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.