Beating the Winter Blues

Within a few days of mum’s unfortunate visit, I slowly but surely manage to gain some perspective. It does come off the back of a few days of melancholy and anxiety. I’ve experienced far more challenging circumstances and yet it’s strange how I can be laid low by the comparatively trivial.

My travails with mastering the French language have knocked my confidence.  At work, an awkward impromptu training session with Claudia leaves me feeling like an idiot. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to come across as mildly exasperated as I over-complicate what should otherwise be a simple procedure. Still, it reinforces my reluctance to ask her for help. I start to feel anxious about my performance at work. Three months into the job and I won’t be able to get away with the newbie label for much longer. On the plus side, I am beginning to be more self-sufficient, false steps notwithstanding.

February marks the deepest depths of Northern Hemisphere winter. I am inclined to hibernate, especially on weekday evenings. I also realise just how much I am in recovery from the frantic London pace. I never felt I could slow down. I had so many interests. There were so many important things in which to be involved. For the first time in so long I can barely remember, I am becoming reacquainted with what it means to be well-rested.

That’s not to say I am anti-social. My language quest motivates me to get out and about. I attend another Internations event. It takes place at a novelty café in central Strasbourg where customers pay an hourly rate of €5 to occupy the space and can consume as much as they wish within that time. There's some mix-up with the owner. I arrive early. He knows nothing about the meet-up.

But I'm sure Annabelle said it was here.

Well Annabelle is my girlfriend and the co-proprietor. She mentioned nothing about a meeting.

It turns out both the group organiser and his girlfriend happened to be called Annabelle. No relation.

My Annabelle eventually shows up just as I go outside to give her a call. Soon other guests turn up. I meet a Kazak member who has lived in France for five years and scarcely speaks un trait mot de français; something to do with studying in English and not having any French monolingual acquaintances. I don’t hide my incredulity. I also make fast friends with Murielle; a half-Martinican, half -Togolese Swiss national who was born and raised in Zurich before relocating to Strasbourg.

In an effort to punch above my linguistic weight, I attend a couple of intellectually-stimulating conferences. The first is a bio-ethics lecture predominantly in French. The focus is on genome manipulation and Minority Report-style experiments with recently developed neuroscientific treatments, initially used for palliative care. The speaker, an Italian national, is diffident and not the most engaging orator. Still, it’s a stimulating discourse. I even challenge myself to make a comment in French (drafted out first in pencil). I say something about the risks of those with entrenched privilege and power abusing neuroscientific research in the name of crime prevention; exclusively pursuing those with little socio-political influence and ignoring so-called white collar crimes.

Almost a fortnight later I partake in some more intellectual stimuli at a conference in the Lieu d'Europe. This time the theme is linguistics, with which I'm a lot more familiar thanks to my MA. The guest speaker focuses specifically on various approaches to multilingualism in the classroom context; from disregard for non-majority languages to complex methods that ensure better integration and acceptance of diversity. Mid-way we are asked to represent our own linguistic repertoire using crayons on the simple outline of a cartoon figure. I colour the head blue and red for English and French. The heart is Green and Orange for Brazilian Portuguese and Efik respectively (something to do with wishful thinking). The rest is a patchwork of the various registers I use in everyday interaction (professional, social...), as we've also been instructed to represent.

One Friday evening, I invite my good-natured colleague Jean-Pierre to a free jazz event celebrating the clarinet. I am due to meet Jeanne just before the show. Since returning to full time work her body clock is still adjusting to the change. She’s often tired during the week. I am hoping to coax her into staying for the gig; sort of bringing things full circle, given that we met at a Jazz concert. Not likely. She has a meeting the following morning.

It’s not our usual social meet-up. I’ve agreed to help Jeanne improve her beginner's English. I scour the internet for adult-friendly ESL word games and exercises. She’s an attentive student. Her green eyes flash with intent and, despite her fatigue, she throws herself into the word puzzles. At some point, we're politely shushed by the librarian. I get so carried away, I’m late to meet Jean-Pierre and childhood chum, Tomasz.

The event itself is rather…peculiar. The publicity does make reference to a zany line-up but that’s not the half. Four middle-aged men make sporadic, occasionally rhythmic atonal sounds on bass clarinets. They cock their heads, place hands on hips and have mock-disputes. For the finale they are joined by younger performers of varying ages from pre-school upwards. Some of them are hardly bigger than their clarinets. It is an epic piece dedicated to the history of the wind instrument incorporating brief monologues, primal screams, foot stomps and young women shouting historical facts into small megaphones with their backs to the audience. There are about one and a half pieces with a discernable melody throughout the whole show. Tomasz and Jean-Pierre exchange comments throughout. Awkwardly Tomasz, whom I have never previously met, sits in the middle. Afterwards, all three of us mildly shell-shocked, the consensus is that it’s a little too oddball for our tastes.

Oh well. It’s not a wasted evening. I at least get some vigorous French practice trying to keep up with the lads’ rapid-fire conversation. We walk several yards in the opposite direction to my bus stop before I pipe up that I need to turn back. They courteously escort me.