And the Beat Goes On

Reason to be cheerful part infinity. 

I’ve had my moments of feeling glum. Days on end of metallic grey skies don’t help. I endeavour-not entirely successfully- to avoid going into meltdown over the current grim state of British politics. Towards the end of January, it’s a real challenge. The deadline for Brexit is at hand.  A trusted family friend makes an insensitive and over-simplistic comment along the lines that it's an unquestionable gain.

I lose great respect for him. It puts me into an oppressive funk during the whole of Exit day. It takes me to the evening and a brief meditation session for it to lift.

Whilst Brexiteers jubilate in the streets, Remainers resign to the new reality; some more philosophical than others.

Living in France with a British passport, I have the very real consideration of my as now ambiguous citizenship weighing on my mind.

I’ve applied for a short term residence permit and await the results. The Consulate is no doubt snowed under.

And the beat goes on. Despite my anxiety, mercifully I have not had the bout of consuming S.A.D I’ve been expecting. I literally can’t afford to sit around moping. There are jobs to find, blogs to update, places to go and people to see.

January has not been the slow and quiet return to business as normal that I thought it would be. A myriad of self-imposed tasks and distractions eat into the time I set aside for self-development. A musical retrospective of the 2010s on which I’ve been working for months. A worthy and stimulating interview arranged with a restaurateur chum.

Nevertheless, I persevere with my routine as much as I can.

On the 1 February, the first official day of being a non-EU citizen, I attend the 40th birthday celebrations of church friend, Celina.  It's an 8pm start, according to the slick invitations. I give myself half an hour grace, not wanting to be rattling around an empty hall waiting for other guests to show up.

I spot Celina's husband, Angelo, outside the venue on arrival. I'm assuming it's fully underway. How naive. The hall is still all but deserted. I gravitate towards Raymond, the first familiar face I see. He's in full conversation with an unknown guest. I feel self-conscious. I notice some other church acquaintances across the hall. Raymond mentions he's based at this other table. I take the hint with gratitude and switch. The DJ is spinning some choice R&B and Hip-Hop from yesteryear. I bounce along without compunction. It's a shame there's hardly anyone around to dance. The birthday girl isn't even on the scene.

She won't rock up for almost another couple of hours. She'll make a carefully choreographed entrance, flanked by her lovely teenage daughter and a few others; moving in simple yet funky Afrobeat step. By then the room will be full. This would leave enough time for the hors d'oeuvres to get cold and for me to cast a disapproving eye at all the evident skin-bleaching. Having not eaten for most of the day, I'm hungry and irritable. I feel the necessity to apologise to Raymond and others for this especially sorry perpetuation of the 'African time' stereotype.

Oh, I'm used to it. Raymond brushes off my concern.

I'm not, even now.

It's coming up to 11pm.  Another church acquaintance, Eva and I have infrequent buses to catch. We consider leaving without any grub.

After a brief speech (in which Celina admits the party was more her husband's idea), dinner is finally served. It's dished out by slack-jawed and half-attentive adolescents. To the amusement of my fellow guests,  I pack my plate. It smells better than it tastes. Whether or not this is an accurate representation of traditional Lusophone African cuisine, I can't say. I hope not. Everything is either bland or seems to be suffused with fish, even when it's not compatible. I feel like gagging part way through. I cut my losses after unsuccessfully trying to minimise the waste. Another guest helps herself to an uneaten kebab. No objection from me.

Eva and I make our exit, not before another group photo is taken.

Soundtrack: The Free Nationals + Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.

Complex

Being in between jobs at least allows me to make more time for my acquaintances. I’ve had a good catch-up with a few since the end of my contract and have more lined up, including with former colleagues.

Amongst them is Afro-Brazilian Camila, whom I invite around for supper. A few weeks before I quit The Organisation, she sends me an email out of the blue. She's back in town and returned to work at THRO. I’m touched as well as shocked. Last I heard, she left Strasbourg at the start of the year to begin a new life in Seattle. She accepts my invitation to dinner without hesitation.

I am glad for the excuse to be hospitable. It is one of the reasons I chose to rent a sizeable flat. Logically, I should make the most of it in my last remaining months in Alsace.

As the evening approaches I become more nervous.   In my haste I forget to say grace before our butternut squash soup and fish pie meal.

I’ve had a good run of French conversation of late that falls to pieces in the presence of polyglot Camila.

Hers is the definition of a charmed life. Still beautiful, still thin, still talented, still much younger than me. Supportive boyfriend still at her side; willing to follow her anywhere around the globe. Willing, as Camila explains, to spend months unemployed in Washington State whilst she was the sole breadwinner. Even when she recounts the difficulties she encountered in Seattle that influenced her decision to return to France, I can’t help thinking she’s got away lightly. When she returned to Strasbourg her old job was waiting for her. She found a good flat within a short space of time during what (as I was told when I arrived) is usually a tough period for securing accommodation. Her French -picked up within months-is natural and nigh-impeccable. She did a language test in the States which confirmed her near-native level. I assume she has an advantage, what with having a Francophone boyfriend and all. No, she tells me. They still speak to each other mostly in English. She barely spoke French whilst living in Seattle. She’s gifted and blessed to have been adopted by wealthy Europeans who have given her the best start anyone could hope for in life; including a multi-lingual upbringing and extended overseas summer sojourns.

During the course of the conversation, I discover that although a temp, she has a senior position to that which I had. Her manager told her not to go for anything less.

I forgot how anytime spent in Camila’s company leaves me filling woefully inadequate; questioning all my life choices and disappointed with the hand I’ve been dealt. I see in her the life I always wanted.

After a somewhat excruciating couple of hours, in which I’m obligated to recount the less than ideal circumstances at THRO leading to my departure, Camila heads home. She’s hardly eaten. The ample leftovers will spare me a few nights' cooking. On the other hand, I wonder if this is one more thing I didn’t get right.

For the next few days I’ll fall into a Camila-induced depression. I hate that I am so insecure that I can have an existential crisis for what are essentially superficial reasons. So what she’s cleverer or speaks more languages than you? My sister posits. In 100 years we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter. She reminds me that in the scheme of things, we’ve hit the life lottery. I know all this and I’m ashamed that such thoughts cross my mind. If Camila can trigger a massive inferiority complex, then I must admit that there are circumstances in which I’d feel superior to others. I know too well that finding validation in accomplishment is a fool’s errand. There’ll always be a Camila to make me feel crap about myself if I let it.

Exhibition of Henry Simon's work @ Mt. St. Odile Convent, Alsace
(image courtesy of DNA)

I call to mind Régine’s story, in which I find some reassurance. As usual, I thrash it out with God. As unsettling as my thought-life has been of late, I’m glad to have to confront it head on. I don't want to be the sort of person that begrudges others' good fortune or constantly compares myself, only to come up short. My faith is the only antidote.

It's with that in mind that I head to Mount Saint Odile convent for some time of reflection that Friday. The festival of All Saints. The sunshine of the day before is replaced by rain clouds, as it is wont to do each time I've visited the site. It'll be the last chance to access it by public transport before the spring. By then, God willing, I should be long gone.

In my chapel of choice there's an exhibition in honour of erstwhile POW of the Nazis, Henry Simon. His story of survival, as well as his simple watercolour depictions of the stations of the Cross, cut to the heart.  As usual, I've lost sight of on Whom my faith is based. I can't say I'm 'cured' after one exhibition but it does something for my perspective.

Soundtrack - Slakah the Beatchild/Slakadeliqs - Various

Life After THRO: Muddling Through

And it came to pass. My life after The Human Rights Organisation begins on an otherwise uneventful Thursday in mid-October.

Following weeks of conflicted feelings about my change in work status and the events that preceded it earlier this year, I’m emotionally spent. I am technically on holiday but leisure time is a luxury I can’t afford. I need to intensify my job search. I want to catch up on all the studying I haven’t been able to fit in around work. There are also household chores to which I must attend. I hope to squeeze in some writing whilst I’m at it. In between that I am obligated to wade through the morass of French welfare bureaucracy now I’m currently non-active.

I have made a schedule for myself. Two mornings a week to look for work. Mondays are to be spent either at Oh My Goodness! café or at the University library (since all the others are closed). I quibble whether to become a member since it would only really be to use the printer. The desk clerk is all smiley and flustered and keeps apologising for giving me the wrong information. At first I assume it’s because he’s new and not used to the procedure. When he asks where I’m from, the penny drops. I can be quite naive about the intentions of the opposite sex.

Tuesdays and Fridays I stay local since I’m likely to be busy in the evenings. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, I’ll while away some hours at the inviting André Malraux Médiathèque in central Strasbourg. Whatever happens I don’t want to spend too much time in my flat. Whilst I’m temporarily out of work, I can’t take human contact for granted. I also must make sure my French doesn’t suffer. I’m tentatively hopeful after noting that my spontaneous interactions in La Langue de Molière aren’t as laboured or clumsy as I feared. I even receive some positive feedback. 

 In the spirit of keeping up and improving my French I start attending a midweek event organised via Meet-Up that I’ve usually been too occupied to frequent.

I’m pleased to note that there are more native francophones in attendance than Christmas 2018; the last time I was at this particular gathering. One Thursday night, I pass a particularly pleasant evening in the company of two gorgeous Tunisian-Italian brothers; Constantin and Stefano. I grin from ear to ear when they knock a decade off my age. Eye-candy and compliments aside, they’re especially keen to meet up and practise their English. They picked up an intermediate level living in Hong-Kong within an impressively short two years. I’m happy to oblige. I invite them to join me and Gustavo, my lovely Lusophone acquaintance and talented linguist who also wants to entretenir son anglais. That is...once I can find the time. 

 I skip out of the meet-up in good spirits and glad for the distraction. I've been wrestling with remnants of feeling for The Old Heartache I left behind at THRO. The sense of regret lingers long after our final farewell. A vicious circle of self-recrimination plays itself out. My wholesome evening of chat with Constantin and Stefano reminds me there are other men on this planet. I’ll be fine. The frustrating ambiguity and remaining debris of heartbreak will work themselves out of my system with time. The healing process is already underway.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t days where I feel almost desolate and running low on hope. I’m angry with God, with THRO and myself at how things have turned out. News of a UK General Election fills me with both excitement and great apprehension. I am due to visit the UK soon but don’t know if there’ll be any opportunity to campaign whilst I’m there. One more thing to worry about, if I let it.

I try to distract myself with my new daily routine. I attend a special Jazz and Psalms service at Temple Neuf one Sunday; a break from the norm. I’ve invited former colleagues from The Organisation; Natalya and Winnie. Despite her initial enthusiasm, Natalya flakes for more whimsical reasons than I’d expect. It throws me off. I compromise my hitherto tight schedule and end up missing all my travel connections. I arrive at Temple Neuf later than planned (as usual) and annoyed with myself for being a stereotype. Winnie and her housemate Helga are already seated. Pastor Rohan expounds on how both optimism and pessimism are extreme forms of fatalism. Christians aren’t called to endorse either, he gently admonishes.  He speaks of God not imposing on our free will. Of late this has also been a recurring theme at my main church. Normally, I would look past the coincidence for deeper meaning. In this instance however, I’m not sure. This doesn’t chime with my experience. Maybe for most others this Divine Imposition is less apparent, with a far wider margin of manoeuvre. My whole life, on the other hand, has felt very much circumscribed by God. Then there’s the biblical case study that is Jonah. As a wise young woman once said to me, free will is over-rated and over-stated.

After the service I try to communicate this to Winnie and Helga without it turning into a rant. I’m not convinced that I succeed.  Musing over determinism aside, we're all feeling upbeat thanks to the soothing effects of the acoustic sax and piano interpretation of hymns. We commend the musicians heartily.

Later that week, my choir HRGS has its first show of the term; another welcome distraction from my intermittently bleak thoughts. I’ve invited a good deal of acquaintances, including Winnie and other former work colleagues. In the end, only Catarina shows up. By coincidence the performance takes place in a church she’s planning to visit. Maybe it’s a sign, I suggest playfully.

I see her at the front, having a whale of a time. She joins in enthusiastically when our seasoned showman choir director, Kiasi insists on audience participation. The choir turn out in good numbers. To my mind it’s vocally one of our most consistent performances. And yet rather than lift my funk, the concert compounds it. To my shame, I attribute much of this to my own vanity. A couple of non-issues niggle at me about my solo. A few members decide to interrupt my ad-libs, quite unlike how we rehearsed it. Furthermore, Catarina says nothing about my performance despite my efforts to calm my nerves and do a decent job. My dissatisfaction hovers throughout the weekend. I leave multiple self-commiserating voicemails for my sister. I am even more sensitive than usual these days, I observe. She’s a pillar of strength; speaking wisdom and firm truth in love.

Shards of light pierce through elsewhere. I attend a seminar at my church organised for single women. The speaker, Régine, is a pastor whom I hold in great regard. She shares about her unorthodox upbringing, sexual misadventures, marrying a man nearly 10 years her junior in her 30s as well as her struggles with crippling anxiety and insecurity. Régine’s candour about her non-linear spiritual journey is a refreshing change from the cut-and-dry narrative some Christians feel compelled to rehearse. She readily answers the personal questions posed by her attentive audience. When someone asks her how to overcome low self-worth in the face of societal pressures on women to be flawless, Régine answers in her customary honesty. There’s no magic formula or one-shot panacea. It’s a spiritual battle. We must persevere with God.

Although our life stories diverge significantly in places, there’s also much to which I can relate. I’m effusive with thanks for Régine’s authenticity after the seminar. I’ve no doubt I’ll draw comfort and strength from her testimony in future.

Soundtrack: A Love Surreal by Bilal,

Easter Delight Part 2

Strasbourg Cathedral (c) Yinka Ositelu

The most significant holiday of the Christian calendar has an added element of excitement for me this year. My mother and sister will be spending the long weekend in Strasbourg. It’s the first time this trinome dynamique would have been in the same geographical space for over three years. Most of Good Friday is spent putting the finishing touch to preparations. Given that everything shuts down here during public holidays, I’ve left nothing to chance; staggering my shopping over the weeks and days ahead.

In the evening I attend a special meditation session at the Temple Neuf in the centre of town. These weekly gatherings, simply called Breathe, allow for Christians and those interested in the faith to take a break from the rat race and spend time in reflection. This Easter/Resurrection weekend, the pastor leaves even more room for quiet contemplation. I seek stillness more so than ever at this juncture of my life. Not being especially mellow by nature, Lord knows I need it. I’m struggling to spiritually connect this season more than I have in previous years. It doesn’t help that I’m re-reading Leviticus, one of the harshest books in the bible. The age old theological questions tug at my heart. Mum and sis’ visit will no doubt bring some well-needed spiritual refreshment. Indeed, many a heart-to-heart is to be had during their visit.

They arrive that Saturday evening. Sis has bought the good weather with her from the Land of the Rising Sun. They tell me excitedly of the good trip on the way in and the camaraderie of the other passengers. Mum attributes it to the sunny climes. I’m pleased that they have arrived in time to catch the last of the blossoms.

Back at mine, a spotless flat and my signature mixed-meat tagine awaits them. Sis’ relentless teasing about my housekeeping skills soon come to an end when she sees how much progress I’ve made in that area. Taking note of the little flourishes added for the benefit of guests she quips waggishly,

That’s one more recommendation to go on the report card.

Alas, mum’s many attempts to inflate the blow-up mattress are in vain. Sis takes the couch and mum makes the most of the flaccid portable bed. 

The morning of Resurrection Sunday is spent at my local church. I’ve been making enquiries about English translation ahead of time. Logistically it would be awkward to interpret for both my guests at the same time. Thankfully, there’s a very good in-ear service available that morning to my great relief. Afterwards, I’m asked to join the small team, including a Russian-speaking Cameroonian. There aren’t many Anglophones in the church but it’s worth it for the one elderly Asian regular. I’m apprehensive about my language skills but willing to help the modest-sized team. It would be very good practice too. The following Sunday, I’ll hit the ground running trying (with limited success) to translate for a guest speaker from Quebec; an accent that even some native Francophones struggle to comprehend.

At the end of the service, I attempt to introduce my family to as many of my church acquaintances I can find including Jeanne and her sis, Françoise who's visiting from the South. Unfortunately we miss a few but make some new ones. As usual, sis has endeared herself amongst some of the tinier members. En route home we stop in Etoile Bourse for a pleasant promenade around the environs. Outside the Andre Malraux Médiatheque, beside the canal, we're greeted by the incongruous sight of two swans resting near some road works. Sharp-eyed sis comments on the fashion differences between the UK and this corner of France as well as the impressive, hands-free biking skills of the Strasbourgeois.

Look at that core strength!

Being neither a cyclist nor a style guru, such observations naturally go over my head.

That evening we eat and chat over a late Easter supper. This is how we’ll spend most of our evenings together; food, conversation, Netflix or sis and I in stitches as she shows me amusing clips from her Instagram or YouTube accounts.

Rémy from the Happy Tours team
(courtesy of Tripadvisor)

With less than a week to show sis what Strasbourg has to offer, I need to be strategic. Easter Monday is crammed with on foot excursions. In the morning we walk through the Orangerie, particularly resplendent in the brilliant spring sunshine. The afternoon is spent on a walking tour with charismatic native Alsatian, Rémy from the Happy Tours team. I envy his knack for lacing his entertaining commentary with very English idioms. Mum and sis are equally admiring. The nearly two hour historic jaunt flies by. We full circle it back to the Cathedral. Mum and sis buy edible gifts from an exorbitant confectioners; albeit with great customer service. They notice before I do the young, German-speaking Namibian who follows us into the shop.

You guys are looking really cool, he flatters. After a brief but cordial chat, I politely turn down his overtures.

There’s enough time before our supper of Easter leftovers for a stroll to Robertsau Forest on the way home.

On the last full day of my family’s visit, I’ve planned a tour of the local markets. Too bad half of them are still on extended Easter break. Mum and sis don’t mind, picking up one or two items along the way. I take them to a vantage point in my favourite part of town, Petite France. To my amazement, mum claims it’s unfamiliar to her. I can’t imagine having made such an oversight. The afternoon is spent in the company of the gamely Oh My Goodness! Team; one of my Strasbourg haunts. The ambiance is welcoming as ever. I bump into Stéphane, a member of my church whom I’ve met on a number of occasions (usually in the presence of his missus) but still doesn’t know whom I am.

We have dinner plans that evening but not before I make a mad dash to one of the few remaining Portuguese lessons of the term. I deposit mum and sis at one of my other haunts, Manolya café; who serve the best and most indulgent smoothies. Despite my efforts I am late to class and never quite recover my bearings. I sheepishly slink off early to meet new mate Gael back at Manolya and introduce him to the fam. He’s an instant hit with my ladies. Sis digs his style, comparing him to Basquiat and mum thinks he’s wonderfully polite.

I’ve chosen Les Fines Gueules for our last meal together this trip. I don’t know if sis will have another chance to visit whilst I’m still based in Alsace so it’s only right she samples some traditional cuisine; even if it’s not the famous Quiche Lorraine she’s been on the hunt for all day. 

I can count on Lisa and the team for a good service. To my chagrin, sis and mum pick up the bill. I feel odd not contributing at least a little, given that they are my guests. Sis chides me for not being a more gracious recipient.

It’s back to work the next day. I rush home at lunch to see my favourite girls off at La Gare Centrale. God willing, sis and I will overlap the following week- during one of my UK visits- just before she flies back out.  The full impact of their absence will only hit me in the more quiet moments; such as that weekend, in the lonely expanse of my flat. Mum and sis catch their train without a hitch. It seems however, they take the good weather with them. The strong afternoon sunshine gives way to a violent storm in which their plane is caught up. Thank God, they make it back to the UK; a little shaken but safe and sound.

The Changing of the Seasons

One Sunday morning, mid-Spring I wake up sounding like Red from Us. Making myself understood at church is…fun. Try speaking a foreign language whilst sounding like a demoniac. My sis, bless her, tolerates a couple of hours of this vocal freak show via Skype before admonishing me to rest my voice.

Just the day before, I was singing sans problème Gospel standards in French and English with gusto on the streets of central Strasbourg, alongside the youth group from my church. Not to mention whiling a good couple of hours away with an acquaintance at my haunt Oh My Goodness!

 My voice starts to give way by that evening. Croaking down the phone to my mum, she asks 

What happened?

Beats me. I’ve been blasting my body with my trusty vitamin C supplement, which usually does the trick. I have however felt the sensations of an itchy cough and the onset of a sore throat.  I don’t doubt I’ve avoided the worst of it. Colleagues and friends have succumbed to sickness left, right and centre. I have been spared, thank God but there’s only so much my body can fight off.

I blame the drastic change in temperature. Spring is always a mixed-bag but it’s been particularly chilly of late. To think a couple of months ago, much of Northern Europe flirted with the idea of retiring their heavy coats until autumn. We had early summer in February and now winter in April. Climate change is messing with our mind and bodies like a fickle love interest. 

You’re too busy. Times like this you should rest. Mum mildly rebukes.

Homebody? Me? Never. Not when there are stimulating conferences to attend on the role of faith and religion in contemporary Europe; or my choir is preparing to go into the studio for a recording session that has already been put back months at a time. In my defence, I’m also preparing for her Easter visit. Bearing in mind that very little, if anything, opens during public holidays, I can’t rely on last minute shopping come Good Friday. Easter Saturday will be mayhem.

Despite my hoarseness, I refuse to cancel my promised meet up with new chum Gael for his belated birthday drink. His special day was late March. We’ve already postponed for a couple of weeks owing to schedule clashes.  

He’s a great listener and source of genuine mirth. Not bad for a native Strasbourgeois.

That’s not entirely fair. I’ve made some lovely acquaintances here of which he is one of the latest.  A particularly cultured one at that. He knows his way around Strasbourg's bars, restaurants and museums. He wants to take me out dancing. In his own words he's a "slut on the dancefloor". That, I have to see. As it turns out I got the wrong end of the stick during our conversation about “Cultural Appropriation”. He wasn’t doing a Kanye after all when he told me about the Congolese-culture loving ‘girlfriend’ whom he considers a true Afropean. The French word Copine is open to (mis)interpretation. She’s just a mate. Not that it should matter, but still…

I tell him about the latest drama at work, as I have spent the whole weekend talking about to anyone who is kind enough to listen. We don’t even get round to the details of his recent Iberian holiday.  That’s partly down to me monopolising the conversation- to my shame -as well as Gael’s enthusiasm for Jordan Peele’s aforementioned new feature.  What was to me a slick and entertaining if unremarkable horror parody is, according to Gael, laden with subtext that I missed the first time. I won’t divulge the alternative theories discussed for fear of unleashing a ‘spoiler’ backlash for those yet to see it. Let’s just say, to paraphrase KRS-1, ours is an edu-taining discussion.

Back in the real world, it’s not just the season that has taken a surprise turn. By mid-April protests in Algeria have forced ex-President Bouteflika to step-down from his tenaciously-held office. Omar al-Bashir has been toppled by the army in Sudan also following a popular uprising and Turkey’s strongman Erdogan isn’t sitting as comfortably as he once was.

Closer to home Boss Man announces his intention to move on to greener pastures (not that I'm making any comparison to long time dictators, you understand).

20 years in the same team, he shakes his head. It’s too long.

(courtesy of http://www.scphysiciangroup.com)

Elsewhere, THRO has formally announced it will be scrapping hundreds of jobs; a disproportionate amount of them in our department. Boss Man is amongst the privileged old guard who started at The Organisation during the halcyon days when permanent contracts were handed out to any who set foot in the building. Oui, j’abuse but you get the point. Long gone are the days they were easier to come by. The fortunate CDI so-and-sos are sheltered from the worst of the cull.  For the rest of us mortals with fixed term (CDD) or temporary contracts, even those working on well-funded projects aren’t necessarily safe. I’m brought to tears by stories of expat colleagues whose contracts are only renewed the evening of their expiry. 

To add to the sense of unease, there are of course my aforementioned issues with personnel.

Of all the many existential crises I’ve had thus far since moving to Alsace, this one might require more immediate pragmatism than the rest.

Another bell goes off when speaking to my errant guardian angel, Gordon, on the way home one evening. We've barely seen or spoken to each other this side of the New Year. After taunting him for abandoning his earthly mission (snowed-under with work over at The Chateau, he apologises in his good-natured fashion), he makes a passing comment that only serves to confirm my presentiment of a sea change.

The following day,  my voice having returned to some normality, I share such thoughts during elevenses with Safiyah, a kindly colleague. She's spent most of her 35 years in France working at The Organisation. She has a multifaceted artistic streak. I believe she is capable of better than what she’s doing now career-wise. She’s inclined to agree. It's not the first time she's done some serious soul-searching since she started working at THRO. She describes the comfort and stability as a Golden Cage.

She’s at an age where she feels liberated from the opinions of others but wary of starting afresh.

We speak about our differing views on faith and the spiritual. She’s asking herself the important ontological questions. It’s a good start, I say. 

Both of us sense it’s a season of great transition. The wind is blowing in a new direction although the details are still unclear.   For Safiyah, even the recent devastation of the Notre Dame signifies change, albeit tinted with sadness. A centuries old structure that has survived revolutions and wars will never be the same.

Both Safiyah and I are experiencing a shift in dynamic in our respective friendships; deciding what to hold on to and when to let go. Doing a life inventory, I call it.

In conversation with friends I detect similar restlessness and upheaval. It's necessary; even auspicious, if unsettling.

Soundtrack: Ziminino by Ziminino + The Back In Brazil Compilation by Gilles Peterson.

Alternative Arrangements

My treacherous laptop is back in the shop. Just over two years old and brand new on purchase, it’s given me nothing but grief since the time it was delivered. Thankfully, I’ve found a reputable-looking PC repair at the Rivetoile shopping centre. The downside is that a diagnostic takes anything from 1-2 weeks.  It’s not the first time I’ve had to make do without any entertainment at home thanks to Asus’ dodgy manufacturing.  I haven’t yet invested in a TV and I’m still debating whether it’s worth the additional expense.

I choose not to use smart technology, thus I’m out of the loop save for the four days out of the week I’m in the office. I hear about the postponement of the Nigerian elections as well as the shenanigans of ex-Labour Party saboteurs across the Channel, a day after the news breaks. Over the weekend I fear private email accounts overflowing with unopened messages. In fact, to my relief, it’s not that bad.

To keep myself distracted I catch up on my backlog of podcasts from the likes of Novara Media, The Sacred Podcast, On Being and NEF.  It’s a good time too to do some additional reading that I don’t always get round to during the day. I rediscover the singular interpretive talents of underrated Jazz vocalist, Anita O’Day. A jazz singer’s jazz singer, if ever there were one.

A weekend without Skype and Netflix gives me a Sunday afternoon free to attend a language exchange meet-up that I don’t usually frequent.  I’ve enjoyed myself a good deal at these events of late (the positive affirmation I receive regarding my language efforts doesn’t hurt, I must admit).

I’ve met a number of stimulating interlocutors. There’s Noelle whose birthday happens to be between Christmas and New Year but who was in fact named after a nun of whom her mother was fond. A Strasbourg native, we nonetheless have a few things in common. We’re the same age. She spent significant periods living and working in different parts of the UK. Although from the region, she can understand my trepidation regarding some aspects of life in Alsace. We both bemoan the unsolicited advice from those who believe they have the right to comment on the life choices of a 30-something single woman. There’s also the confusingly Anglophone-monikered Jim; an affable French polyglot who has picked up a number of Slavic languages as well as Italian on his travels. Good-natured Roisin wears away my initial guardedness with her unflappable geniality.  She’s on an intense linguistic sojourn in France, having always wanted to learn the language.  Currently based in Helsinki, and a former resident of Zurich, she’s also a fluent Finnish, German and Portuguese speaker ( courtesy of a month's intense study in Lisbon). 

Finnish? That’s impressive. One of the most difficult European languages, they say. Everything else must be a breeze.

Not according to Roisin. She still finds French a challenge.  It’s reassuring somewhat to learn that even seasoned multi-linguists struggle with La Langue de Moliere. I’m in good company.
 

Earlier that weekend I re-join the inter-denominational group in Strasbourg that reaches out to sexually-exploited women.  It’s been a while. The timetable of the outings has been more sporadic recently and there’s often a clash with my choir schedule. Being a new member, I’m not keen on missing too many rehearsals. However, neither do I want to abandon a ministry close to my heart. Skipping one practice a month wouldn’t hurt.

 (courtesy of Crossroads Bible Church)

We gather at what I am to find out is a thriving house church, with people of all ages and backgrounds; both genders equally represented. It feels like living in the Book of Acts. I meet middle-aged new convert Billy (another Francophone whose parents confusingly bequeathed him with an Anglophone nickname). I also rub shoulders with a couple of Austrian missionaries whom the church are hosting over the weekend. Initially feeling awkward, wondering if my struggle to make small talk in French will get in the way, I’m soon caught up in the invigorating energy of it all.  I recognise a few faces from church.  We're soon joined by the group leaders, Sabrina, Dieudonné and Luc. I help translate for congenial Austrian missionary, Karin.  Despite herself being a multi-linguist (including Turkish, which she learned growing up in Ankara), she does not have French in her linguistic repertoire.

It's a sizeable group.  Over 20 of us in total.  After a moment of prayer and praise, we split into smaller groups of twos and threes depending on our area of interests. Whilst some like Karin and I will be focused on the sexually-exploited, others reach out to those sleeping rough or, like Dieudonné, share the Good News with groups of young revellers. Contrary to expectation there are many millennials/Xennials and Gen-Z’s doing a lot of soul-searching, according to Dieudonné. This younger generation respond with more enthusiasm to the big metaphysical questions than the one before.  

I team up with Karin and founding member of the initiative, Luc.  We always aim to have one male per group, bearing in mind the target group’s clientele.

It's the day after Valentine's. Alongside the usual hot drinks, Luc has brought along some roses for the women. He gamely speaks in English for Karin’s benefit. Eager and full of compassion, I try to gently disabuse her of certain preconceptions regarding the women without dampening her spirit. As we approach a couple of the girls, a car approaches and discussion ensues.

Wow, this is heavy stuff. Karin observes. 

Yet her presence that evening is auspicious. We come across several women, even the more withdrawn amongst them willingly accepting our offer of warm drinks and conversation. (We're fast running out of hot water but, by the grace of God, there's just enough to go round.)
A number of the girls also welcome our prayers. When asked if she has any requests, young Diana only speaks her family's needs back in Albania. Life is tough, she explains. Luc asks if they know what she’s doing in France.

Yes.

We exchange kisses with the bright and assertive Laura. She switches with ease between French and fluid German with Karin; just two of the several languages she speaks.  

There are quite a few women with whom I’m yet to become acquainted. Collette is one such.

Collette. That’s very French.

That’s because I am.

I’m not used to meeting nationals who work the street. I compliment her mesmerising eyes, which bear the Maghreb traits of her mother’s Moroccan heritage.  They moisten whilst we pray for her and her two year-old daughter.  Collette dreams of one day becoming a seamstress; or any in-road into fashion retail. 

Round midnight, the various groups reassemble for an encouraging debrief. Billy’s gang were so warmly received by a group of rough-sleepers, that they used their meagre funds to buy a bouquet of roses to express their gratitude. Billy gives one flower to each of the women. I’m usually bah-humbug about Valentine's, with all its build-up, caricatures of romance and cynical commercialism. In these circumstances however, I am only too pleased to accept Billy's floral offering. A pink rose takes pride of place on my dining table. 

Soundtrack: Gilles Peterson in Brazil (Part 1), Anita O’Day: Four Classic Albums.