Another Long Weekend

Baden-Baden Town Centre

Late March welcomes daylight saving hours. Time seems to speed up even more than usual. Easter is also a little on the earlier side this year.

I originally planned to go to  Blighty for a week or so. However, on her last visit mum suggests, off the cuff, spending the holiday with me in Strasbourg. I’m resistant at first but then warm to the idea. It would give us a chance to explore the region together. We fancy a few days in Frankfurt. Alas, by the time her leave is approved, travel prices have skyrocketed.

Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. France’s national rail company SNCF have scheduled a protracted strike that will put paid to a lot of regional travel by train in the short term.

Mum’s flight from Gatwick is scheduled to arrive on Easter Saturday. I spend Good Friday getting my house in order, literally. Come the afternoon, following an unsuccessful attempt to connect with sis via Skype, I feel my solitude more acutely than usual. It can’t help having been indoors all day. I don’t step out until the evening, to attend a special Vendredi Saint service near the town centre. The church I regularly attend doesn’t have any plans for Passion Week beyond the normal Easter Sunday service.

The ambiance at St Paul’s is intimate. A Passion concert is being set up in the main hall so we meet in the back. The room is illuminated by candlelight. The youthful female vicar’s message takes the form of a monologue from the perspective of Mary Magdalene, punctuated by what I assume are traditional French Easter-related hymns. A young Francophone African woman with a melodious voice and a tooth-sized gap between her front teeth attempts to teach us an acappella addition to the canon. I fumble through the Lord’s prayer. I don't know it off heart in French and oblivious to it being reproduced on the free pamphlet that was handed to me on entry.

The service ends with Holy Communion and a caveat from “Mary Magdalene” that the rumours about her being the Messiah’s main squeeze are merely prurient untruths. I head to the concert in the main hall. I change my mind when I realise that, rather than being free entry as I believed, the tickets will set me back nearly 20 euros.

Having finished my cleaning a day early, I’m a relatively free agent on Saturday before mum's arrival. I just have to put the finishing touches to my mixed-meat tagine. After the mini-disaster that was mum’s last trip, both of us hope her second French excursion will be far more promising. It wouldn’t take much. Just an absence of drama would suffice.

I’ve asked mum ahead of time to leave her interior decorating impulses behind in London. I don’t want her fussing, just to relax. And no general life tips either, unless solicited.

I’ve requested a few bits and bobs but not much. I still have a healthy amount remaining from the last stash mum brought. Nevertheless, true to her extremely generous nature, mum stuffs her suitcase with unexpected household items (many of which she ends up using herself, transforming my flat from clean to spotless). She has the excess luggage fee to show for it. As well as more chocolate and treats than would be kind to my waistline, she has smuggled in some of her very delicious Good Friday fish and yam speciality and various traditional South-East Nigerian ingredients. Thanks to mum’s provisions, I end up cooking only twice during her nearly one-week stay.

She remarks that I’ve lost weight.

I knew it.

Her loaded silences and side-long glances during her January visit gave away more than I wanted to know. I credit Lenten abstinence. It often does the trick.

Mum’s trip thus far has been mercifully strife-free. Having collected her at the coach station and unpacked her London-bought booty, we settle down to a relaxing meal and Netflix-related entertainment. For the rest of the week, Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected will be our viewing of choice after I mention it in a burst of bemused nostalgia.

Robertsau Forest

Sunday morning, mum and I find some strategic seating at the back of EPIS church-auditorium so I can translate the service for her. Afterwards, we are politely informed by a friendly couple that the church provides contemporaneous translations via headphones in a variety of languages, including English.

I catch up with Mon Ange Lyonnais, Jeanne, after service. At last, I have the chance to introduce her to mum. Easter Sunday weather is miserable. Thus, it’s straight home to indulge in high-sucrose grub and for me to get the meal ready. Mum can’t stand lamb so I’m preparing beef as a compromise. Following a recommendation by Jeanne, I’m experimenting with a tartiflette recipe. The final result is crunchier than hoped but mum’s hungry enough to finish it off.

To compensate for our temporarily abandoned Frankfurt plans, I’ve planned a series of day trips. We stay local on Easter Monday, taking a long stroll down to my local forest. The heavens are kind to us. The grim weather forecast that had me rearranging my itinerary never properly materialises. Some days are quite clement.

The forest is dense even in its still-bare post-winter state. We walk for a good half hour before we come across a proper seating area. During our ramble, we spy a young stag bounding along majestically, stalked by an exhausted but resolute hound.  Couples and families come and go in waves. At some point, I spot a dead ringer for Gautier; the former Navy officer who was very keen for me to come round to his place for dinner. We make eye-contact whilst I try and ascertain if it’s him. He (or his doppelganger) is in the company of a female friend. I decide it’s best not to interrupt.

The following day has been set aside for Baden-Baden; Germany’s equivalent of the English town of Bath. Everyone, from Sophie my supervisor to Yotis my landlord, has recommended it. SNCF’s industrial action doesn’t impede our plans as I’d feared (Vive Le Syndicalisme ! Rest assured, I still have love for the Unions). Our trains are operated by German companies. At the interchange in the middle-of-nowhere Appenweier, some little fraulines are inordinately fascinated with me and mum. They run away screaming with delirious laughter if I look in their direction. We play along. When I stick out my tongue, one of them promptly reports me to her mother, whose bare cranium is decorated with elaborate tattoos.

The weather is once again on our side. Unfortunately, I have not been my usual conscientious self and done some research. I assumed Baden-Baden was a remote Forest based outpost, as my mind’s eye has interpreted descriptions by my acquaintances.

The town is much bigger than I anticipate. I reluctantly ask for directions at the station on mum’s repeated behest. Thanks to the not-quite-accurate instructions we end up lost. We are told to descend at Leopoldplatz. Except our bus doesn’t stop there. I suggest we get off at the picturesque area surrounding the LA8 Museum. It looks close enough to civilisation. Mum insists we stay on board. We literally take the scenic route, covering the outer edges of the Black Forest. The bus does a loop without stopping. On our way back into town, some inspectors get on board. 

Sigh. Not again.

My German is virtually non-existent. Mum has even less. We try to explain that we were lost and didn’t realise the driver was going straight back into town. They demand to see our passports. Thankfully, I have the presence of mind that morning to suggest we carry them. The inspectors seem perversely impressed that we are British citizens.

One of them, stereotypically Aryan-looking, has limited English. None of them speak French. The sole female inspector asks other passengers if they know any English. A woman approaches with enough to convey (with some difficulty) our predicament. Mum is talking over me. I irritably demand that she stops. The situation is confusing enough as it is. It’s not the last time mum and I will have words about her well-intentioned but not-entirely-helpful interpretation efforts.

The intervention of the passerby is a God-send of sorts. She signals us to hush. We have the choice of paying for a return journey or a 60 euro fine each. No contest really.

The rest of the trip is reassuringly incident free. Baden-Baden is as pretty as I’ve been told. We arrive too late for the ridiculously brief opening hours of the Roman Baths Museum but there’s enough around town to keep us occupied for the whole afternoon.

On the penultimate day of mum’s sojourn, we pop to Kehl.  She is unimpressed by the bargains I’ve talked up, compared to what’s available in London. I suppose Strasbourg life has relativised my idea of a good buy. Your standard deal in the UK is comparatively bargain-basement here.

Mum whiles away hours looking for homeware.  Our plans for a leisurely crepe lunch in Strasbourg fall to the wayside.

I’ve warned her that my flat doesn’t need sprucing. I’m a simple woman of modest tastes. Against my wishes, she spends most of her own holiday cash on decorative flourishes. I tell her off, torn between sounding like an ingrate, wanting my autonomy respected and not wishing to be an inadvertent burden on her purse.

But I love spoiling people. It’s just the way I am…

We make it to the end of mum’s break with no disasters and fun memories to compensate somewhat for the bitter taste of her first visit. Having safely seen her off at the coach station, I receive a text a few hours later. Mum’s arrived in good time for check-in at Basel airport. All is well.