Sweet Misery

Melancholy can take several forms. Mine is currently incarnated in a multilingual, six foot three-ish, jewel-eyed quinquagenarian colleague of Germanic/French Caribbean heritage. The Nordic genes won out. There's not a trace of kink in his luxurious chestnut-brown locks. The only concession to his mulatto origins is a year round deep-olive complexion and notably sculpted cheekbones. Sigh. With the combined power of our sharp bone structures, imagine the babies…

We converse about everything from pop culture, politics and gender relations to our own personal experiences with cultural displacement. It gets deep, personal and candid. His softly-spoken bass can be hard to hear but is unintentionally sensual. He's funniest when pissed off. His wry humour manifests, sapphire eyes enlivened with indignation. The volume doesn't increase but his whole face is engaged in narrating the source of his irritation. I miss him terribly between rendezvous’. My mind races with the ideas I look forward to sharing with him, crafting them in my head with grammatical care.

Of course he’s fallible, like the rest of us. He tends to generalise about the sexes. He’s slow in acknowledging the depth of his own suppressed anguish. He drives a luxury car and I don’t believe he’s as committed to socialist policies as I am. On the other hand, he is a stable and calming presence. When I struggle to fully express myself in his language, he waits patiently; in silent encouragement. He’s a dedicated employee, conscientious father, a dutiful and devoted son, nephew and [fill the blank]. A beautiful man.

Our fairly consistent encounters are chaste. (My thoughts, well…not so much). We haven’t even shaken hands, let alone exchanged the customary French bises. 

He represents so much of what I’d desire in a significant other. And yet…

We’ll forever be kept apart by the unholy combination of vastly different life experiences (i.e. romantic), a generation gap (fancy me, an ageist Xennial falling for a late baby-boomer) and divergent values on matters of faith.  Whilst some factors could evolve with time, others are unyielding. History would have to be re-written for our stars to properly align. I doubt that I’ve met someone who so closely fits my ideal but is simultaneously so incompatible. Oh, the bitter ironies of life.

Although never articulated, tacitly we’ve both come to accept any latent mutual attraction will remain unconsummated. Think Lost in Translation or more apt still, Annie Edison and Jeff Winger-right down to the age and height differences.

I’ve grasped it intellectually but my emotions are playing catch-up. There are moments when I’ve overshared. Subconsciously, I want something from him that he cannot give. My face clouds over with possessiveness each time I witness his cheerful disposition towards a particular female colleague. My innards tighten with jealousy when, on occasion, he refers to former lovers or even the acrimonious relationship with his ex-wife. Although their liaisons might be a thing of the distant past, these women have known and held him in a way that I never will.

Being a man of experience, he has moved on far quicker than I. Our email exchanges were once playful and regular. Now, reality has kicked in and the demands of his hectic schedule have taken over. Where he used to lose track of time in my company, now he's more conscious of the clock. His eagerness and frequent dimpled smiles (in spite of his default solemnity) have mellowed into ad hoc responses and occasional chuckles. It makes me unnecessarily anxious. When he does reply to my emails, it gladens me more than it should.

I crave nonetheless our weekly fix of ‘informal’ French lessons. I am crestfallen if, as often happens, we have to reschedule. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

In the end, our connection might prove as ephemeral as a sandcastle. Nothing to show it was there when the tide comes in. The situation makes me feel lonelier than I otherwise would. If I had the courage, for the sake of sanity I’d make a brutal but clean break to totally recover my equilibrium.

He has thus come to embody every disappointment, unfulfilled longing or closed door. The heartache that has accompanied me for these past months is further compounded by a pre-birthday panic, as I approach my late 30s.

I have enough self-awareness to realise my misery is disproportionate. I need to maintain perspective. I am only broken-hearted, after all. I am not entitled to anything. There are circumstances far sadder in this world than a futile infatuation. Friendship is a higher and purer state of interaction anyway. And yet…

Life goes on. Dignity dictates that I don't build my world around a man. Besides, I can’t dwell in the doldrums as spring gives way to summer, and the day doesn’t surrender its light until long after 10pm. Aestival Strasbourg is bright, humid and given to spectacular thunderstorms at night.

I channel my chagrin into creativity. Nothing gets those juices flowing like a bit of pain. I am writing more often. I have turned to musical therapy, singing my blues away at night. That’s not quite as glamorous as it might sound. I’ve simply revived an adolescent obsession of recording myself singing harmonies; one of life’s greatest joys. The multiple cassette-stereos have been replaced by Audacity free-software. It’s an incredibly effective catharsis.

I seek refuge in my faith. I am joining more activities at church and endeavouring to look beyond myself. I push deeper; directing my hurt and disappointments towards heaven in tears of anger and frustration. I try to remember Christ is the source of -and ultimate response to -the yearnings of the soul that no one mortal or relationship can satisfy. Needing to understand what that means in real terms during this life season, I knock persistently- sometimes violently-on heaven’s door.

I pursue my political activism as much as I can remotely, being vice-chair of my regional branch of Labour International.

I continue to hit the town with fervour. Summer in Strasbourg is ablaze with free activities. I invite Muriel and my new work acquaintance Camila to a theatrical piece inspired by the uprisings of May 1968. Despite it being the 50^th anniversary of this seismic socio-historic event, it will be the first commemorative show I have attended. Alas, Muriel will drop out to support a friend’s product launch.

It’s my second foray into French theatre since relocating to Alsace. Paradis Maintenant is a mise-en-abime conversation piece about the titular controversial play, devised by The Living Theatre Company. The production opens with roughly 10-minutes of silence. A series of provocative questions posed by Julian Beck, one of the founding members of The LTC, are projected onto a screen.

When they do make an appearance, the student actors’ portrayals are assured. They articulate well enough for me to follow the dialogue without enormous effort. I gather that, amongst other issues, they’re engaging in a philosophical discussion about the efficacy of work destined to be censored. Whilst some characters believe it defeats the purpose, others maintain it is success in itself to attract the ire of the authorities.

My enjoyment is hampered slightly by the presence of Camila’s boyfriend, Pierrot. He’s a last minute addition. I am frank about my discomfort with the idea when she informs me the day before. I’d prefer by far to attend an event on my jack jones than be the third wheel. Some couples are self-involved. I don’t know in which reality it will be fun for a single friend to tag along, especially when there’s only one common denominator.

Camila is gracious about my reservations but Pierrot can’t exactly be uninvited. I groan inwardly as, on approaching our agreed meeting point, I spy them canoodling.

Pierrot does have his uses. He is knowledgeable about that period of history and fills in some contextual blanks.

The following weekend I attend an all day Sunday music-fest with Muriel (thankfully, sans copain this time) and Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro. I am dressed up from Sunday morning spent at church. I coat myself in gold shimmer and put on a dash of vibrant red lipstick. I call this dating myself.

The festival is organised by an institution for mature amateurs who want to hone their musical skills. The event is hosted in an establishment very similar to an English gastro-pub.

The main show doesn’t live up to the enticing programme. The first act, a Jazz covers band, is a mixed-bag. Some of the instrumentation is tight but the lead singer is visibly nervous. Bless. Her movements are stiff, her volume low and pronouncing the English lyrics is an obvious challenge. The other acts, although more accomplished, are too arcane for my tastes. The performances that would interest me most are billed towards the end of the evening. I have a workman coming round the next morning to fix my bathroom blind. Plus transport in Strasbourg on a Sunday is too rare a phenomenon to chance it. I’ll have to miss out on the Latin Jazz band this occasion. I leave underwhelmed but not regretful.

At least it gets me out of the house.

Soundtrack of the Week: Lost & Found by Jorja Smith.

My (Cultured) Cup Runneth Over…

When the French hear I’m from the Big Smoke, there’s almost a commiserating reaction to my move to Strasbourg…

It’s a lot smaller isn’t it?

Yes. The transport and rent is cheaper and it's a lot less manic too. I often reply that it’s a bel equilibre between the madness of Big City Life and the (supposed) dullness of a small town/village. Strasbourg is an international city after all. Throughout the year its cultural calendar boasts an impressive number of events. On that front, I shall not want.

I’m reminded of this the first weekend in June, when my diary fills up very quickly.

I’ve sorely missed the UK theatre scene since relocating. Apart from loved ones and the NHS, it’s just about the only thing thus far that I am nostalgic about living in London. Imagine my delight when I discover that the proverbial mountain will be coming to Mohamed. Two Anglophone theatre productions on the same weekend; a double bill by early 20^th Century theatre great, Terence Rattigan and a biographical one-man show about Chet Baker, one of my favourite jazz vocalists.

The Terence Rattigan two-piece is organised and performed by a community theatre group linked to The Organisation. I recognise at least one familiar face amongst them. The troupe might consist of volunteers but the output is pretty slick. These are amateurs in the true sense; lovers of the art form even if not financially remunerated for their efforts. I am oddly comforted to hear the various British regional accents in second play Harlequinade. The following week, when I email a link for my review to some of the cast and crew, one of the moonlighting actors pops round to personally thank me. Before I know it, I’m being asked to muck in with the team. I warn them that I am no actress. Besides, my short term memory lags behind my long term. Learning lines wouldn’t be my forte. Nevertheless, the team reassure me, I can make myself useful elsewhere. A suivre…

A day after the Rattigan-fest, I attend the final night of Scottish Jazz aficionado Mike Maran’s A Funny Valentine. After church is done, I wouldn’t normally go back out on a Sunday afternoon but heck. It’s for Chet.

At some point during one of my weekend jaunts, I find out that there’s also a free Hip-Hop festival –or Block Party Jam-taking place in the vicinity of the play. I stop off en route to watch …Valentine. It’s a hot and dazzlingly sunny day. I’ve gone traditional with a dress I had sewn on my too-long-ago trip to Naija. I’m vain enough to half-heartedly expect to turn some heads. The crowd is a mix of solo revellers, families on a day out and cliques. There’s a dance battle going on, at a fashion.

A graffiti artist does the rounds decorating installations erected for the event. When I arrive the DJ switches from Donell Jones’ You Know What’s Up to the not-so-obvious Full Crew remix of Craig David’s Fill Me In. Nice.

My admiration doesn’t last for long. The music policy shifts towards unfamiliar (to me) rap joints. There’s not enough spontaneous dancing going on, neither is the battle setting my heart a flutter. Thanks to sis’ lifelong interest in dance, I’ve been exposed to enough of the scene to be fairly elitist about what is impressive or not. I remind myself we all have to start from somewhere. It’s not fair to judge a dancer on the basis of one competition. They could be affected by any number of factors; the heat, nerves, an uninspiring tune, the competitive environment itself…

I decide to check back in after the play.

A Funny Valentine is staged at the mysterious-sounding Cabaret Onirique (roughly translated The Fantasy Cabaret); a converted barge that now serves as a bar/performance space. Basically, the Jazz Café on a boat.

Dressed all in white, Maran embodies heroin itself; Baker’s sole lifetime companion. He narrates Baker’s story as filtered through various biographies and Chet’s own unreliable accounts. Maran is a serious fan-boy but not an apologist. He injects sympathy but does not excuse. Let the fact, fiction and half-truths speak for themselves. He does avoid cynicism about the curious circumstances surrounding Baker’s untimely death. In spring 1988, aged 58 he defenestrated himself (or was defenestrated) from an Amsterdam hotel window; by accident or design, nobody really knows. Maran prefers to believe it was the former.

The audience are transformed into voyeurs. Baker’s life was a veritable, self-inflicted train-wreck from which you cannot avert your eyes. Through his own making this once strangely beautiful man, with his arresting bone structure and luscious dark hair, morphs into a cadaver. He looks like an octogenarian in his 50s. Of all the many Jazz tragedies, Baker’s is particularly affecting. Just as his voice encapsulates life’s sorrow, his story reflects both the beauty and tragic farce of the human condition. Self-destructive behaviour is not unique to junkies. There’s a Chet in all of us.

After the show, I air these thoughts in discussion with trumpeter Colin Steele who accompanies Maran alongside last-minute addition Alan Benzies; a trio of Scots.

I gatecrash the conversation Steele is having with another audience member who happens to have been sitting behind me during the show. We have already exchanged a few words in French and English. I tease him for mangling the lyrics of My Funny Valentine. We are later joined by Tatjana, who has also just finished enjoying the show.

I commend Steele for capturing some of the essence of Baker’s playing. Admittedly, I’m far less familiar with his trumpet than his vocals. I lament to Steele (and later Maran, when he briefly joins us) that the piece doesn’t give enough attention to Chet’s eerily gorgeous voice. Mike blames it on his own 'bad' singing.

Colin has lived with the spectre of Baker for decades. He explains that those close to Chet revealed how he valued his fix above all else; even music. He reportedly shot up a million dollars’ worth of the stuff over his lifetime. Baker was a natural musician who eschewed practice, something Steele would never countenance. He was talented enough to half-arse a legendary career. Perhaps it came too easily for him, I suggest to Colin. That was his undoing. There’s something to be said for the struggle, after all.

Despite the macabre subject, it’s a stimulating conversation. I say my farewells just as I hear a melodramatic groan from Maran downstairs. Steele rushes to his aid. I will later feel rightly ashamed for my hasty departure without first checking on Mike. Tatjana doesn’t look impressed. Nevertheless, I leave the Cabaret conversely buoyed.

Back at the Block Party, much of the crowd has dispersed as it creeps towards its close. The playlist has diversified somewhat. A couple of Fugees classics, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme tune (huh? Apparently, that’s a thing), Montell Jordan… After sitting out a few I find a spot where I feel more at ease to get down. Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Jump On It, a guilty pleasure, has me doing the signature rodeo moves. I lose it when the DJ drops Heads High by Mr. Vegas.

My insouciance catches the attention of a Franco-Vietnamese called Cédric. He sidles up to me. I’m relaxed enough not to be stand-offish. In between the boogie, we make polite but unspectacular conversation. I politely demure his invitation for a drink. It’s straight home for me to finish watching the New Edition biopic and eat a rare treat from Burger King.

Cédric graciously retires. His behaviour is far more becoming than that of the creepy gentleman who follows me on the bus home, asking me in broken English if I’d ‘accept him’. Thankfully, he promptly descends once I decline; firmly but politely (again- not characteristic of me in these situations).

Soundtrack of the week: Heart Break by New Edition.

Encounters

I am still actively trying to expand my social networks (offline) in Strasbourg.

Scrolling through suggested contacts on my Internations account, I usually only take a cursory look. I am aware that many of my THRO colleagues are also members but none that I know personally, bar one.

One evening I spot the profile of Camila; an Afro-Brazilian colleague who started working at The Organisation not long before I did. I’m giddy with excitement. So much so, I not only send her a message via my Internations account but I email her from work the next day. I wouldn’t usually wish to come across as so keen but heck. She speaks two of my favourite languages and is one of the few other brown faces at THRO (for some reason that’s more evident to me here than it would be in the UK.) Like me, Camila is also relatively new in town.

She responds to my email with alacrity. We arrange to meet up the following Thursday. My mood lifts instantly.

In the flesh Camila is a pretty and petite, good-natured 20-something. We cover a lot of ground in less than an hour-and-a-half lunch break. She’s originally from the Minas Gerais region of Brazil but was adopted by affluent Europeans. They relocated to the Old Continent when she was small. She’s a bona-fide polyglot, having either schooled or lived in various countries across Europe, not to mention Anglophone Africa. In merely eight months she has acquired a level of French it has taken me almost 30 years to attain. She met her Belgian boyfriend whilst living in Zambia. He relocated with her to France when she started her work placement at THRO. They plan to move to the American East Coast in the autumn.

I can’t begrudge sweet Camila for leading what seems to be a very charmed life. I shouldn’t complain. I have much for which to be grateful…and yet I am ashamed to say, I feel strangely depressed after what should have otherwise been an affirming rendezvous.

Onwards and upwards. After a little bit of uncertainty I decide to join the March for Jesus with which my French church is involved that weekend. I wouldn’t necessarily participate in a similar event in Britain. Here in France however, where aggressive secularism seeks to banish faith from the public sphere as much as possible (except for all the religious holidays, of course) it would be good to show some solidarity. Besides, as I am to discover the march isn’t some self-congratulatory jaunt down the streets of Strasbourg. It’s an opportunity to dialogue with the curious and pray for key social groups around town.

At a preparatory prayer meeting at church earlier that week, I find out that the police are one of the groups for which we’ll be petitioning heaven. The organisers perceive them to be a maligned bunch. It’s not wholly unjustified. French citizens originating from the former colonies have good reason to be wary of the police. I hope the empathy of my French sisters and brothers in Christ can extend to those members of society too.

The day of the march itself, the temperature rises to tropical levels. To my surprise, the event has a carnival atmosphere. There are a couple of floats. Songbooks are distributed. I see a couple of familiar faces from church including Hassan. He and much of his Tunisian family are converts from Islam. Cultural Islam he stresses. It’s perceived as turning your back on your people to convert.

Hassan is intense. At one point he invites me to be a prayer partner. I am not willing to accept without thinking it over. I also wonder if that is some sort of Christian pick up line.

Hundreds of the Faithful have turned up; of all hues, gender and ages. We walk along rhythmically, chanting to praise tunes played over West African-influenced beats. It matters not I am not familiar with most of the songs. They're easy to pick up. We stop occasionally to intercede in prayer for the young, for the City, the European institutions and yes, Law Enforcement. Onlookers pause to raise a quizzical eyebrow or snap us on their phones. My self-consciousness dissipates. I’m proud to be counted amongst such a diverse representation of the Body of Christ.

There’s to be a concert in the centre of town at the end of the march, lasting late into the evening. I break ranks half-way through proceedings to continue with the rest of my day.

I’m attending another event with a musical theme early that evening, albeit of a more terrestrial nature. There’s a free jazz gig at La Salle Européenne. It’s walking distance from my flat and next door to my office. After some shopping I return home to change. I’m hoping to meet some like-minded thirty-somethings (ish). It’s not that straightforward. I realise many people my age have commitments (work + significant other, kids etc) that don’t allow them much free time. There’s often a generation gap. Either you have youngsters with no responsibilities or an older demographic with a lot of free time. If there are folks a similar age to me, they are usually hanging around in groups.

That’s the case at the gig. It’s the silver-haired crew out in full force with a few younger faces dotted around. What’s more, the international quartet is truly loufoque. There’s clearly some virtuosity; not that they’ll give the audience enough reason to enjoy it. The musicians have chosen one of those needlessly abstract repertoires that take umbrage with a melody. The bassist is restive; walking in and out of the pavilion, fiddling with a deck chair, abandoning it, returning to it… At one point, the tenor saxophonist plays a sustained atonal note and disappears into the corner. His trumpeter colleague offers to play something in the interim. Any requests?

By the time the drummer and one of the horn players start lighting up mid-set, I walk out in disgust. They are taking Le Piss.

I’m about to storm off home but notice several revellers lounging on the lawn of La Salle. One young woman reads a novel in tranquillity, as if the main event is incidental. I follow her lead. I sit on the steps of the main building and bring out the very enjoyable novel I’m reviewing for my other site. I’m chagrined to hear something more akin to a melody just as I’ve stepped away. The trumpet player comes out of a side door (or flap) and starts tooting at the back of the audience. Maybe I was right to leave after all.

My thoughts are interrupted by Benoit. He works the door at La Salle. We’re practically neighbours. I once ignored him on the bus when he tried to smile at me. I didn’t properly recognise him in civilian clothes and thought he was just some weirdo. The penny dropped when I saw him entering La Salle.

Ever since that misunderstanding, I try to be extra sweet to Benoit. I think he might have a soft spot for me. He smiles a lot, gives me little trinkets from work and keeps telling me how good my French is.

I am so relieved to see a familiar face; particularly someone roughly the same age. The event hasn’t turned out to be the great networking opportunity that I hoped. Like me, Benoit is not too impressed with the show (I don’t meet anyone that night who is). We like our jazz a little less free.

The conversation is good language practice for us both. Benoit impresses me with the English he claims he learned watching Netflix. At one point he throws out a (sort of) invitation to a BBQ he’s hosting. Very indirectly. I am not sure whether to take him up on it. On one hand, I am keen to widen my circle. On the other, I can’t 100% vouch that I won’t end up in some makeshift dungeon.

The moment passes. He leaves me for a bit in the company of an acquaintance. The night is still young. Despite the underwhelming concert, I head home with a spring in my step.