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.