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.