Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 2

Colmar @ Christmas

Part 1

I organise a day trip to Colmar the Monday before Christmas. Mum and I continue our nativity tour at Colmar Cathedral. The exhibition features a thousand and one variations of the famous Christian scene, made from almost every conceivable material. 

A sizeable portion of the day is spent at the Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi museum, housed in the celebrated sculptor's old family home.

Bartholdi is best known for being the mastermind behind the Statue of Liberty. However, he was also an incredibly prolific all- round artist whose oeuvre included oil paintings, watercolours as well as sculpture. Walking around the museum, I wonder if he ever slept. He also found the time to trot the globe and be involved in the abolitionist movement. His views on race relations were progressive for an upper-middle class 19^th Century gent.  Bartholdi had a fascination with the African form as evidenced from the City’s Bruat Fountain and other work. His depictions are stunning. 

We have some unexpected musical accompaniment to our tour thanks to a teenage brass band outside. They busk their way through seasonal favourites both sacred and secular.

We exit the museum after dark. Hunger has set in.  I have more I'd like to show mum but the hour to catch our coach back to Strasbourg is fast approaching. We line up for crêpes in the cold and rain for an inordinate amount of time at a stall that is busy and short-staffed. The manager appears to join her over-worked underling, only to make herself some Nutella-based pancakes and bugger off. Another employee takes that inopportune moment to have a fag-break in full view. His stressed colleague tells him testily to lend a hand.

Mum keeps changing her mind about what she wants which increases my irritation.

Crêpes finally made, we are prevented from eating them in the associated establishment by the now terse would-be fag-smoking employee, who has suddenly found his officious side.

But I was just about to order a drink. Which I was. My protests are to no avail. He makes up some excuse about preparing for the evening clientele. His pettiness makes me fume. We walk around grumpily looking for somewhere warm to eat our  crêpes. I order what turns out to be delicious hot chocolate at an Italian establishment. We eat our now cold purchases on the sly. Despite my bad mood, I guffaw at mum’s furtive munching; as if she’s a thief on the run.  There's no more stops to be made before home time. A possible meet up with Noëlle, an acquaintance who works in Colmar, comes to nothing.  Initially enthused, she texts to say she can't make it. Held up at the office. (I have a feeling it might have something to do with me asking her earlier to not incessantly correct my French).

Tuesday morning - Christmas eve-we take a Happy Tour of my favourite part of town, Petite France, in the cold and wet. The foul weather doesn’t diffuse the customary bonhomie of our trusty guide, Leo. We have a handful of last minute purchases to make before heading to Christmas Eve service at Robertsau Eglise. During a quick stop-off at my bank, I spot a former colleague outside. I call out to him and introduce him to mum.  She's your sister, surely? he marvels.  I ask if he has any plans to return to The Human Rights Organisation.  At the time I left, he had been on sick leave for a year. Having worked for THRO for a quarter century, he's now seriously playing with the idea of early retirement.

An elaborate, festive-themed window display:
Rue des Orfèvres, Strasbourg

The Robertsau parish stage an alternative nativity story. Angel Gabriel has offended an apparently gruff God and is swiftly replaced by Angel Marcelle. The junior cast trip over their long white gowns and predictably fluff some of their lines. A badly behaved child on our row takes the attention off my translating the service for mum. A twee, rather generic message follows about the light and joy of Christmas. Quite unlike the far more circumspect Christmas morning sermon by Pastor Rohan the following day. Between his message based on the first view verses of John 1-balancing realism with hope- and the holy communion, mum is quite overcome.

Christmas day afternoon is our first extended break since mum arrived. We’ve done much of the preparation for the main meal the day before. That doesn't stop mum from doing most of the cooking itself. She’s not one for catnaps. I, on the other hand, am exhausted. After my siesta I watch the overrated A Christmas Tale (Un Conte de Noel). Off to a promising start, it’s inevitably marred by infuriatingly capricious and under-developed female protagonists. It’s an all too typical observation of French fiction; both in visual and literary form.

That evening we tuck into lentil, coconut and sweet potato soup (yours truly), a bread selection, capon, beef, pastries, potatoes, brockley, mini mince pies and traditional iced yule log, whilst watching Netflix family drama A Marriage Story. With a richer and far more layered narrative, it compensates for the disappointment of Un Conte de Noel. Mum routinely comments on Adam Driver’s organic and emotive performance.

On Thursday, I invite Gustavo and his girlfriend Raphaëlle for Boxing Day lunch. My mother offers a polite and friendly welcome before making herself scarce. Although the two have a decent level of English, mum doesn’t want me to feel obligated to translate when it falters.

Biscuits, cheese, casserole and assorted desserts are on the menu. Yet Raphaëlle and her fellow are selective eaters. Gustavo is picky and she doesn’t like the texture of meat. They should have warned me ahead of time, I insist, I could have adapted.

Not to worry, Raphaëlle replies. If we were to give you a list of our dietary requirements, we wouldn’t eat at all.

They’re an impressive young couple. Mature, well-informed and politically astute. Our conversation covers a lot of ground. There’s hope for the future with folk like this in it. They depart at twilight.

Following our hectic but enjoyable Christmas schedule, mum is content not to go out at all. By contrast, I need to expose myself to the elements at least once a day. I go for a brisk evening walk in the chill.

Inside Notre Dame Cathedral, Strasbourg

Friday. Just over a week since mum arrived for her festive visit. The way time flies never ceases to surprise me. Both of us try to resist an encroaching melancholy. I already find it hard to keep my spirits up over the New Year period. I avoid thinking too much about what it’ll be like after my mother returns to the UK.

For the last full day of her Christmas excursion, I’ve organised a visit to Strasbourg Notre Dame cathedral. It’ll be mum’s first time indoors. As much as I’m beguiled by the exterior, I avoid going inside most of the year. It’s too eerie.

The Cathedral’s customary sombre décor is nevertheless enlivened by this year’s seemingly rejuvenated Nativity scene.  Once more,  I leave mum in the evening to attend rehearsal for a Christmas spectacle that weekend, taking place after she jets off. It will involve several choirs including my own, the High Rock Gospel Singers. It’s a chaotic run-through. Pastor Richard continues with his unintentionally hilarious, pomp-filled antics. One soul-stirring chorus is conducted by the rhythmically-challenged director of a Mauritian chorale. Between following his spasmodic non-directions and being told we need to convey the simple but moving lyrics with more passion, it is like a mental assault course.

The concert will nevertheless be a source of well-timed distraction after seeing mum off at Etoile Bourse coach station that Saturday. I don’t have too much time to feel her absence that evening. It'll kick in later.

The next day we catch up on the phone. After her safe arrival back in Blighty the night before, Mum’s enjoying a relaxed Sunday (visit to the gym notwithstanding). She’s in good spirits despite having to be back at work the next morning. She spent some of the journey back to Sydenham re-watching the clips she filmed on her phone during the holiday. The transit time evaporated, she exclaims. 

We reflect once more on how splendid and stress-free her trip was, give or take the odd strop on my part.

Later that night, on the way back from the bathroom I’ll hesitate at the top of the stairs. For a brief moment I am mentally comforted by the thought of my mum sleeping in the living room. Just as quickly, I remember I’m on my own again.

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.