More Encounters

I need to make the most of Strasbourg social life whilst everyone hasn’t disappeared for the summer holidays. The lull has already commenced but will intensify once August hits. I envisage a solitary adventure, roaming the ghostly streets of Strasbourg.

A few activities of interest pop up in my inbox via Internations. I sign up for a couple.

The first is a simple after-work gathering organised by veteran member Annabelle. A table has been reserved outside one of the numerous restaurants in the Place d’Austerlitz. As ever, I’m eager for some French practice. To my relief, I find a little Francophone corner, comprised of native speakers Philippe and Arsene as well as glamourous Jordanian Nadia, who has studied French since childhood and lived in Geneva for two years. Adjacent to me is Latvian lab researcher Stasia, who speaks great English but no French. A congenial lass, she does the rounds enquiring about our jobs and extra-curricular interests. I try to mask my frustration as politely as I can.

I really don’t want to speak English, tonight. And switch to French.

It’s single-minded and not very sociable, I know. But I am in France, after all. Mastering the language is my primary objective. French eventually dominates the corner. Stasia turns her attention to a more sympathetic interlocutor.

Philippe, Arsene, Nadia and I talk travel, language acquisition and jobs. Being a paediatrician, Nadia wins the 'most interesting/meaningful career' round hands down. Anything pales in comparison to being a medic, save perhaps an astronaut. She has recently moved to the city to be with her accountant husband, who was offered a position with a major retailer.

After a while, I find myself listening more than contributing. It could be a self-fulfilling prophecy but my French deteriorates as the evening progresses, in inverse proportion to Nadia's, who is speaking almost like a native by the time I leave. I don’t receive much reassurance either from Arsene or Philippe for my efforts. Maybe it’s my comeuppance for shunning Saskia’s earnest attempts to make conversation. I leave the gathering, thoroughly deflated.

By lunchtime the next day, various anxieties have plunged me into a darker mood. The previous night’s linguistic defeat is probably weighing on me. Plus I haven’t had my weekly Bernard fix. Not even a chance encounter on the way into work. It was understood we might not have time to meet before he flies off to Chicago that week. I’d unwisely hoped he could make room in his schedule anyway. It’s for the best we don’t meet this occasion. The intense adrenaline rush can be exhausting. But still…

Not all my mood swings are attributable to language issues and futile infatuations. I feel a general malaise.  Stevie Wonder's Superwoman, an all time favourite, speaks to this restless longing; hope indefinitely deferred. I'm listening to Music of My Mind on repeat.

As I set up my laptop to check emails and edit some blogs in one of the numerous on site canteens, I’m startled by Gordon. He’s another Brit expat working in Le Chateau. We often bump into each other in the mornings and he always makes time to greet me. He’s the definition of affability. I’m beginning to think he might be my guardian angel. It’s not the first time he’s inadvertently lifted my mood. We talk summer plans and, once again, language acquisition. He’s off to Cyprus with the wife and kids to spend time with his in-laws. Multilingual Gordon reassures me not to worry about reaching a plateau or fumbling conversations. He has a French degree and still struggled with confidence.

The more I know, the more I second-guess myself. I confide.

Exactly. It’s that textbook knowledge. You just have to not care about messing up. It’ll come.

That evening, it’s off to another Internations event. It takes place in a confusingly laid-out old warehouse that has been converted into an 'ephemeral bar'. C'est-a-dire, the space has taken over during the summer by myriad pop-up stalls, bars and a fake beach. A strap from my platform sandals snaps en route. Maybe it’s going to be that sort of evening.

Manufakture Ephemeral Bar, Strasbourg
(image courtesy of dna.fr)

This isn’t the straightforward bar + DJ set up like last time. It takes me a while to find my bearings. One of the friendly hosts shows me the Internations VIP corner. I’m relieved to spot Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro. She’s off to the Land of the Rising Sun that weekend for a couple of weeks.

Je suis envieuse de toi !

We’re both a little disorientated by the dispersed set-up of the night’s event. It’s not as intimate as previously. She heads off home early. I find myself seated next to two Belgians; Flemish Wouter and Francophone Guy. Wouter speaks good French with a strong Dutch accent. Whilst Guy is laidback, Wouter has a peculiar air; defensive but somewhat resigned. I ask if he’s drunk. He says no. It’s a curious exchange. I constantly have the impression Wouter is ticked off with me. I tell him as much. He denies that too. Except when I accidentally spill his beer. His eyes wander down my top. I adjust.

I ask what they do.


Guess.


I’m assuming some standard office job, perhaps with a charity.


No. We’re marines.

It’s not the first time I’ve met a member of the military since moving to Strasbourg but it still seems a bit of a wind-up. Guy shows me his ID as proof.

Oh. Well, I’m a pacifist. 

They both seem put out by my statement this time.

Real pacifists don't exist, Guy adds philosophically.

I concede my pacifism is qualified. I make the exception of self-defence.

Their last mission was in the DRC.  Keeping the peace, of sorts.

So you were mercenaries?

They reluctantly concur.

That's one way of putting it.

Over the course of the conversation, Wouter and I discover we’re practically neighbours. He offers me advice on the quickest way to get home from the venue. Later, when he's on the way back from the gents, our paths cross again. I’m one of a handful of punters listening to a DJ playing 80s soul classics.

You better get a move on if you want to make that bus. He waves a finger in quasi-serious grumpiness.

I reluctantly follow the tip. He’s right. I arrive at the bus stop with seconds to spare.

The following day, I am shocked to find a friend’s request from Wouter in my inbox, accompanied by an upbeat-sounding email via the Internations site.

I thought you didn’t like me.

Why would you think that? he replies. There’s no reason.

It’s been quite a busy week for my Internations account. I rarely go on the site to check other profiles but I often receive updates about mine. A young Alsatian called Thomas is looking for Anglophones to do a language exchange. I jump at the opportunity. I’m already worried I won’t have enough human interaction over summer to practise French. We exchange numbers. Thomas is extremely keen and encouraging about my French level. I advise him to adjust his expectations. My written is more advanced than my oral. He sends me umpteen texts per day. He asks if I am free that weekend. I have a window between church on Sunday and an afternoon picnic arranged by another church at my local park.

Thomas and I spend an agreeable afternoon speaking about quite weighty topics. He’s a good sort, despite a couple of eyebrow-raising remarks. He drops me off at the picnic and we discuss plans to meet up for proper language exchanges on the other side of my summer mini-break. He sends me complimentary text shortly afterwards.

 He seems quite smitten. It just goes to show, there's a grain of truth in most stereotypes. French men can be diehard romantics. A gesture of friendliness is open to misinterpretation. It’s making me guarded. Just earlier that week I pop into La Salle Européenne on the way back to work from lunch to say hello to my almost-neighbour Benoit. He becomes giddy, offering me drinks and ice cream.

I’m on a diet.

No worries! He insists It’s sorbet. It’s healthy and low in calories.

I make a joke about drugging and kidnappings. It’s only partially in jest. I take the lolly out of politeness. It remains untouched.

Later that afternoon I receive an email at work from Benoit. He changes his job description in his signature on each exchange..."Kidnapper of pretty girl"   "Refresher of thirst"  "Protector of Tola".

He must have dug up my address from the time I signed up for an event at La Salle. He not-so-subtly invites me to see the City by night. I deflect by thanking him for giving me a cultural tip for future guests. He’s pretty persistent. I’m flattered but have no intention of stringing anyone along, as much as I need the French practice. Benoit is sweet. One-sided affection is not pleasant. I know that feeling too well. I send him a tactful email the following week.

So much for innocent salutations. No good deed goes unpunished.

Back to my Sunday afternoon plans. The picnic is organised by Liberté church. I’m sort of gatecrashing. I’m not a member but it is open to all. It’s proper homecooked grub, not your typically British sandwich-and-snacks affair. I receive a warm welcome from the Kiwi pastor, his congenial youngest daughter and various other members. It’s a bilingual congregation. We alternate between languages.

Thick storm clouds interrupt the unbroken sunshine. I can make it home by foot from here. I take my leave after an enjoyable few hours.

On the way out of the park, I pass a couple on roller skates speaking Portuguese. I can’t resist the urge to make some very basic conversation. One Brazilian, one Mozambican, they are incredibly warm and supportive of my linguistic efforts.

It’s days like these that my faith in humanity and the original goodness of God’s plan for creation are
reaffirmed.

Soundtrack of the Week: Music of My Mind by Stevie Wonder & Beat Tape by Benny Sings

In a Carpenters' State of Mind

Mid-July weekend. France is in jubilatory mode. Saturday is Bastille Day and Sunday will be the final World Cup face-off with Croatia. Ironically, I feel more intensely the mild depression I’ve been skirting round. Nevertheless, regretful for missing out on the celebrations during the Fete de la Musique, I am determined to make it to the late night 14 July fireworks display near Etoile Bourse in Strasbourg town centre. It would compensate for not being in the UK for Guy Fawkes' night last year, having already moved to Alsace.

My mood lifts as my usually quiet bus route fills up with revelers headed for the same destination. There’s a massive diversion owing to the fireworks. I ditch my original plan to make my own way

by foot from Les Halles and instead follow the crowd. It’s after 10pm. Dusk has finally made way for nightfall. Restaurants in the Etoile Bourse area are full to capacity, certain punters having decided to watch the display from the terraces. It occurs to me too late that I should have met up with Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro rather than fly solo. We text each other before and after the Light Show. She’s about but I don’t know where.

Despite the crowd I locate a suspiciously clear open space to park myself for the event, next to the temporary beach. My personal soundtrack to the spectacle is a collection of love songs by The Carpenters. Karen is one of my favourite vocalists but I mete out how often I listen to them. There’s something intrinsically mournful about her sublime voice. Even her happier songs sound ironic. Between that, the siblings’ less than cheerful backstory and Karen’s self-inflicted untimely demise, I can only take their painfully beautiful music in measured doses. But I am in that kind of mood.

There’s a sweet, almost twisted pleasure listening to Karen’s melodious hum as the sky lights up with multi-coloured pyrotechnics. It becomes clear why the spot I’ve found isn’t so busy. The view is obstructed by a decorative (yes decorative) crane. I shift around in a futile attempt to find a better vantage point that isn’t already occupied, before making my peace with it. In the end, it’s a serene half-an-hour spent. Life-affirming, even. Just what I need. Disruption to public transport and late hour notwithstanding, my journey home is auspicious.

The following day at church the kindly, avuncular senior pastor preaches from Psalm 23. He exhorts us to profit from the downtempo summer period to rest our weary souls. It’s a pertinent message that sets off much internal dialogue.

After the service, I hear a familiar voice calling out. It’s Serafine. I’m relieved to see her. I’d hoped our paths would cross. She looks fab in a traditional West-African print wrap-around summer dress.

She asks how I am doing. I don’t have the energy these days for pretence; at least not around certain individuals. I try to articulate my complex mind state as best I can in French. Whilst endeavouring to explain my pre-birthday anxiety, I burst into tears. Serafine embraces me. She needs to fetch her daughter from Sunday school but asks if I have plans this afternoon.

Not much.

Her offer to spend time is a small but significant gesture. It’s the tonic that I need that afternoon. We hardly know each other but have much in common. Half-Gabonese, Half-Austrian Serafine relates to my citizen-of-everywhere-and-nowhere sentiments.

Being mixed isn’t just about ethnicity. It’s very much cultural. She avers, citing examples of mixed heritage Africans who feel little connection to the West. I couldn’t agree more. I've met quite a few. In their eyes, I'm a lost little Westernised girl, ignorant of her roots.

Serafine explains that Strasbourg can be a lonely city. I don't get it. It's the right balance between the manic pace of a Megatropolis and the boredom of a small town. 

Serafine expounds. She's moved countries and cities several times. Because of the transitory lifestyle of mega-cities there are many individuals in a similar position. They arrive from all over, to work or study, with no family or relational ties. They are looking to connect with others in the same boat. Strasbourg on the other hand, is full of long established networks. Its residents are settled and have put down roots. It's tough for an outsider to make inroads.

I've never seen it from that perspective. So it's not just me.

Serafine and I find further common ground in our aversion to the reductive ideas about women within some Christian circles. Unlike one of the speakers at church who goes out of her way to distance herself from feminism, Serafine and I readily identify with it. Sitting in her car, with her patient and well-behaved young daughter looking on quietly, we swap notes about our similar choleric/melancholic tendencies (not that I’d guess from her mellow demeanour), our mutual self-defeating perfectionism and inherent idealism. She empathises with the difficulty of negotiating relations at work. I unburden about my crisis of faith. She listens, sympathetic. 

I count my blessings. It’s the second time that week I’ve been able to share with someone who listens without judgment; once with an old friend and this time with a relative stranger.

And of course, there’s my beautiful, loyal, patient sister and her ready ears.

Nothing has changed materially after these conversations but I feel understood. It makes all the difference. I begrudgingly acknowledge God’s love in such ordinary interactions. As much as I am looking for the Mountain Top/Burning Bush moments, I can’t turn my nose up at any experience of the Divine, no matter how commonplace.

(courtesy of The Wall Street Journal)

That evening, France’ celebratory weekend will conclude with resounding victory at the World Cup. The Blues take home the coveted trophy, 20 years on from their last memorable win against Brazil. Given that this has happened on his watch, President Macron’s expression is even jammier than usual.

Just as in 1998, the triumphant French team is significantly comprised of the sons of African and Arab immigrants from former Francophone colonies. I’m no football fan but there’s a multicultural sweetness to this glory. I send a congratulatory text to a few of my Francophone acquaintances.

Yeesssssssssssss is the ecstatic, Anglophone response from one.

This is the next best thing to living through the 1998 salad days. Footage of Paris on line shows a sea of red, white and blue gathered around L’Arc de Triomphe. I watch cars speeding past my window, horning furiously, occupants hanging out of the window, flag-waving.

I’m sincerely glad to be here right now.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy After All These Years by Paul Simon & Love Songs by The Carpenters.

Ticket to Ride

July is well underway and the summertime lull is starting in earnest.

I’ve been trying to arrange a catch-up with Jeanne for a couple of weeks. After a few days of radio silence, she texts me back, apologetic. Her schedule for the next two months is chocka. She reminds me she’ll be on tour with her old group until the end of the month, then she’ll be on leave for a chunk of August. We’re not sure when we’ll next see each other this side of September.

Another church acquaintance, Serafine, texts me excitedly about her summertime plans to visit Gabon, where she was born and raised. I try to be pleased for her. Selfishly, all I can think about is how my limited Strasbourg networks will be evaporating before my eyes for the next two months.

Later that week, during one of my unofficial French lessons with my heartache Bernard, the (admittedly melodramatic) sense of abandonment that has kicked in is further reinforced. We’ve already discussed our individual summer plans piecemeal but it suddenly dawns on me this could be our last meeting for a while. He’s not sure about his schedule the following week. He’ll have to cover for a colleague who’s going on leave before jetting off to Chicago himself. I’ll be away the following week and then he disappears for half of August. The lunchtime chat takes on deeper significance. I savour what I can of the moment. My eyes linger appreciatively over his freckles, the glossy locks (not a hint of grey!), smooth butterscotch skin, a whisper of stubble that I’ve never before noticed, the flash of deep dimples when he smiles and of course, those mesmerising crystal blues.

We spend half an hour in the corridor, discussing his love of the States. I’m not entirely convinced, I tell him, it’s not a part of the world I have a burning desire to visit for a variety of reasons. But conversing prolongs our inevitable separation that much longer. We’ll play it by ear about the following week. To brace myself for the disappointment of possibly not seeing him until early Autumn, I do my summer farewells there and then. As the realisation dawns, Bernard makes a split-second gesture in my direction; for a hug or cheek-kiss I don’t know. This is unchartered territory for us. As quickly as it takes me to notice, he thinks better of it. He retreats so swiftly, I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today, yeah. The boy that’s driving me mad is going away…

Back at my office, I listen to The Carpenters’ superior interpretation on loop.

The spiritual and emotional malaise that’s been creeping around the edges for the past few months hits me with full force that week. A welcome email from a dear UK-based friend prevents me from bursting into tears at my desk. It’s one of a very long chain of profoundly honest, soul-searching messages. I like the idea of living in Strasbourg. I like the aesthetic of the town but I cannot ignore how isolated I feel. My mind's been churning over the usual existential questions about suffering; both personal and on a larger societal level. My soundtrack for part of that week is Paul Simon’s rueful Still Crazy After All These Years album; more existential angst channelled through Country, Blues and Philadelphia-soul influences. To my mind, Simon speaks directly to the wretchedness and complexity of the human condition in a way few can. He makes me feel understood.

At work that week, I have my long-overdue appraisal. It’s generally positive. My supervisor Sophie preps me with an informal catch-up beforehand. I understand later on that she doesn’t want me to be taken by surprise by anything that comes up during the official meeting. She commends what I’m doing well, and as is her way, constructively critiques where I could improve. I applaud her affirming style of management; a far cry from the toxic experience I had at The North London Council. I tentatively give her some insight into the after-effects of working there. Sophie wishes I told her earlier. She said it would have explained some of my reticent behaviour when I joined the team.

The same issue comes up during the official appraisal meeting with my other manager, Lucia.

I don’t want to stand out.

Her English is very good but she’s not familiar with this idiom. I switch momentarily to French.

Faire remarquer...

I explain that I think being invisible is a good sign. It means I’m getting on with the job. She begs to differ. I concede there are occasions where I could be more evident. On the other hand, I have been making more of a conspicuous effort with my colleagues. I join them more often for elevenses, despite my apprehensions. It’s an opportunity to practise French. My nervousness about speaking to colleagues has been something of a barrier. But I am trying, I insist. There’s only so much I can manage others’ perceptions. Lucia speaks about better cohesion. I give her concrete examples of which she was not aware. She mentions colleagues have accused me of not greeting them in the morning. This, despite me going out of my way to say a cheery Bonjour. I might have lapsed a couple of times but…

Lucia cites-again-the example of a travel agent who complained when I politely confronted him for being aggressive and unprofessional during a telephone conversation. She inadvertently lets slip that it wasn’t a direct complaint. Rather, one of my colleagues relayed the story to management before asking for my take on it first. Months later, my version of events are still called into question. I can’t win.

I agree to continue to make endeavours to be social. Lucia suggests popping into my colleagues’ offices more often. I have no intention of routinely making phatic conversation just for the sake of appearances; nor for the contents of my personal life to be picked over by all and sundry, whether or not I trust them. I’m not persuaded by management’s insistence on the uniform benevolence of the team. Like any department, some individuals are kinder and more genuine than others. Mefies-toi.

All this negotiation can be mentally exhausting.

Outside of work, establishing a community is still something of an upward struggle. A number of my agemates have familial responsibilities. Enthusiastic noises about meeting up socially, amounts to just that. Noise.

I didn’t realise how much I miss the psychological crutch of being in the same geographical space as most of those closest to me; even if we only manage to see each other once in a blue moon.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy All These Years by Paul Simon

La Vie Musicale Part 2 or God Loves a Tryer...Maybe

A day after seeing mum off at the station, I embark on a 24-hour cultural excursion to Paris. I’m off to see Justin Timberlake play at the Bercy Arena. En route I’ll stop off at the Arab World Institute to review their exhibition on the Suez Canal.

It’s an odd timetable for the middle of the week. It wasn’t my original plan. Timberlake was supposed to play a Friday night in June but postponed for unspecified reasons. The show is rescheduled for a Tuesday night. It requires a couple days of annual leave. Suspicious that JT might cancel altogether, I put off buying a ticket to Paris as long as possible. Historically my efforts to see Mr Timberlake have come to nothing. I’ve either been too broke or not had the availability. My sister meanwhile has seen him twice. A friend paid for her ticket for one show.

By the time the show rolls around, I can’t say I’m overly-enthused. I fear the fierce backlash he’s experienced since his comeback this year will hamper his performance.

My day starts with an early morning coach from Strasbourg town centre. Despite the unusually early itinerary, I make it to the coach stop in good time. I have both seats to myself.

The coach driver gabbles something about safety belts and a rest stop at Reims. I’ve brought my laptop along. I have a busy writing schedule and I intend to make a head start between snoozes.

We arrive in Paris half an hour later than estimated. I waste a further hour working out from which side of the road I need to take the bus to the Arab World Institute. By the time I find my bearings I have more than a 20 minute wait.

I arrive at the Insitute to find the press pass I had been assured is nowhere to be found. I am magnanimously granted entry on the strength of my word alone.

One of the advantages of travelling during the week is that tourist attractions like the AWI are less busy. I can work through the exhibition at a leisurely pace, instead of having to fight my way through the crowd as on my previous visit. Perhaps a little too leisurely. My early wake up call and fitful sleep on the coach are catching up with me. It takes me longer to process some of the information around the exhibits. I’m determined to take in as much as possible, not being very familiar with the history of the Suez. Before I know it, security is rushing us out of the building. The Institute closes earlier during the summer months.

I have less than two hours before JT hits the stage. I had made vague rendez-vous plans with an acquaintance/former frenemy. She recently tossed out a casual ‘If you’re ever in Paris...’ invitation. She has been decidedly less keen since I’ve taken her up on her offer. It works to my advantage. I have too small a window between the exhibition and the concert. I while away the time drafting my review of the exhibition at a hotel in the Bercy vicinity.

Making my way through security at the Arena is a mission in itself. There are several layers. I also learn that my seat has been reassigned. The balcony is closed. The security guard assures me it’s an upgrade.

By the time I locate my seat, that section of the Bercy is almost full. I miss most of the opening act, Timberlake proteges, The Shadowboxers. I’m excited at first when a DJ takes over. My optimism is short-lived. Track after track of the most uninspired commercial pop-R&B and Hip-Hop. I don’t know most of the newer tunes and the old school selection is nothing to write home about. Neither of the punters on either side look very impressed. Our whole section is rather sedate compared to the youngsters getting down in the pit. I try to make conversation with the lady to my left.

It’s not my sort of thing either. I venture

Her reaction is rather steely. I’m not sure if it’s the noise, my faltering French or she's just being stand-offish. Probably a combination.

I don’t care. I’m just waiting…

Further attempts on my part come to nothing. That’s cold-hearted Parisians for you.

Image courtesy of Mouv.

JT and the Tennessee Kids finally make an appearance. He comes out kicking on all cylinders and keeps up the momentum for two hours. Almost. The first half of the show is near faultless. The second half patchier in comparison but several redeemable moments. JT is all in. That’s why his tours are few and far between. He needs time to recover. He’s accompanied by a full band (including horns section) several backing vocalists and dancers. I’m pleasantly surprised to see a fuller-figured dancer amongst the troupe. Timberlake’s choreography is intricate, even balletic in places. He alternates between piano and guitar. JT is no cut-corners blagger, whatever his detractors say to the contrary.

It ain’t over until the Southern Kid starts singing one of his more banal hits (Can’t Stop the Feeling). After wandering around the building trying to locate the exit, I make it out of the Bercy just in time to beat the crowd and make my coach. I spend an uncomfortable night in an aisle seat and arrive back at my flat in Strasbourg exactly 24 hours after my journey began.

It’s a short working week by the time I return to the office that Thursday. I decide to round it off at a rehearsal with the High Rock Gospel Singers (HRGS) who wooed me at their 20th Anniversary celebration a fortnight or so earlier. Muriel, who introduced me to the choir, has kindly agreed to accompany me. As a foreigner, I’m a bit trepidatious about venturing into a part of town with a dubious reputation. Muriel thinks I’m overreacting but humours me nonetheless.

The chorale rehearse every Friday. With one major event behind them and many members already on summer holidays, practices are mainly for forthcoming smaller performances such as weddings. It’s quite an informal affair. Members wander in at all hours. I join in the warm-ups but have to bow out for the main numbers. I sing familiar tunes from the pews when I can. Choir director Kiasi and his deputy, the confusingly-named Evan (originally from Benin) are two very special characters. These playful divas are determined to outdo each other in flamboyance. Evan wins hands down. He does funky club moves and handstands whilst directing the choir.

I am in my element. I ache to join the choir on stage. 

Kiasi frequently stops mid-flow to reprimand the members for missed cues and pitchy harmonies. Judging by their good-natured reaction, I take it his indignation is in jest. Kiasi code-switches between rapid-fire French and equally fast, idiomatic English. 

He has the voice of an angel to boot, as do several of his co-choristers. They seem to master English pronunciation of their mostly Anglophone repertoire much better than many French vocalists I’ve heard.

I’m absolutely fascinated by Kiasi’s linguistic acumen.

You should hear Evan. He speaks like a scholar.

Neither of them have ever lived in an Anglophone country. Just holidays, school (really?) and an interest in the English language. Later that evening, as Muriel and I kiss our goodbyes and Kiasi waits with me at my bus stop, we talk about our travel experiences and favourite destinations. He’s not a fan of London or its American counterpart New York. He dreams of LA living. I pick his brain further about his prodigious language abilities. My joy over the musical soul food I’ve imbibed that evening promptly turns to despondency over my own linguistic inadequacy. He’s encouraging of my efforts and warns me of being too hard on myself. It’s counter-productive he says.

Too late for that. I’m overcome by a heavy, self-flagellating funk. A well-known Nigerian saying comes to mind. Kiasi doesn’t have 10 heads. If he can become adept in a foreign language having never lived in the country, why can’t I with all the opportunities available to me?

"...They've got a name for the winners in the world, I wanna name when I lose..."

I’ve at last realised a long-held dream to live in a Francophone country. Eight months into my sojourn and nearly 30 years since my first French lesson, it appears I’m no closer to my goal of fluency. Au contraire. My confidence is through the floor. I know so many talented polyglots. I've been surrounded by them for years. Try as I might, I am yet to acquire their facility with languages by osmosis. The mediocrity I’ve fled all my life has caught up with me in Strasbourg.

Back at my flat, I sob into my light midnight meal. I recall every domain I’ve tried in earnest but failed to crack. Whilst I graft at being a better wordsmith, I just found out the winner of The Caine Prize 2018 is a crypto-currency code writer; a prodigious enough natural talent to fluke a major literary prize on her first go. I can't even get shortlisted for modest competitions.

Trial, error, repeat. It’s been the story of my adult life thus far. The only thing for which I am sure I have a natural propensity is persistence.

They say God loves a tryer. I’m still waiting to see how that turns out.

Soundtrack of the Week: My J. Timberlake mix + Everything is Always a Process by Bluestaeb.

Summer Breeze

(courtesy of Miss-Elka.fr)

A few days after my music-saturated weekend, I welcome mum for her third and longest visit thus far. I am a bit nervous about what to do with her for a week. It’s a hectic time at work and I haven’t taken much leave.

Don’t worry, she reassures,
June has been a busy month. I’m looking forward to the rest.

True. A stressful day job aside, mum’s weekends have overflowed with weddings and big birthday events at church. Once she arrives that Tuesday evening (thankfully without much of a hitch), to complete her sense of independence I give her a spare key and travelcard.

As usual, mum has gone over and beyond as far as UK goodies are concerned. I’m even more her baby now that I am living abroad. I can’t complain. And as much as I appreciate having my own space, I admit it’s also lovely having someone to welcome me home from work for a change. And somebody to squash any critters who try to invade my tidy home.

True to her word, mum is a lady of leisure for the first couple of days of her stay. However, I can’t have her cooped up indoors all trip. We must at least go out for dinner. 

Being a Thursday night, I naively think I can walk into some of the best reviewed establishments in town without a reservation. When both my first choice and contingency fall through, we have to improvise. Finalement, ca tombe bien, comme on dit.

We stumble upon an overlooked eaterie with cheerful customer service and hearty portions, just off La Grand Rue.

The next day, I rush home following a frantically busy morning at work to spend the afternoon with mum in Kehl. There's an incident on the tram as we approach the German border. We're in the middle of a heatwave. A pallid, frail-looking young woman collapses. Fortuitously for her, she is surrounded by expert first aiders. I pass her my tepid bottle of water. She accepts gratefully. I regret not at least first wiping the rim.

The tram comes to an emergency stop whilst the first aiders take care of the infirm.  We change vehicles and resume our Kehl-bound programme. I’d hoped to tack on a day trip deeper into Germany but mum has other ideas. That would be far too pressured, she advises. Unbeknownst to me, she plans to add some further flourishes to my flat.

That evening, I go upstairs to change and come down to find all manners of embellishments I’ve not seen before.

I’ve been invited (sort of) to a church barbeque that weekend. Mum is game, to my relief. One less activity to rack my head about. That Saturday is a scorcher; the hottest day of a consistently warm week. I expect to see dozens of guests milling around chewing on snacks, rendering it easier to inconspicuously make our late entrance (it would seem odd for two relative unknowns to show up early or even on time to a casual affair). Instead, the select few invitees are already sitting down to their grilled meat. Drinks have been served and much of the salad has already gone. Thank goodness, we're not too late for some succulent grub.  We receive a warm welcome from host Raymond, one of the few familiar faces. I also recognise Angelo originally from Mozambique, his Cape Verdean wife Celina and two of their adorable brood. I spot a strikingly handsome young fellow who bears a passing resemblance to Ghanaian-American actor Kofi Siriboe. An older unfamiliar man stares at me without compunction. I voice my unease to mum. He later tries to inveigle his way unsuccessfully into our conversations.

I’m nervous about having to translate for mum all afternoon. Having used too much English all week, I’m glad for the French practice but not sure if I’m mentally up to the task. Mum and I sit opposite Catarina who is keen to practise her English. We have met briefly before at Angelo’s house during a home fellowship. I speak to her in French, she replies in both languages. It puts mum at ease. Catarina nearly chokes on her drumstick when she realises the youthful woman sitting next to me is my mother. It's the first of many such reactions that weekend.

Catarina is refreshingly frank. We learn much about her Neapolitan family who settled in France during the Second World War. She talks about her strained relationship with her dad and disillusion with church. Following a particularly painful experience, she’s tentatively working her way back to faith. I can relate, I explain to her.

We pass a very cordial afternoon in the company of Raymond and co (no, not that one) before heading to town to pick up some ingredients for the jollof rice mum plans to cook. We hit the city centre shortly after France’s game with Argentina has commenced. I have wilfully ignored the World Cup. Not being in the least sporty, it used to be the one international tournament to coax me out of indifference. I abandoned interest long ago following one too many negative experiences.

This year my policy of World Cup apathy stands me in good stead. I learn from friends and family more devoted to the beautiful game that African nations have failed to live up to their potential.

Again.

That Saturday afternoon, my surprisingly football-enthusiastic mum has just about recovered from that disappointment.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg are at once busy and deserted, everyone congregated around the nearest flatscreen television. Outside one bar a patriot rouses the crowd with chants and a triumphant sounding mini-speech. Cries of ecstasy and frustration intermingle.

Mum and I look on with bemused fascination.

Tout le monde s’eclate, n’est ce pas? I comment to one shopkeeper.

Once France’s victory is confirmed (4-2), Strasbourg goes bat-crazy with jubilation. Fans cry out in the streets, faces painted in blue, white and red. Hours afterwards French nationals of all descriptions continue to shout with glee from car windows whilst horning furiously. That night, in the wee small hours of the morning I can still hear the odd victorious exclamation in my usually quiet neighbourhood.

There’ll be lots of celebratory sex tonight, I comment to mum. She giggles conspiratorially.

This isn’t even the quarter-finals (That's the following week. Everyone slouches off work early to watch what will be another French victory against Uruguay. My office becomes a ghost town). It makes me wish I could go back to World Cup 1998, when France beat Brazil to take home the trophy. The country must have come to a standstill for weeks in one collective paroxysm of joy.

The View from A Bridge: Orangerie, Strasbourg

Sunday morning at church, one of the associate pastors excuses himself for his lack of voice.

Blame it on singing the national anthem after yesterday's game. He apologises, not-so-guiltily.

Following my less than satisfactory attempts to translate the service for mum, we catch up with my good mate Jeanne after the service (whose mother also happens to be in town) and more recent acquaintance, Serafine whom mum has taken a shining to.

That afternoon I show mum round my local park, The Orangerie. It’s another gorgeous day, even better for the breeze. The oriental influenced landscape-gardening makes me a tad nostalgic for Japan. Mum comes to share the sentiment. In her company, we explore parts of the Park with which I have been previously unfamiliar. We find a choice spot under the shade, opposite a large pond. Before I know it, I am opening up about my latest-and deepest-crisis of faith. I have kept it to myself as not to demoralise her. In the end, she handles it better than expected. She draws from her own experience to encourage me. It’s an emotional but edifying exchange.

It’s hands down been mum’s most enjoyable stay to date. It flies past. Although confiding in me that she prefers the cultural inclusiveness of the UK to what she perceives of France, Strasbourg nevertheless has a place in her heart.

As is our unintentional custom, we manage to arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare before her train to Basel Airport. We barely have time to kiss our farewells.

La Vie Musicale

It appears the passage of time speeds up with age. The year reaches the half-way point at a frightening pace. Once May arrives, it’s September before you know it.

The summer solstice always seems to come round too early. My favourite season is on the way out before I know it.

Midsummer’s night in France also coincides with the National Day of Music. It’s commemorated at The Organisation with two days of events, including a performance by the melodious in-house choir. I am however unaware of the extent of the celebrations in Strasbourg town centre; multiple stages catering for nearly every musical palate. My supervisor Sophie performs with her Latin band. Alas, I hear of it second hand from colleagues. I’ve had a fairly hectic week and a busy weekend ahead. I opt for a quiet night in. If I’d known how much fun and frolics there was to be had elsewhere, I’d have happily forsaken my evening rest. Next year, inshallah.

My weekend activities provide consolation. A Latin flavoured worship group are the guests of honour at church. Muriel invites me to a free Gospel performance at the Cité de la Musique et Danse by the High Rock Gospel Singers in which a couple of her chums are performing. The concert marks HRGS’ 20^th anniversary. 

Inspired by the cult classic Sister Act sequel, the choir was founded in Hautepierre (literally “high rock”) to help dispel some of the negative stereotypes associated with that locality. Being a Community choir, my expectations of quality aren’t especially high. It’s a bit of a lottery with these motley chorale outfits. HRGS swiftly quell my concerns. For the best part of two hours, this disciplined, ethnically-diverse outfit entertain a packed auditorium with soulful acapella interpretations of Gospel standards, Negro Spirituals and praise choruses from across the African continent. The latter is accompanied by choreography so nifty, it’s all I can do not to jump on stage myself. Muriel and her guests watch bemused, as I sing and dance along with enthusiasm.

As well as being blessed with strong soloists (including the choir director himself), the overall vocal blend is delicious. Unusually for a Gospel choir (and many others for that matter) the Sopranos aren’t always stuck with the melody and there’s a bass section. A couple more feathers in the HRGS cap. The very few male singers really hold their own.

Of course, being a live event anything can happen. There are a few pitching issues. A cheeky tyke who has been pulling faces at us in the crowd, wanders on stage mid-routine, eyeing the choir as if they're the ones out of place. It's an unexpected addition to our enjoyment. 

Giddy with goodwill after an uplifting show, I hop and skip to Les Pelouses Sonores music festival near the German border. An Internations member has organised a picnic at the event. I let her know I might be running late. They’ve long gone before I arrive. Never mind. The Fat Badgers keep me and hundreds of other revellers cheerily entertained with their serious grooves. They dress Glam Rock but play stone-cold funk of the George Clinton variety.

Soundtrack of the Week: Timsters