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