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

Dark Days of Christmas

(courtesy of the NY Post)

One Wednesday morning in mid-December, I’m up and out a bit earlier than usual. I have French grammar workshop to attend.

We’re thinner on the ground than expected. Apart from that, it goes well. Thanks to the session I have a firmer grasp on the French gerund and learn something new about grave and acute accents. It’s a positive atmosphere. Except the tutor keeps making reference to a suspect on the loose. Finally, I can no longer hide my ignorance.

Sorry, I don’t understand. What happened?

Patiently, she begins to explain. An assailant, already a ‘person of interest’ to the police, opened fire the previous night on revellers near the famous Christmas market. He managed to escape. She wonders why I’m not up to speed. I don’t have a TV nor a smartphone I reply. I haven’t listened to the news on the radio that morning either. Come to think of it, I haven’t checked either my English or French phones since the night before. Prepare to be bombarded with messages, she says with a knowing expression. I imagine my poor mum, frantic with worry. She’s probably filled my voicemail box. I return to my office to check the news online and my phones. On the way, I pass my colleagues in the café, huddled round a table looking concerned and deep in conversation. I sneak upstairs. The building is unusually quiet.

Over the course of the day, by way of emails from The Organisation, online news and titbits from colleagues, the picture becomes clearer. Career criminal Cherif Chekatt was said to be radicalised during a stint in prison. After killing and injuring 18 victims, rather implausibly he escapes in a taxi. Before asking to be dropped off in the middle of the Neudorf vicinity, he proceeds to confess -even exaggerate-his atrocity to the driver, claiming also to have stockpiled grenades. Incidentally, the police carry out a raid earlier that day on a flat in which said artillery is found. The taxi driver unwittingly corroborates Chekatt’s story, enabling the police to identify the suspect.

There are tales of unsuspecting tourists sequestered in the City Centre into the early hours of Wednesday morning, detained by security. My current manager, Rosa, (filling in for Sophie whilst she is on maternity leave) was supposed to fly out to Croatia on mission via Frankfurt. She lives in the town centre. There are no taxi services available after the attack. Security around the German border is leaving reported traffic backlogs of over four hours. Neudorf being a stone’s throw from France’s neighbour, the authorities fear Chekatt might have fled. Rosa has no choice but to cancel the trip, forewarning her colleagues in the Balkans by email.

I think of my movements the night before. I left my evening Portuguese class around the time the attack occurred. I was invited to a Christmas meal afterwards near the city centre by my church house group but decided to head home instead, since the next morning would be an early start.

I check my phones. I have two messages from concerned friends in the UK. A few more trickle in later that morning. Some other Brit friends text or email, evidently clueless about what has occurred. No word from mum. I email sis in Japan. She’s none the wiser. The attack isn’t as prominent on the BBC website as I’d expect. It’s been buried under the latest Brexit saga; a vote of no-confidence against Theresa May.

I’m starting to feel offended. My former office mate Claudia claims she’s had non-stop contact from concerned UK acquaintances. Are my friends that complacent or desensitised?

 I text a few of them back to know how well the news has been reported in the UK. I receive conflicting responses. From what I can gather, it’s been covered on the Tuesday night but dropped off the radar, possibly because of Brexit. My mum doesn’t find out until Wednesday evening. By chance she’s apprised when she walks past Reuters' scrolling news in Canary Wharf. (Her brother, my uncle, learns of the incident on the night itself but doesn’t know how to break it to mum). She said she’d have otherwise still been uninformed. A friend also admits that if I hadn’t mentioned the incident in my response email, she’d have never known. Sky News plays on loop in her office lobby but it’s been consumed with Brexit. This is the problem with the 24 hour news cycle, I bemoan. Breaking news becomes figurative fish-and-chip paper far more quickly. Don’t take it as a sign of neglect, she reassures. You are loved.

(courtesy of The Daily Wire)

Ironically, I receive more messages about my well-being from my Europe-based acquaintances. The news is far better covered on the Continent. I have often wondered if anything happened to me in Strasbourg, whether I had enough ties for anyone to notice. Sadly, it takes this incident for me to be able to answer in the affirmative.

Colleagues from work send texts. Acquaintances both old and new email me. I’m touched by the efforts of my fellow-choristers at the High Rock Gospel Singers, most of whom I have known for less than three months. I receive a number of texts and missed calls. I apologise for the radio silence, explaining I’ve only just learned of the tragedy. Later that week, musical director Kiasi tells me off for making him worry.

It’s a surreal day. I’m busy, working with a nervous and frankly distracted air. I take my mind off my own hurt feelings about the lack of contact from the UK to check on colleagues, church acquaintances, friends and find out more about those directly affected. A colleague recounts by email hearing gunshots and being stranded in the City Centre because of the security situation. Her friends are barricaded in a restaurant into the wee small hours. A body of one of the victims is apparently brought into the establishment.

I feel the urge to listen to my choir’s rendition of Kumbaya. I read about Chekatt’s victims. One  is left brain dead. Another was a Thai tourist. I imagine his wide-eyed curiosity and excitement at visiting one of the most famous Christmas markets in the world. I think of his family; how they would have received the unexpected news of their relative's demise during what should have been a simple winter break. Silently, as not to attract my colleagues' attention, I start to weep. A delayed reaction but one for which I am perversely relieved. I am glad that terrorism is not such a common occurrence that I stop feeling anything at all. By the end of the week, the number of dead climbs to five. I pray for the victims, their families and all those grieving at this time of year; a supposedly cheerful season that can nonetheless be punishing for those in pain.

I have an online meeting that evening with my branch of Labour International, most of whom are based in Paris. I'm in a stroppy mood. It seems they only remember when prompted. 

Whilst Chekatt is at large, Strasbourg is on edge. Schools close and colleagues with children stay home to look after them. All markets remain shut. Residents of the Neudorf area are encouraged to stay indoors except for essential trips. Members of Chekatt’s family are rounded up by the police for questioning. On the way home, a kindly colleague tells me to stay safe. He will be under self-imposed lockdown that night.

A few days later, I am pleasantly surprised to receive frantic texts from my aunt and her son. It seems the news is still filtering into the UK but not yet widely known. I check the BBC news page on Thursday night. According to the site Chekatt is still on the loose.

The following morning, I continue my annual tradition of distributing Christmas cards to my colleagues. A number of them thank me personally.

It’s especially important to remember the nativity at times like these, says Georgiana. Especially after what happened last night.

It is then I learn Chekatt has been killed in a shoot-out with police in Neudorf on a road not too far from my church. I know it quite well from when I was flat hunting during my stay with Javier.

Chekatt obviously didn’t stray far. I think I hear Claudia say Good when Georgiana recounts the latest turn of events.

(courtesy of MPRnews.org)

Later that afternoon, during the team’s Christmas lunch, my colleague Daphnia waxes furious at the vengeful response from local politicians, who appear to condone the police’s shoot-to-kill policy. I’ve never seen her so riled. She plans to write to the mayor. She’s worried about the effects on her teenage son, who has parroted their sentiments. Only God can judge, she inveighs. I agree. But people are scared and angry. It’s not good enough, Daphnia replies. Strasbourg prides itself on being a defender of human rights. Its humanitarian organisations campaign against the death penalty. Chekatt made some terrible choices but we don’t know what led him to that point. It’s hypocritical she says, to applaud his death.

I hear the same compassion from members of my choir that evening. The directors gently insist we go ahead with the fundraiser in the centre of town that we have planned. Security is even tighter and the army more present. Not just because of the attack but also because President Macron is paying a visit. 

Some of my musical comrades are shocked and appalled at the social media reaction to the killing of Chekatt. You should never rejoice over someone’s death, warns Leila, even the wicked.

We dedicate a couple of songs to the victims of Tuesday’s attack and their families, including the beautiful alternative arrangement of Kumbaya. Kiasi and Evan decide it should be done flash mob style. Choir members blend into the audience and we begin singing from our seats. At the right cue, we assemble on stage performing with all our hearts. The gorgeous harmonies echo around the church hall, thanks to the fantastic acoustics. It’s a transcendent moment; sublime even. Beauty from sadness.

The same thought comes to mind that weekend. Whilst strolling back from a rather disappointing and misleadingly advertised ‘jazz-gospel’ charity concert, I pass Rue des Orfévres and Place Kleber where Chekatt’s victims fell. Makeshift shrines glow with tea lights. I’m struck by their heartbreaking beauty and that such a stunning scene would not exist if not for sorrow. The tragic paradox of a broken world.

The City looks resplendent draped in Christmas décor, as if oblivious to the blood that has been spilled. The Christmas market and other festivities have resumed, albeit with an even stronger security presence.  Commuters, shoppers and tourists alike are all but stripped searched. Armed police spot check passengers' belongings on the bus.

On Sunday, prayers are offered up at church for all those directly affected by the tragedy. No doubt the same is done in places of worship throughout the country.

Life goes on.

A Lady of Leisure…

...Or, the First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 3.

I am realising that the older I get, the more I enjoy my own company. Over the Christmas period, I have had plenty of time to ruminate over this. I hope I'm not becoming more anti-social with age.

Mum is in Japan enjoying the bright winter sunshine in the company of sis. I’ve just started to settle into life in Strasbourg, most particularly my new accommodation. It’s only been a few weeks. There’s no need to scarper off to London without my closest family members in town.

Besides, the extended Christmas leave from work will be the first opportunity to properly recover from all the upheaval of the past couple of months.

‘Don’t spend Christmas alone' warns my well-meaning colleague Lorette, fervently shaking her head ‘It’s too sad’. Au contraire. It doesn’t have to be, I reply. Plus (as I’ve been telling anyone who will listen), it will provide insight into what the festive season is like for those who are usually alone during this time, for far more heartbreaking circumstances than my own.

I’ve seasoned my meats and blended my root vegetable soup ahead of Christmas day to cut out some of the labour. I am determined to rest as much as possible. I wake up to sunshine streaming through my skylight-like bedroom window. It’s some of the best weather we’ve had in weeks. I am unable to have a proper lie-in. I check my phone for the message that stirred me from sleep in the wee small hours of the morning. It’s the first of several texts and/or phone calls that pour in throughout the day on both my UK and French mobiles. I’m touched that a number of friends have kept me in their thoughts despite their own seasonal busyness.

I Skype mum and sis. There's an eight hour time difference. It’s well into the evening over there and they still haven’t eaten. Something about being slowed down by a long, leisurely afternoon stroll. I take one of those myself later in the day. It would be a shame to waste the sunshine. I remain in my locality. I make a point to wish passers-by ‘Joyeux Noel’. A bus occasionally drive past. Unlike in the UK, there is still public transport albeit on a reduced basis.

Colmar, Alsace @ Christmas
(thegoodlifefrance.com)

Towards the end of my ramble, I spot a familiar spiral and take a diversion. It has piqued my curiosity since first moving into the neighbourhood. It’s a Catholic church, with an attractive modernised interior, virtually deserted. Not being of that tradition, I skip the genuflecting to icons and lighting candles. I take my time around the two nativity scenes; one miniature, the other closer to life size (I seek out a number of these tableaux over the course of my break). On my MP3 Kevin Max’ unique tones bring an extra-haunting quality to his stark rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, my favourite carol. I decide to loop it with the Swingles livelier, Bobby McFerrin-influenced arrangement. Both are sublime. They help to make this quiet and meditative detour a transcendent experience. Other visitors, come in intermittently but for the most part, I have the building to myself. I start singing a carol medley. Despite the carpet, my medium volume-voice echoes off the stone walls thanks to the great acoustics. Another group of visitors enter. They’re attitude isn’t very festive. Judging by the side eye one of them gives me and her feverish signing of the cross, she finds my impromptu concert-for-none irreverent. That’s my cue to exit.

Later that evening, I light my festive candle and sit down to a decent meal: Guinea fowl, roast beef, mixed-potato mash, turkey sausage and tomato and green leaf salad with homemade dressing. It’s the most I’ve ever cooked at Christmas and it ain’t half bad. I don’t finish everything on my plate. I forgot how filling the root vegetable soup starter could be. The evening entertainment is so-so; a disappointingly whimsical French film clearly adapted from a stage musical.

I have a loose schedule for the rest of the week; a mix of local excursions and further afield. I visit the Cathedral, again but this time venture inside alongside hundreds of others. I roam the streets of central Strasbourg aimlessly, wandering down less familiar side streets and discovering more shortcuts. Signs of the festive market have all but vanished as of Christmas eve. (I pedantically hold onto the 12 days tradition. It's still technically Christmas until Epiphany and I won't be told otherwise).

Mid-week, I pop over to Kehl to shop for household items and hope to take advantage of the winter sales. It is busier than I have ever experienced.

I attend a matinee at an arthouse cinema I come across on one of my rambles. I watch French/Portuguese ‘Menina’; my ideal European language cocktail.

My evenings are relaxed. I use the time to catch up on much-lauded films I missed the first time round; both relatively old (‘The Pianist’) and recent (‘Get Out’-extremely entertaining, yes. Not quite the wheel-reinventing masterpiece as claimed by some, methinks).

On somewhat of a whim, one day I decide to make the most of my newly-acquired train discount card and head to neighbouring town, Colmar. At the station, the sales assistant insists I don’t need to show her the railcard. She then proceeds to apply the wrong discount, for those under 26. I am flattered but I promptly inform her otherwise. ‘Oh my! I would have taken you for 25...’

‘26’ says her facetious colleague. It’s a good problem to have, I reply. My honesty costs me five more euros but the boost to my ego is priceless.

Outside St Matthieu's Protestant Temple, Colmar

Colmar is, as I have been told, very picturesque. It’s like a giant toy town, all the more appealing draped in Christmas paraphernalia. I’ve packed the regional guide that my former colleagues at the North London Council bought me as a parting gift. I don’t follow it religiously, navigating the streets by gut instinct. Still, I manage to hit the main sites of interest and catch a glimpse of the surrounding Vosges landscape. Unlike Strasbourg, the Christmas markets and seasonal artisan enclaves are still in full swing. A smile lingers on my lips, spreading to a full grin as, with the turn of each corner it seems, I am hit by more delightful scenery.

The Cathedral has the most unorthodox nativity exhibition thus far; ethnically-correct, frizzy-haired cloth figures with no facial features. The key scenes of the two principal Gospel accounts of Christ’s birth have been recreated in elaborate detail.

Not being a fan of museums, I skip the pricey Musée d’Underlinden and the tour of Auguste ‘Statue of Liberty’ Bartholdi’s home. Perhaps I’ll save those for when I have a guest.

It’s cold enough to snow in Colmar. It holds off until just before I’m about to leave, having eaten an underwhelming caramel crepe in a cosy cafe next door to the charming Maison Pfister.

New Year's eve is spent at church in the morning and evening prayers at home. At 12am 1 January 2018, I look out of my window. Fireworks, both makeshift and professional, light up my vista for nearly an hour. The air is so full of gunpowder, that the normal view of Strasbourg Cathedral is soon completely obscured.

This Christmas break is the quietest and most serene I’ve had. It's also one of the best. I’ve enjoyed myself in ways that couldn’t be planned to the letter. A mix of foresight and happenstance. I doubt I’ll have the chance to experience the festive period in quite these circumstances again. All the more reason to savour this particular life season.

The First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 2

Angels we have heard on high...Strasbourg Cathedral
(c) me.

Now that I am settling into my new flat, it’s even more incumbent on me to make concerted efforts to build a Strasbourg community.

Church, as always, helps. I return to EPIS mid-December. By now I have developed a soft spot for it. It’s starting to remind me of my church back in London. I happen to attend on yet another fundraising Sunday (every third week of the month). December’s cause are the persecuted Christians supported by Portes Ouvertes; the French equivalent of Open Doors, a charity with which I am very familiar. A number of EPIS members do stirring presentations about stories that have impacted them on attending a recent Open Doors conference. It’s a challenge focussing on both their words and that of the sermon. A woman behind me noisily translates proceedings for her Serbian, non-French speaking family. A kindly congregant later explains when she notices my agitation.

I love learning the French translation of worship songs and carols I already know. As well as great language practice, it gives me a fresh appreciation of the message. Sometimes the lyrics are virtual transliterations. Others are approximations of the general sentiment. As the offering buckets are passed round, I am moved to tears by the rendition of ‘Le Premier Noel’.

I catch up with Jeanne after service. She’s up for hanging out in town, walking around the Christmas market and accompanying me as I pick up pastries and my usual Sunday takeaway (no cooking for me on my Sabbath). Jeanne is easy company. We meet up again a few days later after work. I want to see her before she leaves to spend her Christmas holidays divided between Lyon and Sardinia, where her sister’s in-laws reside. I remark how blessed she is to have such a close relationship with her extended family. She seems to come from very wholesome stock.

Jeanne listens patiently whilst I take the time to formulate my sentences in French as accurately as possible. I veer towards some complex topics. Jeanne is attentive, encouraging my efforts but also readily correcting me, as I have asked. It’s a small gesture but it means a lot for her to listen so well. It’s not as if she can recourse to English if I struggle to get the words out as quickly as I’d like.

We plan to do more organised language exchanges in the New Year, God willing.

In the lead-up to Christmas I finally meet my kindly HR contact Klara in the flesh. We spend a lunch hour catching up in one of several of THRO's eating establishments. Speaking at least five languages, with a heart of gold, she's an impressive young lady.

Strasbourg City Centre@ Christmas
(courtesy of Eurostar)

As part of my endeavour to expand my Strasbourg networks, I sign up for a Market-related event organised by Internations; an globetrotting variant of Meet Up. 18 guests register. Typically, only five of us attend. I get to kill two birds with one socialising stone; to see more of the Market in its full illuminated glory after dark and meet new people. Three birds, in fact as it’s another opportunity to communicate solely in French. None of the party are native Francophones. They are a multi-lingual set hailing from Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean. Most have lived in France for so long, I dub them honorary countrywomen. Our first stop is the artisanal end of the Christmas Market. Event organiser Martina says this is the authentic Christmas food market, not the overpriced made-from-a-packet stuff sold in the commercial parts. It’s the middle of the week and reassuringly mellow. The crowds are less dense. Martina wants us to sample the varieties of warm beverages on offer; from soups to hot beer. I stick with some hot blackberry juice, with no added naughtiness. We talk about their shared experiences of being global citizens and, one of my favourite subjects, what is fluency and how to attain it. Latvian Nina thinks it’s no more complicated than making yourself understood. Bulgarian Leona believes any aspiring linguist has arrived if s/he can properly articulate themselves in a confrontational situation. I am inclined to agree.

It’s a cold and damp evening and my frozen toes feel like they are dissolving into mush, whilst I can still feel them at all. It’s a school night, I inform the group apologetically. I need to run. Martina is having none of it. She entices me with promises of more beautifully lit streets and Christmas related displays such as the itinerant Icelandic Village mock-up which is passing through Strasbourg in 2017. It’s all right for Martina. She lives within walking distance.

I admit, the City looks stunning despite the drizzle. I am forever captivated by the magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral. Whether in daylight or after nightfall, it’s one of the most arresting I’ve come across; at once beautiful and grotesque. The German translation for Cathedral, 'Munster' feels most apt.

In advance of Christmas, the offices of THRO seem to be emptying in inverse proportion to the number of international visitors pouring into the City centre. By Friday 22^nd it’s a ghost town.

Most of my department have already gone on leave. Some will not be returning in the New Year. The Organisation is facing financial challenges. Temporary contracts are not being renewed. There are rumours of redundancies. Claudia has been a veritable Cassandra of late, prophesying doom at every turn. I can’t understand. If she’s so unhappy with THRO and is ambivalent towards Strasbourg, it seems obvious she should return to London where her gentleman friend awaits. She has her reasons, I'm sure. It’s too personal to ask. Plus, I wouldn’t want to seem like an ingrate. Her guidance in this early stage of the role has been invaluable. But I am still relatively new and don’t want to be infected by her jadedness. I am looking for tactful ways to stem the steady stream of negativity that comes out of her these days. I am somewhat relieved when she starts her Christmas break a day early.

(c) me

All THRO buildings close around midday the Friday before Christmas for a week and a half. I remain behind to try (in vain) to complete some detailed proof-reading Sophie has assigned before she goes on leave. My colleagues who are still present urge me not to stay too late. By the time I head to the exit after 1pm, even the security staff have vacated the building.

The day is still young. I pop into town to do some last minute food shopping. I have my Christmas playlist on repeat; a mix of modern classics (Donny Hathaway), obscure stone-cold Gospel gems, contemporary versions of a favourite carol and more recent additions to the Festive canon like the 'Black Nativity' soundtrack.

I’ve already bought most of my festive meat. I haven’t had Turkey at Christmas for years and have no intention of starting now. I opt for some Guinea fowl to be seasoned with a MENA region touch and roast beef.  I'll vary the menu slightly for New Year's Day.  As I’ll be cooking for one, I can’t justify over-indulging in too many seasonal treats. I choose my cheeses carefully with an eye on the calories. I have one packet of mulled wine seasoning left. My cranberry & raspberry juice is at the ready. Mum has already sent me a number of sweetmeats before flying off for her Eastern holiday. I stock up on a few more, with the intention of spreading them over January and beyond. Not quite ‘famous last words’. I’ve managed before.

The First (Strasbourg) Noel: Part 1

I’ve said it before. Strasbourg is really into Christmas. It’s described by some –and marketed on the City's website -as the Capital of Christmas; no doubt in light of the popularity of the festive market. It’s often viewed by residents as a mixed blessing. I’m beginning to join that camp. On one hand, the way this already belle ville is transformed into a sparkling multi-sensory wonder could make anyone revert to a childlike awe. On the other hand, it’s also bloody busy. At particular junctions, temporary security stations have been set up to check belongings for explosive devices. This is not great for yours truly. Not because I have any nefarious intentions but because I’m usually weighed down with household shopping and seasonal trinkets. I’ve even been asked to partially undress (well, my coat) in the process. Goodness.

There’s also the unnerving presence of armed personnel; both law enforcement and the military. They stroll around, machine guns nonchalantly slung across a shoulder like it’s the most casual thing in the world. More disturbing still, a number of them don’t look old enough to drive let alone be carrying firearms. Weapons and youthful hubris can be a dangerous (Molotov) cocktail. Having lived for so long in the UK where it’s unusual to see armed police, I doubt I’ll ever become accustomed to it on the Continent, regardless of how often I've witnessed it. I’m uncertain if this heightened security around the Christmas Market is routine or a response to France being a regular target for terrorism in the past few years.

The Place Kleber Christmas Tree, Strasbourg
(c) me

My colleague Claudia (who lives in the eye of the Market storm) has mentioned that there were fewer visitors in previous years in the immediate aftermath of the massacres in Paris. My Lyonnaise acquaintance, Jeanne, confirms the sense of anxiety is more recent.

Back in the office, preparations are underway for the Office Christmas lunch. It's being coordinated by the docile Lorette. She gently presses me for a RSVP. I prevaricate, having historically found the thought of organised fun with colleagues particularly awkward. Plus it’s almost 50 euros per head. It is not the tradition for the employer to subsidise the meal. At least it’s not just me who is wary. Sophie exclaims she could buy several presents for her daughter at that price.

Still, I am new and it would be a diplomatic faux pas to absent myself. Thankfully, I have sufficient funds.

It would be a good opportunity to defuse some end of year tension as well. I’ve unwittingly walked into an office politics mini-storm of late. Two colleagues, Celeste and Lucia are re-negotiating their roles after having had overlapping maternity/sickness leave. One, who would normally deputise, took over the other’s post in absentia. Job titles are now a sore point. When I seek to standardise how Celeste is referenced in official paperwork and online, I receive a slightly stern email from her (in English, not the usual French) tacitly suggesting I don’t interfere.

Meanwhile, I’ve continued my tradition of handing out Christmas cards.  I tend to arrive at the office earlier than most, which is preferable for leaving the cards inconspicuously on desks. Later that morning, I am told by my colleagues that it’s a tradition très anglaise. I receive heartfelt emails of gratitude, hugs and continental kisses on each cheek. I always opt for cards with an obvious biblical theme. One colleague even commends me for the Magnificat reminder. I am moved to the point of embarrassment by their response.

At lunchtime, the department heads to the restaurant en masse by foot or by car. The eatery has a gastro pub feel but provides haute cuisine. For starters I am served mustard ice cream and Red Kuri squash; the existence of which I was unaware before seeing the menu. My main arrives last. I am the only one to order my steak well done. The thought of blood saturated meat isn't as appetising to me as it evidently is to my colleagues.

It’s an altogether cordial affair. I feel a little uneasy at first but Sophie helps me relax. I sit beside and opposite two colleagues (Lorette being one of them) who are Alsatians born and bred. In the original, non-canine sense. Hearing about the region’s history and their Franco-Germanic linguistic repertoire makes for stimulating conversation. It’s the most consistent French practice I’ve had with colleagues since I joined THRO.

Between the main and dessert, the ever-convivial Mustafa signals for our attention. He’s a good natured wild-card; the kind to wear bright, primary-coloured trousers in an office environment.  He commences a parlour game that’s a cross between Secret Santa and Pass the Parcel. 

The rules are a tad confusing (although when I later explain them to sis, she’s quite well-versed). Participants pick a random number and when it’s his/her turn, they select a novelty gift out of a lucky-dip. They have the choice to keep it or swap (within certain limits), with a previous present chosen by another guest.

When it’s my turn I’m quite pleased with my turntable key-ring; illumination, sound effects et al. It’s practical too. I’m not inclined to draw unnecessary attention to myself by exchanging for another.

When the party games are over, I assume Mustafa has paid for these tokens out of the goodness of his heart. The next minute a makeshift float is being passed around with a request for a five euro reimbursement. As if most of them even cost that much.

I leave the Christmas lunch exactly 50 euros poorer.