Musical Solace: Part II

 

10 min. read

My weekends are up for grabs and easy enough to fill as Brussels resumes its pre-pandemic programme. One Saturday, en route to L’Archiduc, I’m unexpectedly caught up in a carnival I knew nothing about. The following week, crowds will gather once more in central Brussels for the annual Pride parade. I stick to the side streets as much as possible, to avoid being gridlocked again.

I’m on my way to a ‘speed friending’ event in the upper room of a bar in the heart of Brussels. As the name implies, it's the platonic alternative to the dating version. It’s such a simple concept, I don’t know why I haven’t come across it sooner. The cost ranges from five to 15 euros, locking in any commitment from those who have signed up. After so many false starts in the friendship game, I have no illusions about making any long-lasting connections that evening. It's a matter of sheer curiosity. 

The organiser, Rebecca still has a discernible South African cadence, despite leaving for good at the age of 10. Having lived in Brussels for well over a decade, she confesses it’s still difficult to make durable social ties. So it’s not just me then, or the poor timing of relocating during a pandemic. I’ve come across that sentiment elsewhere. Some blame Brussels' high turnover of expats. Yet having grown up in an international city myself, I don’t think that can wholly explain this fragmented phenomenon.

Once most of the guests finally arrive, we’re off. It’s a culturally diverse, mixed-gender group. We have 3-5 minutes to converse before moving along, with the aim of speaking to most, if not everybody, in attendance. It’s intense. The room swiftly becomes stuffy as more guests arrive. It’s nonetheless thoroughly enjoyable. The hours fly by. 

 I wouldn’t do speed 'friending' on a regular basis – there’s something about the novelty of it -yet neither would I rule it out in future. In spite of myself, numbers are swapped; one with a young man from an ex-Portuguese colony. I have the strong impression that he's fluid about the dating and ‘friending’ distinction and I'm wary. Perhaps he senses that. There's been no follow-up by either party since.

Whilst a few others head off for some late night entertainment, I go home for dinner. As fate will have it, I bump into a couple of these new acquaintances at one of my usual Meet-up events the following week.

nieuwsblad.be

Elsewhere, my cultural excursions continue to be dominated by music. I make my way to an exhibition about Belgian Jazz legend, Jean-Baptiste ‘Toots’ Thielemans. I have a good old time learning more about this national treasure and his intoxicating music. After the visit I hurry to Evere – coincidentally to a venue bearing Thielemans’ name - where dear friend Karin’s son, Amos has a recital. He spots me in the audience and gives a furtive wave. He’s coy in front of his friends. When the performance is over, a coax low-key high five out of him. 

My presence is a pleasant surprise for all the family.  Any excuse to hang out with Karin and the tribe. I’m aware of how much it meant to Amos who, the previous week, had pleaded with me to attend. Out of earshot of the kids, Karin and I remark, bemused, on how experimental the recital has been. The kooky music teacher has the children roaming the stage making animalistic shapes and noises, before improvising rhythms on various handheld percussion instruments.

I’m off again later that evening for more Jazz-related fun at the packed out Sounds bar in Ixelles. 

The following day is the Ascension bank holiday. I make good on a promise to visit my friend Em in the peripheries of Brussels. When we arrive at her home, her cat flees at the sight of me.  I perceive she's been modest about its size. It's luminous and spacious enough for it to pose a cleaning challenge; at least on her own. 

 Unprompted, Em explains at great length and with much emotion about why she spends less and less time in Brussels. She’s recovering from several relational disappointments. The hurt is fresh, something to which I can readily relate. 

Before I return to Brussels, Em shows me around her small town. Most establishments are closed because of the public holiday. Even the vast neighbourhood park isn’t as busy as I’d expect.

Bear in mind, it’s a suburb, says Em.

Indeed. I don’t know how she’s managed it for almost 10 years. I doubt I’d last 10 hours before boredom drove me cuckoo.

I’m back in Brussels in plenty of time for a reading group, co-moderated by Bruno. This month’s Mixed Conversation Circle has been postponed to an inconvenient date. I decide last minute to give the book group a go instead. I thus don’t have time to read the set text by Pauline Harmange, translated into English as I Hate Men (the original French meaning, Moi, les hommes, je les déteste is not as loaded as the translation). I do crib thanks to a helpful interview/review of the essay. It’s a wilfully provocative title that speaks to the author’s deep angst and frustration. Although I chafe at all the word ‘hate’ implies, the reasons for the author’s ire and exasperation strongly resonate. The turnout for the discussion is good - considering it’s a holiday - with a surprising number of men amongst us. I make conversation with Marcello, a sweet-natured, camp Italian fellow I met at the previous Mixed Conversation Circle. (Never fear, dear reader. I’m not looking for any Lorenzo substitutes. No new friends. At least for the time being).

The reading group is led by Bruno and his partner-in-gender-deconstruction,Miguel (a hot Dutchman with confusingly Iberian features and name). The discussion around the book is candid, dynamic and thoughtful.  I let rip, waxing lyrical about my own frustrations and resentments over men -regardless of sexual orientation – and their tendency towards power-play, self-interest and emotional unavailability. The men present are committed to examining their own complicity in the current social order, some even embracing the dubious misandry label. 

I’m intellectually invigorated by it all.

Afterwards, Bruno and I contrast my volubility with the unease I felt at the inaugural Mixed Conversation Circle. 

You were really in your waters. Watch you swim, girl. He quips.

Of course, the difference is that I’m not as caught off guard this time as I was the previous occasion. A certain somebody is absent. A part of me wishes he had heard my impassioned interventions for their pertinence to our friendship's impasse.

After an extra short shift at the Red Cross the following morning, I meet Sylvia in town for a long overdue catch-up. Conflicting schedules, travel and COVID-related illness on her end have stood in the way. We spend an afternoon at Point Culture in Botanique; one of my favourite haunts since I relocated to Brussels and sadly, soon to be no more. 

Sylvia keeps me abreast of a recent whistlestop trip to the UK – her first since 2020 and not for the happiest of reasons. I let her in on my post-work and personal related dramas. Sylvia is pleased to hear I’ve started counselling sessions again. I admit to a reluctance to engage with new relationships. Whilst I feel I’m very in touch with my emotions – I’m not one to suppress or dissimulate – Sylvia believes I would do well to make time to consciously sit with them. I’m too afraid of wallowing and giving into bitterness. Sylvia counters that carving out space to indulge them once in a while would help recovery.

It’s more therapy of the musical kind that evening. The Brussels Jazz weekend has begun in earnest. Star of Jazz guitar, Philip Catherine and his quartet (bass, piano, drums) headline the main stage at Grand Place. Somehow, I underestimated the scale of the event. Thousands are gathered for the free concert, in honour of none other than Thielemans, with whom Catherine regularly collaborated. Once I can wrangle a seat, I’m a lot more relaxed. 

 Alas, I’m dressed too optimistically for the weather in a cardigan, summer skirt and sandals. It’s sunny but windy. I’m tempted to stay after the Quartet’s two hour set but I need to keep moving and warm up. After the rousing encore, I spot an ex-colleague from TTUO in the crowd with her boyfriend. She’s delighted to see me, even if her significant other is in a hurry. Normally polite and friendly when we’ve met before, he pulls her away and bids me a hasty goodnight.

With a crowd that size, I’m bound to run into more people I know. On exiting, to my pleasant surprise, I stumble across some of the Red Cross crew in their civilian gear. 

After some pleasantries, I amble towards a number of temporary stages in central Brussels. I stop at Bourse to listen to Persian Rugs; an impressive young R&B-funk outfit from the South of France. All live instruments and solid songwriting -sung in fluid English, no accent. The good vibes make me forget the cold. Too bad about the sketchy-looking characters around. Or that so many men treat the surrounding area like a public toilet. 

A couple of revellers try to hit on me. One of them is especially persistent. I make sure I’m not followed on the way towards St. Catherine station.

It’s a crazy weekend for activity; Festivals, Parties as well as a 20K marathon. I don’t know why the many tempting cultural events couldn’t be spaced out over Spring and Summer. It’s a pity I can't  teleport. In the absence of that superpower, I cover as much ground as I can.

The Afropolitan Festival takes place at the famous Bozar culture centre. The spotlight this year is on the Continent's women. 

I attend the second half of a documentary screening on young African creatives: The Ones Who Keep Walking. 

The film is followed by a Q&A with the Nigerian-American director, Amarachi Nwosu, only 27 herself. Despite our similar heritage, I contemplate how much we diverge culturally, having been raised on different sides of the Atlantic. The audience lap up Nwosu's every word. For me, she spouts the rather twee kind of aphorisms of which some Americans seem to be fond. Even the more sagacious elements are saccharine-coated. 

Nwosu places emphasis on individual Africans providing solutions to the Continent’s challenges, such as underdeveloped refining processes; from natural resources to chocolate. 

I don't believe the problem is a shortage of ideas. There’s no mention of systemic obstacles such as lack of infrastructure. Or that, due to scale, some responses can only be carried out by an effective state. An absence of decent political analysis is at times missing from artistic discourses on Africa. There should also be room to consider collective grassroots political action - the kind that could lead to the structural changes required - and its intersection with art, where evident.

Afropolitan 2022 @ Bozar

I sneak away during a fashion homage to Chimamanda Adichie’s We Should All be Feminists. A refreshingly voluptuous African sister recites lines from the essay whilst modelling accessories.

Before leaving Bozar, I pass by the Afropolitan stalls. As much as I’d like to patronise certain vendors, prices are exorbitant, considering I'm currently out of work. I imagine a lot of time and energy goes into the craft but still. 50 euros for a tote bag, I think not. Even on a good day. Cost of living crisis, anybody?

For all the talk of solidarity, it’s not very inclusive if the target audience for these wares is a middle class elite. Perhaps it’s assumed to be the only demographic that would be interested in such an event. Whilst Afrodescendants might well be amongst those in the upper percentile, structural inequalities mean there would be proportionally fewer. Heck, such prices would lock out many working people, regardless of background. The creators might reason that these are indulgences rather than essentials. Let those who can afford it fork out the cash. Thus continuing socio-economic stratification. 

I speak to a Belgian vendor, married to a woman from Niger. They're surrounded by their vivacious small daughters, of whom the youngest – an impossibly cute one-year old - takes almost as much of a shining to me as I do her. I ask why none of his children have African names. I’m disappointed to hear that his wife was against it. I comment, as diplomatically as I can in my second language, that Africans born on the Continent can be more reluctant to embrace aspects of their heritage, than those of us in the Diaspora.

Elsewhere, Internations’ superhost Gloria has organised Brussels’ Jazz Weekend group outings. It's back to L’Archiduc and it’s the busiest I’ve seen it. Standing room only, at least for the first half. 

The Internations guests are scattered across the venue. I improvise a seat on the balcony, on the floor far from the stage. I don’t need to see the talent – The Fabrizio Graceffo Quartet- to appreciate them. The guitar, piano, drums and bass combo play expansive yet mellow Jazz. With so much to see and hear over the weekend and having to streamline my choices, I’ve not been disappointed thus far. I manage to connect with some of the fellow Jazz travellers from Internations before they move off on en masse to yet another event.

The night is still young. After the gig, I traverse the Bourse and St. Catherine square, soaking in more live music. My reverie is interrupted by the sight of a homeless black man self-harming. He cradles a beer in one hand, and viciously punches himself with the other. I wouldn't know where to start intervening.

Back at home, a wave of melancholia crashes over me. As Sylvia suggested, I consciously make room for it, not distracted or caught off guard as sometimes occurs. I cry and pray – or rather lament – using the Psalms to articulate some of my anguish. Other remedies, of the terrestrial sort, come in the form of the new series of Stranger Things and of course, more Jazz. I’m extremely grateful for the privilege of free and easy access to this musical solace. After church on Sunday, I return to the eponymous venue (the very same where Amos’ quirky performance took place) for further tributes to Toots. The last day of the Brussels’ Jazz festival weekend in his honour will be the first time I’m hearing bona-fide harmonica-based homages. 

Some of the performances are sublime; from Toots’ early career and his collaborations with Bill Evans and Jaco Pastorius to his Brazilian repertoire -with a reprise of Velas on my request. If the sparse, mainly elderly audience are too subdued, my own enthusiasm isn’t muted. 

I need this.

Soundtrack: Fingerpickin’ by Wes Montgomery, The Best of Ivan Lins by Ivan Lins & Voyage by Tapioca

La Vie Musicale Part 2 or God Loves a Tryer...Maybe

A day after seeing mum off at the station, I embark on a 24-hour cultural excursion to Paris. I’m off to see Justin Timberlake play at the Bercy Arena. En route I’ll stop off at the Arab World Institute to review their exhibition on the Suez Canal.

It’s an odd timetable for the middle of the week. It wasn’t my original plan. Timberlake was supposed to play a Friday night in June but postponed for unspecified reasons. The show is rescheduled for a Tuesday night. It requires a couple days of annual leave. Suspicious that JT might cancel altogether, I put off buying a ticket to Paris as long as possible. Historically my efforts to see Mr Timberlake have come to nothing. I’ve either been too broke or not had the availability. My sister meanwhile has seen him twice. A friend paid for her ticket for one show.

By the time the show rolls around, I can’t say I’m overly-enthused. I fear the fierce backlash he’s experienced since his comeback this year will hamper his performance.

My day starts with an early morning coach from Strasbourg town centre. Despite the unusually early itinerary, I make it to the coach stop in good time. I have both seats to myself.

The coach driver gabbles something about safety belts and a rest stop at Reims. I’ve brought my laptop along. I have a busy writing schedule and I intend to make a head start between snoozes.

We arrive in Paris half an hour later than estimated. I waste a further hour working out from which side of the road I need to take the bus to the Arab World Institute. By the time I find my bearings I have more than a 20 minute wait.

I arrive at the Insitute to find the press pass I had been assured is nowhere to be found. I am magnanimously granted entry on the strength of my word alone.

One of the advantages of travelling during the week is that tourist attractions like the AWI are less busy. I can work through the exhibition at a leisurely pace, instead of having to fight my way through the crowd as on my previous visit. Perhaps a little too leisurely. My early wake up call and fitful sleep on the coach are catching up with me. It takes me longer to process some of the information around the exhibits. I’m determined to take in as much as possible, not being very familiar with the history of the Suez. Before I know it, security is rushing us out of the building. The Institute closes earlier during the summer months.

I have less than two hours before JT hits the stage. I had made vague rendez-vous plans with an acquaintance/former frenemy. She recently tossed out a casual ‘If you’re ever in Paris...’ invitation. She has been decidedly less keen since I’ve taken her up on her offer. It works to my advantage. I have too small a window between the exhibition and the concert. I while away the time drafting my review of the exhibition at a hotel in the Bercy vicinity.

Making my way through security at the Arena is a mission in itself. There are several layers. I also learn that my seat has been reassigned. The balcony is closed. The security guard assures me it’s an upgrade.

By the time I locate my seat, that section of the Bercy is almost full. I miss most of the opening act, Timberlake proteges, The Shadowboxers. I’m excited at first when a DJ takes over. My optimism is short-lived. Track after track of the most uninspired commercial pop-R&B and Hip-Hop. I don’t know most of the newer tunes and the old school selection is nothing to write home about. Neither of the punters on either side look very impressed. Our whole section is rather sedate compared to the youngsters getting down in the pit. I try to make conversation with the lady to my left.

It’s not my sort of thing either. I venture

Her reaction is rather steely. I’m not sure if it’s the noise, my faltering French or she's just being stand-offish. Probably a combination.

I don’t care. I’m just waiting…

Further attempts on my part come to nothing. That’s cold-hearted Parisians for you.

Image courtesy of Mouv.

JT and the Tennessee Kids finally make an appearance. He comes out kicking on all cylinders and keeps up the momentum for two hours. Almost. The first half of the show is near faultless. The second half patchier in comparison but several redeemable moments. JT is all in. That’s why his tours are few and far between. He needs time to recover. He’s accompanied by a full band (including horns section) several backing vocalists and dancers. I’m pleasantly surprised to see a fuller-figured dancer amongst the troupe. Timberlake’s choreography is intricate, even balletic in places. He alternates between piano and guitar. JT is no cut-corners blagger, whatever his detractors say to the contrary.

It ain’t over until the Southern Kid starts singing one of his more banal hits (Can’t Stop the Feeling). After wandering around the building trying to locate the exit, I make it out of the Bercy just in time to beat the crowd and make my coach. I spend an uncomfortable night in an aisle seat and arrive back at my flat in Strasbourg exactly 24 hours after my journey began.

It’s a short working week by the time I return to the office that Thursday. I decide to round it off at a rehearsal with the High Rock Gospel Singers (HRGS) who wooed me at their 20th Anniversary celebration a fortnight or so earlier. Muriel, who introduced me to the choir, has kindly agreed to accompany me. As a foreigner, I’m a bit trepidatious about venturing into a part of town with a dubious reputation. Muriel thinks I’m overreacting but humours me nonetheless.

The chorale rehearse every Friday. With one major event behind them and many members already on summer holidays, practices are mainly for forthcoming smaller performances such as weddings. It’s quite an informal affair. Members wander in at all hours. I join in the warm-ups but have to bow out for the main numbers. I sing familiar tunes from the pews when I can. Choir director Kiasi and his deputy, the confusingly-named Evan (originally from Benin) are two very special characters. These playful divas are determined to outdo each other in flamboyance. Evan wins hands down. He does funky club moves and handstands whilst directing the choir.

I am in my element. I ache to join the choir on stage. 

Kiasi frequently stops mid-flow to reprimand the members for missed cues and pitchy harmonies. Judging by their good-natured reaction, I take it his indignation is in jest. Kiasi code-switches between rapid-fire French and equally fast, idiomatic English. 

He has the voice of an angel to boot, as do several of his co-choristers. They seem to master English pronunciation of their mostly Anglophone repertoire much better than many French vocalists I’ve heard.

I’m absolutely fascinated by Kiasi’s linguistic acumen.

You should hear Evan. He speaks like a scholar.

Neither of them have ever lived in an Anglophone country. Just holidays, school (really?) and an interest in the English language. Later that evening, as Muriel and I kiss our goodbyes and Kiasi waits with me at my bus stop, we talk about our travel experiences and favourite destinations. He’s not a fan of London or its American counterpart New York. He dreams of LA living. I pick his brain further about his prodigious language abilities. My joy over the musical soul food I’ve imbibed that evening promptly turns to despondency over my own linguistic inadequacy. He’s encouraging of my efforts and warns me of being too hard on myself. It’s counter-productive he says.

Too late for that. I’m overcome by a heavy, self-flagellating funk. A well-known Nigerian saying comes to mind. Kiasi doesn’t have 10 heads. If he can become adept in a foreign language having never lived in the country, why can’t I with all the opportunities available to me?

"...They've got a name for the winners in the world, I wanna name when I lose..."

I’ve at last realised a long-held dream to live in a Francophone country. Eight months into my sojourn and nearly 30 years since my first French lesson, it appears I’m no closer to my goal of fluency. Au contraire. My confidence is through the floor. I know so many talented polyglots. I've been surrounded by them for years. Try as I might, I am yet to acquire their facility with languages by osmosis. The mediocrity I’ve fled all my life has caught up with me in Strasbourg.

Back at my flat, I sob into my light midnight meal. I recall every domain I’ve tried in earnest but failed to crack. Whilst I graft at being a better wordsmith, I just found out the winner of The Caine Prize 2018 is a crypto-currency code writer; a prodigious enough natural talent to fluke a major literary prize on her first go. I can't even get shortlisted for modest competitions.

Trial, error, repeat. It’s been the story of my adult life thus far. The only thing for which I am sure I have a natural propensity is persistence.

They say God loves a tryer. I’m still waiting to see how that turns out.

Soundtrack of the Week: My J. Timberlake mix + Everything is Always a Process by Bluestaeb.

La Vie Parisienne

A bottle portraying monastic scenes, 13th Century, Syria
 (c) Collection of the Furusiyya Art Foundation
Part of the exhibits at 'Eastern-Arab Christians:
2000 Years of History' @ the IMA, Paris

After the Christmas break, life is returning to normality slowly but surely. At THRO it’s more of the former. Some colleagues have opted to take the whole first week of January as leave. On my first day back in the office, only a handful from the department have returned. Claudia, Mustafa and I rattle around the empty corridors like phantoms. There’s a serenity to which I could easily become accustomed. My inbox is mercifully quiet. Most of the emails are those I sent to myself from home. It allows me time to work on a detailed report Sophie has given me to proof-read. I started before Christmas and I’m still only just over half-way through. The English is of an advanced level but is often not idiomatically correct. At roughly 28,000 words, it’s nearly double the length of my MA dissertation with none of the familiarity. Still, it's a good intellectual workout.

Sophie returns to work the day after, only to have to take some special leave for family reasons. She’s easygoing about the report. All the more reason to not take advantage of her good nature.

That weekend I’ve planned a trip to Paris to catch an exhibition on the 2000+ year history of Christianity in the Middle-East, at the Institut du Monde Arabe. 2018 will make it almost a decade since I did more than pass through the city en route elsewhere. I’ve decided to make a weekend of it. The train ticket is cheap. I’ve found a good bed-and-breakfast deal in the suburb of Asnieres-sur-Seine. The weather forecast isn’t bad.

I arrive late Friday night. My room is on the fifth floor of an Ibis Styles on a quiet side street. The spiral staircase is steep and narrow and the room compact. But it's clean and cosy and I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower, if I stand on my bed.  The plan is to attend the exhibition on Saturday. I’ve arranged a last minute press pass with one of my contacts.

Ah, the weekend. Not the best time to enjoy a soon-to-finish exhibition in peace and quiet. The IMA is packed with tourist groups and families with young children. The exhibition is substantial but the passageways are narrow. Everyone is jostling for space, doing ballroom-like manoeuvres to negotiate the tightness.

Very little of the exhibition is in English. Good. With everyone being away for Christmas, I’ve hardly spoken to a soul let alone had much French practice. My Parisian excursion will be the most consistent interaction I’ve had with the language for a few weeks.

One visitor sidles up to me as we both contemplate an ancient Eastern Orthodox relief, still in remarkably good condition. I’m making notes for my other blog.

The features are very African, don’t you think?

I look at her askance. I’m assuming she feels at liberty to make the comment to me, since there are few other brown faces around. Detecting my wariness she adds, ‘I’m North African, that’s why I’m saying it’. I’m still not entirely convinced but I start to thaw.

‘Yes, I suppose. Compared to how the artists of the Renaissance portrayed them’.

She continues ‘It’s far more realistic than the European depictions'. I agree, remorseful for initially being so defensive.

I spend over four hours at the exhibition, not wishing to rush through anything. A fatigue overwhelms me half way through. Perhaps it’s a mix of going to bed late, winding my way through the crowds, being on my block-heeled feet for a few hours and the consistent effort of reading in a second language. I have to force myself to actually look at the artefacts and absorb the information rather than just seeing them. It’s easy to go on autopilot. I’m not usually one for exhibitions unless the topic is really of interest, as is the case. It still feels a little out of habit.

After a rest on some strategically-placed seats, I gain a second wind and complete the rest of the expo.

Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

I go into the IMA in the early afternoon and emerge at sunset.  The night is still young. It’s high time to reacquaint myself with Paris for real.  Despite having grown up and lived most of my life in a Big City, I am surprised to find myself occasionally intimidated by other mega-metropoli; Paris being one of them. Especially now living in comparatively modest-sized Strasbourg. It hasn't always been the case. Maybe it's just old age kicking in. Or I'm recovering from my hectic London existence. A part of me is increasingly attracted to a quiet life. Just a little bit.

In the distance, the Eiffel Tower’s spotlight circles the city like a lighthouse. Across the bridge from the IMA, I spot a breathtaking Gothic building which I rightly suspect is the Notre Dame. I haven’t visited the medieval cathedral since a primary school trip. I make my way on foot.

En route, I’m stopped for directions by an attractive African-Caribbean couple. Assuming they are Francophones, I start to make my apologies...

‘Désolée. Je ne suis pas Parisienne. Je ne connais pas le quartier très bien…’

‘Uh...metro?’ asks the young man. Immediately perceiving a minimal level of the local language, I’m rather perversely tempted to continue to feign ignorance. In an effort to expose myself to as much French as possible, I’m resolute about distancing myself English-speakers, especially in social settings.

I relent. ‘Oh, you’re English speakers’, mildly disappointed, strangely relieved. They are taken aback at the switch, enquiring where I’m from.

Over at the Notre Dame there’s quite a buzz. Those fortunate enough to have passes are ushered in. Security guards line the streets. Outside the main gates a sizeable crowd has gathered, looking up expectantly. Whilst passing the famous bells explode into a rapturous chorus. Quasimodo would be proud (Sorry. I couldn’t resist).

Of course. It’s the Epiphany celebrations. How fortuitous to be in this part of town for it.

I've rambled enough. I need to write up this exhibition review. I start the journey back to the hotel. A quick change of plan and I decide to board the bus to Paris St. Lazare, one train stop away from Asnieres. It’s not the quickest route but it makes for a change. I don’t believe I’ve ever taken the bus in Paris. I treat it like a mini-tour.

The celebrated City of Lights is more illustrious still, draped in Christmas décor.

Back at my hotel, I gorge on French TV. It has an unfairly bad reputation. I can always find something to keep me entertained and/or informed. It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to indulge since moving to France. I didn’t have access to any at my former AirBnb’s and I’ve been debating whether to invest in one for my flat. It won’t remain undecided for much longer.

La Restaurant de la Sirène, Asnières-sur-Seine by Van Gogh

I wake up to a grey and damp Sunday morning. Nothing like a Continental breakfast buffet to cheer me up. Talk about an Achilles heel. It’s my habit to go down as close to the end as possible so I can dine in peace. It’s a gamble that doesn’t always pay off, as is the case that morning. A sizeable group of young French-Maghrebins, unconsciously or not sitting according to gender, are having a loud conversation across the cantine.

I soon scarper back to my room to watch a bit of ‘Un Sac de Billes’; a new TV adaptation of the (less engaging) novel that I had to study for French A-Level, about two Jewish brothers trying to survive Nazi-controlled Vichy France.

I pull myself away to explore the local surroundings. Asnieres-sur-Seine isn’t especially inspiring, less so when the weather is overcast. It does have the claim to fame of once being a muse for Van Gogh, whose paintings of the town during a more romantic era are dotted about.

On my stroll I notice a man with a bike come to a dead halt, grinning at me sheepishly. I return the smile somewhat tentatively. I am in the mind to walk past but realise it could be a chance to have a proper conversation. On my prompting he introduces himself as Denis. He’s on the way to have lunch with his parents. First, he wants to show me local landmarks such as the Chateau (more like an elaborate administrative building), a real life Swan Lake, some more scenes that Van Gogh painted and a farmer’s market. I encourage Denis to correct any of my grammatical mistakes. He’s keen, all right. He spent some time at boarding school in the UK in a town I’ve barely heard of. He has an advanced level of English. I ignore him and doggedly respond in French for most of the interaction. I keep warning him not to try and kidnap me. I’m only half-joking.

Denis is angling for some future socialising. I agree to send him a text about my plans that afternoon. I have a legitimate excuse. I'm awaiting a text from Julie, une connaissance Parisienne who might be able to meet up later. I don’t want to get Denis' hopes up but I’ll be polite about my demurral all the same. Besides, he has family from Alsace. It won’t hurt to say hello if he passes through that neck of the woods. We later have a lively linguistically-related text conversation that evening.

On the way back to my hotel for an afternoon siesta, I’m followed by a creepy old codger who, despite my obvious consternation, attempts to take pictures of my behind on his phone. I run to my hotel before he can get a clear view of where I’m staying.

(Incidentally, on the way back to Strasbourg, a cheeky bus driver, under the pretext of showing me where to catch my coach, asks me for my number.

What, my coach number?

No. Your telephone number.

What for?

So we can go out for a drink.

But I live in Strasbourg!

Well, whenever you come back to Paris.

Mes aïeux, Les Parisiens. Vous etes fous !

I don’t know what pheromones I’m giving off that attract eccentric older Caucasian men but I wish they worked as well on the younger, hotter variety instead).

After some more fun with satirical French puppets, comedians in drag and a couple of international Skype calls, I've had no word from Julie. I therefore return to the Parisian streets to do the stereotypically tourist-y stuff. Champs Elysee, L’Arc de Triomphe...because they’re there and it’s been a while and, like a kid, I get such a kick out of seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle every hour, on the hour. During the day it has the unglamorous air of an intricately decorated, rusty old giant pole. But at night, all lit-up... quel merveille. It’s like meeting a celebrity. So there. Don’t judge me.

It’s a Sunday night but it could be any other weekday evening on the Champs Elysee. It’s heaving with activity. It’s even more resplendent in its festive setting. L’Arc de Triomphe is more impressive than I recall. Paris is cleaner and less odorous than I remember.

Overlooking the City from the great vantage point of the busy Trocadéro-Palais de Chaillot, I am reminded....  Ah yes. This is the City that once enchanted me so.