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