The weekend following the HRGS recording session will also be musically-inclined. But first, I attend the long-awaited opening of the Afro-blend themed bar of Strasbourg BFF, Gael. Following months of uncertainty and construction hitches, Jabiru is open for business. The official launch party is scheduled in the new year. For now, it’s an informal gathering of choice acquaintances alongside passing clientele.
I’m one of the first to arrive.
A partition made from traditional wax cloth opens into bright surroundings. Drink crates covered with more ornate wax cloth have been converted into seats. The walls are decorated with Asante Adinkra symbols alongside their French, English and German translations.
I comment on Gael’s weight loss. He’s gym-honed bod has diminished to simple leanness. I blame the pre-opening stress.
I’m one of the first to arrive.
A partition made from traditional wax cloth opens into bright surroundings. Drink crates covered with more ornate wax cloth have been converted into seats. The walls are decorated with Asante Adinkra symbols alongside their French, English and German translations.
I comment on Gael’s weight loss. He’s gym-honed bod has diminished to simple leanness. I blame the pre-opening stress.
I fear I might be over-dressed for the occasion. A couple of male punters give me the eye, including an older gentleman whom I at first believe is Gael’s dad. Both refute it.
But I’m not black, says the older man. I point out that Gael is of mixed-heritage.
This does not dissuade the elderly lothario. I’m polite but try as much as possible to focus on the novel I'm reading, the Afro-blend snacks I ordered or speaking to Gael’s mature, pre-adolescent niece.
Aperitifs are scheduled for half-7 but I won’t hang around. I have choir practice that evening. I make an early exit feeling too conspicuous sitting on my own. There’s only so much Gael can entertain me in between taking orders. I settle the bill and promise I’ll be back very soon.
I’m a woman of my word. The next day I introduce Afropean acquaintance, Zainab to Jabiru. We met several months previously in one of those random, pleasant moments of happen-stance.
Zainab is impressed by the café's chic interior design and ambiance. I order a couple of helpings of a hard, caramelised snack that I've fallen in love with. She's less enthused.
I have plans for an early night ahead of a busy Sunday. Zainab nonetheless insists I join her for an evening of carols organised by a French Caribbean association. I’ve run out of excuses. It’s only a hop and a skip away.
We arrive at St Madeleine church tucked away in a secluded corner of the city. The main hall is buzzing with activity. Zainab introduces me to her acquaintances. 'She is anglophone' or 'she speaks English'. Between this needless (I hope) additional info and her regular correction of my French, I have the impression she's unconsciously embarrassed for-or by- me. We'll have to speak about it but not now.
The atmosphere is convivial. It will be one of the most informal carol services I’ve attended. Snacks and vol-au-vents are circulated. Hymn books are distributed for those who wish to join in. A motley crew of singers gather on the makeshift stage. I spot one of the recent recruits to HRGS amongst them. We exchange les bises.
You’re a busy bee!
Most of those in attendance talk over the singing. I speak to a couple of Zainab's friends about the purported (not-always-so) friendly rivalry between their respective islands; Guadeloupe and Martinique. They assure me that it's mostly jest and deep down there's much solidarity, especially amongst the first wave of migrants to France. I make a gamely effort to keep up with the singing, unfamiliar as I am with the vast majority of the selections. I’m nevertheless heartened by the unadulterated references to the Christian themes of the season. It’s a refreshing break from all the Black Friday, pre-festive commercialism. Advent is barely under way and it’s already feeling like my most authentic Christmas experience in Strasbourg.
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| Wolfisheim Christmas market |
There’s more French Yuletide cheer at church the following morning. A specially-invited troupe take over proceedings for their own interactive spin on the Nativity. It’s a bit chaotic as these ‘family services’ tend to be. On the other hand, my French church isn't given to much festive themed music. It's a welcome change. I wasn’t well-acquainted with the francophone version of O Come All Ye Faithful, for instance. For the second time that weekend I find myself singing the French equivalent of one of my holiday favourites, Angels We Have Heard on High.
My first weekend of advent concludes with a HRGS gig at a modest Christmas market in Wolfisheim; a village in the Alsatian environs. It’s brass-monkey cold and we’re expected to perform outside. The venue resembles a cross between a fortress and a barn, transformed into an enchanted castle by the Christmas illumination. The performance is dodgy. We sounded better in rehearsals. Co-director Evan pitches us too high a couple of times, throwing off some of the choristers. As usual we have too few male singers present and performing outside brings with it challenges. Yet as is normally the case with HRGS, we enjoy ourselves all the same. More beautiful memories are made drinking our complimentary hot drinks and munching crepes under giant fairy lights.
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