One Year On

The autumn season has a particular significance since beginning of my relationship with Strasbourg. It was in the autumn of 2016 that I first visited the City for my make-or-break interview with The Human Rights Organisation (THRO).  I fell in love with Strasbourg in all its red and amber glory. Alsace is very becoming during autumn. The beauty of the season is especially vibrant here.

The last Monday of October marks my first year anniversary in Strasbourg. It seems to have arrived quickly and yet there are moments that are already like a distant memory. I approach the date with some dread. There’s the usual anxiety about getting older; how time seems to speed up with age. There’s also the on-going neurosis about my linguistic progress. My main motivation for moving to France was to master the language. Anything less defeats the purpose.

Years ago, former Francophone acquaintances reassured me that all I needed was a few months in France.

You’ll be fluent in no time! 

Although at that period in life I was more confident, my language level was inferior to what it was on moving to Strasbourg.

A year on and this optimistic forecast is far from my reality. I blame my stubborn mediocrity and self-flagellate accordingly.

To mark my one-year milestone-which happens to fall on my day off- I intend to indulge a little. On the way out, I spot a photocopy of the building rules in my post box.  The section about noise has passive-aggressively been highlighted in orange.  As far as I can tell, my other neighbours have not received such a missive. The rules are harsher than I anticipated. We’re banned from using vacuum cleaners during the lunch hour for instance, and on public holidays (of which there are many). The sound insulation in the building is top notch. Apart from a couple of times when I’ve had my radio on a bit loud after 10pm, I try to be a model neighbour. I wonder about the identity of this resident who has neither the courage nor the courtesy to address me directly. 

I press on with my day. After catching a matinee of Le Procès Contre Nelson Mandela et Les Autres, I head to the salon for my monthly ritual of skin treatment and a massage. This time, I have decided to throw in the longer, anti-stress rub down. It’s on sale for those with a monthly subscription, as is the skin treatment. I am looking forward to my afternoon of bargain pampering. I’m assigned a therapist I’ve not met before.

Imagine thus my horror when settling the bill, to find that it’s substantially more than what I’d expected.

You changed treatment, remember?, my crafty therapist posits.

Did I?

I recall our conversation. She offered an alternative treatment. I didn’t quite get what she meant and didn’t want to keep asking her to repeat herself. I assumed it was the same treatment, adapted to my skin time. I left the decision to her. I trusted her expertise. I didn’t expect her to sneakily throw in extras without pointing out the price difference.

But, but…it’s not my first language. I completely misunderstood!

I’m chagrined. Where there have been previous miscommunications, I’ve been offered some compensation. Not this time. She just gives me a falsely apologetic smile. I don’t have the presence of mind to call her out on her own culpability. I’m in such a state I couldn’t form the words properly in any case. I don’t know what upsets me more; the added expense or the linguistic blunder. It isn’t even worth it in the end. The full-body massage is too intimate for my tastes, having had to strip down to my underwear. What’s more, the therapist half-arses it.

My day of celebration and pampering has taken a turn for the worse. I attempt unsuccessfully to keep F.Scott Fitzgerald’s level-headed advice in mind.

“…You mustn’t confuse a single failure with a final defeat…”

Nonetheless, I reflect, the snide note and the misunderstanding at the salon pretty much sums up my experience so far in Strasbourg.  Cold people and linguistic frustration. To feel this disappointed, I must have had more of the naïve optimism needed to make a major life change than I realised when I arrived. Whilst I’m in pity-party mode, I recall how so few of my UK acquaintances have paid me a visit; considering I’m just across the Channel and accommodation is free. I pass the evening in a weepy state. A lengthy catch-up with mum helps. She believes I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not so sure. I know too many talented multi-linguists. The bar is set very high.

Well maybe French is harder to master than English, Mum counters. 

I have heard that theory a number of times. It might carry some weight from what I’ve observed. Then again, never having had to learn English as a second language, I can’t really gauge. 

Mum is convinced I’m not in the position to measure my own progress. It echoes something one of my fellow sopranos mentions at our last choir rehearsal. She describes her experience studying English.

You’re not always the best judge of how far you’ve come. It’s others who will notice over time.

Hmm. Maybe. It’s the curse of the idealist/perfectionist. Doomed to dissatisfaction.  My polyglot acquaintances might be gifted but they aren’t superhuman. It’s not out of the realms of possibility. If I can’t meet my own standards, it’s not very encouraging. 

All that remains is to do as always. Persevere.

Contrary to what the above might suggest, I don’t regret relocating. And as must be obvious by now, I am prone to regrets.

If I had turned down the opportunity to work for THRO out of apprehension, I would have added a huge one to my already long list. 

Certainly, I didn’t factor in how difficult it would be to find accommodation. I didn’t expect an international city like Strasbourg to be as socially closed-off. There are times when the isolation has been like a stalking presence, particularly during the summer. I’ve experienced unfamiliar emotional lows out here. 

Still. No regrets.

I enjoy a standard of living that wouldn't be feasible in the current British economic climate. I have opportunities and the freedom to explore them that should not be taken for granted. 

Living in Strasbourg is teaching me how to be present, something I’ve often grappled with.

More recently, fleeting interactions have helped me see things from a different angle.

Left to my instincts, I seek to hold onto potentially good relationships. Everything in life needs to serve a purpose. If it doesn’t blossom into a fully-fledged friendship or comes to what I believe is a premature end, it has all been for nought. 

I’m learning to hold that interpretation a lot more loosely. Sometimes the ephemeral interaction is the point. It’s served a purpose, in that moment. If a potential acquaintance turns out to be a flake, it’s a shame but not the end of the world. They were there for me at a specific point in time when I needed it.

Adjusting my expectations accordingly takes a lot of the pressure off. I don’t feel as resentful about lost contacts (Javier, Serafine etc). I am not as aggravated as I have been about the insularity of the City. I am free to enjoy the experience for what it is. Anything more is a bonus.  

I hope to remain this philosophical. My initial one year contract has been extended to late spring 2019. The current financial climate at The Organisation means anybody bar permanent staff is potentially dispensable. All the more reason to take one step at a time. A chaque jour suffit sa peine.

Back to School

La Rentrée –or Back to School-is big in France. Huge. It’s like the country’s fifth season; somewhere between summer and autumn. Evidently, activities evolve around the academic year. I learned that the hard way during the silent summer.

Residues of the isolation remain with me even as things start to get back to normal. Ever the drama queen, I can’t shake the feeling that if anything happened to me out here-God forbid-it would be a while before I’d be missed. I find solace in the classics. Late August, I’m in MJ mode to commemorate what would’ve been his 60^th birthday. Another day, Donnie Hathaway reassures me Everything has got to get better… Not that it did for him but I’ll focus on the positive.

It also helps to keep busy. That’s easier now that the summer lull is over. Sabrina from church has organised a one-off outreach for the ladies of the night before the official Rentrée. Online meetings with my ‘local’ Labour International branch have resumed. I’ve signed up for bargain-priced classes at the heavily-subsided Université Populaire. I still have my eyes set on joining HRGS. The empty corridor of my department slowly begins to fill up as colleagues return from holiday. The once virtually deserted building springs back to life. I notice the streets and public transport are filled with returning or newly-matriculated students.

I catch sight of my erstwhile crush at the end of August from a distance. I’m trying to avoid him. I need the emotional respite and to gain some well-needed perspective on the whole non-drama.

My recovery is going quite well until I bump into him unavoidably the following lunch time at the bus stop. By some freak happenstance our paths cross whilst he’s meeting an acquaintance outside my building. He’s all smiles. I salute him solemnly. I admit, I had it in mind to play it aloof but I’m also a bit blind-sided by the suddenness of it. I can’t say I’m wholly happy to see him. He disappears behind the bus shelter with his friend. I’m relieved. No need to chat if he has company.

He pops his head around the display panel, catching me a little off-guard. He’s chatty. I’m not particularly. He asks if I’m all right, not convinced but still cheerful. I give a non-committal response and return the question. He moves off, does a typing movement with his hand whilst mouthing something. I assume he plans to email me. None is forthcoming.

The next week, we cross paths again unexpectedly. I tend to scan the horizon to be on the alert. He takes me surprise by coming in another direction. His face lights up when he sees me. I’m less stand-offish. He’s in a hurry, as am I. He does the silly typing mime again. Clearly he thinks it’s my responsibility to initiate contact, comme d’hab. Not this side of La Rentrée, Sonny Jim. From what I can see his hands are functioning as normal. If he can’t lift a finger to send a quick text or email, if I don’t come to mind unless he sees me, it obviously doesn’t mean very much to him.

You can email me for a change. I say, as good-naturedly as my mood allows.

Something in his hurried nod tells me he heard but hasn’t registered what I’ve said.

And so an impasse results from his presumed indifference that I refuse to break. (It eventually becomes impractical not to, since we keep bumping into each other. Damn it! That’s for a different blog. Maybe).

Sis advises I let him know my disgruntlement, give him a chance to make amends. He might be blissfully unaware. It’s not worth being bloody-minded about one of the few real connections I have here, she warns. The problem is I’d have to be the one to get in touch first…again. It would somewhat defeat the purpose. It also betrays a dynamic of entitlement (irrespective of how unconscious) which I must take responsibility for fostering. Why should Mohammed go to the Mountain when she routinely comes to him, dressed to impress and sweetly-scented? A lifetime of being easy on the eye, not to mention a smidgen of jadedness, will do that to a man. I assume he’s used to not making an effort.

When I explain my dilemma to a friend in an email exchange, she tells me men do communication differently. I’ve anticipated this reasoning. How easily we retreat to these gender stereotypes. It’s a matter of socialisation, I retort. Men communicate badly-if at all- because that’s the expectation. There’s nothing inherent about it. Unless it’s addressed both on the personal and societal level, it will never change.

To be fair, I’m taking a more hands-off approach to socialising in general. Enough of running after tentative contacts to meet up for a simple drink, only for them to cancel or not respond at all. Strasbourg is like a giant clique. With the best will in the world, it’s tough finding a community. I share these sentiments with a sympathetic honorary Strasbourgeoise at an Internations event. She’s lived in the city for the best part of 20 years, having moved to France from Sicily. The first year was hard, she admits. At the same event I meet a Lithuanian colleague from The Organisation with whom I wasn’t previously familiar. It’s a pleasant exchange through which I become aware of the massive gaps in my knowledge of post-war Soviet history. The event takes place in a cave-like bar with a wall-sized mirror that makes the space look bigger than it is. Cocktails are made from scratch with fresh fruit. There are crates of the stuff everywhere and we can help ourselves to as much as we wish. Apart from that it’s a mixed night. One young man not-so-subtly makes his excuses after only a few minutes of conversation and moves to the other side of the room. Suit yourself.

I’ve decided to focus on enjoying experiences rather than being preoccupied with networking. It’s better for my peace of mind.

A couple of chance encounters help to lift my mood. One rainy Sunday afternoon in early September, I bump into Jeanne from church on the tram en route to a free concert by a brass band. She’s not normally in this part of town, nor on public transport let alone on a Sunday. She’s fresh from a recent excursion to my home town. I saw her at church earlier, hung around for a bit to say hello. She was deep in conversation. Plus, as I’ve said, I’m trying on for size this light-and-breezy approach to my acquaintances here. As much as someone as highly-strung as yours truly can manage insouciance.

Jeanne catches me up on some of her London adventure. I explain that I waited for her earlier but didn’t want to be too clingy, seeing she was busy and all.

You should have persisted. She gently remonstrates.

I miss the gig in the end (stopped early because of the rain) but it’s worth it to reconnect with Jeanne. I’d been nursing the solitary blues that day.

Jeanne’s job often takes it out of her in the week. I’ve learned to manage my expectations regarding her availability. Yet I notice she’s making a special effort to meet up. She invites me out for a post-church catch-up the next Sunday. We drink indulgently sweet beverages at one of my new favourite haunts and discuss that morning’s sermon about closed doors and open windows. It was more upbeat than expected. I’m in a good mood. Jeanne tries out some of her beginner’s English. She enunciates well. I believe she has the knack.

The following weekend, I link up with Katya, a brand new acquaintance I meet at an art exhibition at work. I’m the guest of one of the security guards, Raymond. The day job subsidises his true calling; art. Katya and I get talking once I’ve exhausted conversation with Raymond. She’s an honorary Londoner of sorts, having relocated to Alsace after over a decade in the English capital. I don’t detect from her anglicised vowels and Slavic name that she speaks native-level French. She spent her formative years in Strasbourg by way of the Czech Republic.

She hands me a business card, offering to help me with my French. I text my details to her. The following Saturday we meet up at the Oh My Goodness! café; an initiative set-up by a couple of community-minded pastors. Katya and I alternate between French and English. She wants to practise the latter (she really doesn’t need to). She patiently listens to my now familiar woe-is-me refrain. She well understands the challenges of being an outsider in Strasbourg after returning from her long sojourn in London. She offers lots of life advice. There’s some wisdom to be found amidst the mix of self-help and unspecified spirituality.

I regret that I’m a mass of neuroses.

If we were in London, the conversation would probably be different. More neutral, I apologise. 

She tells me not to be overly-concerned with what others think.

She has to dash to another appointment. Just as she’s leaving the conversation turns to our mutual appreciation of BlacKkKlansman. I caught the matinee that morning. She’s seen it twice.

I wish I’d mention it earlier. It would have made a change from discussing my pre-midlife crisis.

Soundtrack:

These Songs for You Live! By Donny Hathaway

Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson

It Gets Better with Time by The Internet

Select tracks from Travel Light by C of Z

After the Homecoming: Part 1

courtesy of www.clipimage.net

My two priorities on coming back to Strasbourg: 1) be even more intentional about building community 2) (linked to previous) push past this bloody linguistic plateau with my French.

In regards to the first, my old melancholia -or saudade as my Brazilian chums might say-is creeping around the edges. Since my trip to London (and even before) my sense of disconnect is more pronounced. Despite my independent nature, I am increasingly aware (or reminded?) of a latent neediness and codependency that it's taking much of my energy to suppress. In this new context, I do not have years of goodwill stocked up with friends who have learned to accept and overlook my foibles. It's best foot forward all the time, except I'm not even managing that. I whinge a lot about my isolation and frustrations. If I make the mistake of being open with someone I scarcely know, it sends me into a panic that I've let myself be too vulnerable too soon.

As for my language objective, well that is my main motivation for wanting to work in France.

It's a shame that my Francophone acquaintances don't get to see the real me (whoever she is). It's a modified version. I'm all neuroses with the good bits cut out. I can't yet always accurately express the ideas swimming in my mind.

Shortly before going on holiday I join an online neighbourhood network. It’s not usually my sort of thing but makes sense in the context of wanting to establish more social links. On returning to Strasbourg I shoot a text to Juanita, who is also new-ish to the area according to her recent announcement on the site. In my absence, my Martinican/Togolese mate Muriel has sent me an invitation to a cultural event. I’ve barely looked at my French mobile in the UK. I try to make it up to her by offering to meet over the weekend. Alas, she won’t be in town.

I contact another acquaintance whom I met at a small gathering of internationals with a French connection. She has been inviting me round to hers since she moved closer to my neck of the woods. We agree to catch up after her forthcoming holiday to Croatia.

This is the issue. If my few regular contacts are unavailable, my socialising options are limited.

I sign up for a couple of events via my Internations account. Meanwhile, I've arranged a trip with Juanita to our local forest. She invites me to discover it from a different angle.

Why not? Last time I visited with mum, the trees were still bare. It would be good to see the woods in full bloom.

Juanita suggests meeting me at a couple of locations with which I am not familiar, despite their proximity. She offers to pick me up from a nearby bus stop after I miss my connection (bad time management). I arrive. She’s not there. She calls me. A confused conversation ensues. (I still hate doing phone calls in French). I insist I’m at the designated bus stop. She oppugns. I insist some more. Things become tense. She stops to check with a passer-by. Sufficiently persuaded she’s parked at the wrong bus stop, the argument is put to bed sans apology. Oh well. Love keeps no record of wrongs. I'm not quite there yet.

Emerging on the horizon, Juanita does some daredevil spins in the process of parking. I’m crossing the street back and forth like a nutcase trying to keep up with her. Goodness knows what the women at the bus stop must think.

Face to face, Juanita is a few decades older than I anticipated. Her profile pic was rather small to be fair. I expect to meet someone of roughly the same age. Furthermore, contrary to what her name suggests, she is not a Spanish expat with native-level French. She’s an honorary Alsatian of some 30 years, hailing originally from Brittany and only speaks French. She mentions Iberian heritage but her quest to trace her family tree hasn’t gone very far, through no fault of her own.

Juanita likes nature. Really likes it. As in, off the beaten-track, walk-through-dense-vegetation kind. She’s an animal-loving vegan who meditates in deserted clearings of the forest. She's evangelical about preserving ecosystems. She’s the kind to pick up beetles and small snakes on pathways to prevent them from being crushed by unsuspecting passers-by. I like nature too. At a safe distance. Pedestrianised walks through well-manicured green spaces. As for critters, I’m more likely to be the one crushing them, if not leaping over them.

Robertsau Forest

She leads me through some of her favourite secluded spaces.

Isn’t this picturesque?

Yes. Yes indeed.

I’m frantically brushing away foliage, paranoid about attracting unwanted wildlife. It doesn’t take long for Juanita to recognise my discomfort.

I’d like to show you more but you’re too much of a city girl.

I wonder why she looks disapprovingly at my sandals. It makes sense now. This is a trainers-advised nature trail. My footwear would otherwise be very much appropriate. It’s a hot day (Just like Africa, no? Juanita ventures. Overly-conscious of the angry-black-woman stereotype I mutter something inane in response).

Thanks to my exposed toes I am able to talk myself out of more dense, jungle-like forestry. Glory be.

Juanita enquires my age, why I'm in Strasbourg and my long term plans.

I don't know. Contrary to my instinct, I'm trying to take a day at a time.

This leads to a metaphysical discussion of sorts about God's plan vs. free-will. At some point on our jaunt Juanita remarks.

Is it worth the effort making friends, if you only have to leave at the end of your contract?

Good question. I've often wondered myself.

Juanita leads me onto recognisable pathways.

This is more reassuring, isn’t it?

Absolutely. I can better appreciate the scenery. Juanita is quite the flora expert. She points out various species. Beech and oak saplings look like majestic bamboo trees in their early stages. She explains the history of the dyke we pass on our travels.

It’s a decent trek. She suggests we stop for some refreshments. Fine, although I ate before I came. Plus I have left my wallet at home. Not that it would make much difference. My brief London stay has bled me dry anyway. It’s going to be a lean month.

It’s my treat.

Thanking Juanita for her generosity, I order a peach diablo from the bronzed and impish waiter. His movements are languid; his responses pithy but good natured. He bursts into impromptu renditions of unidentifiable English songs much to our amusement.

Whilst Juanita waits for her chocolate and coffee ice cream she confides,

I’m not in a rush to go home. There’s no-one waiting for me.

In hindsight, I understand why she’s slightly bemused when I explain that I like living alone. It’s a luxury in contemporary London.

We drift into a discussion about the City’s cosmopolitan nature.

I barely recognise Strasbourg. It’s changed so much over the years. I hardly hear a word of French on the tram these days.

Feeling awkward at yet another hint of casual racism, I try to make a case for diversity as an asset.

It’s time to go home. On approaching her car, Juanita notices she has left the hazard lights on.

Mince! J’espere que je n’ai pas epuisé la batterie.

It is as she’s feared. There’s not enough battery power to get the ignition going. I can make it home by foot but I don’t want to abandon Juanita. She can’t risk leaving the car overnight. There have been incidents of vandalism. Her only daughter is out of town on business. Local friends aren’t answering their phones. Juanita appeals to passers-by for help of any kind. Just as she convinces two young men to give the car a running start, someone shows up with a charger powerful enough to give the engine a kick start.

Finally on our way, she turns to me, beaming with relief.

What an adventure!

Quite.

The Homecoming

May marks a veritable glut of public holidays in France. There’s Worker’s Day on 1 May, Armistice Day on 8 May, Ascension on the 10^th and the Pentecost holiday, every third Monday of May. If one of these should fall in the middle of the week (as is the case this year for Worker’s Day) employers may give their staff an additional non-working day before or after, at their discretion.

It’s thus the ideal time to take an extended break in Blighty. I’d hardly need to touch my annual leave. It’s long overdue. I avoided the dreaded mal du pays for several months. It took my mum’s second visit earlier in spring and a hopeless crush on my unofficial French tutor Bernard, to make me realise how isolated I’ve started to feel in Strasbourg. (A former globetrotting friend reckons it usually kicks in around the 6-month mark). It’s not as much mal du pays as mal des proches. I’m not so far removed from hectic London living to begin to miss it. What I do miss is my networks; having history with people.

No history, no baggage. One astute friend observes during my UK visit. True. But I also like the idea of being round those who’ve seen me at my best and worst and stuck around. It takes time to build that goodwill. I am depressingly aware of how superficial my social life is in Strasbourg. I have a handful of acquaintances only one of which I could call a friend in the classic sense. She also has a life to lead. I can’t allow myself to become too clingy. Before my UK trip-the first since I relocated to Alsace-I feel the ache more acutely. It’s taking all my energy to resist an instinct to latch onto my few Connaissances Strasbourgeoises. I feel low, tearful and anxious. This is exacerbated the closer I come to the trip. The accommodation I’ve sorted with a friend is suddenly up in the air. A visit to the Midlands to see a friend after a nearly two year hiatus falls through…

In the end, it all resolves itself. My UK visit, now concentrated in London, is just the soul tonic that I need to revive my joie de vivre. My friend puts me up with her mum until things settle down and I can stay with her. She offers a somewhat chaotic but extremely warm welcome. My schedule is completely full with meet-ups, church visits, hair appointments and helping a friend’s campaign to become a Labour Councillor in a solidly Blue ward in Camden.   I traverse the City almost everyday meeting acquaintances old and new and spend most evenings eating with mum. I meet up with most of whom I hoped to see. There's something about not taking it for granted we're in the same country that helps us make the most of the time. I have several enriching conversations (one too many of which make reference to a viral news story involving a certain Mr West). I manage to squeeze in a little French practice at a Francophone event. 

After a cold and wet start, the skies clear and temperatures climb to Mediterranean heights for a substantial part of the holiday. Not even the UK media's devious attempts to twist the Labour Party's decent local election result into a defeat can wholly dampen my mood.

The 10 days naturally fly by. I am relieved to experience no drama on my return via Basel airport, despite my slightly over-the-limit cabin luggage.

Since the train strikes are still in full swing in France and there are no coaches back to Strasbourg available at a reasonable time, I make use of the carpool service recommended by my office-mate Claudia.  I am collected from Basel by the highly personable Olivier. He arrives early. We make it back to Strasbourg long before the ETA. He's inordinately excited to hear of my Nigerian connection.

I worked in Plateau state for years!

You're probably more Nigerian than me then. I quip with no malice.

Olivier speaks some pidgin to boot (again, more than I can claim).  We spend the duration of the drive talking about wanderlust and multilingualism. It's one of those unexpectedly reassuring moments; where the milk of human kindness flows freely and I'm reminded of God's Providence.

Back in Strasbourg, I have one day of respite before returning to work thanks to Ascension Day. I decide to go back on a Friday. Just to be contrary. And also to make a head-start on my emails (which still run into triple figures, despite the numerous public holidays). By the afternoon my inbox doesn’t have a single unopened message. The department is quiet, many colleagues taking the opportunity to have an extra long weekend, including my supervisor Sophie and Claudia. I like the calm. Not too many questions about my time off. A few comments on my change of hairstyle but not too much.

A [Wander]lust for Life

The Streets of Selestat, Alsace

I figure I might as well take advantage of Strasbourg’s strategic location. Whilst I’m here. It’s often called the Capital of Europe, sandwiched between the rest of France, Germany, Switzerland and Luxembourg. There’s also the vast region of Alsace on my doorstep to discover.

Having acquainted myself with the charms of Colmar over the Christmas period, the even closer Selestat is next on my list. It’s barely a town. More like a sizeable village. I avoid doing these daytime excursions on the weekend for obvious reasons. However, I appear to have chosen an especially uneventful Monday to become familiarised with Strasbourg’s neighbour. I comment to a local cafe proprietor on how deserted it is. She agrees. It’s never very busy but even then...today is particularly slow.

One of Selestat’s main claims to fame, the Humanist library, is closed for renovation. I walk around the ghostly quiet streets. Thanks to the quaint (as always) layout and the surrounding Vosges mountains, there’s enough pretty scenery to hold my attention. I’m tickled by the sight of more toy-town style houses from centuries passed. I have overestimated how long it would take to 'discover' Selestat. I have a lot of time to kill before my return train. As is my custom, I while away some of the afternoon in orthodox church buildings. Heavenly voices beckon me into St George’s, singing multi-part harmony cantons, acappella . Unable to locate from whence this celestial chorus emanates, I like to believe they are practising in the vestry. Alas, it’s a mere recording. The serene atmosphere is inviting, nonetheless. I find a corner to focus my overly-occupied mind. Suddenly, a burst of sunlight streams through a parallel stain glass window. I’m caught in its path. After an afternoon of almost solidly grey skies, it’s the first let-up.

My first trip to Luxembourg isn’t so propitious on the weather front. I’d have thought an early Spring foray would ensure at least a couple of days of sunlight. But much of Europe is still recovering from the so-called Beast from the East. Having rushed to the station with 10 minutes to spare before departure, I’m greeted with the news of a 40 minute delay to my journey. Adverse weather of course. I text my AirBnb hostess. I’ve rented a room in the suburbs, half an hour from Luxembourg City. She warns me of the slippery conditions. Thank God, I had the presence of mind to pack my wellies.

Arsenal Sainte-Barbe, Selestat

The non-committal metallic sky brings with it a malaise. I’ve booked a long weekend to see a country that could probably be visited in a day. When my supervisor, Sophie asks my weekend plans and I mention Lux she replies, with her ever-cheerful diplomacy. Cool. It’s small…

My unofficial French tutor, Bernard is visibly less enthusiastic. He falls silent at the mention of Luxembourg, pulling a face before he can stop himself. C'est petit... I venture; almost apologetic.

Oui, c'est ca, he replies in his austere baritone, with a firm nod.

Well, I’m here now. Cold weather or not. It’s not all bad. In the light of day, from the train window, the Luxembourgeois landscape looks like it’s covered in frosted icing. That will have all but vanished by the next day, when arctic-lite temperatures give way to milder climes.

A friend back in London recommends I check out the cliffs (and the night life but it’s not going to happen when it's Baltic outside). I suppose he means the precipices on which much of the main City is built. The bocks are stunning, in a morbid sort of way. Breathtaking even, quite literally. My mild vertigo kicks in at the sight of the sheer drop, particularly where the barriers are (to my mind) not high enough to protect my precious, soft body from the rocky surfaces below. The hazardous weather conditions make me more nervous still. I notice other tourists descending the steep steps built into the rock faces or walking across exposed bridges. It gives me the shivers.

I find tranquillity once again, in sacred spaces; this time in the capacious crypt of the Notre Dame Cathedral. It's enchanting, in a surprisingly modern way. The unsettlingly aged depiction of Christ on a stained glass window is out of place, however.

A View from the Bridge: Overlooking the Luxembourg bocks ,
one snowy weekend

I cover much of what I wanted to see within a few hours. I catch my train back to Rodange with less than two minutes to spare. It’s early evening when I arrive back at the AirBnb. My ever-smiling Greek host Delphina will soon retire, alongside her beautiful young son Jonas.

I’m a little undecided about the rest of my itinerary for the next couple of days. I could go to neighbouring village Echternach but being a Sunday, the trains are so infrequent. I’m hoping to make it back to Luxembourg that afternoon to see a film. In the end, I dilly-dally during the morning, chatting to sis on Skype which throws any half-baked plans into complete disarray.

Echternach it is then. A few tourists dot the deserted Sunday streets. I amble towards the Benedictine Abbey, stopping off at a cafe frequented by Portuguese customers and with Lusophone staff. It’s my second of many a Portuguese encounter on the trip. (The first was an unwanted overture by a Guinean (Bissau) in the impressively cosmopolitan Luxembourg City). I’ve been so busy worrying about French, I’ve almost completely neglected my rudimentary Portuguese. The few sentences I’d practically memorised to perfection come out more falteringly.

The Abbey’s devotion to St Willibrord is a little too idolatrous for me. On exiting, I take a moment to admire the arborous hills that flank the village. It must be quite a sight in the summer or during the copper-golden autumns.

At some point, Bernard’s cryptic admonition comes back to haunt me. It makes sense in hindsight. I didn’t need a long weekend to explore Luxembourg. It takes less time by train from Strasbourg than Paris. I could have done it on a day off; an overnight stay at most. I would have saved the accommodation fees.

You live and learn.

Travel soundtracks:

• Justin Timberlake (Various)
• Little Dragon: Sway Daisy/Best Friends (Double A-Side)
• Chris Dave & the Drumhedz: Self-titled LP