One More for the Road…

I began 2019 with the intention of going to the UK more often than I did the year before. It's not especially ambitious, given that I only crossed the Channel once in 2018. My aim has been to visit roughly once every quarter. I’ve held to this resolve, regardless of the ups and downs with my previous work contract.

My late autumn visit in early November is to be my last in the year and I want to make it count. (As noted on these pages before, I avoid any Yuletide excursions for reasons of cost and busyness). It’s an intense week of meet-ups, cancellations, last minute rescheduling, blessings in disguise and surprise encounters. One early afternoon, rushing from one appointment to another and behind schedule, I bump into acclaimed British saxophonist/Hip-Hop artist, Soweto Kinch on the Northern Line. 

Another evening, after a disconcertingly heated exchange with a long-time friend in Victoria Station, I strike up a conversation with a Guadeloupian tourist. It starts with a compliment about her bone structure and ends as a lively and educational (for me) discussion about the island’s history and ethnic make-up. 

 I talk literature, artful film and television with a cultured friend, just before heading to a Nai Palm gig. There are chats about educational policy, race relations and Christian sexual ethics over delicious hot drinks and pastries with two church sisters after Sunday service. Recent controversies about the new Joker film and Kanye’s purported conversion come up once or twice over the course of the week. I pop up to the Midlands to see a dear friend, sincerely chuffed that I’d make the effort.

It’s only what you would do for me. I deflect. It’s perfectly true.

I confide in him about various relational drama and we share some of our general life frustrations; in solidarity rather than self-pity.

There are moments of reconciliation and others of separation. I update loved ones about my work situation to varying degrees or hardly at all, depending on my mood. I even squeeze in some General Election campaigning in a notably hostile marginal seat in deepest, darkest West London. If the misguided views on the doorstep can be demoralising, the dedication and diversity of the campaigners- as well as the compassion and integrity of the Labour Party candidate herself-are thoroughly heartening. One self-employed man has taken weeks off work to devote all his time to the campaign trail. Looks can be deceiving. If first impression clichés were anything to go by (and they’re not), you would think he takes his political cues from The Sun or Daily Mail. I couldn’t have come to a more faulty conclusion.

That same evening, en route from NW to SE to see my mum before she flies to Japan the following day, I stop by my former Brazilian musical group’s rehearsal for a post-practice ‘hello’. I arrive just at the end to a warm welcome from my old musical director, Sergio and his wife Clara. He too is in a hurry, on his way to hand out flyers at a concert by Brazilian legend, Djavan.

What?! He’s in town?

Probably a good thing I didn’t nab any Hiatus Kaiyote tickets that evening, I console myself, I would have been torn.

My week is so busy I hardly have a moment to spend with my hosts uncle Lenny and his step-daughter, Stassia. Ironically, my first proper catch-up with either is at church that Sunday.

As usual it’s a soul-enriching week. My pre-trip apprehension in light of my recent change of circumstances is unfounded. I wanted this to be an easy-going visit with minimal obligatory meet-ups. I more and less get my wish.

Unlike last time, it's a stress-free trip back to Strasbourg, thank God.  The city is looking distinctly more autumnal in the short time I've been away. This season has always carried a particular significance in my Strasbourg adventure.  It was three years ago to the month that I first came to the city for my first interview at The Human Rights Organisation. I relocated to Alsace to start working there in Autumn 2017.

Fast forward two years and it's roughly a month since I left THRO. Despite my as yet uncertain employment situation, I can't overstate the psychological respite of being away from that environment. I'm not bitter, just better. I'm still in contact with former colleagues. The same week I return from the UK I bump into one of the THRO security team. I'm genuinely pleased to see him.

I ease my way back into my between-jobs routine.  Half of my first full-day back is taken up with domestic chores. I pop out for a briefer period than hoped to study before rushing back to co-chair a Labour International teleconference that evening on remote campaign strategy for the British GE. 

Autumn in Strasbourg (courtesy of Deviantart.com)

Ironically, I feel even busier than when I was working.  My choir, the High Rock Gospel Singers (HRGS) have finally scheduled some studio time to record an oft-postponed album.  Meanwhile, director Kiasi is making good on his promise for us to meet up. 

We schedule drinks for the Saturday after my return from Blighty. Kiasi will treat me at a swanky little bar I've walked past numerous times but never noticed.

Ahead of the meet-up, I'm far more nervous than I should be. I find Kiasi's easy bilingualism intimidating. Whilst waiting for him near Homme de Fer tram stop, I try to switch fully into French mode by practising in my head. I even call on Divine Assistance. It's not as if I'm not using the language on a regular basis, living in the country and all. Just the night before on the way back from choir rehearsal, I've had an enriching conversation with two fellow sopranos about the rumoured etymology of the word for suburb 'banlieue' "place of the banished/undesirable". (Not apparently true, however. Yep, an anorak like me gets off on that sort of thing.) 

It's just I tend to feel inadequate besides Kiasi's natural linguistic ability.

To be fair, he did have a head start in his native Cameroon. Both English and French are national languages, after all. 

During the conversation I learn a little more about his background; his central African childhood, his journey with music and its inextricable link with the Choir. We converge on our mistrust and disdain for TV talent shows. I tentatively posit my theory on his outgoing public persona vs his reclusive private (real?) alter ego. A fairly accurate observation, according to Kiasi. I humorously chastise him for overlooking strong vocalists for potential solos whilst giving the spotlight to less talented members. One in particular. Kiasi tries to coax me into being more specific. 

There are some awkward silences but it's an agreeable enough evening. I nevertheless can't shake my insecurity. It leaves me feeling disproportionately glum. I send lachrymose voice notes to sis, currently entertaining mum on her annual Japan visit.  

Despite her busyness, sis is at her perspicacious best when she responds a few days later. Her incisiveness on the source of my neuroses provides much food for thought.  An unlikely allegory from the X-Men franchise (with which I'm not familiar) serves as a very vivid illustration.  I pray and resolve to put some of this insight to good use as much as I can.

I'll soon have my chance.

That evening I'm meeting up with new acquaintance Constantin (alas, his equally gorgeous older brother Stefano isn't about). It's an all-encompassing chat at the André Malraux Médiathèque. He admits to being more downbeat than usual. He's still smiley but has a distracted air.  He picks up on a passing comment about the UK General Election and we organically segue into his Tunisian-Italian heritage, politics, faith, (the two 'big taboos' in polite French conversation), the value of human life, existential crises... Alternating between the two languages is a good intellectual exercise for us both. The eye candy is delicious too, I must admit. I do like me a pretty boy but I'm endeavouring to be wise about it.  Enjoy the beauty but keep a platonic distance.

Before we part company that evening, Constantin announces that he and his brothers are thinking of relocating elsewhere in Europe in the new year. Looks like we'll all be moving on soon. Ships passing in the night.

Later that evening, there's more talk of politics and religion-rather unexpectedly- at my bible study house group meeting. To my great annoyance the relative ease with which I have been communicating with Constantin falters as my usual evening mental fatigue kicks in. I'm not as fluid as I'd wish. But I'm at my most vocal and impassioned, to the surprise of the group and later, my own mild chagrin.  I want to persuade and not badger.  I send an apology text on the way home to one of the group leaders. I'm reassured by his gracious response.

Soundtrack: Boys & Girls by Deluxe, Hiatus Kaiyote- Various, KIWANUKA -by Michael Kiwanuka.

Complex

Being in between jobs at least allows me to make more time for my acquaintances. I’ve had a good catch-up with a few since the end of my contract and have more lined up, including with former colleagues.

Amongst them is Afro-Brazilian Camila, whom I invite around for supper. A few weeks before I quit The Organisation, she sends me an email out of the blue. She's back in town and returned to work at THRO. I’m touched as well as shocked. Last I heard, she left Strasbourg at the start of the year to begin a new life in Seattle. She accepts my invitation to dinner without hesitation.

I am glad for the excuse to be hospitable. It is one of the reasons I chose to rent a sizeable flat. Logically, I should make the most of it in my last remaining months in Alsace.

As the evening approaches I become more nervous.   In my haste I forget to say grace before our butternut squash soup and fish pie meal.

I’ve had a good run of French conversation of late that falls to pieces in the presence of polyglot Camila.

Hers is the definition of a charmed life. Still beautiful, still thin, still talented, still much younger than me. Supportive boyfriend still at her side; willing to follow her anywhere around the globe. Willing, as Camila explains, to spend months unemployed in Washington State whilst she was the sole breadwinner. Even when she recounts the difficulties she encountered in Seattle that influenced her decision to return to France, I can’t help thinking she’s got away lightly. When she returned to Strasbourg her old job was waiting for her. She found a good flat within a short space of time during what (as I was told when I arrived) is usually a tough period for securing accommodation. Her French -picked up within months-is natural and nigh-impeccable. She did a language test in the States which confirmed her near-native level. I assume she has an advantage, what with having a Francophone boyfriend and all. No, she tells me. They still speak to each other mostly in English. She barely spoke French whilst living in Seattle. She’s gifted and blessed to have been adopted by wealthy Europeans who have given her the best start anyone could hope for in life; including a multi-lingual upbringing and extended overseas summer sojourns.

During the course of the conversation, I discover that although a temp, she has a senior position to that which I had. Her manager told her not to go for anything less.

I forgot how anytime spent in Camila’s company leaves me filling woefully inadequate; questioning all my life choices and disappointed with the hand I’ve been dealt. I see in her the life I always wanted.

After a somewhat excruciating couple of hours, in which I’m obligated to recount the less than ideal circumstances at THRO leading to my departure, Camila heads home. She’s hardly eaten. The ample leftovers will spare me a few nights' cooking. On the other hand, I wonder if this is one more thing I didn’t get right.

For the next few days I’ll fall into a Camila-induced depression. I hate that I am so insecure that I can have an existential crisis for what are essentially superficial reasons. So what she’s cleverer or speaks more languages than you? My sister posits. In 100 years we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter. She reminds me that in the scheme of things, we’ve hit the life lottery. I know all this and I’m ashamed that such thoughts cross my mind. If Camila can trigger a massive inferiority complex, then I must admit that there are circumstances in which I’d feel superior to others. I know too well that finding validation in accomplishment is a fool’s errand. There’ll always be a Camila to make me feel crap about myself if I let it.

Exhibition of Henry Simon's work @ Mt. St. Odile Convent, Alsace
(image courtesy of DNA)

I call to mind Régine’s story, in which I find some reassurance. As usual, I thrash it out with God. As unsettling as my thought-life has been of late, I’m glad to have to confront it head on. I don't want to be the sort of person that begrudges others' good fortune or constantly compares myself, only to come up short. My faith is the only antidote.

It's with that in mind that I head to Mount Saint Odile convent for some time of reflection that Friday. The festival of All Saints. The sunshine of the day before is replaced by rain clouds, as it is wont to do each time I've visited the site. It'll be the last chance to access it by public transport before the spring. By then, God willing, I should be long gone.

In my chapel of choice there's an exhibition in honour of erstwhile POW of the Nazis, Henry Simon. His story of survival, as well as his simple watercolour depictions of the stations of the Cross, cut to the heart.  As usual, I've lost sight of on Whom my faith is based. I can't say I'm 'cured' after one exhibition but it does something for my perspective.

Soundtrack - Slakah the Beatchild/Slakadeliqs - Various

Life After THRO: Muddling Through

And it came to pass. My life after The Human Rights Organisation begins on an otherwise uneventful Thursday in mid-October.

Following weeks of conflicted feelings about my change in work status and the events that preceded it earlier this year, I’m emotionally spent. I am technically on holiday but leisure time is a luxury I can’t afford. I need to intensify my job search. I want to catch up on all the studying I haven’t been able to fit in around work. There are also household chores to which I must attend. I hope to squeeze in some writing whilst I’m at it. In between that I am obligated to wade through the morass of French welfare bureaucracy now I’m currently non-active.

I have made a schedule for myself. Two mornings a week to look for work. Mondays are to be spent either at Oh My Goodness! café or at the University library (since all the others are closed). I quibble whether to become a member since it would only really be to use the printer. The desk clerk is all smiley and flustered and keeps apologising for giving me the wrong information. At first I assume it’s because he’s new and not used to the procedure. When he asks where I’m from, the penny drops. I can be quite naive about the intentions of the opposite sex.

Tuesdays and Fridays I stay local since I’m likely to be busy in the evenings. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, I’ll while away some hours at the inviting André Malraux Médiathèque in central Strasbourg. Whatever happens I don’t want to spend too much time in my flat. Whilst I’m temporarily out of work, I can’t take human contact for granted. I also must make sure my French doesn’t suffer. I’m tentatively hopeful after noting that my spontaneous interactions in La Langue de Molière aren’t as laboured or clumsy as I feared. I even receive some positive feedback. 

 In the spirit of keeping up and improving my French I start attending a midweek event organised via Meet-Up that I’ve usually been too occupied to frequent.

I’m pleased to note that there are more native francophones in attendance than Christmas 2018; the last time I was at this particular gathering. One Thursday night, I pass a particularly pleasant evening in the company of two gorgeous Tunisian-Italian brothers; Constantin and Stefano. I grin from ear to ear when they knock a decade off my age. Eye-candy and compliments aside, they’re especially keen to meet up and practise their English. They picked up an intermediate level living in Hong-Kong within an impressively short two years. I’m happy to oblige. I invite them to join me and Gustavo, my lovely Lusophone acquaintance and talented linguist who also wants to entretenir son anglais. That is...once I can find the time. 

 I skip out of the meet-up in good spirits and glad for the distraction. I've been wrestling with remnants of feeling for The Old Heartache I left behind at THRO. The sense of regret lingers long after our final farewell. A vicious circle of self-recrimination plays itself out. My wholesome evening of chat with Constantin and Stefano reminds me there are other men on this planet. I’ll be fine. The frustrating ambiguity and remaining debris of heartbreak will work themselves out of my system with time. The healing process is already underway.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t days where I feel almost desolate and running low on hope. I’m angry with God, with THRO and myself at how things have turned out. News of a UK General Election fills me with both excitement and great apprehension. I am due to visit the UK soon but don’t know if there’ll be any opportunity to campaign whilst I’m there. One more thing to worry about, if I let it.

I try to distract myself with my new daily routine. I attend a special Jazz and Psalms service at Temple Neuf one Sunday; a break from the norm. I’ve invited former colleagues from The Organisation; Natalya and Winnie. Despite her initial enthusiasm, Natalya flakes for more whimsical reasons than I’d expect. It throws me off. I compromise my hitherto tight schedule and end up missing all my travel connections. I arrive at Temple Neuf later than planned (as usual) and annoyed with myself for being a stereotype. Winnie and her housemate Helga are already seated. Pastor Rohan expounds on how both optimism and pessimism are extreme forms of fatalism. Christians aren’t called to endorse either, he gently admonishes.  He speaks of God not imposing on our free will. Of late this has also been a recurring theme at my main church. Normally, I would look past the coincidence for deeper meaning. In this instance however, I’m not sure. This doesn’t chime with my experience. Maybe for most others this Divine Imposition is less apparent, with a far wider margin of manoeuvre. My whole life, on the other hand, has felt very much circumscribed by God. Then there’s the biblical case study that is Jonah. As a wise young woman once said to me, free will is over-rated and over-stated.

After the service I try to communicate this to Winnie and Helga without it turning into a rant. I’m not convinced that I succeed.  Musing over determinism aside, we're all feeling upbeat thanks to the soothing effects of the acoustic sax and piano interpretation of hymns. We commend the musicians heartily.

Later that week, my choir HRGS has its first show of the term; another welcome distraction from my intermittently bleak thoughts. I’ve invited a good deal of acquaintances, including Winnie and other former work colleagues. In the end, only Catarina shows up. By coincidence the performance takes place in a church she’s planning to visit. Maybe it’s a sign, I suggest playfully.

I see her at the front, having a whale of a time. She joins in enthusiastically when our seasoned showman choir director, Kiasi insists on audience participation. The choir turn out in good numbers. To my mind it’s vocally one of our most consistent performances. And yet rather than lift my funk, the concert compounds it. To my shame, I attribute much of this to my own vanity. A couple of non-issues niggle at me about my solo. A few members decide to interrupt my ad-libs, quite unlike how we rehearsed it. Furthermore, Catarina says nothing about my performance despite my efforts to calm my nerves and do a decent job. My dissatisfaction hovers throughout the weekend. I leave multiple self-commiserating voicemails for my sister. I am even more sensitive than usual these days, I observe. She’s a pillar of strength; speaking wisdom and firm truth in love.

Shards of light pierce through elsewhere. I attend a seminar at my church organised for single women. The speaker, Régine, is a pastor whom I hold in great regard. She shares about her unorthodox upbringing, sexual misadventures, marrying a man nearly 10 years her junior in her 30s as well as her struggles with crippling anxiety and insecurity. Régine’s candour about her non-linear spiritual journey is a refreshing change from the cut-and-dry narrative some Christians feel compelled to rehearse. She readily answers the personal questions posed by her attentive audience. When someone asks her how to overcome low self-worth in the face of societal pressures on women to be flawless, Régine answers in her customary honesty. There’s no magic formula or one-shot panacea. It’s a spiritual battle. We must persevere with God.

Although our life stories diverge significantly in places, there’s also much to which I can relate. I’m effusive with thanks for Régine’s authenticity after the seminar. I’ve no doubt I’ll draw comfort and strength from her testimony in future.

Soundtrack: A Love Surreal by Bilal,