The First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 2

Angels we have heard on high...Strasbourg Cathedral
(c) me.

Now that I am settling into my new flat, it’s even more incumbent on me to make concerted efforts to build a Strasbourg community.

Church, as always, helps. I return to EPIS mid-December. By now I have developed a soft spot for it. It’s starting to remind me of my church back in London. I happen to attend on yet another fundraising Sunday (every third week of the month). December’s cause are the persecuted Christians supported by Portes Ouvertes; the French equivalent of Open Doors, a charity with which I am very familiar. A number of EPIS members do stirring presentations about stories that have impacted them on attending a recent Open Doors conference. It’s a challenge focussing on both their words and that of the sermon. A woman behind me noisily translates proceedings for her Serbian, non-French speaking family. A kindly congregant later explains when she notices my agitation.

I love learning the French translation of worship songs and carols I already know. As well as great language practice, it gives me a fresh appreciation of the message. Sometimes the lyrics are virtual transliterations. Others are approximations of the general sentiment. As the offering buckets are passed round, I am moved to tears by the rendition of ‘Le Premier Noel’.

I catch up with Jeanne after service. She’s up for hanging out in town, walking around the Christmas market and accompanying me as I pick up pastries and my usual Sunday takeaway (no cooking for me on my Sabbath). Jeanne is easy company. We meet up again a few days later after work. I want to see her before she leaves to spend her Christmas holidays divided between Lyon and Sardinia, where her sister’s in-laws reside. I remark how blessed she is to have such a close relationship with her extended family. She seems to come from very wholesome stock.

Jeanne listens patiently whilst I take the time to formulate my sentences in French as accurately as possible. I veer towards some complex topics. Jeanne is attentive, encouraging my efforts but also readily correcting me, as I have asked. It’s a small gesture but it means a lot for her to listen so well. It’s not as if she can recourse to English if I struggle to get the words out as quickly as I’d like.

We plan to do more organised language exchanges in the New Year, God willing.

In the lead-up to Christmas I finally meet my kindly HR contact Klara in the flesh. We spend a lunch hour catching up in one of several of THRO's eating establishments. Speaking at least five languages, with a heart of gold, she's an impressive young lady.

Strasbourg City Centre@ Christmas
(courtesy of Eurostar)

As part of my endeavour to expand my Strasbourg networks, I sign up for a Market-related event organised by Internations; an globetrotting variant of Meet Up. 18 guests register. Typically, only five of us attend. I get to kill two birds with one socialising stone; to see more of the Market in its full illuminated glory after dark and meet new people. Three birds, in fact as it’s another opportunity to communicate solely in French. None of the party are native Francophones. They are a multi-lingual set hailing from Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean. Most have lived in France for so long, I dub them honorary countrywomen. Our first stop is the artisanal end of the Christmas Market. Event organiser Martina says this is the authentic Christmas food market, not the overpriced made-from-a-packet stuff sold in the commercial parts. It’s the middle of the week and reassuringly mellow. The crowds are less dense. Martina wants us to sample the varieties of warm beverages on offer; from soups to hot beer. I stick with some hot blackberry juice, with no added naughtiness. We talk about their shared experiences of being global citizens and, one of my favourite subjects, what is fluency and how to attain it. Latvian Nina thinks it’s no more complicated than making yourself understood. Bulgarian Leona believes any aspiring linguist has arrived if s/he can properly articulate themselves in a confrontational situation. I am inclined to agree.

It’s a cold and damp evening and my frozen toes feel like they are dissolving into mush, whilst I can still feel them at all. It’s a school night, I inform the group apologetically. I need to run. Martina is having none of it. She entices me with promises of more beautifully lit streets and Christmas related displays such as the itinerant Icelandic Village mock-up which is passing through Strasbourg in 2017. It’s all right for Martina. She lives within walking distance.

I admit, the City looks stunning despite the drizzle. I am forever captivated by the magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral. Whether in daylight or after nightfall, it’s one of the most arresting I’ve come across; at once beautiful and grotesque. The German translation for Cathedral, 'Munster' feels most apt.

In advance of Christmas, the offices of THRO seem to be emptying in inverse proportion to the number of international visitors pouring into the City centre. By Friday 22^nd it’s a ghost town.

Most of my department have already gone on leave. Some will not be returning in the New Year. The Organisation is facing financial challenges. Temporary contracts are not being renewed. There are rumours of redundancies. Claudia has been a veritable Cassandra of late, prophesying doom at every turn. I can’t understand. If she’s so unhappy with THRO and is ambivalent towards Strasbourg, it seems obvious she should return to London where her gentleman friend awaits. She has her reasons, I'm sure. It’s too personal to ask. Plus, I wouldn’t want to seem like an ingrate. Her guidance in this early stage of the role has been invaluable. But I am still relatively new and don’t want to be infected by her jadedness. I am looking for tactful ways to stem the steady stream of negativity that comes out of her these days. I am somewhat relieved when she starts her Christmas break a day early.

(c) me

All THRO buildings close around midday the Friday before Christmas for a week and a half. I remain behind to try (in vain) to complete some detailed proof-reading Sophie has assigned before she goes on leave. My colleagues who are still present urge me not to stay too late. By the time I head to the exit after 1pm, even the security staff have vacated the building.

The day is still young. I pop into town to do some last minute food shopping. I have my Christmas playlist on repeat; a mix of modern classics (Donny Hathaway), obscure stone-cold Gospel gems, contemporary versions of a favourite carol and more recent additions to the Festive canon like the 'Black Nativity' soundtrack.

I’ve already bought most of my festive meat. I haven’t had Turkey at Christmas for years and have no intention of starting now. I opt for some Guinea fowl to be seasoned with a MENA region touch and roast beef.  I'll vary the menu slightly for New Year's Day.  As I’ll be cooking for one, I can’t justify over-indulging in too many seasonal treats. I choose my cheeses carefully with an eye on the calories. I have one packet of mulled wine seasoning left. My cranberry & raspberry juice is at the ready. Mum has already sent me a number of sweetmeats before flying off for her Eastern holiday. I stock up on a few more, with the intention of spreading them over January and beyond. Not quite ‘famous last words’. I’ve managed before.

The First (Strasbourg) Noel: Part 1

I’ve said it before. Strasbourg is really into Christmas. It’s described by some –and marketed on the City's website -as the Capital of Christmas; no doubt in light of the popularity of the festive market. It’s often viewed by residents as a mixed blessing. I’m beginning to join that camp. On one hand, the way this already belle ville is transformed into a sparkling multi-sensory wonder could make anyone revert to a childlike awe. On the other hand, it’s also bloody busy. At particular junctions, temporary security stations have been set up to check belongings for explosive devices. This is not great for yours truly. Not because I have any nefarious intentions but because I’m usually weighed down with household shopping and seasonal trinkets. I’ve even been asked to partially undress (well, my coat) in the process. Goodness.

There’s also the unnerving presence of armed personnel; both law enforcement and the military. They stroll around, machine guns nonchalantly slung across a shoulder like it’s the most casual thing in the world. More disturbing still, a number of them don’t look old enough to drive let alone be carrying firearms. Weapons and youthful hubris can be a dangerous (Molotov) cocktail. Having lived for so long in the UK where it’s unusual to see armed police, I doubt I’ll ever become accustomed to it on the Continent, regardless of how often I've witnessed it. I’m uncertain if this heightened security around the Christmas Market is routine or a response to France being a regular target for terrorism in the past few years.

The Place Kleber Christmas Tree, Strasbourg
(c) me

My colleague Claudia (who lives in the eye of the Market storm) has mentioned that there were fewer visitors in previous years in the immediate aftermath of the massacres in Paris. My Lyonnaise acquaintance, Jeanne, confirms the sense of anxiety is more recent.

Back in the office, preparations are underway for the Office Christmas lunch. It's being coordinated by the docile Lorette. She gently presses me for a RSVP. I prevaricate, having historically found the thought of organised fun with colleagues particularly awkward. Plus it’s almost 50 euros per head. It is not the tradition for the employer to subsidise the meal. At least it’s not just me who is wary. Sophie exclaims she could buy several presents for her daughter at that price.

Still, I am new and it would be a diplomatic faux pas to absent myself. Thankfully, I have sufficient funds.

It would be a good opportunity to defuse some end of year tension as well. I’ve unwittingly walked into an office politics mini-storm of late. Two colleagues, Celeste and Lucia are re-negotiating their roles after having had overlapping maternity/sickness leave. One, who would normally deputise, took over the other’s post in absentia. Job titles are now a sore point. When I seek to standardise how Celeste is referenced in official paperwork and online, I receive a slightly stern email from her (in English, not the usual French) tacitly suggesting I don’t interfere.

Meanwhile, I’ve continued my tradition of handing out Christmas cards.  I tend to arrive at the office earlier than most, which is preferable for leaving the cards inconspicuously on desks. Later that morning, I am told by my colleagues that it’s a tradition très anglaise. I receive heartfelt emails of gratitude, hugs and continental kisses on each cheek. I always opt for cards with an obvious biblical theme. One colleague even commends me for the Magnificat reminder. I am moved to the point of embarrassment by their response.

At lunchtime, the department heads to the restaurant en masse by foot or by car. The eatery has a gastro pub feel but provides haute cuisine. For starters I am served mustard ice cream and Red Kuri squash; the existence of which I was unaware before seeing the menu. My main arrives last. I am the only one to order my steak well done. The thought of blood saturated meat isn't as appetising to me as it evidently is to my colleagues.

It’s an altogether cordial affair. I feel a little uneasy at first but Sophie helps me relax. I sit beside and opposite two colleagues (Lorette being one of them) who are Alsatians born and bred. In the original, non-canine sense. Hearing about the region’s history and their Franco-Germanic linguistic repertoire makes for stimulating conversation. It’s the most consistent French practice I’ve had with colleagues since I joined THRO.

Between the main and dessert, the ever-convivial Mustafa signals for our attention. He’s a good natured wild-card; the kind to wear bright, primary-coloured trousers in an office environment.  He commences a parlour game that’s a cross between Secret Santa and Pass the Parcel. 

The rules are a tad confusing (although when I later explain them to sis, she’s quite well-versed). Participants pick a random number and when it’s his/her turn, they select a novelty gift out of a lucky-dip. They have the choice to keep it or swap (within certain limits), with a previous present chosen by another guest.

When it’s my turn I’m quite pleased with my turntable key-ring; illumination, sound effects et al. It’s practical too. I’m not inclined to draw unnecessary attention to myself by exchanging for another.

When the party games are over, I assume Mustafa has paid for these tokens out of the goodness of his heart. The next minute a makeshift float is being passed around with a request for a five euro reimbursement. As if most of them even cost that much.

I leave the Christmas lunch exactly 50 euros poorer.  

Settling In...Finally

The first week of December is arguably my busiest yet. My supervisor Sophie has been poorly, as has her little one Aloise.  I'd like to tell her I'm praying for them. This early on in the job, it could be risky especially in super-secular France.  In her absence she forwards instructions on the most urgent tasks. When I later find out she’s been sending emails from her hospital bed, I mildly reprimand her. A bit rich, as I know how hard it is to switch off even when hospitalised. But still.

In between tasks I assist another colleague, Geri (hard ‘G’, not like Halliwell or whatever she goes by now). She’s helping to organise a conference in Algeria. When I first join the team, I’m not sure what to make of her. You usually hear Geri before you see her. She speaks very good French, very loudly with a noticeable Eastern European inflection (Hungarian, I’m told). Her laugh is louder still, almost forced. I’m polite towards her, even cordial but circumspect. Still, she’s a maven of all things administrative in the department and I’m grateful to have the chance to assist on another project.

Later that week, I’m invited to a new starters' HR training session. Just before I attend, I pass by Yotis’ office to sign the lease on my new flat. It’s really happening, folks. He has prepared a meticulous inventory of all the furniture and equipment and the few items that are not quite in pristine condition. I’m impressed with the integrity. He draws my attention to barely perceptible imperfections I wouldn’t otherwise notice. It has been agreed that I’ll move in that Friday. I manage to keep it from most of my colleagues save one of my three line managers, Lucia, from whom I must request special leave. I inform Sophie as casually as possible when she asks. I had intended to surprise her after I was bien installée.

At the HR meeting, I finally put faces to the names with which I’ve interacted regularly via email. There’s a session on the private health insurance that comes with the contract. All health care in France works on a private basis with government subsidies that cover (often a large) percentage of the costs in the form of reimbursements. Those who can afford it supplement the rest with private insurance. As employees of THRO, we have a global policy that replaces any other healthcare support -state or otherwise-to which we might have been entitled. That means bye-bye NHS. I am horrified. I had intended to stick with my UK GP whenever I were in town. The HR colleague gently admonishes that it would be fraudulent to benefit from a system into which I am not currently paying. Perish the thought. I apologise for giving her that impression. It’s just the alternative is so unpalatable; going to a private clinic. Thank God for walk-in centres. She suggests I could offer to pay my GP for any consultation. It’s worth a try. Anything is better than going private.

After the session, I swap stories with other organisation newbies. Ana has also recently relocated from the UK with her husband. She’s spent the past month, like myself, looking for accommodation. Consider yourself fortunate, says Romana. She’s a THRO veteran of sorts. She’s worked for the organisation for years as a temp and only just been offered a fixed term contract (or CDD-Contrat á Durée Déterminée). A month in limbo isn’t bad compared to some. Spare a thought for the temps and work placement candidates who receive no financial assistance from The Organisation and whose employment situation is too precarious for most landlords to risk. Ana and Romana compare THRO’s intricate bureaucracy with other public institutions. Ana has worked for several around the world. She considers this the most complex, even by public sector standards. Au contraire, I tell them. I find it reassuring. At least this way, there's more accountability with how money is spent.

End of an era...The late Johnny Hallyday
(courtesy of Melody magazine)

Back in the office I’m balancing work with sorting out all that needs to be done for my move. Internet access, electricity accounts, building insurance (in France, it's the tenant's responsibility)… Nearly every little formality comes with a processing charge, before you even get to the main tariff. I’m ever grateful for that substantial relocation allowance.

I also need to accustom myself to carrying my passport around more often. I am asked to present it even for relatively trivial purchases like a pay-as-you-go SIM. Cette maudite bureaucratie francaise ! It would hardly be worth the bother except my supposedly EU-friendly UK mobile isn’t very reliable these days.

THRO permits expats two days of special leave to move house. Most handy indeed. A few days before the move my AirBnb host Javier, God bless him, offers me a lift to my new digs. He won’t countenance me wasting the taxi fare. He asks if I’ve heard about the demise of French Rock Legend Johnny Hallyday. Bien sur. On the main page of the BBC website of all places. Hallyday’s death doesn’t have the cultural impact I expect at work but everywhere else is abuzz with the news. That weekend, to commemorate his burial, Strasbourg tram stations rather disconcertingly blast his greatest hits from their speakers. From what I do catch of live news coverage, French celebs give gushing eulogies at Hallyday’s memorial and Paris comes to a halt for a vigil.

When the day of moving arrives, it is a mercifully smooth transition. Javier takes time out of his lunch break to drop me off, as planned. Yotis and I go through some final formalities and, save for some initial issues with the heating, I’m good to go. I creep around my maisonnette like a guest. I’m still in Airbnb mode. I can’t believe I live here now. Look at all that fridge space! I buy almost a month’s worth of meat and still only fill one freezer tray. The place is so clean. I’m conscious of keeping it that way to the point of paranoia. I’ve even adopted my mum’s no-outdoor-shoes-in-the-house rule. It used to drive me round the bend.

A few days after the move, it’s an early start to my non-work day. Some workmen are coming round; one on Yotis’ behest to give the kitchen a spruce and the other to install my internet. They too become subject to the new shoes rule. It’s another potentially intimidating but ultimately useful linguistic exercise. When Hassan, the freckled, fresh-faced broadband engineer starts explaining the technical aspects of the installation process in as basic language as possible, I wonder if I’d completely follow him in English. It’s not the simple procedure that I expected. It’s a bit of a bloody rigmarole in fact, enlisting the help of neighbours and eventually the building maintenance company.

It’s turning out to be a somewhat chaotic day as far as strangers coming and goings are concerned. I’m also expecting the arrival of my belongings from London. Owing to bad weather (snow again) the removal company have postponed the delivery a number of times within just a couple of days. The control freak in me instinctively panics. I’m constantly re-arranging my schedule. Plans to make the flat more festive must be delayed until the basics are sorted. Thankfully, I've been organised enough to purchase other household goods in bulk the day before. The cost is temporary backache from carrying such a heavy load all the way back from Kehl, but it saves be future hassle.

I had hoped to have mum’s assistance if I’d found accommodation sooner. Ironically, the day my possessions are set to arrive, she’s flying out to Japan to spend Christmas with sis. Not to worry. I have a stack of podcasts lined up to keep me company as I organise my stuff. Provided I can manoeuvre around the workers.

That morning is a productive blur. The delivery from London arrives earlier than I anticipate. Hassan and the most congenial painter Pierrot are beavering away. I commence unpacking in between.

It takes much longer than I thought. Thanks to my early start, I still have most of the day. I’m full of energy and relieved to be finally setting up house. There’s enough storage space to ensure everything has its place and then some. All that’s left to do is make another extra set of keys (so expensive here) and start putting up those Christmas decorations I’ve bought.

I guess this is what the kids today call adulting.

It's off to the village-within-a-city that is my new neighbourhood. There's the cosy looking mediatheque. Another artisan boulangerie.  Farmers market on the weekend...

Lord, lead us not into bourgeois-fication...

The middle-aged cobbler/key-cutter Eli, makes shameless ouvertures. For my sins, he asks me out for a drink after I comment on the excitability of his chocolate Labrador and take a genuine interest in his Jewish-Algerian heritage. ‘Ce n’est pas de tout professionnel’ I playfully remonstrate.

The following evening, after a busy day in the office catching up on my backlog and finishing off moving-related life admin, I set about sprinkling some seasonal cheer around the flat. I’m not one for garish decorations; lurid streamers and the like. Just a few tasteful trimmings (I like to believe); a little tinsel and some LED fairy/tea lights.

Once done, I survey my demurely festive kingdom. I plan to add a few more bits and pieces here and there. Apart from that, it’s warm and cosy and beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Thank. You. Lord.

First Snow

(c) Les Petits Frenchies

On 1 December, the city of Strasbourg wakes up to snowfall; the first of many. Un Noel Blanc is far more likely than in London, it seems. I've heard the winters here can be harsh. I experience it first-hand that lunch time when, despite my decent quality gloves, I suffer the most painful frostbite in recent memory.

Claudia has shown me pictures of frozen canals and icebreakers. She warns me to be prepared and pile on the layers. Not easy to do when most of my stuff is still in London. The last day of November marks one whole month since my arrival in Alsace. My accommodation situation is still up in the air.

I’ve extended my stay at Javier’s. I just can’t face the upheaval and awkwardness of moving in with Klara and her boyfriend (albeit it’s free). It is extremely kind of her to offer a perfect stranger, I admit. Her colleague Lucille has a French-Canadian friend heading back home for unpaid leave for a year. She also lives close to The Organisation and can offer her place once vacant. The problem is it’s only a short-term solution. Potentially. She has a friend who is applying for a role at THRO, who might be successful and who might need somewhere to stay. That’s too much uncertainty for me but I appreciate the willingness to help. My housing issues have revealed how reliant I have been on the milk of human kindness. By the grace of God, it has flowed in abundance since my arrival.

That brings me back to Javier. What a mother’s pride he is. He agrees to let me stay for the same rate as I have been, rather than exploiting the Christmas market rush. Either way you look at it, temporary accommodation over an extended period ain’t cheap. Cumulatively, over the month I have spent upwards of a grand (in either currency) on AirBnb. Still, it’s a lot more affordable than hotels and with better privacy and amenities than your average budget hostel.

Javier tells me I’m a good guest and trustworthy. He will be away on personal and business trips. He wouldn’t normally have someone stay in his property during his absence but he’s making the exception. It’s sound business too, he says.

That’s a relief of sorts but I’m still anxious to move on. My savings have taken a dent and I’m not feeling this unintentionally nomadic lifestyle.

The search is nonetheless becoming harder. The closer to Chrimbo the scarcer the accommodation. Whatever hasn’t been converted into AirBnb to take advantage of the Christmas Market mayhem, is not available until late December or even the New Year.

As November makes way for the next, there are a few glimmers of hope. HMRC have decided, (not for the first time), that I’ve paid too much income tax and I’m due an unexpected rebate. THRO’s installation allowance is more generous than I anticipate, thank God. I’m glad I didn’t ask for an advance or I’d have possibly blown it on the wrong kind of accommodation in my desperation and worry. I’ve also set up a couple of viewings. Both happen to be walking distance from the office and have direct connections to THRO. Both are advertised on Solidarité’s internal classifieds page. They’ve both been doing the rounds for some time. Should I be suspicious?

My first viewing is with Yotis. I spot his ad on the public listings site Le Bon Coin before I notice it on Solidarité. The pics are all right. Nothing spectacular but it is well-furnished. I pop Yotis an email. I mention The Organisation as a selling point, since it’s in such close proximity to the property.

Oh, I work for THRO too.

Do you now.

We arrange a time and date and I make a mental note to look him up on the work intranet the next day. Just to be certain he's legit. Yotis beats me to it. He is all official, sending me an Outlook meeting invitation to lock the viewing into our diaries. He says he’ll drive me to the property, since he’s local too.

In this post-#MeToo era it might not be worth the bother to assault me en route; not with the awkwardness of being colleagues and everything. Still, I take the precaution of forwarding the details to mum and notifying Claudia.

There’s nothing to worry about. Yotis is an upstanding professional; approachable, even diffident. Originally from Cyprus, he studied law at LSE and has settled in France with his Austrian wife. After the pleasantries and swapping notes about London are out of the way, it’s down to business. The accommodation is next to a large supermarket. That’s a plus. It’s on a fairly busy road. That’s another. Oh yes, c’est vachement for-mi-dable. A little palace for a relative bargain. Formerly occupied by a PhD student, his wife and two young children, they’ve returned to their native South-East Asia, leaving the premises in spotless condition. It is fully equipped down to washed bed linen. I’d want for nothing as I await the delivery of my remaining belongings from London. It’s also ideal for a interior designing novice. I don’t have the vision for that sort of thing.

The flat is available straight away, a stone’s throw from my office, with regular bus routes directly outside my door. A tram stop 10-15 minutes’ away on foot. Yotis only lives a few streets down should there be any internal issues…what’s not to love?

The long, quiet walk through residential streets to the tram stop, that’s what. After the viewing, Yotis kindly accompanies me to the nearest public transport. I attempt the walk the following afternoon during my lunch break. I figure in the light of day I’d be better able to familiarise myself with the neighbourhood. I get lost several times. Irony upon ironies, it is around the corner from the very first viewing I had in Strasbourg; the elaborate tree house. I turned it down because of the distance from the main road. If I take this property, I wonder, would it make the last month of searching futile when I could have just stuck to my first option?

But, still. It’s gorgeous. And the main bus is pretty regular. So yes, I would have to time my exits better. There are elements of the walk over uncomfortable terrain. I could probably only make my way on foot to work when it’s clear and dry weather. Still, are these not mere obstacles I’m unnecessarily putting in my way? The exercise will be welcome, especially during the warmer months. Once I reach civilisation there are lots of local shops and plenty of life. It’s a village within a City, (like Blackheath, Greenwich or Dulwich for the South Londoners. Forget the walk. My main concern should be avoiding becoming a Bourgeois hipster ponce (too old for that now methinks). Or worse still, a champagne socialist.)

Another viewing in a similar part of town strengthens my resolve. Yes, it’s vast, with capacious storage facilities and has some brand new amenities. The monthly rent for the whole space is not much more than what an average London tenant would pay to just live out of one of the large rooms. But it’s not homely. The communal areas are old and the stone design is somewhat off-putting. It would be a pain to keep warm in the winter. By then, I’ve already let Yotis know my decision. This alternative viewing is academic.

I try not to let myself get too excited until Yotis and I have both signed on the dotted line.

Out and About

I’m doing what I can to slowly but surely build my Strasbourgeois networks beyond work. My new Lyonnaise acquaintance, Jeanne is intentional about staying in touch.  When we first meet, qualified social worker Jeanne is looking for a job and I for accommodation. We encourage each other by text during the ups and downs of our bread and butter quests. We meet up one early evening. Jeanne's breakthrough has come quicker than she thought. She has been offered a position at EPIS, the church we both happened to visit on the same Sunday a few weeks back. She has been headhunted. I buy her a celebratory hot chocolate. She consoles me as I open up about my frustrations with my language acquisition and latest crisis of faith. She listens patiently, not judging as I'd feared and proffers sound advice. There are no grand gestures but the simple, soothing balm of good companionship is every bit as effective right now.

It's a contrast to my last attempt to tentatively widen my Strasbourg circle. One evening after work, I meet up with Nicolas. We first connect when I answer his classified ad for a studio on listings site, Le Bon Coin. The viewing isn’t a success but the interaction is amicable. He seems to be a pleasant character. That’s why I feel a little worse for turning down his compact student-friendly pied-a-terre. I tell him so. Nicolas reciprocates with his mobile number. I text him back, asking if he minds remaining in touch. I’m new in town. I need to establish links. He invites me out for a drink.

We try and fail many times to coordinate schedules. He has a full time job plus his own consultancy business. I’m busy when he’s free and vice versa. Life gets in the way. A free hour on a school night finally suits us both.

Nicolas' meeting location of choice is Paddy’s. It’s an Irish pub in the Jewish quarter, a choice possibly influenced by my British connection. A lot of cultural (con) fusion. It’s a short tram ride from work but we’re both running late. I’m held up by a last minute personal call to try and sort out my housing situation. 

I'm nervous I won't remember how Nicolas looks like. He arrives before I do. He spots me first. He's on his mobile. The tone is intimate. He ends the call.

‘Tu es à l’heure, comme d’habitude’. He grins.

I mumble a sheepish response. I was late to his viewing as well, both times for valid(ish) reasons. He’s better looking than I recall, sans lunettes; a sort of slender Clark Kent type. It’s an awkward but convivial enough meeting; a bit giggly. Lots of useful French practice for me. During one of the short but uncomfortable lulls I ask about his Christmas plans. He says something about going to Spain with his family. 

'Do you have a cultural connection?'

No, just a holiday with family and the girlfriend. I don’t hear much after he casually mentions his other half. For the sake of disambiguation, I switch languages momentarily. It would be tricky enough in English without being blunt.

Does your girlfriend know you’re out with strange women? (I'm paraphrasing). Back to French. It’s just that I think it would be a courtesy to be informed, if I were in her place.

Well, he begins. He doesn’t want to generalise. It depends on the person. His girlfriend is of Polish extraction. The culture is very insular, he gently insists. They’re not necessarily interested in going out, socialising. Meeting new people. It’s easier if she doesn’t know. Besides, he adds, if you were a guy, new in town and we wanted to fraternise over drinks, it wouldn't be an issue.

Hmm. It’s not quite the same, I reply. Male and female relationships can be very open to (mis) interpretation.

Dear reader, calm your feverish imagination. This is not a date. There are no set expectations. Still, the parameters would have been different if I knew Nicolas was attached. I might have decided against it altogether, so not to give the wrong impression.

I choose my words carefully. It is hard to have such a delicate conversation in any case, let alone in a second language. I don’t want to judge him, I explain. It’s just I like to put myself in the shoes of the significant other. I tell him my sister and I have had this debate a few times. She thinks I tend to err too much on the side of caution. 

It does depend on the dynamic, true. Still. I’m not convinced. There’s a hint of the deceitful. (Later that week I recount the episode to sis. She’s surprisingly supportive. No. It isn’t all in my head. There were mixed signals. Sounds as if he’s playing the ‘what if?’ parallel reality game, she posits, getting some sullied sense of validation).

The most constructive part of the evening is when Nicolas brings up faith. He notices that I have signed off some of my texts with ‘Par la grace de Dieu’.

‘Tu es croyante. C’est rare’. I assume he means for our generation. I answer in the affirmative. He’s an intermittently observant Catholic by his own admission, probably fitting it in between his myriad other obligations. It’s a particular challenge discussing things of a metaphysical nature in another language. But no excuses. It’s not as if I’ve never done it before. I say something about faith not being a question of ritual observance. Neither should it be a mere add-on. It is the core of who I am.

Nicolas and I part ways. I consider texting him later to say thanks (I end up paying for my drink anyway, by default of him having no change). For obvious reasons, I think better of it.

Hope Deferred...The Hunt Continues

It’s three weeks since I arrived in Strasbourg and I’m no closer to finding accommodation. Same script, different location. Hmm.

It’s Monday. I have one more week in Javier’s place. It’s clean and comfortable. He’s a considerate and attentive host. He takes the time to engage in stimulating discussion and gives constructive linguistic tips. I could get use to this but I can’t afford to. Literally. The pre-Festive season silliness will soon start. All available accommodation in the Strasbourg vicinity will charge at least double to make the most of the influx of tourists flocking to the famous Christmas Market. Going by the latest on AirBnb, Javier is no exception. I can’t keep paying for temporary accommodation. It’s already eaten into my flat budget. I’m yet to be paid or to gauge what my monthly outgoings will be. THRO pays a relocation allowance but I’m not counting any chickens just yet. Thankfully, I’ve been able to economise with what I have but for not much longer.

Besides, living with a tall, not unattractive man who is kind, friendly, bright, knows how to keep house and spends a lot of time working out is doing strange things to my brain. And. Other. Parts. It’s time to move on.

My third week starts optimistically enough. By coincidence I have two viewings on the same day and, as unwise as I know this is, I’m staking a lot on them. The first is in a brightly coloured student residence. The building management company run a tight ship. It’s well equipped and a very reasonable price. That’s for good reason. It’s a room in a glorified halls of residence. En suite, yes but still, just a room. Not much space to manoeuvre especially if I have guests. Furthermore, it’s not available for at least two weeks. Still, I’m tempted. I’m getting desperate. They hardly ask for any money up front and there’s minimal bureaucracy. Plus it's one direct Tram ride to work. But, I ask myself, could I really feel at home here? Could I deal with being at the mercy of student whimsy? I don’t plan to be moving every few months. I’ve done too much of that lately. 

The next viewing is in Poteries, at the end of the Tram D line. It’s not very far from where I stayed when I first moved to Strasbourg. 

I have an appointment with the concierge. I walk past the apartment complex initially to the other, less salubrious end of the street. I go back on myself to a gated residence. A middle-aged gentleman waves tentatively. It’s the concierge, Monsieur Fernando. We’ve been in touch by email, via the estate management company. He shows me two properties, one unfurnished (not interested. Too much hassle) and the other… 

...is what I’ve been looking for. Gleaming, new building, clean communal areas, capacious living space, fantastic amenities with plenty of room to entertain. There’s even a washing machine! True, it belongs to the former tenant whose belongings are still strewn around the flat...

The rent is ridiculously good value. I could expect to pay double, if not three times as much in London for the same. It is a bit further from work but close to the tram station and a major reasonably-priced (so I’m told) supermarket. I ask Monsieur Fernando for his thoughts on the surrounding area. It’s fine, he says. He draws me a rudimentary map and mentions the nearby vicinities to avoid.  'C'est catastrophe!'

 I ask about the mass of cinders I have spotted at the end of the road. (I’ve heard of car-burning in certain parts of the City). No need to worry says Fernando, it’s just a Halloween bonfire. The visit comes to a congenial end. I ask about the origins of his mediterranean-sounding name. Fernando switches to Portuguese. I stretch my basic Lusophone skills as far as they’ll go.

I mull it over. The residences I have visited today are probably the best I’ve come across thus far. Je suis plein d’espoir. I’m in such good spirits that I’m feeling magnanimous enough to overlook some youth blasting their great quality speaker on the Tram ride home. The main culprit is a cheeky handsome type; deep chocolate complexion and a permanent smirk. I can’t trust my French to come out the way I’d want it to in the situation. It could also be high-risk. I’m a solitary female in a different cultural context. I'd be more confident on London turf. 

Despite myself and the obnoxious lyrics, the tunes have a good beat. On descending, I do a little shoulder bounce. Mr Smirk nods his approval.

Back at Javier’s I make a list of pros and cons for both viewings, send them to mum and sis for their input. I’ve pretty much made up my mind already.  Independently of each other, my girls confirm my preference. By then I’ve already emailed the company that manage the Poteries accommodation, expressing my interest. The next day I’m antsy at work. I call my contact Lydia when she fails to respond to my email by lunchtime. She says she has a backlog. She’ll respond once she’s worked her way through it. Later that afternoon, I receive a message from Lydia.

Since I’m an expat and don’t have a French guarantor, I’ll have to pay four months deposit upfront (I discover later, it's usually six). That would wipe out my savings. I’ve never had such an unreasonable demand. Usually it’s enough for prospective landlords to know that I work for The Organisation. There must be another way. No, says Lydia, rather tersely. Quadruple the deposit or bust. It’s a far cry from her earlier facilitating tone. It’s not news to her I don’t have a guarantor. I mentioned it at the start. Don’t worry, she told me back then. There’s always a solution. Hmm.

Four months deposit upfront seems dodgy. Greedy even. My colleagues are stunned. My supervisor Sophie is resolutely unimpressed. ‘Don’t do it’ she says ‘Sometimes it’s not that complicated. The situation speaks for itself’. Her husband isn’t wild about the Poteries area either, as far as female safety is concerned.

I get in touch with HR. I have befriended from a distance a lovely administrator Klara, who has been in the job not much longer than I. Hailing from Zurich, she’s familiar with the fresh-off-the-boat expat experience. It has taken her a while to get settled. She was blessed to have a Strasbourg-based friend to put her up. She’s very sympathetic to my plight, even volunteering to be my guarantor. She’s also offered her sofa if I’m stuck. I’m reluctant. She barely knows me. We’ve never properly met. She lives with her boyfriend. I don’t like to be an inconvenience at the best of times. I’ve said it before. I hate the idea of staying with couples. It feels as if I’m intruding on their intimacy. I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

Klara exhausts other options. She sends me links to organisations that might be able to provide institutional guarantees. I’ve been here before. A French friend forwarded me similar information before I left the UK. It’s the same old story. I’m either too old to be eligible and/or I work in the wrong sector.

Another one of my HR angels Lucille, makes a last ditch attempt to convince Lydia and co that I’m good for the money without the need for divesting myself of all my worldly goods. Lydia proposes the following: I can pay the four month deposit in two instalments, in addition to my regular rent. Oh yes, and the property isn’t immediately available after all. It’ll be another three weeks. Between the agents’ avarice and Sophie’s warning, I’ve already been deterred. Lydia’s ‘suggestion’ is simply the coup-de-grace.

I arrange other viewings. It’s a perfunctory gesture. I know they’re unlikely to be the right fit. Still, I’m thoroughly deflated and need to hang on to some hope. I attend a viewing situated a short walk from work. The flat is on the top of a spiral staircase in a building primarily occupied by wealthy Jewish families, it appears. Madame Berger, the landlady, is much younger and glamorous than I anticipate.

It's one of those occasions when the property is smaller than the pictures convey. There’s no door on the toilet or bathroom; a mere ablutionary alcove. There's no washing machine. Madame Berger still can’t tell me how the present tenant does their laundry, despite my persistent enquiry. 

Pass.

Fluid Borders

Town Centre: Kehl, Germany
commons.wikimedia.org

On one of my Mondays off, I hop across the German border for the first time by way of a short tram ride to Kehl Bahnhof. It’s a nippy, metallic grey late autumn afternoon. At first, under these unflattering conditions Kehl seems like any other non-descript European town. I play with the idea of catching the train to a nearby destination. Not so fast chica. Give it a chance.

I stumble across a shopping precinct and quaint streets with pastel-coloured houses.

Now, I’m a functional as-and-when shopper. I’m no proponent of retail therapy; far too frugal for that. Yet, Strasbourg’s comparatively steep prices have temporarily turned me into an avid bargain hunter. I’ve heard conflicting things about shopping in Kehl. Some say it’s truly bon marché compared to its French neighbour, others (chiefly my colleague Claudia) say the prices have been hiked since the tram route was extended. 

For household goods and cosmetics, Kehl is good value for money. They have a 1 euro store. Poundland, eat your heart out (the only equivalent I’ve seen anywhere in France is the 2 euro shop). The quality of Lidl and Aldi* is more recognisable than the over-priced and understocked French travesties. There's even a Woolworths (sadly sans legendary pic'n'mix). Such silly but familiar pleasures nonetheless gladden my soul. I trust that even the German version of cheap tat is still of sound quality.

*I have since revised this opinion following further visits. It seems nothing equals UK Aldi and Lidl bargains.

It’s to be a short trip this time. I have a couple of important, accommodation-related appointments later that afternoon. I don’t want my first ever Teutonic foray to be spent exclusively in the shops. On the way back to the tram station, as is my habit, I make a detour into an attractive-looking church building I have passed earlier. A large image of Martin Luther’s stern profile hovers overhead, on a banner celebrating the quincentenary of the Reformation. 

The classic facade belies its unexpectedly modern interior.  An organist rehearses appropriately transcendent, contrapuntal pieces. Being more or less a Baroque ignoramus, my guess is Bach; a presumption based as much on my current geography as the composer’s signature sound. In any case it’s one of those blessed and peaceful moments that I couldn’t have planned and for that very reason, I am all the more grateful.

In Search of Soul Food

St Thomas' Church, Strasbourg

My quest for a new spiritual home in Strasbourg gets off to a ropey start. On my first Sunday in town, I bump Blessed Souls’ Anglican Congregation to the top of my search list. I’ve not grown up in the orthodox tradition. However, BSAC’s website suggests they are an inclusive bunch, the congregants being drawn from various Christian professions. It’s based in the youthful University district. I’m expecting something vaguely charismatic. You know, like HTB. Hmm. Not quite. The service is as cold as the stone walls. The confusingly-American vicar alternates the liturgy between French and English. That's all good. Nevertheless, I’m not used to such regimented styles of worship with no room for spontaneity. I don’t understand this business of taking Holy Communion/the Eucharist standing in a semi-circle on the altar. And they only have real red wine; no grape juice or blackcurrent squash for us teetotallers.

As for the sermon-if I can stretch the definition so far- it’s a tepid, brief, and poorly-prepared reflection on All Saints’ Day/Halloween. At one stage he compares the ghouls associated with All Hallow’s Eve with our personal demons. Good Lord. The praise and worship is makeshift; a couple of coy young women all but giggling their way through it, one of them tentatively strumming an acoustic guitar. I’m constantly distracted by a young French-African couple making an almighty racket near the altar, setting up for their impossibly cute one-year old’s birthday celebration. They have the cheek to come in late. A red-blooded hetero female, my eyes are nonetheless constantly drawn to the woman’s remarkable cleavage. Each time she bends over to heft a drinks carton or the other, the material of her sparkling red and gold traditional garments barely stretch over her gargantuan bosom. The couple finish the commotion around the time the service is drawing to a close. All I can see is a cake and stacks of soft drinks. After all that palaver I’d expect an elaborate hot buffet and silver service.

I slip out as unobtrusively as possible. Not that anyone is rushing to speak to me anyway. I wouldn’t dare to question the sincerity of another’s faith or their preferred style of worship but BSAC is not for me.  It's not the only orthodox service I attend. St Paul's near the town centre is also brief and liturgical but a far more pleasant experience. I have passed the resplendent building countless times without venturing in. It's somewhat of a personal landmark for me.

I find it refreshing to see the service led entirely by a female minister. I am surprised, perhaps unfairly, that the congregants are accepting of this. They are much older and less diverse than the other churches I will attend. I enjoy practising pronunciation wrapping my mouth around traditional Francophone hymns. The organ accompaniment is sublime. I have no plans to join the parish of St Paul's but I appreciate the opportunity to experience a different style of worship.

Another Sunday I attend the bilingual, modest-sized but multicultural Trinity International Church of Strasbourg (TICOS). With the exception of St Paul's, I am struck on my first few church-related expeditions by how impressively diverse the congregations are. True, Strasbourg is an international city. But so is London and there’s no guarantee that any given place of worship will be as cosmopolitan as the general population. My home church are one of the few to manage it. 

Trinity is definitely more my cup of tea. Bernard, head of the welcome team, ably lives up to his ministry’s mandate by making me feel immediately at ease. Despite the vast majority of members being proficient English speakers, he humours my desire to practise French. There are UN-style personal headsets through which interpreters simultaneously translate the English sermon into French. The worship songs have a comforting familiarity. The kindly American (again) Pastor Karl preaches on Jesus' holy anger against the commercialisation of God’s temple. He relates it to modern examples of filthy lucre corrupting the church. I’m on the look-out for any unsavoury blood-red Republican political references or Trump cheerleading. Hallelujah, none are forthcoming. It’s a big tick for TICOS but still too early to make up my mind just yet.

Strasbourg.eu

The following Sunday I am on the move again. Thanks to the convoluted directions I printed out from Google Maps (I should just trust my instincts), I darken the doors of Eglise Pentecôte Internationale de Strasbourg (EPIS) a quarter of an hour late. Judging from the other stragglers, the congregation isn’t as diverse as the website would lead me to believe. On entering, my quick assumptions are proved wrong. It’s just stereotypes about certain cultures’ timekeeping have a grain of truth. Being amongst the (unintentionally) guilty, I’ll say no more.

I take my seat near the back. Just a few rows in front I spot Jeanne, the young Lyonnaise I befriended at a jazz gig a few days earlier. She’s with the friend whom she came to support that night. We catch up with each other after the service on the tram ride home.


EPIS is not just cosmopolitan. Like Trinity, it has an outward focus. Some guest missionaries show excerpts from a documentary about their initiatives in Madagascar. A few weeks later I attend a Christmas fundraising concert for projects in Eastern Europe South-East Asia and West Africa.

EPIS has a more sizeable congregation than I anticipate. It would be easy to get lost. But there’s much that appeals. The pastoral staff seem warm and approachable. It's not only ethnically diverse but inclusive in other ways. I'm heartened to see provisions made for disabled congregants and their seemingly active engagement in church life. The service is monolingual but is delivered at a reasonable pace. Any concerns that I might be out of my depth are quickly dispersed. The guest minister preaches from 1 Corinthians 13; the famous Love Chapter. He asks a soul-searching question on which I’ve only just recently been reflecting in light of my accommodation trouble; Do we love God for who He is or what we can get?

(c) Trip Advisor

Overall, a thumbs up. EPIS is added to my shortlist.

Once service is over, Sunday afternoons are spent wandering around Strasbourg town centre.As much as France prides itself on its strong secularity, they don't mess with their Sabbath. You'd be hard pressed to find all but a few determined restaurants and cafés open. It does engender a sense of calm and balance to the week. The streets are less busy. Families take a stroll together. Everyone moves at a more leisurely pace. It's ideal for exploring the City.  I'm forever making discoveries. One Sunday in late November I drift into the famed Christmas Market, by chance.  It's a sensory feast of enticing aromas, trinkets of varying attraction and bright lights. I make a mental note to come back within the month for street cart waffles and pancakes.

So far I'm more or less winning the battle against the boulangeries. Not an easy task when there's an artisan patisserie on every corner. Praise be, I have mostly managed to confine my pastry indulgence to once a week after church.

Silver Linings

I’ve tried not to harp on too much at work about my current accommodation-related hassle.  It’s not as if these difficulties are unique to me. I don’t want it to seem like I can’t cope. But Sophie has a radar for these things. She calls me aside, to ask how the search is going. She proffers tips. She’s led an itinerant lifestyle herself, moving from France to Eastern Europe to the UK and back to France again. She knows how stressful it can be and the desire to settle as soon as. She warns that in her experience, finding accommodation is never a simple matter of a week or two (unlike I was misled to believe by some unhelpful person in HR).  She generously offers to help me with anything I might need, recruiting her unsuspecting spouse into installing furniture or ferrying it around.

She understands my reluctance to accept. It’s not very British to ask for help, she acknowledges, but the culture is different here.

I don’t know if it’s about being British or more just me being me. I hate to be an imposition. Still, it’s good to know I have the moral support. I don’t intend to avail myself of her kindness much. It is useful though when I need to borrow an iron whilst staying at Javier’s.

Alas, classified accommodation ads are fewer and further between. The crooks are still appropriating pictures from other websites. A few of the potentially suitable places are not available for several weeks, if not a couple of months.  Fear and depression are low lying constants I try to overcome.  When I have the energy. 

Christmas is just around the corner and, as Sophie warns, the tourist rush begins from late November in Strasbourg. It’s one of the main Christmas hotspots in Europe, if not the world; the oldest on the Continent.  Accommodation becomes more scarce during that period.

If my timing for the accommodation appears to be less than fortuitous, I’ve arrived in Strasbourg at a good moment for other things. November is the month of the annual Jazzdor Music Festival. As I would have been hitting the events at the London Jazz Festival this month, I’ve found something compensatory across the Channel.

I attend my first proper Jazzdor event after work one night. It’s a concert featuring the creme-de-la-creme of the City’s Observatoire. I’m running late. My supervisor Sophie and I have been talking about work-related matters and I mention my evening plans. She then divulges that she plays guitar in a Brazilian band with Hubbie. We swap stories about our shared Lusophone musical history.

When I eventually arrive, the show is in full swing. The intimate venue is packed. Latecomers are forced to watch from a distance, sheepishly peeping behind a curtain. Vocalist Sélia Setodzo is holding fort with an improvised acappella number. Her francophone inflection all but disappears as she sings in Americanised English. She performs meditative Jazz with her trio of musicians; the failsafe combo of drums, piano and double-bass. There’s a short break and just about enough time for the next act to set-up; a nonet. As some of the old crowd makes way for the new, a young lady hurriedly sits next to me. We start making conversation. She detects an accent, to my chagrin. She introduces herself first (as I’m so bad at it). She’s Jeanne, also new to Strasbourg, by way of Lyon. She’s here tonight to support a friend playing keys for the nine-piece. They met whilst singing with a Gospel act. Music and Faith? Now we’re talking.  Like me, Jeanne is looking for a church in this part of the world. She asks if I’ve heard of Eglise Pentecote Internationale de Strasbourg or EPIS. It's next on her list... What are the odds. I have plans to attend that Sunday. We exchange numbers and I thank Providence for our not-so-chance encounter.

Nicolas Allard’s nonet are fab, playing a veritable gamut of early/mid 20^th Century Jazz (read more about the show here). The audience are appreciative but somewhat sedate, applauding often and politely. My premature whoops are met with some curious looks. They are working their way up to enthusiasm. Sélia joins Allard and gang to make it a dectet for the finale and encore.

I confess to a certain smug incredulity; I can’t believe I’m attending jazz gigs in an international French City. I feel truly blessed. Jeanne and I swap details and keep in touch in the days and weeks to come.

On the way home, I exchange texts with a friend who has also recently moved to a new city. He feels alienated. We swap notes, comfort each other over the not so positive elements. I tell him about my evening. Sounds like you’re having quite an adventure, he says.

The Almighty knows that it’s in the little things that I sense Him closest of all. I’ve said plenty of ‘My God, My God why have you forsaken me?’ prayers during my frustrating housing search. Just when some cosmic abandonment issues kick in, He reminds me He’s the God of the details.