Summer Breeze

(courtesy of Miss-Elka.fr)

A few days after my music-saturated weekend, I welcome mum for her third and longest visit thus far. I am a bit nervous about what to do with her for a week. It’s a hectic time at work and I haven’t taken much leave.

Don’t worry, she reassures,
June has been a busy month. I’m looking forward to the rest.

True. A stressful day job aside, mum’s weekends have overflowed with weddings and big birthday events at church. Once she arrives that Tuesday evening (thankfully without much of a hitch), to complete her sense of independence I give her a spare key and travelcard.

As usual, mum has gone over and beyond as far as UK goodies are concerned. I’m even more her baby now that I am living abroad. I can’t complain. And as much as I appreciate having my own space, I admit it’s also lovely having someone to welcome me home from work for a change. And somebody to squash any critters who try to invade my tidy home.

True to her word, mum is a lady of leisure for the first couple of days of her stay. However, I can’t have her cooped up indoors all trip. We must at least go out for dinner. 

Being a Thursday night, I naively think I can walk into some of the best reviewed establishments in town without a reservation. When both my first choice and contingency fall through, we have to improvise. Finalement, ca tombe bien, comme on dit.

We stumble upon an overlooked eaterie with cheerful customer service and hearty portions, just off La Grand Rue.

The next day, I rush home following a frantically busy morning at work to spend the afternoon with mum in Kehl. There's an incident on the tram as we approach the German border. We're in the middle of a heatwave. A pallid, frail-looking young woman collapses. Fortuitously for her, she is surrounded by expert first aiders. I pass her my tepid bottle of water. She accepts gratefully. I regret not at least first wiping the rim.

The tram comes to an emergency stop whilst the first aiders take care of the infirm.  We change vehicles and resume our Kehl-bound programme. I’d hoped to tack on a day trip deeper into Germany but mum has other ideas. That would be far too pressured, she advises. Unbeknownst to me, she plans to add some further flourishes to my flat.

That evening, I go upstairs to change and come down to find all manners of embellishments I’ve not seen before.

I’ve been invited (sort of) to a church barbeque that weekend. Mum is game, to my relief. One less activity to rack my head about. That Saturday is a scorcher; the hottest day of a consistently warm week. I expect to see dozens of guests milling around chewing on snacks, rendering it easier to inconspicuously make our late entrance (it would seem odd for two relative unknowns to show up early or even on time to a casual affair). Instead, the select few invitees are already sitting down to their grilled meat. Drinks have been served and much of the salad has already gone. Thank goodness, we're not too late for some succulent grub.  We receive a warm welcome from host Raymond, one of the few familiar faces. I also recognise Angelo originally from Mozambique, his Cape Verdean wife Celina and two of their adorable brood. I spot a strikingly handsome young fellow who bears a passing resemblance to Ghanaian-American actor Kofi Siriboe. An older unfamiliar man stares at me without compunction. I voice my unease to mum. He later tries to inveigle his way unsuccessfully into our conversations.

I’m nervous about having to translate for mum all afternoon. Having used too much English all week, I’m glad for the French practice but not sure if I’m mentally up to the task. Mum and I sit opposite Catarina who is keen to practise her English. We have met briefly before at Angelo’s house during a home fellowship. I speak to her in French, she replies in both languages. It puts mum at ease. Catarina nearly chokes on her drumstick when she realises the youthful woman sitting next to me is my mother. It's the first of many such reactions that weekend.

Catarina is refreshingly frank. We learn much about her Neapolitan family who settled in France during the Second World War. She talks about her strained relationship with her dad and disillusion with church. Following a particularly painful experience, she’s tentatively working her way back to faith. I can relate, I explain to her.

We pass a very cordial afternoon in the company of Raymond and co (no, not that one) before heading to town to pick up some ingredients for the jollof rice mum plans to cook. We hit the city centre shortly after France’s game with Argentina has commenced. I have wilfully ignored the World Cup. Not being in the least sporty, it used to be the one international tournament to coax me out of indifference. I abandoned interest long ago following one too many negative experiences.

This year my policy of World Cup apathy stands me in good stead. I learn from friends and family more devoted to the beautiful game that African nations have failed to live up to their potential.

Again.

That Saturday afternoon, my surprisingly football-enthusiastic mum has just about recovered from that disappointment.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg are at once busy and deserted, everyone congregated around the nearest flatscreen television. Outside one bar a patriot rouses the crowd with chants and a triumphant sounding mini-speech. Cries of ecstasy and frustration intermingle.

Mum and I look on with bemused fascination.

Tout le monde s’eclate, n’est ce pas? I comment to one shopkeeper.

Once France’s victory is confirmed (4-2), Strasbourg goes bat-crazy with jubilation. Fans cry out in the streets, faces painted in blue, white and red. Hours afterwards French nationals of all descriptions continue to shout with glee from car windows whilst horning furiously. That night, in the wee small hours of the morning I can still hear the odd victorious exclamation in my usually quiet neighbourhood.

There’ll be lots of celebratory sex tonight, I comment to mum. She giggles conspiratorially.

This isn’t even the quarter-finals (That's the following week. Everyone slouches off work early to watch what will be another French victory against Uruguay. My office becomes a ghost town). It makes me wish I could go back to World Cup 1998, when France beat Brazil to take home the trophy. The country must have come to a standstill for weeks in one collective paroxysm of joy.

The View from A Bridge: Orangerie, Strasbourg

Sunday morning at church, one of the associate pastors excuses himself for his lack of voice.

Blame it on singing the national anthem after yesterday's game. He apologises, not-so-guiltily.

Following my less than satisfactory attempts to translate the service for mum, we catch up with my good mate Jeanne after the service (whose mother also happens to be in town) and more recent acquaintance, Serafine whom mum has taken a shining to.

That afternoon I show mum round my local park, The Orangerie. It’s another gorgeous day, even better for the breeze. The oriental influenced landscape-gardening makes me a tad nostalgic for Japan. Mum comes to share the sentiment. In her company, we explore parts of the Park with which I have been previously unfamiliar. We find a choice spot under the shade, opposite a large pond. Before I know it, I am opening up about my latest-and deepest-crisis of faith. I have kept it to myself as not to demoralise her. In the end, she handles it better than expected. She draws from her own experience to encourage me. It’s an emotional but edifying exchange.

It’s hands down been mum’s most enjoyable stay to date. It flies past. Although confiding in me that she prefers the cultural inclusiveness of the UK to what she perceives of France, Strasbourg nevertheless has a place in her heart.

As is our unintentional custom, we manage to arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare before her train to Basel Airport. We barely have time to kiss our farewells.

Hope Deferred...The Hunt Continues

It’s three weeks since I arrived in Strasbourg and I’m no closer to finding accommodation. Same script, different location. Hmm.

It’s Monday. I have one more week in Javier’s place. It’s clean and comfortable. He’s a considerate and attentive host. He takes the time to engage in stimulating discussion and gives constructive linguistic tips. I could get use to this but I can’t afford to. Literally. The pre-Festive season silliness will soon start. All available accommodation in the Strasbourg vicinity will charge at least double to make the most of the influx of tourists flocking to the famous Christmas Market. Going by the latest on AirBnb, Javier is no exception. I can’t keep paying for temporary accommodation. It’s already eaten into my flat budget. I’m yet to be paid or to gauge what my monthly outgoings will be. THRO pays a relocation allowance but I’m not counting any chickens just yet. Thankfully, I’ve been able to economise with what I have but for not much longer.

Besides, living with a tall, not unattractive man who is kind, friendly, bright, knows how to keep house and spends a lot of time working out is doing strange things to my brain. And. Other. Parts. It’s time to move on.

My third week starts optimistically enough. By coincidence I have two viewings on the same day and, as unwise as I know this is, I’m staking a lot on them. The first is in a brightly coloured student residence. The building management company run a tight ship. It’s well equipped and a very reasonable price. That’s for good reason. It’s a room in a glorified halls of residence. En suite, yes but still, just a room. Not much space to manoeuvre especially if I have guests. Furthermore, it’s not available for at least two weeks. Still, I’m tempted. I’m getting desperate. They hardly ask for any money up front and there’s minimal bureaucracy. Plus it's one direct Tram ride to work. But, I ask myself, could I really feel at home here? Could I deal with being at the mercy of student whimsy? I don’t plan to be moving every few months. I’ve done too much of that lately. 

The next viewing is in Poteries, at the end of the Tram D line. It’s not very far from where I stayed when I first moved to Strasbourg. 

I have an appointment with the concierge. I walk past the apartment complex initially to the other, less salubrious end of the street. I go back on myself to a gated residence. A middle-aged gentleman waves tentatively. It’s the concierge, Monsieur Fernando. We’ve been in touch by email, via the estate management company. He shows me two properties, one unfurnished (not interested. Too much hassle) and the other… 

...is what I’ve been looking for. Gleaming, new building, clean communal areas, capacious living space, fantastic amenities with plenty of room to entertain. There’s even a washing machine! True, it belongs to the former tenant whose belongings are still strewn around the flat...

The rent is ridiculously good value. I could expect to pay double, if not three times as much in London for the same. It is a bit further from work but close to the tram station and a major reasonably-priced (so I’m told) supermarket. I ask Monsieur Fernando for his thoughts on the surrounding area. It’s fine, he says. He draws me a rudimentary map and mentions the nearby vicinities to avoid.  'C'est catastrophe!'

 I ask about the mass of cinders I have spotted at the end of the road. (I’ve heard of car-burning in certain parts of the City). No need to worry says Fernando, it’s just a Halloween bonfire. The visit comes to a congenial end. I ask about the origins of his mediterranean-sounding name. Fernando switches to Portuguese. I stretch my basic Lusophone skills as far as they’ll go.

I mull it over. The residences I have visited today are probably the best I’ve come across thus far. Je suis plein d’espoir. I’m in such good spirits that I’m feeling magnanimous enough to overlook some youth blasting their great quality speaker on the Tram ride home. The main culprit is a cheeky handsome type; deep chocolate complexion and a permanent smirk. I can’t trust my French to come out the way I’d want it to in the situation. It could also be high-risk. I’m a solitary female in a different cultural context. I'd be more confident on London turf. 

Despite myself and the obnoxious lyrics, the tunes have a good beat. On descending, I do a little shoulder bounce. Mr Smirk nods his approval.

Back at Javier’s I make a list of pros and cons for both viewings, send them to mum and sis for their input. I’ve pretty much made up my mind already.  Independently of each other, my girls confirm my preference. By then I’ve already emailed the company that manage the Poteries accommodation, expressing my interest. The next day I’m antsy at work. I call my contact Lydia when she fails to respond to my email by lunchtime. She says she has a backlog. She’ll respond once she’s worked her way through it. Later that afternoon, I receive a message from Lydia.

Since I’m an expat and don’t have a French guarantor, I’ll have to pay four months deposit upfront (I discover later, it's usually six). That would wipe out my savings. I’ve never had such an unreasonable demand. Usually it’s enough for prospective landlords to know that I work for The Organisation. There must be another way. No, says Lydia, rather tersely. Quadruple the deposit or bust. It’s a far cry from her earlier facilitating tone. It’s not news to her I don’t have a guarantor. I mentioned it at the start. Don’t worry, she told me back then. There’s always a solution. Hmm.

Four months deposit upfront seems dodgy. Greedy even. My colleagues are stunned. My supervisor Sophie is resolutely unimpressed. ‘Don’t do it’ she says ‘Sometimes it’s not that complicated. The situation speaks for itself’. Her husband isn’t wild about the Poteries area either, as far as female safety is concerned.

I get in touch with HR. I have befriended from a distance a lovely administrator Klara, who has been in the job not much longer than I. Hailing from Zurich, she’s familiar with the fresh-off-the-boat expat experience. It has taken her a while to get settled. She was blessed to have a Strasbourg-based friend to put her up. She’s very sympathetic to my plight, even volunteering to be my guarantor. She’s also offered her sofa if I’m stuck. I’m reluctant. She barely knows me. We’ve never properly met. She lives with her boyfriend. I don’t like to be an inconvenience at the best of times. I’ve said it before. I hate the idea of staying with couples. It feels as if I’m intruding on their intimacy. I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

Klara exhausts other options. She sends me links to organisations that might be able to provide institutional guarantees. I’ve been here before. A French friend forwarded me similar information before I left the UK. It’s the same old story. I’m either too old to be eligible and/or I work in the wrong sector.

Another one of my HR angels Lucille, makes a last ditch attempt to convince Lydia and co that I’m good for the money without the need for divesting myself of all my worldly goods. Lydia proposes the following: I can pay the four month deposit in two instalments, in addition to my regular rent. Oh yes, and the property isn’t immediately available after all. It’ll be another three weeks. Between the agents’ avarice and Sophie’s warning, I’ve already been deterred. Lydia’s ‘suggestion’ is simply the coup-de-grace.

I arrange other viewings. It’s a perfunctory gesture. I know they’re unlikely to be the right fit. Still, I’m thoroughly deflated and need to hang on to some hope. I attend a viewing situated a short walk from work. The flat is on the top of a spiral staircase in a building primarily occupied by wealthy Jewish families, it appears. Madame Berger, the landlady, is much younger and glamorous than I anticipate.

It's one of those occasions when the property is smaller than the pictures convey. There’s no door on the toilet or bathroom; a mere ablutionary alcove. There's no washing machine. Madame Berger still can’t tell me how the present tenant does their laundry, despite my persistent enquiry. 

Pass.

Fluid Borders

Town Centre: Kehl, Germany
commons.wikimedia.org

On one of my Mondays off, I hop across the German border for the first time by way of a short tram ride to Kehl Bahnhof. It’s a nippy, metallic grey late autumn afternoon. At first, under these unflattering conditions Kehl seems like any other non-descript European town. I play with the idea of catching the train to a nearby destination. Not so fast chica. Give it a chance.

I stumble across a shopping precinct and quaint streets with pastel-coloured houses.

Now, I’m a functional as-and-when shopper. I’m no proponent of retail therapy; far too frugal for that. Yet, Strasbourg’s comparatively steep prices have temporarily turned me into an avid bargain hunter. I’ve heard conflicting things about shopping in Kehl. Some say it’s truly bon marché compared to its French neighbour, others (chiefly my colleague Claudia) say the prices have been hiked since the tram route was extended. 

For household goods and cosmetics, Kehl is good value for money. They have a 1 euro store. Poundland, eat your heart out (the only equivalent I’ve seen anywhere in France is the 2 euro shop). The quality of Lidl and Aldi* is more recognisable than the over-priced and understocked French travesties. There's even a Woolworths (sadly sans legendary pic'n'mix). Such silly but familiar pleasures nonetheless gladden my soul. I trust that even the German version of cheap tat is still of sound quality.

*I have since revised this opinion following further visits. It seems nothing equals UK Aldi and Lidl bargains.

It’s to be a short trip this time. I have a couple of important, accommodation-related appointments later that afternoon. I don’t want my first ever Teutonic foray to be spent exclusively in the shops. On the way back to the tram station, as is my habit, I make a detour into an attractive-looking church building I have passed earlier. A large image of Martin Luther’s stern profile hovers overhead, on a banner celebrating the quincentenary of the Reformation. 

The classic facade belies its unexpectedly modern interior.  An organist rehearses appropriately transcendent, contrapuntal pieces. Being more or less a Baroque ignoramus, my guess is Bach; a presumption based as much on my current geography as the composer’s signature sound. In any case it’s one of those blessed and peaceful moments that I couldn’t have planned and for that very reason, I am all the more grateful.