Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part IV

Avignon (c) Hong Zhao

Part I

Part II

Part III

That evening the main event that lured me to Avignon takes place; the JAM aka Jazz Avignon Musics (dodgy English) Tremplin contest. In French, tremplin literally means ‘trampoline’ but could also be used in the metaphorical sense of a launchpad or boost. Three acts battle it out to be the JAM Tremplin laureate for this year. The winner is decided through a mix of public voting and jury deliberation. Alas, the transport links to the venue in Place des Carmes are extremely limited. By around 9pm, most of the buses stop altogether (summer hours). My enquiries about taxi services lead nowhere. That means I’m walking it back from the show to the accommodation after dark.

Since I’ll have to cover most of the outbound commute by foot as well, I decide to walk the whole way.  I bump into my Airbnb host, Didi near the canal. He informs me he’ll be out of town for the rest of my stay. I’ll have the space to myself. I’m taken aback but have enough presence of mind to express my appreciation for him as a host. As a parting gift, he recommends some more cultural events in the region that weekend and we go our separate ways.

Despite some unplanned detours and delays, I arrive at the Place des Carmes 10 minutes from the start of the event. However, I’m light-headed with hunger – unusual for me. Since my morning pastries, I have had a cookie and a slushy. I thought these would provide enough sugar-rush energy until dinner. Clearly not. Fortunately, the JAM venue is surrounded by restaurants.

Tonight, I’m determined to eat some local cuisine. I find a laidback restaurant with amicable staff serving a Provence fish specialty with some salad and copious amounts of bread (naughty, I know), added on request. 

In spite of the restaurant's efficient service, there’s a queue by the time I return to the JAM venue. It’s at full capacity inside.  We have to wait for others to leave before anyone can enter. To think that I arrived early enough to have avoided this nonsense. Damn my hunger.  If I miss out on the show, I’ll be furious. This is the main thing that brought me to Avignon in the first place. Given the rest of the underwhelming line-up, if I miss this, it’ll feel like a wasted trip. I could come to Provence any other time of the year.

Gradually, some punters start to vacate the venue. I enter just as the Gregori Hollis Quartet are rounding off their set. There’s no space to sit except for the edge of the stage. During the break some more seats become available. I can now relax into the evening. The venue, le Cloître des Carmes, is stunning. Initially a Carmelite convent dating back to the 14th Century, since 1967 it’s hosted open air concerts, the stage flanked by the original stone arch design.

The next set is by an auspicious French and Caribbean Piano/Alto Sax pairing called Crossing. I appreciate the pianist’s rhythm and voicing. They’re followed by Who Parked the Car?, a Jazz/Rock fusion sextet led by a female vocalist, who draw inspiration from the likes of Glasper and Snarky Puppy. My initial plan is to stay for just one or two numbers. The concert is already much longer than I thought. Famous last words. I’m too intrigued by the soundscape of Who Parked…? to leave early.

I’m also coaxed into staying by an obtrusively gregarious Parisian named Hanane. During one of the breaks, she stops to interrogate me about my Dutch wax skirt and the ornate tote bag I picked up from a conference in Kenya last year. She’s very keen on both (my get-up has already drawn the positive attention of a motorist earlier that day. ‘I love your style’, he yells).

Hanane manages to be sociable and yet greatly lacking in social intelligence. I wonder how she’s made it this far in life being so obliviously obnoxious. It occurs to me that she might also be neurodivergent. Then again, women on the spectrum are usually socialised into masking well enough for it not to be so obvious. Hanane is overly familiar and tactile, handling my skirt and bag before I’ve given permission. She has a habit of poking me so hard in the shoulder for emphasis, I tell her to knock it off. She is keen to swap details however, claiming she has cultured friends all over, including Brussels, through whom she can hook me up with comps. More importantly for my immediate concerns, she mentions multiple options for me to return accompanied to my accommodation.

After Who Parked…? close their set, there’s an indefinite period of deliberation by the jury.  The ballots have run out before I can cast my public vote. Maybe it’s for the best. I’d have been torn between the last two acts. In the interim, there’s supposed to be a jam (no pun intended) with all the musicians playing on stage. Judging from the sluggish uptake, most of them don’t seem interested in this option.  They’re probably too preoccupied with waiting for the results.

 

I’m exhausted. Meanwhile, Hanane alternates between offering to take photos of me ‘as a souvenir of the night’, and making passive aggressive comments about my eagerness to return to my accommodation because of fatigue. Well, I barely got any sleep yesterday but this kind of event doesn’t happen every day. No, but it happens every summer. No two shows are the same…but if you don’t have the patience to wait… Hold on a minute. I’ve already killed time waiting around for her entourage to exit but they aren’t ready to leave. I don’t want to be at the mercy of others’ schedules, I protest. Hanane keeps ‘volunteering’ the services of a friend to accompany me home. He seems non-committal and is not in a hurry. I am.

It’s past midnight and there’s no clear indication of when exactly proceedings will be over. I leave Hanane’s hot air and the strains of the half-hearted allstar jam behind me.

Before leaving, Hanane reassures me that Avignon is still active at this time of night. Didi tells me women walk alone all the time. 

Avignon Bridge (c) Compagnons

It's true that bars and restaurants are still thriving in the immediate vicinity. I follow a mixed gender group down a familiar road. They might have also been at the concert. Their presence puts me more at ease. One of the two men is pushing a woman in a wheelchair. I slow my pace to adjust to theirs. They eventually take a turn that I don’t recognise. I forge ahead, trusting it will work out.

It does, sort of.

I break out onto a busier main road near the city centre. I head in the wrong direction at first, stumbling upon a red light district before I course correct. I then follow a couple with a dog, walking (or cycling in the woman’s case) in the direction of my accommodation. I’m once again led down an unfamiliar street. The couple turn in the opposite direction. Fortunately, I’m closer to the Airbnb than I realise. I figure out my bearings. As I do, another group of women emerge, also walking their dogs at this ungodly hour. Still, I’m grateful. It means I’m not alone. Praise Jesus, I make it back all in one piece.

It’s the weekend. The start of a new month and the last full day of my Avignon trip. I’ve opted to stay in the area and return to some sites that I haven’t yet had time to explore. My first stop is the le fameux Pont Saint-Bénezet/Bridge of Avignon. En route, I stumble across the souvenir district and pick up one or two trinkets. 

For my student discount ticket, I get entrance to the bridge with an audio guide.

Next stop is Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, an adjunct village built during the papal era.  I have another video call with sis later that puts some time pressure on me. I pass by yet another re-purposed monastery, La Chartreuse. I’m not in the mood to pay for another attraction, nor do I have the luxury of time, so I take advantage of the deck chairs in the free space, Le Cloître Saint-Jean garden, for a little respite. Later, weaving my way through the charming streets of Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, I can’t resist a detour to La Colline des Mourgues, only to find it locked for risk of the forest fires that have recently blighted Southern Europe.  

Palais des Papes (c) Mike Von

Sis and I end up rescheduling our call anyway, so all the rushing was for nought. If I’d had a day or so extra, I’d have taken a trip to nearby Rochefort-du-Gard or returned to Arles to hang out on my own.

All in all, I feel a strange detachment to Avignon.  It’s something I'm reluctant to admit. I'm conscious that travelling for pleasure is a luxury for most of the world, and that being ambivalent about my holiday is a highly privileged position to be in.

I don’t know what it is. The region is attractive. I enjoyed the JAM festival, once I could get in. Maybe it’s just that I left it too long to visit Avignon. Unconsciously, expectations must have built up over the years and decades that couldn’t be met.

That night, it’s back to ÔCargo for dinner.  The theme that evening is a fiesta: Central and South America-style. The advised dress code is white and red. I know in advance but ignore it. I didn’t bring anything appropriate anyway. A live brass band plays what I assume are some traditional instrumentals. It’s not my cup of tea. That night, I skip the Tunisian to check out the Afro-fusion menu. I’ve been apprehensive up until that point, as I tend to judge this cuisine more harshly for a variety of reasons. I try the Bao bread rolls with fried chicken, a flavoursome onion and bell pepper garnish, guacamole sauce and sweet potato chips. Those are the only kind of fries I really enjoy and these are particularly good; some of the best I’ve had anywhere. My experience of sweet potato chips in similar establishments have thus far been disappointing.

Avignon @ sunset (c) Tao Qi

I leave not long after my meal, wanting to beat the sunset. I'll be saying farewell to Avignon the next day. Little do I know at the time how stressful my return journey to Brussels will be, with a cancelled train setting off a chain of heart-palpatating events.

For now, all I have to think about is the walk back to Didi’s. I’ve come to enjoy the quarter hour or so stroll along the motorway between ÔCargo and the accommodation. As I leave, I wish bonne soirée to the same woman working on security each night near the entrance of ÔCargo's converted depot. I feel to tell her that I’ll be leaving soon and wish her all the best but she’s distracted with incoming clients.

It occurs to me that the odds of us ever seeing each other again are extremely remote, even if I return to Avignon (I'm in no rush). I never even asked her name. It has me wondering about all the liminal relations we have with people who aren’t complete strangers but with whom familiarity is tenuous. It’s so easy for us to vanish out of each other’s lives from one day to the next. The thought makes me slightly maudlin.

Maybe we’ll meet in eternity, I assure myself.

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko; Masego by Masego

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

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 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. 

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.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker