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.