Technical Hitch

On the last day of this London trip, I have decided to pay the extra to return to France by train. Flying might technically be cheaper and shorter but it takes up a whole day. Factor in the commute to and from the airport and security checks, I lose time rather than make up for it.

At least this way I can squeeze in another appointment. And it's better for the environment too.

I have arranged to meet former colleague Diana near the Eurostar at St. Pancras, during her lunch break. Whilst waiting I have the, ahem, honour of listening to passer-by murder The Commodores Easy and other tunes.  Her confidence is not commensurate to her vocal ability. In her defence, she's a much better pianist than singer. I imagine she wouldn't sound as bad if it were her own material.

Diana has a packed afternoon schedule thus, it's another speedy visit.  She's kind enough to pick up the bill. I've been mightily spoiled on this trip, rarely paying for my own drinks.

Diana waves me off at the Eurostar terminal.

The first part of the journey is a nice'n'easy one-hour ride to Lille. Onward to Strasbourg.

All is well. For a time. The usual pastoral scenery flies past our window. The weather is fine, if not especially warm. Nothing seems out of the ordinary; not even when the train comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere.

I'm not expecting the driver to make a grave-sounding announcement.

One bemused passenger bursts out laughing. Something about a problem with the carriage.  At one point I overhear talk of a motor issue.  The minutes and hours bleed into each other. My hope of making it back to Strasbourg at a decent time drains away with them. And to think, I was pleasantly surprised that my train was due to arrive earlier than I'd thought. How easily such things are taken for granted.

A member of staff is walking the length of the train, updating travellers in each carriage. Don't shoot the messenger.

Another young woman becomes a self-appointed liaison, traversing the train to find someone official for an update when another is not forthcoming. Her pacing irritates me until I realise what she's up to.

Eventually the news reaches us that it's unlikely we'll have to retreat back to Lille.

We spend more time waiting for an emergency rescue train. Technicians arrive in a small van. If the relevant safety tests are passed, our train will be hooked onto the emergency vehicle and taken back to Lille.

But will we be able to catch another train tonight? I enquire of the messenger.

He's doubtful. There's no guarantee there'll be any more Strasbourg-bound journeys that evening. Other passengers enquire about reimbursement for alternative forms of transport from Lille such as car hire. No chance. It's not SNCF policy.

Thank God for bright late spring evenings. We'd have otherwise been plunged into darkness by now. I check my watch -perversely 25 minutes fast- and mentally adjust to the correct time. Almost 9pm. If all had gone to plan, we would have been pulling into Strasbourg.

One young lady is distraught; tearfully enumerating to the self-appointed liaison all her projets gâchés for that evening. Amongst them, a missed rendez-vous with the boyfriend and family from what I gather.

I know! We're all in the same boat. It's better we stop than have an accident, snaps the unofficial liaison. Irritation aside, she has a point. Better to lose time than a life.

Later, the same distraught young woman makes a weepy phone call to her expectant loved ones. I rub her arm in solidarity. She turns to look, slightly alarmed. I give what I hope is a comforting smile.  It transpires that we'll have to spend a night in Lille. I hope against hope that there will be a last minute reprieve. I'm on my way back from London; one of the world's most expensive cities. I've just paid my electricity bill. I'll be on a tighter budget than usual for the rest of the month. It's too late to start hunting on AirBnb, even if I had a smartphone. A last minute hotel booking might clear out my current account.

SNCF assure us they'll cover the cost. Something of a silver lining. We assume that they're availing themselves of the time spent waiting for the emergency vehicle to contact local hotels.

Thus it's a rude awakening when we arrive at Lille Flandres station to discover that the accommodation situation is yet to be regulated.   Roughly a couple of hundred inconvenienced passengers are handed an emergency lunch box. I try to avoid nibbling. I'm hungry, having eaten nothing since breakfast. I snack on some of the sweets and nuts and save the more substantial parts of the meal for later. I take a peek at the main course. Tinned rice-based Tabbouleh. Yuck. I give mine away and make a detour to a nearby cafe for an alternative. I'm not alone. Judging from discarded boxes, a number of rough sleepers are beneficiaries that evening of these emergency meals.

Meanwhile, it's chaos on the platform. Station staff are taking names and contact details for both hotel reservations and to make plans for alternative onward journeys the next day. I am informed that there is an half-8 train in the morrow. It will be a public holiday. No work. A saving grace of sorts.

Some passengers abandon the whole process and vanish; presumably already based in Lille. One woman has a heated discussion with staff about a flight the next morning she's almost certain to miss. It leaves at 8am. The next train heading in the airport's direction leaves around 5am. It's a 2-3 hour journey. She won't make it in time. The plane ticket has set her back €2000. My heart goes out to her. She wanders the platform for a while, suitcase in tow, before also disappearing into the night.

I overhear some anglophones struggling to communicate their concerns to personnel. I volunteer to translate. It's good language practice. The English-speakers are a couple of amiable Aussies. They're on a month-long excursion; visiting the most famous battlegrounds in France and Belgium. They had reservations for a hotel in Alsace, where they were to do a one-day vineyard tour en route to Avignon. They make their peace with jettisoning those plans. As not to tempt fate, friends have advised they  get to Paris ASAP to avoid missing their southbound connection.

I tentatively suggest the Aussies try the coach, assuming they won't be keen. To the contrary. Fortunately for them, there's a bus heading to the Capital within the hour. I help confirm hotel reservations in Paris over the phone. My fleeting Antipodean acquaintances are off with a thank you and 'cheerio'.

It's around 11pm by the time SNCF staff have sorted out our accommodation. We're separated into batches. A young and possibly inexperienced member of personnel uses his phone's GPS to direct our group to one of several Novotels, only to send us in the wrong direction. It would have helped if he offered to come along.

We grumble about the poor customer service as we're left to navigate our own way. I visited Lille a few years ago as a birthday treat. I have fond memories of the city and its friendly inhabitants. I wish I could have returned under more positive circumstances.

It's midnight by the time I arrive at my surprisingly spacious and pleasant chambers. I shower, eat my now lukewarm merguez sandwich and prepare for bed. With the thought of a morning train to catch, the chances of a good night's rest are slim indeed. I debate whether to go down for breakfast. In the end I decide against a full Continental during the week. It would be too indulgent. Besides, better to make sure I have enough time to get to Lille International.

Apart from the miserable weather, the next morning is off to a better start. On arriving at the train station I scour the concourse for what are by now familiar faces. One of them shows me where to have my defunct e-ticket tamponné for a replacement train.

By the time I arrive in Strasbourg the transport service is in full effect, as much as it could be during a holiday. I rearrange or cancel plans made for that day. I'm frazzled, not looking forward to having to return to a tense work situation that week having only had disrupted sleep.

A couple of weeks later I receive a profusely apologetic email from SNCF offering a full refund. Unusual but only fair in the circumstances. We are given the choice between cash or a travel voucher. The compensation procedure is reassuringly straightforward and prompt. An inconvenience has, for me at least, turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

To the Place Where I Belong...

I’m making good on the promise to visit the UK more often.  Two months after my last London adventure, I’m back in Blighty.  My senior manager, Lucia begrudgingly grants my leave request, despite me having chosen one of the least disruptive moments.  In France, there are several public holidays during May; two of them will take place whilst I’m away. I don’t work on Mondays. I’ve cleared it with colleagues and my line managers…and yet Lucia makes me jump through another administrative hoop before she approves the request. When she refers to the leave I’m contractually entitled to as a potential ‘inconvenience’, I am livid. It’s indicative of the strained atmosphere of late.

Thank God for mum and sis’ recent visit and this London trip.   I mix-up my itinerary with a flight from Basel to Gatwick, to return to Strasbourg by train via St. Pancras the following week.  Sis and I overlap on my first night in town. Before heading to see her and mum, I drop my luggage off at Uncle Lenny’s in Shooter’s Hill. He and his step-daughter, Stassi have kindly offered me one of their spare rooms. The digs are clean and capacious with two bathrooms and lounges.  Stassi and Lenny are also very generous with their food. I make sure to do my own shopping as not to take advantage of their hospitality.

Sis is due to fly back to Japan the following morning. It’s a short and sweet visit owing to the late hour. I’m famished on arrival. I can count on mum for some decent grub. Sis hands over a Milky Bar Easter Egg and mum shows me the electronic pump for my wayward airbed that she found at Tesco's for a steal. 

The following day, I decide to stay local. I dutifully visit a trying relative only to wonder if the greater evil wasn’t avoiding another frustrating conversation full of vagaries and baseless assertions.  It doesn’t bring out my better self. I phone to apologise afterwards for not being a better listener. 
I have other plans that afternoon that go to the wall, having stayed longer than I should.

The next day begins more promisingly. My hair treatment at Shooter’s Hill College Beauty Salon (recommended by auntie J) goes very well. I am particularly appreciative of the one-to-one consultation. I'm a little apprehensive to have a European stylist handling my frizz but she does a good job, under the supportive but watchful eye of supervisor, Jen (of Nigerian extraction). That afternoon, my hairdresser auntie Femi’s nimble fingers make light work of my kinky twists.  In spite of my morning appointment running over, I’m now ahead of schedule to meet long time friend Bunmi in Brixton. Whilst I wait, I rock down Electric Avenue searching in vain for my favourite liquid foundation.

Bunmi and I have one of those friendships in which we drive each other round the bend as much as we do the other good.  This evening is no exception. She’s brutally frank; whether paying a compliment or otherwise. She builds some of the confidence that I have lost after the latest episodes at work, only to annoy me with her comments about my new auburn highlights (which everyone else loves by the way) or scepticism about Extinction Rebellion or criticism of Jeremy Corbyn’s honourable stance on the planned Trump state visit (she needs to pay less attention to the MSM).  She really gets my goat when she vehemently defends R. Kelly in light of the damning case against him and his apparent lack of remorse.  Bunmi can be generous to a fault. It’s one thing to try and see things from all angles; to question the validity of the court of public opinion. It’s quite another to downplay unconscionable behaviour or indulge in victim blaming; or justify male entitlement using dubious evolutionary biological theory; or believe that the law can always be trusted to do the right thing; or claim that every successful black man who's indicted is innocent by virtue of their ethnicity and is merely a pawn in a grand conspiracy theory. I almost fall off my chair when she posits that there are circumstances when a relationship with a minor would be legit. What about abuse of power and trust? Embedded power structures? Grooming?

I would have expected more from you, she laments.

I could say the same. I knew she’d make excuses for Kelly but not to this extent.  I have a sense of how Tom Dubois felt like trying to take on such skewed logic. Unlike him however, I won’t let this Riley Freeman win the argument. The conversation haunts me for days. I question why I'm taking it so personally. Yes, I care about justice and gender equality. But I know how intoxicating it is to want to be right. This shouldn't be about my ego.

Thankfully, the rest of the week is much more edifying.  I spend time in the company of yummy mummy friends and their tots; running around parks or pretending to eat play-dough pastries.  Afropean editor-in-chief, Jonny Pitts makes a surprise cameo at Rich Mix when I meet with co-editor Nat. I pop down to Aldgate East to hang out with rapper mate Ré at his day job in a plush cinema. We don’t get much quality time. The new Avengers film has taken over his schedule. That franchise pops up in a number of my conversations during my visit. En route to my next appointment, I enjoy an impromptu all-and-sundry chat with a natural-haired chocolate queen whose adorable baby boy I have been gushing over earlier. That evening, I catch-up with my old French tutor, Grégoire, after a two-year face-to-face hiatus. It’s some well needed language practice. The following afternoon, I learn about the mechanics of horror movie tropes from articulate cinephile and photographer David Mensah.

In the aftermath of the terror attack in Sri Lanka over Easter, I dare to debate the definition of persecution in the context of Christian minorities with intellectual giant Vinoth Ramachandran who also happens to be in town that weekend. Yusef Slim and I discuss militant veganism and the ethics of purging the music of fallen icons from our playlists. It’s especially meaningful that he’s made the effort to see me. He’s just received some shocking news about a friend.  As I am to learn days later, the story has a positive outcome. Thank God.

My pretty Brixton boy Samuel explains his own (more considered) reservations about Extinction Rebellion, why he’s a ‘virulently anti-Zionist’ Jew and I tentatively put forward my theory on why Nigeria has never had a socialist revolution. I have an especially meaningful conversation with one of my London pastors about isolation and meet up once more with Pete and Amelia after service. (She notes how I refer to her by pseudonym on these very pages.)

Not to mention the meet-ups with auntie J, erstwhile Uni friends or former CLP comrades. I talk to church friend, Nic about what it’s like being a new mum.  I chat with uncle Lenny into the wee small hours of the morning  about faith, relationships and the dearth of men in church. In between that I regularly popping round to see mum and catch-up on BBC iPlayer viewing I can't access in France (Songs of Praise, how I've missed thee). Then there are the many serendipitous encounters; such as bumping into one of my pastors whilst he's celebrating his birthday with his young family; or the poet acquaintance that I haven’t seen in so long, he has had a five-year-old son in the interim. Or the spiritual seeker who used to visit my church and is surprised that I remember his name.

Soundtrack: Space Cries + Left My Heart by Ed Mount

Easter Delight Part 2

Strasbourg Cathedral (c) Yinka Ositelu

The most significant holiday of the Christian calendar has an added element of excitement for me this year. My mother and sister will be spending the long weekend in Strasbourg. It’s the first time this trinome dynamique would have been in the same geographical space for over three years. Most of Good Friday is spent putting the finishing touch to preparations. Given that everything shuts down here during public holidays, I’ve left nothing to chance; staggering my shopping over the weeks and days ahead.

In the evening I attend a special meditation session at the Temple Neuf in the centre of town. These weekly gatherings, simply called Breathe, allow for Christians and those interested in the faith to take a break from the rat race and spend time in reflection. This Easter/Resurrection weekend, the pastor leaves even more room for quiet contemplation. I seek stillness more so than ever at this juncture of my life. Not being especially mellow by nature, Lord knows I need it. I’m struggling to spiritually connect this season more than I have in previous years. It doesn’t help that I’m re-reading Leviticus, one of the harshest books in the bible. The age old theological questions tug at my heart. Mum and sis’ visit will no doubt bring some well-needed spiritual refreshment. Indeed, many a heart-to-heart is to be had during their visit.

They arrive that Saturday evening. Sis has bought the good weather with her from the Land of the Rising Sun. They tell me excitedly of the good trip on the way in and the camaraderie of the other passengers. Mum attributes it to the sunny climes. I’m pleased that they have arrived in time to catch the last of the blossoms.

Back at mine, a spotless flat and my signature mixed-meat tagine awaits them. Sis’ relentless teasing about my housekeeping skills soon come to an end when she sees how much progress I’ve made in that area. Taking note of the little flourishes added for the benefit of guests she quips waggishly,

That’s one more recommendation to go on the report card.

Alas, mum’s many attempts to inflate the blow-up mattress are in vain. Sis takes the couch and mum makes the most of the flaccid portable bed. 

The morning of Resurrection Sunday is spent at my local church. I’ve been making enquiries about English translation ahead of time. Logistically it would be awkward to interpret for both my guests at the same time. Thankfully, there’s a very good in-ear service available that morning to my great relief. Afterwards, I’m asked to join the small team, including a Russian-speaking Cameroonian. There aren’t many Anglophones in the church but it’s worth it for the one elderly Asian regular. I’m apprehensive about my language skills but willing to help the modest-sized team. It would be very good practice too. The following Sunday, I’ll hit the ground running trying (with limited success) to translate for a guest speaker from Quebec; an accent that even some native Francophones struggle to comprehend.

At the end of the service, I attempt to introduce my family to as many of my church acquaintances I can find including Jeanne and her sis, Françoise who's visiting from the South. Unfortunately we miss a few but make some new ones. As usual, sis has endeared herself amongst some of the tinier members. En route home we stop in Etoile Bourse for a pleasant promenade around the environs. Outside the Andre Malraux Médiatheque, beside the canal, we're greeted by the incongruous sight of two swans resting near some road works. Sharp-eyed sis comments on the fashion differences between the UK and this corner of France as well as the impressive, hands-free biking skills of the Strasbourgeois.

Look at that core strength!

Being neither a cyclist nor a style guru, such observations naturally go over my head.

That evening we eat and chat over a late Easter supper. This is how we’ll spend most of our evenings together; food, conversation, Netflix or sis and I in stitches as she shows me amusing clips from her Instagram or YouTube accounts.

Rémy from the Happy Tours team
(courtesy of Tripadvisor)

With less than a week to show sis what Strasbourg has to offer, I need to be strategic. Easter Monday is crammed with on foot excursions. In the morning we walk through the Orangerie, particularly resplendent in the brilliant spring sunshine. The afternoon is spent on a walking tour with charismatic native Alsatian, Rémy from the Happy Tours team. I envy his knack for lacing his entertaining commentary with very English idioms. Mum and sis are equally admiring. The nearly two hour historic jaunt flies by. We full circle it back to the Cathedral. Mum and sis buy edible gifts from an exorbitant confectioners; albeit with great customer service. They notice before I do the young, German-speaking Namibian who follows us into the shop.

You guys are looking really cool, he flatters. After a brief but cordial chat, I politely turn down his overtures.

There’s enough time before our supper of Easter leftovers for a stroll to Robertsau Forest on the way home.

On the last full day of my family’s visit, I’ve planned a tour of the local markets. Too bad half of them are still on extended Easter break. Mum and sis don’t mind, picking up one or two items along the way. I take them to a vantage point in my favourite part of town, Petite France. To my amazement, mum claims it’s unfamiliar to her. I can’t imagine having made such an oversight. The afternoon is spent in the company of the gamely Oh My Goodness! Team; one of my Strasbourg haunts. The ambiance is welcoming as ever. I bump into Stéphane, a member of my church whom I’ve met on a number of occasions (usually in the presence of his missus) but still doesn’t know whom I am.

We have dinner plans that evening but not before I make a mad dash to one of the few remaining Portuguese lessons of the term. I deposit mum and sis at one of my other haunts, Manolya café; who serve the best and most indulgent smoothies. Despite my efforts I am late to class and never quite recover my bearings. I sheepishly slink off early to meet new mate Gael back at Manolya and introduce him to the fam. He’s an instant hit with my ladies. Sis digs his style, comparing him to Basquiat and mum thinks he’s wonderfully polite.

I’ve chosen Les Fines Gueules for our last meal together this trip. I don’t know if sis will have another chance to visit whilst I’m still based in Alsace so it’s only right she samples some traditional cuisine; even if it’s not the famous Quiche Lorraine she’s been on the hunt for all day. 

I can count on Lisa and the team for a good service. To my chagrin, sis and mum pick up the bill. I feel odd not contributing at least a little, given that they are my guests. Sis chides me for not being a more gracious recipient.

It’s back to work the next day. I rush home at lunch to see my favourite girls off at La Gare Centrale. God willing, sis and I will overlap the following week- during one of my UK visits- just before she flies back out.  The full impact of their absence will only hit me in the more quiet moments; such as that weekend, in the lonely expanse of my flat. Mum and sis catch their train without a hitch. It seems however, they take the good weather with them. The strong afternoon sunshine gives way to a violent storm in which their plane is caught up. Thank God, they make it back to the UK; a little shaken but safe and sound.