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| (courtesy of Houstonia magazine) |
It could well be fatigue. I’ve developed an unconscious habit of waking up between 4 and 6am, pumped with adrenaline and unable to fall back asleep properly. (It would help if I could also discipline myself to go to bed earlier.)
Oddly enough it’s the days and not the nights that get to me. Perhaps because I’m more alert.
I persevere, continuing the job hunt despite my reluctance. I don't have the luxury of doing otherwise. I attend a workshop on working overseas. I continue my monthly meetings with my careers adviser. She asks me how I am doing. 'Not very well', I confess. It's all I can do not to weep in her office.
The isolation has begun to eat away at me. Light depression stalks at the edges.
I’ve been here before during unemployment. My soundness of mind has survived. Just. By the grace of God.
All I can do is wait it out. Lent is upon us. A time for spiritual recalibration and stillness. I’m in my own wilderness. It probably feels bigger than it is because I’m in the thick of it; in between calling out to God in frustrated prayer and waiting for a response.
I’ve started de facto small group therapy sessions at church, led by Chantelle.
She tells us not to deny our reality. We must acknowledge it, she advises, but framed in the light of God’s truth.
Easier said than done but salient nonetheless. By the time that session has come round, I’m emotionally spent.
Time to take the attention off myself.
I pop round to see fellow chorister and friend, Michelle, who’s recovering from an operation. She and her sister Karine give me a warm welcome. Of a similar political persuasion, I spend a lively hour in their company discussing the latest twists and turns in the UK and France.
After leaving Michelle's I make a well-needed spiritual pit stop at Temple Neuf for the weekly Respire meditation session.
Later that evening, it's the first choir rehearsal since that meeting. A few of the newer members have stayed away. I wouldn’t blame them for feeling dejected. It's a respectable turn out otherwise, considering. Nicole has asked me to revisit May The Lord God Bless You Real Good.
I focus on the general structure of the song, for those who are not yet familiar. The fine-tuning of the details will be for another time. It’s a task trying to get the fellows to keep their harmonies, especially not being a male vocalist myself. I encourage where I can and endeavour to keep it stimulating. I swap around harmonies and ask the choristers to switch places to help them develop some musical autonomy. The feedback is really positive. I'm chuffed.
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| (SNUipp) |
The City's carnival, scheduled at the start of March, is cancelled once more. A combination of Coronavirus panic and ominous weather forecasts. It makes no sense to hold it in late winter in any case. It's the second consecutive year the event has been pulled. I feel bad for the young uns involved.
On the way into my church building, I spot a poster imploring citizens to take necessary precautions. A member of the Welcome Team stands at the entrance. No-one is getting past without a squirt of hand sanitiser first. The senior pastor raises a prayer at the end of the service for anyone affected by the virus.
I give the evil eye to anyone coughing without covering their mouth. My racist streak surfaces when I witness an Oriental man doing just that on the bus home from church.
The following week, our normal Sunday service will be cancelled altogether after news of a COVID19 outbreak at a megachurch in the Greater Alsace area. During the alternative livestream service via Youtube, the pastoral team inform us that there have been a few congregants diagnosed with the virus. They're all confined but otherwise in relatively good shape, except for one who has been hospitalised. As an added precaution, the team announces that church will be closed all week at least and activities suspended.
Other events follow suit. A jobseekers' event I was supposed to attend is cancelled. As is a concert at which my choir were meant to perform.
I attend a midweek Jazz event that is only half as full as it was the previous fortnight. That same weekend, at another Jazz concert, the bandleader thanks the audience profusely. It's a difficult time to be a musician, he says with so many cancelled engagements. Heads swivel round whenever I cough or sneeze.
An acquaintance with whom I meet up later refuses to attend any shows during the COVID19 crisis. When I mention I have a cold, he looks at me as if I had a bomb strapped to my person. He later informs me he's stockpiling food. 'For Armageddon'. He's only half-joking.
Coronavirus is one of the many topics of conversation at the official opening of my friend Gael’s Afropean restaurant.
I could kick myself for not having worn something more traditional for the event, especially when I notice one of Gael’s guests representing the Motherland.
I feel a little intimidated by all the unfamiliar faces. Gael instantly welcomes me into the fold, introducing me to his crew who in turn take me under the wing.
How did you meet? they ask.
Oh she’s my ex. We slept together. I cheated on my boyfriend with a woman.
Cheeky monkey.
Phew. I say, It’s suddenly hot in here.
Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulate. Having gone vegetarian for Lent I fear I might miss out. Gael has me covered with his Tofu pastries. Used to it tasting like cardboard, I never knew the bean snack could be this good.
Gael's childhood friends, Claudine and Kéké are spontaneously complimentary about my French. God knows I need the encouragement. It relaxes me. We discuss topics such as language acquisition, their experience of Berlin (they don’t recommend it, at least in winter), our mutual distrust of Emmanuel Macron and disdain for his policies.
If I lived in the UK or US, I’d be a socialist too observes Claudine. In France, we don’t need to be socialist to protect what we already have.
In a shockingly underhanded move, the Prime Minister Édouard Phillippe has sneaked through the controversial retirement bill without a parliamentary vote. A legal loop hole has been used under the pretext of an emergency weekend sitting to discuss Coronavirus measures.
Prepare for war, says Claudine.
Vive la revolution, I reply.
The flamboyant Gerard introduces himself by voguing and seductively kissing my hand. Kéké starts ironically singing ABBA's Dancing Queen and Gael decides to put it on. I do a shimmy and work the room a bit more. I hold court with Gael’s newest (and dishiest) waiter whilst ordering my favourite sweet snack, Kudu. Gael offers to hook me up with a date but I demure on account of age. I’m happy just to admire from a distance.
I chat with another waitress; an Afrobeat and Hip-Hop dancer like sis. I pass on her Gram details.
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| (c) Olivier Galleano |
At the end of the night, I bid a fond farewell to newly made acquaintances.
Gael’s crew will return to Paris the following day. His friends are a credit to him. I hope to see them again. Not knowing when my Strasbourg adventure will end, alas that might be wishful thinking.
For now, the evening has given my morale a well-needed if temporary boost. I could complain about my lot; my frustrations about being caught up in limbo once again and not exactly knowing how I'll continue to pay rent in the meantime. All those things are genuine challenges. To be grateful is not to pretend.
I would also do well to savour the fact that, thank God, I'm in good health in spite of the viral panic. I have the freedom and independence during this life season to come and go as I please. I can spend an evening eating good food and having stimulating conversation with a diverse and cultured crowd in a chic corner of the world.
Perspective my dear, perspective.
Soundtrack: Kamakiriad & The Nightfly by Donald Fagen, Letter from Home by the Pat Metheny Group and AmerElo by Emicida
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