The Visitor (Part 2)

(courtesy of Le Strassbuch)

Part 1  

Despite having a guest in town, I return to work mid-week. The time apart is good for both of us. The past few days constantly in each other’s company have been intense. It’s exhausting tending to the needs of non-family. You don’t necessarily have the same margin of error or blood-line loyalty on which to rely. I sense that my solicitude grates J and as stimulating a conversationalist she is, her tales are peppered with unflattering portrayals of friends and family. I wonder how I’d stand up to scrutiny.

It feels like gossip and I’m often not sure how to deflect it. To my shame, I haven’t always been as willing to as I should. 

I return from the office to find J recovering from an ambitious day of exploring the environs on foot. Over a cottage pie dinner, she expounds on her many careers. She’s been a nurse, a counsellor for recovering addicts; a key worker at an all-women hostel; an advocate for refugees, domestic violence victims and other vulnerable women…

J recounts stories of former charges that turn my blood cold. One in particular I can’t shake. A Congolese refugee is widowed in horrific circumstances. Later, she kills her daughter at the behest of the monsters who have sexually enslaved her for years. If she doesn’t, her captors threaten, they will murder the child themselves. Eventually finding refuge in the UK, pregnant with a child for who knows which of her rapists, she routinely crosses paths with one of them. He has managed to work the asylum system to his favour.

The following morning, still haunted by what I’ve heard, I have more angry and perplexed questions for God.

The weekend is dedicated to defrosting my rebellious fridge/freezer with J’s help and easy-does-it explorations of other parts of Strasbourg City. On Saturday morning and early afternoon, we do a tour of some of the markets. To my disgrace, nearly 10 months into my sojourn, I am only just becoming acquainted with most of them. J makes a beeline to markets wherever she travels. She believes they are, to an extent, the heart and soul of a city. 

 Le Marché de l’Esplanade is a revelation. I’ve finally found somewhere in Strasbourg to buy decently priced apples and grapes or leather accessories for a steal.

Médiatheque d'André Malraux: Étoile Bourse, Strasbourg.

We lounge in deck chairs at Étoile Bourse for most of the afternoon before heading to the imposing Médiatheque de Andre Malraux. Throughout the day we talk travel, friends, family, love and general life experience. She affirms me, tough-love style when my insecurities manifest. My relationship situation is a recurring theme. She tells me the former infatuation through whom we met once mentioned he liked me. I find this hard to believe. For one, it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d readily admit. Besides, it’s the first I ever heard of it.

In the evening we take a twilight stroll through the International Institutions district and Le Parc Orangerie; my neck of the woods. En route we bump into colleague and mate Klara, not for the first time that week.  I mention J’s love of Amsterdam and how much Strasbourg reminds me of a more capacious version of the Dutch capital. Klara begs to differ. She claims her adopted home has a ‘s**t*y’ vibe compared to the Netherlands’ Big City. I am surprisingly irate by her comment. Partly, because my first impressions of Amsterdam fell far short of the hype. Partly because, as a Londoner, I am used to vibrant city life. Strasbourg might not have the all-year buzz of a megapolis but culturally it still has much to recommend it.  

From whence cometh this unexpected loyalty to Stras?

L’Orangerie is still teeming with life, even as night falls. J is enchanted by the sight of a group of young friends, igniting tea lights for a crepuscule picnic.

At home, over dinner we discuss fair-weathered friends, amongst other topics. I share my tearful frustrations over the lack of proactivity from various acquaintances. It appears my enthusiasm to meet on a regular basis isn’t consistently reciprocated. I try to be understanding; to factor in differing commitments but still… The flaking on meet-ups happens too often for comfort. My crush inevitably crops up again. Whilst the wiser side of me wants to manage expectations, I am instinctively exasperated that I hear nothing from him beyond the work context. Not even the odd message to check on my well-being. If it's always left to me to initiate contact, that can't be a sign of a healthy, mutual exchange.  A person's indifference is more pronounced in our technological age. Staying in touch is so simple, even on the go.

Frank as ever, J tells me I sound bitter. She astutely points out that he wouldn’t mean as much to me if I had more solid relationships in Strasbourg. She likes my flat, a lot. However, she doesn’t think the area is appropriate for an outgoing single woman. J believes it would be better suited to the retired or those with young families looking for a quiet life. Since she knows I won’t relocate to another part of the City any time soon and moving back to London would make me even more miserable, she recommends I invest in a T.V.

It just gives a false sense of company. I argue Besides, I have a laptop. Well, when it’s working.

Sunday morning, I'm off to church- on the late side. Agnostic J has a lie-in. After some soul refreshment and an especially timely and comforting message, it’s a relatively lazy Sunday afternoon at mine. We head into town for some takeaway. I take my Sunday Sabbath seriously which means no cooking. Ever-generous J treats me to a smoothie at a newly-refurbished café I’ve passed numerous times without venturing inside. We go giddy for the egg-shaped swivel chairs and general décor. J is impressed by the leather furniture. I on the other hand don’t know my chesterfield from my Chippendales.  Our fellow customers are apparently fascinated by a couple of gamely Anglophones. My French falters as I swap between the two languages to converse with the staff. I make a basic, unforgivable grammatical error and kick myself for it for much of the evening.

That night auntie and I have a heated discussion about UK politics. We normally overlap in this area. Below the surface her ideas seem contradictory. Neither are they particularly cogent or well-informed. She gives a lot of anecdotal accounts. I try to counter with personal experience as well as more objective sources.  Any uncharitable feelings of victory are tempered by an unease at how we leave things. It lasts until the following morning when J departs for Belgium.

After finishing off the morning cleaning (and some unwelcome little invaders) we make it in time to the station for J to comfortably catch her train to the airport. I stay with her as close to the departure time as I dare.

I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the return to solitude that the end of J’s visit signifies. A reassuring telephone conversation that evening with one of my oldest friends from the UK (and experienced-traveller) strengthens my resolve to just embrace the loneliness.

There.
I said it.
I feel lonely.

Some days I'm more resilient than others. I can suppress the habitual lump in my throat. Other days, I capitulate to the tears.

No-one can say I haven't tried. I’ve done my best to alleviate the isolation, with mixed results. For now, let it be what it is.

The Visitor (Part 1)

Strasbourg Museum of Contemporary Art

 In mid-August, I welcome my first non-familial guest to Strasbourg. Just in time to take the edge off the high-summer lull.  

I met J at the birthday party of a former crush. As is often the case, the friendship has far out-lasted the infatuation.

She is a foursquare, intrepid globetrotting sexagenarian; full of zest and looking at least 10 years younger. Smooth skin and nary a wrinkle. She is half-way through a Theatre Studies degree. J is also one of the most engaging raconteurs I’ve come across, malaproprisms and all. She seems to attract outlandish characters or finds herself at the centre of the most unlikely scenarios. She is never short of an outrageous tale or five.  Having lived long enough to have seen the game from so many angles, she takes it all in her stride. All day and night we talk about everything from British politics and our writing pursuits, to divergent views on the questionable image of some high-profile women of African descent.

She is spending a week with me en route to Belgium. I’ve prepared a few meals in advance of her arrival including my signature mixed-meat tagine. I’ve tried to simplify travel around Strasbourg as much as possible with a ready-to-go Badgeo and various bus and tram timetables. I have an itinerary in mind for the first few days of her visit when I am free of work obligations. To balance out the week, I return to the office for the latter half. It works out well for both of us. J appreciates my efforts but reprimands me for fussing. Later on the phone to mum, she concurs

Yes, you do tend to go over the top.

Suits me. I’d rather err on the side of caution than be a negligent host.

On J’s first full day in Strasbourg, as is my custom, I take her on a lengthy promenade through the centre of town via République. As is also my custom, I get a bit lost around Petite France. I should know better, given that it’s one of my favourite parts of town.

Thanks to observant J, I see the town through new eyes. She points out architectural quirks that I hoped I'd never take for granted. She enquires about buildings I routinely pass and for which I've lost curiosity, if it were there at all. I have her to thank for properly bringing my attention to the Museum of Modern Contemporary Art; a luminous building covered in street art. It's a potential refuge to which I can steal away to read in pleasant surroundings, even if its raison d'etre doesn't interest me per se.

J asks to see what I dub the Quartier Noir. It’s a hop and a skip from Petite France. I warn her there isn’t much to see. Indeed, she seems resolutely unimpressed. She’s not even interested in popping inside the shops to see the over-priced food or Afro hair & beauty products.

Her first impression of Strasbourg is that it’s conservative (a common observation). According to J, the Francophone African/Caribbean community aren’t especially warm either.

I mention how much Strasbourg reminds me of a less congested version of Amsterdam, one of J’s favourite holiday destinations. According to some Strasbourgeois, it’s a comparison that’s frequently made. J can see the connection, except the Dutch capital would be livelier this time of year. She can’t get over how quiet it is.

I keep thinking it’s a Sunday. She remarks.

To my mind, there’s quite a buzz considering it’s the middle of the week during the summer holidays. Maybe I’m already adjusting to the desertion.

We return to mine thoroughly exhausted for a late afternoon/early evening siesta and dinner before going back out for the Strasbourg summertime light show, Lux. At three different locations around town after nightfall, silent silhouetted animations depicting key points in the City’s history are projected onto elevated diagonal screens. The spectacle has a Planetarium-like effect.  I choose the site next to the Cathedral and we join a couple of hundred other night-gazers. I am under the impression that it’s an hour long show. The advertised time is 10-11pm. I am mistaken. The display lasts but a few minutes, playing in a loop at regular intervals. I can barely appreciate it, so distracted I am by the pungent cigarettes smoked by inconsiderate audience members. 

On the plus side, we have more of the evening left than anticipated. The next day is a public holiday. There’s no rush. J wants to treat us both to iced dessert. We stop off at a parlour en route home, taking an unplanned scenic diversion via the banks of the canal. 

Plans to stroll to my local forest the following day are jettisoned when J shows interest in crossing the border to Kehl. Admittedly, the German town is likely to show more signs of life than its French neighbour. Public holidays here are quiet to an almost miserable extent.

I take J to my usual shopping haunts. Her arches are playing up and she needs to rest. It's hard for me to observe the ageing process slowly catching up with evergreen J. It's evident in her carriage and involuntary gestures that weren't previously apparent.

We take five before I pop into the church in the square for a moment of stillness. Our diverse conversation habit brings us to the topic of the Windrush generation. J describes her mum’s intimidating journey to the UK across the waters lasting weeks. A very young bride in her early teens, she was reuniting with her husband in London, pregnant with their first child (J). The discussion turns to her experiences of colourism within the West Indian community; the unabashed prejudice faced by dark-skinned Caribbeans from their lighter-skinned compatriots. J has been treated differently based on the assumption she is of mixed-heritage. Personally partial to darker complexions, it infuriates her. She once broke off a friendship when an otherwise close acquaintance wanted to use her supposed dual ethnicity as social capital.

For as long as I’ve known J, she has been the epitome of singleness lived to the fullest. Over the course of our many conversations, I realise just how much of the world she’s seen. I’m both envious and inspired to add more destinations to my wish list.  Not that she brags. It’s simply that J’s wanderlust is such an integral part of her, she has spent most of her adult life trying to satisfy it.

It's therefore always a surprise, and a bit of a disappointment, when she enquires about my love life. Not for the first time this trip, she raises the subject of me settling down.

What about you? I reply. You’re single and fulfilled.

Yes but...for you younger ones, it would be nice to marry. You have so many winning attributes…

 In spite of it being a sensitive topic, J’s concern doesn’t offend me the way it would coming from others.  It does make me wonder, though. What does it say if even J is starting to worry about my marital status? 

J is curious about why none of my French admirers have stirred romantic interest. She asks about my current (now fading) crush.  She’d like to know why it’s not viable. We talk attraction, long-term compatibility and how the two don’t always align. We theorise about why some remain single after a certain age. It’s never an exact science.

That evening, I plan to treat J to some traditional Alsatian food. It’s a thank you for offering me lodgings during my last trip to Blighty. There are however, a few false starts. I forget the directions to my restaurant of choice. By the time we arrive, we are told they are short-staffed and full-to-capacity. I apologise profusely to J, much to her irritation.

You’ve said it once. That’ll do.

Trip Advisor favourite Les Fines Gueules, is my last hope of salvaging the evening. The service is superb. Waitress Lisa gives us her full attention, perhaps because it’s a quiet night. Last time I tried to eat here, they were fully-booked.

Les Fines is just off a main road. It should be swarming with life on a public holiday. Instead, the dark and deserted streets unnerve me.

Soundtrack of the week: Atlantis: Hymns for Disco by K-Os.

Part 2 

Cruel Summer

 Disclaimer: I’m under no delusion that this blog has legions of followers. Yet, for the sake of the faithful few I don’t wish to sound like a stuck, miserable record. If my lost-in-translation-melancholy is starting to grate, look away now.

My first August in Strasbourg is a slow-burning shock to the system. I am finding whatever neurosis that has been encroaching on my peace of mind is compounded by the solitude. It has entered my very soul.  The last time I recall experiencing similar isolation I was a socially-maladroit teenager.

Living in Strasbourg, in the absence of friends and/or family invested in my well-being or relationships that are tried and tested, I feel untethered.

Work is like a ghost town, as is the main City. Spring/Summer is usually my favourite time of year for the profusion of light alone. That has nevertheless not been enough to completely temper the gloom. No doubt, it still helps a great deal. I need to steel myself for Autumn/Winter.

The absence of activity is a contributing factor to my malaise. Both at church and in the wider Strasbourg community, things grind to a halt as so many of the residents disappear on holiday. It's as if everything is in suspended animation, I moan to affable colleague and fellow expat, Gordon.  I contact Kiasi, the director of the HRGS choir to let me gate-crash another rehearsal. He doesn’t think it’s worth my time as the team are practising for a wedding that weekend. I beg to differ. The atmosphere and harmonies enliven my soul, I explain.  

The rehearsal takes place in another part of town of which I’d be blissfully unaware, save for the choir. The venue is tucked away on an estate. I stand out like a sore thumb in my work gear. The choir’s harmonies eventually reach me, floating through the air. I follow their voices to a community centre. It’s another sweltering evening. One member lounges in the doorway alongside relatives of her fellow choristers, along for the ride. She apparently has no intention of re-joining them and leaves early. The group rehearse in the dark to avoid the heat generated by artificial light. Anyone wishing to switch them on is met with squeals of protest.

The choir are practising The Beatles’ All You Need is Love. I’m not a fan of the Fab Four and less still of that song but Kiasi’s vocal arrangement is appealing. I quietly sing along to the contralto harmony which that section is struggling to memorise. At one stage, as a memory aid, Kiasi improvises an Afrobeat remix alongside impromptu dance steps. The good vibes are infectious. His right-hand man and soloist, Evan starts twerking. I don’t see them going home before midnight. I can’t hang around past night fall in this unfamiliar territory. The musical boost has nonetheless done me good.

courtesy of Widewall.

With close acquaintances either already on holiday or otherwise indisposed, I leap at any opportunity to socialise. It becomes all the more pressing when my computer gives up the ghost. Despite valiant attempts to resolve the issue by the IT team at work, I have no choice but to send my netbook to the UK to be repaired by my insurance company. My stance against smart tech means it’s going to be a quiet few weeks. Without the device I realise how much an illusion of company it provides. Still, I miss the radio. I download political and spiritual podcasts on to my trusty old Phillips's MP3 and mete them out as I go about my chores or eat dinner. I realise it isn’t as hard to read for leisure at home (as opposed to in transit or elsewhere) as I once thought. In between the inevitable silences I send mute and frustrated prayers up to heaven about the myriad reasons I can’t quite shake this monkey off my back. Patient friends of faith on both sides of the Channel listen to my rants and existential questions. It's a painful but necessary process. The additional silence might not be wholly welcome but is an opportunity in the making.

New language exchange chum Thomas is getting, well rather too chummy. He sends umpteen texts in between meet-ups and insists on lengthy rendez-vous. He offers to take me to dinner on more than one occasion. He casually makes reference to his parents’ home being unoccupied whilst they are on holiday and would like me to ‘pass-by’. He rightly judges that I am not in favour of that idea. I ignore his non-request.  During our second meeting he’s rather tactile, grabbing my knee once too often. I wonder if I should nip it at the bud now or wait to see if it fizzles out naturally. The English part of the exchange isn’t going well. He's not focused. He defaults to French, apologising for not being able to kick his brain into gear after speaking his native language for most of the conversation thus far. Part of me questions his motivation. On the other hand, I can well relate and try to be sympathetic. Aware that I recently celebrated my birthday, he asks my age.

Guess.

40?
 
I’m used to having a few years knocked off, not added. My vanity takes a hit when he ages me. 

But you’re still beautiful anyway.

Too late. My ego is bruised.

Things come to a head of sorts that weekend. He wants to meet again on Sunday. I explain that I will be preparing for the visit by a friend from London the following week (true). Plus I have vague plans with Sérafine (also true).

I’m sure an hour or two won’t make a difference to your plans.

Sufficiently guilt-tripped, I agree to keep him informed if I have a window. In the meantime, I’ve accepted another Internations invitation to take in the sights and sounds of Farse street art festival organised that weekend. I need the company and the French practice. I text Thomas to let him know I have a window between church and the event. If it doesn’t suit him, we’ll have to reschedule until later that month. He prefers to postpone so we can speak for longer. He has an unrealistic expectation of how much time we can- or should- spend together. We're not dating.

He asks if I’m disappointed about his decision to reschedule. That’s too odd for me. I decide to be frank about my uneasiness. I thought it could wait and text is not the ideal medium but…

I explain I am not looking for a boyfriend, just an innocuous language exchange. 

He replies that he has a girlfriend.

Good. I’m glad we’re clear.

 He’s ‘disappointed’ by my response.

Why disappointed? It's important we're honest with each other. You were making me uncomfortable.

Plus, you never mentioned you had a girlfriend.

You didn’t ask.

I wouldn’t. It’s not my business. Besides, you have plenty of free time for a single man and have made some very confusing remarks.

My girlfriend is out of the country. What confusing remarks? etc. etc.

Plausible deniability on his part. I tell him to greet his girlfriend on my behalf.

This frees up my Sunday afternoon for a siesta before popping back out to the street art festival.

It's perfect weather; warm, sunny but with a noticeably forgiving breeze.

It’s an all-female group by accident, not design. Other guests arrive too late. I sulk slightly to discover that not everyone is comfortable with French and I’ll be using more English than I’d planned. Between underwhelming street circuses and bizarre, slapstick theatrical pieces about a loving, accident prone elderly couple, I speak to Suisse-German event organiser Jana and New-York girl Megan. Both of them are living in/near Strasbourg on account of French boyfriends. Megan learned German from scratch by immersion as a teenager. Current professional demands prevent her from dedicating herself to the French language as much as she’d like.

Jana sympathises with my difficulties integrating into the city. I don't believe however that she can truly empathise. She has family who live near the French/German border as well as her boyfriend for moral support. Speaking to the girls, I am reminded of the additional challenge of being single in a city like Strasbourg. As Sérafine once alluded, it might well be why it takes so long to establish a community here. Be they expats or born-and-bred, many residents seem to be allergic to single life. They already have their ready-made, self-contained support units.

Due South or La Vie Marseillaise (Part 2)

Vieux Port, Marseille (Guideopolis.fr)

The first full day of my Marseillais adventure, I leave the grimy streets behind for the lustre of the Riviera-style Old Port/Town Hall area.

As it appears is the case with any city apart from London (or Tokyo), local transport in Marseille is incredibly cheap. A 72-hour travel pass will only set you back 10.80 euros. I take the bus 60 to the Notre Dame de la Garde Basilica, perched on a precipice overlooking the City. This is far more scenic than your average bus journey. The view of the City from the Basilica is spectacular. The tropical-like heat hasn’t yet kicked in and there’s a welcome sea breeze.

The interior of the Basilica is more modern and intimate than I anticipate, with Eastern/Byzantine influenced décor. Judging by the freshness, it’s been well maintained and touched up over the years. This is not the antiquated, intimidating grandeur of its ugly/beautiful Strasbourgeois namesake. 

By the time I head down the hill, the sun is out in full force. The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle, further awakening my senses. I’m in good spirits. I do little funky moves to Benny Sings’ Beat Tape as I wait for the bus back into town.

Le Vieux Port is the best place to lose oneself. I feel much safer in this neck of the woods too. I detour into St Jean's fortress, commissioned by Louis XIV in the late 17th Century. It boasts more splendid vistas of the City from a different angle. I allow my curiosity to lead me down the side streets. I find another holy space to sit in tranquillity, Sainte Marie Majeure. Its striped dome caught my attention from afar. I stumble upon it fortuitously.

Inside the Notre Dame Basilica, Marseille
(image courtesy of Trover)

After some more roaming, I make use of the Ferry Shuttle service to cross over in style to catch my bus on the other side of the Port. All the buses are full to capacity. A fellow traveller suggests we take the metro instead. En route I come across a procession of Kurds demanding the release of political prisoner and nationalist leader, Abdullah Ocalan. These sorts of protests are a daily reality working for The Human Rights Organisation. A vigil is kept opposite The Chateau every day. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that I'd encounter the same Down South.

That evening, after my Egyptian fusion meal, I head to the Jazz bar I passed the night before. It turns out that Cédric, the proprietor, exaggerated. According to his more pragmatic colleague, the jam sessions of which he spoke are ad hoc and drop off during the summer festival season. Never mind. 

I decide to buy a tonic. I need the company and French practice. I pass an agreeable evening with Cédric and co. The chef, Etienne, is a bit of a muso. He schools me on the genius and cultural impact of Miles Davis. The conversation digresses to the nature of genius itself and the overlap with mental instability. I mention that with the exception of perhaps Stan Getz and a little Gerry Mulligan, I’ve never paid much attention to horns players. I’m more into piano, guitar and most of all, vocal jazz. Cédric asks if I sing. Why not? It’ll be good to revive the habit of performing for an audience, even if very modestly-sized. I do a rendition of Stella by Starlight, since we’re on the theme of Miles and Manha de Carnaval. 

I’m asked to do an encore for a patron, Khadija, her daughter and gentleman friend. Khadija buys me a drink as thanks. She speaks very good English with a British-y accent. She lived in London for five years. She and her polyglot daughter are affirming of my French efforts. Half-Moroccan Khadija shows off her knowledge of Nigerian pidgin English. She pronounces wahala with a guttural, Arabic 'h'. I don't understand what she's saying at first. The rest of the evening is spent in their genial company. It’s almost midnight. A fight breaks out at the bar next door. It’s our cue to head to our respective corners.

The following day marks the start of my 37^th year on this planet. I decide to indulge in a pastry-heavy breakfast. I catch the sprawling view of Marseille from St Charles’ Station on the lookout for a boulangerie. Back at my lodgings, I Skype sis briefly. It’s not a cheerful exchange although unintentional on her part. I’m in even more of a funk than before. I’ve been dreading this birthday for months. It’s not as if I’m not grateful to be alive and healthy. I have much to appreciate. Being able to City-hop and travel widely is a privilege in itself.

However, I also need to make peace with certain disappointments. I feel my age and I don’t. 40 is fast approaching on the horizon. I’m a disenchanted version of the hopeful teen/20-something I once was.

I hope a day at the beach will assuage my mood. A couple of my French acquaintances have sent me some birthday wishes, including muso Etienne to whom I have mentioned it in passing the night before. Most people here don’t know the exact date. It means a lot they’ve made the effort. God bless them.

Prado beach is more impressive than my unfairly low expectations. Families are out in droves. Shapes of all sorts squeeze into one and two pieces; defying the stereotypical beach body tyranny. I sit fully clothed on a rock like a mock-Kente clad mermaid. I watch as kids hurl themselves into the inviting aqua-marine waters. I wish I could join them. As a non-swimmer, I don’t take it further than paddling my feet. It’s a lazy afternoon of people-watching, eating overpriced snacks by the beach and a little diversion via Bolery Park. I pick up a delicious-looking tan whilst I'm at it.

Prado Beach, Marseille
(HomeAway)

On one hand it’s been a peaceful day but I’m still disproportionately irritated about my earlier Skype conversation. I send sis long, angry IM’s. She asks me what’s really wrong. I suppose my birthday blues are biting particularly hard this year.

It does me good to go back out. I’ve spotted a restaurant on TripAdvisor with rave reviews near the Old Port. I decide to walk when it looks like it’ll be quicker than waiting for the tram. I had no idea how close my accommodation is to the Port. The Google map print out the day before had me literally going round the houses. 

The evening sunshine and sea breeze calm my state of mind. Tom Misch’s Geography is keeping me good company. By the time I locate La Caravelle, my mood has improved exponentially. I am not even crushed to learn that they only serve food at lunch time. The walk to and from has been uplifting. Now I have the perfect excuse to check out a Lebanese restaurant very close to my accommodation. It’s lighter on my purse too. Throw in a handsome young waiter, I’d consider it a bona fide blessing in disguise. I try to ignore the quiet insolence of his callow female colleague. Not entirely successful.

After my meal, rather than go straight back to my AirBnb where cake and melted ice cream awaits, I decide to spend a mellow moment by an attractive nearby water feature. I’m lost in thought. A local Francophone African interrupts my reverie. My begrudging silence should make it known I’m not interested. He won’t take the hint and taps my shoulder. I react. He accuses me of being aggressive. The bloody nerve. Calm down, he says in English. I tell him I will not -and why not-in French.

But you don’t even know why I wanted to speak to you?

When I ask what he wants, no answer is forthcoming but he won’t let me rest. He proffers a belligerent apology and insists I accept. The epitome of male entitlement. He feels he has a right to my attention and whatever else. Silence isn’t getting through to him. Exasperated, I tell him again, in English this time, to leave me in peace. He wants me to be grateful for his apology. When he doesn’t receive the desired response, he swears at me and storms off. 

For safety reasons, I decide not to rush back to my accommodation in case the creep follows me. I drunk woman passes by and starts fiddling with my porkpie hat. A fine conclusion to my birthday.

Aix-en-Provence town centre
(Independent.co.uk)

I’ve set aside the last full day of my trip to visit neighbouring town Aix-en-Provence, the birthplace and stomping ground of painter Paul Cezanne. It’s a short coach ride from St. Charles station.

Of all the European towns I’ve visited, this is one of them. The Telegraph visitors’ guide I’ve adapted isn’t much help on closer inspection. It’s more of a gastronomical tour with some sightseeing thrown in. An abundance of road works mars the topography. There is the odd architectural feature that catches my attention. I chance upon the Pavillon Vendôme through sheer nosiness and pass a few serene moments in the shade. I savour the walk back from the Pavillon to the town centre. The clear blue skies, the heat and the layout of the streets puts me in mind of more exotic locations. It’s a somewhat underwhelming excursion but I’m not regretful. It would have been a waste not to visit Marseille’s famous neighbour whilst I’m down here.

On his suggestion, I’ve made plans to meet up with Etienne the muso-chef after dinner. En route I stop off to buy some phone credit at the Orange Shop. I meet two Asian-Caribbean missionaries now based in Marseille. Their French is currently negligible. The gamely sales assistant does his best in English. The couple are in conversation with an apparently Anglophone gentleman with a very ambiguous accent (I find out later he's a misanthropic New Yorker who hates everyone in his native city. 'Black and White. They're all messed up'). The topic turns to Venezuela, which they have all visited at some point in the past 20 years. My ears perk up, waiting for the inevitable western anti-Chavismo propaganda. I rather rudely interrupt when it comes, citing Chavez’ achievements (albeit acknowledging mistakes) and the current parlous situation being as much to do with US sanctions as it is with Maduro’s economic mismanagement. This aspect is conveniently forgotten in most Western media analyses.

So you’re a socialist?

Yes and proudly so.

What about the rigged elections?

What about them? There has been no official report of any shenanigans by international observers. 

My interlocutor takes my zealous interjection in good humour. He admits he hasn’t delved much into the details of the Venezuelan crisis. It's hard, I reply. You have to look hard to find even-handed reports on the country. The discussion turns to the lighter topic of soca (of which he’s not a fan) and the clever socio-political wordplay of old school Calypso (of which he is). We part company. I wish them all the best with their Divine Call.

After a hearty, good value Turkish/Kurdish meal, I meet with Etienne near the Old Port. It's quite the intellectual workout. 

Similar to our previous conversation at the Jazz Bar, we cover a lot of ground; his stint in the army (really doesn't seem the sort), being the oldest of several siblings with very narrow age gaps, how he came to be an honorary Marseillais of nearly 30 years, seeing Kool and the Gang live, his interest in cosmetology, the veracity of the Bible and the claims of the Gospel, his love/hate relationship with gastronomy, the paradoxes of human nature and his admiration for the writing of Yves Simon with which I am not familiar. He generously gives me a copy of Sorties de Nuit. 

Following a mini-bio he asks me to guess his age. I give my instinctive -and incidentally correct-answer the second time around (early 50s). I ask him to guess mine in turn. He knocks five years off. I don't resent that. Etienne is surprised I'm not married. I wish I have the presence of mind to interrogate him about the same. He thinks I should widen my search beyond Christian men. I explain that faith is not a question of inconsequential tribalism; like supporting different football teams. It's a way of life.

Marseille Vieux Port @ Night
(Getty Images)

After we finish our tonic (me) and cocktail (him) we promenade around the Port. I’m amazed how vibrant it still is at 11pm. The streets are full with revellers of all ages on a stroll, appreciating the view or participating in impromptu dance contests.

The Port takes on a different beauty at night. I can see the Basilica lit up in the distance. I mention to Etienne that I’d planned to go alone to watch the sunset from the hill. I've missed my window.

I squeal with child-like delight and gabble some Franglais at the sight of the large moon, turned blood red by a lunar eclipse.

There’s nothing intimate about our body language but judging from the quizzical looks I receive from a number of black folk, they seem to believe I’ve found myself a Caucasian sugar daddy. I already have enough on my plate trying not to give Etienne the wrong idea. A casual reference to my ‘pretty smile’ by text put me on alert that he might have misinterpreted our earlier discussion a tad. At the same time, I don’t want to overreact and miss out on stimulating conversation with an enthusiast for life, not to mention the French practice. Speaking of which, my brain is slowing down with fatigue. I’m finding it hard to string a sentence together or keep up with Etienne. By his own admission, he speaks very fast.

My shoe strap snaps and I drop the ice cream Etienne kindly buys me. He asks if I need to sit down. I decline. It’s late and I need to get back to my accommodation before the freaks come out in full effect. I also need to pack for my departure the following afternoon.

He offers to accompany me to my AirBnb to allay any safety concerns. His flat is en route in any case.

It’s an awkward farewell. I can’t work out what’s culturally appropriate; a French bise or an English hug. I don’t want a tactile goodbye.  In the end I opt for a German handshake. Etienne looks slightly confused.

The following morning I’m overtaken by a familiar bereft feeling. I can’t say it’s because I’m sad to be leaving Marseille as such. I’ve found it to be a rather taxing city, although I’ll take away some pleasant memories. 

I miss sis. We haven’t spoken since my Birthday mini-meltdown and I can’t reach her on Skype. Before check-out, I cheer myself up watching a French serial with the most outrageous storylines.

I am one of the first to board the train. Thank God for Air Con. I receive a text from Etienne wishing me a safe journey. He hopes to see me again soon in Marseille. I’m not sure, I respond frankly. I’m in no hurry. I’ve scratched that itch for now. Not sure if and when I’ll next have the urge.

This week’s soundtrack: Beat Tape by Benny Sings & Geography by Tom Misch.