.

Alvin is a slight man with a limp. I’m not in immediate danger. However, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong impression. 

We take the same scenic route on which he led the other guests earlier. Surrounded by lakes, it's a beautiful part of the City.

It’s slightly awkward as I discover we’re heading in the same direction on the metro. We manage nonetheless to keep the conversation going. I look away as Alvin's gaze follows a slender young woman with an exposed midriff.

On his advice, I descend at Universitat metro station. From there, I recollect the route Andrea showed me a couple of nights before to the Old City. Finally! I’m self-sufficient. I make my way directly to the  landmark Manuc’s Inn, said to be one of the oldest hotels in Europe. En route, a platform worker on his bike shouts something vaguely discriminatory in my direction, when I don’t step out of his way fast enough… 

‘...In your country….’

‘What?! What did you say?’. 

He does not repeat it. It’s the second suspiciously racist interaction I’ve had in as many hours.

Manuc’s Inn is busy but not as boisterous as when I passed by on my first night. A raucous live recording of folk music streams through the speakers. The customer service is hit-and-miss. I’ve experienced incredible instances of friendliness on this holiday. Yet, I’ve also encountered an abruptness that lives down to less flattering stereotypes about this part of the world. The meal is passable and not too expensive; if lighter than expected. At least I’ve ticked Manuc's Inn off my must-do list.

I still have some space for dessert so I make my way to a Lebanese sweets café that I’ve had my eye on. Each time I walk past, the owner entreats me to patronise them with a cheekily aggressive flirtation. It turns out he’s not the owner. He’s a Romanian lawyer called Lenny (Leonardo) looking after the shop for a friend. None of the other employees are Lebanese either. 

 Lenny tells me I have a look that Romanian men find ‘exotic’. I don’t approve of this fetishisation but I find him more entertaining than I should. The good-natured younger employees make up for Lenny’s lack of professionalism. The ice creams are of excellent quality and distinctively flavoured. I joke in French with Lina, the Algerian waitress, assured the other two don’t know what we’re muttering about.

Village Museum (Izi Travel)

I’m in good spirits. The streets are still busy – if not as much as the night before – and for the first time I make it all the way back to my hotel on foot, no problems.

On my last full day in Bucharest, I have a number of options. I had initially wanted to return to Sinaia Village, to visit the monastery. However, after the rather frenetic nature of Saturday’s all-day excursion to Transylvania, I don’t have the appetite to leave the City again. If I’d had an extra day, I would.

There are also some sites in Bucharest that I’m yet to explore, such as the Village Museum and historical places of worship.

David sends me an effusive message the day before, suggesting he’d like to reconnect before he flies back to Bolivia. After some reflection, I invite him along to the Village Museum. He accepts with zeal, only to cancel in the morning. He has to go to the airport earlier than planned, he says.

Whether or not this is the case or he just has cold-feet, I’m not too fussed. I’m re-discovering how to hold these ephemeral encounters loosely. 

I’m not a museum enthusiast but I am sufficiently intrigued by the concept of the Village to give it a go. It houses replicas and originals, of traditional Romanian homesteads and agricultural materials from mainly the 18^th and 19^th Century. In the early days of the museum, during the first half of the 20^th century, some inhabitants continued to live in the homes once they were transferred to the site.

As is my custom, I try to give as many as possible of the exhibits my attention (one of the hazards of these activities, I find). Only some of the homes are open for the public to enter and during set periods of the day. We otherwise have to be content to look through the cobweb-surrounded windows. Several exhibits are in the process of renovation. All that awaits visitors are empty rooms and plastic coverings. 

After spending over two hours at the Museum, my curiosity is satiated. It’s back into town for lunch and more sightseeing.

At the Old Town I walk through backstreets and pass mercurial drunks to find the Curtea Veche - or Old Church. I realise on entering these Eastern Orthodox sacred spaces, that I don’t have the same relationship with them as I do with other church buildings. Whilst I have never belonged to Western Orthodox traditions such as Roman Catholicism or High Anglicanism, I’ve had more exposure to them. 

 After an underwhelming shop at German pharmacy chain DM, I head next to the Stavropoleos monastery, dating back to the early 18^th century. Having glimpsed it on my first night, I now have time to explore in earnest. I’m more fascinated by the interior than I was by that of the Curtea Veche, which is larger with a more impressive façade. I observe the rituals furtively performed by most of those who enter both spaces. It makes me wonder how much these religious rites become an end in themselves; taking our eyes off the One whom we claim to worship. It demands self-scrutiny; how often do I lose sight of God through force of habit?

As I exit, I hear an older American proclaim loudly ‘...These aren’t saints. Not in the biblical sense…’, presumably in reference to the icons. Even if I don’t subscribe to these aspects of Orthodox worship myself, the arrogance of his tone irks me. He could at least save his disapproval for when he’s out of earshot of the on site clergy, et al.

It’s a late Lebanese lunch for me. On my way to the café, a local calls out, using a Chocolate-related epithet. The fetishisation is starting to grate. 

The contrast between the Old Town by day and by night is stark. There are establishments that won’t open at all until evening. For the first time, I notice a bar called Aren’t We All Sinners? in English.

I have plans to reconnect with Andrea. She proposes an afternoon drink. It’s all her schedule allows. I text her an update but receive no reply. She’ll later inform me that my message only arrives hours after it was sent. It’s not meant to be.

The restaurant is virtually deserted. I receive courteous and attentive service from the multicultural staff.

Curtea Veche
(courtesy of Sygic Travel)

Back at the hotel, I’m greeted with the unpleasant news that I have to pay for the damage my make-up stains have apparently caused to some towels and sheets. It’s not a small amount. The receptionist, Leonid is very uneasy about having to break it to me. He's visibly relieved when I offer to pay up promptly.

For dinner, I take the long way round to Cabu’ Ca Bere; via the Athenaeum and Queen Elisabeth Boulevard. I pass a large crowd gathered outside a neighbourhood church. A disembodied male voice intones a hymn, whilst the faithful line up to receive blessings from the priests. I look on intrigued, alongside other tourists, their phones at the ready.

Cabu’ Ca Bere is oddly busier this Monday evening than it was on Friday night. The waiting staff can just about seat me. I pop to the loo. My table has gone by the time I return. Thankfully, it’s easy to seat one. My waiter looks beleaguered. Originally from South Asia he’s been living in Romania for less than a year. I try something new from the menu. It doesn’t have the same spark as the feast I ordered for my birthday. Still, I have no regrets.

I decide to pay one last visit to the Lebanese dessert café. I pass a sketchy fellow sitting outside a bar whom I’ve seen earlier in the day. I return his leery look with a scowl.

The young staff at the café, Farid and Lina, are pleased to see me. Lenny is more subdued. Lina whispers that, whilst on his watch, a woman stole their tips. 

Before long, Lenny returns to his cheeky ways. When Lina and I remark on the abundance of strip bars in Bucharest, he insists it’s not his scene. I remain incredulous. I’m a lawyer, not a liar! He declares. They're often one and the same thing, I retort, only half-joking. I did study law in a former life, after all.

I get some more French practice with Lina. Farid elaborates about his medical studies. He’s working at the ice cream parlour just for the summer. He’ll return to University shortly after I fly back to Brussels.

Lina offers me a free pastry, despite my protests to the contrary. She asks if I’ve enjoyed Bucharest. I confess it’s not the most charming city I’ve visited but it has a rich history. What will remain with me, I continue, is the warmth of spirit I’ve experienced. The sort that I'm enjoying at that very moment.

Soundtrack: Tutto Passa by Gianni Brezzo.

LVC is on a break for the rest of the (N. Hemisphere) summer. A la prochaine...