I walked into Izy Coffee this morning, feeling the exhaustion. Yesterday I completed everything about my Will, my Power of Attorney, and having my executor Lydia contact my beloved ones after I die.
And now I’ve crashed. Plus Covid seems to be lingering. This will be a short post.
Catriona, the barista, said:
Last time I saw you, you were going to sing karaoke
Bruce replied:
No, I had Covid. I didn’t have the energy and I didn’t want to infect people
With my cappuccino, I sat down on the black couch next to my friend Samuel. He hadn’t heard my conversation with Catriona. Minutes later, though, he asked:
Do you sing at home?
And we talked about the glories of song. Something shines and fills the room far beyond the human voice. When we open our mouths to sing, out come the vibrations, the sweetness of the lyrics, the flow of the melody. The world is touched. Within the body is a line of yearning that curves upwards from the toes to the mouth. And the song emerges to seek out the far corners of the universe, to colour human spirits beautiful.
Years ago, a friend told me about her father. When he died, she found out that he hadn’t told anyone about his after-death wishes, and so it became a mess to decide what to do.
I remember saying to myself “That won’t be me.”
And so it isn’t.
Lydia and Luc were my companions in Liège yesterday. Awhile ago Lydia agreed to be the Executor of my Will, and also my Power of Attorney. She’ll make decisions about my property and medical care if I’m no longer able to. Thank you, Lydia.
It’s been straightforward about my Will but the Power of Attorney is another story. Belgium and Canada look at those documents very differently.
Making sure that “Ik wil niet worden gereanimeerd” really happens has been an ordeal. Do not resuscitate.
Lydia has copies of almost all the documents she would need … five more to go, and we’ll deal with them this afternoon. Yay!
But there’s something else – the Samsung S23 phone that sits in my hands right now. She’d need passwords … easily done. And then there’s my gigantic list of contacts. I’m spent a few emotionally draining hours writing down stuff for her. And here’s the result:
When I die, Lydia needs to contact 38 companies, organizations and government agencies. That’s essential. I hope she’ll also reach 42 friends. I want them to know that the body is no more.
It was much easier describing Liège yesterday but today a future reality called death is front and centre in my mind. And so I’m telling you. It’s the right thing to do.
Later today, once we’ve examined those last POA documents, I will be complete (“flat”) with this topic. And I will smile.
Sinc moving to Belgium, I’ve got used to forms that are incomprehensible because they’re written in Dutch. This morning I encountered one that was also a mystery, written in English.
It’s from the Canada Revenue Agency, entitled Application for Refund of Part XIII Tax Withheld.
A Canadian company prepares my taxes. My income is from pensions in Canada. There are all sorts of rules for Canadians living outside the country. I don’t understand them. I keep praying that my tax person does understand the intricacies.
I was told in April that there’d be a long delay in receiving my 2023 refund. And it’s still not in my account.
Now this letter with the magic word “refund” front and centre. But what do I put in all those boxes?
Once again I follow the good graces of my tax professional. She’s a good person and empathizes with my lack of knowledge, plus my long exhales. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll end up with more money than I expected.
As I get older, I’m more willing to not know. It says nothing about me as a human being. Just that my version of intelligence doesn’t reside in the realm of analysis.
And would you believe that my first year of university, in 1967, was in accounting?
Tonight my friend Sarah is performing a dance recital in the city of Roeselare. She told me months ago about today. And here I almost am.
I’m in Tarterie in the neighbouring city of Kortrijk. I’ve decided to roam around centrum, but first there’s cappuccino.
As I sat down, a big black-and-white dog cozied up to my left leg. I petted her head and back for a few minutes … two contented beings.
And then she was gone. I can yearn all I want for a lingering companion but Stella clearly had places to go, other people to meet. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take a photo. Perhaps she’ll return.
She came back into the room, approached a young girl for a minute or so, walked away from her, glanced at me … and kept going. So briefly, this love.
***
I’m sitting on a bench in a large square in Kortrijk centrum. Several cafés are filling with devotées of fine Belgian beer. My stomach doesn’t want to join them. I suspect that me not feeling the energy of this city is simply me not feeling the energy of me.
“Healthy food, Bruce.” And so dinner is on the terrace of the Hawaiian Poké Bowl, also on the square. The tummy is smiling. And here come the cyclists:
***
Now I’m in Roeselare. Sarah will be dancing in De Spil, a cultural centre. Voilà:
Just Sarah and a pianist. Haunting. So mysterious. Her feet floated above the floor. She wore a grey wool blanket, surrounded by others …
At one point, Sarah hunched down and piled more blankets on top of her. Light from the side showed a tortured soul. She implored us: “Speak to me!” … “Look forward, not back.”
We stood at the end. It was brilliant.
And now weaving through Roeselare streets to catch my train home to Gent.
I got up from the bench that gave me a fine view of the Historiche Stadthalle, ready to enter in.
A young couple was sitting nearby. I walked over to them and said …
I’m going to a concert over there, to hear a singer whom I’ve wanted to see live for thirty years – Chris de Burgh.I’m really doing this!
They both smiled. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t heard of Chris.
Here’s the hall, with some 76-year-old guy onstage:
When Chris first came out, we gave him a two-minute standing ovation. Such is the love for the man.
Chris sang my favourite song of his – “The Snows of New York”. I vow to sing these words to an audience some day:
You have always been such a good friend to me Through the thunder and the rain And when you’re feeling lost in the snows of New York Lift your heart and think of me
And then there was this … I pray that the video will work for you.
I wish I was sailing away, sailing away Sailing away, in your arms tonight In your arms tonight
I walked out of the Stadthalle with a heart brimming over and a smile on my face. I sat back down on the same bench. The world was alight.
I ate last night at an Italian restaurant called Osteria. I’d really enjoyed the Gent version.
Since my favourite flavour is pesto, I was drawn to Maccheroncini Pesto Genovese on the menu, complete with pine nuts. Surely my esophagus could handle foods I love.
So careful … this recent version of Bruce. “No beer. Just have water.” I’m a wise old guy.
Still water or sparkling? Since coming to Europe I’ve discovered the joys of sparkling, so I went with that. Two small bottles.
An amazing meal, chewed slowly, washed down with plenty of water. I was following Dr. Lagae’s instructions to a T.
(Sigh)
Two hours later, in bed, I had trouble swallowing. I wanted to belch but I couldn’t. Carbonation – the unseen enemy!
I started walking around the apartment. Little burps occasionally appeared. More walking … two hours more. More frequent belches. Throughout the night, I’d guess a hundred of them.
Finally I thought I could sleep … and I did, on and off, till the early morning light.
If I’d been at home in my squeaky-floored apartment, my neighbour Dirk downstairs would have heard every footfall. But I was in a modern building in Wuppertal – silent toes.
Today I’m trying to be even more careful about what goes in my mouth. So far so good.
***
I haven’t written about the wonders of Wuppertal. Here’s one:
A monorail curving above the river! What could be better? I stared and stared.
I’m heading back to my Airbnb home for a … nap. Why not? My body is saying yes to the lie-down. I need to be in peak form for Chris de Burgh’s concert tonight.
***
Here is the Historiche Stadthalle before the concert. Afterwards I’ll come back to this bench for a photo with lights glowing.
Between now and then, I’ll revel in Chris’ music. He’s been a hero of mine for decades. Finally I get to see him live.
I’m sitting in the back room of Milia’s Coffee, supposedly because that’s the only place I can charge my phone. The truth, though, is that I need a place of sanctuary … at a distance from other people but still connected within the open spaces of the café.
This is a different Bruce, a weary one. My Polar watch says my “Actual Sleep” last night was nine hours and thirty-two minutes. Woh – that’s a lot of snoozing!
Wuppertal boasts many hills and my post-Covid bod is struggling. But that’s okay: Chris de Burgh shows up in my world tomorrow evening.
My cappuccino companion of the moment is the eleven-year-old Malcolm in Philip Pullman’s novel La Belle Sauvage.
Malcolm had never had a conversation like the one that followed. At school, in a class of forty, there was no time for such a thing, even if the curriculum allowed it, even if the teachers had been interested. At home it wouldn’t have happened, because neither his father nor his mother was a reader. In the bar he was a listener rather than a participant and the only two friends with whom he might have spoken seriously about such things – Robbie and Tom – had none of the breadth of learning and the depth of understanding that he found when Dr Relf spoke.
To be clear, Malcolm is the son of an innkeeper, and most evenings he serves the guests who show up in the lounge.
But far beyond the details, there is a broad meaning in this paragraph that sings to my soul. Like Malcolm, I yearn for conversations that are real, where we throw our lives into the air and see how they land with the other person. Not sports scores, not politics … The joys and sorrows of the Spirit.
Thank you, Philip and Malcolm, for the reminder of what I hold dear.
***
There was a Zoom call with the Evolutionary Collective this afternoon that I had committed to attend. I was determined to keep my word, and just as committed to not climb the long hill to my Airbnb to take the call.
I sought a park – somewhere quiet. Google Maps showed me one and I headed there, not realizing that it involved another hill, on the far side of downtown. “Climb the hill, Bruce. Covid is done.”
Well, on one level it’s done but my fatigue is lingering. I would have taken a video of “Old Man Climbing” but it escaped my mind.
I found a bench with a sweet bed of flowers in front. Voilà:
Minutes later, it started to rain. Up with my umbrella. The Weather Network said “It’s not raining.” The umbrella begged to differ. The app said rain will start soon and continue for awhile. It was ninety minutes till the Zoom call. (Sigh)
I trudged home … down, then level, then up. All of me was at a low ebb. Then my Internet connection was wonky during the call.
Sometimes the “Day One’s” of my journeys are pretty laid back. Such as today.
Yesterday was my first day back in the world after Covid. And today was three train rides to Wuppertal, Germany.
I’m sitting in the King’s Head Pub, run by a Brit who fell in love with a German woman. He’s a happy soul.
Less than a kilometre down the road stands the Historiche Stadthalle. On Tuesday evening, I’ll join other devotées of Chris de Burgh to hear him sing in the concert hall.
The King’s Head is virtually empty … and I miss the energy of a full pub. Still, the Ohara’s craft beer and steak and mushroom pie fill up my soul.
How strange to have so little energy. Three times today a human being smiled at me and offered to carry my suitcase up or down. No resistance from this guy. I needed the help.
On the trains I had short conversations with fellow travellers but it wasn’t the 100% Bruce. I often cocooned into my comfy seat, retreating into my latest beloved book – La Belle Sauvage from the universe of Philip Pullman. He’s a marvelous creator of human beings. I wrote a few days ago about Lyra, an “out there”12-year-old. In this book she’s been on the planet for only six months. Her journey begins.
My Airbnb is on a hill way above Wuppertal centrum. I haven’t figured out buses so my feet are the engine of returning home. A slow slog.
But now I’m here, on the Zunftstraße. Ready for some reading. My zip may return tomorrow … but if it doesn’t I’ll still create happiness.
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