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.