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.