Busybody

The autumn leaves haven’t all fallen and already Strasbourg is in festive mode.  Tasteful decorations have gone up. The giant tree stands unlit in Place Kleber and the stalls are setting up for the world famous Christmas Market.

The month has got off to a promising start. Thanks to the canny intervention of my colleague Clara, I receive some good news in the form of a 90% reduction in what would have otherwise been a substantial Taxe D’habitation bill (the French equivalent to Council Tax). Thank God for small miracles.

Meanwhile my cultural calendar is full to bursting, as tends to be the case this time of year. The Jazzdor festival takes place each November. The event has a special place in my heart. It was a welcome distraction from flat hunting a mere few weeks into my arrival in Strasbourg. It’s also where I met Jeanne, the first friend I made here. It is thus fitting that almost a year to the day, we attend a Jazzdor performance once again featuring her flatmate Annalise. It’s an unofficial anniversary.

Annalise’ trio is preceded by the abstract sounds of pianist Matthieu Mazué. Clearly inspired by Thelonius Monk (throwing in a cover of Monk’s Dream for good measure), Mazué’s style is characterised by choppy syncopation and elongated melodies twisted out of shape. My initial excitement turns to confusion when he introduces his interpretation of one of my favourite jazz standards Stella by Starlight. Save for the opening bars serving as a leitmotif, I wouldn’t recognise it.  It’s a suspenseful performance; a tension never to be resolved. This talented and incredibly dexterous musician has taken a notably subversive approach to his art.  Thus Annalise’ soulfully-inflected, equally agile performance is a healthy counterbalance. During the break, I reconnect with Jeanne and her mum, who is in town for the week.

That weekend I have signed up via Internations for a ‘free’ walking tour of Petite France, my favourite neck of the Strasbourg woods.  These multi-lingual Happy Tours are carried out by volunteers whose only payment is a freewill donation.  I opt for the French version for the practice.  Despite the sharp drop in temperature and harsh wind, our congenial guide, Rémy, cheerily recounts the history of Little France and its environs; from the Roman conquest to some of the quirky street names. The area has a more insalubrious history than I was aware. La Grand Rue for instance wasn’t always the cosmopolitan social hub it is now. Up until the regeneration effort in the 1960s, it was the City's underbelly. Most shocking of all is the sordid origin of the otherwise romantic-sounding appellation Little France. It dates back to the 15^th century when the Alsace region was under German rule (well, the precursor to the unified Germany). French soldiers, ridden with syphilis after fighting and cavorting in Naples, were banished to the area to be treated at a dedicated hospice. It became an unofficial colony for what was facetiously nicknamed ‘The French Disease’ and thus referred to by the rest of the population as…Petite France. 

It’s an informative and enjoyable jaunt. It's also one more activity to keep future guests entertained.

On the way back from the tour, my tram is held up by solidarity protests taking place throughout France against fuel taxes and the rising cost of living.

It’s set to be a socially-conscious week ahead. The Organisation is hosting the World Forum for Democracy events.  The theme this year is gender equality. It’s surely no coincidence that the event overlaps with International Men’s Day as well as the World Day for the Prevention of Child Abuse; both on 19 November. 

My group, the High Rock Gospel Singers, have been asked to perform as part of the opening ceremony. I mention it a few weeks beforehand to choir director, Kiasi, having been surprised to see us listed in the WFD programme. He is completely unaware. It’s not feasible anyway, he shrugs It’s a Monday morning.

Something clearly changes between then and the chaotic rehearsal we have the following week. Kiasi makes an announcement post-practice, inviting anyone who is available to sign up. It turns out one of the sopranos is also an events’ organiser and volunteered the services of HRGS á notre insu.

Kiasi must have reasoned it was best not to piss off The Organisation by being a no-show.

The performance falls on my day off. True, it’ll be odd performing at work. Apart from that I don’t have a bona fide excuse not to. Besides, I was going to be in the vicinity anyway. Not only do I plan to attend some of the inaugural events but my manager, Sophie will also be making an appearance for the first time since she went on maternity leave. She is performing with her husband, Marcel's percussion band as part of the day’s proceedings. The couple will be accompanied by their bouncing baby boy, Augustin. The team have collected a very respectable sum for the family’s gift, as well as organising a little get together to mark the occasion. Given that it was a difficult pregnancy and both mummy and baby have come through the other side safe and well, there is even more reason to celebrate.

 

That morning, on the way out to Le Chateau to meet the rest of the choir, I check my post box for a long awaited package. I spot instead another copy of the building regulations. The part about noise has been highlighted in the same aggressive orange, this time with a note attached. Apparently, this mystery neighbour objects to me cleaning my flat. On a Saturday. At noon. Fuming, I crumple the note and toss it in the nearest bin.

I arrive at Le Chateau a little flustered. Fastidious neighbours notwithstanding, Kiasi has taken his sweet time to confirm when and where we are meeting. I’ve already left the flat by the time I see his text. Thankfully I arrive long before show time. Being a Monday morning, there are a choice few of us. We have a surfeit of sopranos with just Élise holding the fort for the contraltos. Since we are only performing two numbers, one of which I actually know quite well, I alternate between soprano and alto to help balance the sound. Not that Élise really needs it. It’s a pretty slick affair if I must say so myself. Or so I think. When the video is made available, I note with anguish that I'm singing flat for most of the second number. The audience are more forgiving. Later that week, I am stopped by a guest during a lunch break to congratulate me on the group’s behalf.

HRGS @ the World Forum for Democracy
(c) Catherine Monflis

 I return home after the show to vent to sis on Skype about my implacable neighbour. That's followed by a whinge about the grammatical mistakes I made conversing to my fellow choristers. Perfectly bi-lingual Kiasi teases my London inflection. Evidently, too much of my self-worth is wrapped up on my linguistic progress. I hardly enjoy the learning process these days.

Sis shows me some well-needed tough love. 

I’m not going to indulge your pity-party. 

Amongst her usual nuggets of wisdom she implores me to be kind to myself. For the rest of the day, each time I think upon this simple statement, so difficult to practise, it reduces me to tears.

Back at Le Chateau several colleagues from my department and elsewhere have gathered in the freezing cold to watch Sophie and Marcel's group perform. Whistles are handed out and we are instructed to blow carnival style, in support of the launch of a campaign to tackle sexual abuse in sports.

I reunite with Sophie after the performance. I must confess that I am looking to angle my way out of Le Pot that has been organised back at the office. At least this way she knows I have come out to support her before I sneak off. It becomes apparent however, that I couldn’t execute my plan without it being perceived as anti-social.  It’s better to grin and bear it for Sophie’s sake. She seems genuinely pleased I came. Marcel is an urbane and cordial man. I would say charming but I believe he's more sincere than that. Little Augustin sleeps through the loud performance and most of the post-show festivities, despite being passed around. They make a lovely family.

 

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of WFD activities. As is often the case with these sorts of conferences, there are a number of overlapping sessions vying for my attention.  During the morning slot, one discussion stands out from the rest. I attend a stimulating roundtable about faith and feminism. The Abrahamic Three are well represented. I do wonder about the absence of other faith groups (as is vocalised by another attendee) and Protestant voices. But let me not be too sectarian.

The two Catholic speakers notably diverge. On one hand Hajnalka Juhász from the Hungarian Christian Democracy Party admits to a more conservative perspective; her essentialist views on ‘male’ and ‘female’ character traits for instance and not questioning male-dominated leadership.  Polish theologian Zuzanna Radzik on the other hand takes a thoroughly egalitarian approach. When asked if women can bring particular qualities to religious institutions, she replies that she doesn’t subscribe to the idea of inherently feminine attributes. It’s a matter of individual character and strengths. In that regards, she is a woman after my own heart. She reminds those in the church that the fight for equality has a biblical basis; not least in the Apostle Paul’s revolutionary (for the time) words in Galatians 3:28. This, she rightly asserts, is our starting point.

Buoyed by Radzik's comments, I add that the church in general needs to do more to reach men than offer them merely spiritualised male entitlement. In the end, it gives no respite from the inevitable disadvantages of the patriarchal system such as unrealistic masculine ideals.

 Later that afternoon I’m torn between interactive events about the fight against sexual exploitation and re-examining how masculinity is defined as a means of combatting violence against women. It’s a tough decision but I choose the latter. I have a presentiment that I’ll be riled up by one of the speakers at the sex trafficking discourse, who appears to belong to the school of thought that  propose solutions such as calling sexually-exploited women ‘sex workers’ and giving them ‘better working conditions’ as opposed to challenging and upending the skewed paradigm altogether. Phew. Mini-rant over. For now.

The Masculinities Re-examined discussion is a breath of fresh air, drawing speakers from within and beyond Europe’s borders, such as the UK’s Chris Green of the White Ribbon Campaign and India’s Harish Sadani from NGO Men Against Violence & Abuse (MAVA). (Alas, the French authorities denied Gambia’s Lamin S. Fatty a visa). Sadani is doing superb work in a country whose struggles with gender-based violence have caught the world’s attention in recent years.

I am heartened to meet other Christians at the event wholly committed to gender-equality and reconciliation of the sexes. When the moderator Simone Fillipini asks what a gender utopia would look like, one audacious interlocutor cries ‘Christian!’

Fillipini opens up to the floor for ideas on how to dissuade men from cashing in on the short term 'patriarchal dividend' as it is described by panellist Robert Franken. I suggest that the rate of suicide amongst men, with some recent high profile cases, makes this a public health issue. The immediate benefits of prescribed ideas of masculinity and patriarchy are oppressive in the long term.  I add that women also play a key role in dismantling the social conditioning we not only imbibe but perpetuate.

My contributions are apparently well received. Several men thank me post event. Thanks to this impromptu networking, my plans to rush back to the office fall by the wayside.

Encounters

I am still actively trying to expand my social networks (offline) in Strasbourg.

Scrolling through suggested contacts on my Internations account, I usually only take a cursory look. I am aware that many of my THRO colleagues are also members but none that I know personally, bar one.

One evening I spot the profile of Camila; an Afro-Brazilian colleague who started working at The Organisation not long before I did. I’m giddy with excitement. So much so, I not only send her a message via my Internations account but I email her from work the next day. I wouldn’t usually wish to come across as so keen but heck. She speaks two of my favourite languages and is one of the few other brown faces at THRO (for some reason that’s more evident to me here than it would be in the UK.) Like me, Camila is also relatively new in town.

She responds to my email with alacrity. We arrange to meet up the following Thursday. My mood lifts instantly.

In the flesh Camila is a pretty and petite, good-natured 20-something. We cover a lot of ground in less than an hour-and-a-half lunch break. She’s originally from the Minas Gerais region of Brazil but was adopted by affluent Europeans. They relocated to the Old Continent when she was small. She’s a bona-fide polyglot, having either schooled or lived in various countries across Europe, not to mention Anglophone Africa. In merely eight months she has acquired a level of French it has taken me almost 30 years to attain. She met her Belgian boyfriend whilst living in Zambia. He relocated with her to France when she started her work placement at THRO. They plan to move to the American East Coast in the autumn.

I can’t begrudge sweet Camila for leading what seems to be a very charmed life. I shouldn’t complain. I have much for which to be grateful…and yet I am ashamed to say, I feel strangely depressed after what should have otherwise been an affirming rendezvous.

Onwards and upwards. After a little bit of uncertainty I decide to join the March for Jesus with which my French church is involved that weekend. I wouldn’t necessarily participate in a similar event in Britain. Here in France however, where aggressive secularism seeks to banish faith from the public sphere as much as possible (except for all the religious holidays, of course) it would be good to show some solidarity. Besides, as I am to discover the march isn’t some self-congratulatory jaunt down the streets of Strasbourg. It’s an opportunity to dialogue with the curious and pray for key social groups around town.

At a preparatory prayer meeting at church earlier that week, I find out that the police are one of the groups for which we’ll be petitioning heaven. The organisers perceive them to be a maligned bunch. It’s not wholly unjustified. French citizens originating from the former colonies have good reason to be wary of the police. I hope the empathy of my French sisters and brothers in Christ can extend to those members of society too.

The day of the march itself, the temperature rises to tropical levels. To my surprise, the event has a carnival atmosphere. There are a couple of floats. Songbooks are distributed. I see a couple of familiar faces from church including Hassan. He and much of his Tunisian family are converts from Islam. Cultural Islam he stresses. It’s perceived as turning your back on your people to convert.

Hassan is intense. At one point he invites me to be a prayer partner. I am not willing to accept without thinking it over. I also wonder if that is some sort of Christian pick up line.

Hundreds of the Faithful have turned up; of all hues, gender and ages. We walk along rhythmically, chanting to praise tunes played over West African-influenced beats. It matters not I am not familiar with most of the songs. They're easy to pick up. We stop occasionally to intercede in prayer for the young, for the City, the European institutions and yes, Law Enforcement. Onlookers pause to raise a quizzical eyebrow or snap us on their phones. My self-consciousness dissipates. I’m proud to be counted amongst such a diverse representation of the Body of Christ.

There’s to be a concert in the centre of town at the end of the march, lasting late into the evening. I break ranks half-way through proceedings to continue with the rest of my day.

I’m attending another event with a musical theme early that evening, albeit of a more terrestrial nature. There’s a free jazz gig at La Salle Européenne. It’s walking distance from my flat and next door to my office. After some shopping I return home to change. I’m hoping to meet some like-minded thirty-somethings (ish). It’s not that straightforward. I realise many people my age have commitments (work + significant other, kids etc) that don’t allow them much free time. There’s often a generation gap. Either you have youngsters with no responsibilities or an older demographic with a lot of free time. If there are folks a similar age to me, they are usually hanging around in groups.

That’s the case at the gig. It’s the silver-haired crew out in full force with a few younger faces dotted around. What’s more, the international quartet is truly loufoque. There’s clearly some virtuosity; not that they’ll give the audience enough reason to enjoy it. The musicians have chosen one of those needlessly abstract repertoires that take umbrage with a melody. The bassist is restive; walking in and out of the pavilion, fiddling with a deck chair, abandoning it, returning to it… At one point, the tenor saxophonist plays a sustained atonal note and disappears into the corner. His trumpeter colleague offers to play something in the interim. Any requests?

By the time the drummer and one of the horn players start lighting up mid-set, I walk out in disgust. They are taking Le Piss.

I’m about to storm off home but notice several revellers lounging on the lawn of La Salle. One young woman reads a novel in tranquillity, as if the main event is incidental. I follow her lead. I sit on the steps of the main building and bring out the very enjoyable novel I’m reviewing for my other site. I’m chagrined to hear something more akin to a melody just as I’ve stepped away. The trumpet player comes out of a side door (or flap) and starts tooting at the back of the audience. Maybe I was right to leave after all.

My thoughts are interrupted by Benoit. He works the door at La Salle. We’re practically neighbours. I once ignored him on the bus when he tried to smile at me. I didn’t properly recognise him in civilian clothes and thought he was just some weirdo. The penny dropped when I saw him entering La Salle.

Ever since that misunderstanding, I try to be extra sweet to Benoit. I think he might have a soft spot for me. He smiles a lot, gives me little trinkets from work and keeps telling me how good my French is.

I am so relieved to see a familiar face; particularly someone roughly the same age. The event hasn’t turned out to be the great networking opportunity that I hoped. Like me, Benoit is not too impressed with the show (I don’t meet anyone that night who is). We like our jazz a little less free.

The conversation is good language practice for us both. Benoit impresses me with the English he claims he learned watching Netflix. At one point he throws out a (sort of) invitation to a BBQ he’s hosting. Very indirectly. I am not sure whether to take him up on it. On one hand, I am keen to widen my circle. On the other, I can’t 100% vouch that I won’t end up in some makeshift dungeon.

The moment passes. He leaves me for a bit in the company of an acquaintance. The night is still young. Despite the underwhelming concert, I head home with a spring in my step.

Beating the Winter Blues

Within a few days of mum’s unfortunate visit, I slowly but surely manage to gain some perspective. It does come off the back of a few days of melancholy and anxiety. I’ve experienced far more challenging circumstances and yet it’s strange how I can be laid low by the comparatively trivial.

My travails with mastering the French language have knocked my confidence.  At work, an awkward impromptu training session with Claudia leaves me feeling like an idiot. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to come across as mildly exasperated as I over-complicate what should otherwise be a simple procedure. Still, it reinforces my reluctance to ask her for help. I start to feel anxious about my performance at work. Three months into the job and I won’t be able to get away with the newbie label for much longer. On the plus side, I am beginning to be more self-sufficient, false steps notwithstanding.

February marks the deepest depths of Northern Hemisphere winter. I am inclined to hibernate, especially on weekday evenings. I also realise just how much I am in recovery from the frantic London pace. I never felt I could slow down. I had so many interests. There were so many important things in which to be involved. For the first time in so long I can barely remember, I am becoming reacquainted with what it means to be well-rested.

That’s not to say I am anti-social. My language quest motivates me to get out and about. I attend another Internations event. It takes place at a novelty café in central Strasbourg where customers pay an hourly rate of €5 to occupy the space and can consume as much as they wish within that time. There's some mix-up with the owner. I arrive early. He knows nothing about the meet-up.

But I'm sure Annabelle said it was here.

Well Annabelle is my girlfriend and the co-proprietor. She mentioned nothing about a meeting.

It turns out both the group organiser and his girlfriend happened to be called Annabelle. No relation.

My Annabelle eventually shows up just as I go outside to give her a call. Soon other guests turn up. I meet a Kazak member who has lived in France for five years and scarcely speaks un trait mot de français; something to do with studying in English and not having any French monolingual acquaintances. I don’t hide my incredulity. I also make fast friends with Murielle; a half-Martinican, half -Togolese Swiss national who was born and raised in Zurich before relocating to Strasbourg.

In an effort to punch above my linguistic weight, I attend a couple of intellectually-stimulating conferences. The first is a bio-ethics lecture predominantly in French. The focus is on genome manipulation and Minority Report-style experiments with recently developed neuroscientific treatments, initially used for palliative care. The speaker, an Italian national, is diffident and not the most engaging orator. Still, it’s a stimulating discourse. I even challenge myself to make a comment in French (drafted out first in pencil). I say something about the risks of those with entrenched privilege and power abusing neuroscientific research in the name of crime prevention; exclusively pursuing those with little socio-political influence and ignoring so-called white collar crimes.

Almost a fortnight later I partake in some more intellectual stimuli at a conference in the Lieu d'Europe. This time the theme is linguistics, with which I'm a lot more familiar thanks to my MA. The guest speaker focuses specifically on various approaches to multilingualism in the classroom context; from disregard for non-majority languages to complex methods that ensure better integration and acceptance of diversity. Mid-way we are asked to represent our own linguistic repertoire using crayons on the simple outline of a cartoon figure. I colour the head blue and red for English and French. The heart is Green and Orange for Brazilian Portuguese and Efik respectively (something to do with wishful thinking). The rest is a patchwork of the various registers I use in everyday interaction (professional, social...), as we've also been instructed to represent.

One Friday evening, I invite my good-natured colleague Jean-Pierre to a free jazz event celebrating the clarinet. I am due to meet Jeanne just before the show. Since returning to full time work her body clock is still adjusting to the change. She’s often tired during the week. I am hoping to coax her into staying for the gig; sort of bringing things full circle, given that we met at a Jazz concert. Not likely. She has a meeting the following morning.

It’s not our usual social meet-up. I’ve agreed to help Jeanne improve her beginner's English. I scour the internet for adult-friendly ESL word games and exercises. She’s an attentive student. Her green eyes flash with intent and, despite her fatigue, she throws herself into the word puzzles. At some point, we're politely shushed by the librarian. I get so carried away, I’m late to meet Jean-Pierre and childhood chum, Tomasz.

The event itself is rather…peculiar. The publicity does make reference to a zany line-up but that’s not the half. Four middle-aged men make sporadic, occasionally rhythmic atonal sounds on bass clarinets. They cock their heads, place hands on hips and have mock-disputes. For the finale they are joined by younger performers of varying ages from pre-school upwards. Some of them are hardly bigger than their clarinets. It is an epic piece dedicated to the history of the wind instrument incorporating brief monologues, primal screams, foot stomps and young women shouting historical facts into small megaphones with their backs to the audience. There are about one and a half pieces with a discernable melody throughout the whole show. Tomasz and Jean-Pierre exchange comments throughout. Awkwardly Tomasz, whom I have never previously met, sits in the middle. Afterwards, all three of us mildly shell-shocked, the consensus is that it’s a little too oddball for our tastes.

Oh well. It’s not a wasted evening. I at least get some vigorous French practice trying to keep up with the lads’ rapid-fire conversation. We walk several yards in the opposite direction to my bus stop before I pipe up that I need to turn back. They courteously escort me.

Silver Linings

I’ve tried not to harp on too much at work about my current accommodation-related hassle.  It’s not as if these difficulties are unique to me. I don’t want it to seem like I can’t cope. But Sophie has a radar for these things. She calls me aside, to ask how the search is going. She proffers tips. She’s led an itinerant lifestyle herself, moving from France to Eastern Europe to the UK and back to France again. She knows how stressful it can be and the desire to settle as soon as. She warns that in her experience, finding accommodation is never a simple matter of a week or two (unlike I was misled to believe by some unhelpful person in HR).  She generously offers to help me with anything I might need, recruiting her unsuspecting spouse into installing furniture or ferrying it around.

She understands my reluctance to accept. It’s not very British to ask for help, she acknowledges, but the culture is different here.

I don’t know if it’s about being British or more just me being me. I hate to be an imposition. Still, it’s good to know I have the moral support. I don’t intend to avail myself of her kindness much. It is useful though when I need to borrow an iron whilst staying at Javier’s.

Alas, classified accommodation ads are fewer and further between. The crooks are still appropriating pictures from other websites. A few of the potentially suitable places are not available for several weeks, if not a couple of months.  Fear and depression are low lying constants I try to overcome.  When I have the energy. 

Christmas is just around the corner and, as Sophie warns, the tourist rush begins from late November in Strasbourg. It’s one of the main Christmas hotspots in Europe, if not the world; the oldest on the Continent.  Accommodation becomes more scarce during that period.

If my timing for the accommodation appears to be less than fortuitous, I’ve arrived in Strasbourg at a good moment for other things. November is the month of the annual Jazzdor Music Festival. As I would have been hitting the events at the London Jazz Festival this month, I’ve found something compensatory across the Channel.

I attend my first proper Jazzdor event after work one night. It’s a concert featuring the creme-de-la-creme of the City’s Observatoire. I’m running late. My supervisor Sophie and I have been talking about work-related matters and I mention my evening plans. She then divulges that she plays guitar in a Brazilian band with Hubbie. We swap stories about our shared Lusophone musical history.

When I eventually arrive, the show is in full swing. The intimate venue is packed. Latecomers are forced to watch from a distance, sheepishly peeping behind a curtain. Vocalist Sélia Setodzo is holding fort with an improvised acappella number. Her francophone inflection all but disappears as she sings in Americanised English. She performs meditative Jazz with her trio of musicians; the failsafe combo of drums, piano and double-bass. There’s a short break and just about enough time for the next act to set-up; a nonet. As some of the old crowd makes way for the new, a young lady hurriedly sits next to me. We start making conversation. She detects an accent, to my chagrin. She introduces herself first (as I’m so bad at it). She’s Jeanne, also new to Strasbourg, by way of Lyon. She’s here tonight to support a friend playing keys for the nine-piece. They met whilst singing with a Gospel act. Music and Faith? Now we’re talking.  Like me, Jeanne is looking for a church in this part of the world. She asks if I’ve heard of Eglise Pentecote Internationale de Strasbourg or EPIS. It's next on her list... What are the odds. I have plans to attend that Sunday. We exchange numbers and I thank Providence for our not-so-chance encounter.

Nicolas Allard’s nonet are fab, playing a veritable gamut of early/mid 20^th Century Jazz (read more about the show here). The audience are appreciative but somewhat sedate, applauding often and politely. My premature whoops are met with some curious looks. They are working their way up to enthusiasm. Sélia joins Allard and gang to make it a dectet for the finale and encore.

I confess to a certain smug incredulity; I can’t believe I’m attending jazz gigs in an international French City. I feel truly blessed. Jeanne and I swap details and keep in touch in the days and weeks to come.

On the way home, I exchange texts with a friend who has also recently moved to a new city. He feels alienated. We swap notes, comfort each other over the not so positive elements. I tell him about my evening. Sounds like you’re having quite an adventure, he says.

The Almighty knows that it’s in the little things that I sense Him closest of all. I’ve said plenty of ‘My God, My God why have you forsaken me?’ prayers during my frustrating housing search. Just when some cosmic abandonment issues kick in, He reminds me He’s the God of the details.