La-di-da, La-di-dum, ‘Tis Autumn

I try as much as humanly possible to be self-aware. Like any trait it has its advantages and drawbacks. I like to believe one benefit is healthy self-critique. For instance, anyone who has visited this blog recently might form the impression I’m a self-centred worry-wart; that there’s little of La Vie Strasbourgeoise that makes me smile. Alas, as much as I try to be outward-looking and cultivate gratitude, I don’t always succeed. I do also think there’s a place for honesty and acknowledgement of sorrow. 

Still, I wouldn’t want to sound like a stuck record either. Early autumn has brought renewed activity.  In September for example, I revive my monthly regional day-trips with a visit to Alsatian town Mulhouse. The weather is clement. The town itself is much like any other I’ve visited in the region; a mix of antiquity and toy-town charm. It’s an agreeable excursion but nothing out of the ordinary.

I’m still attending meet-up style socials but more for the experience than the contact. It’s in this frame of mind that I meet Renée at a gathering in a smoothie bar. The event has been organised by veteran Francophone Internations host, Annabelle although most of those in attendance have no French. Renée is comfortable speaking English but I never like to pass up the opportunity of French practice. She makes very generous comments about my efforts. I still need the confidence boost, I can’t pretend.  The discussion turns to origins. Renée is of Jewish extraction as is her husband. His father’s family fled Soviet Ukraine and settled in Argentina. Renée’s father-in-law met his French wife in Lyon and married within weeks before returning to South-America. Lithuanian Sofia relocated to Frankfurt with no German. She had one foot out of the door when her company offered her the opportunity. Her Teutonic experience hasn’t been very welcoming. It might explain why she’s made the journey into France to socialise. 

Perhaps because I’m not approaching these events with as much expectation, I’m pleasantly surprised by how freely the conversation flows. I am still somewhat guarded about maintaining contact and am content to live in the moment. 

To my surprise, Renée later reaches out to me via my Internations account. It’s not an empty gesture. We meet up a couple of weeks later at one of my new favourite haunts, Oh My Goodness! cafe. The conversation encompasses Renée’s disgust at the French translation for the #MeToo movement (BalanceTonPorc, which she finds vindictive and absent of the sense of solidarity of its English alternative), her family surviving concentration camps, the death penalty, intercultural marriages, Pope Francis (for whom we both have favourable opinions) and more besides.

In early October I meet up with my jet-setting polymath pal Vinoth Ramachandran. Based in Sri Lanka, he’s doing a tour of Europe during a sabbatical. He’s en route from Portugal, staying in Alsace with an old Strasbourgeois friend before heading off to the UK. I pick this intellectual heavyweight's brains about politics and theology as much as our one and a half hour window will allow. Before he leaves, he mentions his friend’s prodigiously intelligent daughter, Mariam is currently a trainee at The Organisation. We make contact by email later that week.

In between official meet-ups, I have some heartening encounters with perfect strangers. A Lebanese expat, Jonas approaches me at the Andre Malraux Médiatheque one Saturday. He's a mix of eagerness and nerves. He claims to recognise me from an Internations event. I have no recollection of him. Despite my initial defensiveness, Jonas persists. I loosen up. My plans for a quiet read are jettisoned as we discuss travel, geopolitics and the persecution of religious minorities. As you do.

Another occasion, on my day off, a quiet read at yet another smoothie bar is once again interrupted by a young Anglophone West African woman asking about my hair. She’s on lunch break with her daughter. She introduces herself (Constance) and fills me in on the activities of the Anglophone West African diaspora in the region. She’s organised a few herself. She is disillusioned by some of her experiences, with the Nigerian community in particular. It doesn't surprise me. It’s one reason why I’m not in a hurry to make my presence known amongst them.

There’s no improvement on the heartache front; neither regarding our moribund unofficial language sessions or the abatement of my feelings. Whether by accident or design, his schedule doesn’t permit us to meet (to be fair, I'm not keeping my diary free for him either). Meanwhile, the thought or sight of him continues to do something to my head that rhymes with muck. Excuse my French. Being in close proximity to an ideal but doomed love interest must be a form of torture. Like the perverse outcome of some Faustian agreement or one of those Greek myths where a lovelorn and hapless hero/heroine is tricked by the gods.

Thank God for healthy distractions. My weekday evenings are busier. I’ve signed up for Brazilian Portuguese classes on Tuesday nights. My Fridays are spent engaging in some musical therapy; aka singing with the soprano section of the High Rock Gospel Singers.  A number of us newbies have joined after La Rentrée and we hit the ground running. There is not much in the way of hand-holding as we get to grips with the substantial repertoire. Choir director Kiasi alternates between French and English at breakneck speed and with a playful irony. He says "entre guillemets" ("quote/unquote" in English) so much, it's virtually his catchphrase.  He and co-director Evan are former members. They haven’t been leading the group for long but have covered a lot of ground in a short time.

Every Friday, Kiasi selects a member of the choir at random to introduce themselves in an ‘inventive’ way. He gives a quick reminder each week so no-one can claim ignorance. It doesn’t always work. I expect to do my introduction one week but it doesn’t happen until the next. I’m therefore less prepared. I gabble something about my reasons for moving to Strasbourg, forgetting to mention why I joined the choir. I finish with a Louis Armstrong medley and do the splits. The group seem to like my singing but are apparently more impressed with my feat of flexibility. 

Some members write songs especially for the occasion. My commuting buddy, Élise for example does a feisty original number. One of her fellow contraltos introduces herself melodiously to the tune of Let My People Go. A glamorous soprano does a song/rap in her own made-up language that sounds like a parody of English. Desperately shy young beauty, Aurélie is a dead ringer for Cillian Murphy. (I mean that as a compliment.  He’s a pretty man!) She braves the crowd by singing with her back to us, trembling all the while. I’m moved by her courage but can’t find a way to tell her without sounding patronising.  Instead, I ask Élise to pass on my sentiments by text.

  

Soundtrack:

Sly and the Family Stone (various). 

Chris by Christine and the Queens.

Peace & Love by Tommy Sims.

After the Homecoming: Part 2

Shortly after my London visit, an invitation to a social event at a Bo-Ho part of town winks at me from my inbox. It’s organised by meet-up hub Internations. The music policy sounds good. It’s just the thing I need to start meeting new folk. Still. I prevaricate. I don’t like to commit far in advance in case circumstances change. Or I lose the mettle to go. I hate to be a flake. Then again if I RSVP, as a woman of my word I’ll have to attend. That settles it.

By the time the event rolls round, I’m even more reluctant. It’s a school-night (albeit a Thursday). My isolated expat pity-party is in full swing. Ironically, I want to withdraw even more; particularly after having over-shared at my regular lunchtime rendezvous with unofficial French tutor/not-quite-finished-infatuation Bernard.

Get a grip woman. First world problems.

After work, I go home to change into something less office-y. I accessorise, and refresh my make-up. I dilly-dally a bit so I don’t arrive too early.

Heading to the bus stop, the sun shines auspiciously after a miserable grey day. Better nevertheless to manage expectations about the evening, if I must have any at all.

The Blue Moon bar is situated in a secluded corner of Krutenau surrounded by residential buildings. I worry about walking back to the bus stop after dark.

Sigh. Let’s get this over and done with, shall we?

Internations have commandeered a section of the establishment. I receive a friendly welcome from the event organisers on entry, one of whom fashions a makeshift name tag for me. Fully paid-up members receive a drinks token. There’s free (tasteless) popcorn at the bar. Nice one. It’s not as if I have any disposable income after my London visit anyway.

The DJ warms up in his corner. I station myself at the bar with my Violet Diablo and survey the room. Most guests have arrived in groups. In the UK, this would not put me off. I’m used to attending social events solo. If I always relied on the availability of friends, I’d scarcely leave the house. It is different in this context. I feel a slow wave of panic taking over. Not so successfully, I stifle the urge to well up. A good thing I’m celibate, I muse. In this emotionally fragile state, I’d be more inclined to casual relations that would likely leave me feeling lonelier in the end.

Just when I resign myself to an awkward evening and an early exit, I’m approached by an Asiatic beauty I have just noticed arriving. She introduces herself as Kokoro from Japan.

Oh, my sister lives in Japan.

Yes! A point of interest.

Kokoro was based all over France for several years before settling in Alsace. She asks if I’m with friends. She too is flying solo this evening. She’s not with the tall bearded gentleman who was standing next to her at the door. We swap day job info, talk about how we both came to study French as well as Japan’s well-known Francophilia. She explains her parents named her Kokoro in hope she’d be big-hearted. After rescuing me from temporary solitude tonight, I’d say it was a good call.

We are briefly joined by event organiser, Laurent. He has to reintroduce himself to me. To my shame, I didn’t register his features well enough the first time. He’s gracious about it.

I’m beginning to feel at ease. I’m getting lots of French practice and encouraging feedback.

The DJ is really warmed up now. He moves from Motown to 80s pop and soul, classic MJ and Prince, New Jack Swing and 90s commercial house. I know it’s going to be all right when he drops the Kaytranada reworking of Janet’s If and Poison by BBD. He hardly makes a false move (except playing I Should Be So Lucky as an excuse to segue into Get Lucky. Unforgivable).

As Kokoro and I converse, I become aware of a grinning middle-aged Caucasian man standing behind us. I sense he’s biding his time. I’m correct. He sees me bopping my head and mouthing lyrics to the good tunes.

Great music, no? Very soulful.

Heck, my encounter with Kokoro has put me in a good mood. I’m feeling cordial despite my suspicions. He has the air of a man with a particular appreciation for ‘the other’. Stumbling across one African and one Oriental chick a couple of decades his junior, he looks like the cat that got the cream. Or scored highly on multi-ethnic bingo.

He introduces himself. Ulrich from Koln. I don’t initially pick-up a German inflection. Studying in France has naturalised his accent. Despite his corporate attire, Ulrich is a film producer. He’s apparently the kind from a sufficiently affluent background to be able to travel the world making obscure art house features at infrequent intervals. He introduces me to his new project partner, Lidija.

Ulrich takes a particular interest in my day job, or rather that I work on projects based in Eastern Europe. He is fond of the former Yugoslavia.

You should go. The landscape is beautiful. The buildings are from a different era and the roads... You’d think you were in Africa.

Oh. You know Africa? Which region?

He mentions once dating a Burkinabe woman when he lived in Marseille. Apart from that, he admits, he’s never been south of the Sahara.

Someone suggests swapping details. I'm not super-keen but it's hard to demure without being rude, Ulrich, Kokoro and I exchange business cards. Or rather, I scribble my details onto paper. I need to get some new cards done out here.

Ulrich and Lidija invite me to sit outside. I think of heading home from there. I ask if Kokoro would like to join us. She declines. It’s cold she says.

Au contraire. To my surprise, it’s turning out to be a fairly balmy evening. After Ulrich and Lidija smoke pungent cigarettes, we head back indoors to my surprise.

Kokoro is holding court with a slight blond man,Thierry whom she informs me also works at The Organisation. We happen to live in the same neck of the woods too. He works in the IT department.

That’s odd. I was thinking of contacting your team just this morning. My computer’s up to its old tricks.

Thierry is a purebred Alsatian, down to the Germanic surname. He has a slightly nervous energy and wears what I interpret as a vaguely incredulous air during most of our conversation. I suppose he wonders why our paths have never crossed before.

It happens. THRO is huge.

Thierry suggests we do a lunchtime meet up at some unspecified point. I don’t detect anything untoward, just being amicable. I am not exactly in the position to be turning my nose up at too many invitations.

I say my farewells and skip out of the Blue Moon later than I planned. I miss my bus in the process but I won’t whinge too much. It’s been a good night.