I Can Sing a Rainbow

 

Last week, during one of my daily walks, I see a huge double rainbow straddling a busy main road in my neighbourhood. It ends somewhere in a nearby field. Following a drop in temperature and return to more frequent rain, there have been a few of these multicoloured appearances in the past couple of weeks.

I’ve always been taken by this natural phenomenon. In the biblical story of Noah, it’s representative of God’s mercy and fresh starts. I also like the paradox of this hopeful emblem. Such a wonderful and reassuring sight is only possible after significant rainfall. A rainbow would never be found on a clear, sunny day.

In this prolonged Coronavirus season, it’s symbolic of my efforts to count my blessings amidst the trials. March marks the first anniversary since the WHO officially declared COVID19 a pandemic. The month has brought with it more crises of morale as I reach another slow descent in the rollercoaster analogy. The monotony of teleworking once again eats away at my soundness of mind and there’s no immediate relief in sight. Yet March has also brought some opportunities to interact with others in ways that have eluded me for a while.

On the first Friday of the month  my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) organise a mass sandwich making initiative on their premises. The following day we are to deliver and distribute hundreds of packed lunches alongside the Serve the City team at the Red Cross Centre. Owing to the scale of the operation, it’s been in the church diary for weeks. It nevertheless requires some time management on my part. Friday nights have recently been set apart for online Christian counselling sessions with specialists from FWM. With all that’s going on, it’s vital that I avail myself of whatever resource to improve my emotional and mental well-being.

After another evocative session, I rush to FWM HQ. Dozens of (fairly) physically-distanced church members are in the back hall, beavering away. It’s quite the slick process, broken down to its most basic components. Some are buttering, others do the filling, whilst others still wrap the finished product in clingfilm. 

There are ample treats around, both for the sandwich bags and to line the volunteers’ stomachs. Pastor Tasha asks me to join a group of Francophones doing some buttering. This is no time to be coy. After mildly awkward salutations and listening in for a bit on the girls’ talk, the conversation becomes more relaxed and inclusive. There’s an embarrassing episode where I mistakenly eat what I think is a stray slice of bread. Tya, one of my co-volunteers at the Red Cross, teases me all evening. Sensitive sort that I am, usually this would bother me to a small degree. But teasing denotes familiarity; like being officially initiated into the clan.

The simple act of being in a room full of people has taken on life-affirming significance in the past year. Moreover, this will be the first occasion I have had to meet some FWM members in the flesh, including Pastor Tasha. The atmosphere is full of bonhomie. We brave the near-freezing temperatures to load approx. 500 packed lunches into car boots, to be handed out the following day. On the way back home via the metro, I spot a couple from church heading in the same direction. I recognise the male contingent, Jean-Luc, from the welcome team. Not wanting to be the third wheel, I keep a polite distance. The two are pretty persistent nonetheless. They accompany me all the way to my interchange at Merode. It’s good French practice too. I’m in full flow by the time I have to switch trains.

Some of us reconvene the following day at the Red Cross Centre. I’m wrapped up warm, expecting to hand out sandwiches to rough sleepers as on a previous occasion. Instead, the RC have a soup-kitchen set-up to distribute the lunch bags. 

This is an even more rapid-fire operation than the sandwich-making. Recipients of the food packages are moved along a conveyor belt-style system. The international voluntary team set to work; some pouring out flavoursome soup and passing it around, the rest distributing various components of the food bags. We’re given strict instructions to hand out a maximum amount of food at the onset. Those with families are only allowed limited extras, to ensure everyone can eat their fill. A few chance it, hoping we won’t recall their faces when they return for second or third helpings.

The distribution goes so fast that we barely have time to speak to beneficiaries. Many are the walking definition of world-weary. They avoid my gaze, as if the burden of their circumstances has denied them of their dignity.

 I try and make eye contact, smile, ask Ça va ? or wish them a Bon Appetit.

The afternoon shift draws to a close before we know it. There are plenty of left overs, long after redistributing extra helpings. The rest is to be deposited at another centre to minimise any waste.

All the volunteers are dying to taste the tantalising, still-warm soup on offer.

At home time, I’m shown more backstage bounty by a confident young Anglo-Belgian man. He has a fascinating hybrid accent, that at first makes him hard to place. I’m not tempted by the sandwich bags so much as wanting to give some away en route home. Murphy's law, of all the many homeless in Brussels, I’d see none on my journey. I decide not to risk it. There are indulgently large bags of brownies and muffins on offer that I manage to resist. I take a respectable portion home and no more.

I’m on a high from this fulfilling start to my day. I’ve also been enjoying the respite from Rob the Frenemy. That afternoon will be the first time I’ve been in contact since taking a break from the drama. I send him a carefully curated email, hoping that we can come to an entente cordial. Or at least I'll understand why his overtures of friendship are so conflicted. I have to manage my expectations. Emotional intelligence is not one of Rob’s strengths. I hope nevertheless that being earnest might get us somewhere…

Instead he makes a glib comment about having ‘ulterior motives’ after all. I’m an Aphrodite Kallipygos, according to Rob. I have to look up the term.

Once apprised, I explain that I choose to overlook this remark. Considering he’s spent the last couple of months protesting his innocence; even when unsolicited. I re-direct Rob's attention to the rest of the email’s content, which he ignores.

So what if I’m attracted to you? Is it really a problem? he shoots back. He claims his admiration of my rear is the same as some women appreciating his height. 

No. It's not the bloody same.

Seeing we won’t have an adult conversation by email, I decide to call. I’m not prepared for what turns into an hour plus of drunken confessions. I don’t pick up anything untoward at first. I’m used to Rob mumbling. It’s only when he admits that he’s been drinking all evening; at first with a guest and then on his own, that I peg just how wasted he is. He proceeds to send me photographic evidence.

Alcohol notoriously loosens the tongue. Heck, Rob doesn't have much of a filter when relatively sober.

 Time won’t allow for me to go into the half of what he says. He tells me things that I know he’d regret in the plain light of day. Pretty much every suspicion I’ve had about his intentions, he confirms. He itemises all the ways he finds me attractive; physically, intellectually and spiritually.

 Half-way through inviting me to the park the next day, he mentions he just broke up with one of his girlfriends. As if that has anything to do with me. 

Rob admits that his hitherto refusal to meet up for a platonic walk is little more than petulance. He resents that I wont come round for dinner or invite him to mine; something on which he still insists. He claims that he doesn't have a history of sexual assault (how comforting). Besides, he says, if I try anything you can just push me off.

Likely flipping story. He's 6"6. It'd hardly be a fair fight.

Don’t take it personally, I say. Just ask your South American friend. This is a segue for Rob to begin some emotional exposé on my former crush that makes little sense in his intoxicated state. Something about the South American being ‘confused’ and hung up on an old girlfriend. Tempting as it is, I have no time for these revelations. It’s none of my business.

Then in probably the most startling admission of all, Rob interjects

You know, a girl like you, you shouldn’t even give a second thought to [men like] us.

Many a true word spoken in drunkenness. There’s a poignancy to the obvious complimentary element of Rob’s statement. I find it depressing that under current virus-related circumstances, my friendship options are so minimal that my most regular contact is with a man who has such muddled motives. Moreover, it appears Rob prefers some idealised version of me in his head than the one in the real world. He questions why his being attracted to me should pose a problem. Normally it wouldn’t. Except he seems less respectful towards me than other female acquaintances such as Carol; to whom he’s much more like a model friend.

Seeing I’m getting nowhere, I leave Rob to sleep off what is sure to be the mother of a hangover. His communication over the next few days is predictably sparse, although doesn’t drop off altogether. Our paths cross-again the following week at an online quiz he's co-organised.  On a couple of occasions he sends 11^th hour invitations to hang out with a variety of acquaintances. I demure. I’m not about to drop everything at the last minute for him.

Thankfully, not all my efforts to socialise are so fraught. I have female acquaintances round for late lunch on two consecutive Sundays. First it’s Brenda, a sweet 20-something Austrian sister from FWM. Having moved to Brussels around the same time, she’s one of the few other consistent contacts I have in Belgium.

I take care of starter and mains, whilst Brenda brings over a more-ish homemade trifle. My spinach soup entrée and main fish pie dish go down very well. She’s appreciative to the point I feel a tad embarrassed. With both of us stranded in Belgium for Easter, I suggest she comes over again for Resurrection Sunday lunch. The offer is accepted without hesitation, her enthusiasm reiterated by text a fortnight later.

The following week, I’ll be pleasantly surprised to find a ‘thank you’ card in my letter box courtesy of Brenda.

That Sunday, it’s the turn of mutual friend of Rob, Auntie Carol. Her being of West-Indian extraction, I’m especially keen for my flat to be in good order when she arrives. Nobody keeps house like Caribbeans. It’s mixed-meat tagine on the menu this time, albeit not as warm as I would have liked despite being fresh out of the oven. My lukewarm flat is also too chilly for Carol’s through-and-through tropical blood. She hops from one foot to the other. There’s not much I can do to alleviate her discomfort. The living room heating is on a timer.

Notwithstanding my eagerness to share my Rob-related gossip, I learn more about Carol’s adventures as a student in Spain, our shared faith, various exes and suitors as well as work-related drama. I’ve lived a sheltered life in comparison. As Carol recalls her pre-COVID nights on the town, I rue how much this bloomin' pandemic has robbed me of Brussels’ life.

By the time we’ve exhausted this round of conversation and I accompany Carol to the metro station, it is nightfall.

Soundtrack: Expansion by Speech

...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

Keep on Moving…

The days after my mother returns to the UK, my flat feels especially cavernous. That’s usually how it is after I’ve hosted a visitor. Around New Year’s, I’m even more susceptible to feelings of isolation than most other moments.

My mind turns to my plans for New Year’s Eve; La Reveillon. After two years in a row, the novelty has faded of a quiet one at home in prayer and reflection over the past year. I miss the Watch Night services at my church in London. For some nebulous reason, my French church doesn’t organise any special festive services; neither on Christmas morning nor New Year’s Eve. Something to do with building regulations or noise control in a residential area.

I am aware of a predominantly African/Caribbean congregation also in the La Meinau vicinity. Some members of my church attend their activities. In the final days of December, it occurs to me to check their website for any NYE activity. Bingo. My spirits perk up at the thought of spending 31 December worshipping and praying with others; albeit in a room full of strangers. Once I am assured that there’ll be public transport to get me home, my mind is made up.

I wear my Sunday best and head out that frosty evening to The International Christian Centre. When I arrive I’m handed an envelope and a form. I ask what it’s for. A pointless question, really. I am already very familiar with this particular African Christian tradition of writing prayer requests ahead of the New Year. I haven’t been inclined for a good while, after too many disappointments. I take the form anyway and follow the ushers obediently to a seat at the far end of my room.

There's more diversity amongst those in attendance than expected, to be fair. I’m sat next to an especially disruptive family whose children (some of them old enough to know much better) can’t sit still. At least I can see a familiar face. Seated two rows in front, I spot Katie who attends some of the events at my regular church. She flirted with membership before settling at ICC. I can’t get her attention without disturbing others. I’ll eventually work up the nerve to ask someone to tap her on the shoulder. For now, I hope she turns around.

ICC’s HQ is in Paris but has several branches across the globe. The main NYE service is conducted remotely via live stream.

I’m apprehensive. I have had enough exposure to both the good and (too often) the bad of West African church custom to have given it a wide berth for a long time. I watch with scepticism a video update on an extremely ambitious building project. The pastors say the vision is Heaven sent. I can’t obviously attest either way to the veracity of such a claim. Nevertheless, I seriously ponder the wisdom of building a multiplex when, to my mind, there are other more effective ways those funds could be used to reach the Community for Christ.

I become even more wary when the senior pastor approaches that evening’s theme; Welcome to the Decade of Dominion. I brace myself for some variation on the prosperity Gospel; building the Kingdom of God a mere pretext for self-agrandissement. This proves to be a hasty and unfair judgement. The message is refreshingly even-handed. The pastor extols Christian virtues like selflessness and humility, adding these need to be demonstrated in whichever domain the Faithful find themselves. He speaks of the Holy Spirit equipping the church to help bring solutions to the big problems facing Society today. He eschews selfish ambition, insisting that it betrays spiritual immaturity. The message ends half an hour or so before midnight as we pray, sing and dance into the New Year. By then I have scribbled down some prayer requests and am galvanised by a strong sense of hope and purpose. The countdown arrives. I still can’t get Katie’s attention. I have no-one to embrace at midnight.

Never mind. Good riddance 2010s. I won’t miss ya. I allow myself some not-so-cautious optimism looking ahead to the 2020s.

Shortly after midnight, we are politely asked to leave as the welcome team prepare the hall for the second round of festivities, including food and entertainment. It’s scheduled to last long into the wee small hours.

A few of us seize the opportunity to go home, however. Katie has the same idea as does Stacee from my church, whom I bump into at the exit. As I'm deciding the best way to kill time before the next bus, Katie offers me a lift home. The conversation is in-depth for a relatively short car ride. We speak of our similar backgrounds (her family were part of a wave of migration from Ghana to France in the 70s and 80s, of which I was not aware before living in Strasbourg). She explains how she came to faith living in the UK. We speak about the short-comings and advantages of various church cultures as well as reflect on the past and forthcoming decade. At the cusp of her 30s, Katie considers her 20s to have been a preparation period.  She uses the oft-visited cocoon analogy. A wave of melancholy sweeps over me. Coming to the end of my 30s, I recall the sense of optimism I felt at the beginning; once I had overcome certain neuroses. Much of that is yet to be fulfilled. I open up, nonetheless trying not to dampen Katie's enthusiasm. I reassure her she’ll flourish as anticipated. Inshallah.

The Second (Home)coming

10 months’ since my last visit to London, it’s not just long overdue. It’s become a necessity for my morale and general equilibrium. The main thing that’s been stopping me is my irregular accommodation situation back in the UK.  I last stayed with a friend who gave me a warm welcome, although the environment was chaotic.  Mum is of course pleased to host her baby but doesn’t currently have the space.

A few months prior, I thus contact my old landlady to check if she has any spare rooms. Indeed she does, for a steal, the floor above where I used to rent.

The journey to and from London is mercifully drama-free. No missed connections. The only mild gripe is a fellow passenger who appears to have verbal diarrhoea, intent on punctuating any silence with a running commentary in a transatlantic whine to his significant other.

On arriving, there’s a bit of a hitch.  Despite having sent her a reminder the week before, my former landlady has an evening class and forgets. She lives all the way in Kingston. I’m standing outside my old flat in the rain, the no doubt Climate Change-induced premature summer having inconveniently vanished when I touch down.  After several unsuccessful attempts to phone her, she finally answers. Profusely apologetic, she sends her husband down with the key. It’s at least an hour’s drive. To kill the time, I bring forward a planned surprise visit to my aunt and cousin who live in the neighbourhood.

I am only in town for what is effectively a long weekend.  I squeeze as many visits into as many available windows. Meeting up with friends across the City, we discuss amongst others, the male: female ratio and gender politics in the church context, debate evolutionary biology vs. social constructionist theories, Brexit (inevitably), ponder the latest R. Kelly scandal and the impact of the controversial new MJ doc, my plans for the mid-long term but surprisingly little about my current life in Strasbourg. Considering.  Maybe that’s for the best.  I’m in London for a change of scene after all. 

I’m under no illusions of having strong nostalgia for the city itself.  Cramped into the tiny, dusty room which is my temporary residence, keeping my use of the poorly-maintained communal areas to a minimum, I’m reminded why. The money-bleeding transport system is another rude refresher.   I also reflect on the increasing aptness of the (admittedly quite pretentious) Citoyenne Mondiale descriptor that I have facetiously adopted on occasion.  Geographically, I don’t know where I belong. Everywhere and nowhere.

By contrast, my visit to my home church is a soul-enriching and centring highlight of the trip.  I’m always nervous about these guerilla cameos when I shouldn’t be.  The outcome is usually reassuring. I meet new babies, some of whom I don’t know where their parents found the time to conceive and give birth within the period I’ve been away.  After church I head to a local Wetherspoons with a couple of good mates, including fellow aspiring writer, Pete and mutual friend Amelia. She’s a captive audience to our latest creative efforts.

The following morning, I head to my old employers, The Medical School. I pass by the Chaplaincy for a well-needed refresher meditation session as well as a catch-up with the good Reverend.  En route, I stop by the security lodge of my old office building.  I run into some of the old gang; two of the ‘dream team’.  It’s more of an anticlimactic visit than I expect. I don’t receive the superstar welcome that my vanity anticipated. In spite of giving some advance notice, my timing still isn’t the best. The fellows are cordial but distracted. During my visit Josh learns from his wife of the death of one of his idols; Keith Flint from The Prodigy.

Josh is dazed.

He’ll have to go up on the wall of death, suggests a colleague, matter-of-fact. This is in reference to a makeshift homage of photos to celebrities that have passed, mostly-but not all-during this decade. Flint will take his place alongside Tupac and Big Pun as one of Josh’s lost heroes.

The rest of the day is more auspicious.  I spend a therapeutic afternoon with a church auntie, mutually comforting each other over the distressing experience of the old 'ministry' where we met.

That evening, I pass by mum’s one last time before I fly out the following afternoon.  She effuses enthusiasm about my visits. She treats me to favourite foods and all sorts of creature comforts to take back to Strasbourg, as well as graciously giving my twists a much-needed tidy up.  Mum approaches my hair like a sculptor does their raw materials. She’s always seeing some new angle to adjust.

Back at work later that week, I hit the ground running. There are several big meetings to prepare for in March and April. Sophie’s just back from maternity leave and a new project is about to be launched in another part of the former Eastern Bloc. Lucia, one of my several managers, seems to be in relatively good spirits.  Despite protests to the contrary, she appears well-rested after a recent trip to the UK which she says went very well. Alas, as I suspect, this ceasefire doesn't last very long. That's for a different blog post, maybe.

By the end of that week I am exhausted. I harness enough energy to make it to my choir’s long but productive AGM.  The following day, it is late afternoon drinks with Gael in a new restaurant he’s come across; the waggishly-named Chez Mon-Ex (Round my ex’s). Original indeed and not, as I first thought, a veiled reference to Gael's unresolved relationship issues.

Soundtrack: Art + Studio by Benny Sings.

In a Carpenters' State of Mind

Mid-July weekend. France is in jubilatory mode. Saturday is Bastille Day and Sunday will be the final World Cup face-off with Croatia. Ironically, I feel more intensely the mild depression I’ve been skirting round. Nevertheless, regretful for missing out on the celebrations during the Fete de la Musique, I am determined to make it to the late night 14 July fireworks display near Etoile Bourse in Strasbourg town centre. It would compensate for not being in the UK for Guy Fawkes' night last year, having already moved to Alsace.

My mood lifts as my usually quiet bus route fills up with revelers headed for the same destination. There’s a massive diversion owing to the fireworks. I ditch my original plan to make my own way

by foot from Les Halles and instead follow the crowd. It’s after 10pm. Dusk has finally made way for nightfall. Restaurants in the Etoile Bourse area are full to capacity, certain punters having decided to watch the display from the terraces. It occurs to me too late that I should have met up with Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro rather than fly solo. We text each other before and after the Light Show. She’s about but I don’t know where.

Despite the crowd I locate a suspiciously clear open space to park myself for the event, next to the temporary beach. My personal soundtrack to the spectacle is a collection of love songs by The Carpenters. Karen is one of my favourite vocalists but I mete out how often I listen to them. There’s something intrinsically mournful about her sublime voice. Even her happier songs sound ironic. Between that, the siblings’ less than cheerful backstory and Karen’s self-inflicted untimely demise, I can only take their painfully beautiful music in measured doses. But I am in that kind of mood.

There’s a sweet, almost twisted pleasure listening to Karen’s melodious hum as the sky lights up with multi-coloured pyrotechnics. It becomes clear why the spot I’ve found isn’t so busy. The view is obstructed by a decorative (yes decorative) crane. I shift around in a futile attempt to find a better vantage point that isn’t already occupied, before making my peace with it. In the end, it’s a serene half-an-hour spent. Life-affirming, even. Just what I need. Disruption to public transport and late hour notwithstanding, my journey home is auspicious.

The following day at church the kindly, avuncular senior pastor preaches from Psalm 23. He exhorts us to profit from the downtempo summer period to rest our weary souls. It’s a pertinent message that sets off much internal dialogue.

After the service, I hear a familiar voice calling out. It’s Serafine. I’m relieved to see her. I’d hoped our paths would cross. She looks fab in a traditional West-African print wrap-around summer dress.

She asks how I am doing. I don’t have the energy these days for pretence; at least not around certain individuals. I try to articulate my complex mind state as best I can in French. Whilst endeavouring to explain my pre-birthday anxiety, I burst into tears. Serafine embraces me. She needs to fetch her daughter from Sunday school but asks if I have plans this afternoon.

Not much.

Her offer to spend time is a small but significant gesture. It’s the tonic that I need that afternoon. We hardly know each other but have much in common. Half-Gabonese, Half-Austrian Serafine relates to my citizen-of-everywhere-and-nowhere sentiments.

Being mixed isn’t just about ethnicity. It’s very much cultural. She avers, citing examples of mixed heritage Africans who feel little connection to the West. I couldn’t agree more. I've met quite a few. In their eyes, I'm a lost little Westernised girl, ignorant of her roots.

Serafine explains that Strasbourg can be a lonely city. I don't get it. It's the right balance between the manic pace of a Megatropolis and the boredom of a small town. 

Serafine expounds. She's moved countries and cities several times. Because of the transitory lifestyle of mega-cities there are many individuals in a similar position. They arrive from all over, to work or study, with no family or relational ties. They are looking to connect with others in the same boat. Strasbourg on the other hand, is full of long established networks. Its residents are settled and have put down roots. It's tough for an outsider to make inroads.

I've never seen it from that perspective. So it's not just me.

Serafine and I find further common ground in our aversion to the reductive ideas about women within some Christian circles. Unlike one of the speakers at church who goes out of her way to distance herself from feminism, Serafine and I readily identify with it. Sitting in her car, with her patient and well-behaved young daughter looking on quietly, we swap notes about our similar choleric/melancholic tendencies (not that I’d guess from her mellow demeanour), our mutual self-defeating perfectionism and inherent idealism. She empathises with the difficulty of negotiating relations at work. I unburden about my crisis of faith. She listens, sympathetic. 

I count my blessings. It’s the second time that week I’ve been able to share with someone who listens without judgment; once with an old friend and this time with a relative stranger.

And of course, there’s my beautiful, loyal, patient sister and her ready ears.

Nothing has changed materially after these conversations but I feel understood. It makes all the difference. I begrudgingly acknowledge God’s love in such ordinary interactions. As much as I am looking for the Mountain Top/Burning Bush moments, I can’t turn my nose up at any experience of the Divine, no matter how commonplace.

(courtesy of The Wall Street Journal)

That evening, France’ celebratory weekend will conclude with resounding victory at the World Cup. The Blues take home the coveted trophy, 20 years on from their last memorable win against Brazil. Given that this has happened on his watch, President Macron’s expression is even jammier than usual.

Just as in 1998, the triumphant French team is significantly comprised of the sons of African and Arab immigrants from former Francophone colonies. I’m no football fan but there’s a multicultural sweetness to this glory. I send a congratulatory text to a few of my Francophone acquaintances.

Yeesssssssssssss is the ecstatic, Anglophone response from one.

This is the next best thing to living through the 1998 salad days. Footage of Paris on line shows a sea of red, white and blue gathered around L’Arc de Triomphe. I watch cars speeding past my window, horning furiously, occupants hanging out of the window, flag-waving.

I’m sincerely glad to be here right now.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy After All These Years by Paul Simon & Love Songs by The Carpenters.

One of the Girls

 One Friday night in mid-April, I accompany a group of volunteers from my church who support sexually-exploited women in the Strasbourg area. It’s a cause in which I’ve wanted to be involved for many years. Back in the UK I provided voluntary administrative assistance for charity Beyond the Streets. I was, however precluded from offering more practical support to their sister organisation, Door of Hope as it requires a long-term commitment of at least 18 months. That’s hard in a city of transit like London. I’ve changed jobs twice, moved house three times and relocated country in the past two years alone.

Thus, I see it as something of a God-send to discover that EPIS has a dedicated street team. A month prior to my first outing I meet up with Sabrina, one of the team leaders. She’s a remarkably equanimous petite brunette of Spanish descent. We spend time getting acquainted. My French is not on top form that evening but Sabrina is patient. She wants to know my motivation for joining the team. I tell her of my voluntary experience back in GB. She explains that most of the women the team come across are either of West African or Eastern European origin. Pimps and madams use various methods to exert control over the women. Those from Nigeria have often been forced to participate in elaborate juju ceremonies where they invoke curses on themselves should they ever seek to escape. The families of those from the former Soviet bloc are threatened. 

At the end of our rendez-vous, Sabrina kindly offers to drop me off home on the way back to her place in the sticks. We pass the European institutions. I mention I live and work in the vicinity. She informs me that much of the team’s outreach is based not too far from there. When the international dignitaries come into town for a big conference, business for the Girls’ exponentially booms. It’s hardly surprising but it still makes my blood boil. It's yet one more example of the abuse of power. The so-called defenders’ of human rights willingly participate in the denigration of another’s.

Some weeks after meeting with Sabrina, it's the evening of my first outing with the team. I swiftly become aware that I am not at all well-prepared. I’m wearing masochistically impractical block heels. I could have done with an afternoon siesta too. It’s going to be a long night. Still, I have my Christian-feminist zeal to carry me through. I hope.

The group goes out several nights per month, mainly on a Friday. The official meeting time is 8pm. Sabrina arrives early to welcome us. She’s expecting a particularly good turn out. We squeeze into one of the back offices. There are kettles, flasks and sachets of hot drinks everywhere. I am to discover that this isn’t merely to keep the team warm. We’ll be offering beverages to those we encounter during the course of the night. The rest of the group takes an hour to trickle in. Every one who arrives insists on the cheek-to-cheek bisou. I promptly warn them that kissing perfect strangers is far too intimate for my anglicised customs. I abstain as much as possible. I’m also suddenly feeling self-conscious about my French.

(courtesy of The Praying Woman)

Joseph, a shy young Chemistry student, makes awkward conversation with me. At one stage, he claims some African languages sound ‘weird’. I correct him as patiently as I can manage.

That’s subjective. ‘Weirdness’ does not exist in this context.

Bless him. He’s making an effort.

We are eventually joined by one of the other team-leaders, Luc. It is thanks to his Sunday announcement back in January that I first find out that the group exists. In real life, he's open, amicable and much younger than I recall.

When all the group is gathered, Luc leads us in a time of prayer in the Upper Room. The team affectionately refer to the women as The Girls or Princesses. I have some difficulty keeping up with the speed of conversation and don’t feel confident to pray in French. Thankfully, nobody asks. Yet.

We divide into smaller groups. Two or three will reach out to the Girls, the others will focus on rough-sleepers in town. I will be joining Sabrina and Joseph. I comment on how small the teams are. Sabrina explains that any bigger than three might be too overwhelming for the women.

The routine is simple enough. We offer hot drinks, an opportunity for the women to share whatever is on their mind and suggest prayer if they want it. The group also has contacts with those who work in social services, should the Girls want to be signposted.

Sabrina drives us out to an area known as the Citadel. All three of us take it in turns to pray before we set out. I alternate between English and tentative French. 

The night's activities will expose me to a side of Strasbourg with which I was not previously familiar. 

Before long we meet a couple of Romanians. Gabriela recognises Sabrina, welcoming her warmly and eager for some tea.  Her companion, Regina, is polite but reticent. She drops back as Gabriela discusses her mother’s health problems with Sabrina. We pray for her recovery and Gabriela’s children. On cue, a potential client calls the two away. Before leaving they mention other Girls have gathered up the road.

We walk for a while before we see any more. Sabrina says it’s a quiet night, considering the relatively mild weather. After some time we come across a trio of Albanians. The youngest has neither French nor English. I feel terrified for her. Without either of these languages she has even less control over what she does with clients. She is initially reluctant to engage but quietly sidles up when she sees us talking to her acquaintances, Belinda and Marina. They have just celebrated Orthodox Easter. 

Sabrina enquires about doctrinal similarities. Marina and Belinda converse enthusiastically, sipping cups of coffee in between. We ask the name of their younger friend (Anna). The discussion oddly turns to 90s American films. Then American Pie. Then sex. Joseph in his well-intentioned but gauche manner tries to explain biblical teachings about lovemaking. I’m pretty sure the women are already well-versed in it. We pray for Belinda's mother (health issues again) and move on.

Further on in our travels, we meet Kate. She waits alone at a deserted bus stop. Her greeting is guarded, despite having met Sabrina on at least one previous occasion. She mentions to Kate that I am also of West African descent. Kate switches to English. We bond over our shared heritage and similar physiology. She welcomes our prayers. I lead in English. She has four children back Home for whom she’s trying to provide. She wants a way out of the life. Any job would do.

We’re only half way through a two-hour + shift and the night is already taking its toll. My shoes are biting. The temperature's dropping. Emotionally I am finding it hard to hold it together. I fear for the safety of the Girls’, especially those on their own. The reality of their existence hits me like a blast. I’m struggling with anger and resentment towards the johns.

Near the end of the shift we bump into strident Albanian beauty, Lisa. Something about her indomitable spirit makes me adore this youthful mother-of-two in an instant. All three of us stand slack-jawed (even the stoic Sabrina) as Lisa recounts in rapid French the horrific health issues she’s experienced lately. She’s suffering from complications following a botched termination. She went to see a doctor in Germany after falling pregnant when a client’s condom split. Part of the foetus was accidentally left behind. She has bled profusely for over a month. 

Lisa isn't apprehensive about sharing the gruesome details. There’s not a hint of self-pity in her tone. No welling up. Nothing but raw indignation. The trip to Germany, procedure and medication has set her back several hundred euros, not to mention the impact on business. She finds out too late that this doctor has a reputation for mishaps. Several minutes into her distressing monologue, Lisa’s phone goes off. I’m desperate to pray with her. She excuses herself, taking the call at a distance. We hang around. She’s not coming back anytime soon. We make do with praying for her as we head back to Sabrina’s car.

En route, a couple of Girls call us over. Laura is another force of nature; assertive and quick as a whip. In the brief time we spend in her company, she displays cognisance of four languages. She intermittently communicates with Sabrina in Spanish. She castigates a potential client who drives by without stopping, gesticulating fiercely as he whizzes past.

He’s watching porno in his car. What’s the bloody point?

Laura is with a younger blonde. They drink very sugary coffee and catch us up on their news. She asks after Luc. It’s not the first time one of the ladies has inquired of him. Laura is reluctant for us to talk about personal matters in front of her protegée. Next time, she says. She asks us to pray for her in our own time.

We take our leave. We’re late. The others will be waiting for us back at church. As we walk towards Sabrina’s car another young blonde emerges from the bushes, running after us in impossibly high stilettos. We stop. This is why we came. Our timetable is determined by the Girls' needs. Any slither of comfort, hope or practical assistance we can offer them, by the grace of God, is well worth going off piste.

I am introduced for the umpteenth time that night as the rookie. I don’t mind. I intend to become as well-acquainted with the Girls as the other members of the team. That is, until they are able to finally get out of the life.

On the drive back to church Sabrina spots some of the princesses whom we didn’t see earlier. She regrets not having had a chance to interact with them. I reassure her that we spoke to whomever we were supposed to that night.

As upsetting as the encounters have been, I can't have possibly taken on their full implication. I'd go mad. 

Later that week, I will think of the men I know. Whether they could be found amongst the clientele of these, or any other women involved in the sex trade. There must be a happy medium between misandrous cynicism and being naive enough to believe it couldn't happen just because they're of my acquaintance. Only recently, a friend based in the UK confesses that he frequented brothels during a difficult period.

Back at EPIS HQ, the groups reunite for a debrief.  We pray and disperse. It’s around 1am. Sabrina drops Joseph off at his student quarters. On the way back to mine, I confide in my level-headed interlocutor. I feel conflicted. I am torn between despising men who pay for sex and being true to my Christian values not to condemn them.  It's not for me to cast stones.  Reducing another human being to an object of momentary pleasure, merely perpetuating the system that exploits them, is but yet another manifestation of human brokenness from which I am not exempt. Thank God for Jesus.