The best of times…sort of

The day after the memorial service, I’ve arranged to meet with newest acquaintance, Gabriela. She has just celebrated her 23rd birthday the day before. I owe her a celebratory beverage. 

I invite Gabbie to the annual music and food festival, Street Bouche. 

I momentarily reconsider the appropriateness in light of the previous night’s events. Yet life, rather uncaring, goes on. Arrangements have already been made. Knowing how lonely Strasbourg life can get, I’d want Gabriela to feel welcome.

I wasn’t wholly impressed by the staid atmosphere of Street Bouche last year. Perhaps its 2019 iteration will be different. It’s in the heart of the student district this year, scheduled on a weekend that sees the last of the real summer sunshine.  Gabbie informs me by text she’s inviting a friend. I'm not over the moon about this last minute addition-I never am-but have no choice.

I arrive earlier than Gabriela and her guest to scope out the festival. Admittedly, the venue is better suited to the event than the previous year. On the food front, it’s less impressive. There are too many hamburger joints and not enough grub from the MENA region. There are a few African fusion pop-ups but I’m not in the mood to experiment. The one stall that really grabs my eye is selling enormous  bubble waffles stuffed with ice cream and enticing toppings. My waistline will be glad I’ve just eaten as I stare down temptation.  Instead I’ll enjoy these treats vicariously, when I buy some for Gabriela and her mate, Crystal later on.

For the moment, they're running late. The music policy is less ambient electro than last year and more hardcore hip-hop. I sit near the speakers with a book whilst I wait for my guests.  My reading is pleasantly interrupted a couple of times when the DJ drops some veritable 90s jams (a remix of Nonchalant’s 5 O’Clock and perennial favourite, Runnin’ by the Pharcyde). I indulge in a solo boogie both times, returning to my novel when I lose interest in the next tune.

 As much as I pride myself on being able to hang out at culture events on my own, Strasbourg isn’t the best city for it. I’m therefore relieved when Gabriela and Crystal arrive. We circle the premises sampling some of the wares and engaging in deep discussion; notably about the writing process. A homeless man approaches us. The interaction turns out to be one of those fleeting yet transcendent moments.

We head out at dusk, just as the festival is getting really busy. Whilst accompanying me to my bus stop, Gabbie makes some affirmative comments about my physique. I return the compliment. She wants to fill out more. Having grown up in a West African context, her mind hasn’t been as warped by Western beauty standards as mine. Just as my bus approaches she asks if I’m single and what the dating scene is like. I give her a preview of my near-misses but…

That’s for another conversation…I promise.

That week at work is chaotic. A number of missions taking place around the Continent are thrown off schedule by numerous travel woes; a domino effect from the collapse of Thomas Cooke and Adria Airways. I spend most of the week fighting fires. The following week, the Head of State will pass by to mark THRO's anniversary. The city's transport is temporarily thrown into disarray. Most of the proceedings are taking place at Le Chateau. I'm not especially interested in what Macron has to say.  I shove in my earphones to stop my head from exploding when I overhear a colleague say he's the best president France has had since the recently deceased Jacques Chirac.

The hectic work schedule takes my mind off other matters. My feelings about my looming departure are conflicted. On one hand, I’ll be glad for the psychological respite from working in my department. On the other, I will miss several colleagues. I’ve started to notify the security team and those with whom I have brief but positive interactions. The process makes me maudlin. My work diary fills up with elevenses and lunch time meet-ups. Over the coming weeks I'll be moved by the supportive responses from those who seem genuinely sad to see me go.

I discover that one such lovely colleague, Josef, attends a church I used to visit on moving to Strasbourg. He informs me of a THRO trainee, Winnie, who is part of the same fellowship. Great. All this time praying to meet fellow Christians at The Organisation, and now they show up al once? God has a sense of humour, I quip. Better late than never. All three of us make arrangements to meet up for elevenses before I leave.

I’m beginning to have an affection for Strasbourg that eluded me during my first year. Maybe it's because I’ve ironically just found my feet. Maybe the fondness is engendered by only having a finite time left in the region. I suspect I wouldn’t be as favourable if I were staying indefinitely in the same unfulfilling job.

One Friday night I skip choir rehearsal to join the street outreach team; supporting the homeless and women who sell sex. It will be one of my last outings with them. For once we have an equal male: female ratio. 

A difficult ministry on both the emotional and psychological front, it's nonetheless rewarding and an eye-opener. We come across some of the regulars as well as those less familiar. One woman's faith in God is heavily mixed with superstition. She refuses to touch crosses or bibles claiming she’s “ not clean”. No one is, we counter. The universal need for redemption is the heart of the Gospel message.

It’s more church-related activity the following afternoon. For a change, I’m able to make one of the meetings for single women.

It’s an informal affair at Oh My Goodness café.  Founding member Patrice outlines her plan for the coming term and year.  If we're a little nervous at first, by the end the atmosphere is convivial. I end up sticking around longer than planned and leave in good spirits. André Malraux Médiathèque awaits.

Just as I’m in the throes of short story inspiration, I spot a striking young man with deep chocolate skin and an impressive bone structure. We mutually acknowledge one another.  Well aware of an age gap and the futility of any romantic engagement when I have one foot out of the door, I have no designs on him. I thus feel more liberated- maybe a little too free- to compliment him.

Beau visage !

On exiting he stops to tell me I remind him of his cousin (hence the initial eye-contact). Thus begins a half hour or so of impromptu dialogue. He introduces himself as Mamadou; born in Benin to parents from Niger and Congo Brazzaville. We talk about cultural liminality, the Alsatian reserve and his interest in graphic design amongst other things. He informs me of a conference taking place a stone’s throw away from work. Genuinely enthused, I ask for him to forward me the information. At the same time, I'm hesitant to share my details not wanting him read too much into it.

Over the next few days, my initial apprehension appears to be well-founded. Mamadou finds various pretexts to contact me. My responses are polite but brief. I’ll wait it out. Too often I’ve been in a position where my platonic intentions are a mismatch with that of my interlocutor. I don’t like to send mixed signals. They bugger off once it becomes clear I am not interested in romance. I hope this time I’m just overreacting and history won’t repeat itself.

Hmm. Ce n’est pas demain, la veille. 

Another potential misadventure to report to Gabriela.

Soundtrack: Remix Boy by Suff Daddy, Collections Vol. 1 by Simbad. The Scope by Manu Katché.