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.