Never.

475. "At least you two are close friends...," Anna says. "Yes, but seven months and then that's it, you know...," I say. "Why? You can still email and chat and..." "He doesn't like writing," I explain, as the preemptive apology flashes in my mind. I'm not very good with keeping long-distance friendships, he once confessed, and then we must have had the same thought, because he looked at me and added, Sorry. "And he doesn't even use a chat program," I give Anna yet another reason why the friendship is surely going to be doomed. "I mean, what kind of people who don't use chat programs?"

On the familiar walk back to our offices after yet another weekly Wednesday group lunch, I tell Anna about my experience of faded friendships, even if these were built after more than half a decade of training, extended traveling and living together (chess teammates), or after more than half a decade of approximately ten birthday celebrations each year, countless BBQs, fishing trips, Kris Kringles, New Year's, and weekly get-togethers (Down Under friends); and Anna tries to convince me, also from personal experience, that people can still stay close friends even if they only talk once every two months. 

As we take turn to debate about what it means and what it takes to be friends, I can't help but wonder whether the post-Brussels friendship that Anna and I are pondering about is not actually between the social-networks-challenged boy and myself, and I feel a lump in my throat.

476. Remote office-mates are highly recommended. 

ROM: Yes, we had a lot of fun! We were actually staying with people we know, like, say: my parents, grandparents, brother and family :-) 

Me: That's a lot of people :) And *everyone* survived the trip? I'm impressed. 

ROM: Yes! We don't talk to each other anymore, but we are alive. (I'm kidding.) (N. [ROM's adorable toddler] and I are still good friends.)

477. Unknowingly playing Never Ever Have I, the third edition in the flat -- without the alcohol-induced effects afterwards.

Last year, when abruptly leaving a one-person apartment, my first choice had not been to move into a shared flat. I am too old for that, the twenty-four-year-old version of mine had smugly thought, picturing flatmates leaving dirty dishes in the sink and partying drunkenly all night long, the self-hypocrisy clearly lost on me at the time because (my) dirty dishes and unwanted (to the landlord) evening company were the two main issues that eventually drove me out of that apartment in the first place. In the space of one month, basic math and Google helped my personal stand evolve from, I am too old for that, to, I am too old for that but OK maybe I can share a place with someone I know, to, I need to live with strangers and their dirty dishes if I still want to afford things, like, food and shelter and stuff. 

This philosophical development meant two things: one, money is a powerful brainwashing tool, and two, I was then living with two complete strangers. To get to know each other, J., E. (my flatmates at the time) and I have enthusiastically played Never Ever Have I, where we took turns to make a true statement, Never ever have I done something something, and then the others would have to drink a sip of beer if he or she had done the described action. 

Within two hours, I went from not knowing what were the last names of my flatmates, to knowing every person, every location, and practically every position that J. has ever you-know-what. It says something about the basic human curiosity when all the Never Ever Have I statements -- essentially thinly veiled questions about other drunken participants -- are about moral sins and sexual activities. I know we were not the only ones fixating on these topics because, exhausting the collective creativity of questions about moral sins and sexual activities, J. Googled for more Never Ever Have I statements, 99% of which were also about moral sins and sexual activities. The morning after, I was still clueless about the last names of my flatmates, but until this day, every now and then, sitting in the car I am still wondering how on earth J. managed that position -- the gear stick just seems so inconvenient. I'd say I got to know J. well. 

Which was a minor pity because a month later, he moved out; then, two more months and E. followed suit. One after the other, Tintin and Gaston arrived. The first question among us was not about who would be the nominated rent payee. It was about when we would play this great ice-breaker Never Ever Have I. The answer was at the pre-Christmas party dinner, which was arguably the best timing because it is impossible to find a better time to play Never Ever Have I than just after the consumption of fresh oysters, sausage-wrapped-in-bacon, well-marinated juicy steaks, creamy cake with ice-cream, and three bottles of wine between three persons. Moral sins and sexual activities once again proved the popular (or only) themes; unfortunately (or fortunately) most details escape me now because if the three bottles of wine were great for loosening us, they were also excellent for joint activities like romantically dancing (Gaston and I only, Tintin now dialing for a follow-up party), romantically vomiting into the toilet while sitting on the bathroom floor next to each other (also just Gaston and I, Tintin already getting ready for the follow-up party), braincell genocide and memory loss (all three of us). 

Saturday December 11, 2010. We have hidden the first bottle. And the cuuuute diners.

When Smurfette moved in, what with her being a primary school teacher and loving quinoa, it never crossed my mind the thought of suggesting the game. This might also have had something to do with us not seeing each other for eight out of the first ten weeks living together, but either way, there has not been a replay of Never Ever Have I. Until tonight. As we gulp down the flavorful creamy wine broth of our mussels (Smurfette's successful second "Tuesday dinner"), she tells us about a four-day field trip next week that she is going on with her kiddies. Having never been on an overnight field trip with school, I ask Smurfette what hers would entail. "Nature," Smurfette's boyfriend tells me. "They will actually see things like, a cow!, or, a sheep!" "Cool," I say, then make the colossal mistake of half-muttering to myself, "I have never really seen a sheep."

"YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A SHEEP?" Smurfette's boyfriend's eyes are widened, just in case you miss the surprise in the sheer volume of his voice. There might have been a sheep in the Adelaide zoo that CS and I once took my nephew to, but might have is a little vague and, anyhow, it is one second too late for clarification. As I play around with the mussels shells on my plate, the information sinks in Gaston's head, and you can tell the precise moment that it finally clicks, because that is the moment when he turns around to stare at me, and goes, "YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A SHEEP??" I point out to Gaston that Smurfette's boyfriend has already said that, but clearly no one cares for originality, because Smurfette, having heard the French translation from her boyfriend, echos, "YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A SHEEP???"

The next half an hour is a long list of animals. "A donkey?" "Uhm..." "YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A DONKEY?" "I have seen it on, uhm, Shrek?" "What is Shrek?" Smurfette's boyfriend wants to know. "It is Shrek," Gaston repeats precisely what I just said, but somehow in a French-ish way and it works because Smurfette's boyfriend then goes, "SO YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A DONKEY?" "A cow, what about a cow?" "Yes!" I am palpably relieved, choosing not to mention that at the age of seven, after seeing a cow for the first time in Da Lat, I came home innocently telling my father that he needed to go there to see a cow, because I believed that (a) like me pre-Da Lat, my forty-two-year-old father has never seen a cow in his life, and (b) Da Lat is the only city with cows. "Phew...," goes a collective sigh from everyone. A camel? An elephant? A horse? Yes, I have even been on a horse, for the whole minute, long enough for a photo to be taken... "I have never been on a horse," it is Smurfette's boyfriend's turn to commit a grave error. Smurfette swiftly turns sideways to give one look at her boyfriend, then turns back to us, with the well-practiced manner of a primary school teacher, "All together now...," then the three of us, in perfect unison, "YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN ON A HORSE?"

It turns out that you can, after all, play Never Ever Have I without fixating on moral sins and sexual activities, or ending up vomitting. Which is a good thing, because I wouldn't have wanted to waste all the creamy tiramisu that Smurfette prepared for us, and 'a cute primary-school teacher who cooks well' is all I want to know about my new flatmate for now. Moral sins and sexual activities can wait. Maybe until the next pre-Christmas party. 

Changes.

472. Having croque-monsieur (without ham), goat cheese on bread and proper coffee for breakfast, in someone else's clothes.

473. A Parisian offer that I cannot refuse (I watched The Godfather last night): "Do you want to be my remote office-mate?"

474. It is a Tuesday dinner, but not as we usually know it. Side by side, Gaston and I have prepared our own food separately, he making a zucchini/celery/tomato soup, while I loosely following Mark Bittman's zucchini/eggplant/onion ratatouille, us occasionally helping out each other. I also use the phrase "helping out each other" loosely, because basically it refers to Gaston's peeling and cutting zucchini for me, Gaston's showing me how to cook rice that does not come inside a plastic bag, and then ending up cooking it himself, Gaston's spicing up my ratatouille. In return, I make fun of his soup, and prepare a glass of freshly squeezed lime juice for him. With me drinking my also homemade orange juice, tonight is most likely the first Tuesday dinner that we do not finish, or even start, a bottle of wine together.

Me: So, if you do it in September, I will bake a cake for you every week.

Gaston: I don't want to become big and fat!

Me, looking him up and down, to pretend that he is already big and fat, a feeble attempt that fails miserably because he is neither big nor fat: OK, if you don't do it in September, you will have to bake a cake for me every week. I don't mind being big and fat...

Gaston, in a deeply caring voice: But I don't want you to become big and fat.

Me: Some men like that, you know.

Gaston: What have you been watching on the Internet??

Thunderstorm.

430. 4:30 am. Being woken up by thunders and the sounds of heavy rain beating on the skylight. Wondering whether nearby he too is woken up ("I love thunderstorms!"), and, a little further away, how many of my Brussels friends are currently rendered sleepless by the torrential downpour and how many can see the vast night sky being sporadically brightened up.

431. 10ish am. Sometimes, when you can see nine people doing the same thing, what they are doing is probably the right thing. Like, waiting under shelter at the Delta metro and not taking that escalator up out of the underground, because that flimsy black umbrella you are holding is no match for the relentless hail that has been blanketing Brussels all morning, and your favourite, already terribly ruined pair of black flats can get even further ruined when waddle through the short, but flooded, walkway to work, and then you get to find out -- not much of a surprise, really -- that it is kinda unpleasant to be wearing a soaking wet skirt at work, and you wonder just how long you can stay inside the office half-naked until someone (besides your office-mate) finds out. 
Who knows, maybe inside other offices your colleagues are doing the same thing.

432. Living room. Ignoring the fact that Gaston has bought ingredients for the lasagna tonight, I am biting the hand that feeds me. 
Me: You are polluting the environment.
Smurfette: Yeah, you are polluting the environment. 
Me: You are an awful person. 
Smurfette: You are an awful person. 
Me: Oh this is great! 
Gaston: Now you have an ally...

Equality.

259. Parc du Cinquantenaire. One lap -- that is how long it takes me for to cave in to the decidedly un-Belgian heat, and classily roll up my ankle-length running pants almost halfway through the upper thighs. Puffing around the park crowded with people enjoying a hot summer day, half of the pants already sort of falling down, the other half still holding up, I try not to wonder what people might think of my outfit, chanting in my head, "I will never see these people again, I will never see these people again..."

What are the odds, that the very day I compose this mantra is the first day I ever run into someone I know, at the park?

260. Having just completed our individual runs, we are comparing notes. "Oh, I did a 7 km in under half an hour..." he says. Sheepish, I tell him about my run, which was a little shorter but took me much longer. "It's still good! Really, that's not bad at all," ever the politician, he tries to compliment me. "Actually, it's terrible," I state the obvious, but still feel thankful that he does not laugh at my efforts. 

Half an hour later, a particularly strong wind comes through the window, carrying with it the unpleasant heat. "God, it's hot, isn't it?" he shakes head. "Yes! At the park, I was melting..." Almost unnoticeably, he utters under his breath, "Especially at that speed..."

261. Seeing Gaston sitting lady-like, legs crossed, in my long black skirt. Considering his suddenly feminist appearance the evening, it was not surprising, in retrospect, that Gaston had been the first person to remark that it's about six months since our wonderful pre-Christmas party on December 11, one of the first "Tuesday" dinners, and that tonight would be the last.

Perfect.

184. Vegetables and honesty.

Me: Is it okay the way I diced the capsicum?

Gaston: Yes, it's good.

M: Is it perfect?

G: No, of course not. Nothing is ever perfect. 

M: Everything I do is perfect. 

G: Well...

M: What is it I do that isn't? 

G: Are you sure you want to know? 

M: Yes. Just one thing...

G: And we stop after one thing? 

M: Yes. *pauses* But the London train does not count. 

G: Ah, too bad. 

M: See, everything I do is perfect. 

G: You can't play golf...

185. 8:30ish pm. The sight of Tintin, in black suit and silk tie, rushing into the living room, one hand holding a plastic bag of bananas, saying, "my thing is going to be in the middle of the meal...," by way of explanation for why his ham-wrapped honeyed banana entrée will be served between Gaston's main meal and my dessert.

186. Raising a glass of wine to the 18-year-old boy of exactly six year ago who came to Brussels for the first time for Eramus, and, upon arriving at Chaleroi, thought to himself that Belgium was not at all what he had expected. To the same boy who these days arranges meetings and write speeches for a member of the European Parliment, and who seriously considers running for public office in 2013. To time flying and to growing up.

Games.

163. "Salut! Comment vas-tu?" I ask Cécile, thus breaking the long-standing tradition of speaking to each other in our own languages. Coming out of the metro station a mere few seconds after her, I have wondered whether I should speed up and say hello, after yesterday's conversation. Cécile, rightly so, had spent five minutes telling me off for still not handing in the reimbursement paperwork for my Paris trip in January. While verbal reprimands, like swear words, do not have the same effect when given in a foreign language, that does not mean they are pleasant to listen to. Midway through, I thought of trying to say something to the effect of me understanding completely the bureaucratic hassle that I was giving her, but it did not seem quite right to respond in English to Cécile's passionate French lecture, and my 15-minutes-of-French-a-day book did not cover the phrase bureaucratic hassle. So I listened quietly until the end, occasionally nodding as apologetically as I could. 

"Bien, et toi?" Cécile smiles, looking completely unlike the Cécile who discovered that my visa application fee from four months ago was still not reported, and that god only knows where my train tickets were. As our conversation turns to weather and summer vacations, I wonder whether, given our age gap, it was proper for me to address her as tu, and if not, whether this faux pas cancels out my efforts of speaking in French in order to make up for the administrative lateness. As soon as I get into my office, I will check with Geluck about the correct way to address Cécile. Then, the next time I speak to her in French, that is, when I am once again behind in my paperwork, I will know to say vous or tu. 

164. The few seconds when, just before each time Zoe rolls the dices for her turn on the Monopoly board, Tintin holds her hand and says, "Sweetheart, drink...," then waits (im)patiently until Zoe finishes a sip of white wine. 

165. Zoe's account of a moment; also known as, her attempt to immortalize a memory I would rather forget.

Midnightish, the middle of a small wrestling fight between Gaston and Zoe...what was going on? Going back a couple of moments, Gazpacho-y screams "in your faces" at them...going back some more moments, the same Gazpacho-y tells them, rather content with herself "I will be gloating about this for months!" This was after her phenomenal streak of three strikes playing the Wii. Gaston, in an attempt to keep up with her, managed to get two strikes and a spare. Zoe seemed not at her best having only achieved three spares. Going forward a couple of throws, Gazpacho-y and Gaston are still trying to find out who can score more strikes in one game and Gazpacho-y went ahead which led to her gloating about her skills! 

The last round: Zoe and Gaston try to disturb Gazpacho's performance by reminding her of her biggest sports failures which, to be fair, seems to have an influence on her performance as she goes down with a miss on the last standing pin...this leaves the door open for Gaston to take over...but also he misses the last pin standing. Final scores for the two: 153 Gaston vs 154 Gazpacho. BUT: quietly Zoe takes the remote, gets another spare and is now level with Gazpacho-y who, of course, starts screaming out her disappointment...then with the additional throw one gets with a spare on the last throw, Zoe actually wins with 173 points! And it is now her time to scream "in your face" at Gazpacho remembering the latter bragging for the better part of the game. In the meantime celebrations have started on the screen with little confetti flying around Zoe's head. Gazpacho, trying to take the obligatory photo of the screen, is hindered by Gaston who is standing in front of the screen trying to make him as big as a goaly in hockey. This blocking ultimately leads to the aforementioned wrestling fight as Zoe tries to make sure a proof of her victory is kept. Ride bene chi ride ultimo.

Self-assessment.

118. "My neighbours seem to always know what I do," Bowser begins his fifth topic for our one-hour lunch. "The other day, one lady asked me if I was Spanish. 'Are you from Spain', she said, 'because I heard you speak Spanish.' And she lives," he puts up his hands to illustrate the distance, "two blocks away!" 

"Maybe you should speak a little less loudly," Princess Peach suggests.

"I don't speak a word," Bowser responds, dead serious. 

Taking a break from eating his borrowed fries, Hugo starts to laugh, without looking at Bowser, first quietly, shoulders shaking, then loudly, because Luigi, Princess Peach and Mario are also laughing. 

"How old is the lady?" Luigi tries to make sense of the situation. " Is she 80 or something?"

"No, no, she's probably in her 30s or 40s..." 

"Then I don't know," Luigi gives up. 

"I am quiet. Yes I work naked, but I don't make any noises...."

119. Having discussed what our roles for this week's Tuesday dinner are (appropriately, Gaston cooks, the Irish guy provides alcohol, the chubby girl gets Viennetta), Tintin moves on to the general housekeeping. Apparently, our landlord has written to him. "We can dump our stuff from the second toilet downstairs in the hallway and he will get rid of it...," Tintin informs us. "Was thinking of putting one of you down there too, you know, for the space!!"
"Zoe thinks you should get rid of Gaston, because he's the taller one and hence takes up more space," I reply, paraphrasing Zoe. 
"I do believe I am taller," Tintin quickly points out. 
I pass the information on to Zoe. 
"I know that. Is he scared I might be optimizing your apartment's space??"

120. "Imagine: you are driving in Rome." Bowser holds my hands on an imaginary steering wheel, "you have to stay in the 2-10 position all the time. Except," he makes a quick movement with his left hand in front of me, "when someone is cutting you from the left." Squinting at me, Bowser asks, "then, what do you do?"

What would I do? I would say something, I suppose, but exactly what I don't know because my Italian vocabulary consists of Come butta, amico and gelato, neither of which is remotely applicable to the situation where a reckless Italian driver almost wrecks your car. "What would you do, Cassandra?" I ask the only Rome born-and-raised at the table. She smiles, and waits for Bowser to continue with the impromptu Italia 101. "You do this," Bowser raises both hands, his open palms facing forward, slightly bending fingers as if he was grabbing someone by the shoulders. But, he apparently has no interest in grabbing someone by the shoulders. Swiftly, he flips both hands inwards, the space between his thumbs and forefingers creating some sort of a rectangle or a generic geometric shape.

"What does it mean?" I am confused. Cracking up, Cassandra and Mario make the same gesture. I glance at Princess Peach, who is also laughing, presumably thank to all her daily training with the Italian army. "It means," Mario explains in his thick Italian accent, "I am going to make your ass look like this."

Hugo is impressed. "So it's really like in the Italian movies?" he wants to know. I am not certain what kind of movies Hugo has been watching. I am even less certain about how making your ass look like some sort of a rectangle or a generic geometric shape is supposed to be a convincing threat, but the Italians, still laughing at their own national body language, seem to agree with each other.

The after-work drinks almost did not eventuate. Looking forward to some rest after the busy weekend, yesterday I had proposed the idea, not taking into account two things: the Tuesday dinner, and an unexpected email from Down Under today with a third deadline within less than 48 hours. After asking Princess Peach for a rain-check, I was lost in work, until precisely 6 pm, the intended drinking time. "Time for drinks?" came a message from Luigi. I had forgotten to tell him about the cancellation. If there is one thing that I do even worse than I parallel park, it is to say no. So I said yes, just one drink, and we would be going to the bar nearby to save even more time. Having not been to this particular place before, Hugo was skeptical, Bowser was not convinced. But almost two hours later, here we still are, sipping beer outdoor while getting to know more about the eccentric nation that seems to be passionate about pretty much everything. 

My deadline is fast approaching, and in the current version of my application, there is still a part that reads, "Say something about the tractability and applicability, which are why they are powerful. BUT THEY CAN BE MORE POWERFUL. Yes. Evil stuff." There definitely will be many long hours tomorrow, but at least, whenever I ever get around to visiting Italy and tasting the real gelato, I will know how to communicate, "I am going to make your ass look like this."

Ease.

55. We are working in complete silence. Our entire exchange over the few hours of this morning so far has been the bare minimum greetings, and me asking whether it was all right with her if I had a brief Skype meeting. It's my first day back to work, after the UK trip, but we don't do the usual "How was your trip?" and "How was Brussels when I was away?" thingy. I am normally a little more conversational with my officemates. Admittedly, the first one did abruptly move out of the office because I apparently had been as emotional as a brick; but I got along well with the other two. It is not my intention to come across as a brick again, but what with the writing of the grant proposal, I haven't talked much to Cassandra. 

As I am trying to figure out how to make my work sound tremendously important, she says, "Did you see? I ate all the oranges." For a few seconds, I stare at her. Five days of not being around me, and this is the first thing she wants to tell me? I want my imaginary friend back. The one that had to go to make space for Cassandra, that one. (The others are still around.) Reading my thoughts, she adds, "Because you told me to." Suddenly, I remember. On my last day at work, before leaving for badminton, I had specifically told Cassandra to eat my two oranges, the intended replacement for chocolate snacks. As chocolate trumps orange every time, the oranges had remained uneaten; hence my instruction for her. "Good," I tell Cassandra, "I like officemates who do what I tell them to." What I think but don't say is, "I like you more than my imaginary friend already."

56. Reason #72 why we are friends: Lily completely understands what I mean when, out of the blue, I say, "I have good news for you. Alexander's brother's kids are twins."

57. Potatoes, cream cheese, pineapples, mushrooms, bacon, onions. I am missing something that I can't quite put my finger on. I am at GB, getting ingredients for my flat's Tuesday dinner. What else did they always have for their baked-potatoes meals? I haven't seen them since leaving for Belgium, but their weekly dinners are not something I forget. Yummy food, good wine, the complete ease of being around them, and being insisted, after dessert, that I would have a glass of port, my favorite drink. "She's going to be driving," the weak protest would come, and then their reply would invariably be, "It's just one glass. We'll finish watching this in an hour, and then she could drive." Beetroots. Beetroots are what I am missing. And that glass of port. 

Tango.

13. Decision, decision. Headphones on for yet another hour of Chopin, or headphones off for some free graph theory lessons, broadcast live and loud along the corridor? As I theatrically feign annoyance to myself, it occurs to me that I am going to miss this when I'll be on the other side of the world, at a place with modern glass-walled offices, all of which are completely see-through yet each fish closes his own tank, swimming in isolation.

14. I can't help it; I am a sucker for smiles, and he is smiling at me sweetly, with his dark hair thick and curvy, his cheeks slightly chubby and pink. He's holding my fingers tightly, not ready to let them go. Looking at him dreamily, I reluctantly say my goodbye. Looking back at me, also dreamily, he slightly parts his lips, dripping milk down to the chin, slowly along the neck and finally all over his bib, and there goes the image of my Prince Charming. 

15. 5 pm and the phone is ringing. I glance at the Caller ID and wonder whether I should answer it at all. Given the amount of time we are around each other in person, Gaston almost never calls me, unless it's because the internet no longer works, or because I have, as usual, misplaced some important document that he needs. As I dread the potential news about a flooded bathroom or maybe even a reckless daytime robbery, I almost miss what Gaston is asking me, "Do you want me to cook dinner tonight?". It's Tuesday, I suddenly remember. Most weeks, we cook dinner together on this day, but Tintin is away making some serious stuff up in Strasbourg, so somehow I must have assumed that the tradition was temporarily discontinued for tonight. Looking at the piles of paper on my office desk, I said, "Yes," as fast as I could.

Fast forward a few hours. It's post-Carbonnade-à-la-Leffe and post-Bordeaux. The table is now pushed against the fake fireplace, the chairs arranged clumsily around the table, the carpet wedged underneath the radiator, all to create a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. As Assassin's Tango plays on Gaston's Mac, we dance together, counting the steps as we glide on the wooden floor, "One, two, three, four...". It's been half an hour and we are still not getting this whole tango thing right. "One, two, three, four...". Completely focused on his feet and not aware of the surroundings, Gaston banged his left leg against the table. "Damn!", he jumped. "We need a bigger apartment!". Looking at him all frustrated, I laughed, nodding my head in agreement, even if I don't agree with him. I don't need a bigger apartment; at its current size, this apartment is already the best place I have lived in Brussels.