Seasonal Tristesse

 

(courtesy of www.adavic.org.au)

In the absence of a guest to tend to, I flounder during the Christmas break. I find myself floating in a forlorn fog around New Year. Almost from the moment I drop Coral off at the coach station, I am in tears most days.

It’s been a good few years since I had the January blues. Last year the novelty of relocating to France and finally moving into my own flat was enough to keep me upbeat.

This year I have been laid low by the combination of overcast weather (I really need sunlight), the sense of isolation to which I thought I’d become accustomed, the old anxieties about ageing and the year ahead. Try as I might, I’m also anxious about work after my last appraisal; more precisely the pressure to be even more visible, despite my efforts. The thought of phatic post-festive conversation fills me with an unreasonable sense of dread.

During the break, I endeavour to have as much human contact as possible to combat the seasonal melancholia. 

I attend a mid-week language meet-up which, to my disappointment, has precious few native French speakers. Amongst them is globetrotting polyglot Jean-Paul; seven languages and counting and nearly as many children with different mothers. His Anglophone accent is so natural, I assume at first he's a Yank. He seems incredulous about my linguistic frustration. Perhaps his innate abilities make it hard for him to relate. In his own way he doesn’t want me to be defeatist. Still, his pep-talk is somewhat counterproductive. Later the group has a stimulating bilingual chinwag about the current political challenges on both sides of the Channel. I leave the meeting in cheerier mode.

My friend Jeanne invites me round for some festive games/unofficial housewarming. She’s just moved into a new flat on the other side of town with good mate, Annalise.  Jeanne’s family are visiting from the South. I have another lively political discussion; this time with her younger sister Francoise, about what she believes is the deterioration of the French public sector. As she contemplates the perceived efficiency of the private sector, I instinctively defend the current model. In theory. It’s better to attempt to reform a creaky system than undermine it altogether (especially since austerity politics has a lot to do with the current decline). We’ve lived through that nightmare in the UK. Francoise isn’t sure. In my faltering French I concede that a heavily centralised system is not the answer. Alternatively, a better devolved public ownership model could well be the way forward.  I’m frustrated that my French isn’t as fluid as I’d like it to be but the conversation is a good mental workout.

We’re later joined by Annalise’ brother Cédric and his ballerina girlfriend and friend, Monique. We spend a while introducing ourselves, accompanied by a not-so-brief bio. Somewhat disgruntled, I note Cédric-as young as he is- already following the trend of so many African/Caribbean men in his preference for vanilla over chocolate.  With my eclectic taste in men, I have no problem with the idea of mixed relationships. However, in a western context in which much of the representation of women of African descent is less than positive (if represented at all), unconsciously or not it appears many black men have trouble seeing us as valid romantic choices.

At the cusp of his 20^th year on the planet, Cédric also makes me feel old.  I could have been his mum if I’d started early. He’s not much older than I was when mum was my age.

Despite these gloomy thoughts, I still have some fun getting my head around the complicated rules of Annalise’ parlour games and eating one too many pizza slices. 10pm. The
frolics are only just getting underway and yet I have to leave if I want to make it home at a decent hour. I miss my connection anyway.

New Year’s Eve is spent in contemplation and prayer, watching the various firework displays outside my window. The air is thick with gunpowder. Unlike last year, when I was in the mood for some quiet time, I’d have preferred to spend the night in the company of my church brothers and sisters. Alas, no NYE service is planned. The time alone nevertheless turns out to be beneficial.

My Japanese sweet pea, Kokoro is also in town for the end-of-year celebrations. I find out by chance when she responds to a festive email greeting.  We plan a catch-up that week. It’s the first time we’ll have seen each other since she relocated for work reasons to The Benin Republic in the autumn. 

Behind Kokoro’s typically understated replies, I detect the move has been more difficult than she is letting on. Thankfully, safety doesn’t appear to be an issue. Integration on the other hand is still a challenge. The expat community meets more sporadically than what she was used to in Strasbourg. Towards the end of the meeting she admits to the sadness that comes with solitude. She's still trying to put on a cheerful front. I can only imagine.

It’s with mixed-feelings I return to work the next day. As usual, the break seems to have too quickly come to an end. Then again, the latter part hasn’t been so restful thanks to my propensity to fret. I don’t have a good reason to waste my annual leave moping at home. Besides, most of my colleagues won’t return until the following week. I should take advantage of the post-festive calm.

That week also marks the return to choir practice after taking a week’s break. The turnout is better than expected. It’s just the combination of silly antics and graft I need. We get through more songs than normal. It’s good to be back.

At the end of rehearsal, alto Yvette takes the opportunity to bid us a tearful farewell. Not before she does a blinding solo. My fellow choristers watch bemused as my jaw hits the ground.  In the three months I’ve been a member, Yvette’s not been given a chance to shine. She’s humbly kept her peace whilst less-gifted vocalists are routinely handed the figurative mic. 

The practice concludes with some remnants of seasonal refreshments. I descend on Yvette, effusing praise. I feel as if we’ve just met only for me to lose her. We previously bonded over our common observations of Strasbourg life. She’s decided to return to former stomping ground, Bordeaux where she has a more established network of friends. I suppose it’s an excuse for me to head south again. In the meantime, we make plans to link up before she leaves for good in February.

That weekend I’ve set aside for some spiritual recalibration. I avoid my phones and email for much of the time. I only leave the house to attend church on Epiphany Sunday.

As I’m to discover from the positive and fruitful start to the following week, some dedicated God time does me good.