...Evolution (Part 1)

Whilst the world undergoes a very necessary upheaval, I am negotiating one of my own; albeit of a far less dramatic kind. It’s still significant on a personal level.

La Vie Strasbourgeoise is in need of a name-change. After six months of unemployment, despite living through what could turn out to be one of the worst economic crises for several generations, I have experienced a miracle first hand. I have been blessed with the opportunity to join a trade union organisation in Brussels. From this summer I’ll be working on projects relating to marginalised groups in the heart of Europe and around the world. 

Relocating is challenging at any time, let alone during a pandemic. My former employer, The Human Rights Organisation (THRO) have agreed to pay for my goods to be transported. First, I have to procure three quotes. Pinning down removal companies isn’t as straightforward as I hoped. 

The task feels overwhelming. COVID-19 quarantines notwithstanding, mum would have crossed the Channel to help. It intensifies any sense of loneliness. My sleep becomes even more disrupted than it already has been for the last year and a half. It’s taking its toll on my short term memory. I struggle to be coherent in my already fragile second language as well as sometimes being at a loss for words in my first.

Out in the real world, France is adapting to post-lockdown life. The Strasbourgeois take it slowly. I meet up with a former colleague for a farewell in the Parc Orangerie, surprised by the calm considering the fine weather.

When I catch-up with Catarina later that week, we have trouble finding an open café. Two of my usual haunts are closed. The third has the same name but under new management. I note other establishments are closed or open at reduced hours. The detrimental economic effects of the necessary lockdown have already started to show. I feel a wave of melancholy. It's the nature of change, Catarina consoles.

Another source of dolefulness is the lack of physical contact. As I meet up with friends for goodbye drinks, I ache to embrace. There are awkward moments of not knowing what to do with our hands. The safe elbow-bump du jour isn’t really cutting it. I miss hugs. One evening, whilst meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi at Café Jabiru, Gael greets us at the door. I lament once more about the absence of embrace.

You should just go for it, then, he advises, ever-daring.

Thus I do. It feels so good. It’s contagious. I extend the bear-hug love to Kiasi. (As my departure date draws ever-closer, I’ll throw caution to the wind and hug anyone who is willing)

Kiasi has been eager to meet since I announced my official departure date. My French is relatively free-flowing for a change, which isn’t always the case faced with his easy bilingualism.We pass a very enjoyable few hours in candid conversation. It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to clear the air since that infamous choir meeting. Opinions diverge but there’s no animosity.  At least we have had our day in court. 

I’m saddened to hear Kiasi has no plans in the near future to return to the chorale. It shouldn’t matter, since I will no longer be around either. Yet there's a part of me that'll remain attached to HRGS. Kiasi maintains the choir is still like family to him. I joke that I will have to edit out the last couple of months. He long predicted that a break would be good for the group. He couldn’t have anticipated it would be enforced, however. We both agree this unexpected sabbatical might signal a fresh start. For now, it’s not known exactly when that’ll be.

As the evening progresses, whilst working our way through Afropean snacks, we talk life, relationships, family, his future career plans (PR in the humanitarian sector) and extra-curricular activities (21^st century talk show) and of course lots and lots of music. We gush over Fred vs Kirk legendary lockdown livecast, dispute the Teddy Riley vs. Babyface showdown and converge naturally over the musicality of Brandy…

Perhaps emerging from lockdown has renewed my taste for the simple pleasure of good company and good conversation. 

Maybe not. I don’t want to reach for lazy clichés. I do know that relocating during a pandemic complicates the process.

On one level, having mentally prepared to leave Strasbourg since last year, I’ve had time to grieve the loss of my new familiar. Add to that being separated from my social circles for months, to an extent I’ve made my peace with disconnection. Not being able to meet in the conventional sense means there’ll be a lot of folk I won’t physically have the chance to see before I leave. In some ways that takes the sting out of it. At least there’ll be no tearfully dramatic scenes, I tell people. On the other hand it does distort any sense of resolution.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I am more lachrymose, as I fill up cardboard boxes with trinkets encased in bubble wrap and reflect on my two and a half years living in Strasbourg. It’s no small thing saying goodbye to my first proper flat. My first experience of not sharing with family or an assortment of strangers.

After a rather lengthy, bureaucratic process THRO select a removal company using the quotes I forward. If I’m not packing I’m meeting more friends and former colleagues around Strasbourg. We talk about life during and post-lockdown. Some single. Some in relationships. Others with children. Some working. Some retired. The cross-section of my Strasbourg community is a testament to the better part of the experience. 

I have also been fortunate enough of late to bump into fleeting local acquaintances. The kind where you stop to chat but don’t necessarily exchange numbers or even names. I’m pleased for the opportunity to inform them of my move rather than disappear into the ether. I hand out by now rather weathered business cards, having been gathering dust in my bag. I don’t expect them to be used but it makes me feel better.  As much as possible, I try to pass by the local businesses I've patronised to also let them know I'm on the move. That's still feasible in Strasbourg. It might have city status but it's more like a large-ish town.

I head to the newly re-opened Temple Neuf for a workshop with Pastor Rohan on the origins of the Gospels. It’ll be one of the last occasions to stop by before I leave. As we wrap up, I tell him of my imminent move, to which he responds with his habitual affability. On the way to the bus stop, by sweet serendipity, I bump into Kiasi once more.

A couple of days later I am back at Temple Neuf for a moment of quiet at the weekly meditative sessions. Considering it’s my last it’s far from the best. I arrive just a little late, after an afternoon of enriching conversation, as usual, with Stacee.

There is very little available seating in the main hall given the imposed physical-distancing. A woman confusingly removes a ‘do not sit’ sign from a seat then rather coolly informs me it's not free. By the time one of the young pastoral assistants brings out some extra chairs, my mind is elsewhere. On top of the existing mind traffic, I’m already distracted by the cold reception from the largely older, culturally homogeneous attendees. This is not the respite for which I came. 

I’ve long thought it pointless for churches to re-open whilst the virus is still active. Physical-distancing and over-preoccupation with disinfecting shared spaces aren’t conducive to a warm welcome and easy-going fellowship. Sadly, this episode doesn't prove me wrong.

Soundtrack: Classic Boyz II Men albums, La Vita Nuova by Christine & The Queens, Irreplaceable Love by Commissioned