Long Weekend Part 2

La Synagogue de la Paix-Parc du Contades, Strasbourg
(courtesy of Photos-alsace-lorraine.com)

Saturday morning. Mum is recovering from a cold. I’m struggling to put the fiasco of the previous evening behind me. I’m in full-blown self-flagellation mode. It’s hard to pray. 

On the bright side, I don’t have any cleaning to do this morning. I indulge as much as I can in a longer lie-in. I don’t intend to start today’s itinerary until mid- afternoon. The plan is to have dinner in town with mum after some sightseeing.

Mum’s feeling stronger; counting her blessings as always. She spends much of the weekend giving me better housekeeping pointers (You need to keep a box of tissues within arms' reach...you should buy some shampoo, for your white guests) and beaming with all the ideas she has for the flat. She’s quite the amateur interior designer. I haven't inherited that propensity.

A couple of hours before we leave, I Skype sis to recount last night’s events. She isn’t one to wallow in regret; one of a number of ways we are polar opposites. What’s done is done, a mantra of sorts. Don’t let it steal the good time you could still have.

It’s a milder and dryer day than the one before. Having idled away most of the daylight hours, I am determined for us to leave before sunset. I adapt the itinerary once again, postponing the stroll around my local neighbourhood until Sunday after church.

I decide to start mum’s Strasbourg orientation at the striking Synagogue de la Paix (Synagogue of Peace) opposite Parc du Contades tram stop. I’m horrified to see a heavily-armed guard outside the premises, keeping watch over the faithful as they come and go. I point it out to mum, blaming any heightened sense of unease on Trump’s reckless Jerusalem rhetoric.

Petite France.

We cross Place de République and head towards the Notre Dame Cathedral. My plan is to meander down to Petite France; one of my favourite Strasbourg spots. I am not quite sure of what route to take. In the past I’ve usually wandered into the area by chance. I’m hoping some gut instinct will similarly guide me today. Our conversation initially turns to a melancholy theme. Mum is too emotional at first to take in her environment. The imposing Cathedral does catch her attention. It’s a pretty upbeat ramble from then on. I eventually steer us towards Petite France by way of Grand Rue and Quai St Thomas-long after nightfall. This detour allows me to cover much of the City. I mention some of the other places I plan to show mum later that weekend.

Why not do it all now? Since we’re here.

Suits me. We’ve been on our feet for hours but we’re both avid walkers. I’m just a little bit concerned the Chinese buffet I had in mind might be closed by the time we arrive at the Place des Halles. For some reason shopping centres grind to a halt at 8pm; weekends too. My fears are realised when we arrive to find even the shutters of McDonald’s are down. Mum’s a bit restless now. She suggests we buy a takeaway and head home. I take her to one of my Middle-Eastern haunts near Alt Winmarik. We parade the streets of Homme de Fer and Broglie with our pizza and pide boxes.

Back at mine, we break bread whilst binge-watching Netflix’ ‘Alias Grace’. 

Mum requests another yoghurt for dessert.  I pettily deny her, keen to ration what’s left. You’ve already had one!

She eschews my (kind of) peace offering of chocolate pudding, although initially brought at her own behest. In the morning, I will be overcome by remorse. Nothing like living with someone else, even briefly, to remind me of my own selfishness. I have to be very deliberate about acts of generosity, particularly the spontaneous kind. As a result of my own broken humanity and a reaction to various adverse life experiences, I have a tendency to hoard. 

Sunday morning, mum has gamely volunteered to accompany me to church, even though she'll understand virtually none of it. We locate free seats as close to the back as possible, so I can translate without disturbing too many other members. During the offering, to my pleasant surprise, the senior pastor leads us in a rousing rendition of 'Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen (But Jesus)' accompanying us on guitar. Mum and I join in heartily; those congregants not as comfortable singing in English, less so. Mum is moved by guest speaker Philippe Barbuis’ account of losing his wife to cancer nearly 20 years ago, his struggle with grief and the demands of ministry. His experience resonates with her own on suddenly losing her mother. Both our hearts break on learning of the funeral arranged that week for a toddler, who ran into the road whilst his father was putting out the rubbish. From our depths, we pray as a church for God to strengthen and comfort the family. 

Despite the sombre tone, Barbuis' hopeful words of exhortation linger as we leave the service. Jeanne and I unfortunately miss each other. She has been playing bass during the service and can't get away quickly afterwards. Just when I give up on seeing any of the few familiar faces I know from EPIS, Louis joins us at the tram stop. I introduce mum. She leaves us to catch up.

Petite France...from another angle.

Having covered most of the walking itinerary the night before, mum suggests a lazy Sunday afternoon in. Once again the neighbourhood gander is postponed until the Monday before she flies back to the UK. Uncharacteristically for a Sunday, I spend much of the afternoon in the kitchen making mis-shapen crepes for lunch and some sort of game (advertised as, but too tough to be, chicken) for dinner. So far, the weekend seems to have compensated for the inauspicious start to mum’s first excursion francaise.

Monday early afternoon is a little more frantic. Realising that we might have cut it a little too fine with our morning activities for mum to make it comfortably back to Basel airport for her flight, it’s a mad dash to Gare Centrale. We decide en route she won’t check-in her luggage after all, to save time. We empty her suitcase of anything that might be confiscated.

I stand on the platform to wave her off, like a classic war-time movie scene.

Later that evening I pop round to retrieve my leather bag from local Algerian-Jewish cobbler, Bénjamin. Previous attempts to have the strap fixed have been scuppered by sporadic opening hours.

When I arrive, he’s notably glum.

Ca va?

Oui. Ca va.

I’m wary. I’m not sure if this is one of his habitual flirtatious ploys. Perhaps he's toying with the idea of a guilt-trip to coerce me on a date.

Cautiously, I ask again.

Je viens de perdre ma mere.

Oh dear. I couldn't have been more wrong. I offer him my profuse condolences. I apologise for my clumsy French. Not only is it ill-equipped to deal with the context of grief, I have been using too much English over the weekend with mum. I explain I have been hosting a guest from London. Out of sensitivity I don’t mention it’s my mother. I am silently grateful the shop was closed when we tried to pick up my bag earlier that morning. It would have been unbearable for poor Bénjamin. 

He’s still in shock. Jewish tradition demands his mother is buried immediately. He has not had a chance to process events, he tells me. Despite my insistence he has more rest, the pressures of being  a sole trader mean he can only close up shop for so long. I assure him I’ll be praying for him. My bag strap remains unfixed. I tell Bénjamin to take his time.

It’s moments like this one realises what’s truly of importance.

On leaving, I see my bus flying past. It’s a sign. I return to the shop to pray for Bénjamin. In English. He’s touched by the sentiment.

On the way home, I stop off at the supermarket next door to mine. I bump into my landlord, Yotis. We exchange pleasantries and I inform him I have had to replace the old mat in the guest bathroom, after mum narrowly escaped a serious fall.

I ring her later that evening to make sure she reached London safely and tell her about the rest of my day. She manages to catch the flight in the end. Ironically, it’s significantly delayed.

Alas, on the train from Strasbourg to Basel, she’s accosted by inspectors who insist on seeing the discount card I used to pay for her ticket. Of course, I am not with her to present it. She gives them my French mobile to call and confirm. I am in the cinema at the time and have stupidly kept the phone switched off, as is my habit. She’s is charged 35 euros for her trouble. More than I paid for the damned ticket.

Mum is incredibly gracious about it all, refusing my pleas to compensate her. She is just grateful to have caught her flight. To her consternation, I arrange a bank transfer against her wishes. I am beside myself with regret. It’s not as if I didn’t anticipate this could happen. I even mention it to mum before seeing her off. Giving her my French mobile details was part of the contingency plan. I am so angry with myself. Mum's first trip to France has been bookended by unpleasant experiences. I so wanted her to enjoy herself. I so wanted it to be perfect.

Mum’s efforts to help me keep perspective are all but futile. She reminds me of Bénjamin’s recent loss. What about that poor family in church who are burying their infant this week?

I know the mere inconveniences we've encountered over the past few days cannot begin to compare to these tragedies. And yet, Je m’en veux.

It's different for Bénjamin and the family from church. They had limited, if any, control over those circumstances. 

By contrast, I feel the responsibility of small, avoidable oversights that led to bigger incidents which have cast a shadow on mum’s trip. I can’t forgive myself. My evening is ruined.

Mum loses patience with me.

When you’re this hard on yourself, you’ll do the same to others. Why can’t you just accept mercy?

In bed, I tearfully and prayerfully wrestle over the same question. It’s a theological hazard that nevertheless, goes to the core of my being. I fear if I readily allow mercy, then my sense of justice and restitution/retribution will be thrown out with the bathwater. 

Resolution will take longer than a lachrymose night. I fall into a fitful sleep.