Alternative Arrangements

My treacherous laptop is back in the shop. Just over two years old and brand new on purchase, it’s given me nothing but grief since the time it was delivered. Thankfully, I’ve found a reputable-looking PC repair at the Rivetoile shopping centre. The downside is that a diagnostic takes anything from 1-2 weeks.  It’s not the first time I’ve had to make do without any entertainment at home thanks to Asus’ dodgy manufacturing.  I haven’t yet invested in a TV and I’m still debating whether it’s worth the additional expense.

I choose not to use smart technology, thus I’m out of the loop save for the four days out of the week I’m in the office. I hear about the postponement of the Nigerian elections as well as the shenanigans of ex-Labour Party saboteurs across the Channel, a day after the news breaks. Over the weekend I fear private email accounts overflowing with unopened messages. In fact, to my relief, it’s not that bad.

To keep myself distracted I catch up on my backlog of podcasts from the likes of Novara Media, The Sacred Podcast, On Being and NEF.  It’s a good time too to do some additional reading that I don’t always get round to during the day. I rediscover the singular interpretive talents of underrated Jazz vocalist, Anita O’Day. A jazz singer’s jazz singer, if ever there were one.

A weekend without Skype and Netflix gives me a Sunday afternoon free to attend a language exchange meet-up that I don’t usually frequent.  I’ve enjoyed myself a good deal at these events of late (the positive affirmation I receive regarding my language efforts doesn’t hurt, I must admit).

I’ve met a number of stimulating interlocutors. There’s Noelle whose birthday happens to be between Christmas and New Year but who was in fact named after a nun of whom her mother was fond. A Strasbourg native, we nonetheless have a few things in common. We’re the same age. She spent significant periods living and working in different parts of the UK. Although from the region, she can understand my trepidation regarding some aspects of life in Alsace. We both bemoan the unsolicited advice from those who believe they have the right to comment on the life choices of a 30-something single woman. There’s also the confusingly Anglophone-monikered Jim; an affable French polyglot who has picked up a number of Slavic languages as well as Italian on his travels. Good-natured Roisin wears away my initial guardedness with her unflappable geniality.  She’s on an intense linguistic sojourn in France, having always wanted to learn the language.  Currently based in Helsinki, and a former resident of Zurich, she’s also a fluent Finnish, German and Portuguese speaker ( courtesy of a month's intense study in Lisbon). 

Finnish? That’s impressive. One of the most difficult European languages, they say. Everything else must be a breeze.

Not according to Roisin. She still finds French a challenge.  It’s reassuring somewhat to learn that even seasoned multi-linguists struggle with La Langue de Moliere. I’m in good company.
 

Earlier that weekend I re-join the inter-denominational group in Strasbourg that reaches out to sexually-exploited women.  It’s been a while. The timetable of the outings has been more sporadic recently and there’s often a clash with my choir schedule. Being a new member, I’m not keen on missing too many rehearsals. However, neither do I want to abandon a ministry close to my heart. Skipping one practice a month wouldn’t hurt.

 (courtesy of Crossroads Bible Church)

We gather at what I am to find out is a thriving house church, with people of all ages and backgrounds; both genders equally represented. It feels like living in the Book of Acts. I meet middle-aged new convert Billy (another Francophone whose parents confusingly bequeathed him with an Anglophone nickname). I also rub shoulders with a couple of Austrian missionaries whom the church are hosting over the weekend. Initially feeling awkward, wondering if my struggle to make small talk in French will get in the way, I’m soon caught up in the invigorating energy of it all.  I recognise a few faces from church.  We're soon joined by the group leaders, Sabrina, Dieudonné and Luc. I help translate for congenial Austrian missionary, Karin.  Despite herself being a multi-linguist (including Turkish, which she learned growing up in Ankara), she does not have French in her linguistic repertoire.

It's a sizeable group.  Over 20 of us in total.  After a moment of prayer and praise, we split into smaller groups of twos and threes depending on our area of interests. Whilst some like Karin and I will be focused on the sexually-exploited, others reach out to those sleeping rough or, like Dieudonné, share the Good News with groups of young revellers. Contrary to expectation there are many millennials/Xennials and Gen-Z’s doing a lot of soul-searching, according to Dieudonné. This younger generation respond with more enthusiasm to the big metaphysical questions than the one before.  

I team up with Karin and founding member of the initiative, Luc.  We always aim to have one male per group, bearing in mind the target group’s clientele.

It's the day after Valentine's. Alongside the usual hot drinks, Luc has brought along some roses for the women. He gamely speaks in English for Karin’s benefit. Eager and full of compassion, I try to gently disabuse her of certain preconceptions regarding the women without dampening her spirit. As we approach a couple of the girls, a car approaches and discussion ensues.

Wow, this is heavy stuff. Karin observes. 

Yet her presence that evening is auspicious. We come across several women, even the more withdrawn amongst them willingly accepting our offer of warm drinks and conversation. (We're fast running out of hot water but, by the grace of God, there's just enough to go round.)
A number of the girls also welcome our prayers. When asked if she has any requests, young Diana only speaks her family's needs back in Albania. Life is tough, she explains. Luc asks if they know what she’s doing in France.

Yes.

We exchange kisses with the bright and assertive Laura. She switches with ease between French and fluid German with Karin; just two of the several languages she speaks.  

There are quite a few women with whom I’m yet to become acquainted. Collette is one such.

Collette. That’s very French.

That’s because I am.

I’m not used to meeting nationals who work the street. I compliment her mesmerising eyes, which bear the Maghreb traits of her mother’s Moroccan heritage.  They moisten whilst we pray for her and her two year-old daughter.  Collette dreams of one day becoming a seamstress; or any in-road into fashion retail. 

Round midnight, the various groups reassemble for an encouraging debrief. Billy’s gang were so warmly received by a group of rough-sleepers, that they used their meagre funds to buy a bouquet of roses to express their gratitude. Billy gives one flower to each of the women. I’m usually bah-humbug about Valentine's, with all its build-up, caricatures of romance and cynical commercialism. In these circumstances however, I am only too pleased to accept Billy's floral offering. A pink rose takes pride of place on my dining table. 

Soundtrack: Gilles Peterson in Brazil (Part 1), Anita O’Day: Four Classic Albums.