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