Back to School

La Rentrée –or Back to School-is big in France. Huge. It’s like the country’s fifth season; somewhere between summer and autumn. Evidently, activities evolve around the academic year. I learned that the hard way during the silent summer.

Residues of the isolation remain with me even as things start to get back to normal. Ever the drama queen, I can’t shake the feeling that if anything happened to me out here-God forbid-it would be a while before I’d be missed. I find solace in the classics. Late August, I’m in MJ mode to commemorate what would’ve been his 60^th birthday. Another day, Donnie Hathaway reassures me Everything has got to get better… Not that it did for him but I’ll focus on the positive.

It also helps to keep busy. That’s easier now that the summer lull is over. Sabrina from church has organised a one-off outreach for the ladies of the night before the official Rentrée. Online meetings with my ‘local’ Labour International branch have resumed. I’ve signed up for bargain-priced classes at the heavily-subsided Université Populaire. I still have my eyes set on joining HRGS. The empty corridor of my department slowly begins to fill up as colleagues return from holiday. The once virtually deserted building springs back to life. I notice the streets and public transport are filled with returning or newly-matriculated students.

I catch sight of my erstwhile crush at the end of August from a distance. I’m trying to avoid him. I need the emotional respite and to gain some well-needed perspective on the whole non-drama.

My recovery is going quite well until I bump into him unavoidably the following lunch time at the bus stop. By some freak happenstance our paths cross whilst he’s meeting an acquaintance outside my building. He’s all smiles. I salute him solemnly. I admit, I had it in mind to play it aloof but I’m also a bit blind-sided by the suddenness of it. I can’t say I’m wholly happy to see him. He disappears behind the bus shelter with his friend. I’m relieved. No need to chat if he has company.

He pops his head around the display panel, catching me a little off-guard. He’s chatty. I’m not particularly. He asks if I’m all right, not convinced but still cheerful. I give a non-committal response and return the question. He moves off, does a typing movement with his hand whilst mouthing something. I assume he plans to email me. None is forthcoming.

The next week, we cross paths again unexpectedly. I tend to scan the horizon to be on the alert. He takes me surprise by coming in another direction. His face lights up when he sees me. I’m less stand-offish. He’s in a hurry, as am I. He does the silly typing mime again. Clearly he thinks it’s my responsibility to initiate contact, comme d’hab. Not this side of La Rentrée, Sonny Jim. From what I can see his hands are functioning as normal. If he can’t lift a finger to send a quick text or email, if I don’t come to mind unless he sees me, it obviously doesn’t mean very much to him.

You can email me for a change. I say, as good-naturedly as my mood allows.

Something in his hurried nod tells me he heard but hasn’t registered what I’ve said.

And so an impasse results from his presumed indifference that I refuse to break. (It eventually becomes impractical not to, since we keep bumping into each other. Damn it! That’s for a different blog. Maybe).

Sis advises I let him know my disgruntlement, give him a chance to make amends. He might be blissfully unaware. It’s not worth being bloody-minded about one of the few real connections I have here, she warns. The problem is I’d have to be the one to get in touch first…again. It would somewhat defeat the purpose. It also betrays a dynamic of entitlement (irrespective of how unconscious) which I must take responsibility for fostering. Why should Mohammed go to the Mountain when she routinely comes to him, dressed to impress and sweetly-scented? A lifetime of being easy on the eye, not to mention a smidgen of jadedness, will do that to a man. I assume he’s used to not making an effort.

When I explain my dilemma to a friend in an email exchange, she tells me men do communication differently. I’ve anticipated this reasoning. How easily we retreat to these gender stereotypes. It’s a matter of socialisation, I retort. Men communicate badly-if at all- because that’s the expectation. There’s nothing inherent about it. Unless it’s addressed both on the personal and societal level, it will never change.

To be fair, I’m taking a more hands-off approach to socialising in general. Enough of running after tentative contacts to meet up for a simple drink, only for them to cancel or not respond at all. Strasbourg is like a giant clique. With the best will in the world, it’s tough finding a community. I share these sentiments with a sympathetic honorary Strasbourgeoise at an Internations event. She’s lived in the city for the best part of 20 years, having moved to France from Sicily. The first year was hard, she admits. At the same event I meet a Lithuanian colleague from The Organisation with whom I wasn’t previously familiar. It’s a pleasant exchange through which I become aware of the massive gaps in my knowledge of post-war Soviet history. The event takes place in a cave-like bar with a wall-sized mirror that makes the space look bigger than it is. Cocktails are made from scratch with fresh fruit. There are crates of the stuff everywhere and we can help ourselves to as much as we wish. Apart from that it’s a mixed night. One young man not-so-subtly makes his excuses after only a few minutes of conversation and moves to the other side of the room. Suit yourself.

I’ve decided to focus on enjoying experiences rather than being preoccupied with networking. It’s better for my peace of mind.

A couple of chance encounters help to lift my mood. One rainy Sunday afternoon in early September, I bump into Jeanne from church on the tram en route to a free concert by a brass band. She’s not normally in this part of town, nor on public transport let alone on a Sunday. She’s fresh from a recent excursion to my home town. I saw her at church earlier, hung around for a bit to say hello. She was deep in conversation. Plus, as I’ve said, I’m trying on for size this light-and-breezy approach to my acquaintances here. As much as someone as highly-strung as yours truly can manage insouciance.

Jeanne catches me up on some of her London adventure. I explain that I waited for her earlier but didn’t want to be too clingy, seeing she was busy and all.

You should have persisted. She gently remonstrates.

I miss the gig in the end (stopped early because of the rain) but it’s worth it to reconnect with Jeanne. I’d been nursing the solitary blues that day.

Jeanne’s job often takes it out of her in the week. I’ve learned to manage my expectations regarding her availability. Yet I notice she’s making a special effort to meet up. She invites me out for a post-church catch-up the next Sunday. We drink indulgently sweet beverages at one of my new favourite haunts and discuss that morning’s sermon about closed doors and open windows. It was more upbeat than expected. I’m in a good mood. Jeanne tries out some of her beginner’s English. She enunciates well. I believe she has the knack.

The following weekend, I link up with Katya, a brand new acquaintance I meet at an art exhibition at work. I’m the guest of one of the security guards, Raymond. The day job subsidises his true calling; art. Katya and I get talking once I’ve exhausted conversation with Raymond. She’s an honorary Londoner of sorts, having relocated to Alsace after over a decade in the English capital. I don’t detect from her anglicised vowels and Slavic name that she speaks native-level French. She spent her formative years in Strasbourg by way of the Czech Republic.

She hands me a business card, offering to help me with my French. I text my details to her. The following Saturday we meet up at the Oh My Goodness! café; an initiative set-up by a couple of community-minded pastors. Katya and I alternate between French and English. She wants to practise the latter (she really doesn’t need to). She patiently listens to my now familiar woe-is-me refrain. She well understands the challenges of being an outsider in Strasbourg after returning from her long sojourn in London. She offers lots of life advice. There’s some wisdom to be found amidst the mix of self-help and unspecified spirituality.

I regret that I’m a mass of neuroses.

If we were in London, the conversation would probably be different. More neutral, I apologise. 

She tells me not to be overly-concerned with what others think.

She has to dash to another appointment. Just as she’s leaving the conversation turns to our mutual appreciation of BlacKkKlansman. I caught the matinee that morning. She’s seen it twice.

I wish I’d mention it earlier. It would have made a change from discussing my pre-midlife crisis.

Soundtrack:

These Songs for You Live! By Donny Hathaway

Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson

It Gets Better with Time by The Internet

Select tracks from Travel Light by C of Z