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.