The Thrill is Gone

7 + 1/2 min. read

On an otherwise uneventful morning in late January, I receive a notification from the Belgian tax authority that I have some incoming correspondence. Unnerved, I log into the convoluted electronic system to see what awaits me. To my horror, I discover that according to the Kingdom of Belgium, I owe 1200 euros for the tax year 2022.

I search the document for any inconsistencies. (Even in English, it would be difficult wading through the jargon). Surely, there must be some mistake. I was unemployed for the whole of 2022, when I wasn’t on sick leave for suspected burnout. I’m thrown into a panic. I plan to call the tax office at the nearest convenience. In the meantime, I message the leader of my church home group to ask for some well needed corporate prayer and any practical advice. A few members contact me privately. Aussie Joe sends me information about a department that takes care of expat enquiries. Alana, originally from Germany, reassures me that this sort of thing has happened to her a number of times before. Don't worry, she says, it has always resolved in her favour.

Alas, I am not so fortunate. Apparently, even unemployment and incapacity benefits are taxable in Belgium beyond a certain threshold. The irony is, when I was employed, it was the state that consistently owed me. It’s perhaps an even bigger irony, or rather a flagrant contradiction, that only last year I was considered eligible for assistance with essentials like commuting costs, precisely because my income fell below a certain threshold. How can I be too poor for one but ‘comfortable’ enough to be taxed for the other? This bloody country. Its notoriously eye-watering tax rates would be tolerable if residents could see where the hell the funds were invested. Instead, basic infrastructure such as pavements are in a sorry condition (step out at your own peril), state departments are underfunded (as I have discovered, to my detriment) and Brussels has a chronic homelessness problem.  

I am so distraught, I burst into tears on the phone. I am told that even if I am able to pay in instalments, it’s still to be settled within a year. The timeframe could possibly be extended but not without filling out a lot of paperwork. In any case, it’s already been a struggle recently to stay on top of my most important bills.  How am I supposed to find the extra cash to settle this unjust debt? The customer service agents offer no consolation. At least they are professional and polite; not a given in Belgium.  

I am at a loss. For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to burden my family with this. (I do eventually open up to them. I'm not great at hiding things.)

I feel stifled by the pressure. I start to experience a violent resentment towards the country that has been my home for the last three and a half years. Before, when asked what I thought of life in Belgium, I would hesitate to answer. So much has been framed by relocating here during the early days of the pandemic and various other challenges. There were things that I felt were far more retrograde than the UK - for all its faults - as is the case for much of Continental Europe. And yet, nowhere is perfect, I would say. At least I don't have to live like a perennially broke student in Mainland Europe, with rent and commuter costs far more approachable than in the Big Smoke. There are also aspects of Brussels living that I have enjoyed and indeed, remind me of the best elements of London life.

After this tax debacle, my feelings move from ambiguity to ambivalence, if not outright animus. It feels like Belgium has taken from me more than I had to give. On almost every significant metric, be it personal, relational or professional, I have experienced more disappointment than I care to mention. Basta. At what point do I start to accept it’s been a failed experiment? That perhaps God's will has moved in a different direction and left me behind? Maybe the time has truly arrived to start planning an exit strategy, albeit with reluctance. At this juncture it would be a leap into the unknown and not in the optimistic sense.

To add to the growing list of ironies, an acquaintance who works for a local arts and entertainment channel finally uploads an interview he recorded of me a year ago. The timing of its release couldn't be more strange. Not only is much of the information now out-of-date, if not obsolete, it's edited to look like I'm having the time of my life in Brussels.

Unconsciously, I return to the melancholy œuvre of Chet Baker. As he croons The Thrill has Gone, I can’t help but think how apposite it is to my current life season. Likewise for Everything Happens to Me.

Not for the first time, I weep hot tears in my therapist’s office. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to book an appointment because of my straitened circumstances, that I have a stockpile of grievances to work through.  Earlier that week, I also share my discontent with my life coach, Pieter. In a rare show of unguardedness, he intimates his own strong reservations about Belgium. Being a Dutchman, I assumed it would be less of a culture shock for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. The differences between Holland and its neighbour are as stark as night and day, Pieter explains. As we try to work out together how I move on from this life impasse, his suggestions give me much food for thought.

I wish I could say I find solace at church. The continued silence over, if not implicit support for the murderous campaign of the Israeli government in Palestine has become untenable.  I am even more selective about what church activities in which I participate at this sensitive juncture. I avoid anything that might provoke a strong reaction.

Still, the risk remains of exposure to some inanity about geopolitics. At the end of a prayer meeting in early February, we’re asked to pray for Israel, the ‘peace of Jerusalem’ and the release of Israeli hostages. Nary a word about the potential annihilation of Gaza. I am disgusted not only by the blatant bias of the request but the equally misguided response. Of course, I attempt to bring a corrective with my own prayers but it’s telling that I should have to. I hotstep it out of the meeting ASAP. I choose not to hang around for phatic conversation with those for whom I’m rapidly losing respect.

Even a basic Sunday service is a struggle to sit through, nowadays. Last year, Pastor Mike seemed to be turning a worthy corner. Lately, with the church growing exponentially, he's resorting to soundbites, oversimplification - or worse - thoughtless generalisations.

Meanwhile, as I participate in secular political events, I witness people who, whether they have a faith or not, are to my mind, doing God's work. Nobody is perfect. Yet, in these contexts I am surrounded by people who care deeply for justice, the way that Christians are called to do throughout scripture. These spaces seem more real to an extent than the churchy enclave on a Sunday.

I open my heart in a candid email to one of my spiritual mentors, Vinoth Ramachandra. He is also exasperated by the mainstream Church’s reaction to the injustices in Palestine…

"...I'm really struggling on an existential level with all of this" I write "particularly the complicity of the mainstream Church... Of course, there are exceptions and I'm blessed and comforted when I come across Christians showing solidarity with Palestinians. I respect Pope Francis for calling a spade a spade. However, as you know, it's shamefully rare, even amongst some Christians who'd otherwise consider themselves on the margins. Apparently, even the leader of the biggest Christian denomination speaking up isn't enough. I think of the double-standards regarding the reaction to Ukraine. I'm sickened and disillusioned. I feel more isolated from and disenchanted with the capital-C Church than ever. It's not so much a crisis of faith, as a crisis of belonging and community.

…I'm struggling to engage at all... My pastors are of mixed heritage from South Africa. Both grew up under Apartheid, so it's not unfamiliar to them, although they would have been very young. They are certainly old enough to remember the before and after. The husband won't even use the word Apartheid to describe the regime under which he lived; he tiptoes around it with euphemisms.

...[Neither of them] - to my knowledge - has openly commended the honorable actions of their native country nor spoken out in solidarity with the Palestinians and denounced Zionist ideology… There is also at least one member of my church of Palestinian origin. What about his people? His humanity?  Church feels like a charade; a bubble disconnected from the real world and real life concerns. When I'm on [Palestinian] solidarity demos or in similar spaces, there's hardly a Christian presence, if at all. Attending church these days feels like I'm an accomplice to the madness...It's not as simple as switching to a different fellowship. It's not as if I don't visit other churches for a change of scene. The mainstream Church seems to be so co-opted by Babylon, moving elsewhere won't change that. It's not a decision I take lightly but if I had a genuine alternative, I would seriously consider it.

My pastors are decent people with good hearts. Unfortunately, I've long detected a lack of courage, such as the rather restrained response to other valiant protests - if not tacit hostility. I'm highly frustrated by this apparent cowardice and hope for a time to speak to them about it tactfully.

All it takes for evil to prevail...

Anyway, thanks for being one of those refusing to keep silent or justify the unjustifiable. It truly helps keep me sane and hopeful…"

What small spiritual comfort I find is experienced in more intimate settings; my own personal prayer time or one-to-one with friends in the faith. If I'm disenchanted with the Church, my conviction that Christ is a loving Saviour who values the life of all people equally is stronger still. I pay a couple of visits to Alana, who is recovering from a nasty skiing injury she suffered over the festive period. I nevertheless studiously avoid talk of the Middle East. The German state’s historically complicated relationship with the Jewish people and Israel, as well as its disregard for Palestinian life, has had a noxious effect on the mindset of much of its population. Germans with otherwise ‘progressive’ views, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to Justice for Palestine. I’ve learned the hard way.

Returning to the tax scare, there is some reprieve when I receive a one-off commission courtesy of a good acquaintance of Pieter's; by sheer coincidence, or rather God-incidence. This client is unaware of my tax woes. He merely has a lot of money to spend before the funding deadline closes on his latest social entrepreneurial project. After some negotiation, we agree on a fee that just about relieves the tax debt, even if there's not much left over for anything else. Thank God for small mercies, and all that.

Soundtrack: Galatea by IkeN, Chet Baker Sings

Seasonal Melancholia and all that...

 

(courtesy of ArtStation)

Barely returned from my excursion to the French Riviera and I’m already looking for an excuse to head somewhere sunny again.

In the interim, there’s no escaping the reality of dull Belgian skies (with the odd day of sunshine), the post-Christmas detox and resuming my job hunt. I took a break from searching over the festive period. I needed the mental rest, as well as to have some distance from being screwed over by my previous employer, The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO). Or rather, the crooked GS and her Italian minion.

Alas, it can’t be avoided forever. Whilst waiting on TTUO's HR department for key documents to start the social security process, my union inform me that I must register with a nationwide work scheme. I go through the motions, completing my profile and attending online training voluntarily- so that I’m not accused of being uncooperative. 

I’m being targeted with my search. There are nonetheless some compromises I have to make if not to narrow the field too much. 

Until joining the Belgian job market, I didn’t realise how generous the salaries were at TTUO – especially when almost 50% went towards tax and other contributions. I'm applying for roles that would require a significant pay cut, save for some successful re-negotiation. Based on previous experiences with European short term contracts, I would prefer not to apply for anything with less than two years employment security. That would also exclude a number of options, however. I even consider working in a different Belgian city; less daunting in the era of pandemic-related 80% telework.

Whilst out on a social with Sylvia and Karin, they encourage me to apply for posts for which I feel woefully underqualified. Sylvia is insistent. Of Pakistani origin herself, she warns against succumbing to the 'imposter complex' that racialised women often (are made to) feel. I know what she means but maintain there’s a place for realism. I pass on one of the roles to a far more experienced ex-colleague, also disillusioned with TTUO.

Shortly after my meet up with Sylvia and Karin, the latter gets in touch to inform me she has COVID. Mercifully, my self-test kit returns a negative result. I am fully aware of how fortunate I am. I’ve had a few close calls of late. Aside from the brush with the virus in Nice, a number of colleagues at the Red Cross Centre emerge in January after a forced Corona-hiatus. Once during a shift, one of the Centre’s beneficiaries - an infirm-looking older Nigerian - admits that he might have tested positive the week before.

(courtesy of PicJumbo)

Ah-ah! 

I notify one of the staff members, after which the feverish-looking gent changes his story. He’s eventually convinced to take a free test at the adjacent medical centre.

Then there are the close friends and loved ones who are infected. As well as Karin, I receive a message from Em – my Christmas guest – that she’s tested asymptomatically positive. A day or two later, sis expresses concern she’s feeling ill following a video shoot. A PCR confirms she indeed has COVID. Like Karin and unlike Em, she doesn’t avoid the symptoms. Both come down with fever and fatigue. Both are fully vaccinated; Karin having only recently received her booster. It’s worrying when otherwise healthy 30-somethings are laid low by the virus. No doubt, it would have been more severe still if they hadn’t been jabbed.

I do my best to be sensible, particularly on the brimming public transport. Still, life can't grind to a halt. The alternative is to become a semi-recluse, avoiding anything that could attract a crowd. That would rule out the offline community at church (where strict measures are already in place); otherwise a lifeline. Or volunteering at the Red Cross, where I can take my mind off my own worries by serving others. Or meeting up with good friends not seen since before Christmas.

I haven't spent time with Brenda since her return from Austria, for instance. I reach out by text, to which she proposes a walk that Saturday.

Meanwhile, my S.A.D has returned this winter with force. That weekend my morale sinks to a low ebb, albeit with occasional respite. My time with Brenda is one such moment. As ever, it's an authentic exchange. Over a detox-friendly drink, I’m candid about the isolation I’ve felt over the Christmas season, related to not having my own brood. What makes this sensation more acute is speaking to other (Christian) women of a similar age in the same situation. It's hard to admit, since I never want to denigrate being single. I don't believe it's inferior to being coupled up. Neither do I believe any relationship is better than none. There are many blessings that come with the single life, so long as it doesn't seem to overstay its welcome.  

Brenda is mature and perhaps more emotionally pragmatic than I was in my mid-20s. She’s already countenancing the possibility of indefinite singleness and how to make the most of it, whilst not abandoning all hope.

The next day, I meet up with Renzo to see A Hero; an accomplished, if emotionally-draining film. Although it's I who suggests it, it turns out not to be suitable viewing for my current state of mind.

Earlier that week, Renzo and I catch-up briefly on the phone – properly, for the first time. It's a mini-milestone. He has returned from a soul-nourishing holiday in his native Italy feeling rather disenchanted with his lot in Belgium. He’s just quit an unsatisfying work placement following a needless COVID-safety breach. With his new-found freedom, Renzo is attending to his spiritual practices and launches a multilingual arts blog (hurrah!). He writes in the three languages in which he's most proficient and has an (annoyingly good) way with words - if his French and English pieces are anything to go by.

He is early for our cinema appointment, as usual. Sporting an iridescent burgundy puffa coat, he cradles a coffee whilst catching up on my blog when I arrive.  It's been a month since we last connected IRL (as he might say), and yet our reunion is more subdued than previous.

After the film, comme d'hab, Renzo appears to be in a rush to go home.    I'd hoped for a post-screening drink. Unbeknownst to me, the cinema bar is closed. I try to bring Lorenzo hastily up to speed about things on my end. Before I know it, we’re waiting on the underground platform for our trains. Mine arrives before Renzo’s. He attempts to send me off with an affectionate farewell.

What’s the hurry? I can take the next one, I protest. I need the company.

Renzo is hungry and tired. I don’t hide my mix of irritation and disappointment when he boards his train. I’m disproportionately upset on the way home. Much of it has to do with the lingering effects of the distressing movie but not all. A continued, low level anxiety is contributing to hyper-sensitivity.

Having been vulnerable with Renzo, more than normal to some extent, he seemingly still misses the cues. I don’t believe I could have been clearer about wanting more quality time. It’s not that I haven’t had the chance to unburden with other friends. My evening with Brenda is refreshing. I just feel compelled to give Lorenzo a thorough update. Plus, there was so much more I wanted to ask about his time away over Christmas.

Renzo senses something is amiss. He sends a follow-up text, just to check. I am as frank in my response as I can be, whilst trying to remain even-handed. He did say he was hungry.  

I don’t sleep well that evening and my malaise continues into the new week. I do a lot of reflecting. I decide to ignore my Belgian phone during this time, as it's often a source of above-mentioned anxiety.

The exchange with Renzo makes me re-evaluate the emotional boundaries of our friendship. He seems to be more adept at preserving his own. I, on the other hand, might have taken the ‘platonic boyfriend’ analogy too far. There’s a type of availability or engagement that isn't only limited to romantic commitments. Realistically, not everyone has the emotional bandwidth (to borrow a friend’s expression) to be that present all - or even most - of the time. I need to manage my expectations better.

Midweek, I charge my by now lifeless phone and go through the various messages I am yet to read. I see too late an invitation from Renzo to come round to his place for an afternoon chat over a hot drink. A rare offer - an opportunity missed. 

Soundtrack: Best of 2021 Mix (Part 2) + Beat Tape II by Benny Sings.

Cabin Fever

(courtesy of Houstonia magazine)

I routinely daydream about smashing things up. Throwing objects against walls and letting out a blood-curdling scream.

It could well be fatigue. I’ve developed an unconscious habit of waking up between 4 and 6am, pumped with adrenaline and unable to fall back asleep properly. (It would help if I could also discipline myself to go to bed earlier.)

Oddly enough it’s the days and not the nights that get to me. Perhaps because I’m more alert.

I persevere, continuing the job hunt despite my reluctance. I don't have the luxury of doing otherwise. I attend a workshop on working overseas. I continue my monthly meetings with my careers adviser. She asks me how I am doing. 'Not very well', I confess. It's all I can do not to weep in her office.

The isolation has begun to eat away at me. Light depression stalks at the edges.
I’ve been here before during unemployment. My soundness of mind has survived. Just. By the grace of God.

All I can do is wait it out. Lent is upon us. A time for spiritual recalibration and stillness. I’m in my own wilderness. It probably feels bigger than it is because I’m in the thick of it; in between calling out to God in frustrated prayer and waiting for a response.

I’ve started de facto small group therapy sessions at church, led by Chantelle.

She tells us not to deny our reality. We must acknowledge it, she advises, but framed in the light of God’s truth.

Easier said than done but salient nonetheless. By the time that session has come round, I’m emotionally spent.

Time to take the attention off myself.

I pop round to see fellow chorister and friend, Michelle, who’s recovering from an operation. She and her sister Karine give me a warm welcome. Of a similar political persuasion, I spend a lively hour in their company discussing the latest twists and turns in the UK and France.

After leaving Michelle's I make a well-needed spiritual pit stop at Temple Neuf for the weekly Respire meditation session.

Later that evening, it's the first choir rehearsal since that meeting. A few of the newer members have stayed away. I wouldn’t blame them for feeling dejected. It's a respectable turn out otherwise, considering. Nicole has asked me to revisit May The Lord God Bless You Real Good.

I focus on the general structure of the song, for those who are not yet familiar. The fine-tuning of the details will be for another time. It’s a task trying to get the fellows to keep their harmonies, especially not being a male vocalist myself. I encourage where I can and endeavour to keep it stimulating. I swap around harmonies and ask the choristers to switch places to help them develop some musical autonomy. The feedback is really positive. I'm chuffed.

(SNUipp)

Out in the real world, as the media hysteria ramps up, there's a lot of gallows humour amongst the Strasbourgeois about Coronavirus. I guess it’s all that cheek-kissing. And the relative proximity of Italy, which has seen a spike in cases.

The City's carnival, scheduled at the start of March, is cancelled once more. A combination of Coronavirus panic and ominous weather forecasts.  It makes no sense to hold it in late winter in any case. It's the second consecutive year the event has been pulled. I feel bad for the young uns involved.

On the way into my church building, I spot a poster imploring citizens to take necessary precautions. A member of the Welcome Team stands at the entrance. No-one is getting past without a squirt of hand sanitiser first. The senior pastor raises a prayer at the end of the service for anyone affected by the virus.

I give the evil eye to anyone coughing without covering their mouth. My racist streak surfaces when I witness an Oriental man doing just that on the bus home from church.

The following week, our normal Sunday service will be cancelled altogether after news of a COVID19 outbreak at a megachurch in the Greater Alsace area. During the alternative livestream service via Youtube, the pastoral team inform us that there have been a few congregants diagnosed with the virus. They're all confined but otherwise in relatively good shape, except for one who has been hospitalised. As an added precaution, the team announces that church will be closed all week at least and activities suspended.

Other events follow suit. A jobseekers' event I was supposed to attend is cancelled. As is a concert at which my choir were meant to perform.

I attend a midweek Jazz event that is only half as full as it was the previous fortnight. That same weekend, at another Jazz concert, the bandleader thanks the audience profusely. It's a difficult time to be a musician, he says with so many cancelled engagements. Heads swivel round whenever I cough or sneeze.

An acquaintance with whom I meet up later refuses to attend any shows during the COVID19 crisis. When I mention I have a cold, he looks at me as if I had a bomb strapped to my person. He later informs me he's stockpiling food. 'For Armageddon'. He's only half-joking.

Coronavirus is one of the many topics of conversation at the official opening of my friend Gael’s Afropean restaurant.

I could kick myself for not having worn something more traditional for the event, especially when I notice one of Gael’s guests representing the Motherland.

I feel a little intimidated by all the unfamiliar faces. Gael instantly welcomes me into the fold, introducing me to his crew who in turn take me under the wing.

How did you meet? they ask.

Oh she’s my ex. We slept together. I cheated on my boyfriend with a woman.

Cheeky monkey.

Phew. I say, It’s suddenly hot in here.

Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulate. Having gone vegetarian for Lent I fear I might miss out. Gael has me covered with his Tofu pastries. Used to it tasting like cardboard, I never knew the bean snack could be this good.

Gael's childhood friends, Claudine and Kéké are spontaneously complimentary about my French. God knows I need the encouragement. It relaxes me. We discuss topics such as language acquisition, their experience of Berlin (they don’t recommend it, at least in winter), our mutual distrust of Emmanuel Macron and disdain for his policies.

If I lived in the UK or US, I’d be a socialist too observes Claudine. In France, we don’t need to be socialist to protect what we already have.

In a shockingly underhanded move, the Prime Minister Édouard Phillippe has sneaked through the controversial retirement bill without a parliamentary vote. A legal loop hole has been used under the pretext of an emergency weekend sitting to discuss Coronavirus measures.

Prepare for war, says Claudine.

Vive la revolution, I reply.

The flamboyant Gerard introduces himself by voguing and seductively kissing my hand. Kéké starts ironically singing ABBA's Dancing Queen and Gael decides to put it on. I do a shimmy and work the room a bit more. I hold court with Gael’s newest (and dishiest) waiter whilst ordering my favourite sweet snack, Kudu. Gael offers to hook me up with a date but I demure on account of age. I’m happy just to admire from a distance.

I chat with another waitress; an Afrobeat and Hip-Hop dancer like sis. I pass on her Gram details.

(c) Olivier Galleano

At the end of the night, I bid a fond farewell to newly made acquaintances.

Gael’s crew will return to Paris the following day. His friends are a credit to him. I hope to see them again. Not knowing when my Strasbourg adventure will end, alas that might be wishful thinking.

For now, the evening has given my morale a well-needed if temporary boost. I could complain about my lot; my frustrations about being caught up in limbo once again and not exactly knowing how I'll continue to pay rent in the meantime. All those things are genuine challenges. To be grateful is not to pretend.

I would also do well to savour the fact that, thank God, I'm in good health in spite of the viral panic. I have the freedom and independence during this life season to come and go as I please. I can spend an evening eating good food and having stimulating conversation with a diverse and cultured crowd in a chic corner of the world.

Perspective my dear, perspective.

Soundtrack: Kamakiriad & The Nightfly by Donald Fagen, Letter from Home by the Pat Metheny Group and AmerElo by Emicida

Fragile

After mum’s visit, it’s back to reality. Despite the bleakness and my morale at an all-time low, by the grace of God I find the resolve to go to work.

There is some good news on the professional front. THRO’s impending financial gloom has been averted for the foreseeable future, thanks to canny diplomatic manoeuvres. 

Elsewhere, I hear things that deepen my sense of disillusion.  

There’s a two-tier system in place at The Organisation; those who were fortunate enough to join THRO when permanent contracts were handed out like sweets. Then, there’s everyone else.

If you’re not one of those jammy sorts with the golden ticket, to stand a chance at any upward mobility you have to go through an arduous selection process. This includes all-day tests, interviews and the like. The procedure takes several months. Most frustrating of all, those on fixed-term contracts -such as yours truly- would have already gone through all this carry-on to get a foot through the door in the first place.  Meanwhile, senior management pulls strings so that their friends and family get plummy positions via temporary contracts. They’re spared the indignity of job insecurity through these Godfather/Godmother-style connections. 

Fine. None of this is new to me.

What is new is learning that senior colleagues with permanent contracts, dogged by complaints and a dubious reputation, are simply moved on within the organisation or ‘reassigned’. Whilst those working on a fixed-term basis who fall out of favour with La Direction; well their contracts are simply not renewed.

The Human Rights Organisation, eh? Charity begins at home.

Recently a swathe of colleagues, including my line manager Sophie, have undergone one of these recruitment assessments (and not for the first time). During the preceding weeks they cram for a test that, in the end, pays little heed to the reference material. They spend the equivalent of a working day being made to jump through shape-shifting intellectual hoops. By the end, they feel shafted. Some don’t finish the paper. One colleague plans to make a formal complaint.

It’s as if we were set up to fail, Sophie observes ruefully.

The alternative strategy? Professional stagnation or seek opportunities elsewhere.

Previously, I have been adept at keeping a good work/life balance. Yet the office's disagreeable ambiance has started to insinuate its way into my personal life. I’m daily fighting to keep anxiety at bay. I’m not always getting a good night’s sleep. The fatigue exacerbates the unhappiness. I have to stop my thoughts from wandering to gloomier places.

Summer’s here and activities start to wind down. The first Friday of July, I expect to make a difficult choice between two places I’d like to be; an outing with the street team and choir practice. Both of these will be the last sessions before the long summer break.  In the end, neither go ahead that evening owing to poor turnout. The choir’s pot-luck is postponed until the following Friday. That suits me. I can delay the summer farewell for another week.

That Sunday after church, I’ve planned to meet up with recent acquaintance, Noelle in the picturesque Alsatian town of Barr. She’s based in Selestat, on the outskirts of Strasbourg herself. I’ve had to make my peace with trekking a little further for our meet-ups. She’s chosen Barr as a break from the norm. The views are to die for, Noelle insists. I don’t doubt it. I find that the aesthetic appeal of the Alsace region is consolation for its shortcomings.

Chateau Landsberg: Barr, France

The ominous forecasts of stormy weather do not materialise. Au contraire, il fait beau.

It’s a drama free commute to Barr. Noelle collects me from the station, dressed in jeans and trainers. It's the first time I've seen her in civs.  By contrast I am kitted out in my far less practical Sunday Best. My sandals are nonetheless sturdy and, as it turns out, more trustworthy than Noelle’s slippery trainers.

The first stop is the Andlau Chateau; dating back to the 13^th Century.

En route, Noelle comments on how much better my French is compared to when we last spoke.

Maybe you were tired but it was a bit of a disaster the other day.

I feel demoralised.

In fact, I’m probably more sleep-deprived this time, I explain. It really depends on the context. Perhaps my brain is just generally more alert during the day…

Noelle will proceed to correct my French at various points during the excursion. Later she will rephrase a message by text when I’m under the impression that it’s grammatically legit.

On the whole the outing is pleasant. The scenery is as lush as promised. The second stop at the Chateau de Landsberg reveals it to be more attractive still than its Andlau counterpart. The peripheries of the Black Forest in Germany can be seen from these heights. A group of Goths have organised a very modest-sized festival on the grounds. Noelle will later treat us both to Mint Diablos at an Inn with laid-back and friendly staff, overlooking more inviting verdure. We laugh often and Noelle speaks candidly about more painful chapters of her life.  And yet, what will remain of the day is her critique of my linguistic efforts (that, and the lingering suspicion she’s trying to recruit me into a cosmetics-flogging pyramid scheme).

Let’s get some perspective here. It’s not the end of the world if I make grammatical errors. It shouldn’t be. And yet I’ve reached a stage in my Alsatian Adventure where I’m especially fragile. Certain experiences have taken chunks out of what self-confidence I had; not least my current work situation. Living here has brought pre-existing neuroses to the surface like never before; something akin to the symptoms of an allergic reaction. If I was aware of my issues before, they’re flagged up even more in this context.

One area of particular sensitivity is my language skills; or rather the perceived personal failing it represents. After all, perfecting my French was one of the primary objectives of relocating to The Hexagon. It’s not as if I don’t welcome correction. It’s about the way it's done. A very French way; severe and dry. In a British anglophone context, you make corrections sparingly and in a tactful manner. An interlocutor would generally prioritise communication over accuracy.  In the Francophone context, the two might as well be inseparable.

I understand it’s cultural and reflects the strict pedagogy the French themselves undergo. It also betrays remnants of linguistic imperialism still at play, grounded in ideology that the French language (and by extension, the culture) is inherently superior, refined and has a 'civilising' effect on those who speak it. Thus, with the exception of some sympathetic individuals, non-Francophones feel as if they are constantly being judged on their linguistic merits. Any shortfall appears to be treated by the French as a moral failing. I am not alone in this sentiment. I’ve heard similar comments from many a non-Francophone on both sides of The Channel. Perhaps that perception is stronger in this region than elsewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s thoroughly dejecting. Faced by such exacting standards, it would be better for my peace of mind if I simply gave up trying to please the implacable. If only it were that straightforward. The pressure comes from within and without.

I would expect Noelle to know better. She lived  in the UK for over a decade. She should understand how challenging the process of acquiring another language can be; particularly if you grew up monolingual. She speaks good English but I’ve heard better from Francophones who’ve never lived in an Anglophone country. The difference is that I would not be pedantic about this.

The problem arises again the following day when I have a farewell meet-up with HRGS choir member, Elise. She’s returning to her hometown further south having lived in Strasbourg for several years.  She has a tendency to not only dryly correct my French but anything else she finds amiss. The comments aren't reserved just for me, either. I don’t know if this is a projection of her insecurities. At least on the language front, she’s gifted.

In any case, I’m not in the mood for it. Since waking up that morning, it’s been a battle to keep my emotions in check. I just about have a handle on things when I meet up with Elise. The melancholy is nevertheless close to the surface. It doesn’t take much for me to burst into tears. One too many of Elise’, no doubt well-intended, corrective remarks. I explain that this has been a long-standing niggle. For a while, I found myself avoiding her company. It is only right that I am candid with her. I apologise for this unintended absence.

Elise is contrite. She claims it's selfish of her to correct me so often, given I don't have trouble making myself understood.  I too feel bad. I hadn’t planned to dampen the mood of our parting rendez-vous. I’m also much older than Elise. I’m supposed to be robust. 

I am in the throes of one of my cyclical Strasbourg-related downturns. I intimate some of the issues at work. It resonates with Elise. She admits she’s stayed too long in the region. After a number of years trying to make the best of it, she’s finally relocating to be closer to her family. We have similar reservations about the local mindset. When Elise describes the choir as an oasis, she takes the words right out of my mouth.

It’s not right to complain when I am in good health and I live in relative luxury compared to much of the world. Those are the things I try to focus on when I’m in good form. Yet, there’s something about Strasbourg life that occasionally eats away at me. I believe I’m past the worst of it only for another vague à l’âme to momentarily wash over.

On the bright side, I’m due another upturn soon. It might be an uphill struggle sometimes but it's not a losing battle. Some wise words by Eitan Kenner, a musician I have recently interviewed on the beginning of his own spiritual journey, come to my rescue time and again. Like a God-sent refrain.

"...To me, God is just "being"; surrendering to the moment without all the background noise; without all the questions and all the little details..."

Soundtrack: Flamagra by Flying Lotus.

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.