...Plus La Même Chose

My experience with the male

population hasn’t been wholly positive since moving to France. Any interest usually comes with mixed motives (again, that’s where my heartache has been a respectful exception). Creepy Thomas has at last disappeared into the ether after he alludes to me being withdrawn. I explain that his overly-tactile manner leaves me feeling uneasy. He feigns much indignation. The texts and ‘language exchange’ requests come to an abrupt halt.

Benoit’s behaviour is also of increasing concern. When we bump into each other, as we do fairly often working and living so close to each other, I notice he’s far more excitable. His olive palate flushes red; he perspires and is short of breath. In turn it makes me feel very uncomfortable in his presence. I start to wonder if our interactions are hazardous for his health. I wouldn’t want him having a cardiac episode on my account. Death by infatuation; I think not.

I receive a random text from him one morning.

Hello pretty. I've been thinking of you.

I'd rather he weren't. Not to be a cynic, but I fear what that might mean.

During one birthday-related text, Benoit brags that he knows all about me, including my age. I call his bluff, knowing that my internet footprint doesn’t give much away. Unbeknownst to me he takes it as a challenge.

The next day there's another chance encounter on the way to the local supermarket after work. We discuss a novel he's lent me by French bestselling author Pierre LeMaitre. To Benoit's credit, it's a good recommendation. Thrillers aren't usually my thing but it's a highly intriguing and original escapade; albeit involving abduction, torture, sexual abuse, incest and gruesome murders.

At some point in the conversation, Benoit proceeds to tell me my date of birth and the pictures he found of me and my sister. I’m horrified and react accordingly. Meanwhile, he seems quite pleased with his presumed resourcefulness. I rush home to find out how accessible this personal information is. Not very. He would have had to do some serious digging to find my DOB, on an obscure poetry site from a decade ago. Flip-ping heck.

We are due to meet up for a language exchange the following week but I’m having my doubts. I draft a stern-ish email and wait to send it based on sis’ level-headed advice. Good thing. It goes through some revisions. It's another bi-lingual effort. I explain why I was so agitated the other day; that I have no intentions of being his girlfriend (as I’ve made clear in the past) and he won’t convince me otherwise. Although I am willing to continue with the language exchange, I ask that he be more mindful in future. He demurs, with an apology. He’d rather scrap the planned meet-ups. However, he affirms, he’ll retain pleasant memories of our interactions.

My relief is mixed with profound disappointment. I once respected Benoit for what I thought was a mature attitude about his unrequited affection. Now my suspicions have been confirmed he was merely biding his time. It feels like a betrayal. He was one of the first acquaintances I made and in one of the most organic circumstances. It used to be so simple.

This contributes to the isolation-related mild depression threatening to re-surface after summer, despite my busyness. 

 I’m often asked how I’m settling in. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to give anything but an honest reply. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about the maddening insularity of Strasbourg.

Whilst my heartache believes I’ll eventually be ‘adopted’ into the Strasbourg family, I have my doubts. Those with experience living elsewhere –or who simply have an international outlook- feel my pain. Multilingual David, whom I meet at an Internations event, has lived and worked across Europe. He’s half-Alsatian, has lived in Strasbourg for a few years and still finds his local connections are yet to deepen. He says Alsace natives are content with just seeing the same small circle of friends. Besides, he adds, it’s the stage of life in which we find ourselves.  In this corner of the world, unlike the varied landscape say in London, 30-somethings have all settled down and are focused on family. But, he reassures, all you need is  a couple of good connections to turn the experience around.

Italian colleague, Alessandra whom I meet at the in-house French class, is an honorary Londoner. It was her home for a decade before relocating to Strasbourg.  She understands my plight as a solitary female living in the city. As does my Cypriot colleague, single mum Daphnia. She takes the words out of my mouth. I find another sympathetic ear speaking to Evan, the linguistically-talented co-director of the community Gospel choir I’ve just joined (a thoroughly therapeutic way to forget my troubles).  He explains it’s hard to hang out with folks in this region, even on the weekend. Since most of them are local, they tend to go back to their home towns... 

And so it continues. I am made ever-conscious of the unintentionally self-involved and parochial Alsace mindset. If they’re not hanging around in groups, they’re part of a couple. It’s all I can do not to sneer. Those under 50-women in particular-hardly seem to go out alone. On one hand I can understand why singleness would seem an unappealing option in this lonely neck of the woods (which might partly account for Benoit’s desperation). Then again, I imagine it’s not the healthiest place to be in a relationship. Co-dependency would be inevitable.

On a chilly Saturday afternoon, I make my way to food and music festival Street Bouche au Jardin des Deux Rives.  It’s a far more organised and sedate affair than I envisage. Perhaps the sudden drop in temperature has dissuaded revellers. It’ll be much worse the following day, when an unexpected storm hits. 

I purchase an impressive-looking Chawarma from a Lebanese vendor (which I save for my ‘cheat’ day) and take a seat near the DJ corner. The music policy of soulful electronica is pleasing to my ears. I’d like to dance but it’s impossible without appearing to be an exhibitionist. Dance like nobody’s watching? I wish. I daydream of a good old jam with friends and family. 

Looking around the park, a few moves are made here and there in jest. A group of gamely friends snatch a boogie in between what looks like a twist on crochet. I observe a family of Malagasy women; three generations. The grandmother is the most enthusiastic dancer. She approaches the group of sort-of crochet players, apparently inciting them to move more. Elsewhere, the male component of a pretty-looking African-Caribbean couple seated next to me jiggles his hips, apparently for my benefit. It seems important to him that I notice.

I wriggle rhythmically in my seat. Not sure if it’s even worth the two euro entry fee but that’s as good as it gets round these parts.

This Week's Soundtrack- Inspiration Information by Shuggie Otis, Soniquete: The Sensational Sound of Gecko Turner.