After the Homecoming: Part 2

Shortly after my London visit, an invitation to a social event at a Bo-Ho part of town winks at me from my inbox. It’s organised by meet-up hub Internations. The music policy sounds good. It’s just the thing I need to start meeting new folk. Still. I prevaricate. I don’t like to commit far in advance in case circumstances change. Or I lose the mettle to go. I hate to be a flake. Then again if I RSVP, as a woman of my word I’ll have to attend. That settles it.

By the time the event rolls round, I’m even more reluctant. It’s a school-night (albeit a Thursday). My isolated expat pity-party is in full swing. Ironically, I want to withdraw even more; particularly after having over-shared at my regular lunchtime rendezvous with unofficial French tutor/not-quite-finished-infatuation Bernard.

Get a grip woman. First world problems.

After work, I go home to change into something less office-y. I accessorise, and refresh my make-up. I dilly-dally a bit so I don’t arrive too early.

Heading to the bus stop, the sun shines auspiciously after a miserable grey day. Better nevertheless to manage expectations about the evening, if I must have any at all.

The Blue Moon bar is situated in a secluded corner of Krutenau surrounded by residential buildings. I worry about walking back to the bus stop after dark.

Sigh. Let’s get this over and done with, shall we?

Internations have commandeered a section of the establishment. I receive a friendly welcome from the event organisers on entry, one of whom fashions a makeshift name tag for me. Fully paid-up members receive a drinks token. There’s free (tasteless) popcorn at the bar. Nice one. It’s not as if I have any disposable income after my London visit anyway.

The DJ warms up in his corner. I station myself at the bar with my Violet Diablo and survey the room. Most guests have arrived in groups. In the UK, this would not put me off. I’m used to attending social events solo. If I always relied on the availability of friends, I’d scarcely leave the house. It is different in this context. I feel a slow wave of panic taking over. Not so successfully, I stifle the urge to well up. A good thing I’m celibate, I muse. In this emotionally fragile state, I’d be more inclined to casual relations that would likely leave me feeling lonelier in the end.

Just when I resign myself to an awkward evening and an early exit, I’m approached by an Asiatic beauty I have just noticed arriving. She introduces herself as Kokoro from Japan.

Oh, my sister lives in Japan.

Yes! A point of interest.

Kokoro was based all over France for several years before settling in Alsace. She asks if I’m with friends. She too is flying solo this evening. She’s not with the tall bearded gentleman who was standing next to her at the door. We swap day job info, talk about how we both came to study French as well as Japan’s well-known Francophilia. She explains her parents named her Kokoro in hope she’d be big-hearted. After rescuing me from temporary solitude tonight, I’d say it was a good call.

We are briefly joined by event organiser, Laurent. He has to reintroduce himself to me. To my shame, I didn’t register his features well enough the first time. He’s gracious about it.

I’m beginning to feel at ease. I’m getting lots of French practice and encouraging feedback.

The DJ is really warmed up now. He moves from Motown to 80s pop and soul, classic MJ and Prince, New Jack Swing and 90s commercial house. I know it’s going to be all right when he drops the Kaytranada reworking of Janet’s If and Poison by BBD. He hardly makes a false move (except playing I Should Be So Lucky as an excuse to segue into Get Lucky. Unforgivable).

As Kokoro and I converse, I become aware of a grinning middle-aged Caucasian man standing behind us. I sense he’s biding his time. I’m correct. He sees me bopping my head and mouthing lyrics to the good tunes.

Great music, no? Very soulful.

Heck, my encounter with Kokoro has put me in a good mood. I’m feeling cordial despite my suspicions. He has the air of a man with a particular appreciation for ‘the other’. Stumbling across one African and one Oriental chick a couple of decades his junior, he looks like the cat that got the cream. Or scored highly on multi-ethnic bingo.

He introduces himself. Ulrich from Koln. I don’t initially pick-up a German inflection. Studying in France has naturalised his accent. Despite his corporate attire, Ulrich is a film producer. He’s apparently the kind from a sufficiently affluent background to be able to travel the world making obscure art house features at infrequent intervals. He introduces me to his new project partner, Lidija.

Ulrich takes a particular interest in my day job, or rather that I work on projects based in Eastern Europe. He is fond of the former Yugoslavia.

You should go. The landscape is beautiful. The buildings are from a different era and the roads... You’d think you were in Africa.

Oh. You know Africa? Which region?

He mentions once dating a Burkinabe woman when he lived in Marseille. Apart from that, he admits, he’s never been south of the Sahara.

Someone suggests swapping details. I'm not super-keen but it's hard to demure without being rude, Ulrich, Kokoro and I exchange business cards. Or rather, I scribble my details onto paper. I need to get some new cards done out here.

Ulrich and Lidija invite me to sit outside. I think of heading home from there. I ask if Kokoro would like to join us. She declines. It’s cold she says.

Au contraire. To my surprise, it’s turning out to be a fairly balmy evening. After Ulrich and Lidija smoke pungent cigarettes, we head back indoors to my surprise.

Kokoro is holding court with a slight blond man,Thierry whom she informs me also works at The Organisation. We happen to live in the same neck of the woods too. He works in the IT department.

That’s odd. I was thinking of contacting your team just this morning. My computer’s up to its old tricks.

Thierry is a purebred Alsatian, down to the Germanic surname. He has a slightly nervous energy and wears what I interpret as a vaguely incredulous air during most of our conversation. I suppose he wonders why our paths have never crossed before.

It happens. THRO is huge.

Thierry suggests we do a lunchtime meet up at some unspecified point. I don’t detect anything untoward, just being amicable. I am not exactly in the position to be turning my nose up at too many invitations.

I say my farewells and skip out of the Blue Moon later than I planned. I miss my bus in the process but I won’t whinge too much. It’s been a good night.

After the Homecoming: Part 1

courtesy of www.clipimage.net

My two priorities on coming back to Strasbourg: 1) be even more intentional about building community 2) (linked to previous) push past this bloody linguistic plateau with my French.

In regards to the first, my old melancholia -or saudade as my Brazilian chums might say-is creeping around the edges. Since my trip to London (and even before) my sense of disconnect is more pronounced. Despite my independent nature, I am increasingly aware (or reminded?) of a latent neediness and codependency that it's taking much of my energy to suppress. In this new context, I do not have years of goodwill stocked up with friends who have learned to accept and overlook my foibles. It's best foot forward all the time, except I'm not even managing that. I whinge a lot about my isolation and frustrations. If I make the mistake of being open with someone I scarcely know, it sends me into a panic that I've let myself be too vulnerable too soon.

As for my language objective, well that is my main motivation for wanting to work in France.

It's a shame that my Francophone acquaintances don't get to see the real me (whoever she is). It's a modified version. I'm all neuroses with the good bits cut out. I can't yet always accurately express the ideas swimming in my mind.

Shortly before going on holiday I join an online neighbourhood network. It’s not usually my sort of thing but makes sense in the context of wanting to establish more social links. On returning to Strasbourg I shoot a text to Juanita, who is also new-ish to the area according to her recent announcement on the site. In my absence, my Martinican/Togolese mate Muriel has sent me an invitation to a cultural event. I’ve barely looked at my French mobile in the UK. I try to make it up to her by offering to meet over the weekend. Alas, she won’t be in town.

I contact another acquaintance whom I met at a small gathering of internationals with a French connection. She has been inviting me round to hers since she moved closer to my neck of the woods. We agree to catch up after her forthcoming holiday to Croatia.

This is the issue. If my few regular contacts are unavailable, my socialising options are limited.

I sign up for a couple of events via my Internations account. Meanwhile, I've arranged a trip with Juanita to our local forest. She invites me to discover it from a different angle.

Why not? Last time I visited with mum, the trees were still bare. It would be good to see the woods in full bloom.

Juanita suggests meeting me at a couple of locations with which I am not familiar, despite their proximity. She offers to pick me up from a nearby bus stop after I miss my connection (bad time management). I arrive. She’s not there. She calls me. A confused conversation ensues. (I still hate doing phone calls in French). I insist I’m at the designated bus stop. She oppugns. I insist some more. Things become tense. She stops to check with a passer-by. Sufficiently persuaded she’s parked at the wrong bus stop, the argument is put to bed sans apology. Oh well. Love keeps no record of wrongs. I'm not quite there yet.

Emerging on the horizon, Juanita does some daredevil spins in the process of parking. I’m crossing the street back and forth like a nutcase trying to keep up with her. Goodness knows what the women at the bus stop must think.

Face to face, Juanita is a few decades older than I anticipated. Her profile pic was rather small to be fair. I expect to meet someone of roughly the same age. Furthermore, contrary to what her name suggests, she is not a Spanish expat with native-level French. She’s an honorary Alsatian of some 30 years, hailing originally from Brittany and only speaks French. She mentions Iberian heritage but her quest to trace her family tree hasn’t gone very far, through no fault of her own.

Juanita likes nature. Really likes it. As in, off the beaten-track, walk-through-dense-vegetation kind. She’s an animal-loving vegan who meditates in deserted clearings of the forest. She's evangelical about preserving ecosystems. She’s the kind to pick up beetles and small snakes on pathways to prevent them from being crushed by unsuspecting passers-by. I like nature too. At a safe distance. Pedestrianised walks through well-manicured green spaces. As for critters, I’m more likely to be the one crushing them, if not leaping over them.

Robertsau Forest

She leads me through some of her favourite secluded spaces.

Isn’t this picturesque?

Yes. Yes indeed.

I’m frantically brushing away foliage, paranoid about attracting unwanted wildlife. It doesn’t take long for Juanita to recognise my discomfort.

I’d like to show you more but you’re too much of a city girl.

I wonder why she looks disapprovingly at my sandals. It makes sense now. This is a trainers-advised nature trail. My footwear would otherwise be very much appropriate. It’s a hot day (Just like Africa, no? Juanita ventures. Overly-conscious of the angry-black-woman stereotype I mutter something inane in response).

Thanks to my exposed toes I am able to talk myself out of more dense, jungle-like forestry. Glory be.

Juanita enquires my age, why I'm in Strasbourg and my long term plans.

I don't know. Contrary to my instinct, I'm trying to take a day at a time.

This leads to a metaphysical discussion of sorts about God's plan vs. free-will. At some point on our jaunt Juanita remarks.

Is it worth the effort making friends, if you only have to leave at the end of your contract?

Good question. I've often wondered myself.

Juanita leads me onto recognisable pathways.

This is more reassuring, isn’t it?

Absolutely. I can better appreciate the scenery. Juanita is quite the flora expert. She points out various species. Beech and oak saplings look like majestic bamboo trees in their early stages. She explains the history of the dyke we pass on our travels.

It’s a decent trek. She suggests we stop for some refreshments. Fine, although I ate before I came. Plus I have left my wallet at home. Not that it would make much difference. My brief London stay has bled me dry anyway. It’s going to be a lean month.

It’s my treat.

Thanking Juanita for her generosity, I order a peach diablo from the bronzed and impish waiter. His movements are languid; his responses pithy but good natured. He bursts into impromptu renditions of unidentifiable English songs much to our amusement.

Whilst Juanita waits for her chocolate and coffee ice cream she confides,

I’m not in a rush to go home. There’s no-one waiting for me.

In hindsight, I understand why she’s slightly bemused when I explain that I like living alone. It’s a luxury in contemporary London.

We drift into a discussion about the City’s cosmopolitan nature.

I barely recognise Strasbourg. It’s changed so much over the years. I hardly hear a word of French on the tram these days.

Feeling awkward at yet another hint of casual racism, I try to make a case for diversity as an asset.

It’s time to go home. On approaching her car, Juanita notices she has left the hazard lights on.

Mince! J’espere que je n’ai pas epuisé la batterie.

It is as she’s feared. There’s not enough battery power to get the ignition going. I can make it home by foot but I don’t want to abandon Juanita. She can’t risk leaving the car overnight. There have been incidents of vandalism. Her only daughter is out of town on business. Local friends aren’t answering their phones. Juanita appeals to passers-by for help of any kind. Just as she convinces two young men to give the car a running start, someone shows up with a charger powerful enough to give the engine a kick start.

Finally on our way, she turns to me, beaming with relief.

What an adventure!

Quite.

The Homecoming

May marks a veritable glut of public holidays in France. There’s Worker’s Day on 1 May, Armistice Day on 8 May, Ascension on the 10^th and the Pentecost holiday, every third Monday of May. If one of these should fall in the middle of the week (as is the case this year for Worker’s Day) employers may give their staff an additional non-working day before or after, at their discretion.

It’s thus the ideal time to take an extended break in Blighty. I’d hardly need to touch my annual leave. It’s long overdue. I avoided the dreaded mal du pays for several months. It took my mum’s second visit earlier in spring and a hopeless crush on my unofficial French tutor Bernard, to make me realise how isolated I’ve started to feel in Strasbourg. (A former globetrotting friend reckons it usually kicks in around the 6-month mark). It’s not as much mal du pays as mal des proches. I’m not so far removed from hectic London living to begin to miss it. What I do miss is my networks; having history with people.

No history, no baggage. One astute friend observes during my UK visit. True. But I also like the idea of being round those who’ve seen me at my best and worst and stuck around. It takes time to build that goodwill. I am depressingly aware of how superficial my social life is in Strasbourg. I have a handful of acquaintances only one of which I could call a friend in the classic sense. She also has a life to lead. I can’t allow myself to become too clingy. Before my UK trip-the first since I relocated to Alsace-I feel the ache more acutely. It’s taking all my energy to resist an instinct to latch onto my few Connaissances Strasbourgeoises. I feel low, tearful and anxious. This is exacerbated the closer I come to the trip. The accommodation I’ve sorted with a friend is suddenly up in the air. A visit to the Midlands to see a friend after a nearly two year hiatus falls through…

In the end, it all resolves itself. My UK visit, now concentrated in London, is just the soul tonic that I need to revive my joie de vivre. My friend puts me up with her mum until things settle down and I can stay with her. She offers a somewhat chaotic but extremely warm welcome. My schedule is completely full with meet-ups, church visits, hair appointments and helping a friend’s campaign to become a Labour Councillor in a solidly Blue ward in Camden.   I traverse the City almost everyday meeting acquaintances old and new and spend most evenings eating with mum. I meet up with most of whom I hoped to see. There's something about not taking it for granted we're in the same country that helps us make the most of the time. I have several enriching conversations (one too many of which make reference to a viral news story involving a certain Mr West). I manage to squeeze in a little French practice at a Francophone event. 

After a cold and wet start, the skies clear and temperatures climb to Mediterranean heights for a substantial part of the holiday. Not even the UK media's devious attempts to twist the Labour Party's decent local election result into a defeat can wholly dampen my mood.

The 10 days naturally fly by. I am relieved to experience no drama on my return via Basel airport, despite my slightly over-the-limit cabin luggage.

Since the train strikes are still in full swing in France and there are no coaches back to Strasbourg available at a reasonable time, I make use of the carpool service recommended by my office-mate Claudia.  I am collected from Basel by the highly personable Olivier. He arrives early. We make it back to Strasbourg long before the ETA. He's inordinately excited to hear of my Nigerian connection.

I worked in Plateau state for years!

You're probably more Nigerian than me then. I quip with no malice.

Olivier speaks some pidgin to boot (again, more than I can claim).  We spend the duration of the drive talking about wanderlust and multilingualism. It's one of those unexpectedly reassuring moments; where the milk of human kindness flows freely and I'm reminded of God's Providence.

Back in Strasbourg, I have one day of respite before returning to work thanks to Ascension Day. I decide to go back on a Friday. Just to be contrary. And also to make a head-start on my emails (which still run into triple figures, despite the numerous public holidays). By the afternoon my inbox doesn’t have a single unopened message. The department is quiet, many colleagues taking the opportunity to have an extra long weekend, including my supervisor Sophie and Claudia. I like the calm. Not too many questions about my time off. A few comments on my change of hairstyle but not too much.