A Short and Sweet Stay in Dresden

Dresden, Old City.

The festive season now a fond but distant memory, it’s back to my new normal. Life is still in a state of flux. I do what I can to maintain some sort of routine. I resume job hunting and my interim personal development activities.

I also now have a window to make good on the promise to visit my Tunisian belle, Coral in Eastern Germany. Befriending this kind, bright and thoughtful soul is undoubtedly one of the highlights of my Strasbourg experience. Since she relocated to Dresden last summer, it’s been more of a challenge staying in touch than when she lived just over the Franco-German border in Freiburg. Having made several fruitless plans to reunite during the second half of 2019, we finally put a date in the diary mid-January. At least it gives me something to look forward to amidst the deep winter lull.

Emails fly back and forth. According to my research, whether I travel by train or coach it’s still a lengthy trip involving at least one pit stop. I opt for coach as the more economic choice. With the ongoing industrial action in the face of Monsieur Macron's intransigence, travel by road is also currently the most reliable option.

As my Dresden trip draws closer, reluctance creeps in. It’s nearly 12 hours each way. I’m highly apprehensive about the overnight bus ride (including a three hour stop at Nuremberg). I’m not exactly heading to sunnier climes either. To my shame, I don’t even bother to check out what Dresden has to offer its visitors. I’m relying on Coral to show me her favourite spots, plus a top-up from one of the free walking tours I’ve read about. In the corner of my mind the City has vague connotations with wartime; more so than other German metropoli. Despite Coral’s insistence on Dresden’s charms, I imagine a grim and grey post industrial town. It doesn’t help that the region is strongly associated with the Far Right. And yet Coral seems to have made a life for herself there.

The weekend of travel arrives. The outbound coach is half an hour late. On the plus side, it's virtually empty to my pleasant surprise. I survive the first and longest leg of the trip by reading and sleeping in the customary awkward position. At Nuremberg, when I try to retrieve my modest luggage without his assistance, the gruff bus driver barks a reprimand in German. Still slightly groggy, I respond in polite but firm English; sounding more primary school teacher-like than as stern as I’d intended.

Looking around I feel uneasy. Nuremberg is in full, rowdy Friday night/early Saturday morning mode. It’s cold and grimy and I hear too many loud male voices.

The curmudgeonly driver’s tardiness at least eats into the waiting time. Thanks to a local hotel I’m redirected to the nearest train station, where I pass a couple of comfortable hours out of the cold. I’m hurrying back to the coach stop before I know it.

When I finally reach Dresden late Saturday morning, the temperature is milder and there’s a hint of sunshine. My face is bare of make-up and I’m recovering from sleep. I’ve texted Coral in advance to let her know I might look a state. She collects me at the Flixbus stop, waving away my enquiries about where to buy a tram ticket. She’s taken care of it.

I feel more self-conscious than I banked on. It takes a while for me to make consistent eye contact. It’s the first time Coral’s seen me in my natural state. Even when she stayed round Christmas 2018, I was glammed up and ready to go in the mornings.

The Kulturpalast, Dresden
 (courtesy of Aasarchitecture)

If you hadn’t said anything, honestly I wouldn’t have noticed.

She’s being too kind, not with the traces of bygone acne still visible.

By the time we reach her cosy and inviting flat, my vanity is forgotten. Initial plans to shower and nap fly out of the window as we catch up. Apart from one lengthy autumn phone call, Coral and I haven’t had a proper face to face conversation since early last summer. In her enviably calm and softly-spoken fashion, she expounds on the drama at her new workplace. Her line manager has fallen on his metaphoric sword and tried to pressure her into doing the same. She came to her senses before making a rash decision. Nevertheless, the incident has taken its emotional toll. She describes it as a couple of years of stress condensed into a few months.

The discussion turns to happier themes. She has a new man in her life. I’m due to meet him the following morning. For now, I’m curious to know how their paths crossed.

Coral shares the backstory. Following a fleeting and disappointing romantic episode, a close friend encouraged her to sign up to a 'sophisticated' dating app. She met Sandeep after a few pleasant but unremarkable dates. The kismet was there from the beginning, she says.

Coral gently encourages me to consider giving dating apps a try. I demure as politely as I can. I explain I once signed up to a site many, many moons ago for a laugh. Since then I’ve had no inclination. I have strong feelings about the whole Lonely Hearts industry. I deflect, not wanting my aversion to be a reflection on Coral’s personal choices.

The day is far spent by the time I do freshen up and change clothes. The walking tours would be long finished by now. We step out at dusk, making a quick stop off at her local shopping precinct to buy some items I haven’t had the time of late to pick up at Kehl.

I’ll have to make do with seeing Dresden after dark. It has its own night time appeal, Coral reassures.

Indeed, the City is a revelation. I’m almost glad to have had low-to-zero expectations, only to be enchanted all the more.

Once the heart of the old kingdom of Saxony, I’m awe-struck by the majestic and imposing beauty of the baroque architecture.

A luminous modern-looking glass structure catches my attention. Coral introduces the Kulturpalast; a former government building from the era of Communist East Germany. Now converted into a civic centre, inside are plenty of seating areas, a gorgeous modern library and a concert venue dedicated to the City’s philharmonic orchestra. I'm enamoured with the rose-coloured space. According to Coral the locals tend to have a poor opinion of relics from the DDR period. It takes an outsider to appreciate it, I reply. She confesses she’s never spent much time in the building. That'll now change.

The Fürstenzag, Dresden
(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

Coral shows me more of the old town, pointing out historical sites such as the various places of worship and administrative buildings. Most have been rebuilt after Dresden was levelled by allied carpet bombing during the Second World War. We stand underneath the eye-catching, if intimidating, Fürstenzag mural. It depicts the various Saxon monarchs; many of whom have  blood ties to the modern British Royal family. 

Coral takes me to one of the bridges overlooking the Elbe river. She insists the view of the old town is even more stunning from the other side. As well as Germany, the Elbe traverses the neighbouring Czech Republic and touches the periphery of Poland. Prague, Coral’s favourite European city, is only an hour away by bus she tells me. That explains why my connecting coach was heading in that direction. The Czech capital is somewhere I feel I should know but have never visited. I suggest we cross the border if and when I’m next in town.

Coral’s Italian restaurant of choice is full to Saturday night capacity. We head home for some delicious home cooking via a quick detour to Aldi. (I want to see if the budget supermarket superstar is as good in its country of origin as its UK homologue. Not bad but not as good, either.)

The following morning after I've done my ablutions, Sandeep materialises soundlessly in Coral’s living room.

I have a key…

Still. Secret Service levels of discretion.

Sandeep and I hit it off immediately, thanks to his fascinating back story. I get so carried away in conversation I worry I’m neglecting Coral.

Having lived all over the Indian subcontinent and collecting a bevy of languages along the way, Sandeep is a fountain of knowledge. He’s well versed in linguistic, regional and religious history, disabusing me of many of my half-baked notions. ‘Hinduism’, for example, is a western conceit for something that does not fit easily into a single religious practice. We talk about the state of politics in India, Britain (continuing a conversation Coral and I started the night before) and across the African continent. Sandeep explains why he first voted for Modi and how he’s since become disillusioned.

At first horrified, I learn a lesson about those who support Populist-Nationalist leaders.

Dresden Cathedral: Restored after the original
was bombed during the Second World War
(wallpapers.io)

 An insightful polymath, Sandeep is as far from the ill-informed, frothing-at-the-mouth patriot you can get. The truth is always more complicated, as if I needed reminding. I’m very aware of aggressive comments and violence towards religious minorities in India. Sandeep argues there’s a history of some anti-Hindu sentiment that stoked nationalism. I’m a little sceptical (all the more given it proves hard to substantiate when I do my own research). However, out of respect to Coral and conscious that Sandeep would have first hand experience of things that don’t make the front pages, I give his account the benefit of the doubt.

We’ll spend the whole day together, in and out of the flat and eating establishments. Our topics of conversation seem to cover the length and breadth of the human condition.
Talk shifts around topics such as faith, misunderstandings around Afro hair (it's my turn to disabuse this time) and the ease of language acquisition for lifelong polyglots like Sandeep. We discuss post-colonial trauma, all three of us having lived through the reality in one form or the other. We broach lighter themes such as childhood literature and TV favourites, and the comedy of Eddie Izzard (of whom Sandeep is a fan).  

In spite of their efforts to be inclusive, Coral and Sandeep can’t help gazing into each other’s eyes or stealing a kiss. She wasn’t exaggerating when she spoke of their organic rapport. They could have known each other for years rather than months. Case in point: Sandeep has a passion for fine art and photography. At one point he shows me a life-drawing of an ex-girlfriend. Coral doesn't show the slightest sign of unease. I laugh nervously, telling her she's a stronger, less uptight woman than I would be. Theirs is a candid and easygoing relationship.

I’m happy for Coral. Yet as is typical when I’m around a couple, I feel like the awkward third wheel; as if my presence intrudes on a sacred intimacy. If it weren’t for my love and respect for my friend and curiosity to meet the man who captured her heart, I’d avoid the trio set-up like the plague.

Late afternoon, we head out for another impromptu dusk excursion.  Sandeep shows us around Neustadt; the Boho district of Dresden where he happens to live. The aesthetic is distinct from the Baroque Old Town. It rather reminds me of some of the major French cities like Paris or Lyon.  Sandeep has an impressive knowledge of the boutiques, novelty cafés and restaurants that characterise the area.  We take detours down side streets and attractive passageways. The whole neighbourhood is a giant canvass. Murals and artistic graffiti abound. Residential buildings double up as art installations. One spellbinding aquamarine facade in Kunsthof for instance, is also bestowed with cone-shaped water receptacles, said to create sweet music when it rains.

Kunsthof in the Neustadt district, Dresden
(courtesy of Welt)

Coral and Sandeep treat me to a delicious mango lassi. Later, we enjoy a hearty supper at a falafel restaurant serving generous portions at ridiculously good value. Whilst dining, Sandeep speaks more of his dreams to retire early from a career in architecture.  He plans to live off the fatta-the-land somewhere in his native India or The Med. He feels more affinity with the Iberian peninsula and southern Italy than Germany. The warm weather is better suited to him, for a start.

It’s my turn to treat the couple. I sneakily settle the bill in appreciation for their hospitality.

Late that evening, not long before midnight, I retire to my guest room. It's been a full day of verbal and visual stimuli. It’s time to leave the love birds to it.

On the way back from a late night shower, I see no sign of Sandeep. He leaves as inconspicuously as he arrived.

Coral takes a leaf out of his book the following morning, heading out earlier for work than she mentioned. She’ll explain later that she didn’t want to disturb me before my long coach trip back to Strasbourg.

It's not clear when we’ll next meet up. I don’t like emotional farewells. Still, I’m not happy to be deprived of a heartfelt goodbye hug.

Soundtrack: Free Nationals (self-titled album).

...Don’t Stop, like the Hands of Time…

After an encouraging start to 2020, I wake up to foggy, overcast and frost-bitten New Year’s Day morning. I have a longer than customary Grasse Matinée having only gone to bed around 5am. Once dropped home by Katie earlier that morning, I shower, eat and exchange New Year salutations and prayers with mum on the phone. The hours vanish before I realise.

The sombre view from my bedroom window isn’t encouraging. I will myself out of bed, make some brunch and watch a mediocre instalment of Channel 4’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year on Youtube. The word trivia couldn’t be more apt. The winning team triumph thanks to one member’s prodigious knowledge of the banal. I am somewhat grateful to be out of the loop. 

 To break the monotony of the day I venture out into the cold weather to treat myself to ice cream, cookies and half a muffin at the B Chef Café in town. I’ve decided to take a break from my continuous state of dieting over the festive period. It seems to have confused my metabolism to the point it has been even slower than usual. I can resume the good intentions later in January.

The B Chef has become one of my haunts of late. The wi-fi is more reliable than at Oh My Goodness! for a start. I also have a soft spot for the camp, relentlessly hard-working manager, Dénis. He holds down multiple jobs, including as bar manager in another establishment across town. He doesn’t even rest on Christmas day.

I’m all prepared with my New Year’s greeting but he’s not about. Maybe he’s taking a cat nap somewhere, as I hope. His no-nonsense mother is at the helm, instead.

An elderly gent won’t let me read or snack in peace, wishing me bon appetit at regular intervals and interrogating me about what I’m reading. His younger friend looks a tad embarrassed. At least it’s good language practice. When they leave, Dénis’ mum tells me to pay the codger no mind. He’s always like that.

Back home I catch up with writing buddy Pete on the phone. I become excessively irritated by his seemingly blasé approach to the NYE Watch Night tradition. Typical white privilege, I think. Takes everything for granted. I recognise I’m being over-bearing and legalistic. I apologise for getting wound-up. I wish I could say it doesn’t still mildly irritate me in the days to come. That’s something I definitely need to work on in this life season.

Later that evening, I settle down to a New Year’s day meal by candlelight watching the excellent biopic The Two Popes.

I stubbornly hold onto the 12 days of Christmas tradition, correcting anyone referring to it in past tense before 6 January. Others don’t show the same commitment. I notice that the Christmas music channel disappears from one of my preferred online radio stations as soon as the New Year hits. The decorations in the Rivetoile shopping centre don’t even make it to Epiphany. Although it would have been easier to dismantle mine during my weekly spring clean, I dutifully hold off until 6 January.

Within the first few days of the month, there are two choir-related socials to distract me from the winter blues. Our usual Friday night rehearsal is swapped for a meal organised by Pastor Richard, the choir’s founder. An email invitation is circulated but with no time specified. It takes place at a church close to where I live and yet, given the nature of the area, it’s still awkward to get to.

I arrive just as everyone is about to settle down to hors d’oeuvres. I sheepishly deposit the snacks I’ve brought. A surprising number of choristers past and present, as well as friends and family, are in attendance. Everyone loves free food, I suppose. Whilst helping ourselves to fingers foods and crisps, I accidentally bump into Pastor Richard. He makes a joke about my rear that it takes a few moments to register. It’s overheard by other guests.

That’s not kind. I reply, only half-joking. 

It’s delicate. Custom dictates that as my elder from a similar background, I show him respect. I get on well with his older daughter too. Although only loosely acquainted, she's a friendly soul whom I wouldn’t want to offend. There’s also the fact I’m not as quick off the mark in French as I’d be in English.

He responds along the lines of You should be proud of your ‘heritage’

But it bothers me.

I’m referring to his comment, not my anatomy (although the size of my behind does bother me).

Pastor Richard takes it to mean the latter.

Oh no, I like it! He exclaims.

Later, I’ll discuss my discomfort with fellow choristers.

The evening goes well enough. Some rice (from which I abstain) and meat stew is served up with a delicious vegetarian option. The conversation is cordial enough although I find myself struggling to overcome my ‘evening brain’. The words don’t flow as eloquently as I’d like.

Towards the end of the night, as dessert is served, Pastor Richard comes over to our table. He makes a beeline for me, commencing a conversation about my cultural background. It branches into discussions about West African language families and (according to him) a linguistic link between Yoruba and Hebrew, which I dispute. It segues into pre-historic African migration and genetic links with other ethnicities. I rather naively indulge the discussion, thinking it’s good language practice and hoping my misgivings are unfounded.

Pastor Richard’s wife signals to him, exasperated. We’re supposed to be wrapping up and heading home. I’m not sure if it’s our conversation that irks her, the late hour or both.

A couple of days later the choir meet again for a team building day. I join for the afternoon session, skipping out on the morning treasure hunt to go to church. On the way to our usual meeting place, I notice the carcass of a burnt out van.

Indoors, fellow chorister and choir administrator, Elisabeth shows us montages of the arson and vandalism that took place across Strasbourg on New Year's Eve. That would explain the incinerated van. It's a seasonal tradition. We watch, horrified and incredulous. 

At some point Elisabeth whispers,

I see the pastor has taken a shine to you.

Elisabeth admits she didn’t notice at first until others pointed it out. Other members in the vicinity nod their agreement. My fears confirmed, I feel profound embarrassment. As women so often do in these circumstances, I absorb the shame that should be that of the offending party.

I sensed he might be giving me undue attention, even in group settings. Yet I dismissed it, thinking-wishing-he just wanted to show off his English.

What an appalling example, I think. A supposedly married 'man of God' behaving in such an inappropriate way.

I tell my sisters-in-song of the cultural imperative to be respectful. I’ve tried to defuse the situation by calling Richard ‘uncle’ (which he doesn’t seem to like). Feisty soprano Leila tells me the direct approach is the only way to go.

Someone like that would appreciate it, she adds. Sensing my chagrin and taking pity, the girls vow to form a shield of protection around me to avoid future awkward encounters. Like bodyguards. I suggest it’s better I avoid any activities where Richard is likely to be involved. Elisabeth doesn't believe that's necessary. Just say hello and keep it moving, they advise. I’m grateful for their concern but quietly maintain avoidance is the best strategy. Mum agrees with me, when I share the dilemma with her over the phone that evening.

The rest of the afternoon doesn’t go much better. Choir director Kiasi divides us into teams to play a game that I eventually recognise as Dodge Ball. I work out the rules too late to sidestep being the first one out in the initial round. I turn down the chance to redeem my place and sit the rest of the game out. I feel less self-conscious as others are caught out. I manage to enjoy what turns out to be quite a thrilling round which our team wins, thanks to Leila the Legend. I mentally apply myself to doing better in round two, only to be summarily struck out within seconds.

If there were the sporting equivalent of tone-deaf then that would apply to me. This trivial incident triggers a deluge of humiliating sport-related childhood and adolescent memories.  One choir member, a notorious stirrer, offers me the ball to touch,

Just so you know what it’s like.

I roll my eyes and feel like telling her to stick it up the proverbial. Even if I weren’t so sensitive, it’s not as if we have that sort of rapport.

After another refreshment break and just before home time, some board games are suggested. We settle on Times Up. Hesitant to get involved straight away, I am eventually talked around. The rules sound convoluted but it’s a word game and, once again, I figure it’s good French practice.

Elisabeth offers to help me when it comes to my turn... In case there are problems with the language.

Surely, it’s not that bad, I retort. I know that her gesture is made in good faith but it feels like one more humiliation.

In the end, although not brilliant, I don’t do terribly. I’m better at guessing (give or take the odd grammatical error). When it’s my turn to give clues, I go blank sometimes under the pressure, berating myself later for using one word instead of another. The boyfriend of Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine mocks me when I read out the wrong clue.

I try and convince myself I’ve had a good time. Days later, when I’m still smarting from the whole incident, I concede that it was one HRGS activity I wish I’d sat out. Judging from some of the reactions of other choir members, I’m not the only one to find the whole experience underwhelming.

Maybe the combination of the failed team-building day and general January melancholy sparks off a bout of neurosis. I put a lot of the frustrations of the other day down to me still not being at ease speaking French. It bothers me that members of the choir think I’m shy. On a couple of occasions, one of the basses compliments me on being discreet but present. Each time I protest that it’s not always the case. I just come across as reserved in a French context.

True, in the scheme of things, such as the threat of yet another war in the Middle East, my hang ups are nothing at all.

Plus, when I have my post-structuralist social science hat on, I remind myself that identity is not necessarily fixed. That it’s constructed and negotiated in interaction with others. Still, it irritates and saddens me that so much of my personality is suppressed when I’m speaking French. On one hand, I know that I shouldn't care about a comment made by an obnoxious kid almost half my age; probably monolingual to boot. Yet I hate that my intelligence is called into question. I’m often not able to articulate my thoughts (which run a thousand paces ahead in any language) as smoothly or precisely.

The day after the team-building event, sis and I send each other comforting voice notes as she also tries to shake off New Year melancholia.

That evening, on the way home from a study session at B Café, a chance encounter gives me reason to hope. I’ve dilly-dallied and left the café later than I’d planned.

I accidentally press the wrong button on my MP3 player. It takes me back to the start of the mixtape I’m in the middle of. Whilst fiddling with the device to return to where I was, I overhear a conversation in American English. It sounds faith-related.

A young man is telling his interlocutors about a time that, for years, he sought clarity from God on a particular situation. I lean in as discreetly (!) as possible to make sure it’s not my imagination.

Feeling bolder to interrupt in English than I would in French, I ask if he's a Christian.

He answers in the affirmative. I apologise for the imposition, adding that the snippet of conversation I’ve heard has already been a source of encouragement. Thus sparks a brief but meaningful discussion with Jonah from Tennessee about how he came to be a missionary in Germany. His acquaintances fall silent, eventually standing aside. They look slightly put out. I can’t blame them.

After five years in Munich, Jonah still struggles with German. I share some of my own linguistic frustrations. It’s funny, I remark, how you can apparently be in the will of God and things still feel like an uphill struggle.

We part ways with a reassuring word.

This passing moment of spiritual solidarity is just what is needed to re-align my perspective.

Soundtrack: My Best of...2019 mixes.

Keep on Moving…

The days after my mother returns to the UK, my flat feels especially cavernous. That’s usually how it is after I’ve hosted a visitor. Around New Year’s, I’m even more susceptible to feelings of isolation than most other moments.

My mind turns to my plans for New Year’s Eve; La Reveillon. After two years in a row, the novelty has faded of a quiet one at home in prayer and reflection over the past year. I miss the Watch Night services at my church in London. For some nebulous reason, my French church doesn’t organise any special festive services; neither on Christmas morning nor New Year’s Eve. Something to do with building regulations or noise control in a residential area.

I am aware of a predominantly African/Caribbean congregation also in the La Meinau vicinity. Some members of my church attend their activities. In the final days of December, it occurs to me to check their website for any NYE activity. Bingo. My spirits perk up at the thought of spending 31 December worshipping and praying with others; albeit in a room full of strangers. Once I am assured that there’ll be public transport to get me home, my mind is made up.

I wear my Sunday best and head out that frosty evening to The International Christian Centre. When I arrive I’m handed an envelope and a form. I ask what it’s for. A pointless question, really. I am already very familiar with this particular African Christian tradition of writing prayer requests ahead of the New Year. I haven’t been inclined for a good while, after too many disappointments. I take the form anyway and follow the ushers obediently to a seat at the far end of my room.

There's more diversity amongst those in attendance than expected, to be fair. I’m sat next to an especially disruptive family whose children (some of them old enough to know much better) can’t sit still. At least I can see a familiar face. Seated two rows in front, I spot Katie who attends some of the events at my regular church. She flirted with membership before settling at ICC. I can’t get her attention without disturbing others. I’ll eventually work up the nerve to ask someone to tap her on the shoulder. For now, I hope she turns around.

ICC’s HQ is in Paris but has several branches across the globe. The main NYE service is conducted remotely via live stream.

I’m apprehensive. I have had enough exposure to both the good and (too often) the bad of West African church custom to have given it a wide berth for a long time. I watch with scepticism a video update on an extremely ambitious building project. The pastors say the vision is Heaven sent. I can’t obviously attest either way to the veracity of such a claim. Nevertheless, I seriously ponder the wisdom of building a multiplex when, to my mind, there are other more effective ways those funds could be used to reach the Community for Christ.

I become even more wary when the senior pastor approaches that evening’s theme; Welcome to the Decade of Dominion. I brace myself for some variation on the prosperity Gospel; building the Kingdom of God a mere pretext for self-agrandissement. This proves to be a hasty and unfair judgement. The message is refreshingly even-handed. The pastor extols Christian virtues like selflessness and humility, adding these need to be demonstrated in whichever domain the Faithful find themselves. He speaks of the Holy Spirit equipping the church to help bring solutions to the big problems facing Society today. He eschews selfish ambition, insisting that it betrays spiritual immaturity. The message ends half an hour or so before midnight as we pray, sing and dance into the New Year. By then I have scribbled down some prayer requests and am galvanised by a strong sense of hope and purpose. The countdown arrives. I still can’t get Katie’s attention. I have no-one to embrace at midnight.

Never mind. Good riddance 2010s. I won’t miss ya. I allow myself some not-so-cautious optimism looking ahead to the 2020s.

Shortly after midnight, we are politely asked to leave as the welcome team prepare the hall for the second round of festivities, including food and entertainment. It’s scheduled to last long into the wee small hours.

A few of us seize the opportunity to go home, however. Katie has the same idea as does Stacee from my church, whom I bump into at the exit. As I'm deciding the best way to kill time before the next bus, Katie offers me a lift home. The conversation is in-depth for a relatively short car ride. We speak of our similar backgrounds (her family were part of a wave of migration from Ghana to France in the 70s and 80s, of which I was not aware before living in Strasbourg). She explains how she came to faith living in the UK. We speak about the short-comings and advantages of various church cultures as well as reflect on the past and forthcoming decade. At the cusp of her 30s, Katie considers her 20s to have been a preparation period.  She uses the oft-visited cocoon analogy. A wave of melancholy sweeps over me. Coming to the end of my 30s, I recall the sense of optimism I felt at the beginning; once I had overcome certain neuroses. Much of that is yet to be fulfilled. I open up, nonetheless trying not to dampen Katie's enthusiasm. I reassure her she’ll flourish as anticipated. Inshallah.

Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 2

Colmar @ Christmas

Part 1

I organise a day trip to Colmar the Monday before Christmas. Mum and I continue our nativity tour at Colmar Cathedral. The exhibition features a thousand and one variations of the famous Christian scene, made from almost every conceivable material. 

A sizeable portion of the day is spent at the Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi museum, housed in the celebrated sculptor's old family home.

Bartholdi is best known for being the mastermind behind the Statue of Liberty. However, he was also an incredibly prolific all- round artist whose oeuvre included oil paintings, watercolours as well as sculpture. Walking around the museum, I wonder if he ever slept. He also found the time to trot the globe and be involved in the abolitionist movement. His views on race relations were progressive for an upper-middle class 19^th Century gent.  Bartholdi had a fascination with the African form as evidenced from the City’s Bruat Fountain and other work. His depictions are stunning. 

We have some unexpected musical accompaniment to our tour thanks to a teenage brass band outside. They busk their way through seasonal favourites both sacred and secular.

We exit the museum after dark. Hunger has set in.  I have more I'd like to show mum but the hour to catch our coach back to Strasbourg is fast approaching. We line up for crêpes in the cold and rain for an inordinate amount of time at a stall that is busy and short-staffed. The manager appears to join her over-worked underling, only to make herself some Nutella-based pancakes and bugger off. Another employee takes that inopportune moment to have a fag-break in full view. His stressed colleague tells him testily to lend a hand.

Mum keeps changing her mind about what she wants which increases my irritation.

Crêpes finally made, we are prevented from eating them in the associated establishment by the now terse would-be fag-smoking employee, who has suddenly found his officious side.

But I was just about to order a drink. Which I was. My protests are to no avail. He makes up some excuse about preparing for the evening clientele. His pettiness makes me fume. We walk around grumpily looking for somewhere warm to eat our  crêpes. I order what turns out to be delicious hot chocolate at an Italian establishment. We eat our now cold purchases on the sly. Despite my bad mood, I guffaw at mum’s furtive munching; as if she’s a thief on the run.  There's no more stops to be made before home time. A possible meet up with Noëlle, an acquaintance who works in Colmar, comes to nothing.  Initially enthused, she texts to say she can't make it. Held up at the office. (I have a feeling it might have something to do with me asking her earlier to not incessantly correct my French).

Tuesday morning - Christmas eve-we take a Happy Tour of my favourite part of town, Petite France, in the cold and wet. The foul weather doesn’t diffuse the customary bonhomie of our trusty guide, Leo. We have a handful of last minute purchases to make before heading to Christmas Eve service at Robertsau Eglise. During a quick stop-off at my bank, I spot a former colleague outside. I call out to him and introduce him to mum.  She's your sister, surely? he marvels.  I ask if he has any plans to return to The Human Rights Organisation.  At the time I left, he had been on sick leave for a year. Having worked for THRO for a quarter century, he's now seriously playing with the idea of early retirement.

An elaborate, festive-themed window display:
Rue des Orfèvres, Strasbourg

The Robertsau parish stage an alternative nativity story. Angel Gabriel has offended an apparently gruff God and is swiftly replaced by Angel Marcelle. The junior cast trip over their long white gowns and predictably fluff some of their lines. A badly behaved child on our row takes the attention off my translating the service for mum. A twee, rather generic message follows about the light and joy of Christmas. Quite unlike the far more circumspect Christmas morning sermon by Pastor Rohan the following day. Between his message based on the first view verses of John 1-balancing realism with hope- and the holy communion, mum is quite overcome.

Christmas day afternoon is our first extended break since mum arrived. We’ve done much of the preparation for the main meal the day before. That doesn't stop mum from doing most of the cooking itself. She’s not one for catnaps. I, on the other hand, am exhausted. After my siesta I watch the overrated A Christmas Tale (Un Conte de Noel). Off to a promising start, it’s inevitably marred by infuriatingly capricious and under-developed female protagonists. It’s an all too typical observation of French fiction; both in visual and literary form.

That evening we tuck into lentil, coconut and sweet potato soup (yours truly), a bread selection, capon, beef, pastries, potatoes, brockley, mini mince pies and traditional iced yule log, whilst watching Netflix family drama A Marriage Story. With a richer and far more layered narrative, it compensates for the disappointment of Un Conte de Noel. Mum routinely comments on Adam Driver’s organic and emotive performance.

On Thursday, I invite Gustavo and his girlfriend Raphaëlle for Boxing Day lunch. My mother offers a polite and friendly welcome before making herself scarce. Although the two have a decent level of English, mum doesn’t want me to feel obligated to translate when it falters.

Biscuits, cheese, casserole and assorted desserts are on the menu. Yet Raphaëlle and her fellow are selective eaters. Gustavo is picky and she doesn’t like the texture of meat. They should have warned me ahead of time, I insist, I could have adapted.

Not to worry, Raphaëlle replies. If we were to give you a list of our dietary requirements, we wouldn’t eat at all.

They’re an impressive young couple. Mature, well-informed and politically astute. Our conversation covers a lot of ground. There’s hope for the future with folk like this in it. They depart at twilight.

Following our hectic but enjoyable Christmas schedule, mum is content not to go out at all. By contrast, I need to expose myself to the elements at least once a day. I go for a brisk evening walk in the chill.

Inside Notre Dame Cathedral, Strasbourg

Friday. Just over a week since mum arrived for her festive visit. The way time flies never ceases to surprise me. Both of us try to resist an encroaching melancholy. I already find it hard to keep my spirits up over the New Year period. I avoid thinking too much about what it’ll be like after my mother returns to the UK.

For the last full day of her Christmas excursion, I’ve organised a visit to Strasbourg Notre Dame cathedral. It’ll be mum’s first time indoors. As much as I’m beguiled by the exterior, I avoid going inside most of the year. It’s too eerie.

The Cathedral’s customary sombre décor is nevertheless enlivened by this year’s seemingly rejuvenated Nativity scene.  Once more,  I leave mum in the evening to attend rehearsal for a Christmas spectacle that weekend, taking place after she jets off. It will involve several choirs including my own, the High Rock Gospel Singers. It’s a chaotic run-through. Pastor Richard continues with his unintentionally hilarious, pomp-filled antics. One soul-stirring chorus is conducted by the rhythmically-challenged director of a Mauritian chorale. Between following his spasmodic non-directions and being told we need to convey the simple but moving lyrics with more passion, it is like a mental assault course.

The concert will nevertheless be a source of well-timed distraction after seeing mum off at Etoile Bourse coach station that Saturday. I don’t have too much time to feel her absence that evening. It'll kick in later.

The next day we catch up on the phone. After her safe arrival back in Blighty the night before, Mum’s enjoying a relaxed Sunday (visit to the gym notwithstanding). She’s in good spirits despite having to be back at work the next morning. She spent some of the journey back to Sydenham re-watching the clips she filmed on her phone during the holiday. The transit time evaporated, she exclaims. 

We reflect once more on how splendid and stress-free her trip was, give or take the odd strop on my part.

Later that night, on the way back from the bathroom I’ll hesitate at the top of the stairs. For a brief moment I am mentally comforted by the thought of my mum sleeping in the living room. Just as quickly, I remember I’m on my own again.