Belgian Gay MP marries male partner

Jean-Jacques Flahaut, Belgian member of parliament will marry his male partner next Saturday. The happy couple, who met in 2006, was congratulated by several government members, including the (Christian/Catholic) Belgian prime minister. Flahaut is the fist gay Belgian MP to marry after Belgium legalized same-sex marriages back in 2003.

You know, whenever I read these happy tidings I need to take a break, not sure how I really feel or whether I need to reevaluate my ideas about gay marriage. Like you may or may not know, I’ve been in a relationship with my male partner for quite some time. The past few years I’ve become increasingly uncomfortable attending weddings of straight friends, with one recent gay marriage in Antwerp making me want to leave early.

Facing up to my true feeling I realize I’m just like most of you: I’d enjoy that same kind of social acceptance that seems to be reserved to those who take the plunge, realizing that at times it’s all much more than a signed piece of paper and a big party. It can actually become a social entry ticket that reads “you’re one of us”.

Antwerp left bank in spring: a trip down memory lane

After what must have been the coldest winter in twenty years, Antwerp is currently enjoying 12h of blazing sunshine each day since early this week. Café terraces are packed, tourists have already invaded every open air seat in the historic downtown, so I recently called my partner, inquiring if he felt like going for a long walk. Since the two of us had survived a five month winter, it was time to pick up the pieces, make new plans and check out mutual expectations. Antwerp left bank felt like the perfect location: being just across the 500m/y wide river in front of my door, it’s a place holding precious memories of long, warm summers spent on its beach, having ice-creams while leisurely walking the ancient, green riverside promenade towards the old marina.

The moment I stepped out of the subway car after a ride deep below the river, something felt different though, as if Antwerp left-bank had profoundly changed. I’d known this place since childhood, so it took me a while to figure out what was happening.  You see, left bank has been a place of fun and laughter ever since I walked its shores, holding the hand of my dad as a toddler.  Left bank meant ice creams, endless walks through its never ending forests and parks, relaxed afternoons spent at its open-air pool, watching the ocean liners pass by on their way to distant continents. But there was always laugher way back then, and now there wasn’t.

Upon returning we decided to take the old scenic route along the river, featuring locations that held precious memories for the both of us. As we watched a group of teenagers enjoy their first BBQ of the season and noticed how boat owners were preparing their vessels for the upcoming season, we both somehow failed to engage in that “we’re having fun” type of conversation that had always been the hallmark of any Antwerp left bank visit.

Sitting on my peaceful Antwerp balcony today, in blazing sunshine while enjoying lunch, I wonder: where did we lose the laughter? [photos: Antwerp left bank, March 17, 2009]

I won’t be there, to catch you when you fall

Some song lyrics have that magic quality to simply say it all. “Last Call” by Lee Ann Womack, a reminder how fragile happiness can be. But unlike the town depicted in this video, Antwerp bar’s have no real closing time. Many stay open until the early hours of the morning, causing a multitude of alcohol induced issues. And trust me, I’ve been there too, not taking that last call, realizing how easy words can be. Update March 17: this day is very special to me on a personal level. The local Irish are trying to trash it with their foul tasting beer and drunken noise during their St Patrick day’s celebrations, but I won’t let them. Envisaged getting a large dog and pretending I only spoke French today, but a sunny left bank walk did the trick

Tioman Island, revisited

It’s been years since I last saw you WP, ten years to be exact. Ten years of total silence, knowing you are only a three hours drive away, yet no longer physically reachable.

There must have been a compelling reason for me to seal that old carton box from Singapore with industrial strength duct-tape, as somehow I believed time would heal the pain, that somehow these old memories would have lost much of their power if I just waited long enough. I was so wrong.

Opening that picture box felt at first like an innocent trip down memory lane: our condo in Flamingo Valley, the sultry nights spent on Tioman island in a meranti cabin with the cries of monkeys breaking the hissing sound of the jungle, the virgin beaches of Turkey before mass-tourism invaded them all, our sleek convertible on the way to Key West and even our travels through the neverending jungle near San Blas, Jalisco, Mexico, on route to Puerto Vallarta.  That was our life, W, an exciting, compelling and utterly fulfilling jet-setting life that I cherished and remember oh so well. But that box became a box of Pandora when I stumbled upon your last will and testament, the checks and statements confirming I would no longer be living in the upscale suburban house we had both come to love, the old videotapes showing me walking my dog, a dog that has probably long passed away.  I’d never expected to lose it all in one single breath.

Upon opening that professionally sealed box last night the memories we once shared came back to haunt me W. And I now realize it won’t be easy to step back into the cold reality of Antwerp, Belgium, 2009 and just forget about what truly was the best part of my life.

Valentine’s Day 2009, Antwerp

Valentine’s day Feb 14 2009 in Antwerp, Belgium. Clear blue sky, great atmosphere.  Ran out of batteries. Please note: when someone gives you chocolates for Valentine’s day in Belgium, the kind donator is either poor, dumb or just plain brain-dead. We eat that stuff for breakfast. Remarkable quote from a twitter feed: “Valentines Day poll results: 40% of people on Twitter were having sex on VDay, but only with themselves”. Is romance really dying in these confusing days and age?

The tragic demise of a suburban, hysterical drama queen

In a country far, far away, lives a wondrous creature. Yet unidentified by local scientists, she preys on her own self-induced misery to turn the life of her own and of all those surrounding her into a perfectly manicured, yet horrifying 24/7 PMS hell. Let’s visit this rare species in God’s creation on an exploratory mission of mercy, shall we?

Each and every day one can see her waking up around 11 am , cursing at yet another day filled with vital issues such as clipping grocery store coupons, imaginary vacuuming and cleaning, driving her sleek European build $50,000 Volvo to her multiple therapists and charity gatherings (Narcissists Anonymous being her true favourite), while her two picture perfect, fair-haired children hungrily await her return with military embedded shock and awe.

More often than not, the blinds are drawn at her mansion in upscale suburbia, as she can’t stand the light or gentle warmth of a regular summer day. Much like her mind, her skin is fragile, bristled, broken, showing signs of concealed decay.

Being an upstanding citizen, she’s ever so proud of her numerous academic achievements, being granted the “ultimate sleeping your way to the top” award, (twice), with an honourable mention for “landing the best paid state official”, not the biological father of her children, but without the slightest doubt the social catch of the century.

When she laughs, there’s a “je ne sais quoa” (her spelling, she obviously speaks “Franch”) to her composure and voice that makes you shiver in disbelief: is this really a human laugh? Are those valued, inherited jewels and pearls real signs of success and wealth, or pathetic attempts at blinding the onlooker?

So she slumps along, taking her pills that keep us safe from her manic mood-swings, drinking yet another bottle of red wine. Being a very sophisticated consumer at Wall-Mart, she likes to choose her exclusive beverages based on two important criteria: pronounceable name and most colourful label.

Sundays mornings are spent in church, being a ‘woman of faith’ (in Prozac),  singing along to the hymns she never believed in in the first place.  Church visitors endure her long, pathetic stories of tragic loss, as somehow she appears to have lost every family member one can lose, several times over. But then again, who would blame them?

Her husband is a powerful man. Driven by ambition he threats her like a trophy, a trophy that has long faded but insists on being admired by a wide following of PMS-ing groupies. Being the bee-queen, she sequesters everyone’s attention, if not by good-will, then by force. Thee internet is her lifeline, used and abused to intimidate her flock of driveling hausfrau bloggers, who go through the daily ritual of leaving brain-dead comments at her pathetic blog she considers to be a true masterpiece, worthy of a Pulitzer price.  One she will fake to have been awarded. Venus rules the night.

She’s the quintessential suburban, hysterical drama queen, the owner of a brain filled with imaginary grandeur. One of a kind. And damned proud of it.

But one day she tripped, only to notice people just stepped on her, without remorse. Lacking any real substance, nobody noticed her.  Her children soon left the oppressive maternal playground, following their gay lovers to California, desperate to escape the years of inane drivel, art classes, straight A exams, mental abuse called “poetry” along with a mix of religious fanaticism and delusions of greatness their mother had labelled ‘an wholesome education’.

She was alone. Severed from her world of make belief she festered like a trampled, suburban, hysterical drama queen. One down. Millions more to go. [© Peter - antwerp.wordpress.com, 2009. All rights reserved.]

Dedicated to all emotionally fake “Alice in wonderland” housewives I had the pleasure of meeting these past years.

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