Pre-Festive Frenzy Part 2

The countdown to The Most Wonderful Time of the Year is on. I’ll be a bit busier than usual this year. My new mate Coral has kindly accepted my invitation to spend some of the festive period at mine. Why not? She hasn’t mentioned any plans to return to Tunisia for the festive break. It doesn’t make sense to spend Christmas alone in our respective Franco-German corners. This is after all the season of peace and goodwill to all. I’m looking forward to putting some of that Christian hospitality into action.

Continuing the family’s seasonal tradition of bucking the roast turkey trend, this year I’ve opted for a simple French rabbit stew. The idea comes from noticing a readier supply of rabbit meat here compared to the UK. Choosing an relatively uncomplicated recipe, it’s just the excuse I need to experiment with a meat with which I am scarcely familiar. Since Coral and I are both tee-total, I swap the red wine ingredient for grape juice. A friend warns that rabbit might be too adventurous for Christmas. Having checked with Coral if she has any dietary requirements, she doesn’t seem to be fussy. I set to work deciding on a varied three-course menu, should something not take her fancy. I even print one out with cursive script on coloured paper at work. Well, you have to make an effort.

I plan my shopping schedule in such a way to dodge the crowds. Thank God for an early pre-Christmas finish at work. To create the perfect menu with fresh ingredients, I brave discourteous shop assistants in Kehl, dreadfully inefficient customer service and dozy sales assistants at a local deli and catch the tale end of the last market day before Christmas. For dessert, I cheat and buy some lemon tarts. You need to walk before you can run.

Contrary to what the above suggests, I do have other preoccupations apart from honing my hostess skills. The social calendar automatically fills up this time of year. I attend a so-called Jazz Gospel charity gig at the Temple Neuf in town. I spot a number of familiar faces in the audience; from church and other Christian contexts. The show doesn’t live up to the promise of the glossy flyer. The repertoire is closer to pedestrian pop. The singer’s articulation is pretty dire and she appears to invent lyrics-or simply sounds-when she hasn't memorised the words. Now, knowing how hard it is to master a foreign language, I try to be sympathetic with those in a similar boat. Much of my French pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired. However, since joining HRGS choir, I have become accustomed to Francophones who have an impressive grip on English pronunciation. My expectations have been raised.

That wouldn’t even be an issue if the vocals were up to standard. Having been classically-trained, the singer turns out to be a far better pianist than vocalist. It makes me wonder why she just didn’t do a piano recital instead.

I am glad to have made the journey in any case. The walk to and from the Temple is an opportunity to see Strasbourg in its night-time Christmas glory. Unwittingly I find myself walking the tragic trail of the recent terrorist attack; passing various memorials, beautifully arranged.

The following day, after church I take the opportunity to pass by Javier’s old flat to drop off his Christmas cards. To my disappointment, it looks as if he’s moved on.

Whilst I’m in the area, I visit the Catholic church opposite the block of flats. I always had a soft spot for the interior décor, particularly the elaborate nativity scene. This year it’s even more ambitious, with a mechanically-controlled miniature hot air balloon and a running brook. I linger for a good moment and still don’t find Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus. Never mind. The stillness is inviting.

Later that week, I head out with my Brazilian Portuguese class to a nearby (European Portuguese) restaurant. I only plan to stay for a drink. With Christmas coming up one needs to watch the calories and the pennies. 

It’s not the most economical venue. I’m not too impressed with the head waiter’s cultural insensitivity either. Whilst going through the history and preparation of specific dishes, chapter and verse, he makes a vague reference to Africa and looks at me. I react defensively.

‘Which part of Africa are you talking about? It’s a continent...I’m not from the Lusophone part anyway’.

After a year plus in Strasbourg I have less patience for these displays of ignorance. He’s not too flustered by my indignation, trying to salvage the point. One of my fellow students looks at me with what I can only describe as incredulous exasperation. Whether it’s aimed at me or the waiter, I can’t tell. At least I have the company of Barbara; a Kiwi who settled in France the year I was born. After initially being my typically guarded self, I thaw and I’m glad for her acquaintance. I leave the gathering having had some decent French practice and glorified pineapple juice.

Coral is scheduled to reach Strasbourg early afternoon on Christmas Eve. I spend the days leading up tidying, cooking and continuing my custom of watching my favourite Christmas specials (Boondocks, Charlie Brown, Community third series, etc.).

I pick Coral up at the coach station. She is a dream guest. She’s neat, considerate and an excellent conversation partner. Amongst other topics we discuss UK, French and North African politics, concepts of politeness across cultures, unwelcome male attention, our latest fiction-writing exploits and her love-hate relationship with the cello, which she has played since was six. She tells me the psychological torture of Whiplash is not far from reality, according to her experience at a conservatoire in Tunis. It’s not the first time I’ve heard a classically-trained musician make such an observation.

When we’re not talking late into the night, we entertain ourselves with Netflix. It’s a chance for me to satisfy my curiosity about The Lobster; a humorous and surreal parody of society’s obsession with coupling up and stigmatising the single. Coral and I mentally check-off all the clichés in Sandra Bullock’s nevertheless engaging apocalyptic-horror vehicle The Bird Box. The woman hasn’t aged a day. She and John Malkovich give kick-ass performances which make up for some of the hackneyed tropes, as do the adorable child actors.

Although from a Muslim background, Coral accompanies me to a Christmas Eve service at a local Lutheran church. We arrive a little late. The church is full and cosy. I do a loose translation for her whilst she tries not to be distracted by the cute but unruly tyke in front of us. It’s a short but very sweet service. We sing carols in French, English and German. It's the closest I’ve experienced to a typical British carol service thus far in France. Yuletide hymns don’t seem to be a big part of the cultural landscape, even in Christian contexts. I miss it a great deal.

Coral seems grateful and pleased with my festive culinary efforts. On Christmas Day after attending service in a freezing St Paul’s church in town. I rustle up a substantial brunch to hold us to dinner. Coral doesn’t over-indulge. 

Two days fly by. Whether out of extreme courtesy or awkwardness, I can’t convince her to take a doggy bag.  We part company ways for now back at the coach station on an Arctic-cold Boxing day.

In the days to come, I will drift around, feeling a little aimless now that I don't have company to fuss over. 

Pre Festive-Frenzy

The Christmas-related busyness has begun. 

The lead up to this year's celebrations coincides with the one year anniversary of moving into my flat. I commemorate the occasion by making my surroundings suitably and tastefully festive.

My choir’s unofficial tour of the Alsace region continues into December. We have two shows scheduled the second week of the month.

Members’ turnout is starting to diminish, including musical director Kiasi, whose day-job commitments call him away.

That Saturday, it’s a joint performance with Voix Solidaire; another community choir. Their MD, Richard, happens to be one of the founding members of HRGS (he is quite keen to stress the connection). The event is confusingly called a telethon. Apparently, in France these aren’t necessarily the televised fundraisers of yesteryear where celebrities pretend to take donations over the phone. It’s just a straightforward charity gig.

Members of VS make encouraging noises whilst we run through the night’s repertoire (still no Christmas songs). The two choirs are to collaborate on a couple of numbers.

Assistant choir director, Evan reminds us that it’s not the size of the choir, but the heart (it’s a play on words that works better in French). Still, he’s struggling. With Kiasi away, he can’t sing with the tenors who are especially thin on the ground. It’s true that we can produce a good sound with few people but it depends on who has shown up. Some have sharper musical sensibilities than others.

It’s showtime. We open with a combined performance of a traditional East African chorus. HRGS then leave the stage to let VS continue, taking our seats in the front row. A couple of the veteran members (now on maternity leave) are in the audience. I'm anxious to impress. I don’t want them to think the standard has deteriorated because of the newbies.

VS are a choir in the loosest sense of the word. Apart from Richard occasionally assisting us with his trusty bass and a gamely tenor (whom I wish we could poach), the other members have either forgotten their harmonies or didn’t have a concept of them in the first place. To make matters worse they swipe one of our medleys, butcher it and have the nerve to invite us on stage to partake in the carnage.

I can’t speak for the rest of the choir but I lose my sang-froid after that. My concentration is all over the place and my vocal range compromised by a cold. The rest of the choir isn’t on the best form either. Evan ditches one of the numbers on which I was meant to do a duet with fellow soprano Louise. He opts instead for some tunes for which we don’t have enough personnel to do justice.  One of the contraltos is off-key. He’s also having difficulty pitching us correctly. Too many false starts. Kiasi manifests towards the end. The mortification is complete. I leave straight after the show. It’s the worst performance since I joined the choir.

Or so I think, until the next day when do another telethon.

There are fewer of us. No Kiasi again. The pitching is still all over the place. Evan makes the mistake of giving a soprano solo to a contralto that is not a soloist and has a limited range. The result is strangled. A fellow new member is forcing herself to sing soprano when she’d sit more comfortably at a lower range. Another soprano descends into a fit of giggles and has to be reprimanded. It’s the first time I’ve seen Evan genuinely upset. My cold has worsened and my voice is unreliable. I’m trying to fill in the harmony gaps for missing members but find it hard at the best of times to project my bottom range.

Oh well. At least we’re given free cake and drinks at the end. The car journeys are fun too. En route to and from Strasbourg we sing along to Christine & the Queens (Evan is a fellow fan) and discuss the latest twists and turns of the Gilet Jaune movement that has taken over France. The choir is a good litmus test for Macron’s failing appeal; if it were ever there. He’s not popular, even amongst those who I assumed weren't politically radical.

Working mum Elisabeth says she doesn’t approve of the violence. However, she understands the why the motley movement protests against the escalating cost of living and the French president's seeming indifference. She and her family are just about keeping their head above water, she says. Besides, she adds, Macron only started to take the campaign seriously when it turned violent. 

It doesn’t surprise me that chickens have come home to roost. I never trusted former banker Macron and his third way approach. We’d seen it all before in the UK and where it leads. Nonetheless, any triumph I feel that Macron’s admirers across the Channel have been proved wrong comes at the cost of a frustrated French populace.

The following Friday is jam packed with activity. I have an appraisal in the morning that’s been postponed owing to my manager Lucia’s hectic schedule and, more recently, because of the terrorist attack in the City Centre earlier that week. That afternoon we have our team Christmas lunch and in the evening I’m performing again with HRGS. Despite the delicate security situation, the choir directors want to press ahead with the album fundraiser we had planned.

My appraisal goes fairly well. Lucia is pleased with my progress. One thing remains an issue. I’m still considered too reserved. My colleagues want to see me popping in and out of their offices more often. I challenge this objection as politely as I can. It strikes me as a nonsense. Following my previous appraisal, I’m already making a concerted effort to be more ‘visible’, speaking to colleagues in person rather than always by email and joining in with the odd tea and coffee break.

Lucia thinks I’m shy. I explain this is not the case. I’m just used to a different working culture (less 1984 I should add. I don’t say this).

Lucia suggests I attend one of the courses on working in a multi-cultural environment. I agree reluctantly and sign up. The next one is not until the Autumn 2019. I don’t bloody well need it anyway. I was born and raised in one of the most diverse cities in the world. I’ve worked in organisations far more multicultural than THRO; where I don’t even need both hands to count all the brown employees, excluding manual staff. Without wanting to blow my own cosmopolitan horn, I could teach The Organisation a thing or two about multiculturalism.

After stewing over it, I courteously explain my misgivings to Lucia the following week. To my mild surprise, she doesn’t contradict.

I forgot you came from London, she admits.

The team Christmas lunch is a more subdued (and thankfully economical) affair compared to 2017. There are fewer of us. Sophie doesn’t make her promised cameo. Other staff have moved on, are on mission, on leave or have other engagements. My office mate Daphnia is a saving grace. I feel more at ease speaking with her over my pot roast and tartine (glorified toast, rather than the quiche I have been expecting). She is fuming over what she sees as a callous reaction from some politicians to the death by shoot-out of the perpetrator of Tuesday’s attack, Cherif Chakatt. Only God can judge, she insists.

That evening I make my way through heightened security to St Paul Le Vieux church for the choir’s performance. It’s a welcoming space; far more modern than I expect. As if to make up for the poor turn out of the last couple of performances, the choir is out in full force. There are members present that I’ve only seen sporadically during rehearsals. Better still, Kiasi is free to conduct this evening. He’s been missed. Thanks to his innate abilities and great pitch, he makes choir directing look easier than it obviously is. 

SPLV church (courtesy of Alsace-Lorraine Photos)

He and co-director Evan have planned that we perform our splendid interpretation of Kumbaya as a flash mob. We blend with the audience, begin singing from our seats and gradually make our way to the stage. Considering we haven’t rehearsed it thoroughly, it’s a slick operation. I’m aware of making some errors especially being too hesitant to belt at key moments, given that the choir is scattered around the room and we’re not singing in our usual sections. Nevertheless it’s a transcendent moment; fitting as a homage to Chekatt’s victims. The church acoustics enrich the harmonies. It feels like a dream. I deem the whole performance a success; the best show I’ve done with HRGS.

At the end of the gig, I’m approached by Yvonne. She wants to apologise for earlier putting my nose out of joint. I took umbrage with her overly-inquisitive questions about my origins and comments about my Anglophone accent. It makes me self-conscious.

I’m Nigerian too. I had a feeling we had a similar background.

She is very conciliatory, showing true Christian good will. I relent and explain why I reacted so defensively. I know she means no harm. I can also be quite moody and guarded when I want to be. I keep this part to myself.

Dark Days of Christmas

(courtesy of the NY Post)

One Wednesday morning in mid-December, I’m up and out a bit earlier than usual. I have French grammar workshop to attend.

We’re thinner on the ground than expected. Apart from that, it goes well. Thanks to the session I have a firmer grasp on the French gerund and learn something new about grave and acute accents. It’s a positive atmosphere. Except the tutor keeps making reference to a suspect on the loose. Finally, I can no longer hide my ignorance.

Sorry, I don’t understand. What happened?

Patiently, she begins to explain. An assailant, already a ‘person of interest’ to the police, opened fire the previous night on revellers near the famous Christmas market. He managed to escape. She wonders why I’m not up to speed. I don’t have a TV nor a smartphone I reply. I haven’t listened to the news on the radio that morning either. Come to think of it, I haven’t checked either my English or French phones since the night before. Prepare to be bombarded with messages, she says with a knowing expression. I imagine my poor mum, frantic with worry. She’s probably filled my voicemail box. I return to my office to check the news online and my phones. On the way, I pass my colleagues in the café, huddled round a table looking concerned and deep in conversation. I sneak upstairs. The building is unusually quiet.

Over the course of the day, by way of emails from The Organisation, online news and titbits from colleagues, the picture becomes clearer. Career criminal Cherif Chekatt was said to be radicalised during a stint in prison. After killing and injuring 18 victims, rather implausibly he escapes in a taxi. Before asking to be dropped off in the middle of the Neudorf vicinity, he proceeds to confess -even exaggerate-his atrocity to the driver, claiming also to have stockpiled grenades. Incidentally, the police carry out a raid earlier that day on a flat in which said artillery is found. The taxi driver unwittingly corroborates Chekatt’s story, enabling the police to identify the suspect.

There are tales of unsuspecting tourists sequestered in the City Centre into the early hours of Wednesday morning, detained by security. My current manager, Rosa, (filling in for Sophie whilst she is on maternity leave) was supposed to fly out to Croatia on mission via Frankfurt. She lives in the town centre. There are no taxi services available after the attack. Security around the German border is leaving reported traffic backlogs of over four hours. Neudorf being a stone’s throw from France’s neighbour, the authorities fear Chekatt might have fled. Rosa has no choice but to cancel the trip, forewarning her colleagues in the Balkans by email.

I think of my movements the night before. I left my evening Portuguese class around the time the attack occurred. I was invited to a Christmas meal afterwards near the city centre by my church house group but decided to head home instead, since the next morning would be an early start.

I check my phones. I have two messages from concerned friends in the UK. A few more trickle in later that morning. Some other Brit friends text or email, evidently clueless about what has occurred. No word from mum. I email sis in Japan. She’s none the wiser. The attack isn’t as prominent on the BBC website as I’d expect. It’s been buried under the latest Brexit saga; a vote of no-confidence against Theresa May.

I’m starting to feel offended. My former office mate Claudia claims she’s had non-stop contact from concerned UK acquaintances. Are my friends that complacent or desensitised?

 I text a few of them back to know how well the news has been reported in the UK. I receive conflicting responses. From what I can gather, it’s been covered on the Tuesday night but dropped off the radar, possibly because of Brexit. My mum doesn’t find out until Wednesday evening. By chance she’s apprised when she walks past Reuters' scrolling news in Canary Wharf. (Her brother, my uncle, learns of the incident on the night itself but doesn’t know how to break it to mum). She said she’d have otherwise still been uninformed. A friend also admits that if I hadn’t mentioned the incident in my response email, she’d have never known. Sky News plays on loop in her office lobby but it’s been consumed with Brexit. This is the problem with the 24 hour news cycle, I bemoan. Breaking news becomes figurative fish-and-chip paper far more quickly. Don’t take it as a sign of neglect, she reassures. You are loved.

(courtesy of The Daily Wire)

Ironically, I receive more messages about my well-being from my Europe-based acquaintances. The news is far better covered on the Continent. I have often wondered if anything happened to me in Strasbourg, whether I had enough ties for anyone to notice. Sadly, it takes this incident for me to be able to answer in the affirmative.

Colleagues from work send texts. Acquaintances both old and new email me. I’m touched by the efforts of my fellow-choristers at the High Rock Gospel Singers, most of whom I have known for less than three months. I receive a number of texts and missed calls. I apologise for the radio silence, explaining I’ve only just learned of the tragedy. Later that week, musical director Kiasi tells me off for making him worry.

It’s a surreal day. I’m busy, working with a nervous and frankly distracted air. I take my mind off my own hurt feelings about the lack of contact from the UK to check on colleagues, church acquaintances, friends and find out more about those directly affected. A colleague recounts by email hearing gunshots and being stranded in the City Centre because of the security situation. Her friends are barricaded in a restaurant into the wee small hours. A body of one of the victims is apparently brought into the establishment.

I feel the urge to listen to my choir’s rendition of Kumbaya. I read about Chekatt’s victims. One  is left brain dead. Another was a Thai tourist. I imagine his wide-eyed curiosity and excitement at visiting one of the most famous Christmas markets in the world. I think of his family; how they would have received the unexpected news of their relative's demise during what should have been a simple winter break. Silently, as not to attract my colleagues' attention, I start to weep. A delayed reaction but one for which I am perversely relieved. I am glad that terrorism is not such a common occurrence that I stop feeling anything at all. By the end of the week, the number of dead climbs to five. I pray for the victims, their families and all those grieving at this time of year; a supposedly cheerful season that can nonetheless be punishing for those in pain.

I have an online meeting that evening with my branch of Labour International, most of whom are based in Paris. I'm in a stroppy mood. It seems they only remember when prompted. 

Whilst Chekatt is at large, Strasbourg is on edge. Schools close and colleagues with children stay home to look after them. All markets remain shut. Residents of the Neudorf area are encouraged to stay indoors except for essential trips. Members of Chekatt’s family are rounded up by the police for questioning. On the way home, a kindly colleague tells me to stay safe. He will be under self-imposed lockdown that night.

A few days later, I am pleasantly surprised to receive frantic texts from my aunt and her son. It seems the news is still filtering into the UK but not yet widely known. I check the BBC news page on Thursday night. According to the site Chekatt is still on the loose.

The following morning, I continue my annual tradition of distributing Christmas cards to my colleagues. A number of them thank me personally.

It’s especially important to remember the nativity at times like these, says Georgiana. Especially after what happened last night.

It is then I learn Chekatt has been killed in a shoot-out with police in Neudorf on a road not too far from my church. I know it quite well from when I was flat hunting during my stay with Javier.

Chekatt obviously didn’t stray far. I think I hear Claudia say Good when Georgiana recounts the latest turn of events.

(courtesy of MPRnews.org)

Later that afternoon, during the team’s Christmas lunch, my colleague Daphnia waxes furious at the vengeful response from local politicians, who appear to condone the police’s shoot-to-kill policy. I’ve never seen her so riled. She plans to write to the mayor. She’s worried about the effects on her teenage son, who has parroted their sentiments. Only God can judge, she inveighs. I agree. But people are scared and angry. It’s not good enough, Daphnia replies. Strasbourg prides itself on being a defender of human rights. Its humanitarian organisations campaign against the death penalty. Chekatt made some terrible choices but we don’t know what led him to that point. It’s hypocritical she says, to applaud his death.

I hear the same compassion from members of my choir that evening. The directors gently insist we go ahead with the fundraiser in the centre of town that we have planned. Security is even tighter and the army more present. Not just because of the attack but also because President Macron is paying a visit. 

Some of my musical comrades are shocked and appalled at the social media reaction to the killing of Chekatt. You should never rejoice over someone’s death, warns Leila, even the wicked.

We dedicate a couple of songs to the victims of Tuesday’s attack and their families, including the beautiful alternative arrangement of Kumbaya. Kiasi and Evan decide it should be done flash mob style. Choir members blend into the audience and we begin singing from our seats. At the right cue, we assemble on stage performing with all our hearts. The gorgeous harmonies echo around the church hall, thanks to the fantastic acoustics. It’s a transcendent moment; sublime even. Beauty from sadness.

The same thought comes to mind that weekend. Whilst strolling back from a rather disappointing and misleadingly advertised ‘jazz-gospel’ charity concert, I pass Rue des Orfévres and Place Kleber where Chekatt’s victims fell. Makeshift shrines glow with tea lights. I’m struck by their heartbreaking beauty and that such a stunning scene would not exist if not for sorrow. The tragic paradox of a broken world.

The City looks resplendent draped in Christmas décor, as if oblivious to the blood that has been spilled. The Christmas market and other festivities have resumed, albeit with an even stronger security presence.  Commuters, shoppers and tourists alike are all but stripped searched. Armed police spot check passengers' belongings on the bus.

On Sunday, prayers are offered up at church for all those directly affected by the tragedy. No doubt the same is done in places of worship throughout the country.

Life goes on.

'Good' Problems

Despite the gloom, sharp drop in temperature and the great indoors having more appeal come 5pm, I find myself busier as autumn makes way for winter in Strasbourg.  

The last weekend of November I spend in the delightful company of Coral, a fellow aspiring writer I met at a workshop earlier in the month. By some accident the event was over-subscribed but the ambiance was cordial. After the event, Coral and I remain in touch by email. Originally from Tunisia, she’s currently based in Frankfurt after completing a master’s in civil engineering. She and I bond over our shared tendency towards idealism, artistic insecurities and linguistic travails.  We exchange excerpts of our work and give feedback.

Her openness and ready vulnerability is refreshing and speaks to my own instincts. She’s also a patient listener (always useful in the presence of yours truly). 

We meet up at one of my new favourite city haunts, Oh My Goodness! Café. Whilst ordering my smoothie, I notice the American barista is struggling with her French. All too familiar with that feeling, I switch to our shared first language.

Multi-lingual Coral has plenty of experience on that front too. Having studied and mastered several languages (enough to make forays into literature) she’s nonetheless humble about the journey. She describes her German as ‘moody’; some days she is fluent, others she struggles to make a grammatically correct sentence.  We pass a few agreeable hours before I head off to my next rendezvous with another polyglot; my Eastern European angel, Clara. I promised her a meal after her sage advice saved me a packet on my Taxe d’Habitation. I initially sense reluctance on her part but she reassures me she’s keen; just very busy. We settle on Lebanese at Le Tarbouche.  I love MENA cuisine and have wanted an excuse to check out the always buzzing eatery. Even self-confessed picky-eater Clara is a fan. I am not disappointed. The food is delicious, the portions generous and the price is nice.

(c) Banksy

Once the pleasantries and usual catch-up information has been exchanged, much of the evening is spent talking about my seemingly relentless infatuation for Bernard. I don’t intend to confess but I feel an almost perverse relief from doing so. She’s the only person I’ve told who has actually met him. She’s sympathetic, even if she can’t at first wholly understand my perspective on why we're not compatible in the long term.

I lament how much head-space such trivial matters take up in the scheme of the world's problems. Clara tells me to go easy on myself.

She advises I find a replacement. For my part, this rebound strategy isn't worth considering. Unlike Brexit, no deal is better than a bad deal. Clara is so used to being in a relationship, perhaps this is lost on her.  For one thing Bernard can’t be replaced. For another, it wouldn’t be fair on the third party. Moreover, by adding another romantic entanglement to the mix I’d only be kicking the problem down the road. Best to face the pain alone now, for delayed gratification later.

One thing is agreed; not seeing Bernard is bad, being around him is even worse (hard to avoid as colleagues) Friendship isn’t a realistic option, Clara observes. She’s right.

Talking to her about it simultaneously lightens and adds to the load. Nothing like unfulfilled longing to kick start the blues. As always, my sis bears the brunt of my drama. She spends the best part of four hours trying to talk sense into me on Skype the following week.

Given that we work for the same organisation, my resolve to avoid Bernard is routinely challenged. I take to demurring invitations for the elevenses with colleagues in the café when I know he’ll be about. Relief turns to panic when, after weeks of our paths not crossing, I see him twice in one day. Neither encounter is as smooth as I’d have liked. The second occasion, when I spot Bernard from afar, my attempt at a slick escape turns to farce thanks to a temperamental security system. I have no choice but to interact with him briefly, accompanied by a new younger, female lunching buddy.

But at least there’s no conversation. For the sake of peace of mind and until emotion catches up with reason, small talk is more than I can handle.

Besides, despite his apparently warm sentiments when he sees me, I get the distinct impression that Bernard wants to keep me at arm’s length too, consciously or otherwise. If it’s distance he wants, it is distance he’ll get.

Thank God for music. A most effective antidote to a broken-heart. 

Not surprisingly, the run up to Christmas is a hectic season for my group HRGS. (Ironically, the choir doesn’t have much of a Christmas repertoire to my great disappointment. Neither do they seem very enthused by the idea. Perhaps the French carol tradition pales in comparison to the Anglophone). It’s apparently also a fertile period for the choir. A number of the female members have given birth within weeks, if not days of each other.

From late November to mid-December, we perform shows on successive weekends in and around Strasbourg. It’s like a tour of the Alsace region. 

I lose half a weekend, panicking over learning a solo in South African Sotho that late one Friday night after practice the choir director, Kiasi informs me I should learn. He’s crafty. I wouldn’t put it past him to make me perform it that weekend. 

He feigns innocence when we next meet.

It was just for future reference.

Great. I’ve aged five years overnight for nothing.

From my limited experience of performing with the choir thus far, I have made the following observations. Our audiences are largely older and Caucasian. Clapping in the customary off-beat rhythm of American Gospel music poses a particular challenge. 

  Most of the new recruits have carefully avoided these musical outings. Long-time members I’ve never laid eyes on materialise at random intervals.  They are clearly so familiar with the repertoire, they don’t feel the need to be at every rehearsal. It’s nonetheless a great opportunity for me to become acquainted with some of them. And the French practice is most welcome. During one long car ride, I swap Strasbourg anecdotes with fellow-30 something from Brittany, Yvette. The choir is a godsend, I tell her.

I have to hand it to Kiasi (or Chief, as I call him). He maintains his gusto throughout each performance, regardless of the enthusiasm (or lack thereof) of the crowd. He’s particularly keen on audience participation. He often invites guests to join us on stage for the finale. It can get crowded and pleasantly messy.

 Chief has a favourite party peace in which he teaches spectators a simple song. He then divides the room into two sections for some friendly competition. If the mood takes him, he’ll even pounce on unsuspecting audience members to lead each section. On one occasion, he selects two couples from a large but notably subdued crowd. When one of the males opens his mouth, it’s only the context that gives it any semblance of a song. You’d think Kiasi was holding him at gunpoint from the rigid claps and morose expression. 

After that particular performance, I am looking forward to going home to redeem what’s left of my Sunday evening. I’m knackered, feeling the absence of my day of rest.  

So much for that. Before I know it, we’re ushered Last Supper-style by our zealous hosts into the Upper Room of the impressive church for some sweetmeats and beverages.

Meanwhile, I could sleep standing up. I really don’t have the brain space to make conversation in a second language. I struggle with small talk in French at the best of times.  Alas, there is no escape. We’re in an Alsatian village in the middle-of-nowhere. I don’t drive and my lift, the choir’s treasurer, is also obligated to stay for snacks. I sit in a corner in an apologetic sulk. I’m not hungry and don’t have the inclination to indulge in unnecessary calories.

I sneak off to find a quiet space and come across fellow soprano Michelle. We have an affinity. She lived in the UK whilst studying English. She’s thus a willing and supportive unofficial language coach. By the time we bump into each other fatigue has made me emotional. She understands. She was also tearful earlier. The combination of tiredness and being on the wrong end of Kiasi’s sometimes catty humour got the better of her.

I find a quiet space to give mum a follow-up to the birthday call that was cut short pre-performance. Hearing a familiar voice lifts my spirits.  

Hidden away in an empty church office, Mum is worried I’ll miss my ride. Not a chance. I hot step it when I hear voices. At last we head towards the car park. En route Kiasi stops to take a photo of the illuminated church clock. Co-director Evan doesn’t approve.

That’s White People s***, he mocks in English. I reprimand him playfully in French for stereotyping. 

In the car, I reflect on the evening with my fellow passengers. The consensus is that it’s the better of the two performances that weekend. I beg to differ. Saturday night’s gig at the choir’s home parish is characterised by bonhomie, a more gamely audience and impromptu cameos by cute tots. Tonight, the atmosphere has been tense, the crowd stiff, the choir thinner on the ground. The sopranos sang sharp and energy levels were lower. 

Back in Strasbourg, going home is another palaver. Trams are running a reduced service owing to  security issues. Given that Sunday transport to my neck of woods is about as regular as a solar eclipse without the added hassle, the journey back takes me 2 hours door to door.

But let me accentuate the positive for a change. I am singing on the regular, overcoming my aversion to performing as a result and sharing the Gospel through song. 

Choir-related busyness and travel upsets are good problems to have.