Busybody

The autumn leaves haven’t all fallen and already Strasbourg is in festive mode.  Tasteful decorations have gone up. The giant tree stands unlit in Place Kleber and the stalls are setting up for the world famous Christmas Market.

The month has got off to a promising start. Thanks to the canny intervention of my colleague Clara, I receive some good news in the form of a 90% reduction in what would have otherwise been a substantial Taxe D’habitation bill (the French equivalent to Council Tax). Thank God for small miracles.

Meanwhile my cultural calendar is full to bursting, as tends to be the case this time of year. The Jazzdor festival takes place each November. The event has a special place in my heart. It was a welcome distraction from flat hunting a mere few weeks into my arrival in Strasbourg. It’s also where I met Jeanne, the first friend I made here. It is thus fitting that almost a year to the day, we attend a Jazzdor performance once again featuring her flatmate Annalise. It’s an unofficial anniversary.

Annalise’ trio is preceded by the abstract sounds of pianist Matthieu Mazué. Clearly inspired by Thelonius Monk (throwing in a cover of Monk’s Dream for good measure), Mazué’s style is characterised by choppy syncopation and elongated melodies twisted out of shape. My initial excitement turns to confusion when he introduces his interpretation of one of my favourite jazz standards Stella by Starlight. Save for the opening bars serving as a leitmotif, I wouldn’t recognise it.  It’s a suspenseful performance; a tension never to be resolved. This talented and incredibly dexterous musician has taken a notably subversive approach to his art.  Thus Annalise’ soulfully-inflected, equally agile performance is a healthy counterbalance. During the break, I reconnect with Jeanne and her mum, who is in town for the week.

That weekend I have signed up via Internations for a ‘free’ walking tour of Petite France, my favourite neck of the Strasbourg woods.  These multi-lingual Happy Tours are carried out by volunteers whose only payment is a freewill donation.  I opt for the French version for the practice.  Despite the sharp drop in temperature and harsh wind, our congenial guide, Rémy, cheerily recounts the history of Little France and its environs; from the Roman conquest to some of the quirky street names. The area has a more insalubrious history than I was aware. La Grand Rue for instance wasn’t always the cosmopolitan social hub it is now. Up until the regeneration effort in the 1960s, it was the City's underbelly. Most shocking of all is the sordid origin of the otherwise romantic-sounding appellation Little France. It dates back to the 15^th century when the Alsace region was under German rule (well, the precursor to the unified Germany). French soldiers, ridden with syphilis after fighting and cavorting in Naples, were banished to the area to be treated at a dedicated hospice. It became an unofficial colony for what was facetiously nicknamed ‘The French Disease’ and thus referred to by the rest of the population as…Petite France. 

It’s an informative and enjoyable jaunt. It's also one more activity to keep future guests entertained.

On the way back from the tour, my tram is held up by solidarity protests taking place throughout France against fuel taxes and the rising cost of living.

It’s set to be a socially-conscious week ahead. The Organisation is hosting the World Forum for Democracy events.  The theme this year is gender equality. It’s surely no coincidence that the event overlaps with International Men’s Day as well as the World Day for the Prevention of Child Abuse; both on 19 November. 

My group, the High Rock Gospel Singers, have been asked to perform as part of the opening ceremony. I mention it a few weeks beforehand to choir director, Kiasi, having been surprised to see us listed in the WFD programme. He is completely unaware. It’s not feasible anyway, he shrugs It’s a Monday morning.

Something clearly changes between then and the chaotic rehearsal we have the following week. Kiasi makes an announcement post-practice, inviting anyone who is available to sign up. It turns out one of the sopranos is also an events’ organiser and volunteered the services of HRGS á notre insu.

Kiasi must have reasoned it was best not to piss off The Organisation by being a no-show.

The performance falls on my day off. True, it’ll be odd performing at work. Apart from that I don’t have a bona fide excuse not to. Besides, I was going to be in the vicinity anyway. Not only do I plan to attend some of the inaugural events but my manager, Sophie will also be making an appearance for the first time since she went on maternity leave. She is performing with her husband, Marcel's percussion band as part of the day’s proceedings. The couple will be accompanied by their bouncing baby boy, Augustin. The team have collected a very respectable sum for the family’s gift, as well as organising a little get together to mark the occasion. Given that it was a difficult pregnancy and both mummy and baby have come through the other side safe and well, there is even more reason to celebrate.

 

That morning, on the way out to Le Chateau to meet the rest of the choir, I check my post box for a long awaited package. I spot instead another copy of the building regulations. The part about noise has been highlighted in the same aggressive orange, this time with a note attached. Apparently, this mystery neighbour objects to me cleaning my flat. On a Saturday. At noon. Fuming, I crumple the note and toss it in the nearest bin.

I arrive at Le Chateau a little flustered. Fastidious neighbours notwithstanding, Kiasi has taken his sweet time to confirm when and where we are meeting. I’ve already left the flat by the time I see his text. Thankfully I arrive long before show time. Being a Monday morning, there are a choice few of us. We have a surfeit of sopranos with just Élise holding the fort for the contraltos. Since we are only performing two numbers, one of which I actually know quite well, I alternate between soprano and alto to help balance the sound. Not that Élise really needs it. It’s a pretty slick affair if I must say so myself. Or so I think. When the video is made available, I note with anguish that I'm singing flat for most of the second number. The audience are more forgiving. Later that week, I am stopped by a guest during a lunch break to congratulate me on the group’s behalf.

HRGS @ the World Forum for Democracy
(c) Catherine Monflis

 I return home after the show to vent to sis on Skype about my implacable neighbour. That's followed by a whinge about the grammatical mistakes I made conversing to my fellow choristers. Perfectly bi-lingual Kiasi teases my London inflection. Evidently, too much of my self-worth is wrapped up on my linguistic progress. I hardly enjoy the learning process these days.

Sis shows me some well-needed tough love. 

I’m not going to indulge your pity-party. 

Amongst her usual nuggets of wisdom she implores me to be kind to myself. For the rest of the day, each time I think upon this simple statement, so difficult to practise, it reduces me to tears.

Back at Le Chateau several colleagues from my department and elsewhere have gathered in the freezing cold to watch Sophie and Marcel's group perform. Whistles are handed out and we are instructed to blow carnival style, in support of the launch of a campaign to tackle sexual abuse in sports.

I reunite with Sophie after the performance. I must confess that I am looking to angle my way out of Le Pot that has been organised back at the office. At least this way she knows I have come out to support her before I sneak off. It becomes apparent however, that I couldn’t execute my plan without it being perceived as anti-social.  It’s better to grin and bear it for Sophie’s sake. She seems genuinely pleased I came. Marcel is an urbane and cordial man. I would say charming but I believe he's more sincere than that. Little Augustin sleeps through the loud performance and most of the post-show festivities, despite being passed around. They make a lovely family.

 

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of WFD activities. As is often the case with these sorts of conferences, there are a number of overlapping sessions vying for my attention.  During the morning slot, one discussion stands out from the rest. I attend a stimulating roundtable about faith and feminism. The Abrahamic Three are well represented. I do wonder about the absence of other faith groups (as is vocalised by another attendee) and Protestant voices. But let me not be too sectarian.

The two Catholic speakers notably diverge. On one hand Hajnalka Juhász from the Hungarian Christian Democracy Party admits to a more conservative perspective; her essentialist views on ‘male’ and ‘female’ character traits for instance and not questioning male-dominated leadership.  Polish theologian Zuzanna Radzik on the other hand takes a thoroughly egalitarian approach. When asked if women can bring particular qualities to religious institutions, she replies that she doesn’t subscribe to the idea of inherently feminine attributes. It’s a matter of individual character and strengths. In that regards, she is a woman after my own heart. She reminds those in the church that the fight for equality has a biblical basis; not least in the Apostle Paul’s revolutionary (for the time) words in Galatians 3:28. This, she rightly asserts, is our starting point.

Buoyed by Radzik's comments, I add that the church in general needs to do more to reach men than offer them merely spiritualised male entitlement. In the end, it gives no respite from the inevitable disadvantages of the patriarchal system such as unrealistic masculine ideals.

 Later that afternoon I’m torn between interactive events about the fight against sexual exploitation and re-examining how masculinity is defined as a means of combatting violence against women. It’s a tough decision but I choose the latter. I have a presentiment that I’ll be riled up by one of the speakers at the sex trafficking discourse, who appears to belong to the school of thought that  propose solutions such as calling sexually-exploited women ‘sex workers’ and giving them ‘better working conditions’ as opposed to challenging and upending the skewed paradigm altogether. Phew. Mini-rant over. For now.

The Masculinities Re-examined discussion is a breath of fresh air, drawing speakers from within and beyond Europe’s borders, such as the UK’s Chris Green of the White Ribbon Campaign and India’s Harish Sadani from NGO Men Against Violence & Abuse (MAVA). (Alas, the French authorities denied Gambia’s Lamin S. Fatty a visa). Sadani is doing superb work in a country whose struggles with gender-based violence have caught the world’s attention in recent years.

I am heartened to meet other Christians at the event wholly committed to gender-equality and reconciliation of the sexes. When the moderator Simone Fillipini asks what a gender utopia would look like, one audacious interlocutor cries ‘Christian!’

Fillipini opens up to the floor for ideas on how to dissuade men from cashing in on the short term 'patriarchal dividend' as it is described by panellist Robert Franken. I suggest that the rate of suicide amongst men, with some recent high profile cases, makes this a public health issue. The immediate benefits of prescribed ideas of masculinity and patriarchy are oppressive in the long term.  I add that women also play a key role in dismantling the social conditioning we not only imbibe but perpetuate.

My contributions are apparently well received. Several men thank me post event. Thanks to this impromptu networking, my plans to rush back to the office fall by the wayside.

Blessings in Disguise

It’s been a while since the security situation around The Organisation became a bit hairy.  Back in late spring, some especially zealous demonstrators penetrated the grounds causing considerable damage to the façade. It took several months for it to be repaired.

On that occasion, HQ circulated messages putting everyone on high alert and advising staff to remain indoors. I happened to be on leave that day. I was apprised of the drama by colleagues on my return.

The first week of November, however, I catch the live show.  Just before my weekly French class, I pop across the road to return a library book at HQ, Le Chateau. On exiting my office building, The Magenta, I note the environs are crawling with heavily armed guards.

Yards away a sizeable crowd of Kurds have gathered. Someone is giving a rousing speech that is having the desired effect.

The usual missive warning us of possible disturbances is yet to be circulated.

‘Uh-oh’. Something tells me perhaps I should turn back. Not a chance. It’ll be my only opportunity to visit the library this week.

I receive a veiled reprimand from the elderly librarian about arriving so near to closing time.

She explains that it wouldn’t normally bother her except that news has spread of the demo.  Unfortunately, her rudimentary tech skills slow us down further when I try to check out a couple of new reads.  By the time I make it to the Chateau’s rear exit, it's crowded by colleagues. The security staff are panicky. They wave us away frantically. We’re effectively barricaded inside. A co-worker is having an agitated exchange with one of the security guards. There’s talk of an alternative exit that might still be available but I don’t know how to reach it. It’s taken me long enough to master only some of the Chateau’s labyrinthine structure.

Mince, alors!

I need to make this French class. It’s the first since the half-term break.

I notice that it’s hazy outside. I assume the morning mist has returned.

Someone mentions an explosion. We hear a loud noise. One of my interlocutors doesn’t seem fazed, perhaps assuming there’s a less ominous explanation.  That reassuring thought evaporates with the sight of a young man, face covered in a red bandana, throwing a volley of Lord-knows-what explosives outside the building.  

It’s just got real.

We uniformly give up on making a swift exit and disperse to other parts of the building. I see one of my fellow French students lunching nonchalantly with her colleagues. She kindly agrees to send a message on both mine and her behalf to the lesson organisers to inform them of our predicament. 

I still plan to make it for the last half-hour if I can.

I’m at a loss at what to do with myself when I come upon another former classmate, Agatha.  It’s been a while. We briefly reference the absurdity of the current situation before catching-up.  I barely notice her taciturn companion. She interrupts softly.

I’m your neighbour. I live directly opposite you.

It takes a few moments to register what she’s saying. I am trying to place her face.

I’ve passed you several times. I wanted to introduce myself before but…

I’m mortified. I know exactly who she is. I saw her only a few days ago with her husband and toddler.  I wouldn’t have trouble identifying her spouse and little one. There are precious few others familiar to me in my building. Yet she has always been a background figure.

I apologise profusely. She is gracious. She introduces herself.  Anna.  She relocated to France many moons ago from Croatia. 

The three of us pass an agreeable hour talking about our shared experience as Alsace-outsiders (Agatha is Austrian).  Anna listens sympathetically as I describe my rollercoaster experience with French.  I still struggle with small talk…

Don’t worry. It takes years. She admits.

I find it reassuring nonetheless. She obviously made enough progress to start a family with a Frenchman. There is hope.

Anna might have also solved the puzzle of the mystery neighbour who left the rather snide note in my post box about noise control.  I am surprised to learn it could be one of the few other neighbours I see on a regular basis and with whom I thought I otherwise had a good rapport.  Anna diplomatically references several complaints made since the couple first moved in.

It’s time to venture back outside. I bid farewell to my colleagues, pleased that by chaotic happenstance our paths crossed that afternoon.

I manage to make it for the last act of the class.  En route, I bump into my colleague and former office-mate, Claudia. I follow her back to the Magenta, via one of the less conspicuous entrances. The street is strewn with debris from the makeshift explosives. The protests are scheduled to take place all week. Thankfully, the next few days are notably calmer, notwithstanding the presence of armed police.

I have a busy schedule that weekend. On the Friday night I will be making my personal debut with the High Rock Gospel Singers at a charity gig. Neither of the choir directors are bothered that the newbies have scarcely had time to familiarise ourselves with the repertoire. I’ve been doing my best. Just as I seem to be getting handle on it, Kiasi or Evan will pluck something out of thin air.

Kiasi thinks it’ll be a good training for us. A baptism by fire.

I recall my first show with the choir. I hardly knew anything. It was quite an experience.

That morning, I wake up struggling with motivation. I wish I could say it was something less trivial than the latest emotional nadir regarding my stubborn infatuation for Bernard.  I saw him earlier in the week. He was flying out on holiday to Atlanta that evening. Midnight plane to Georgia. I don’t know why that should have made me maudlin.

Thus singing about the Good News of Jesus Christ to raise money for a children’s charity is just what I need to get things in perspective, as well as lighten my mood.

A respectable number of members have shown up for this performance, although I am yet to be in the same room with the choir in its entirety. Each Friday more unfamiliar faces emerge only to disappear again for weeks on end. The vast majority are long standing members. HRGS is blessed with several talented soloists. Rather dishearteningly, the attendance of the cream-of-the-crop has fallen off since their anniversary show in June. (In fairness, a few of them are heavily pregnant). Fellow soprano and Leona-Lewis lookalike, Claire has mentioned past schisms. A few strong soloists remain. Nevertheless, I observe that the honours have more frequently fallen to a shrill soprano with a over-generous helping of self-belief. It's all I can do not to wince through her solos.

Half the choir seems to be made up of jocular contralto defector Elisabeth (now soprano), her Haitian husband, Gilles and their unspecified number of children. I haven't bothered to count.  Each time I think I've seen them all, more appear.

Backstage, we pass the time before practice singing ABBA songs and. for those who dare, eating fruit and pastries. I’m happy to indulge in some Swedish pop but I’m not going to coat my larynx with sugar before a vocal performance.

I note several of the newcomers are missing. I can’t blame them. I might have ducked out myself save the part of me that wants to call Kiasi's bluff.

He goes through several numbers to warm-up.  He has a habit of stopping us mid-flow if we make a mistake, only to cry Next! in a melodramatic squeal for comic effect.

I would like to rehearse a song from start to finish, for a change.  I comment to a fellow soprano.

Don’t worry. Doing concerts is a good way to learn the material.

Come again? At this rate, it’s a miracle the rest of the group have memorised the entire multilingual repertoire.

Just before curtain call, we form a circle of prayer. Kiasi reminds us that the objective is to enjoy ourselves…and praise Jesus.

We mount the stage, dressed in signature black with purple (fellows) and puce (ladies) sashes. We have no idea of the precise set list or for how long we’ll be performing.  Never has the expression ‘flying by the seat of my trousers’ (if I wore them) been more apt.  Kiasi ditches some tunes for others that I didn’t even know were part of the repertoire. 

I have a couple of things working in my favour. Some of the material I have already sung in some form with previous groups or at church. Most of it is Anglophone and thus easier to blag if I don’t know. The original version of the finale Akhuna is a different kettle of fish, however. The melody is familiar. The Swahili lyrics and choreography not so much. Mais, ça va quand même.

We march triumphantly out in song, all the way backstage. A few of the veterans ask how I feel.

It was a mad, unpredictable adventure. I reply. 

 I am having the time of my life.

 I reflect on how much singing with a quality group makes a difference to the performing experience.  Whatever happens I know we sound good. I am more relaxed.  Most of the choir decide to hang around and listen to the talented ensemble of Jazz students that follow our act.  We have a whale of a time making up slinky choreography to their classy West Coast and Bossa Nova offerings. Giddy with post-show euphoria, Elise the contralto and I sing pop, disco and soul classics (some cheesier than others) on the commute home. We part company after a MJ medley.

How much sweeter are unexpected pleasures.

The same sentiments come to mind the next day when I volunteer to help out with my church’s iteration of Willow Creek’s Global Leadership Summit. It’s a staple of the calendar for my church back in London too. Not that I have ever attended. I have always been put off by the Forbes Magazine definition of success that seems to underpin the event. Fortune 500 meets Ted Talks with a bit of God thrown in. It doesn’t help that Willow’s Creek has not fared well in the light of the American church's own #MeToo awakening.

On the other hand, my Strasbourgeois church family appear to have a paucity of volunteers. I put myself forward. My loyalty is to them and not Bill Hybels. Besides, I can’t pretend I’m not a little curious to see what all the fuss is about. 

By the time my shift on the welcome team starts on the second day, the event is drawing to a close. The lobby heaves with activity during the breaks but there’s not much to do in between. I chat to colleagues, catch-up with Jeanne or read a current affairs magazine whilst half-listening to the talks. I shouldn’t be too closed-minded. Too bad I’ve missed most of what would have been of interest, such as a presentation by one of our very own female teaching pastors/therapist.

Towards the end of the shift, I strike up a bilingual conversation with fellow volunteer Stacee. She’s a baby-faced 23-year old who moved from California to Strasbourg with her Guadalupina mother and African-American father, not long before I arrived in the City. Amongst other topics we discuss culture shocks, improving our French, feeling excluded from the Alsatian clan, and being relationship novices. The event wraps up. Hundreds of guests disappear in a flash. The cleaning team take over. Stacee and I head downstairs to grab what’s left of the set lunch. Just before we part ways we swap numbers and have a long hug; something we’ve both missed living in these cheek-kissing parts.

One Year On

The autumn season has a particular significance since beginning of my relationship with Strasbourg. It was in the autumn of 2016 that I first visited the City for my make-or-break interview with The Human Rights Organisation (THRO).  I fell in love with Strasbourg in all its red and amber glory. Alsace is very becoming during autumn. The beauty of the season is especially vibrant here.

The last Monday of October marks my first year anniversary in Strasbourg. It seems to have arrived quickly and yet there are moments that are already like a distant memory. I approach the date with some dread. There’s the usual anxiety about getting older; how time seems to speed up with age. There’s also the on-going neurosis about my linguistic progress. My main motivation for moving to France was to master the language. Anything less defeats the purpose.

Years ago, former Francophone acquaintances reassured me that all I needed was a few months in France.

You’ll be fluent in no time! 

Although at that period in life I was more confident, my language level was inferior to what it was on moving to Strasbourg.

A year on and this optimistic forecast is far from my reality. I blame my stubborn mediocrity and self-flagellate accordingly.

To mark my one-year milestone-which happens to fall on my day off- I intend to indulge a little. On the way out, I spot a photocopy of the building rules in my post box.  The section about noise has passive-aggressively been highlighted in orange.  As far as I can tell, my other neighbours have not received such a missive. The rules are harsher than I anticipated. We’re banned from using vacuum cleaners during the lunch hour for instance, and on public holidays (of which there are many). The sound insulation in the building is top notch. Apart from a couple of times when I’ve had my radio on a bit loud after 10pm, I try to be a model neighbour. I wonder about the identity of this resident who has neither the courage nor the courtesy to address me directly. 

I press on with my day. After catching a matinee of Le Procès Contre Nelson Mandela et Les Autres, I head to the salon for my monthly ritual of skin treatment and a massage. This time, I have decided to throw in the longer, anti-stress rub down. It’s on sale for those with a monthly subscription, as is the skin treatment. I am looking forward to my afternoon of bargain pampering. I’m assigned a therapist I’ve not met before.

Imagine thus my horror when settling the bill, to find that it’s substantially more than what I’d expected.

You changed treatment, remember?, my crafty therapist posits.

Did I?

I recall our conversation. She offered an alternative treatment. I didn’t quite get what she meant and didn’t want to keep asking her to repeat herself. I assumed it was the same treatment, adapted to my skin time. I left the decision to her. I trusted her expertise. I didn’t expect her to sneakily throw in extras without pointing out the price difference.

But, but…it’s not my first language. I completely misunderstood!

I’m chagrined. Where there have been previous miscommunications, I’ve been offered some compensation. Not this time. She just gives me a falsely apologetic smile. I don’t have the presence of mind to call her out on her own culpability. I’m in such a state I couldn’t form the words properly in any case. I don’t know what upsets me more; the added expense or the linguistic blunder. It isn’t even worth it in the end. The full-body massage is too intimate for my tastes, having had to strip down to my underwear. What’s more, the therapist half-arses it.

My day of celebration and pampering has taken a turn for the worse. I attempt unsuccessfully to keep F.Scott Fitzgerald’s level-headed advice in mind.

“…You mustn’t confuse a single failure with a final defeat…”

Nonetheless, I reflect, the snide note and the misunderstanding at the salon pretty much sums up my experience so far in Strasbourg.  Cold people and linguistic frustration. To feel this disappointed, I must have had more of the naïve optimism needed to make a major life change than I realised when I arrived. Whilst I’m in pity-party mode, I recall how so few of my UK acquaintances have paid me a visit; considering I’m just across the Channel and accommodation is free. I pass the evening in a weepy state. A lengthy catch-up with mum helps. She believes I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not so sure. I know too many talented multi-linguists. The bar is set very high.

Well maybe French is harder to master than English, Mum counters. 

I have heard that theory a number of times. It might carry some weight from what I’ve observed. Then again, never having had to learn English as a second language, I can’t really gauge. 

Mum is convinced I’m not in the position to measure my own progress. It echoes something one of my fellow sopranos mentions at our last choir rehearsal. She describes her experience studying English.

You’re not always the best judge of how far you’ve come. It’s others who will notice over time.

Hmm. Maybe. It’s the curse of the idealist/perfectionist. Doomed to dissatisfaction.  My polyglot acquaintances might be gifted but they aren’t superhuman. It’s not out of the realms of possibility. If I can’t meet my own standards, it’s not very encouraging. 

All that remains is to do as always. Persevere.

Contrary to what the above might suggest, I don’t regret relocating. And as must be obvious by now, I am prone to regrets.

If I had turned down the opportunity to work for THRO out of apprehension, I would have added a huge one to my already long list. 

Certainly, I didn’t factor in how difficult it would be to find accommodation. I didn’t expect an international city like Strasbourg to be as socially closed-off. There are times when the isolation has been like a stalking presence, particularly during the summer. I’ve experienced unfamiliar emotional lows out here. 

Still. No regrets.

I enjoy a standard of living that wouldn't be feasible in the current British economic climate. I have opportunities and the freedom to explore them that should not be taken for granted. 

Living in Strasbourg is teaching me how to be present, something I’ve often grappled with.

More recently, fleeting interactions have helped me see things from a different angle.

Left to my instincts, I seek to hold onto potentially good relationships. Everything in life needs to serve a purpose. If it doesn’t blossom into a fully-fledged friendship or comes to what I believe is a premature end, it has all been for nought. 

I’m learning to hold that interpretation a lot more loosely. Sometimes the ephemeral interaction is the point. It’s served a purpose, in that moment. If a potential acquaintance turns out to be a flake, it’s a shame but not the end of the world. They were there for me at a specific point in time when I needed it.

Adjusting my expectations accordingly takes a lot of the pressure off. I don’t feel as resentful about lost contacts (Javier, Serafine etc). I am not as aggravated as I have been about the insularity of the City. I am free to enjoy the experience for what it is. Anything more is a bonus.  

I hope to remain this philosophical. My initial one year contract has been extended to late spring 2019. The current financial climate at The Organisation means anybody bar permanent staff is potentially dispensable. All the more reason to take one step at a time. A chaque jour suffit sa peine.