Easter Delight: Part 1

My Easter weekend starts early when I take leave on Maundy Thursday to attend a rare performance by one of my favourite contemporary artists, Benny Sings. The Dutch singer/songwriter is passing through Paris on the European leg of his tour. Whilst he regularly plays one off shows in the Land of the Rising Sun to his loyal and sizeable Japanese fanbase, Sings is not as active on his native continent.

It’s thus worth the inflated high-season travel fare. I don’t know when I’ll next have the opportunity. The train is too exorbitant, even with discount card so it’s the circuitous coach route for me. I opt for the early bus, giving me a whole day to catch up with acquaintances based in the French capital. The coach arrives well over an hour late owing to seasonal traffic, we’re told.  I frantically text my Parisian chums to rearrange my schedule. The knock-on effect of the delay isn’t as bad as I envisaged, however. We drive into Bercy bus garage only three-quarters of an hour later than planned.

First on my list is Julie. We met many moons ago via a language exchange group when she was based in London. Having since returned to France, our correspondence has become more sporadic. Our friendship would've been old news if it weren't for my stubbornness.  Apart from her occasional visits to the UK, life would get in the way. When I was in town last summer, it was mere weeks before her wedding to fellow Martinican, Jérémie. This will be our first face-to-face in at least four years. My hectic timetable doesn’t allow for more than an hour to summarise the last few years over a delicious crepe. After a rocky start on her return to France, Julie’s life has evolved in many respects. She looks refreshed; embracing both the challenges and blessings of newly-wed life.

She escorts me back to Gare de L’Est where I meet some of my Paris-based Labour International comrades.  The already good-natured bunch is in high spirits. The sun helps. After a few weeks of cold and/or wet weather, a scorcher takes us by surprise. Following the unveiling of the freshly-printed LI banner that new member Tim has designed (drawing quizzical looks from passers-by), we head to a nearby café for drinks and conversation. Next stop is a fly-by-night chat in the 11^th Arondissement with Rhys, another like-minded LI comrade. Appearances can be deceptive. Without prior knowledge of his politics, if I were to purely go by a superficial appraisal I would have Rhys down as a true—blue Tory rather than a red-blooded socialist of long-standing. In less than an hour we cram in an overview of the last 15 years of French politics and the appeal of AOC. I have much to learn from him. A pity we run out of time. Rhys has a meeting to officiate and I head off to Badaboum for Benny’s show.  

Compared to my last couple of European musical excursions, I arrive with time to spare. The intimate venue reminds me a little of the re-vamped London Jazz Café. I find a choice spot where I plant myself all evening. It turns out to be an auspicious decision. I’m right in the line of vision of support act Ed Mount when he inconspicuously weaves his way through the audience. I shower his performance with plaudits. Previously ignorant of his electro-soul oeuvre, I have become an instant fan. 

We both observe that Sings has more of a French fanbase than we’d have expected. By the time he steps on stage, guitar by his side, the Badaboum is heaving. I sing along word-for-word to almost every song. My uncharitable pedantic side questions the dedication of many of the other revellers, who only seem to be au fait with recent material. Not that it should matter. It’s an electric evening. Even the apparently mellow and self-effacing Benny is buoyed by all the good energy.

At the coach station I call my mum to check if my sister has arrived yet from Japan. Yep, it’s happening. My baby girl is back on Western European turf. For a little bit anyway.

She flew into town that morning and has a clubbing session planned with friends. My good mood is enough to sustain me through an overnight ride back to Strasbourg and awkwardly-positioned sleep.

Arriving in Strasbourg the early hours of Good Friday, I have caught the wrong end of the already sporadic public holiday transport service. Stepping off the tram for the long-ish walk back to my flat, I spot the errant boyfriend of a colleague/neighbour shuffling towards the homestead.

Soundtrack: The Best of Benny Sings, Data feat. Benny Sings, Don’t Sing.

The Changing of the Seasons

One Sunday morning, mid-Spring I wake up sounding like Red from Us. Making myself understood at church is…fun. Try speaking a foreign language whilst sounding like a demoniac. My sis, bless her, tolerates a couple of hours of this vocal freak show via Skype before admonishing me to rest my voice.

Just the day before, I was singing sans problème Gospel standards in French and English with gusto on the streets of central Strasbourg, alongside the youth group from my church. Not to mention whiling a good couple of hours away with an acquaintance at my haunt Oh My Goodness!

 My voice starts to give way by that evening. Croaking down the phone to my mum, she asks 

What happened?

Beats me. I’ve been blasting my body with my trusty vitamin C supplement, which usually does the trick. I have however felt the sensations of an itchy cough and the onset of a sore throat.  I don’t doubt I’ve avoided the worst of it. Colleagues and friends have succumbed to sickness left, right and centre. I have been spared, thank God but there’s only so much my body can fight off.

I blame the drastic change in temperature. Spring is always a mixed-bag but it’s been particularly chilly of late. To think a couple of months ago, much of Northern Europe flirted with the idea of retiring their heavy coats until autumn. We had early summer in February and now winter in April. Climate change is messing with our mind and bodies like a fickle love interest. 

You’re too busy. Times like this you should rest. Mum mildly rebukes.

Homebody? Me? Never. Not when there are stimulating conferences to attend on the role of faith and religion in contemporary Europe; or my choir is preparing to go into the studio for a recording session that has already been put back months at a time. In my defence, I’m also preparing for her Easter visit. Bearing in mind that very little, if anything, opens during public holidays, I can’t rely on last minute shopping come Good Friday. Easter Saturday will be mayhem.

Despite my hoarseness, I refuse to cancel my promised meet up with new chum Gael for his belated birthday drink. His special day was late March. We’ve already postponed for a couple of weeks owing to schedule clashes.  

He’s a great listener and source of genuine mirth. Not bad for a native Strasbourgeois.

That’s not entirely fair. I’ve made some lovely acquaintances here of which he is one of the latest.  A particularly cultured one at that. He knows his way around Strasbourg's bars, restaurants and museums. He wants to take me out dancing. In his own words he's a "slut on the dancefloor". That, I have to see. As it turns out I got the wrong end of the stick during our conversation about “Cultural Appropriation”. He wasn’t doing a Kanye after all when he told me about the Congolese-culture loving ‘girlfriend’ whom he considers a true Afropean. The French word Copine is open to (mis)interpretation. She’s just a mate. Not that it should matter, but still…

I tell him about the latest drama at work, as I have spent the whole weekend talking about to anyone who is kind enough to listen. We don’t even get round to the details of his recent Iberian holiday.  That’s partly down to me monopolising the conversation- to my shame -as well as Gael’s enthusiasm for Jordan Peele’s aforementioned new feature.  What was to me a slick and entertaining if unremarkable horror parody is, according to Gael, laden with subtext that I missed the first time. I won’t divulge the alternative theories discussed for fear of unleashing a ‘spoiler’ backlash for those yet to see it. Let’s just say, to paraphrase KRS-1, ours is an edu-taining discussion.

Back in the real world, it’s not just the season that has taken a surprise turn. By mid-April protests in Algeria have forced ex-President Bouteflika to step-down from his tenaciously-held office. Omar al-Bashir has been toppled by the army in Sudan also following a popular uprising and Turkey’s strongman Erdogan isn’t sitting as comfortably as he once was.

Closer to home Boss Man announces his intention to move on to greener pastures (not that I'm making any comparison to long time dictators, you understand).

20 years in the same team, he shakes his head. It’s too long.

(courtesy of http://www.scphysiciangroup.com)

Elsewhere, THRO has formally announced it will be scrapping hundreds of jobs; a disproportionate amount of them in our department. Boss Man is amongst the privileged old guard who started at The Organisation during the halcyon days when permanent contracts were handed out to any who set foot in the building. Oui, j’abuse but you get the point. Long gone are the days they were easier to come by. The fortunate CDI so-and-sos are sheltered from the worst of the cull.  For the rest of us mortals with fixed term (CDD) or temporary contracts, even those working on well-funded projects aren’t necessarily safe. I’m brought to tears by stories of expat colleagues whose contracts are only renewed the evening of their expiry. 

To add to the sense of unease, there are of course my aforementioned issues with personnel.

Of all the many existential crises I’ve had thus far since moving to Alsace, this one might require more immediate pragmatism than the rest.

Another bell goes off when speaking to my errant guardian angel, Gordon, on the way home one evening. We've barely seen or spoken to each other this side of the New Year. After taunting him for abandoning his earthly mission (snowed-under with work over at The Chateau, he apologises in his good-natured fashion), he makes a passing comment that only serves to confirm my presentiment of a sea change.

The following day,  my voice having returned to some normality, I share such thoughts during elevenses with Safiyah, a kindly colleague. She's spent most of her 35 years in France working at The Organisation. She has a multifaceted artistic streak. I believe she is capable of better than what she’s doing now career-wise. She’s inclined to agree. It's not the first time she's done some serious soul-searching since she started working at THRO. She describes the comfort and stability as a Golden Cage.

She’s at an age where she feels liberated from the opinions of others but wary of starting afresh.

We speak about our differing views on faith and the spiritual. She’s asking herself the important ontological questions. It’s a good start, I say. 

Both of us sense it’s a season of great transition. The wind is blowing in a new direction although the details are still unclear.   For Safiyah, even the recent devastation of the Notre Dame signifies change, albeit tinted with sadness. A centuries old structure that has survived revolutions and wars will never be the same.

Both Safiyah and I are experiencing a shift in dynamic in our respective friendships; deciding what to hold on to and when to let go. Doing a life inventory, I call it.

In conversation with friends I detect similar restlessness and upheaval. It's necessary; even auspicious, if unsettling.

Soundtrack: Ziminino by Ziminino + The Back In Brazil Compilation by Gilles Peterson.

German Excursions

Considering how close I am to France’s Teutonic neighbour, I haven’t yet made as many trips across the border as might be expected. Shopping for household goods in Kehl doesn’t really count.

I admit, I’m not a fan of the language nor the often abrupt mannerisms, neither has Germany previously been high on my travel wish-list. But it would be a waste not to take advantage of Strasbourg’s geographical position as a nexus to other European states.  God knows, for sanity’s sake I need the occasional change of scene.

The picture at work has been less than rosy, particularly as far as senior management is concerned. I’m on edge, making more mistakes than I should which has had a vicious cycle effect. As much as I’m grateful for the opportunity and that the recent increased work load staves off boredom, I find I’m not making the most of my wider skill set.

Thankfully, I can look forward to a day spent in Freiburg with kindred spirit Coral. We’ve stayed in touch since meeting at a writing workshop and her Christmas visit.  It’s nevertheless taken us three months to coordinate diaries for my long overdue trip to her adopted home.  It’s a relatively painless coach journey save for a near-miss with border patrol, after I happen to forget my passport. The skies overhead vary from an inauspicious grey to intermittent bursts of sunshine.  Coral meets me at the station and we head straight to what she tells me is the best vantage point in town; overlooking some of the expanse of the Black Forest.  She points out an arched bridge opposite, explaining the foolhardy Freiburg tradition of clambering on top to enjoy the view in the warmer months. She confesses she’s had a go and the descent was terrifying.  I don’t fancy it. The morbid thought crosses my mind that the potentially suicidal could be mistaken as just another bridge-climbing adventurer. Hmm.

Coral shows me around the student district; architecture old(ish) and new, including the University library which is one of the largest in Europe. She’s not impressed, however, given that the building has had many structural issues in its short existence.  In a student café and then at a Vegan restaurant over delicious falafel dishes, we while away several enjoyable hours encouraging each other’s writing efforts and exchanging doleful pseudo-romance anecdotes. There’s comfort in not being a complete outlier in this regards.  Before I know it, the day has gone. There’s just enough time for Coral to take me to some more of her favourite haunts and city landmarks including the cathedral. Although the exterior has nothing on Strasbourg’s Notre Dame, the interior is more inviting than its French counterpart. Coral adores the Gothic architecture of the region, taking a special interest in the stain-glass windows of these sacred Orthodox Christian spaces. She points out the difference between the attractive mosaic-style glasswork of Freiburg cathedral compared to Strasbourg’s more traditional design. I confess, I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.  The sun is setting as we approach the coach station. I had concerns that having to entertain me all day would take it out of Coral.  Not so.

Anderson .Paak & The Free Nationals

That Saturday it’s back across the border again to see Anderson.Paak and The Free Nationals in Frankfurt. Not having yet visited this major German city, I decide to make a weekend of it. I opt again for the scenic coach route, arriving with a good few hours to spare despite a 20 minute delay. I lose at least three quarters of an hour trying to get my bearings. Dragging my suitcase around, I pass two men urinating in a doorway in broad daylight. So much for German cleanliness.

I locate the station entrance and the information desk. My Google Maps printout tells me one thing (complicated route to my AirBnb), my host tells me another (hassle-free, direct tram journey).   At the information desk I am informed that what would have been a simple commute has been disrupted by a demonstration and suspended public transport. On the way to purchase a day pass from the ticket machine, I call one of the AirBnb hosts. His English falters on the phone. According to his online searches, normal transport has resumed, contrary to what I've just been told. I am at a loss. Before taking my chances with the rococo Google route, I head back to tourist information figuring their advice would be more trustworthy.  I explain I don’t use a smartphone. I give the rep the details of my accommodation. Despite her previous reluctance, she prints off instructions that seem pretty straightforward. Bloody Google. I knew they couldn’t be trusted.

Neither it turns out, can she. She sends me on a wild goose chase to Offenbach. 

My day ticket doesn’t work here, I learn from a bemused bus driver following a frustrating conversation, neither of us speaking the other’s language.

I pay nearly 3€ for a very short bus ride and arrive in what I think is the locality of my AirBnb. I’m unable to find the building. I ask an elderly man who whips out his phone- apparently to help- but then disappears down the road. I circle a police station before going in and asking for help from a kindly stranger who happens to speak English. Despite being in even more of a pickle (lost wallet) she’s keen to assist.

It’s dusk by the time we locate the block of flats and an hour away from doors-opening.  Unable to find the correct doorbell, I call my host again.  

I’m right outside.

I hear movement on the end of the line; doors opening and steps. It's not corresponding with my visuals.

‘I can’t see you…’

He says something about Offenbach.

Yes, I’m in Offenbach.

‘No. The address is Johannplatz in Frankfurt, not Offenbach’

No!!!

Thank God a bus back to the local station pulls up just in time. On this occasion the driver takes pity on me. It’s a free ride.  After another frenzied call to my host, I make it back to Frankfurt thanks to some helpful English-speaking strangers at the station.  Mercifully, the tram service has resumed. It’s a mad rush back to the Airbnb to dump my small suitcase; back out; another frustratingly long wait for a tram; a journey that doesn’t seem to end; another train and then a 10 minute walk to the venue, 

Jahrhunderthalle. The streets are eerily quiet. I see one other pedestrian, apparently on his way to the same destination. The lack of other revellers is cause for concern. Approaching the venue, I hear music and start running in my heels.  I half-expect to be turned away at the door. It is Germany after all; rivalled perhaps only by Japan for punctuality and efficiency. Maybe 8pm doesn't mean 'doors open' but 'showtime'.

St Bartholomew's Cathedral: Frankfurt, Germany

Half-9 approx. The show is well underway. I sheepishly make my way to my seat, irritated at being an unwitting stereotype.  I ask the gentleman to my right when the show started. 15 minutes ago, thereabouts. That would be roughly three songs. Not terrible, as long as I haven’t missed any favourites. I daren’t ask the set list so far.

My annoyance fades as I’m swept up in the dynamic performance. I don’t care for Paak’s choice of fruity language but he puts on a fantastic show.  I have a very good view of the stage and ample room to manouevre thanks to a few empty seats. We sincerely get our groove on in the stalls. 

I have one full day left in Frankfurt. The City is grimmer than I anticipated but I’ve seen one or two attractive sites en route by tram.  After a rare Sunday lie-in, I take a scenic stroll to and from St. Bartholomew’s cathedral in the town centre. Later that evening, I'll explore some of the City by hopping on random trams before dinner. I’m wearing a red dress and leather jacket, the combination of which emphasise certain assets more than intended. Several men make that known to me. One fellow quizzes me on why I’m on my own.

There’s no good way to answer that. I respond, charily.

He offers to accompany me. When I decline, he tells me to reconsider; three times.

It’s my experience that European men-even those from the more subdued Nordic countries-are more direct, not to mention less conservative, than their Anglo-Saxon cousins.

The interior of the Cathedral is inviting and surprisingly modern. As usual I'm in pursuit of stillness. Slim chance, being a Sunday. It's a busy tourist period. Whilst seeking solace in the vestibule some Oriental tourists start taking pictures as if I’m part of the attraction. When my consternation fails to dissuade them, I make a hasty exit.

Soundtrack: Cover Art, selections from Venice + Malibu by Anderson .Paak.