Autumn Reprisals

7 min. read

Grounds of the Africa Museum, Belgium (image courtesy of Vestiaire Ouvert)

October ushers in a new season with a flurry of activity. Chief amongst these is another visit from mum. It’ll be her second in six weeks and slightly longer than the last.

When these plans were initially made, I’d banked on being back in full time employment. As it happens, I am still a free agent and thus have more time to dedicate to her visit. With her staying a full week this occasion, it also feels less time-pressured. I still draft an itinerary adapted according to my now even more modest budget and the less temperate weather. Mum’s first visit was at the height of an unusually warm and consistent summer. The drop in temperature and more frequent rains certainly shifts the mood, for me at least. There remain a number of Brussels attractive green spaces I’m yet to show mum. I’m less inclined to do so in the damp. 

Mother is far less fussed. This flexibility is a saving grace. Moreover, there are a few decent weather days – or spells, at least – than anticipated. Enough for us to ramble the grounds of the Africa Museum one afternoon, for example, which mum enjoys as much as I’d hoped. In that regards, she is a low maintenance guest. I don’t have to plan the extraordinary in order for mum to have a fine time. She’s more than content with trips to local and not-so-local markets for some good old fashioned bargain-hunting. A quick jaunt around Parc George Henri after the rains is also appreciated. 

In between we have a nostalgic giggle over wry retrospectives on BBC’s infamous Halloween hoax, Ghostwatch. She canerows my hair whilst watching the highly addictive Dr. Pimple-Popper (mum’s corrupting influence). We bicker over personal boundaries and miscellaneous misunderstandings. One evening, I leave mum to her devices whilst I attend a mostly underwhelming 80s Party in Auderghem. I remember it for touchy-feely Frenchmen and a clueless DJ playing bastardised versions of classics. One of the sole advantages is that I get to hang out with Em, after not seeing her for a little bit.

Mum’s visit ends with a swing by one of her new favourite markets in Schaerbeek and a quick meet-up with one of my Brussels besties, Sylvia. They hit it off easily.

I say farewell to mum later that afternoon at Gare du Midi, where awaits a hassle-free Eurostar ride back to Blighty. Meanwhile, I’m leading another home group bible study on Justice that same evening.

During her visit, mum remarks on how busy I remain between jobs. As well as drafting applications and receiving my autumn COVID booster shot, my cultural calendar is buoyant as always.

 Brussels autumn theatre season has much to offer on the cheap, if not completely pro-gratis. I see a poignant one-man show about parenting teenagers in middle-age and an arresting Get Out-esque psychological thriller (pictured below). 

Je Te Promets @ Varia Theatre (image courtesy of L'Echo)

I attend a matinee for another one-man piece; this time, extremely interactive. A young-ish Belgian of North African descent opines about his generation’s justifiable mistrust of the police, whilst cooking a chicken tagine live on stage. I have the dubious honour of being called on at random to be a jury member for a fictitious hearing on the death of a Belgo-Arab man in police custody. I let my co-jurors do most of the talking, pointing out that French is not my first language (although I participate in the post-show discussion once my tired brain is a bit more alert). The actor offers us some tagine for our trouble, albeit whilst we’re still on stage. I barely touch it. 

I can’t wait to rush back to the safety of my seat. After the performance, I inform the production team that I wasn't best pleased about this unscripted cameo.

In a couple of weeks I’ll be back at the same venue, the Senghor culture centre in Etterbeek, for an enriching all day conference on Afropeanism at the intersections of Faith and Gender.

I’m also increasingly preoccupied with my musical exploits. I am introduced to an evening of dance, Samba de Gafieira-style, by new Brazilian acquaintance, Ana-Carolina. We first connect at the Afro-European conference I attend in September. She's a visiting professor in Brussels, although hopes to make the move to Europe long term. We hang out at a couple of musically-based events before she returns to Brazil.  She helps me with Portuguese and we agonise over the forthcoming second round of Brazilian elections.  

My inchoate friendships with Clotilde and Agnès gets a boost when we meet in early October to harmonise at Parc Royale.  (In an ideal world, I could spend all day harmonising with like-minded folk.) After a hesitant start, the trio hits its stride. Our voices start to make a pleasant blend. Agnès has come equipped with song sheets. We swap musical tips and anecdotes. I’m horrified to learn that the girls are both unfamiliar with En Vogue and Boyz II Men. I’m the oldest of the bunch by quite a margin. Clotilde is in her early 20s - a whole generational difference - whilst Agnès, although in her 30s, is nonetheless the best part of 10 years my junior. But still, Boyz II Men and En Vogue people! Indispensable to the canon of anyone serious about harmonising. Or so I thought. There’s nothing left to do but educate the young ‘uns.

We grab a rich hot chocolate before home time. Alas, whilst we’ll reconnect separately, our conflicting schedules won’t allow all three of us to resume our harmonising whimsy for several weeks to come.

The following evening, Clotilde and I are joined by Jens at an open mic night in the St Gilles vicinity. Once again, I plan to take to the stage. I am told the crowd at this establishment are friendly. That is indeed the case. Clotilde opens the night with a couple of improvised piano solos. She is the woman of the moment, known to regulars and respected for her facility with multiple instruments. My rendition of a negro spiritual sans accompagnement is warmly received. Overall however, the night is something of a menagerie. 

There are skilled MCs rapping acapella, alongside mediocre singers (much to my disappointment), alongside arresting young actors performing expressive monologues, alongside singer/songwriters of varying ability. A flamboyantly camp South American poet insists on gatecrashing others’ sets, flashing his tight stomach and equally tight-fitting white underwear at every opportunity. 

Despite mine and Clotilde's plans for an early night, we remain for the chaotic after-show jam. Jens turns beetroot red trying to suppress laughter, as a tone deaf young woman butchers her way through an Eagles’ hit. He tries to catch my eye. I turn my back to him. It’s all I can do not to dissolve into hysterics myself. 

As I become better acquainted with the Brussels live circuit, I am confronted with a familiar dilemma. The Jazz jams are generally snobbish and less welcoming but high quality performances are a constant.  The regular open mic nights are comparatively laidback but the quality is more unreliable.

Open Mic night @La Tricoterie (c) @PGAV

By the end of the month, I’ll have spent quite a lot of time in the company of my new chums, especially Jens. He he is my plus-one at a performance by the Gospel choir I’m interested in joining. We are both left somewhat underwhelmed. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s certainly the most diverse chorale I’ve come across so far in this context (albeit the bar is set pretty low here). Yet it lacks soulfulness. There are no stand out soloists either. 

Still, it’s not terrible. I wonder if the purpose of attending that fateful choir rehearsal in September was just to bring Clotilde, Agnès and I into each others’ orbit. (Both of them have also incidentally cooled to the idea of joining). Time will tell…

As it will for my incipient friendship with Jens the Dandy. He is easy company; inhabiting his own quirky, neuro-divergent planet. Then again, in some ways, so am I. We are on a similar wavelength, and not just musically. I have my first all-nighter in Brussels at a DJ set, thanks to Jens. Our conversations quickly go deep and candid, even amidst this sort of party atmosphere. Romance is not on the table and it’s a relief. Jens nonetheless remains present and generous with his time. He is pensive, frank, has surprisingly good manners (apart from the expletives), is smartly-turned out and gives great hugs. Nothing is perfect (he doesn't regard the oeuvre of Boyz II Men, for instance). Nevertheless, I find our interactions invigorating.

Bref, I am excited about this burgeoning friendship and it terrifies me. I’m like a kid fixated with a new toy, at risk of breaking it from over-use. It's already too intense. I need to slow the heck down.

I note familiar unhelpful habits and thought patterns that I believe have contributed to the implosion of previous relationships. Then there are all the hang-ups and hurts from recent disappointments. I’m still figuring out how to navigate these relational waters; how to turn past mistakes into lessons learned. I wouldn’t want this potentially good friendship to be a casualty of my neuroses. I'm unsure if I’m yet ready to invest in new relationships of any kind. 

I explain to Jens that a recent high friendship turnover has put me on guard. I've already been misled by too many seemingly sweet-natured camp men in the past couple of years. I stay vigilant. Maybe hyper-vigilant. I swing the pendulum to the other end, emphasising my purely platonic intentions to an insensitive extent. Jens is gracious about it. I’m keen to get it all under control. If not now, then when? There’ll always be new and intriguing people to meet.

I’ll have a lot to catch my therapist up on next session.

Trouble in Paradise

Fierce late winter winds. Biblical hail storms. This is the wintry Alsatian weather I’ve come to know and, well, if not love find a form of habitual comfort.

Despite the crazy wind and rain, spring is apparently peeping over the horizon. Actually, this is pretty spring-like weather round these parts.

I didn’t expect to see out another winter in Strasbourg. There you go. If I should have learned anything by now, it's that things don’t tend to go to plan.

But plans I do still make. My sister comments on how busy I am during one of our weekly Skype chats. It’s a matter of survival. If I don't leave the confines of my flat at least once a day, I’ll go stir crazy.

One thing I anticipated -with trepidation- when my contract ended in autumn, was the lack of regular interaction. As psychologically exhausting as it could be working at The Organisation, I didn’t want for human contact. Now, outside of my regular extra-curricular activities, I have to make concerted efforts not to feel alienated by spending time in cafés or libraries. There’s no guarantee even then that I’ll have much in the way of meaningful conversation. I chat with the security guards at the Malraux Médiathèque. I might bump into someone I know or meet up with an acquaintance. Otherwise, I’ll spend several hours a day in my own company. Something I usually appreciate can at times feel like a mixed blessing.

By late February, my morale takes a major hit. It sometimes takes monumental psychological effort to will myself to apply for work. In nearly a year of job hunting, I’ve had one interview and that was only in January.

At least the choir is a sanctum.

One week in mid-late February we receive an email (or rather a summons) to an important meeting that Friday. The message is concise. Nothing particularly dramatic. Yet something between the lines suggests it’s not going to be cheerful news.

The mild urgency of the tone has the required effect. It’s a good turnout. Some members who haven’t shown their faces for many moons make an appearance. Choir director, Kiasi, is running late, having recently returned from an East African mission.

After waiting for half an hour, chief soprano and occasional director Nicole, decides to get things under way. She circulates the results of an online survey recently carried out amongst members. The results are mixed. A number of choristers claim the atmosphere has been tense of late. Whilst some (like myself) felt the recording session in December went well overall, others believe we were ill-prepared. A few minutes into Nicole’s overview, Kiasi waltzes in. He’s on edge about the meeting beginning without him. He and Nicole have a terse exchange.

The agenda moves to the real business of the day.  There's an important announcement. Flanked by Elisabeth and other members of the choir’s administrative team, Nicole explains they have taken the difficult decision to no longer collaborate with Kiasi.

Problems have not just materialised overnight. There have been numerous slights. Poor timekeeping. Not following up on engagements that he himself proposed. Divergent opinions on how the choir can or should move forward...

Recriminations fly back and forth. Kiasi is hyper-defensive.  He cuts off members of Le Bureau mid-flow. They in turn ask him to allow them to finish their sentences. He cites problems with his work schedule and examples where he believes he gave sufficient notice. He speaks of being bombarded with no-show messages minutes before rehearsal.  The choir has peaked below its potential, he states, and there doesn't seem to be a willingness to move forward.

Awkward isn’t the word. It’s like watching parents argue.

To complicate matters further, Johnny-Come-Lately, Marlène recites a litany of all that, according to her, has gone wrong with the choir. She blames a deterioration in quality for her own lack of attendance.

I just don’t get the chills anymore when I come.

She emphasises the spiritual aspect of singing in a Gospel choir, even if one does not believe.  She speaks of halcyon days when the choir's vocal performances not only gave her goosebumps but they members were also tight like a family.

Things start to get personal. Marlène critiques recent concerts that she has attended. She then makes a veiled reference to the last solo she heard me sing.

I felt nothing. Maybe she was just nervous that day...

Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine comes to my defence.

Hang on. That’s not very nice for the soloist, is it?

Marlène tries to back-pedal.

Oh, I wasn’t talking about her recorded solo. I really felt something then...

(For the record, I’m not overly-pleased with my studio vocal. It’s pitchy as heck).

I was already peeved by Marlène’s intervention. I’m aware of the choir’s shortfalls. As someone who enjoys clean and consistent harmonies I know we have a long way to go. I’ve noticed that many of the more innately musical members have left; either relocated to other parts of the country or simply can no longer be bothered to come.  There are too few male voices. Either their attendance fluctuates or their vocals do or both.

On the other hand, I’m also aware of the time and energy invested by certain members; new and old. I feel offended on theirs not to mention my own behalf. I also know that Marlène has a romanticised view of the past. By all accounts from more truthful veterans, schisms and fall outs have been part and parcel of the HRGS experience.

I wish I had said what was on my mind before Marlène dragged me into it. Now it will look as if I’m piping up because of ego. I can’t rule out that possibility but it’s not my main motivation.

With all due respect, I venture, you no longer come to rehearsals. You haven’t for a long time. You are not in the position to criticise us. Your feedback isn’t constructive and you’re doing nothing to improve the situation…

At this moment alto, Mia decides to add her two pence. She’s like a playground stirrer, egging on the mouthy kid in a fight. Both her and Marlène invoke the need to be honest. It's funny how for some, that means a licence to be insensitive. Mia too speaks of the choir’s mythical glory days; the need to recognise the spiritual significance of singing Gospel music etc etc...

How rich.

Her remarks infuriate me more than Marlène’s.

We should take the Good News message seriously, no doubt. But neither we should use the spiritual as an excuse to ignore the practical. Mia attends practices on a regular basis but contributes next to nothing. She’s been part of the group longer than most but still hasn’t mastered the required skills. She relies on the graft of more innately musical choristers. She thus has no right to indirectly undermine those who put in the work.

This is how it is all evening. An unedifying mess. Nicole and Le Bureau do their best to fight our corner; contextualise any perceived ‘decline’, point out that each new wave of members will bring a different sound and energy.

Soprano, Melissa speaks of how hurtful it is, as a comparatively newer chorister, to receive such negative commentary from veterans.

Kiasi spends most of the evening lamenting how much the group has been a disappointment lately. He says we always need a ‘carrot’ to motivate us. It’s not a wholly unjustified observation but lacks nuance.

His diva antics can be alternately entertaining and needlessly catty. No guesses which category he falls into that night.

Maybe it’s his bruised pride. I've sensed a disenchantment in him for some time. Things intimated in private. I believe it's deepened since Evan stepped down as co-director. I am trying to be even-handed but I'm too emotional; angry, tired, deflated...

So, does this mean you're leaving us?

Of course not, he reassures. He may no longer be director but he's still part of the family.

Hmm. On verra.

In the meantime, we'll have to muddle through. Evan will step in from time to time to direct our concerts. Nicole will do what she can. The rest of us will have to show more initiative, more often.

A couple of demoralising hours later, with no singing to compensate, the meeting starts to draw to a close. I have a bus to catch. I stand up abruptly whilst Kiasi is holding court. I say my goodbyes, ignoring his forced-cheery farewell.

The following morning, I’m bombarded with texts and emails of support from other choristers; some of whom weren’t at the meeting.

In the scheme of climate disaster, war and epidemic it’s really a non-event. Still, I’m seething. The messages of solidarity nevertheless take the edge off my annoyance.

Some offer a listening ear. I demur. Not now. It’ll only come out as a rant. At some point I’ll endeavour to have a conversation with those who put my nose out of joint, if time and opportunity allow. I need to calm down first.

That afternoon, whilst in the library I feel the prolonged vibration of my phone. Incoming from Kiasi. I press the ‘end call’ icon.

Soundtrack: Night Dreamer by Seu Jorge & Rogê,  Topaz Jones - various, Sweet by Pho Queue, Walkie Talkie by Brijean.

Low Season, High Season

Demonstrations in France against Macron's proposed retirement reforms
(connexionfrance.com)

The weeks leading up to Christmas are a bewildering blur of joy and pain.

Anxiety about the UK General Election is punctuated with moments of hope, only to be dashed by a heartbreaking outcome. Still, hope lives on. I am comforted by the sympathetic reaction from friend and fellow HRGS soprano, Michelle at a rehearsal the day after the result. I have willed myself out of the flat. It’ll be far too glum staying indoors.

Michelle has kept abreast of the news from Blighty. Believing the Brits to be conservative by nature, she’s not so much shocked by a Tory win but by how much. She tells me not to worry about Boris in the long term. The clown will go back to the circus, she quips.  (The crown analogy is misleadingly innocuous, I warn.)

Michelle also points to the success of the recent strikes across France in protest of Macron’s unpopular proposed retirement reforms. The trade unions have been revived thanks to this wave of industrial action, she explains. All is not lost.

A few days later, I briefly join trade unionist chum, Catarina and comrades on the picket line in central Strasbourg. The initial plan is to meet up for a hot beverage after I attend a careers fair near her office. When she informs me she’s on strike and intends to join the demonstrations in the city centre, I wonder why it hasn’t yet occurred to me to lend my support. Vive la solidarité ! At least the French put up a fight, I tell my francophone acquaintances. I am frustrated by what seems to be the docile acceptance by too many Brits of detrimental policies.

It’s my first time demonstrating in France. Red smoke bombs are let off. The sound of hand-held sirens give the march an eerie urgency. Many establishments are closed in solidarity, including my usual post-work haunt, the Malraux Médiathèque.

Elsewhere, the Strasbourg Christmas frenzy continues as normal. The decorations seem even more enchanting this year. The world-famous Christmas market still disrupts life in the centre of town.

The suffusion of light isn’t the only thing to gladden my heart amidst the grim weather and political climate. I meet up with my Guardian Angel, Gordon; a former THRO colleague. He treats me to a smoothie and uplifting conversation one lunch time. There’s been a lot of changes at The Organisation in the relatively short time since I left, according to other former colleagues. I can’t help but feel a little vindicated on the news that one of the problematic managers has been ‘reassigned’. I hope that isn’t vindictive, I ask Gordon. No, he reassures, it's understandable. A thoughtful and sweet-natured individual, he’s exactly what THRO needs but somehow still manages to be too good for them.

I have more special festive dinners than I know what to do with. It takes some strategic manoeuvring and disciplined day time eating to make room for it all. I skip out on at least one.

Thanks to my church house group, I have my first ever traditional raclette experience. About blinkin' time.

It’s the Alsatian equivalent of fondue. Regional cheese is melted on a grill and consumed with potatoes, sliced meat preservatives, salad and whatever else is at hand. I’m a little uneasy at first. Being one of the few foreigners and unfamiliar with the raclette set-up, the group leaders regularly ask for feedback. It makes me even more self-conscious. I’m still not entirely at ease in certain Francophone social settings. Small talk is no less of a chore. It takes me a while to unwind but relax I do; no small thanks to the warm welcome from Cape Verdean, Magda and her lovely family. She encourages my efforts to speak Portuguese. I spend much of the evening chasing her curmudgeonly toddler for a cuddle.

My choir also organise an end of year social. One Sunday evening we gather for a buffet at a capacious Chinese restaurant a stone’s throw from my church in La Meinau. En route, I greet some of the Girls waiting for clients. I recognise them from previous outings with the street outreach team.

The dinner is a rather raucous affair, particularly where the choir directors are seated. Their rambunctious chat and laughter startles star soprano, Nicole’s baby girl. The usually placid tot bursts into tears. A little FOMA starts to niggle. My mood is tempered by an earlier sartorial mishap that forced me to swap outfits. I’m not entirely comfortable in my replacement wear. The food selection is respectable. Psychologically however, I can no longer bring myself to eat to bursting as I once would have done at such establishments. As I settle in, chorister Elisabeth asks about my future plans. I explain that I’ve postponed my departure for a month or two. She says I’ll be missed. She has observed I’m breezier and more at home in my skin. I’ve come into my own. I explain that I’m not shy by nature; or at least only in limited contexts. It’s just I still feel like an imposter speaking French. I’m not as quick off the mark as I’d be in English.

Le Palais de la Meinau, Strasbourg

I greatly appreciate her words of support, nonetheless. Leaving HRGS behind might well be the hardest aspect of moving on. It’s been an integral part of my Strasbourg experience and, without a shadow of a doubt, the source of most of my happiest memories here.

The following week alone I participate in two choir-related activities; a memorial service for the victims of last year’s Christmas market terrorism and a charity event for a young man, Lazare, who has been in a coma for over a year. It’s a joyous occasion in spite of the circumstances. More precious memories made on and off stage. Musical director Kiasi meets his match when he calls on Sylvestre, Lazare’s football coach, to help him lead an audience participation segment. He is a natural entertainer who knows how to work the crowd. I can’t sing for laughing. It’s forever refreshing to see a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Soundtrack: The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker, Christmas mix (various artists)

The Reluctant Rentrée

I’m on the plane back from my latest adventure in the Land of the Rising Sun. The pilot announces that there’s a stunning view of Mount Fuji from the left side of the aircraft. I scramble across, shifting from window-to-window until I see it. Fuji-San never fails to take my breath away. From this elevated perspective it’s even more wondrous. Later I will laugh at a spoof making fun of the Japanese prefecture where sis lives.

These will be moments of levity during what is a difficult journey back. I intermittently burst into tears; on the coach to Narita Airport after sis accompanies me to Omiya station; on and off at the Airport; again when I land in Frankfurt.

This is not just post-holiday, back to work blues. My anxieties are not baseless. I have less than two months before my contract at The Human Rights Organisation comes to an end. It’s not been an easy year on the work front and there is unpleasant aftertaste about the whole affair.

The next chapter is still unfolding. Job applications are yet to yield fruit. I don’t have a burning desire to return to the UK at the moment, obvious reasons notwithstanding. I’m doing what is humanly possible. The rest is in God’s hands. The uncertainty is naturally discomfiting.

My malaise will last for weeks to come. My jetlag -usually less of a problem coming back from Asia than going-is compounded by mental exhaustion. A fortnight after my return and I’m still dog-tired.

At best, my feelings about returning to the office are mixed. I’ll be glad to see Sophie and a few other colleagues but I dread the phatic conversation about my holiday and the usual pretence. To take advantage of the necessity to use up the rest of my annual leave before my contract ends, I request an extra few days off after my return.

I keep a low profile, avoiding any circumstance where I might run into somebody I know. My heart is still in Japan. I resent Strasbourg and its cold, impolite residents. Even the sight of the Cathedral’s jagged steeple flanked by blue skies doesn’t cheer me up the way it used to. I don’t want to be present. I don’t want my time in Japan to be a faded memory. It’s recent enough to still be a comfort.

I skulk at Andre Malraux Médiathèque and, on a clear sunny day, make my way to the man-made Baggersee beach; a recent discovery courtesy of church friend, Stacee.

Emboldened by my recent beach visit to Kamakura where I waded into the Pacific, I paddle with more conviction. I’ve noted that those who frequent the fake beach, are far less body conscious than me. I baulk at the sight of old men in inappropriate speedos or sunburned bare breasts of all sizes.

The inevitable Back to School day comes around. Holiday treats for colleagues are at the ready. I catch up with the lovely Sophie. Her little ones have recently discovered the joys of 1980s Michael Jackson and it’s transformed the household.

Baggersee Lake

The interrogation about my holiday isn’t as bad as I expect. A part of me misses the chance to go into details.

Meanwhile, the end-of-contract process is in full swing. I have a number of administrative steps to complete and waste no time. I am obligated to start telling more colleagues of my departure. I organise a meeting with Yotis, my landlord. He seems surprised and perhaps a little disappointed. He's nevertheless supportive. He agrees to give me until the end of the year to sort out my next move. He’s been an ideal landlord, bless him.

 I have asked management not to arrange any farewell card or gift. It would be hypocritical. Neither would I like the news to be generally disclosed. I request to be left to inform colleagues as and when I see fit. 

Sometimes it's planned. Sometimes I’m forced to come clean when asked a pointed question. I find the process emotionally-draining. My first full week back after my holiday I am regularly in a melancholy funk.

Outside in the real world, I emerge from early hibernation to meet with pals. Gael is busy organising the opening of his new bar. I miss him. He’s yet to be fully in the know. 

I break the news to some church chums. Stacee doesn’t like me referring to my imminent exit. 

Michelle, my surrogate auntie from HRGS choir, admits she’ll be sad to see me go. She encourages me to apply for admin jobs at the main University. I explain that I’ve been lost too long in that professional limbo and need to escape it.

Speaking of the choir, there’s been a distinct radio silence since I notified HRGS’ directors and administrative team by email.

Still too jet-lagged to attend the chorale’s back-to-school get-together, I beg off and start back the next week in earnest. Sort of. I’m still tired and in a salty mood; no small part down to their apparent indifference to my departure. Whinge, whinge.

I’ll be the nonetheless glad to have overcome my reluctance that evening. Kiasi -or chief as I like to call him-asks the mostly female members in attendance (including the newbies) to do a solo. He then splits us up roughly according to register and instructs us to arrange a tune, with the objective of rotating the harmonies. I am fortunate to have been assigned to a group with mostly solid musicality including star soprano, Nicole. Kiasi adds members at whim but the centre still holds. We waste little time in selecting a tune (Down by the Riverside). Apart from a few false starts with the tenor harmony, it goes swimmingly. Each group showcases their efforts to the other.  Elisabeth’s daughter, Aline intermittently takes a break from the harmonising to attend to her new-born.  Daddy is in toe looking completely knackered. The little one has none of his chocolate complexion for now; firmly overridden by mummy’s caramel.

Once again I find solace in the choir’s bosom. I think better of bringing up that email. I prefer to leave the moment in pristine condition; unperturbed by anxiety over my immediate future.

After the home time prayer, we sing a couple of songs from the repertoire. I’m asked to reprise my solo on I Have a Dream. I’m secretly happy to have a chance to show off in front of the acolytes and simultaneously ashamed of my latent hubris.

That Sunday, I’m invited to lunch with Gloria and her husband, Romain from the church’s interpretation service. It’s supposed to be a team meeting but I am the only other member available. We discuss rotas, Gloria’s enviable natural linguistic flair and the pitfalls of translation. I’m feeling especially insecure about my language skills. Nearly two years in France and it still doesn’t roll off my tongue. Relocating was supposed to increase my confidence but I’m convinced it’s had the opposite effect.

The couple introduce me to a lovely young Ghanaian called Gabriella. She's come to Strasbourg (via Anglophone Canada) for a few months to enrol on a crash course in French. She’s been staying with the couple for a few days whilst she finds suitable accommodation.

Gabriella speaks a number of Ghana’s indigenous languages. Her brain already has an advantageous elasticity having grown up multi-lingual. I assure her that she’ll probably speak French better than I do by the time she leaves at Christmas.

The following afternoon I notify my new Afro-Lusophone acquaintance, Gustavo, of my leaving plans during a meet-up at my haunt, Oh My Goodness! café. He asks what’s in store. I have no clear answer for him. The conversation is dominated by less mundane matters, however. Gustavo is an admirably thoughtful young man. We speak about his life philosophy; how he literally hugs trees and kisses flowers. Of no particular religious confession, he nonetheless enjoys reading the Gospels. He adores Christ’s references to nature in the Sermon on the Mount. Gustavo opines about his thoughts on genius by way of a detailed bio of Isaac Newton. He gently interrogates me about my single status (no ulterior motive on either side. He’s far too young and already spoken for). It turns into an unexpected opportunity for me to go deeper about my faith.

Temple Neuf, Strasbourg (image: Tripadvisor)

There’s more theological pondering for me the next evening, albeit of the less spontaneous kind. The pastoral team at Temple Neuf has organised a fascinating fortnightly workshop on how the Extreme Right has attempted to co-opt Christianity over the past couple of hundred years. It’s led by the amiable, French and German speaking Pastor Rohan. His French is well-articulated, fluid and easy to follow (not unlike my own senior pastor at EPIS). There’s the occasional wholesome interruption by brunette Rohan’s very blond children.

(I’m rather confused around the pastor. Lately he reminds me of a less striking version of my erstwhile, also French and German-speaking crush. I don’t like that train of thought and thus keep him at a safe distance. I offer a hand instead of a cheek for the customary bise, for instance).

The first session is dedicated to the ideas of Houston Stewart Chamberlain; a Germanophile English anti-Semite, said to be hugely influential on Mein Kampf. Chamberlain somehow manages to rationalise away Jesus’ Jewish ethnicity to reinvent Him as a saviour uniquely of the Aryan race.

The discussion is stimulating. It encompasses Chamberlain's endeavours to separate the historical Jesus from the Gospel accounts, the inherent contradictions of cultural religiosity and how supremacist ideology spurred the growth of- and subtly under-girds - our current capitalist economic system.

I feel emboldened to contribute on hearing an American woman make a number of points in heavily-accented faltering French. It’s a safe space. Pastor Rohan is encouraging of our efforts. I want to pick him up on a comment he makes about Christians not necessarily having an affinity with the political Left but time doesn’t allow it. Maybe next session.

Soundtrack: Childqueen Outtakes by Kadhja Bonet, Hey! (single) by Gabriela Eva, Little Ghost by Moonchild.

Summer Nights

Onwards and upwards.

Things are starting to wind down now summer is in full swing. The halls of The Organisation are becoming quieter as colleagues vanish on leave. Not yet the case for me. I’m still busy organising a few last minute activities before the summer lull truly kicks in. A rearrangement of personnel is making my life easier, I can’t lie. But that’s for another, later blog.

In early July my Strasbourg lifeline, The High Rock Gospel Singers, meet for the last time before La Rentrée in September. The effect of the summer hiatus is already felt amongst the already fickle membership. That Friday night, I arrive to find an empty rehearsal space. Not having a Whats App account, I'm usually one of the last to know if practice has been cancelled again. I send an enquiring text to one of the directors. On their way. Transport problems.

In the end, only four of us gather for unhealthy snacks and an impromptu singalong; me, fellow soprano Aurélie and choir directors Kiasi and Evan. At the behest of the latter, we end up singing makeshift tributes to some of our favourite 90s-00s pop/R&B and Gospel acts. Rihanna, Beyoncé/Destiny’s Child, Neyo (them), Justin Timberlake (me), Janet, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Brandy, Christina Aguilera (shared)… Well, it’s mostly three of us playing this variation of Karaoke whilst Aurélie searches songs on her phone with which she’s not familiar. Sometimes, our trio’s harmonies spontaneously blend in a most enchanting manner.

If there is any hint of discord, it’s more theological; by way of discussing a controversial, highly gifted former Gospel singer. Not for the first time I have the impression that Kiasi and Evan’s understanding of the Good News is highly customised. The lines blur between enjoying the benefits of God’s grace and simply cherry-picking palatable aspects of scripture whilst ignoring the tougher portions. Kiasi and I have had friendly disagreement over these matters before. Again, albeit rather more tentatively, I venture to give an alternative viewpoint. I’m hesitant to spoil the ambiance. I can’t quite square if it is cowardice or discernment but it doesn’t seem the right time or place to pick this battle. Tempted to fret whether I’ve made a good decision, I have to remind myself that it’s God’s job to convince, not mine. I scarcely have a hold on my own issues. I pray for my brothers and by Divine grace, try and work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

It won’t be the last time I cross paths with Kiasi before the long summer break.

Etoile Bourse, Bastille Day fireworks: courtesy of jds.fr

That weekend is Bastille Day - the French National Holiday. It falls on a Sunday. I forsake my usual evening of rest to catch the late night fireworks. I contemplate inviting some acquaintances but decide to go it alone. I quite like the idea of floating through the crowds unencumbered. Living in Alsace, it's become a statement of sorts for me to fly solo at these large scale events. It's a response to what I perceive as co-dependency amongst the Strasbourgeois. Even if they don't like their own company, it shouldn't mean I am averse to mine.

Although still in the Étoile Bourse vicinity, the event's layout is different compared to 2018. Large areas are sectioned off. The security is heavier and it's less obvious where the crowd should gather. Thankfully, I arrive early enough to be able to lose time searching for a sweet spot. I end up not far from where my journey on foot began.

Like last year, it's a worthy spectacle. I don't detect the sort of cost-cutting measures that have beset the London fireworks displays I used to frequent. The light dancing off the reflective surfaces of the Malraux Médiathèque are as stunning as the main show itself. I'm plugged into my music player and pick tunes on a whim. The combined effect of the audio and visual stimulation is quite a trippy experience. Amen to natural highs.

(c) Pascale Ronson

The following week I’m pleasantly surprised to see Kiasi on stage as the opening act and BV’s at a free open-air Gospel concert in Place Kleber. It’s a late starter for a school night but I’m grateful to have made the effort. I stumble across HRGS soprano, Michelle. Over the months we’ve fallen into a positive dynamic. She’s akin to my Caucasian godmother, at least in the choir’s contest. She’s compassionate, encouraging and makes me feel safe. We already have plans to reconnect that Friday night, now rehearsals are officially over for summer.

Amidst the crowd we spot choir members and affiliates, past and present, including Aurélie. She joins us later. The main act herself is HRGS alumna.

The DJ set is on fire if a little schizophonic. He doesn’t -or can’t -mix. No song is played for longer than a minute. He hops from Anderson .Paak back to early 20th Century Jazz standards and forward again to The Jackson 5, then to 90s neo-soul and R&B. It sounds more like his personal collection on shuffle. Fortunately for him, he has good taste. I make the most of the snippets to get my groove on. As usual, our little group are some of the few dancing souls amongst the typically rigid Alsatian audience. Michelle is catching some of the magic on her trusty digital camera.

Meanwhile Kiasi and co s'éclatent sur la scene. I notice Jeanne from church’s gifted housemate, Annalise on keys. Jeanne is somewhere in the mix but I won’t find this out until I’m already on the way home.

HRGS members in the crowd have the advantage of being familiar with much of the repertoire as well as the specific arrangements. The main act’s compositions are a bit too bluesy for my taste but it does not impede my enjoyment. I’m a woman of simple pleasures. A confluence of factors make this one of my most memorable nights out in Strasbourg. Good music, good weather, good company, good atmosphere, Good God.

The night bus calls and the gig isn’t ending any time very soon. I bid Michelle farewell and beg off.

Soundtrack: Money (single) by Michael Kiwanuka & Tom Misch, In My Element by Robert Glasper, The Blu James LP.

'Good' Problems

Despite the gloom, sharp drop in temperature and the great indoors having more appeal come 5pm, I find myself busier as autumn makes way for winter in Strasbourg.  

The last weekend of November I spend in the delightful company of Coral, a fellow aspiring writer I met at a workshop earlier in the month. By some accident the event was over-subscribed but the ambiance was cordial. After the event, Coral and I remain in touch by email. Originally from Tunisia, she’s currently based in Frankfurt after completing a master’s in civil engineering. She and I bond over our shared tendency towards idealism, artistic insecurities and linguistic travails.  We exchange excerpts of our work and give feedback.

Her openness and ready vulnerability is refreshing and speaks to my own instincts. She’s also a patient listener (always useful in the presence of yours truly). 

We meet up at one of my new favourite city haunts, Oh My Goodness! Café. Whilst ordering my smoothie, I notice the American barista is struggling with her French. All too familiar with that feeling, I switch to our shared first language.

Multi-lingual Coral has plenty of experience on that front too. Having studied and mastered several languages (enough to make forays into literature) she’s nonetheless humble about the journey. She describes her German as ‘moody’; some days she is fluent, others she struggles to make a grammatically correct sentence.  We pass a few agreeable hours before I head off to my next rendezvous with another polyglot; my Eastern European angel, Clara. I promised her a meal after her sage advice saved me a packet on my Taxe d’Habitation. I initially sense reluctance on her part but she reassures me she’s keen; just very busy. We settle on Lebanese at Le Tarbouche.  I love MENA cuisine and have wanted an excuse to check out the always buzzing eatery. Even self-confessed picky-eater Clara is a fan. I am not disappointed. The food is delicious, the portions generous and the price is nice.

(c) Banksy

Once the pleasantries and usual catch-up information has been exchanged, much of the evening is spent talking about my seemingly relentless infatuation for Bernard. I don’t intend to confess but I feel an almost perverse relief from doing so. She’s the only person I’ve told who has actually met him. She’s sympathetic, even if she can’t at first wholly understand my perspective on why we're not compatible in the long term.

I lament how much head-space such trivial matters take up in the scheme of the world's problems. Clara tells me to go easy on myself.

She advises I find a replacement. For my part, this rebound strategy isn't worth considering. Unlike Brexit, no deal is better than a bad deal. Clara is so used to being in a relationship, perhaps this is lost on her.  For one thing Bernard can’t be replaced. For another, it wouldn’t be fair on the third party. Moreover, by adding another romantic entanglement to the mix I’d only be kicking the problem down the road. Best to face the pain alone now, for delayed gratification later.

One thing is agreed; not seeing Bernard is bad, being around him is even worse (hard to avoid as colleagues) Friendship isn’t a realistic option, Clara observes. She’s right.

Talking to her about it simultaneously lightens and adds to the load. Nothing like unfulfilled longing to kick start the blues. As always, my sis bears the brunt of my drama. She spends the best part of four hours trying to talk sense into me on Skype the following week.

Given that we work for the same organisation, my resolve to avoid Bernard is routinely challenged. I take to demurring invitations for the elevenses with colleagues in the café when I know he’ll be about. Relief turns to panic when, after weeks of our paths not crossing, I see him twice in one day. Neither encounter is as smooth as I’d have liked. The second occasion, when I spot Bernard from afar, my attempt at a slick escape turns to farce thanks to a temperamental security system. I have no choice but to interact with him briefly, accompanied by a new younger, female lunching buddy.

But at least there’s no conversation. For the sake of peace of mind and until emotion catches up with reason, small talk is more than I can handle.

Besides, despite his apparently warm sentiments when he sees me, I get the distinct impression that Bernard wants to keep me at arm’s length too, consciously or otherwise. If it’s distance he wants, it is distance he’ll get.

Thank God for music. A most effective antidote to a broken-heart. 

Not surprisingly, the run up to Christmas is a hectic season for my group HRGS. (Ironically, the choir doesn’t have much of a Christmas repertoire to my great disappointment. Neither do they seem very enthused by the idea. Perhaps the French carol tradition pales in comparison to the Anglophone). It’s apparently also a fertile period for the choir. A number of the female members have given birth within weeks, if not days of each other.

From late November to mid-December, we perform shows on successive weekends in and around Strasbourg. It’s like a tour of the Alsace region. 

I lose half a weekend, panicking over learning a solo in South African Sotho that late one Friday night after practice the choir director, Kiasi informs me I should learn. He’s crafty. I wouldn’t put it past him to make me perform it that weekend. 

He feigns innocence when we next meet.

It was just for future reference.

Great. I’ve aged five years overnight for nothing.

From my limited experience of performing with the choir thus far, I have made the following observations. Our audiences are largely older and Caucasian. Clapping in the customary off-beat rhythm of American Gospel music poses a particular challenge. 

  Most of the new recruits have carefully avoided these musical outings. Long-time members I’ve never laid eyes on materialise at random intervals.  They are clearly so familiar with the repertoire, they don’t feel the need to be at every rehearsal. It’s nonetheless a great opportunity for me to become acquainted with some of them. And the French practice is most welcome. During one long car ride, I swap Strasbourg anecdotes with fellow-30 something from Brittany, Yvette. The choir is a godsend, I tell her.

I have to hand it to Kiasi (or Chief, as I call him). He maintains his gusto throughout each performance, regardless of the enthusiasm (or lack thereof) of the crowd. He’s particularly keen on audience participation. He often invites guests to join us on stage for the finale. It can get crowded and pleasantly messy.

 Chief has a favourite party peace in which he teaches spectators a simple song. He then divides the room into two sections for some friendly competition. If the mood takes him, he’ll even pounce on unsuspecting audience members to lead each section. On one occasion, he selects two couples from a large but notably subdued crowd. When one of the males opens his mouth, it’s only the context that gives it any semblance of a song. You’d think Kiasi was holding him at gunpoint from the rigid claps and morose expression. 

After that particular performance, I am looking forward to going home to redeem what’s left of my Sunday evening. I’m knackered, feeling the absence of my day of rest.  

So much for that. Before I know it, we’re ushered Last Supper-style by our zealous hosts into the Upper Room of the impressive church for some sweetmeats and beverages.

Meanwhile, I could sleep standing up. I really don’t have the brain space to make conversation in a second language. I struggle with small talk in French at the best of times.  Alas, there is no escape. We’re in an Alsatian village in the middle-of-nowhere. I don’t drive and my lift, the choir’s treasurer, is also obligated to stay for snacks. I sit in a corner in an apologetic sulk. I’m not hungry and don’t have the inclination to indulge in unnecessary calories.

I sneak off to find a quiet space and come across fellow soprano Michelle. We have an affinity. She lived in the UK whilst studying English. She’s thus a willing and supportive unofficial language coach. By the time we bump into each other fatigue has made me emotional. She understands. She was also tearful earlier. The combination of tiredness and being on the wrong end of Kiasi’s sometimes catty humour got the better of her.

I find a quiet space to give mum a follow-up to the birthday call that was cut short pre-performance. Hearing a familiar voice lifts my spirits.  

Hidden away in an empty church office, Mum is worried I’ll miss my ride. Not a chance. I hot step it when I hear voices. At last we head towards the car park. En route Kiasi stops to take a photo of the illuminated church clock. Co-director Evan doesn’t approve.

That’s White People s***, he mocks in English. I reprimand him playfully in French for stereotyping. 

In the car, I reflect on the evening with my fellow passengers. The consensus is that it’s the better of the two performances that weekend. I beg to differ. Saturday night’s gig at the choir’s home parish is characterised by bonhomie, a more gamely audience and impromptu cameos by cute tots. Tonight, the atmosphere has been tense, the crowd stiff, the choir thinner on the ground. The sopranos sang sharp and energy levels were lower. 

Back in Strasbourg, going home is another palaver. Trams are running a reduced service owing to  security issues. Given that Sunday transport to my neck of woods is about as regular as a solar eclipse without the added hassle, the journey back takes me 2 hours door to door.

But let me accentuate the positive for a change. I am singing on the regular, overcoming my aversion to performing as a result and sharing the Gospel through song. 

Choir-related busyness and travel upsets are good problems to have.