Navigating another winter of discontent

 

5 min. read

My cultural and political engagements continue to be some of the few positive aspects of my mixed (at best) experience so far in Belgium. As usual, there is no shortage of free or cheap cultural events.

I have a heated exchange at Full Circle with a cocky UK-based African-American academic. His address is noticeably androcentric and he carries a strong aroma of misogynoir. He minimises the distinct difficulties Afrodescendant women face at the intersection of race and gender discrimination. He doesn't have much truck with intersectional theories at all. It's thus not a surprise that he apparently has a vendetta for black feminists like Kimberlé Crenshaw, Audre Lorde and in particular, bell hooks. Time doesn’t allow me to go into my frustration with his all-or-nothing, cherry-picking method of argumentation, as well as the lack of intellectual rigour elsewhere in the room. Notwithstanding a few notable exceptions, the mostly white guests are too scared and/or ill-informed to challenge him or add anything constructive to the conversation. Similar for most of the Afrodescendant guests, a number of whom are Americans themselves. Some patriotic loyalty is at play, apparently. One attendee, with whom I’d previously had a cordial exchange, is particularly defensive that evening. Or maybe I've just caught her at a jaded low-point. She accuses me of interrupting (she's not wrong) whilst shamelessly hacking others off herself. She pounces on any comment she doesn’t like, whether or not directed at her. She serves as the academic’s personal bulldog if I so much as ask for a point of clarification. Worst of all, as someone who professes to be interested in the advancement of black women, she takes no issue with the very problematic statements made by the guest speaker. For someone as educated as she claims to be, it’s a disappointing display.

I have a more positive encounter at the celebrated Jazz venue, Archiduc, where I come across a couple I met over five years prior at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I recall a conversation with the fellow, of mixed Afro-Brazilian descent, about his being an advocate for Black Love. At the time, he proudly informs me of his relationship with a darker-skinned Afrodescendant woman. I am glad to observe he's kept his word.

I have long wondered what became of the two. Did they remain in Belgium and if so, why I had not bumped into them sooner, like other guests I met at the same symposium?

That is partially answered by the adorable tot accompanying them at Archiduc that afternoon. They’ve spent almost two years in hibernation, outside of work obligations, looking after the new addition to the family. We exchange numbers and a few text messages. I'm not expecting us to become BFFs. I'm just pleased to have scratched that curiosity itch.

On the political front, I am in charge of booking the entertainment for a special bring-and-share organised by Intal, to raise awareness about the deteriorating situation in Eastern DRC. A live performance and a DJ set are also envisaged, to add some well-needed levity to the event. I ask my mate, B-Sharp from the Afro Jam to help out with the former. He's on another level that evening, the enrapt audience hanging on his every melodious word. He ropes me into an impromptu performance, as I suspected he would.

 I am also invited to be on the organising committee of the association's annual political education conference, Campus Intal. Whilst the organisation itself is slightly on the chaotic side, it’s still incredibly rewarding to be involved in any activism of this sort. Many, if not all, of my Intal comrades are also members of the Belgian workers’ party, PTB. We cross paths once more at the party’s New Year’s gathering, at which delegates outline their political programme for 2024. It’ll be a significant period, with many forthcoming key elections, none for which I am eligible to vote. My support will have to be moral instead.

Campus Intal itself is equal-parts invigorating and exhausting. The team of volunteers is coordinated by Kelly, a boisterously loud New Zealander of Taiwanese origin. I’ve hitherto given her a wide berth, deterred by her presumed attention-seeking and a suspicion that any activism had more to do with her IG profile than The Cause. My attitude does thaw substantially whilst we work together to ensure the weekend runs as smoothly as possible.

I make several great connections that weekend in between the informative and interactive workshops. There’s Italian-Eritrean, Merlat working in the NGO sector. I meet Brian, an easy-on-the-eye Brit of mixed-Madagascan origin. He arrived in Brussels almost a year before I began my (mis)adventure here but is new to political engagement. I have longer conversations with vaguely familiar faces such as half-Egyptian, Yussef and Habiba; a bright, not to mention stunning, Lybian-Italian with Camel-like eyelashes born and raised in Vancouver. 

At the end of conference day one, I partake in my first guerilla, flash mob-style protest at the notorious supermarket chain, Carrefour. Heavily invested in Israeli settlements, the franchise is high on the list of companies to Boycott according to the BDS campaign. A sizable group of us descend on one of the largest branches in Brussels. I assume we’ll merely picket the entrance so I am surprised when we enter the megastore's premises themselves. At a strategic moment, Palestinian flags are unwrapped, and one of Intal’s leaders calls for a boycott of Carrefour and an immediate ceasefire in Gaza on a megaphone. The group proceeds through the shop chanting these demands, as bemused customers record the protest on their phones.

Those amongst us (like myself) with a more precarious, third-country national status serve as decoys. Habiba and I feign a genuine interest in the dairy or pasta products whilst we play lookout. We’re led by Lucien, born to Syrian-Christian parents near Damascus.

I detect one of the security guards making a furtive phone call. He doesn't attempt to handle the situation himself. I ring Lucien to warn him the police are on their way. They show up with a head-spinning quickness.

By that time we’re already at the tram stop, heading back to HQ. It is exhilarating. Despite being almost half my age (I assume), Habiba is a veteran of this kind of direct action. It’s more of a novelty for me.  The following morning, both of us will attend a popular workshop on activists’ rights in Belgium. The human rights lawyer leading the session is the same who advises on Intal's direct actions.

Following the supermarket protest, we let our hair down at the conference afterparty. Most of the crowd are baby Millennials or Gen-Zed, far more familiar than I with the Electro-Eastern fusion, Amapiano and commercial Hip-Hop playlist of Intal's very own DJ Mustafa. Despite the absence of any old school R&B, I still get my dance on. It's just as much fun watching the comrades throwing shapes to varying degrees of success. Kerry, intense even when sober, is literally bouncing off the walls after a beer or two. When she volunteers -unsuccessfully - to pole dance around the pillars, I double up in hysterics.

Slipping away to get some rest before the next day of activities, I am stopped en route by none other than B-Sharp’s amiable wife, Luna.

At such moments, I could believe that perhaps I am exactly where I need to be.

Soundtrack: Chet Baker Sings + The Legendary Riverside Albums

Parting is Such Bitter-Sweet Sorrow...

October begins with the ever-growing awareness that I will soon be leaving The Human Rights Organisation. Never again to darken its doors if I have anything to do with it.

Hmm. 'Never' might be a bit too definitive. It lends to the type of melodrama of which my sister sometimes  accuses me.

Suffice to say, I won’t be in a hurry to visit once I’m gone. That’s not to say there aren’t people I’ll miss. My weekday diary fills up quickly with farewell meet-ups and lunch dates.

I organise one last lunchtime catch-up with Gordon; my guardian angel. He is enthusiastic about staying in contact. As a busy man with a young family, I wouldn’t have expected it. I'm moved by the sentiment. We have a laugh remembering childhood TV. Given that he's six years my senior, there's not that much of an overlap. We do have The Wonder Years and The Littlest Hobo in common though.

As well as established acquaintances, I make time for those who are more recent. German colleague, Josef introduces me to new trainee, Winnie. They attend the same church.

Being two of the few brown faces at THRO, Winnie and I have seen each other around but never spoken. When the three of us meet mid-morning in the Magenta Café, we make up for lost time. Winnie and I do most of the talking, whilst taciturn but amiable Josef looks on. Born in Zambia, her family relocated to the UK whilst she was small. A qualified nurse with a MSc in tropical diseases, Winnie is older than the word trainee connotes. A woman of her expertise shouldn't be doing an unpaid placement. She seems nevertheless content. Despite our different academic paths we have a few experiences and our faith in common. This meeting of minds goes down so well, that we have elevenses again on my last day. Josef is unable to make it so it’s just the two of us; holding it down for African sisterhood.

Planned socials aside, I also bump into a number of colleagues whom I have not yet had the chance to inform of my departure.

During a catch-up with British colleague Ann, I joke that it’s like the finale of a long-running sitcom, in which past guests and fan favourites make cameo appearances. This pleasant happen-stance continues right up until my last day. At least there’ll be no lingering sense of unfinished business.

Those who know the organisation well are suspicious when I casually mention the reason for my leaving.

My contract ends this month.

Which is true. It’s just not the whole messy truth. On further probing, despite myself, I outline the drama of the first half of the year. A few of my colleagues are indignant on my behalf. I’m touched. It’s a better reaction than my trade union reps, who have been mostly AWOL in the past few months.

Mid-October. The inevitable date of disposal has arrived. That week, I’ll cry on and off, trying to save the waterworks for home time on the final day.

The evening of my penultimate day, I attend another stimulating workshop at Temple Neuf on the Far Right’s manipulation of Holy Scripture. The theme that week is on how apocalyptic texts are warped to justify a racially-elite survivalist discourse.

I miss the bus home by seconds. The next on the schedule never arrives. At this time of night they come once every half hour. I wait in the pouring rain for another bus and go to bed later than planned.

No time to be groggy the following morning. My last day is both surreal and mundane, as could be anticipated. Sadly, my main line manager Sophie, is off sick. I blame this latest illness on her recent hectic work-related travel schedule. The only positive angle is that her absence spares us both the embarrassment of me turning into a blubbering mess.  She leaves me a voicemail which I listen to in the evening. Her telephone voice reminds of an old friend with whom I'm no longer in touch, which sets off the tears all the more.

Many in my department are by now aware that I’m leaving, but not all. I'm purposefully vague about the departure date and don't remind those whom I've already informed.


In the meantime, I’ve been preparing a handover ‘survival kit’, including key contact details and a list of outstanding tasks. I’ve also carefully drafted a farewell email to the whole team and a select few other colleagues. I intend to send it just before I step through the door, to avoid any further questions.

Sis emails me to ask how I’m feeling. I shoot her back a response.

"...Yep a very emotional day, ☹. Thanks for the solidarity..."


I have a last-minute meeting scheduled over at Le Chateau. I pass by the security office. One of the team, Yvonne, has just sent me a lovely farewell email. We too have plans to meet up beyond the context of The Organisation. I go to thank her for her kindness. We both start welling up. She pulls herself together, as do I -less successfully- rushing to my next engagement.

Assuming it’s just another human resource formality, the meeting proves to be a lot more useful than I expect. My helpful HR colleague assists me in filling out various forms and arranging important municipal appointments.

Since her office is around the corner from that of my former heartache, I pass by. Our relationship these days amounts to no more than cursory greetings around the premises; something that happens a lot less than it once did. For whatever reason, our paths have hardly crossed this year. I both dread and hope for an interaction. I do not feel for him with the intensity I once did but a small and stubborn flame intermittently flickers.

As I round the corner I catch sight of his reflection on the door of his office, hunched over his desk comme d’hab. He is alone. I used to joke that he must have murdered his colleague. She’s never around.

He seems pleasantly surprised to see me. I look him straight in his sky blues and he appears to make the most of admiring me in his understated way. (I take care to look decent. It's only later on I discover my eyes are bloodshot).

His cordiality will continue even as I tell him that I’m leaving. On hearing this news-of which he'd have been totally unaware- I assumed he'd default to his usual austerity. It could be that he’s responding to my apparent insouciance. I didn’t want to break down in front of him. Mercifully, that doesn’t occur. I’m even taken aback by how light and breezy our interaction is. I ask after his three adult children, one of whom is studying chemical engineering. I forget to ask if it is one of his daughters. I hope so. 

I ask after his mother, to whom he’s especially close. He speaks of her health deteriorating after what was otherwise a pleasant summer trip to the French Caribbean, just the two of them (ironically, without his Caribbean father). I murmur my commiserations. It’s to be expected, he says with his typical forced-pragmatism. She’s in her 80s.

He keeps scoffing when I use the French word for farewell (Adieu) instead of a regular goodbye (Au revoir). Perhaps like sis, he thinks it's melodramatic. Yet no plans are made to meet up or stay in touch.

Despite my lingering, it's a brief but organic conversation. So much so that afterwards, I can only think of all the things I wish I said but didn’t. We never properly discuss the circumstances around which I’m leaving. I don’t tell him in detail why I don’t envisage staying in Strasbourg long-term. I don’t take him to task for how disingenuous he is with himself and with me, unintentional as no doubt it is. I do have the presence of mind to say something I’ve imagined telling him a thousand times.

You’re finally rid of me, to your relief. I quip, only half-joking. You won’t have to keep avoiding me anymore.

He makes the usual excuses.

...The only time he has for himself is when I see him kicking it with the homies in the Magenta building's in-house cafe. 

But I was working in the same building, I reply, as light-hearted as I can muster. We could have met up anytime if you wanted…

When I leave his office we don't exchange les bises, embrace nor shake hands. We never did. An underwhelming but befitting end. We didn't truly connect beyond the superficial, they way I'd have wanted.

After the exchange, I will be morose. This final conversation is not the resolution for which I hoped. I still care too much what he thinks. I want to share aspects of my life he has not earned the right to know. His easygoing response to my news gives weight to my theory that deep down he's glad to see me go. I have sensed that any fleeting sense of loss would soon give way to relief. I just didn’t expect it to manifest before my very eyes.

The biggest problem remains with me. I shouldn’t give a damn. If the last few weeks have shown me anything is that there are people in Strasbourg who genuinely care and enjoy my company. I shouldn’t have any emotional room for someone who can’t make the time to see me for a few minutes, even when he’s in the vicinity on a regular basis. Time and time again, he’s demonstrated he’s not nearly as wonderful as I first gave him credit. As my sister has oft reminded me, the only thing I’ve really lost is an illusion (ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh...ah-ha!). And yet...

And yet...

It gets to me in spite of myself. A part of me can't reconcile having once emotionally invested in someone who cares so little in return. And not for the first time.

I give him one more chance to let me down before I leave, masochist that I am. I send a humorous email about him bumping off his female colleagues and then ask if I can pose a personal question. After some delay, he replies; denying accusations of murder and breezily inviting me to ask away.

The question concerns the colour of his luscious hair. It’s been bothering me forever wondering whether he dyes it. It’s always an even shade of chestnut. I use the opportunity to also admit that I wish we could have been better friends. Our human frailty got in the way, I posit. I wish him well and add I’ll be praying for him. He doesn’t respond.

I long deleted his number and have no intention of initiating contact in future. I've been bracing myself. It saddens me nonetheless. He personifies every disappointment of these past two years; not just at THRO but in Strasbourg. I keep thinking of what I could have done differently to have had a better outcome, instead of just accepting that this is how it’s happened and maybe is supposed to happen.

After leaving my heartache behind literally and metaphorically, I go to the prayer/meditation room for one last time of contemplation. It's unfortunate I am a bit distracted from my previous interaction.

On the way back from Le Chateau, I pass by my office briefly. My new senior manager, Celeste calls out to me. She's on half-day's leave. She bids farewell before she goes. She’s a self-effacing woman. The volume of her voice barely rises above a whisper. Her goodbye gesture therefore takes me aback. I manage to hold it down and rush off before the sobs get the better of me. Later, I’ll apologising by email for my distracted air. I’m just very emotional, I explain.

I head downstairs to the basement classrooms to do some reading. On my way to the kitchen to warm my brunch, I hear a classical choir rehearsing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. I laugh and cry over this touch of the sublime. The tears fall freely before I can stop them. Not for the first time in my life, I moan at God off for having a strange sense of humour.

That afternoon, I’m due at a conference over at the EU Parliament about the lob-sided relationship between the EU and the African continent. My new and rather persistent library acquaintance Mamadou texts to ask where I am. I beg off. I had every intention of attending, even if briefly. Alas, last minute work demands make it impossible. Mamadou doesn’t respond. I suspect he’s ticked off at one too many failed attempts to see me on an extra-curricular basis.

Finishing off my tasks will cost me another seminar I plan to attend that evening on the Istanbul Convention.

I clear out what’s left of my desk and tidy up. I remove anything with my name on it. It’s as if I want to leave no physical trace. I send the farewell email I’ve been working on for the past fortnight.

By the time I’ve wrapped everything up, only my new-ish colleague, Oslo is still about. We swap numbers.

I rush to Le Chateau to hand in my ID badge. I can technically keep it to the end of the month when my contract ends, but I want rid of it.

It’s a clear Autumn evening at the tail end of dusk. Twilight. An end and a beginning. Both/And. An apt and poignantly poetic end to my misadventure at THRO.

Much to my consternation, I’ve missed the security office by minutes.

You can come back another time, suggests the sole security guard on duty.

I give the same response I gave to my HR colleague earlier that afternoon, fighting back tears this time.

No. I won’t want to come back. It’s done.

I’ll have to ask someone to return the badge on my behalf, as much as I hate to be an inconvenience.

My evening plans now scuppered, I head home. En route I see one more colleague I’d not yet had the chance to inform. She responds warmly. You’ll be missed. It’s very sweet of her, given I have a tendency to forget her name. Privately, I refer to her as The Sexy Moroccan. Now I’m leaving, there’ll be one less big-batty girl to keep her company.

Finally, I can go home to have a good cry.

If it only it were that simple.

If only the tears would come all at once.

Soundtrack: Birds by Da Lata.

Sisterly Solidarity

Strasbourg is doing its fair bit to champion female empowerment in March. Beyond just acknowledging the international day of women on the 8th, there have been a number of commemorative events around town throughout the month. A few of those have been done in collaboration with THRO.

One evening, straight after work, I attend a panel discussion with six dynamic female academics. Each speaker gives an historical overview of the struggle for women to obtain the vote in their respective European countries of origin or domicile. Just as I arrive, an enthusiastic bespectacled woman approaches me, gabbling in French.

Are you Cecile Kyenge?

She is referring to the sole brown face on the panel. Kyenge is a Congolese MEP who became the first minister of African descent in her adopted Italy. I am surprisingly irate. Aside from a similarity in complexion, Kyenge and I look nothing alike. She has at least 15 years on me. She wears a cropped black afro. I have long-ish kinky twists with burgundy highlights. Nothing would link us besides our shared ethnicity.

There are other black women in Strasbourg, you know. I retort. I’m surprised I have the presence of mind. In French for that matter.

Oh no. That’s not what I meant. It’s just we’re expecting her…

Micro-aggressive cretin. I silently fume whilst locating a seat in the auditorium.

Inadvertent racism notwithstanding, it’s something of an honour to be associated with Cecile, even if unintentionally. She is an amazingly resilient and intelligent woman. Unlike the rest of the panel, her 10 minutes + is dedicated to her own experience with (dis)enfranchisement and entry into politics. An ophthalmologist by training, Kyenge’s political journey started rather late. She didn’t vote until the age of 30, having arrived in Italy from DRC at 18 years old and having to wait several years to obtain citizenship and the right to join the electorate. Much like her trailblazing British counterpart Diane Abbott, Kyenge has been subjected to eye-watering levels of abuse because of her gender and ethnicity. She has spent several years in and out of court bringing high profile offenders to justice and won a significant victory last year.

I’m duly inspired by the event (and grateful for the language practice). 

On a roll, I head to another feminism-related lunchtime book launch held at The Organisation the following day featuring one of the speakers from the previous night’s conference.

I’ve been impressed by the breadth of topics covered thus far. The conversations have been nuanced and not as polarising as I’d expected. I wear the feminist label with more boldness than I did in my younger years. However, I don’t subscribe unreservedly to what some feminists might call red line ideologies. I am wholly aware my views on certain issues would be considered too conservative for them.

Meanwhile, back in the office relations with Claudia have vastly improved. We’re conversing a lot more. Our confrontation a few weeks back looks increasingly like a blessing in disguise. I admit to having misjudged how to handle the stalemate beforehand. I should have tried earlier to extend the olive branch.

We speak about the politically unstable situation in her native Italy. I tell her of my admiration Cecile. Cosmopolitan Claudia is all too aware of -and embarrassed by-the treatment to which Kyenge was subjected.

Cecile Kyenge (courtesy of Libération)

The following week, one of my managers Lucia, calls me aside for a one-to-one. Another department big wig, Marie-Anne, will also be in attendance. This doesn’t sound good. I have very little to do with Marie-Anne in my day-to-day operations. At first, I try unsuccessfully not to fret. I go through the possibilities in my mind. I have tried to be the consummate professional. Will I be told off for using the photocopier for personal reasons? Sometimes listening to music whilst I work? I email mum and sis. I pray throughout the morning. By the time the mid-afternoon appointment rolls around, by the grace of God, I’ve attained some level of serenity.

Marie-Anne does most of the talking. There’s a somewhat formal preamble before she gets down to business. A customer service rep from the travel agency used by THRO has made unflattering comments about me. It proceeds a conversation the afternoon before when I called to discuss a flight related cock-up that has occurred involving two consultants only recently hired by the department. We speak for a few moments in French but I decide to switch to English to avoid any misunderstanding of content or tone. At some point the rep, Sebastien, becomes aggressive and unprofessional. I tell him in as collected but firm manner as I can muster that this behaviour is not acceptable. I acknowledge he’s under a lot of pressure, what with various travel-related industrial action making his life harder, but I also have a job to do. I confirm the details of the conversation by email, to which Sebastien responds in terse grammatically imperfect English. My supervisor Sophie is in copy. She later comments on his abrasiveness.

After Marie-Anne’s long introduction I have an opportunity to give my side of events. I do so dutifully and calmly, all the while shocked at the irony that Sebastien should complain about me.

Marie-Anne and Lucia ask some tendentious questions about my overall job satisfaction.

It’s just we noticed a few weeks ago you and Claudia closed the office door. You were talking for an awfully long time. Your body language suggested it was heated. We’ve never had someone in our team so fiery...’

Here we go.

That’s patently untrue. I’ve seen and heard enough to the contrary.

My efforts to self-efface as much as possible have not worked. My subtle attempts to avoid perpetuating any stereotypes regarding my gender and ethnicity have apparently been for naught. People are going to draw their conclusions regardless. Perhaps my paranoia about being too visible on the radar is justified.

I try to remain equanimous. I dodge leading questions about my relationship with Claudia.

We’re just very expressive people, I parry, We had some misunderstandings to clear up…

I’m not about to incriminate my colleague nor dredge up what is now ancient history.

The half an hour intervention feels almost twice as long. Marie-Anne concludes with yet another imprecation that we all get along. Sebastian was just stressed. We can’t afford to have bad relations with the Travel Agency since we depend on their services…

The department is comprised of nice people, she insists. I must feel at ease. I shouldn’t hesitate to ask questions.

I’m a little shell-shocked. On the plus side, it’s been great French practice.

Shortly afterwards, I discreetly tell Claudia about what has just transpired. She’s very surprised that Sebastien complained (as is Sophie, I'm later to discover). She’s heard far worse exchanges between THRO employees and the Travel Agency. I ask Claudia what she thought of my interaction with Sebastien. She was present at the time.

I’ve lived in the UK. She tactfully replies, I understand the British sense of "firm but fair". But it’s not always taken that way here.

She proffers a few more personal examples of culturally-related misunderstandings. I make a mental note of how to side-step them.

I become more and more convinced Sebastien took particular umbrage with my assertiveness because of my gender. If I were a man, he either wouldn’t have spoken to me in that manner or wouldn’t have thought it worthy of note that I objected.

Social attitudes will evidently take longer to change than a-month-per-year of awareness-raising can achieve.

A Spot of Bother

Two weeks have already lapsed and I still haven’t found anywhere to live long term. Over the weekend I attend a viewing in a part of town with a mixed reputation. As soon as I step off the tram, I notice a group of youth arguing vehemently on the platform. They are holding beer cans and shoving each other around. It’s only late afternoon but it’s already dark. I’m alarmed. 

The raucousness doesn’t really abate as I roam the street, trying unsuccessfully to find the address without being conspicuous. There are a number of young men hanging around aimlessly. A local shopkeeper directs me to the right building. 

The communal area is shabby to say the least. The current tenant Jérémie shows me around. He’s surprised I’m on my own. Perhaps he expected a couple. It turns out he’s still living in the place until mid-December. He then intends to sub-let for around a year after which, from what I understand, he’ll be away for an extended period. The flat is spacious, attractive and well-kitted out but I am unsettled by the rowdy environment and specificities of the living arrangement. It’s not evident where Jérémie will sleep whilst he’s still around.

I share my misgivings about the locality. He assures me it’s calm and emphasises the good transport links. It’s a stone’s throw away from German town, Kehl. Don’t worry about the young men, he says, they’re always hanging around. Hmm.

I let him know my decision the next day.

I have to leave my current AirBnb the following Monday. I didn’t envisage it would take me this long to find accommodation. Unfortunately, I can’t prolong my stay at Dominic’s since he has other bookings. I’m forced to find an alternative temporary residence at the last minute. My original choice falls through when the host doesn’t respond in time. I find another reasonably priced residence but it’s yet to be rated. I would never normally stay somewhere that has no customer feedback but I’m desperate. The pictures aren’t very impressive but it looks manageable. I book.

When the taxi drops me off at the new lodgings, my heart sinks. The hostess, the very English-monikered Liz, is not available. A downstairs’ neighbour shows be around in her absence. The place is musty and old. The cold landing reeks of damp and the temperamental sensor light means you’re plunged into darkness more often than not. Dust and cobwebs abound. My mattress is sunken. There's poorly cleaned cutlery in the drawers. Lodgers smoke indoors. Technically, it’s not permitted. The toilet and bathroom are not inviting to say the least and five people have to share. Oh, and the door doesn’t lock. Someone has scribbled a reversible note in highlighter and biro: ‘libre’ or ‘occupé’ to avoid any awkward interruptions. 

The only thing to recommend it is its proximity to work.

First world problems, I know. But when you’re in a foreign country with yet to be established networks and finite funds, you start to feel trapped by your limited options. For several hours I can’t access the internet to search for alternative accommodation, even if I wanted to. I shed several tears that day. 

Later that afternoon I receive a call from AirBnb. The downstairs’ neighbour must have informed Liz of my discontent, who in turn notified AirBnb. I haven't vocalised my concerns to the neighbour but he must have guessed from my reaction. I have never been so grateful for meddling. The wonderful Angelique- angel by name, angel by nature-gets in touch. We spend the rest of the day and evening trying to find an alternative. I make life harder for myself by insisting on speaking French. I have to get used to using the language in different contexts. 

It’s too late to find an alternative lodging tonight but there’s hope for tomorrow. Angelique offers to reimburse me for the current booking and also throws in a generous discount voucher. She sends me some better options, two of which are unavailable. I’m at my wits’ end. I sob down the phone. I have work the next day and have to pack my suitcase-again. I haven’t eaten...

‘C’est un cauchemar ! La recherche du logement, c’est galère’

Angelique remains calm; a stabilising force, soothing my distress.

In between this drama I’ve squeezed in another visit. The elderly landlady shows me around. She and her husband own the whole estate. In the process of my accommodation search, I've discovered that's not uncommon.

They’ve clearly tried to squeeze too much into one space. The shower is next to the kitchenette, the toilet is on the landing and the kitchen sink has to double up as a bathroom sink. No thanks. 

Later on, I become angry at the thought of their greed and contempt for their (usually student) tenants.

Claudia’s words about rip-offs ring in my ears. Strasbourg isn’t so different from London after all.

I do some perfunctory shopping on the way back to the dive. The full week’s shop that I had planned is something else that now has to be momentarily abandoned. I almost get lost on the way back. The streets are fairly well-lit but it’s not at all a busy neighbourhood. I feel vulnerable. I well up again. It’s early evening but long after night-fall, being that time of year. Mercifully, I see some familiar street signs and head back to the AirBnb with determined steps. The pretty daytime view of the canal that runs parallel to the road, resembles a sinister void after nightfall. Only the appealing electric-blue glow of a large illuminated structure in the distance disperses the gloom.

I make a tearful call to mum that evening, in between more emotional phone conversations with the patient Angelique. I am more aware than ever that I am a long way from home. I rage against Heaven, wondering why there has to be so much drama every time I am looking for accommodation. It’s embarrassing. I’ve had a few exchanges with friends back in the UK. It’s reassuring how many have been thinking of me. I’ve mentioned my problems finding a flat. Most of them would already be aware of my previous issues. There must come a point where it just gets repetitive. Or odd. Why is she always getting into these scrapes?

Being annoyed with an all-powerful, all knowing Being is pretty futile but it still feels like a satisfying-ish outlet. I don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t know or believe God can provide somewhere good. I just don’t know why it has to be so flaming hard. Rather than strengthening my faith it makes me afraid of what He’ll permit to happen.

Mum tries to assuage my frayed nerves and prays for me.

Thank God, I manage to find one of those quick, automatic bookings at the eleventh hour. I’m chancing it again with a new host. This time at least, the pictures are more promising.

It’s been a distressing day. It’s coming up to 11pm and I still have to pack and cook my evening meal. I’m famished but overwhelmed by all that needs to be done. I want to get a shower out of the way. I’ve resisted using the toilet yet. The less time I spend in that bathroom, the better.

I put the spaghetti on the boil and go to open the tuna. No can-opener. It’s too late to disturb the other residents. It’ll just be plain spaghetti, dried herbs and a dash of sweet Activa. I try to count my blessings. That’s more than many have. Hmm. I confess, I’m not in a very grateful mood. It’s been one of those days.

The next morning, I am ready to pack before I leave for work. It's about a quarter hour on foot door-to-door via the canal.  It would be picturesque, except that winter is already biting into autumn. It’s cold and foggy but it’s a new day and I am set to move into a better (I hope) accommodation. 

After work , I trundle my copious luggage down the steep steps of the dive, at the mercy of those sensor lights that give out within seconds. I feel around the walls in vain for a switch. 

I start with the heaviest suitcase first and make it downstairs all in one piece. The rest is easy.  My cab wastes no time arriving. He deposits me prematurely at the wrong end of the street, overcharging me for my trouble at that. 

I manoeuvre my baggage to the block of flats where my new host Javier resides. It’s in that same part of town  mentioned at the start of the post. The reputation varies according to what end of a road you’re on. I ring the buzzer. ‘Oui, c’est sixième étage’. End of transmission. How rude, I think. No offer to help. In Javier’s defence, he has no idea how loaded down I am. Erykah Badu’s ‘Bag Lady’ comes to mind at times like these.

Thank the Lord, there’s a functioning lift.  As I stumble out of the lift-a good while after I’ve been buzzed up- Javier pokes his head round the door and rushes to my aid.  To my great relief, his flat is pristine with modern cons and a decent kitchen he hardly uses. I have it more or less to myself. 

With a name like that, I expect my host to be a swarthy gent from Central America.  The AirBnb pic has been taken outside in bright sunshine. It’s over-exposed and not that clear an image. In person he’s a young, well-built Norman polyglot (another one, damn them!) whose farmer parents happened to like an Iberian-sounding name. He’s lived on the East Coast of the US, in Spain, Austria and New Zealand and his English is more confident than my French. It does come in handy when I’m searching for equivalent expressions, I admit. 

Javier is a solicitous host and a good conversationalist.  He patiently corrects my errors or offers constructive feedback when asked. He often furrows his brows whilst I’m gabbling. I’m not sure if it’s his attentive face or I regularly confuse him.

He shows me the lay of the land. His flat overlooks the lovely St Louise church, for which the street is named. We make small talk about jobs, home cities, cantankerous elderly neighbours and a shared sweet tooth. Over the course of my sojourn our discussions become more philosophical.

The only thing to cause immediate alarm is an absence of an iron.  Javier's girlfriend took it with her back to Normandy after a periodic stay, he tells me. Hmm. THRO has a reputation to uphold and though I am currently living like a (comparatively comfortable) vagabond, that shouldn’t mean I show up to work looking like one. I’ll have to improvise.

First Impressions Part 3: First Week @ School

I start my first day at THRO in the middle of the week, the day after a public holiday; All Saints’ Day. It’s either the best or the worst timing depending on your perspective. A bit of both. Most of my colleagues throughout The Organisation are still on post-All Saints’ Day leave including my supervisor, Sophie. 

It’s good for easing myself into the job. Not so convenient for sorting out all the other admin tasks to complete my professional transition such as residence permits, claiming relocation expenses, confirming my part time working hours and the like.

THRO has several buildings but two main sites, Le Chateau and the Arcadia. Both are close to other international institutions. My office is in the latter. True to the French tradition, there are often noisy demonstrations taking place outside (to be fair, these are usually by non-French nationals).  There's a faithful core of demonstrators who hold daily vigils for a political prisoner. Some march towards the Arcadia on a regular basis. It's normally during the lunch hour. Protesters surround the premises, kept at bay by the long-suffering security staff. Employees are barricaded inside save for a few circuitous emergency exits. Occasionally, there are fun and frolics. One lunch time, I catch sight of five demonstrators doing a synchronised, shoulder-to-shoulder jig to traditional Near-Eastern music.

Then there's the solitary Englishman who stands outside the European Court of Human Rights chanting barely comprehensible slogans. His placard is more incoherent still. But fair dues. I have to admire their determination. 

Compared to Le Chateau, with its fusty, sombre-looking offices that need updating, the Arcadia is relatively new.  It's all shiny wooden surfaces, splashes of bright colour and plenty of natural illumination. It’s substantially composed of glass, which is wonderful when the sun is out but not ideal if you want privacy. Or heat. Like Le Chateau, it’s something of a maze despite it’s circular design. I also have to get my head around the floor numbering system. What seems to be the ground floor is actually the first-(or is that the second?). The basement is the first (I think) and the sub-basement etc etc. 

The offices’ surrounding scenery is stunning. The first few days after I arrive are mild and unseasonably sunny; all the better to enjoy the view. Strasbourg is resplendent in the Autumn. During one of my first lunch breaks I take a stroll down a nearby canal. The trees on either side are a glorious display of the season’s broad colour palette; from pale amber to copper red. The City during this season has a special place in my heart. I first visited Strasbourg in the Autumn of 2016 for my make-or-break interview. I became enamoured with it back then.

On my first day I am welcomed by Boss Man, a jovial fellow of diminutive stature. Bilingual, he gives me the option of communicating in English. Keen to practise my French, I suggest we start as I mean to go on. I will verify in English if I’m lost. Boss Man has another life as a senior local politician in a nearby Alsatian town. He gives an overview of the Central/Eastern European projects I’ll be supporting. He's pleased to have a native-level English speaker, he says, for some of the translation work. He introduces me to a myriad of personnel (those who are not on leave), neither of us really expecting me to remember them all on my first try. I note that the department is majority female. I am not one for biologically essentialist stereotypes. Not all women or men are compelled to act the same. I can't however deny that certain behavioural patterns are reinforced by socialisation. I'm wary of any circumstance in which one group is predominant-whether based on gender, ethnicity, class (...fill in the blank...).

I note sooner than I’d care to admit that I’m the Only Black in the Village. Well, nearly. On my first day I spot a young man of mixed-heritage working in one of the canteens. Over the coming week I see a cleaner of African descent and the odd brown face around the sites. I usually pride myself on not always picking up on these things unless I am made to feel especially aware of it. Perhaps it’s the novelty of being in a country with a mixed reputation for social integration that I am initially conscious of it. Anyway, that novelty soon wears off.

I don’t meet my supervisor until the following day. Sophie is much younger than I expect and surprisingly chaleureuse. Half-French (mum) and Half-English (dad), she’s perfectly bilingual with an almost undetectable Francophone lilt en parlant anglais. Sophie is quite the yummy-mummy (imagine a teal-eyed Carol Vorderman in her heyday, with the matching Yorkshire roots). She has a two year old daughter whom she clearly adores. She immediately offers to help with my accommodation search. She suggests I use her address for post in the interim. I am grateful but reluctant to take her up on it. Just when I think she’s forgotten, she grabs a post-it and slides the details in my direction.

Sophie is initially very obliging about helping me practise my French and makes encouraging noises. Before long however, she has a quiet word in my ear about doing all my official correspondence in English. It’s to avoid miscommunication, she explains apologetically. I miss the opportunity to speak French as part of my role. I thus insist on using it with as many colleagues who will humour me. This isn’t as straightforward as I would like. Speaking so much English during the day, my brain can be slow to make the switch when I need to spontaneously.

To my delight Sophie gives me some news bulletins to translate from English to French for an affiliate website. She points me in the direction of useful templates. When I make some classic second language errors-sometimes against my better judgment- she politely recommends that I use Google translate. I baulk at the idea. It feels like cheating, with an unreliable source at that.

Autumn in Strasbourg: Parc de L'Orangerie
(Trip Advisor)

I have the privilege of sharing an attractive office with just one other person. My colleague Claudia is a polyglot former academic who, on my last count, speaks upwards of five languages; a variety of Slavic, Romance and Germanic.  She's currently adding Farsi to her linguistic repertoire. Originally from Sicily, she’s an honorary Londoner whose former stomping ground was Clapham for some two and a half decades.  When exasperated, she reverts to angry mutterings in her native tongue.

There’s a lot for me to get my head around. Sophie has entrusted me into Claudia's care for the more technical admin tasks. I persevere gamely with the Francophone keyboard. It’s great having French accents at my fingertips but the completely different ordering is messing with my head and slowing down my typing speed. Claudia suggests I pop over to the Chateau for an Anglophone alternative, or QWERTY as it’s known in the business.

She’s helpful in a no-nonsense way. Within minutes of meeting each other, Claudia advises me on which parts of Strasbourg to avoid whilst flat-hunting. It turns out one I have recently viewed (and seriously considered) is in one of the most notorious parts of town. She and Sophie keep me in the loop about the saner-priced shopping establishments and regional attractions.

Claudia warns that living in Strasbourg is potentially as expensive as London, without the budget shopping as consolation. Still anything is better than London, surely? The low cost travel, the affordable accommodation…

Claudia concurs that commuting is a lot cheaper. But she also points out how distorted a gauge London can be. For well-remunerated THRO staff, Strasbourg living is cost effective compared to the exorbitance of major cities. Not so for the average local. Spending 500-600 Euros on rent (the lower end of the scale) is not such good value when it’s roughly half your wage.

I’m a tad ashamed of my lack of awareness. It’s strange how one can become the oblivious elite once the context has changed.

Claudia adds that certain Strasbourgeois tend to resent employees of The Organisation. They assume we live a pampered existence. This might not be totally unfounded when one compares the quality of life.

I feel uneasier still when she mentions an erstwhile British-born Gambian colleague and a Spanish ex. Both quit Strasbourg for the UK, sharpish. Claudia herself has a love/hate relationship with the City. Her experience has been coloured by what she perceives as extreme parochialism on the part of locals and a lack of integration. She has a similar ambivalence towards The Organisation, for different reasons. When a missive circulates announcing a potentially significant change for the worst in THRO’s fortunes, Claudia gives me some background. This leads to a discussion about the internal politics and inconsistencies within The Organisation. For reasons of confidentiality and self-preservation I cannot go into detail here but let’s just say, it’s less than inspiring. THRO often finds itself caught between a rock and a hard place.

Back to cheerier themes. There are so many perks that come with the job.  There's the very generous leave allowance, even on my part time hours. For someone who has spent most of her professional life so far working in the public sector and is used to the flexible hours culture, it's still impressive. 30+ days A/L standard. That's not including the many French public holidays a year and special leave allowance.

I'm still getting accustomed to the long Continental lunches. Core hours for both private and public organisations tend to be from 9-12 and 2-5 with some variation either side. You'd think it would be staggered or there would be some kind of tag team arrangement to make sure services are covered over that period. Nope. It's tools down at midday for a solid couple of hours. This isn't great if you want to do some formal errands during your lunch break; say, going to the bank. I'd be less surprised in Southern France where the climate and culture are more mediterranean. I thought the good old Saxon, 'Protestant work ethic' would engender a more regimented work day in Alsace. My own exposure to it in the UK has obviously rubbed off on me, where my previous manager would tie herself in knots if I took an extra half hour.

THRO is like a microcosmic town. There’s an in-house bank, post office and medical centre. There’s also an online social hub, Solidarité which provides information on all sorts of work-related and extra-curricular activities; from exercises classes to cultural events, library services and classified ads. 

During my first full week I attend one of the reasonably priced supplementary language classes; basic Portuguese. Well, it’s supposed to be basic. My one other classmate, a native Francophone, appears to have an intermediate level. Our tutor, Carina speaks the European variety whilst I'm more comfortable with the South American. The class is a Latinate hybrid of French and Portuguese. Despite my patchwork knowledge of the latter, getting to grips with Carina’s Lisbon inflections and having to think in three languages, I manage to follow a fair chunk of the class. It’s a baptism by fire.

My staff photocard affords me free access to some of the events on which THRO collaborates with other institutions. Each autumn there is a democracy conference. 2017’s theme is the disturbing trend of extremist elements in mainstream politics. The event attracts international luminaries including the daughter of a famous belated Jazz chanteuse. A performer herself, she provides some entertainment before one of the plenaries. Unfortunately, most of the events take place during working hours. I do manage to make a late, after work cameo to a panel discussion on political narratives. I observe the UN-like set-up; long desks arranged in a semi-circle, equipped with headsets through which one can access contemporaneous translations in several languages at the switch of a button. I feel like a true citoyenne mondiale now.

For the practice, I listen to the French translation of one speaker from a country at the edges of Europe (both geographically and politically) with an infamous reputation for lack of transparency or respect for the rule of law. For argument’s sake let’s call this state ‘Goose’. I could be wrong but the speaker seems to be painting a rose-tinted picture of her country’s current political climate. She makes reference to Marine Le Pen as if to imply such a figure could not thrive in Goose. But why worry about one party with an admittedly pernicious ideology, when you have a whole state gone rogue? I’m not the only one with strong reservations about her comments. The speaker’s Q&A is forcefully interrupted by an irate heckler. The chairwoman tries in vain to calm the situation. The protester gathers her belongings and makes a dramatic exit, all the while impugning the speaker for her apparent delusion. It’s certainly an exciting way to end the evening’s events.

The next morning I regale Claudia with the details. My colleague is used to such heated exchanges at these events. It’s nothing new she says. I express my indignation at what I believe to be the Goose speaker’s propaganda. Claudia patiently reminds me that I’m speaking from a sheltered Western perspective where one (usually) has the luxury of criticising heads of state without grave consequence. For many parts of the world there are delicate interests to balance, including one's own liberty. Claudia has witnessed it first hand in her professional experience. Perhaps the Goose speaker felt obligated to defend her country; for her own security and, as I reflect, perhaps to challenge Western double-standards.

So much for a cheerier theme.