Solo Debut: Part II

 5 + a 1/2 min. read

Part I

(c) Brett Jordan

The morning of my presentation, I arrive later than I’d have wished after too little sleep and unrealistically attempting to complete some life admin first. Fortunately, my intervention isn’t until after lunch. I’ve finetuned my slides to make them as user-friendly as possible. I’ve rehearsed, rehearsed and rehearsed again the paper itself. My only concern is timekeeping. I warn the moderator I might go over the designated 20 minutes, despite my best efforts.

As I’m being introduced I notice slight panic amongst the tech team. They appear to have ‘misplaced’ the final presentation I sent a few days ahead. The delay is eating into precious presentation time. Not to worry. I have a Plan B. From the mixed experience I've already had with the organisation of the conference, a contingency plan is basic wisdom. I brought the latest version of my talk on a USB stick...

...Except a Plan B isn't enough. Someone seemingly neglected to download a PDF reader on the in-house device. I have a possible Plan C. My latest presentation is also ready to go on my own laptop. However, we can't switch devices, since one of the participants is joining us via Zoom from the US (Trump-Vance migration law antics).

Now I'm starting to worry. Times is of the essence. All these decisions are having to be made in split seconds. I also have a PowerPoint version of my paper on the USB. Alas, I realise part way through that it’s not the update. For a second, I think of stopping and recommencing but time constraints won’t allow. My paper doesn’t correspond with much of this now outdated version of my slides. I apologise profusely. I proceed as seamlessly as I can but I’m rattled and very annoyed. If anger is a secondary emotion then beneath it I’m crestfallen.

I poured my heart into making the visuals of my presentation as engaging as possible, only to be sabotaged by administrative incompetence. This hasn't happened with any of the other papers I've observed. I recognise mistakes happen but with more than one person on the case, this was wholly avoidable. The recovering perfectionist I am, it would have always bothered me but less so if I were more seasoned.

Raphs and others will later commend my paper (although I feel they're just being nice). The moderator allows me to complete my presentation and I only skip very little. After a slow start, with my co-panellists seeming to attract more questions, the Q&A becomes more favourable for me. The salient questions permit me to address things I was forced to jettison with earlier drafts because of time considerations.

In the scheme of things - war, inequality and climate breakdown - sure, a cock-up over slides is not a big deal. Still. To say I’m gutted about the mishap is an understatement. It’s coloured the experience.

I’ve learned a valuable lesson. I won’t leave it to chance that conference organisers have got their proverbial together. Even if I make a nuisance of myself, I’m going to double-check everything of importance.

The next morning I’m greeted by warmth and sunshine. I throw on some summer gear and head out for the final day of the conference. Unlike many fellow guests, I’m not in a rush. My return train to Brussels leaves the following day. That will also give me time to hit some of my favourite German general stores to purchase inexpensive toiletries, as usual.

To my surprise, the good weather and stimulating interventions that morning help lift me out of the hangover funk from the previous day’s debacle. Sally gives an unexpectedly memorable paper on how apiculture is emblematic of all that's wrong with late-stage capitalism. Her fellow speakers on the Plantation Capitalism panel - both Europeans whose scholarship concentrates on populations from the Global South - welcome my (by now) standard question about how not to replicate extractive dynamics in academia.

(c) Tamas Szabo

During the break before the last keynote speech, I converse with special guest, South African polymath, Uhuru Portia Phalafala. GAPS has invited her to do a reading from her new book, Mine Mine Mine; an epic poem about the deleterious socio-cultural effects of the South African mining industry past and present. It’s told from the perspective of one of her grandfathers. Phalafala is genuinely intrigued by my project, especially my research on the late and underappreciated anti-Apartheid activist and midwife, Blanche La Guma.

The reading overlaps with lunch, for which we’re provided with a tasty vegan ‘brown bag’ option. Sat next to me is a veteran attendee of the GAPS. He's a bit of a soft-left provocateur in this (supposedly) radical space, from what I’ve gathered of his interventions. Between the keynote speech and Uhuru’s reading, we have a thought-provoking conversation -or rather a good-natured debate - about the Kenyan literary giant Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s ideas on linguistic decolonisation. (Thiong’o passed away earlier that week.) Whilst I have a lot more time for some of Thiong’o’s more hardline views, my interlocutor finds them essentialist and over-romanticised; objections that are not without merit. He’s glad Thiong’o apparently softened his position in later years.

Phalafala’s reading - or rather performance - has the room enthralled. I’m not one to sit and read poetry on my own but I do enjoy it in spaces where it can be collectively appreciated. It’s a heavy text, as would be anticipated. Uhuru’s fully embodied delivery, including the use of sound effects, makes it all the more mesmerising.

Phalafala leans on a traditional spirituality. Whilst some of the animistic practices to which she refers are diametrically opposed to my own Christian worldview, part of decolonising my faith is to resist having an impulsive suspicion of every aspect of indigenous spirituality. It involves finely parsing what to keep and what to reject; discerning what reflects something of God’s truth sans baggage. The same can equally be applied to certain Christian traditions.

This event is one more example of how South Africa, particularly the past and present injustices of Apartheid, have come back into focus for me of late; academically, spiritually and politically. This resurfacing is accompanied by a familiar grief and anger that I’m hesitant to acknowledge fully, for fear it calcifies into bitterness. I ask also how much it is mine to entertain, not being South African myself. Yet, do I need to be from that part of the world for these sentiments to be legitimate? I share some of this with Uhuru during the Q&A after she is interviewed by one of the academics in attendance. 

Phalafala is scheduled to do a similar reading at my university, where I’ll have another opportunity to absorb the text and pick up things I missed the first time. I’m grateful to have caught the preview.

Solo Debut: Part I

 7 min. read

(c) Andrei Stratu

During the first days of my PhD - which does not seem long ago at all - my supervisor, Brigitta recommends I submit a paper for an annual postcolonial conference in Germany, known as GAPS.  Most of the research team is encouraged to do the same. My supervisor would not be in attendance, so if my abstract were accepted, it would be my first time flying solo at an academic conference. (I’ve previously co-presented a paper with Brigitta). The May 2025 iteration of the GAPS is about the challenges neoliberalism poses for the discipline(s) of Postcolonialism. I appreciate the overtly political angle. It would allow me to position my paper with unapologetic ideological frankness. However, I don’t feel confident enough to make a fully-fledged submission. To my mind, I’m the rookie of the research team; less seasoned than some of my colleagues. Or rather, I’ve been away from academia the longest. I therefore submit an abstract as part of the Under Construction panel.  Irony will have it that not only do the conference organisers ask me to present a full paper, mine is the only abstract from my research team that GAPS immediately accepts.

Beyond the significance of presenting a paper for the first time on my own, the GAPS conference will also coincide with the end of my first PhD year. It’s gone fast. Scarily so. My supervisor is already talking about ideal monograph submission deadlines. The months leading up to GAPS are fraught with pressures without and within; negotiating my own anxious tendencies as well as Brigitta’s high and often confusing expectations.

GAPS will be the first in a run of conferences for which I have successfully submitted abstracts. I’m surprised. I applied for several, not expecting to receive a positive response for all.  Between late spring and mid-autumn, preparing for conferences will preoccupy much of my time. The beauty of it is that this preparation allows me to work simultaneously on my thesis. In addition to the feedback from other academics in attendance, writing a paper helps me formulate my ideas in a sequence. I have been writing stray portions - or vignettes, as Brigitta calls them - but preparing my paper obligates me to be a lot more structured. Whatever isn’t used in my intervention can be repurposed for other papers as well as fleshed out into future chapters. 

The initial draft of my GAPS presentation is at least twice as long as the 20 minute allocated speaking time. With the help of Brigitta and my life coach, Pieter, I whittle it down but I’m still running over. I make my peace with the chance of being cut off part-way. Whatever remains is important. There’s only so much I can ‘kill my darlings’, as one of my colleagues would put it.

The conference is held in Bielefeld, a city so apparently non-descript that some German friends tell me of a running joke amongst compatriots: that the place doesn’t really exist. The gag is also mentioned at the conference, when one of the organisers reads an article about Bielefeld's bland reputation from a major US journal. Admittedly, I’d have never heard of the city but for GAPS.  I book my train ticket well in advance and initially regret it when the conference programme becomes available. Nothing of import really takes place well into the first day - Ascension Day - so I could have travelled that morning. However, on arriving I appreciate the wisdom of giving myself an extra day to settle in. My DeutschBahn trains run slightly behind time, although not as bad as what I’ve heard of late. That cliché of German clockwork efficiency has been severely called into question after years, if not decades, of infrastructural underinvestment.

Bielefeld, Germany (c) Tobias Bennett

For my outbound journey, I have no assigned seating which is trickier to negotiate than I could have anticipated. After having to shift seats several times, I end up sitting next to Marcus; an Anglo-Irishman. He is also on his way to a conference in Germany; the far more glamorous Berlin. It turns out to be a providential encounter. Marcus has a high position in a well-known left-of-centre publishing house. I spot him reading a collection of the writings of Amílcar Cabral and the approbation is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. It turns out that we’re taking the same connecting train from Cologne. We lose each other making the switch. Our paths cross again when Marcus is on the way to the onboard café and I’m left to improvise a seat in the wide passageway, after being turfed out of my temporarily occupied priority seat by a train guard to make room for an elderly couple.

It’s otherwise a stress free trip. Once I work out where to pick up my tram, it’s a straightforward ride to my slick and well-rated accommodation - the waiting time notwithstanding. To my surprise Bielefeld is a proper city; not the sleepy, quasi-rural set-up I expect from all the bad press. A few hours after arriving at my Airbnb, I meet the owner. He plays Lounge and smooth Bossa Nova music loudly on his speakers. It's getting late but it's not so bad. He has good taste.

Bizarrely enough, the conference is scheduled on a public holiday. I knew that France and Belgium acknowledged Ascension Day but I thought it was just a Catholic thing and that Germany, apart from the papist South, would treat it as a regular working day. Apparently, it’s a holiday for much of mainland Europe.

I arrive at the conference in time for registration and a light veggie lunch. I see at least one familiar face, Dr. Johann Larsberg who was a keynote speaker at a conference which I helped to co-organise at the University back in Brussels last December. I’m a conduit of salutations on Brigitta’s behalf for Johann and fellow professors and conference organisers, Penelope and Deedee, that I’m yet to meet offline.

At times like these, I’m grateful to be socially autonomous. Networking isn’t a chore. Damilola, one of only two other black women at the conference, makes a beeline for me during a break and doesn’t hide her motivation. That kind of solidarity is indispensable in these spaces. I extend it to the Black folk I see on the streets of Bielefeld. For a small city, where some locals still look at me with curiosity, I'm surprised how many Black families I see.

After hesitating to confirm my attendance at the conference dinner too far in advance, I gladly join the cohort that evening for the self-paid event at a restaurant in town.  The environs reverberate with EDM. Some techno festival in the area, apparently. Very stereotypical.

I meet some impressive young academics, Sally and Raphael - or Raphs - also engaged in the Palestine struggle. I identify them from their keffiyahs. I’ve decided to leave mine in my suitcase until the second day of the conference, when I’ll be presenting. I’ve heard anti-Palestine sentiment can be crazy in Germany. I don’t know if I’ll be half-choked by someone trying to snatch the keffiyah from my neck - although I should be willing to take the risk. 

Sally is German and Raphs is Austro-Ecuadorian. I’m keen to hear what it’s like organising for Palestine in Germanic spaces. Both of them are eager to hear how serious GAPS are about their postcolonial commitments. Sally takes the opportunity to bring up Palestine after the first keynote speech - a controversial critique of postcolonial and decolonial theories that engenders lively discussion. The keynote speaker that afternoon joins us via Zoom. She's stuck in the US after being advised not to leave the country, in the wake of recent draconian migration policies; not the only participant at the conference in that position. She unequivocally supports Sally's argument that no serious discussion about postcolonialism can ignore the plight of Palestine.

(c) Jamie Lopes

Sally isn’t otherwise impressed by what she’s observed so far; biased public statements and an unwillingness to discuss Gaza at the hours’ long AGM (which I skipped) earlier that day. There’s a promise that the issue will be raised at the roundtable discussion at the end of the first official conference day. It’s not. Not really. Speakers tip-toe around the topic so much as to practically avoid the subject altogether. The chair of the discussion, Josie, is supportive of the Palestinian cause. She and I speak after one of the earlier sessions. Josie explains the painful journey she’s made as a German to uncouple the collective guilt over the Holocaust from Justice for Palestine.

As the roundtable moderator, Josie tries to diplomatically angle the conversation in that direction but to no avail. I’m debating about whether to address one of the speakers’ comments about Holocaust exceptionalism but in this context, I wonder if I’m the best person to take her up on it. Afterwards, in private, Raphs argues that it’s often left to racialised people to speak up in these spaces. We shouldn’t always feel the burden when there are others in the room who are perfectly capable of raising their voices. Sally leaves immediately after the roundtable, visibly irate. Disillusioned by the conference, Raphs says he doesn’t envisage coming again.  

On the day of my presentation, I’m tired but in good spirits. The talks I’ve attended have been stimulating, particularly the Q&A’s. They expose the gap (no pun intended) in my own knowledge of post and decolonial theories. I always say I’m in academia but I’m not an ‘innate’ academic. Some of my layperson framing of these ideas come from activist spaces. I’m a little confused, for example, when a keynote speaker accuses the post and de-colonial disciplines of ignoring Marxist analysis. That’s not the impression I get from the grassroots, where at least critiques of capitalism are implicit to anti-imperialist organising.

One recurring observation from various interventions is that these conversations can’t remain self-indulgent academic preoccupations. We need to translate these into real world change.

Part II

Ready or Not...Part I

 

Hamburg (courtesy of Reisroutes)

5 min. read

Hello, is anybody out there? 

Following a lengthy-ish summer hiatus from posting on LVC, it was always going to be tricky working out if/when to return. It’s not as if I have an army of subscribers eagerly awaiting my titbits. In the end, it’ll be the compulsion to write that will have me coming back despite myself.

I’ve enjoyed the respite; just living life without the obligation to document everything. The past couple on months or so have been so packed, it would have been a challenge in any case.

Let’s get the less pleasant aspects out of the way first...

 I am still job hunting. It’s not how I would have liked to spend the aestival months but needs must. I have one interview in late August, during my mother’s first Belgium visit (more on that later), with an anti-racist organisation. I love the sound of the role but taking it would mean a significant pay cut and a continuous search for something more financially sustainable. I am upfront about this in the interview. Some might question the wisdom of this. I can’t say I’d be so bold again. Nonetheless, it feels like the sensible thing to do at the time. The interview otherwise goes swimmingly (as far as I can tell). The feedback in the rejection email is very encouraging. Yet, it is still a refusal when all is said and done. Psycho-emotionally, it’s the usual rollercoaster; some days I feel plucky enough to weather the storm. Other days are so dark I can’t see past them.

There have been moments of reprieve. I take the all-night bus to Germany in mid-August to spend the long Assumption weekend with my dear friend, Coral. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh since early 2020, mere weeks before the global lockdowns. Meanwhile, she’s left Dresden and moved across the country to begin a new job and life season in Hamburg. 

I arrive early Saturday morning but we don’t step out until evening, it takes that long to catch up on our news (well, mainly me and my monologues). Not being familiar with Hamburg, it’s also a chance to be acquainted with what turns out to be an attractive city (the main train station notwithstanding). 

My good friend, Brenda – a Hamburg native – provides some culture tips beforehand. I cross most off my list thanks to a comprehensive city tour, Coral’s guidance and my own curiosity. I also benefit from Germany’s subsidised nationwide summer deal, thanks to which one can traverse the country for a mere nine euros all month.

It’s a soothing break. Coral’s great listening skills and sagacity are forever welcome. Plus, she spoils me rotten, not allowing me to pay for anything.

Shortly after my return to Brussels, I host my mother for the first time since I moved to Belgium. Owing to other commitments, I can only entertain mum for under a week. One of the few advantages of being between jobs is that I can focus on her visit.

I make an itinerary, including a city tour (also a first for me in Brussels), an evening at a traditional Belgian restaurant, a ramble around my local environs, an indispensable trip to the African quarter, Matongé and as many park visits as can be squeezed in. At some point I start feeling flu-like symptoms. I’m too nervous to test in case I have to self-confine. Neither can mum afford to be holed up in Belgian for an extra week. I wait to see how things progress. I do make a swift recovery, save for some coughing and sneezing. I remain masked up and persevere with showing mother dearest a good time.

To my relief, mum likes my Brussels accommodation, as different as it is from my Strasbourg residence. She enjoys her five day visit and promptly books a follow up in the Autumn. TBC.

The famous Matongé Mural (courtesy of Le Vif)

Almost immediately after mum’s departure, I’m off to Namur, Wallonia for my first ever silent Christian retreat. It’s on the condition that my symptoms have  subsided enough not to expose anybody else to risk. I’ll discover on arrival that there are elderly and immuno-compromised guests present.  It’s a tough call. It would’ve been incredibly depressing to quarantine in my flat, especially so soon after mum’s visit. (I do test when I get back to Brussels and it shows up Corona-free).

The journey to Namur is a little madcap. There aren’t many participants in possession of a car and none that live in Brussels. I’m supposed to travel with friend and former church member, Jana, courtesy of a lift offered by another participant living in Flanders. When our ride pulls out, we’re left floundering. Jana researches alternative train routes. By a hair’s breadth, I miss the connection which would have reunited us en route. I remain in touch with Jana by phone whilst I catch a different train.

There is one plus about missing my original connection. I’m not forced to travel with Lorenzo. Yes, it’s a bitter irony that I still run into him at the events in which I once encouraged him to participate whilst we were on good terms. I am thankfully forewarned by Jana that he’ll be attending, she being apprised of the decline in relations. I am not shocked by the news. There was always the outside possibility. I can’t pretend his presence has no impact on the experience. 

By chance, a few weeks before the retreat I speak to Melissa, the mutual friend who introduced me to Lorenzo. At the time I’m unaware of how much she knows about the state of play. A lot, it turns out. He had apparently given up on the friendship long ago, citing flimsy and at times even judgmental reasons, from what I glean from Melissa. 

The River Meuse, Namur (Routard)

He appears to share more with her by IM than he ever does with me on or offline. This revelation sparks a fresh wave of grief. During the retreat I alternate between being courteous but distant (not so hard with most of it spent in silence) or avoiding him altogether. Lorenzo, for his part, prefers the latter. From what I can tell, he's done his utmost to disassociate from me and the situation. It sticks in my claw to see him play the perfect gentleman with others. 

Anger, hurt and betrayal stir within me. 

Before we depart, I nevertheless slip a note under Lorenzo’s door, as encouraged by one of the retreat organisers in the know. It’s with much apprehension. Lorenzo and I are long past reconciliation. Besides, it can’t be a unilateral decision. I’m tired of consistently being the one to reach out; remembering his birthday for example when he can’t be bothered to do the same.

Still, I recognise we need to clear the air. It would otherwise be hypocritical, particularly before breaking bread for Holy Communion on the last day. Lorenzo does acknowledge the note but confesses he’s yet to read it. We have a couple more civil exchanges before everyone goes their separate ways. 

At the time of writing, Lorenzo is yet to respond to my brief letter. No remorse shown. From cowardice or callousness, I have no idea.  It is a needless reminder that this person is not – and probably was never – good for me.

Yet, despite this added challenge, it doesn’t define the getaway. The retreat has an aquatic theme, owing to the centre’s proximity to the River Meuse. The workshops, shared sessions and a temporary art installation all have a therapeutic effect.  I find genuine solace and rest within the comfortable accommodation as well as the scenic surroundings. I while away time in the chapel or sat by the Meuse. The weather continues to be kind, which will soon change when September arrives. It’s a delicious novelty not having anywhere to be; not to be a slave to my own self-imposed schedule. It's something I usually struggle to achieve, even on holiday. The serenity naturally makes it easier to connect with God, although it takes a moment to reach this point. 

The retreat is not perfect, nothing is. The available literature and music is very Eurocentric and male-dominated, for instance. I am the only non-European in the group. However, I have no regrets about attending. It enables me to turn down the volume of my mental traffic, even if I can't completely switch it off. 

Once that precious long weekend is over, I reflect on how to carry forward the tranquillity into my everyday life.

Part II

A Short and Sweet Stay in Dresden

Dresden, Old City.

The festive season now a fond but distant memory, it’s back to my new normal. Life is still in a state of flux. I do what I can to maintain some sort of routine. I resume job hunting and my interim personal development activities.

I also now have a window to make good on the promise to visit my Tunisian belle, Coral in Eastern Germany. Befriending this kind, bright and thoughtful soul is undoubtedly one of the highlights of my Strasbourg experience. Since she relocated to Dresden last summer, it’s been more of a challenge staying in touch than when she lived just over the Franco-German border in Freiburg. Having made several fruitless plans to reunite during the second half of 2019, we finally put a date in the diary mid-January. At least it gives me something to look forward to amidst the deep winter lull.

Emails fly back and forth. According to my research, whether I travel by train or coach it’s still a lengthy trip involving at least one pit stop. I opt for coach as the more economic choice. With the ongoing industrial action in the face of Monsieur Macron's intransigence, travel by road is also currently the most reliable option.

As my Dresden trip draws closer, reluctance creeps in. It’s nearly 12 hours each way. I’m highly apprehensive about the overnight bus ride (including a three hour stop at Nuremberg). I’m not exactly heading to sunnier climes either. To my shame, I don’t even bother to check out what Dresden has to offer its visitors. I’m relying on Coral to show me her favourite spots, plus a top-up from one of the free walking tours I’ve read about. In the corner of my mind the City has vague connotations with wartime; more so than other German metropoli. Despite Coral’s insistence on Dresden’s charms, I imagine a grim and grey post industrial town. It doesn’t help that the region is strongly associated with the Far Right. And yet Coral seems to have made a life for herself there.

The weekend of travel arrives. The outbound coach is half an hour late. On the plus side, it's virtually empty to my pleasant surprise. I survive the first and longest leg of the trip by reading and sleeping in the customary awkward position. At Nuremberg, when I try to retrieve my modest luggage without his assistance, the gruff bus driver barks a reprimand in German. Still slightly groggy, I respond in polite but firm English; sounding more primary school teacher-like than as stern as I’d intended.

Looking around I feel uneasy. Nuremberg is in full, rowdy Friday night/early Saturday morning mode. It’s cold and grimy and I hear too many loud male voices.

The curmudgeonly driver’s tardiness at least eats into the waiting time. Thanks to a local hotel I’m redirected to the nearest train station, where I pass a couple of comfortable hours out of the cold. I’m hurrying back to the coach stop before I know it.

When I finally reach Dresden late Saturday morning, the temperature is milder and there’s a hint of sunshine. My face is bare of make-up and I’m recovering from sleep. I’ve texted Coral in advance to let her know I might look a state. She collects me at the Flixbus stop, waving away my enquiries about where to buy a tram ticket. She’s taken care of it.

I feel more self-conscious than I banked on. It takes a while for me to make consistent eye contact. It’s the first time Coral’s seen me in my natural state. Even when she stayed round Christmas 2018, I was glammed up and ready to go in the mornings.

The Kulturpalast, Dresden
 (courtesy of Aasarchitecture)

If you hadn’t said anything, honestly I wouldn’t have noticed.

She’s being too kind, not with the traces of bygone acne still visible.

By the time we reach her cosy and inviting flat, my vanity is forgotten. Initial plans to shower and nap fly out of the window as we catch up. Apart from one lengthy autumn phone call, Coral and I haven’t had a proper face to face conversation since early last summer. In her enviably calm and softly-spoken fashion, she expounds on the drama at her new workplace. Her line manager has fallen on his metaphoric sword and tried to pressure her into doing the same. She came to her senses before making a rash decision. Nevertheless, the incident has taken its emotional toll. She describes it as a couple of years of stress condensed into a few months.

The discussion turns to happier themes. She has a new man in her life. I’m due to meet him the following morning. For now, I’m curious to know how their paths crossed.

Coral shares the backstory. Following a fleeting and disappointing romantic episode, a close friend encouraged her to sign up to a 'sophisticated' dating app. She met Sandeep after a few pleasant but unremarkable dates. The kismet was there from the beginning, she says.

Coral gently encourages me to consider giving dating apps a try. I demure as politely as I can. I explain I once signed up to a site many, many moons ago for a laugh. Since then I’ve had no inclination. I have strong feelings about the whole Lonely Hearts industry. I deflect, not wanting my aversion to be a reflection on Coral’s personal choices.

The day is far spent by the time I do freshen up and change clothes. The walking tours would be long finished by now. We step out at dusk, making a quick stop off at her local shopping precinct to buy some items I haven’t had the time of late to pick up at Kehl.

I’ll have to make do with seeing Dresden after dark. It has its own night time appeal, Coral reassures.

Indeed, the City is a revelation. I’m almost glad to have had low-to-zero expectations, only to be enchanted all the more.

Once the heart of the old kingdom of Saxony, I’m awe-struck by the majestic and imposing beauty of the baroque architecture.

A luminous modern-looking glass structure catches my attention. Coral introduces the Kulturpalast; a former government building from the era of Communist East Germany. Now converted into a civic centre, inside are plenty of seating areas, a gorgeous modern library and a concert venue dedicated to the City’s philharmonic orchestra. I'm enamoured with the rose-coloured space. According to Coral the locals tend to have a poor opinion of relics from the DDR period. It takes an outsider to appreciate it, I reply. She confesses she’s never spent much time in the building. That'll now change.

The Fürstenzag, Dresden
(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

Coral shows me more of the old town, pointing out historical sites such as the various places of worship and administrative buildings. Most have been rebuilt after Dresden was levelled by allied carpet bombing during the Second World War. We stand underneath the eye-catching, if intimidating, Fürstenzag mural. It depicts the various Saxon monarchs; many of whom have  blood ties to the modern British Royal family. 

Coral takes me to one of the bridges overlooking the Elbe river. She insists the view of the old town is even more stunning from the other side. As well as Germany, the Elbe traverses the neighbouring Czech Republic and touches the periphery of Poland. Prague, Coral’s favourite European city, is only an hour away by bus she tells me. That explains why my connecting coach was heading in that direction. The Czech capital is somewhere I feel I should know but have never visited. I suggest we cross the border if and when I’m next in town.

Coral’s Italian restaurant of choice is full to Saturday night capacity. We head home for some delicious home cooking via a quick detour to Aldi. (I want to see if the budget supermarket superstar is as good in its country of origin as its UK homologue. Not bad but not as good, either.)

The following morning after I've done my ablutions, Sandeep materialises soundlessly in Coral’s living room.

I have a key…

Still. Secret Service levels of discretion.

Sandeep and I hit it off immediately, thanks to his fascinating back story. I get so carried away in conversation I worry I’m neglecting Coral.

Having lived all over the Indian subcontinent and collecting a bevy of languages along the way, Sandeep is a fountain of knowledge. He’s well versed in linguistic, regional and religious history, disabusing me of many of my half-baked notions. ‘Hinduism’, for example, is a western conceit for something that does not fit easily into a single religious practice. We talk about the state of politics in India, Britain (continuing a conversation Coral and I started the night before) and across the African continent. Sandeep explains why he first voted for Modi and how he’s since become disillusioned.

At first horrified, I learn a lesson about those who support Populist-Nationalist leaders.

Dresden Cathedral: Restored after the original
was bombed during the Second World War
(wallpapers.io)

 An insightful polymath, Sandeep is as far from the ill-informed, frothing-at-the-mouth patriot you can get. The truth is always more complicated, as if I needed reminding. I’m very aware of aggressive comments and violence towards religious minorities in India. Sandeep argues there’s a history of some anti-Hindu sentiment that stoked nationalism. I’m a little sceptical (all the more given it proves hard to substantiate when I do my own research). However, out of respect to Coral and conscious that Sandeep would have first hand experience of things that don’t make the front pages, I give his account the benefit of the doubt.

We’ll spend the whole day together, in and out of the flat and eating establishments. Our topics of conversation seem to cover the length and breadth of the human condition.
Talk shifts around topics such as faith, misunderstandings around Afro hair (it's my turn to disabuse this time) and the ease of language acquisition for lifelong polyglots like Sandeep. We discuss post-colonial trauma, all three of us having lived through the reality in one form or the other. We broach lighter themes such as childhood literature and TV favourites, and the comedy of Eddie Izzard (of whom Sandeep is a fan).  

In spite of their efforts to be inclusive, Coral and Sandeep can’t help gazing into each other’s eyes or stealing a kiss. She wasn’t exaggerating when she spoke of their organic rapport. They could have known each other for years rather than months. Case in point: Sandeep has a passion for fine art and photography. At one point he shows me a life-drawing of an ex-girlfriend. Coral doesn't show the slightest sign of unease. I laugh nervously, telling her she's a stronger, less uptight woman than I would be. Theirs is a candid and easygoing relationship.

I’m happy for Coral. Yet as is typical when I’m around a couple, I feel like the awkward third wheel; as if my presence intrudes on a sacred intimacy. If it weren’t for my love and respect for my friend and curiosity to meet the man who captured her heart, I’d avoid the trio set-up like the plague.

Late afternoon, we head out for another impromptu dusk excursion.  Sandeep shows us around Neustadt; the Boho district of Dresden where he happens to live. The aesthetic is distinct from the Baroque Old Town. It rather reminds me of some of the major French cities like Paris or Lyon.  Sandeep has an impressive knowledge of the boutiques, novelty cafés and restaurants that characterise the area.  We take detours down side streets and attractive passageways. The whole neighbourhood is a giant canvass. Murals and artistic graffiti abound. Residential buildings double up as art installations. One spellbinding aquamarine facade in Kunsthof for instance, is also bestowed with cone-shaped water receptacles, said to create sweet music when it rains.

Kunsthof in the Neustadt district, Dresden
(courtesy of Welt)

Coral and Sandeep treat me to a delicious mango lassi. Later, we enjoy a hearty supper at a falafel restaurant serving generous portions at ridiculously good value. Whilst dining, Sandeep speaks more of his dreams to retire early from a career in architecture.  He plans to live off the fatta-the-land somewhere in his native India or The Med. He feels more affinity with the Iberian peninsula and southern Italy than Germany. The warm weather is better suited to him, for a start.

It’s my turn to treat the couple. I sneakily settle the bill in appreciation for their hospitality.

Late that evening, not long before midnight, I retire to my guest room. It's been a full day of verbal and visual stimuli. It’s time to leave the love birds to it.

On the way back from a late night shower, I see no sign of Sandeep. He leaves as inconspicuously as he arrived.

Coral takes a leaf out of his book the following morning, heading out earlier for work than she mentioned. She’ll explain later that she didn’t want to disturb me before my long coach trip back to Strasbourg.

It's not clear when we’ll next meet up. I don’t like emotional farewells. Still, I’m not happy to be deprived of a heartfelt goodbye hug.

Soundtrack: Free Nationals (self-titled album).

Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 2

Colmar @ Christmas

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside Notre Dame Cathedral, Strasbourg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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