The Reluctant Rentrée

I’m on the plane back from my latest adventure in the Land of the Rising Sun. The pilot announces that there’s a stunning view of Mount Fuji from the left side of the aircraft. I scramble across, shifting from window-to-window until I see it. Fuji-San never fails to take my breath away. From this elevated perspective it’s even more wondrous. Later I will laugh at a spoof making fun of the Japanese prefecture where sis lives.

These will be moments of levity during what is a difficult journey back. I intermittently burst into tears; on the coach to Narita Airport after sis accompanies me to Omiya station; on and off at the Airport; again when I land in Frankfurt.

This is not just post-holiday, back to work blues. My anxieties are not baseless. I have less than two months before my contract at The Human Rights Organisation comes to an end. It’s not been an easy year on the work front and there is unpleasant aftertaste about the whole affair.

The next chapter is still unfolding. Job applications are yet to yield fruit. I don’t have a burning desire to return to the UK at the moment, obvious reasons notwithstanding. I’m doing what is humanly possible. The rest is in God’s hands. The uncertainty is naturally discomfiting.

My malaise will last for weeks to come. My jetlag -usually less of a problem coming back from Asia than going-is compounded by mental exhaustion. A fortnight after my return and I’m still dog-tired.

At best, my feelings about returning to the office are mixed. I’ll be glad to see Sophie and a few other colleagues but I dread the phatic conversation about my holiday and the usual pretence. To take advantage of the necessity to use up the rest of my annual leave before my contract ends, I request an extra few days off after my return.

I keep a low profile, avoiding any circumstance where I might run into somebody I know. My heart is still in Japan. I resent Strasbourg and its cold, impolite residents. Even the sight of the Cathedral’s jagged steeple flanked by blue skies doesn’t cheer me up the way it used to. I don’t want to be present. I don’t want my time in Japan to be a faded memory. It’s recent enough to still be a comfort.

I skulk at Andre Malraux Médiathèque and, on a clear sunny day, make my way to the man-made Baggersee beach; a recent discovery courtesy of church friend, Stacee.

Emboldened by my recent beach visit to Kamakura where I waded into the Pacific, I paddle with more conviction. I’ve noted that those who frequent the fake beach, are far less body conscious than me. I baulk at the sight of old men in inappropriate speedos or sunburned bare breasts of all sizes.

The inevitable Back to School day comes around. Holiday treats for colleagues are at the ready. I catch up with the lovely Sophie. Her little ones have recently discovered the joys of 1980s Michael Jackson and it’s transformed the household.

Baggersee Lake

The interrogation about my holiday isn’t as bad as I expect. A part of me misses the chance to go into details.

Meanwhile, the end-of-contract process is in full swing. I have a number of administrative steps to complete and waste no time. I am obligated to start telling more colleagues of my departure. I organise a meeting with Yotis, my landlord. He seems surprised and perhaps a little disappointed. He's nevertheless supportive. He agrees to give me until the end of the year to sort out my next move. He’s been an ideal landlord, bless him.

 I have asked management not to arrange any farewell card or gift. It would be hypocritical. Neither would I like the news to be generally disclosed. I request to be left to inform colleagues as and when I see fit. 

Sometimes it's planned. Sometimes I’m forced to come clean when asked a pointed question. I find the process emotionally-draining. My first full week back after my holiday I am regularly in a melancholy funk.

Outside in the real world, I emerge from early hibernation to meet with pals. Gael is busy organising the opening of his new bar. I miss him. He’s yet to be fully in the know. 

I break the news to some church chums. Stacee doesn’t like me referring to my imminent exit. 

Michelle, my surrogate auntie from HRGS choir, admits she’ll be sad to see me go. She encourages me to apply for admin jobs at the main University. I explain that I’ve been lost too long in that professional limbo and need to escape it.

Speaking of the choir, there’s been a distinct radio silence since I notified HRGS’ directors and administrative team by email.

Still too jet-lagged to attend the chorale’s back-to-school get-together, I beg off and start back the next week in earnest. Sort of. I’m still tired and in a salty mood; no small part down to their apparent indifference to my departure. Whinge, whinge.

I’ll be the nonetheless glad to have overcome my reluctance that evening. Kiasi -or chief as I like to call him-asks the mostly female members in attendance (including the newbies) to do a solo. He then splits us up roughly according to register and instructs us to arrange a tune, with the objective of rotating the harmonies. I am fortunate to have been assigned to a group with mostly solid musicality including star soprano, Nicole. Kiasi adds members at whim but the centre still holds. We waste little time in selecting a tune (Down by the Riverside). Apart from a few false starts with the tenor harmony, it goes swimmingly. Each group showcases their efforts to the other.  Elisabeth’s daughter, Aline intermittently takes a break from the harmonising to attend to her new-born.  Daddy is in toe looking completely knackered. The little one has none of his chocolate complexion for now; firmly overridden by mummy’s caramel.

Once again I find solace in the choir’s bosom. I think better of bringing up that email. I prefer to leave the moment in pristine condition; unperturbed by anxiety over my immediate future.

After the home time prayer, we sing a couple of songs from the repertoire. I’m asked to reprise my solo on I Have a Dream. I’m secretly happy to have a chance to show off in front of the acolytes and simultaneously ashamed of my latent hubris.

That Sunday, I’m invited to lunch with Gloria and her husband, Romain from the church’s interpretation service. It’s supposed to be a team meeting but I am the only other member available. We discuss rotas, Gloria’s enviable natural linguistic flair and the pitfalls of translation. I’m feeling especially insecure about my language skills. Nearly two years in France and it still doesn’t roll off my tongue. Relocating was supposed to increase my confidence but I’m convinced it’s had the opposite effect.

The couple introduce me to a lovely young Ghanaian called Gabriella. She's come to Strasbourg (via Anglophone Canada) for a few months to enrol on a crash course in French. She’s been staying with the couple for a few days whilst she finds suitable accommodation.

Gabriella speaks a number of Ghana’s indigenous languages. Her brain already has an advantageous elasticity having grown up multi-lingual. I assure her that she’ll probably speak French better than I do by the time she leaves at Christmas.

The following afternoon I notify my new Afro-Lusophone acquaintance, Gustavo, of my leaving plans during a meet-up at my haunt, Oh My Goodness! café. He asks what’s in store. I have no clear answer for him. The conversation is dominated by less mundane matters, however. Gustavo is an admirably thoughtful young man. We speak about his life philosophy; how he literally hugs trees and kisses flowers. Of no particular religious confession, he nonetheless enjoys reading the Gospels. He adores Christ’s references to nature in the Sermon on the Mount. Gustavo opines about his thoughts on genius by way of a detailed bio of Isaac Newton. He gently interrogates me about my single status (no ulterior motive on either side. He’s far too young and already spoken for). It turns into an unexpected opportunity for me to go deeper about my faith.

Temple Neuf, Strasbourg (image: Tripadvisor)

There’s more theological pondering for me the next evening, albeit of the less spontaneous kind. The pastoral team at Temple Neuf has organised a fascinating fortnightly workshop on how the Extreme Right has attempted to co-opt Christianity over the past couple of hundred years. It’s led by the amiable, French and German speaking Pastor Rohan. His French is well-articulated, fluid and easy to follow (not unlike my own senior pastor at EPIS). There’s the occasional wholesome interruption by brunette Rohan’s very blond children.

(I’m rather confused around the pastor. Lately he reminds me of a less striking version of my erstwhile, also French and German-speaking crush. I don’t like that train of thought and thus keep him at a safe distance. I offer a hand instead of a cheek for the customary bise, for instance).

The first session is dedicated to the ideas of Houston Stewart Chamberlain; a Germanophile English anti-Semite, said to be hugely influential on Mein Kampf. Chamberlain somehow manages to rationalise away Jesus’ Jewish ethnicity to reinvent Him as a saviour uniquely of the Aryan race.

The discussion is stimulating. It encompasses Chamberlain's endeavours to separate the historical Jesus from the Gospel accounts, the inherent contradictions of cultural religiosity and how supremacist ideology spurred the growth of- and subtly under-girds - our current capitalist economic system.

I feel emboldened to contribute on hearing an American woman make a number of points in heavily-accented faltering French. It’s a safe space. Pastor Rohan is encouraging of our efforts. I want to pick him up on a comment he makes about Christians not necessarily having an affinity with the political Left but time doesn’t allow it. Maybe next session.

Soundtrack: Childqueen Outtakes by Kadhja Bonet, Hey! (single) by Gabriela Eva, Little Ghost by Moonchild.