Tuesday, 31 December 2019

Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 1

(routard.com)


A week before Christmas, I collect my mum from Gare Centrale. She has been fortunate to catch one of the intermittent trains from St. Louis during the ongoing strike action.

It’s my third Strasbourg Noel. Despite her numerous visits, this will be my mother’s first in the 'Capital of Christmas'. Seeing this is most likely the last December that I’ll be based in Alsace, I have a full itinerary planned. I want mum to experience all the things that make Christmas in Strasbourg special for me. I hope to squeeze in some of the sights I haven’t had a chance to show her before.

The day of mum’s arrival, I run around putting the finishing touches to a warm Yuletide welcome.  I illuminate the decorations for the first time since putting them up.

I arrive at the station a few minutes later than scheduled but still in good time. Mum's in high spirits; relieved to be away from the post-election turmoil and recrimination.

At home we unpack her laden suitcases. Any guilt over my list of special requests soon evaporates. Mum’s heavy cargo is mostly her own doing; bringing a bounty of treats for which I have not asked. I knew very well she might improvise. I tell her off for being an enabler and insist she takes a good portion back with her. Still, it’s a relief to see my almost bare cupboards filling up.

On the first full day of her trip, we make our way to Kehl. Having had to wait all morning and half-the afternoon for my water meter to be read, by the time we leave it’s a mad dash. We hope to make it ahead of the last minute Christmas rush. On arriving, it’s clear others have had the same idea.

Thanks to mum’s UK haul, we don’t have too much to worry about on the food front. The most important item would be the capon; proving somewhat elusive on that side of the German border. Back on the French side, my local butchers don’t give any assurances it’ll arrive before Christmas Eve.

I can’t worry about that now. I am already running late for the last street outreach session of the year. That evening we’re joined by Luc, one of the founding members of the team. It’s his first outreach since he married in the summer. The girls are delighted for him. Sherrie, originally from Nigeria, is especially pleased. You’re a man now, no longer a boy!

The women receive our festive treats eagerly; even those who claim not to have much of a sweet-tooth.  Pull the other one. Luc chides.


By the time the session is over and we’ve done a lengthy debrief in the cold, group-leader and co-founder Sabrina drops me off long after midnight. I warn mum ahead of time that I’ll be back late and she should eat dinner without me. She waits up all the same.

That weekend is dedicated to showing her Strasbourg in its full Christmas splendour; best seen after nightfall. I’m in a good mood after spotting some bargain capon and picking up mum’s gift for a steal during the morning shop. We set off late afternoon with a view to catch the live nativity in the vicinity of the cathedral before attending a carol service at Temple Neuf. La Creche Vivante plays in quarter-hourly loops. The cast is comprised of adult volunteers, children of the parish and real life sheep. We glimpse the final scenes, after the angels have appeared to the pint-sized cherubs. I’m pleasantly surprised to see Mary played by an African/Caribbean woman with dewy skin. She has the patient, beatific smile down to a tee. Too bad her pale baby doll bears no resemblance. Must take after the robust-sized Joseph by her side.

By the time we reach Temple Neuf, there’s no more room at the inn. We’re turned away by the austere pastor’s assistant (he and I have a little bit of beef from a while back). Hanging outside in vain, I hear someone call my name. Gloria from my church translation team has also made a fruitless trip with a friend to the Temple for a Christmas sing-along.

The truncated itinerary is a blessing in disguise, giving us more time to catch the Christmas sights and sounds. Mum and I head back to the Live Nativity to watch some of the elements we’ve previously missed. Some of the young cast have been replaced to give the others reprieve. One impish little shepherd is having trouble controlling her excitement. The director doesn’t look amused. Neither do the sheep.

We take in much of the length and breadth of Strasbourg bathed in Christmas glory.  My mother’s eyes are aglow as we stroll down the usually quiet Rue des Orfèvres; now overflowing with human traffic. We stand underneath the colossal Christmas tree in Place Kleber. The giant baubles change colour at indeterminate intervals. From green to jade. The last time I saw them they were purple. We wait several minutes for this violet transition before giving up to make our way to Krutenau. We plan to surprise my friend Gael at his Afro-blend café. On entering I bump into Gael’s sister, Claudette for the second time in the space of a week; her daughter in tow. We have met by chance at a supermarket the weekend before. Gael and mum exchange warm salutations. We both comment on his weight loss.


Live Nativity (photos-alsace-lorraine.com)
Claudette is expecting some friends, themselves formerly in the catering business. Once they arrive she orders multiple sample dishes and is generous with their distribution. For our part mum and I order delicious beef-based dishes, multiple rounds of the crepe-like Kenyan chapatti and shito sauce. Gael even convinces head chef (his mother) to make the finely-ground caramelised peanut brittle I adore, just for me. Towards the end of the evening I enter a heated discussion with Claudette and friends about the current strike action taking place across France. They appear to be rather Let them eat cake about the affair; more worried over the understandable short term inconvenience than the long-term stakes. In addition, they confound the violent anarchist elements of the Gilets Jaunes with the legitimate concerns of the trade unions over Macron’s proposed retirement reforms. As I passionately defend the union’s cause, mum glances from face to face, head turning as if at a tennis match. I just knew you were talking about politics, she shares after we leave. She believes I should have toned it down. I am a tad defensive, feeling conflicted. I don't like to leave on an awkward note. Yet, I feel it's important to present a different perspective to those otherwise seemingly too removed from the struggle to empathise.

The Sunday before Christmas, mum accompanies me to church. She’s a hit with some of the members yet to be of her acquaintance. Isn't she pretty? one of them admires. Indeed she is, I reply; not for the first time in life vicariously enjoying the compliment on mum's behalf.  After the service I take her to St Aloysius church in Neudorf to admire the epic nativity scene; spanning cultures and millennia. Mum is duly fascinated, filming the display from every feasible angle. In the evening she entertains herself with another epic; Martin Scorcese’s The Irishman. I can’t really commit. Mum’s much more a fan of mafioso drama than I’ve ever been.

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