Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 1

(routard.com)

A week before Christmas, I collect my mum from Gare Centrale. She has been fortunate to catch one of the intermittent trains from St. Louis during the ongoing strike action.

It’s my third Strasbourg Noel. Despite her numerous visits, this will be my mother’s first in the 'Capital of Christmas'. Seeing this is most likely the last December that I’ll be based in Alsace, I have a full itinerary planned. I want mum to experience all the things that make Christmas in Strasbourg special for me. I hope to squeeze in some of the sights I haven’t had a chance to show her before.

The day of mum’s arrival, I run around putting the finishing touches to a warm Yuletide welcome.  I illuminate the decorations for the first time since putting them up.

I arrive at the station a few minutes later than scheduled but still in good time. Mum's in high spirits; relieved to be away from the post-election turmoil and recrimination.

At home we unpack her laden suitcases. Any guilt over my list of special requests soon evaporates. Mum’s heavy cargo is mostly her own doing; bringing a bounty of treats for which I have not asked. I knew very well she might improvise. I tell her off for being an enabler and insist she takes a good portion back with her. Still, it’s a relief to see my almost bare cupboards filling up.

On the first full day of her trip, we make our way to Kehl. Having had to wait all morning and half-the afternoon for my water meter to be read, by the time we leave it’s a mad dash. We hope to make it ahead of the last minute Christmas rush. On arriving, it’s clear others have had the same idea.

Thanks to mum’s UK haul, we don’t have too much to worry about on the food front. The most important item would be the capon; proving somewhat elusive on that side of the German border. Back on the French side, my local butchers don’t give any assurances it’ll arrive before Christmas Eve.

I can’t worry about that now. I am already running late for the last street outreach session of the year. That evening we’re joined by Luc, one of the founding members of the team. It’s his first outreach since he married in the summer. The girls are delighted for him. Sherrie, originally from Nigeria, is especially pleased. You’re a man now, no longer a boy!

The women receive our festive treats eagerly; even those who claim not to have much of a sweet-tooth.  Pull the other one. Luc chides.

By the time the session is over and we’ve done a lengthy debrief in the cold, group-leader and co-founder Sabrina drops me off long after midnight. I warn mum ahead of time that I’ll be back late and she should eat dinner without me. She waits up all the same.

That weekend is dedicated to showing her Strasbourg in its full Christmas splendour; best seen after nightfall. I’m in a good mood after spotting some bargain capon and picking up mum’s gift for a steal during the morning shop. We set off late afternoon with a view to catch the live nativity in the vicinity of the cathedral before attending a carol service at Temple Neuf. La Creche Vivante plays in quarter-hourly loops. The cast is comprised of adult volunteers, children of the parish and real life sheep. We glimpse the final scenes, after the angels have appeared to the pint-sized cherubs. I’m pleasantly surprised to see Mary played by an African/Caribbean woman with dewy skin. She has the patient, beatific smile down to a tee. Too bad her pale baby doll bears no resemblance. Must take after the robust-sized Joseph by her side.

By the time we reach Temple Neuf, there’s no more room at the inn. We’re turned away by the austere pastor’s assistant (he and I have a little bit of beef from a while back). Hanging outside in vain, I hear someone call my name. Gloria from my church translation team has also made a fruitless trip with a friend to the Temple for a Christmas sing-along.

The truncated itinerary is a blessing in disguise, giving us more time to catch the Christmas sights and sounds. Mum and I head back to the Live Nativity to watch some of the elements we’ve previously missed. Some of the young cast have been replaced to give the others reprieve. One impish little shepherd is having trouble controlling her excitement. The director doesn’t look amused. Neither do the sheep.

We take in much of the length and breadth of Strasbourg bathed in Christmas glory.  My mother’s eyes are aglow as we stroll down the usually quiet Rue des Orfèvres; now overflowing with human traffic. We stand underneath the colossal Christmas tree in Place Kleber. The giant baubles change colour at indeterminate intervals. From green to jade. The last time I saw them they were purple. We wait several minutes for this violet transition before giving up to make our way to Krutenau. We plan to surprise my friend Gael at his Afro-blend café. On entering I bump into Gael’s sister, Claudette for the second time in the space of a week; her daughter in tow. We have met by chance at a supermarket the weekend before. Gael and mum exchange warm salutations. We both comment on his weight loss.

Live Nativity (photos-alsace-lorraine.com)

Claudette is expecting some friends, themselves formerly in the catering business. Once they arrive she orders multiple sample dishes and is generous with their distribution. For our part mum and I order delicious beef-based dishes, multiple rounds of the crepe-like Kenyan chapatti and shito sauce. Gael even convinces head chef (his mother) to make the finely-ground caramelised peanut brittle I adore, just for me. Towards the end of the evening I enter a heated discussion with Claudette and friends about the current strike action taking place across France. They appear to be rather Let them eat cake about the affair; more worried over the understandable short term inconvenience than the long-term stakes. In addition, they confound the violent anarchist elements of the Gilets Jaunes with the legitimate concerns of the trade unions over Macron’s proposed retirement reforms. As I passionately defend the union’s cause, mum glances from face to face, head turning as if at a tennis match. I just knew you were talking about politics, she shares after we leave. She believes I should have toned it down. I am a tad defensive, feeling conflicted. I don't like to leave on an awkward note. Yet, I feel it's important to present a different perspective to those otherwise seemingly too removed from the struggle to empathise.

The Sunday before Christmas, mum accompanies me to church. She’s a hit with some of the members yet to be of her acquaintance. Isn't she pretty? one of them admires. Indeed she is, I reply; not for the first time in life vicariously enjoying the compliment on mum's behalf.  After the service I take her to St Aloysius church in Neudorf to admire the epic nativity scene; spanning cultures and millennia. Mum is duly fascinated, filming the display from every feasible angle. In the evening she entertains herself with another epic; Martin Scorcese’s The Irishman. I can’t really commit. Mum’s much more a fan of mafioso drama than I’ve ever been.

Low Season, High Season

Demonstrations in France against Macron's proposed retirement reforms
(connexionfrance.com)

The weeks leading up to Christmas are a bewildering blur of joy and pain.

Anxiety about the UK General Election is punctuated with moments of hope, only to be dashed by a heartbreaking outcome. Still, hope lives on. I am comforted by the sympathetic reaction from friend and fellow HRGS soprano, Michelle at a rehearsal the day after the result. I have willed myself out of the flat. It’ll be far too glum staying indoors.

Michelle has kept abreast of the news from Blighty. Believing the Brits to be conservative by nature, she’s not so much shocked by a Tory win but by how much. She tells me not to worry about Boris in the long term. The clown will go back to the circus, she quips.  (The crown analogy is misleadingly innocuous, I warn.)

Michelle also points to the success of the recent strikes across France in protest of Macron’s unpopular proposed retirement reforms. The trade unions have been revived thanks to this wave of industrial action, she explains. All is not lost.

A few days later, I briefly join trade unionist chum, Catarina and comrades on the picket line in central Strasbourg. The initial plan is to meet up for a hot beverage after I attend a careers fair near her office. When she informs me she’s on strike and intends to join the demonstrations in the city centre, I wonder why it hasn’t yet occurred to me to lend my support. Vive la solidarité ! At least the French put up a fight, I tell my francophone acquaintances. I am frustrated by what seems to be the docile acceptance by too many Brits of detrimental policies.

It’s my first time demonstrating in France. Red smoke bombs are let off. The sound of hand-held sirens give the march an eerie urgency. Many establishments are closed in solidarity, including my usual post-work haunt, the Malraux Médiathèque.

Elsewhere, the Strasbourg Christmas frenzy continues as normal. The decorations seem even more enchanting this year. The world-famous Christmas market still disrupts life in the centre of town.

The suffusion of light isn’t the only thing to gladden my heart amidst the grim weather and political climate. I meet up with my Guardian Angel, Gordon; a former THRO colleague. He treats me to a smoothie and uplifting conversation one lunch time. There’s been a lot of changes at The Organisation in the relatively short time since I left, according to other former colleagues. I can’t help but feel a little vindicated on the news that one of the problematic managers has been ‘reassigned’. I hope that isn’t vindictive, I ask Gordon. No, he reassures, it's understandable. A thoughtful and sweet-natured individual, he’s exactly what THRO needs but somehow still manages to be too good for them.

I have more special festive dinners than I know what to do with. It takes some strategic manoeuvring and disciplined day time eating to make room for it all. I skip out on at least one.

Thanks to my church house group, I have my first ever traditional raclette experience. About blinkin' time.

It’s the Alsatian equivalent of fondue. Regional cheese is melted on a grill and consumed with potatoes, sliced meat preservatives, salad and whatever else is at hand. I’m a little uneasy at first. Being one of the few foreigners and unfamiliar with the raclette set-up, the group leaders regularly ask for feedback. It makes me even more self-conscious. I’m still not entirely at ease in certain Francophone social settings. Small talk is no less of a chore. It takes me a while to unwind but relax I do; no small thanks to the warm welcome from Cape Verdean, Magda and her lovely family. She encourages my efforts to speak Portuguese. I spend much of the evening chasing her curmudgeonly toddler for a cuddle.

My choir also organise an end of year social. One Sunday evening we gather for a buffet at a capacious Chinese restaurant a stone’s throw from my church in La Meinau. En route, I greet some of the Girls waiting for clients. I recognise them from previous outings with the street outreach team.

The dinner is a rather raucous affair, particularly where the choir directors are seated. Their rambunctious chat and laughter startles star soprano, Nicole’s baby girl. The usually placid tot bursts into tears. A little FOMA starts to niggle. My mood is tempered by an earlier sartorial mishap that forced me to swap outfits. I’m not entirely comfortable in my replacement wear. The food selection is respectable. Psychologically however, I can no longer bring myself to eat to bursting as I once would have done at such establishments. As I settle in, chorister Elisabeth asks about my future plans. I explain that I’ve postponed my departure for a month or two. She says I’ll be missed. She has observed I’m breezier and more at home in my skin. I’ve come into my own. I explain that I’m not shy by nature; or at least only in limited contexts. It’s just I still feel like an imposter speaking French. I’m not as quick off the mark as I’d be in English.

Le Palais de la Meinau, Strasbourg

I greatly appreciate her words of support, nonetheless. Leaving HRGS behind might well be the hardest aspect of moving on. It’s been an integral part of my Strasbourg experience and, without a shadow of a doubt, the source of most of my happiest memories here.

The following week alone I participate in two choir-related activities; a memorial service for the victims of last year’s Christmas market terrorism and a charity event for a young man, Lazare, who has been in a coma for over a year. It’s a joyous occasion in spite of the circumstances. More precious memories made on and off stage. Musical director Kiasi meets his match when he calls on Sylvestre, Lazare’s football coach, to help him lead an audience participation segment. He is a natural entertainer who knows how to work the crowd. I can’t sing for laughing. It’s forever refreshing to see a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Soundtrack: The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker, Christmas mix (various artists)

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The weekend following the HRGS recording session will also be musically-inclined. But first, I attend the long-awaited opening of the Afro-blend themed bar of Strasbourg BFF, Gael. Following months of uncertainty and construction hitches, Jabiru is open for business. The official launch party is scheduled in the new year. For now, it’s an informal gathering of choice acquaintances alongside passing clientele.

I’m one of the first to arrive.

 A partition made from traditional wax cloth opens into bright surroundings. Drink crates covered with more ornate wax cloth have been converted into seats. The walls are decorated with Asante Adinkra symbols alongside their French, English and German translations.

I comment on Gael’s weight loss. He’s gym-honed bod has diminished to simple leanness. I blame the pre-opening stress.

I fear I might be over-dressed for the occasion. A couple of male punters give me the eye, including an older gentleman whom I at first believe is Gael’s dad. Both refute it.

But I’m not black, says the older man. I point out that Gael is of mixed-heritage.

This does not dissuade the elderly lothario. I’m polite but try as much as possible to focus on the novel I'm reading, the Afro-blend snacks I ordered or speaking to Gael’s mature, pre-adolescent niece.

Aperitifs are scheduled for half-7 but I won’t hang around. I have choir practice that evening. I make an early exit feeling too conspicuous sitting on my own. There’s only so much Gael can entertain me in between taking orders. I settle the bill and promise I’ll be back very soon.

I’m a woman of my word. The next day I introduce Afropean acquaintance, Zainab to Jabiru. We met several months previously in one of those random, pleasant moments of happen-stance.

Zainab is impressed by the café's chic interior design and ambiance. I order a couple of helpings of a hard, caramelised snack that I've fallen in love with. She's less enthused.

I have plans for an early night ahead of a busy Sunday. Zainab nonetheless insists I join her for an evening of carols organised by a French Caribbean association. I’ve run out of excuses. It’s only a hop and a skip away.

We arrive at St Madeleine church tucked away in a secluded corner of the city. The main hall is buzzing with activity. Zainab introduces me to her acquaintances. 'She is anglophone' or 'she speaks English'. Between this needless (I hope) additional info and her regular correction of my French, I have the impression she's unconsciously embarrassed for-or by- me. We'll have to speak about it but not now.

The atmosphere is convivial.  It will be one of the most informal carol services I’ve attended. Snacks and vol-au-vents are circulated. Hymn books are distributed for those who wish to join in. A motley crew of singers gather on the makeshift stage. I spot one of the recent recruits to HRGS amongst them. We exchange les bises.

You’re a busy bee!

Most of those in attendance talk over the singing. I speak to a couple of Zainab's friends about the purported (not-always-so) friendly rivalry between their respective islands; Guadeloupe and Martinique. They assure me that it's mostly jest and deep down there's much solidarity, especially amongst the first wave of migrants to France.  I make a gamely effort to keep up with the singing, unfamiliar as I am with the vast majority of the selections. I’m nevertheless heartened by the unadulterated references to the Christian themes of the season. It’s a refreshing break from all the Black Friday, pre-festive commercialism. Advent is barely under way and it’s already feeling like my most authentic Christmas experience in Strasbourg. 

Wolfisheim Christmas market

There’s more French Yuletide cheer at church the following morning. A specially-invited troupe take over proceedings for their own interactive spin on the Nativity. It’s a bit chaotic as these ‘family services’ tend to be. On the other hand, my French church isn't given to much festive themed music. It's a welcome change.  I wasn’t well-acquainted with the francophone version of O Come All Ye Faithful, for instance. For the second time that weekend I find myself singing the French equivalent of one of my holiday favourites, Angels We Have Heard on High.

My first weekend of advent concludes with a HRGS gig at a modest Christmas market in Wolfisheim; a village in the Alsatian environs. It’s brass-monkey cold and we’re expected to perform outside. The venue resembles a cross between a fortress and a barn, transformed into an enchanted castle by the Christmas illumination. The performance is dodgy. We sounded better in rehearsals. Co-director Evan pitches us too high a couple of times, throwing off some of the choristers. As usual we have too few male singers present and performing outside brings with it challenges. Yet as is normally the case with HRGS, we enjoy ourselves all the same. More beautiful memories are made drinking our complimentary hot drinks and munching crepes under giant fairy lights.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker

No Time to Play...Well, Maybe a Little

Downtown studios, Strasbourg.

Strasbourg-aka the Capital of Christmas-is in full festive swing from late November. The landscape is barely clear, if at all, of its majestic autumnal display.  Yet winter has made a head start with the biting temperatures. Across the city, various fixtures, lamp-posts and trees light up with some of the prettiest Christmas décor you’re likely to see.

I’m continuing my in-between job schedule of studying, searching for work and appointments with municipal employment agencies. Somehow I also find time for church activities, writing workshops, meet-ups with chums, telephone conferences on UK GE campaign strategy and, of course, choral events. After a tame start to the Rentrée on the performance front, the High Rock Gospel Singers’ diary has suddenly become quite active.

On the last Sunday of the month, the choir directors book an all-day session at a studio in an obscure location not too far from the central station. I’m still a relative recording novice. It’s been a decade or two since I was last in the booth. We gather in front of the cave-like establishment on a chilly weekend morning. I've hitched a lift with a kindly alto.  The choristers turn up in full force except, as usual, for the men. The idea is for this recording session to be a test run for the album. Instead of trying to knock out a track during an intense afternoon session, the administrative team thought it would be more productive if we take our time over the course of a day. It turns out to be a fruitful gamble.

To our astonishment, the studio is far more modern and inviting than its less than prepossessing exterior. (It's to discourage thieves, according to the proprietor) The spacious brick and wood-panelled surroundings would be an ideal setting for a making-of documentary. I expect the establishment to be presided over by a young-ish fellow of African-descent. Instead we’re greeted by an ageing Frenchman, not nearly as curmudgeonly as first impressions suggest.

The day begins with some relaxed warm-ups. We then proceed to record a Gospel medley – chosen for its relative ease and familiarity. I also happen to sing the opening solo. We begin by attempting to record the bulk of the track separately according to harmonies; sopranos and altos together, then tenors and the solitary bass on his own. We discover by chance however, that the sound is richer and more cohesive when the first three registers record in the same room. This aspect of the recording is far less painful than anticipated.

It’s time for lunch. I abstain from the specially-ordered sandwiches, hoarding mine for later. A baguette won’t go down well with my vocals.

It takes a while for me to unwind during my solo. Although I have a booth all to myself, I am overly-aware of the other choristers listening in the main mixing room. The directors sense tension in my voice. They give me some pointers to help me relax ‘Take all the time you need...try and be a vehicle for the lyrics...think of Whitney...’

Chief soprano and occasional choir director Nicole, gives me a measured but supportive pep talk. By the time other members start adding their two pence however, I’m overwhelmed and a tad peeved. I remain polite; maybe more so because it would be hard to get the nuance of my feelings across in French without sounding curt.

I mention my self-consciousness around the rest of the choir. The directors ask them to clear the room. I further suggest it would help me to relax if I sang whilst lying down. The engineer graciously adjusts the microphone and equipment. He adds some reverb to set the mood. After a few takes, just as I begin to get the hang of it, I’m summonsed to the mixing room. The choristers are called back in. The directors are happy with some of my rough drafts. Very rough to my mind. Left to my own devices I would do a couple more takes.

The rest of the choir are effusive with praise. My British-influenced unease with compliments rubs up against my vanity.

There’s more trial and error recording the medley intro. We experiment with various configurations. Finally, each register is whittled down to a handful of vocalists to ensure a better blend. It’s the first time in the day a hint of demoralisation sets in. Choir director, Kiasi is a little cranky. The team decide to cut their losses with the best take of the bunch.

It's been a long day. Just after 5pm, most of the choir are released into the late autumn evening. A few of us stay behind for the finishing flourishes. Kiasi and Evan record some killer ad-libs in a handful of takes; like a couple of seasoned pros. My improv goes down well. So well that Kiasi sings it back to me in a voicemail later that evening.

But it’s the same-ol, same-ol ad-lib I always do!

Before leaving we listen back to the days efforts, as we have been doing periodically. Nicole and the boys pick up on a quarter-tone’s difference between the intro and the main medley. It’s difficult to know how we missed it. We routinely checked for pitch.

A few weary expletives fly around. The engineer reassures us it can be adjusted in the final mix. We manage to wrap everything up by early evening. Despite some of the tuning issues, we’ve had a blast.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker

One More for the Road…

I began 2019 with the intention of going to the UK more often than I did the year before. It's not especially ambitious, given that I only crossed the Channel once in 2018. My aim has been to visit roughly once every quarter. I’ve held to this resolve, regardless of the ups and downs with my previous work contract.

My late autumn visit in early November is to be my last in the year and I want to make it count. (As noted on these pages before, I avoid any Yuletide excursions for reasons of cost and busyness). It’s an intense week of meet-ups, cancellations, last minute rescheduling, blessings in disguise and surprise encounters. One early afternoon, rushing from one appointment to another and behind schedule, I bump into acclaimed British saxophonist/Hip-Hop artist, Soweto Kinch on the Northern Line. 

Another evening, after a disconcertingly heated exchange with a long-time friend in Victoria Station, I strike up a conversation with a Guadeloupian tourist. It starts with a compliment about her bone structure and ends as a lively and educational (for me) discussion about the island’s history and ethnic make-up. 

 I talk literature, artful film and television with a cultured friend, just before heading to a Nai Palm gig. There are chats about educational policy, race relations and Christian sexual ethics over delicious hot drinks and pastries with two church sisters after Sunday service. Recent controversies about the new Joker film and Kanye’s purported conversion come up once or twice over the course of the week. I pop up to the Midlands to see a dear friend, sincerely chuffed that I’d make the effort.

It’s only what you would do for me. I deflect. It’s perfectly true.

I confide in him about various relational drama and we share some of our general life frustrations; in solidarity rather than self-pity.

There are moments of reconciliation and others of separation. I update loved ones about my work situation to varying degrees or hardly at all, depending on my mood. I even squeeze in some General Election campaigning in a notably hostile marginal seat in deepest, darkest West London. If the misguided views on the doorstep can be demoralising, the dedication and diversity of the campaigners- as well as the compassion and integrity of the Labour Party candidate herself-are thoroughly heartening. One self-employed man has taken weeks off work to devote all his time to the campaign trail. Looks can be deceiving. If first impression clichés were anything to go by (and they’re not), you would think he takes his political cues from The Sun or Daily Mail. I couldn’t have come to a more faulty conclusion.

That same evening, en route from NW to SE to see my mum before she flies to Japan the following day, I stop by my former Brazilian musical group’s rehearsal for a post-practice ‘hello’. I arrive just at the end to a warm welcome from my old musical director, Sergio and his wife Clara. He too is in a hurry, on his way to hand out flyers at a concert by Brazilian legend, Djavan.

What?! He’s in town?

Probably a good thing I didn’t nab any Hiatus Kaiyote tickets that evening, I console myself, I would have been torn.

My week is so busy I hardly have a moment to spend with my hosts uncle Lenny and his step-daughter, Stassia. Ironically, my first proper catch-up with either is at church that Sunday.

As usual it’s a soul-enriching week. My pre-trip apprehension in light of my recent change of circumstances is unfounded. I wanted this to be an easy-going visit with minimal obligatory meet-ups. I more and less get my wish.

Unlike last time, it's a stress-free trip back to Strasbourg, thank God.  The city is looking distinctly more autumnal in the short time I've been away. This season has always carried a particular significance in my Strasbourg adventure.  It was three years ago to the month that I first came to the city for my first interview at The Human Rights Organisation. I relocated to Alsace to start working there in Autumn 2017.

Fast forward two years and it's roughly a month since I left THRO. Despite my as yet uncertain employment situation, I can't overstate the psychological respite of being away from that environment. I'm not bitter, just better. I'm still in contact with former colleagues. The same week I return from the UK I bump into one of the THRO security team. I'm genuinely pleased to see him.

I ease my way back into my between-jobs routine.  Half of my first full-day back is taken up with domestic chores. I pop out for a briefer period than hoped to study before rushing back to co-chair a Labour International teleconference that evening on remote campaign strategy for the British GE. 

Autumn in Strasbourg (courtesy of Deviantart.com)

Ironically, I feel even busier than when I was working.  My choir, the High Rock Gospel Singers (HRGS) have finally scheduled some studio time to record an oft-postponed album.  Meanwhile, director Kiasi is making good on his promise for us to meet up. 

We schedule drinks for the Saturday after my return from Blighty. Kiasi will treat me at a swanky little bar I've walked past numerous times but never noticed.

Ahead of the meet-up, I'm far more nervous than I should be. I find Kiasi's easy bilingualism intimidating. Whilst waiting for him near Homme de Fer tram stop, I try to switch fully into French mode by practising in my head. I even call on Divine Assistance. It's not as if I'm not using the language on a regular basis, living in the country and all. Just the night before on the way back from choir rehearsal, I've had an enriching conversation with two fellow sopranos about the rumoured etymology of the word for suburb 'banlieue' "place of the banished/undesirable". (Not apparently true, however. Yep, an anorak like me gets off on that sort of thing.) 

It's just I tend to feel inadequate besides Kiasi's natural linguistic ability.

To be fair, he did have a head start in his native Cameroon. Both English and French are national languages, after all. 

During the conversation I learn a little more about his background; his central African childhood, his journey with music and its inextricable link with the Choir. We converge on our mistrust and disdain for TV talent shows. I tentatively posit my theory on his outgoing public persona vs his reclusive private (real?) alter ego. A fairly accurate observation, according to Kiasi. I humorously chastise him for overlooking strong vocalists for potential solos whilst giving the spotlight to less talented members. One in particular. Kiasi tries to coax me into being more specific. 

There are some awkward silences but it's an agreeable enough evening. I nevertheless can't shake my insecurity. It leaves me feeling disproportionately glum. I send lachrymose voice notes to sis, currently entertaining mum on her annual Japan visit.  

Despite her busyness, sis is at her perspicacious best when she responds a few days later. Her incisiveness on the source of my neuroses provides much food for thought.  An unlikely allegory from the X-Men franchise (with which I'm not familiar) serves as a very vivid illustration.  I pray and resolve to put some of this insight to good use as much as I can.

I'll soon have my chance.

That evening I'm meeting up with new acquaintance Constantin (alas, his equally gorgeous older brother Stefano isn't about). It's an all-encompassing chat at the André Malraux Médiathèque. He admits to being more downbeat than usual. He's still smiley but has a distracted air.  He picks up on a passing comment about the UK General Election and we organically segue into his Tunisian-Italian heritage, politics, faith, (the two 'big taboos' in polite French conversation), the value of human life, existential crises... Alternating between the two languages is a good intellectual exercise for us both. The eye candy is delicious too, I must admit. I do like me a pretty boy but I'm endeavouring to be wise about it.  Enjoy the beauty but keep a platonic distance.

Before we part company that evening, Constantin announces that he and his brothers are thinking of relocating elsewhere in Europe in the new year. Looks like we'll all be moving on soon. Ships passing in the night.

Later that evening, there's more talk of politics and religion-rather unexpectedly- at my bible study house group meeting. To my great annoyance the relative ease with which I have been communicating with Constantin falters as my usual evening mental fatigue kicks in. I'm not as fluid as I'd wish. But I'm at my most vocal and impassioned, to the surprise of the group and later, my own mild chagrin.  I want to persuade and not badger.  I send an apology text on the way home to one of the group leaders. I'm reassured by his gracious response.

Soundtrack: Boys & Girls by Deluxe, Hiatus Kaiyote- Various, KIWANUKA -by Michael Kiwanuka.

Complex

Being in between jobs at least allows me to make more time for my acquaintances. I’ve had a good catch-up with a few since the end of my contract and have more lined up, including with former colleagues.

Amongst them is Afro-Brazilian Camila, whom I invite around for supper. A few weeks before I quit The Organisation, she sends me an email out of the blue. She's back in town and returned to work at THRO. I’m touched as well as shocked. Last I heard, she left Strasbourg at the start of the year to begin a new life in Seattle. She accepts my invitation to dinner without hesitation.

I am glad for the excuse to be hospitable. It is one of the reasons I chose to rent a sizeable flat. Logically, I should make the most of it in my last remaining months in Alsace.

As the evening approaches I become more nervous.   In my haste I forget to say grace before our butternut squash soup and fish pie meal.

I’ve had a good run of French conversation of late that falls to pieces in the presence of polyglot Camila.

Hers is the definition of a charmed life. Still beautiful, still thin, still talented, still much younger than me. Supportive boyfriend still at her side; willing to follow her anywhere around the globe. Willing, as Camila explains, to spend months unemployed in Washington State whilst she was the sole breadwinner. Even when she recounts the difficulties she encountered in Seattle that influenced her decision to return to France, I can’t help thinking she’s got away lightly. When she returned to Strasbourg her old job was waiting for her. She found a good flat within a short space of time during what (as I was told when I arrived) is usually a tough period for securing accommodation. Her French -picked up within months-is natural and nigh-impeccable. She did a language test in the States which confirmed her near-native level. I assume she has an advantage, what with having a Francophone boyfriend and all. No, she tells me. They still speak to each other mostly in English. She barely spoke French whilst living in Seattle. She’s gifted and blessed to have been adopted by wealthy Europeans who have given her the best start anyone could hope for in life; including a multi-lingual upbringing and extended overseas summer sojourns.

During the course of the conversation, I discover that although a temp, she has a senior position to that which I had. Her manager told her not to go for anything less.

I forgot how anytime spent in Camila’s company leaves me filling woefully inadequate; questioning all my life choices and disappointed with the hand I’ve been dealt. I see in her the life I always wanted.

After a somewhat excruciating couple of hours, in which I’m obligated to recount the less than ideal circumstances at THRO leading to my departure, Camila heads home. She’s hardly eaten. The ample leftovers will spare me a few nights' cooking. On the other hand, I wonder if this is one more thing I didn’t get right.

For the next few days I’ll fall into a Camila-induced depression. I hate that I am so insecure that I can have an existential crisis for what are essentially superficial reasons. So what she’s cleverer or speaks more languages than you? My sister posits. In 100 years we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter. She reminds me that in the scheme of things, we’ve hit the life lottery. I know all this and I’m ashamed that such thoughts cross my mind. If Camila can trigger a massive inferiority complex, then I must admit that there are circumstances in which I’d feel superior to others. I know too well that finding validation in accomplishment is a fool’s errand. There’ll always be a Camila to make me feel crap about myself if I let it.

Exhibition of Henry Simon's work @ Mt. St. Odile Convent, Alsace
(image courtesy of DNA)

I call to mind Régine’s story, in which I find some reassurance. As usual, I thrash it out with God. As unsettling as my thought-life has been of late, I’m glad to have to confront it head on. I don't want to be the sort of person that begrudges others' good fortune or constantly compares myself, only to come up short. My faith is the only antidote.

It's with that in mind that I head to Mount Saint Odile convent for some time of reflection that Friday. The festival of All Saints. The sunshine of the day before is replaced by rain clouds, as it is wont to do each time I've visited the site. It'll be the last chance to access it by public transport before the spring. By then, God willing, I should be long gone.

In my chapel of choice there's an exhibition in honour of erstwhile POW of the Nazis, Henry Simon. His story of survival, as well as his simple watercolour depictions of the stations of the Cross, cut to the heart.  As usual, I've lost sight of on Whom my faith is based. I can't say I'm 'cured' after one exhibition but it does something for my perspective.

Soundtrack - Slakah the Beatchild/Slakadeliqs - Various

Life After THRO: Muddling Through

And it came to pass. My life after The Human Rights Organisation begins on an otherwise uneventful Thursday in mid-October.

Following weeks of conflicted feelings about my change in work status and the events that preceded it earlier this year, I’m emotionally spent. I am technically on holiday but leisure time is a luxury I can’t afford. I need to intensify my job search. I want to catch up on all the studying I haven’t been able to fit in around work. There are also household chores to which I must attend. I hope to squeeze in some writing whilst I’m at it. In between that I am obligated to wade through the morass of French welfare bureaucracy now I’m currently non-active.

I have made a schedule for myself. Two mornings a week to look for work. Mondays are to be spent either at Oh My Goodness! café or at the University library (since all the others are closed). I quibble whether to become a member since it would only really be to use the printer. The desk clerk is all smiley and flustered and keeps apologising for giving me the wrong information. At first I assume it’s because he’s new and not used to the procedure. When he asks where I’m from, the penny drops. I can be quite naive about the intentions of the opposite sex.

Tuesdays and Fridays I stay local since I’m likely to be busy in the evenings. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, I’ll while away some hours at the inviting André Malraux Médiathèque in central Strasbourg. Whatever happens I don’t want to spend too much time in my flat. Whilst I’m temporarily out of work, I can’t take human contact for granted. I also must make sure my French doesn’t suffer. I’m tentatively hopeful after noting that my spontaneous interactions in La Langue de Molière aren’t as laboured or clumsy as I feared. I even receive some positive feedback. 

 In the spirit of keeping up and improving my French I start attending a midweek event organised via Meet-Up that I’ve usually been too occupied to frequent.

I’m pleased to note that there are more native francophones in attendance than Christmas 2018; the last time I was at this particular gathering. One Thursday night, I pass a particularly pleasant evening in the company of two gorgeous Tunisian-Italian brothers; Constantin and Stefano. I grin from ear to ear when they knock a decade off my age. Eye-candy and compliments aside, they’re especially keen to meet up and practise their English. They picked up an intermediate level living in Hong-Kong within an impressively short two years. I’m happy to oblige. I invite them to join me and Gustavo, my lovely Lusophone acquaintance and talented linguist who also wants to entretenir son anglais. That is...once I can find the time. 

 I skip out of the meet-up in good spirits and glad for the distraction. I've been wrestling with remnants of feeling for The Old Heartache I left behind at THRO. The sense of regret lingers long after our final farewell. A vicious circle of self-recrimination plays itself out. My wholesome evening of chat with Constantin and Stefano reminds me there are other men on this planet. I’ll be fine. The frustrating ambiguity and remaining debris of heartbreak will work themselves out of my system with time. The healing process is already underway.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t days where I feel almost desolate and running low on hope. I’m angry with God, with THRO and myself at how things have turned out. News of a UK General Election fills me with both excitement and great apprehension. I am due to visit the UK soon but don’t know if there’ll be any opportunity to campaign whilst I’m there. One more thing to worry about, if I let it.

I try to distract myself with my new daily routine. I attend a special Jazz and Psalms service at Temple Neuf one Sunday; a break from the norm. I’ve invited former colleagues from The Organisation; Natalya and Winnie. Despite her initial enthusiasm, Natalya flakes for more whimsical reasons than I’d expect. It throws me off. I compromise my hitherto tight schedule and end up missing all my travel connections. I arrive at Temple Neuf later than planned (as usual) and annoyed with myself for being a stereotype. Winnie and her housemate Helga are already seated. Pastor Rohan expounds on how both optimism and pessimism are extreme forms of fatalism. Christians aren’t called to endorse either, he gently admonishes.  He speaks of God not imposing on our free will. Of late this has also been a recurring theme at my main church. Normally, I would look past the coincidence for deeper meaning. In this instance however, I’m not sure. This doesn’t chime with my experience. Maybe for most others this Divine Imposition is less apparent, with a far wider margin of manoeuvre. My whole life, on the other hand, has felt very much circumscribed by God. Then there’s the biblical case study that is Jonah. As a wise young woman once said to me, free will is over-rated and over-stated.

After the service I try to communicate this to Winnie and Helga without it turning into a rant. I’m not convinced that I succeed.  Musing over determinism aside, we're all feeling upbeat thanks to the soothing effects of the acoustic sax and piano interpretation of hymns. We commend the musicians heartily.

Later that week, my choir HRGS has its first show of the term; another welcome distraction from my intermittently bleak thoughts. I’ve invited a good deal of acquaintances, including Winnie and other former work colleagues. In the end, only Catarina shows up. By coincidence the performance takes place in a church she’s planning to visit. Maybe it’s a sign, I suggest playfully.

I see her at the front, having a whale of a time. She joins in enthusiastically when our seasoned showman choir director, Kiasi insists on audience participation. The choir turn out in good numbers. To my mind it’s vocally one of our most consistent performances. And yet rather than lift my funk, the concert compounds it. To my shame, I attribute much of this to my own vanity. A couple of non-issues niggle at me about my solo. A few members decide to interrupt my ad-libs, quite unlike how we rehearsed it. Furthermore, Catarina says nothing about my performance despite my efforts to calm my nerves and do a decent job. My dissatisfaction hovers throughout the weekend. I leave multiple self-commiserating voicemails for my sister. I am even more sensitive than usual these days, I observe. She’s a pillar of strength; speaking wisdom and firm truth in love.

Shards of light pierce through elsewhere. I attend a seminar at my church organised for single women. The speaker, Régine, is a pastor whom I hold in great regard. She shares about her unorthodox upbringing, sexual misadventures, marrying a man nearly 10 years her junior in her 30s as well as her struggles with crippling anxiety and insecurity. Régine’s candour about her non-linear spiritual journey is a refreshing change from the cut-and-dry narrative some Christians feel compelled to rehearse. She readily answers the personal questions posed by her attentive audience. When someone asks her how to overcome low self-worth in the face of societal pressures on women to be flawless, Régine answers in her customary honesty. There’s no magic formula or one-shot panacea. It’s a spiritual battle. We must persevere with God.

Although our life stories diverge significantly in places, there’s also much to which I can relate. I’m effusive with thanks for Régine’s authenticity after the seminar. I’ve no doubt I’ll draw comfort and strength from her testimony in future.

Soundtrack: A Love Surreal by Bilal,

Parting is Such Bitter-Sweet Sorrow...

October begins with the ever-growing awareness that I will soon be leaving The Human Rights Organisation. Never again to darken its doors if I have anything to do with it.

Hmm. 'Never' might be a bit too definitive. It lends to the type of melodrama of which my sister sometimes  accuses me.

Suffice to say, I won’t be in a hurry to visit once I’m gone. That’s not to say there aren’t people I’ll miss. My weekday diary fills up quickly with farewell meet-ups and lunch dates.

I organise one last lunchtime catch-up with Gordon; my guardian angel. He is enthusiastic about staying in contact. As a busy man with a young family, I wouldn’t have expected it. I'm moved by the sentiment. We have a laugh remembering childhood TV. Given that he's six years my senior, there's not that much of an overlap. We do have The Wonder Years and The Littlest Hobo in common though.

As well as established acquaintances, I make time for those who are more recent. German colleague, Josef introduces me to new trainee, Winnie. They attend the same church.

Being two of the few brown faces at THRO, Winnie and I have seen each other around but never spoken. When the three of us meet mid-morning in the Magenta Café, we make up for lost time. Winnie and I do most of the talking, whilst taciturn but amiable Josef looks on. Born in Zambia, her family relocated to the UK whilst she was small. A qualified nurse with a MSc in tropical diseases, Winnie is older than the word trainee connotes. A woman of her expertise shouldn't be doing an unpaid placement. She seems nevertheless content. Despite our different academic paths we have a few experiences and our faith in common. This meeting of minds goes down so well, that we have elevenses again on my last day. Josef is unable to make it so it’s just the two of us; holding it down for African sisterhood.

Planned socials aside, I also bump into a number of colleagues whom I have not yet had the chance to inform of my departure.

During a catch-up with British colleague Ann, I joke that it’s like the finale of a long-running sitcom, in which past guests and fan favourites make cameo appearances. This pleasant happen-stance continues right up until my last day. At least there’ll be no lingering sense of unfinished business.

Those who know the organisation well are suspicious when I casually mention the reason for my leaving.

My contract ends this month.

Which is true. It’s just not the whole messy truth. On further probing, despite myself, I outline the drama of the first half of the year. A few of my colleagues are indignant on my behalf. I’m touched. It’s a better reaction than my trade union reps, who have been mostly AWOL in the past few months.

Mid-October. The inevitable date of disposal has arrived. That week, I’ll cry on and off, trying to save the waterworks for home time on the final day.

The evening of my penultimate day, I attend another stimulating workshop at Temple Neuf on the Far Right’s manipulation of Holy Scripture. The theme that week is on how apocalyptic texts are warped to justify a racially-elite survivalist discourse.

I miss the bus home by seconds. The next on the schedule never arrives. At this time of night they come once every half hour. I wait in the pouring rain for another bus and go to bed later than planned.

No time to be groggy the following morning. My last day is both surreal and mundane, as could be anticipated. Sadly, my main line manager Sophie, is off sick. I blame this latest illness on her recent hectic work-related travel schedule. The only positive angle is that her absence spares us both the embarrassment of me turning into a blubbering mess.  She leaves me a voicemail which I listen to in the evening. Her telephone voice reminds of an old friend with whom I'm no longer in touch, which sets off the tears all the more.

Many in my department are by now aware that I’m leaving, but not all. I'm purposefully vague about the departure date and don't remind those whom I've already informed.


In the meantime, I’ve been preparing a handover ‘survival kit’, including key contact details and a list of outstanding tasks. I’ve also carefully drafted a farewell email to the whole team and a select few other colleagues. I intend to send it just before I step through the door, to avoid any further questions.

Sis emails me to ask how I’m feeling. I shoot her back a response.

"...Yep a very emotional day, ☹. Thanks for the solidarity..."


I have a last-minute meeting scheduled over at Le Chateau. I pass by the security office. One of the team, Yvonne, has just sent me a lovely farewell email. We too have plans to meet up beyond the context of The Organisation. I go to thank her for her kindness. We both start welling up. She pulls herself together, as do I -less successfully- rushing to my next engagement.

Assuming it’s just another human resource formality, the meeting proves to be a lot more useful than I expect. My helpful HR colleague assists me in filling out various forms and arranging important municipal appointments.

Since her office is around the corner from that of my former heartache, I pass by. Our relationship these days amounts to no more than cursory greetings around the premises; something that happens a lot less than it once did. For whatever reason, our paths have hardly crossed this year. I both dread and hope for an interaction. I do not feel for him with the intensity I once did but a small and stubborn flame intermittently flickers.

As I round the corner I catch sight of his reflection on the door of his office, hunched over his desk comme d’hab. He is alone. I used to joke that he must have murdered his colleague. She’s never around.

He seems pleasantly surprised to see me. I look him straight in his sky blues and he appears to make the most of admiring me in his understated way. (I take care to look decent. It's only later on I discover my eyes are bloodshot).

His cordiality will continue even as I tell him that I’m leaving. On hearing this news-of which he'd have been totally unaware- I assumed he'd default to his usual austerity. It could be that he’s responding to my apparent insouciance. I didn’t want to break down in front of him. Mercifully, that doesn’t occur. I’m even taken aback by how light and breezy our interaction is. I ask after his three adult children, one of whom is studying chemical engineering. I forget to ask if it is one of his daughters. I hope so. 

I ask after his mother, to whom he’s especially close. He speaks of her health deteriorating after what was otherwise a pleasant summer trip to the French Caribbean, just the two of them (ironically, without his Caribbean father). I murmur my commiserations. It’s to be expected, he says with his typical forced-pragmatism. She’s in her 80s.

He keeps scoffing when I use the French word for farewell (Adieu) instead of a regular goodbye (Au revoir). Perhaps like sis, he thinks it's melodramatic. Yet no plans are made to meet up or stay in touch.

Despite my lingering, it's a brief but organic conversation. So much so that afterwards, I can only think of all the things I wish I said but didn’t. We never properly discuss the circumstances around which I’m leaving. I don’t tell him in detail why I don’t envisage staying in Strasbourg long-term. I don’t take him to task for how disingenuous he is with himself and with me, unintentional as no doubt it is. I do have the presence of mind to say something I’ve imagined telling him a thousand times.

You’re finally rid of me, to your relief. I quip, only half-joking. You won’t have to keep avoiding me anymore.

He makes the usual excuses.

...The only time he has for himself is when I see him kicking it with the homies in the Magenta building's in-house cafe. 

But I was working in the same building, I reply, as light-hearted as I can muster. We could have met up anytime if you wanted…

When I leave his office we don't exchange les bises, embrace nor shake hands. We never did. An underwhelming but befitting end. We didn't truly connect beyond the superficial, they way I'd have wanted.

After the exchange, I will be morose. This final conversation is not the resolution for which I hoped. I still care too much what he thinks. I want to share aspects of my life he has not earned the right to know. His easygoing response to my news gives weight to my theory that deep down he's glad to see me go. I have sensed that any fleeting sense of loss would soon give way to relief. I just didn’t expect it to manifest before my very eyes.

The biggest problem remains with me. I shouldn’t give a damn. If the last few weeks have shown me anything is that there are people in Strasbourg who genuinely care and enjoy my company. I shouldn’t have any emotional room for someone who can’t make the time to see me for a few minutes, even when he’s in the vicinity on a regular basis. Time and time again, he’s demonstrated he’s not nearly as wonderful as I first gave him credit. As my sister has oft reminded me, the only thing I’ve really lost is an illusion (ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh...ah-ha!). And yet...

And yet...

It gets to me in spite of myself. A part of me can't reconcile having once emotionally invested in someone who cares so little in return. And not for the first time.

I give him one more chance to let me down before I leave, masochist that I am. I send a humorous email about him bumping off his female colleagues and then ask if I can pose a personal question. After some delay, he replies; denying accusations of murder and breezily inviting me to ask away.

The question concerns the colour of his luscious hair. It’s been bothering me forever wondering whether he dyes it. It’s always an even shade of chestnut. I use the opportunity to also admit that I wish we could have been better friends. Our human frailty got in the way, I posit. I wish him well and add I’ll be praying for him. He doesn’t respond.

I long deleted his number and have no intention of initiating contact in future. I've been bracing myself. It saddens me nonetheless. He personifies every disappointment of these past two years; not just at THRO but in Strasbourg. I keep thinking of what I could have done differently to have had a better outcome, instead of just accepting that this is how it’s happened and maybe is supposed to happen.

After leaving my heartache behind literally and metaphorically, I go to the prayer/meditation room for one last time of contemplation. It's unfortunate I am a bit distracted from my previous interaction.

On the way back from Le Chateau, I pass by my office briefly. My new senior manager, Celeste calls out to me. She's on half-day's leave. She bids farewell before she goes. She’s a self-effacing woman. The volume of her voice barely rises above a whisper. Her goodbye gesture therefore takes me aback. I manage to hold it down and rush off before the sobs get the better of me. Later, I’ll apologising by email for my distracted air. I’m just very emotional, I explain.

I head downstairs to the basement classrooms to do some reading. On my way to the kitchen to warm my brunch, I hear a classical choir rehearsing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. I laugh and cry over this touch of the sublime. The tears fall freely before I can stop them. Not for the first time in my life, I moan at God off for having a strange sense of humour.

That afternoon, I’m due at a conference over at the EU Parliament about the lob-sided relationship between the EU and the African continent. My new and rather persistent library acquaintance Mamadou texts to ask where I am. I beg off. I had every intention of attending, even if briefly. Alas, last minute work demands make it impossible. Mamadou doesn’t respond. I suspect he’s ticked off at one too many failed attempts to see me on an extra-curricular basis.

Finishing off my tasks will cost me another seminar I plan to attend that evening on the Istanbul Convention.

I clear out what’s left of my desk and tidy up. I remove anything with my name on it. It’s as if I want to leave no physical trace. I send the farewell email I’ve been working on for the past fortnight.

By the time I’ve wrapped everything up, only my new-ish colleague, Oslo is still about. We swap numbers.

I rush to Le Chateau to hand in my ID badge. I can technically keep it to the end of the month when my contract ends, but I want rid of it.

It’s a clear Autumn evening at the tail end of dusk. Twilight. An end and a beginning. Both/And. An apt and poignantly poetic end to my misadventure at THRO.

Much to my consternation, I’ve missed the security office by minutes.

You can come back another time, suggests the sole security guard on duty.

I give the same response I gave to my HR colleague earlier that afternoon, fighting back tears this time.

No. I won’t want to come back. It’s done.

I’ll have to ask someone to return the badge on my behalf, as much as I hate to be an inconvenience.

My evening plans now scuppered, I head home. En route I see one more colleague I’d not yet had the chance to inform. She responds warmly. You’ll be missed. It’s very sweet of her, given I have a tendency to forget her name. Privately, I refer to her as The Sexy Moroccan. Now I’m leaving, there’ll be one less big-batty girl to keep her company.

Finally, I can go home to have a good cry.

If it only it were that simple.

If only the tears would come all at once.

Soundtrack: Birds by Da Lata.