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.