A First Time for Everything: Part II

 5 min. read

Part I

(c) Maddi Bazzocco

Each day of the conference, lunch is provided by the institution. A group of us gather daily to dine in the canteen. It's during one of these food-related gatherings that I discover, by chance, Brigitta is amongst the cohort's many smokers. Moreover, I have the distinct impression she'd rather I didn't know or catch her in the act.

The afternoon meal is far heavier than I’m used to eating at that time of day during the week. The ensuing drowsiness catches up with me on the first day of the conference. (To avoid a similar soporific effect the day of my presentation, I avoid a hot lunch altogether).

Meal times are an opportune moment to become acquainted with other guests. After seeing her name pop up in different contexts over the years, it'll be the first time I meet Maria-Teresa, the conference organiser, in person. Maria is a petite, feisty but good-humoured quinquagenarian, with a voice like gravel from years of chain-smoking. She gravitates towards African animism, pouring libations at the start and end of the conference. When she half-jokingly suggests we pray to the gods, I good-naturedly explain that I'm more of a Jesus girl. This elicits a smile.

Frederick – or Freddie – is a convivial Irishman with a waggish sense of humour and a longstanding affinity with the Spanish language. German Celia’s Spanish sounds so proficient, I initially mistake her for a native.

I get on well with Agneta, an academic whose interest in African studies evolved from her social work with East-African refugees re-settled in her native Nordic country. She is also the adoptive mother of black children. She’s the second European participant I’ve met who’s raising African children in a predominantly white environment. 

I’m conflicted. I’ve always been against the idea of white couples adopting non-white children, no matter how well-intentioned. There is a huge gap of lived experience and cultural transference, no matter how many books are read or online fora one joins.  It manifests even in something as (not-so) simple as hair; of great cultural significance to most Afrodescendants. I've seen black children growing up in a white family, with hair that's turned to locks through lack of care; most likely down to ignorance on their adopted parents' part. It's unintentional but infuriating.

In the case of my academic colleagues, I acknowledge this is not some Hollywood star’s fetishisation of brown babies (at least, I hope not). I don’t question these individuals’ genuine efforts to divest from white supremacy. I believe their solidarity with Afrodescendants is sincere. However, this particular kind of cross-cultural adoption seems to me one of the most flagrant examples of white saviourism; a massive blind spot. I dare not raise it lest I cause offence or I’m perceived as truculent. If the conversation must happen at all, it’ll take longer to build that kind of rapport than an auspicious few days at a conference in the Med.

(c) Patrick Tomasso

It’s one of the few times I’ll feel slightly at odds with the group. It’s somewhat indicative of my time in Continental Europe for the past seven years. Don't get me wrong, the conference is a largely positive experience and I’m thrilled to attend. Nevertheless occasionally, for reasons time doesn’t permit me to expound, I feel my perspective as an Afro-Brit sets me (involuntarily)  apart from an otherwise sympathetic cohort. Or maybe it’s just me and how I (over)think.

Ahead of my own presentation, I fit in several run-throughs.  It's scheduled on the penultimate day of the event, giving me lots of time to mentally-prepare. Brigitta isn’t keen on me being over-rehearsed. We squeeze in one practice before our combined intervention.

The Hispanophone presentations tend to be better-attended than those in English. The Spanish students clear the room when it’s mine and Brigitta’s turn, leaving behind mostly our academic peers. It’s a success all the same. I’m more relaxed during my intervention than I'd anticipated and the reception is enthusiastic. Colleagues take a bona fide interest in my project, surprised by how much has already been done in a few months. I’m both exuberant and relieved once it’s over. I can better enjoy the rest of the conference.

That same night, a delegation will arrive from the UK. The mostly non-Afrodescendant contingent is led by Charmaine; the daughter of South Asian parents with connections to East Africa and the British West Indies. She is blessed with a mellifluous, near-hypnotic speaking voice. Charmaine is the significant other of a renowned Black-British auteur. She doesn’t fail to divulge how many careers she’s helped to get off the ground, including some within my own social circles.

Charmaine and her entourage are a fascinating bunch. On the last night over dinner, for example, I have a lively conversation with a conservatoire-trained musician of African, Asian and French extraction. We swap war stories of our respective experiences living in France.

(c) Denise Jans

Charmaine and co have taken time out of hectic schedules to make the latter part of the conference. It’s therefore a shame that their session –a documentary and post-show Q&A - must be truncated owing to poor time-keeping. Charmaine keeps her sang-froid but she’s understandably miffed. All in attendance are regretful that we are denied the full experience.

On the day of departure, Reggie kindly offers to drop Brigitta and I off close to the airport. My supervisor will stick around a little longer to enjoy some cultural events, before taking a late-ish flight back to Belgium. I, on the other hand, will return on an earlier plane (notwithstanding a one hour delay). 

On the drive towards the airport, all three of us converse in French about any and everything. That is, when I'm not passed out from fatigue, sleeping in a rather undignified pose.

Not long after dropping off Brigitta, Reggie complains of the lack of black contributors during the final sessions. He proceeds to speak candidly about his frustration over the general lack of representation. I counter that the conference has been more diverse than I expected. However, I eventually open up more about my own misgivings over academic spaces, in which Afrodescendants are the topic of discussion but usually not being the ones to lead it. 

I’m taken aback by Reggie’s frankness. With his half-Spanish children and going by some dubious comments he makes about a photo of Agneta’s blonde (naturally!) future daughter-in-law, I assumed he was assimilated enough into the mainland European cultural landscape not to notice and/or care. 

He speaks of opportunists, exploiting a niche because they know there are too few black academics to provide much competition. His candour comes as a relief, echoing several conversations I’ve had with sympathisers of diverse ethnicities since beginning my doctorate.

Reggie deposits me in front of my airport terminal, to which I’m indebted. As with most of the other participants, I intend to remain in touch.

It’s a warm day;  a far cry from the chilly Belgian climes for which I’m already sartorially prepared. As I go through the check-in motions, at security I’m asked to remove my boots. One of the agents then inspects my head wrap for what I presume are traces of drugs. My hair was also covered on the inward journey, and yet nobody at Brussels thought to touch up my head-gear.

It’s not the best lasting impression of Spain. Fortunately, at least for this trip, it will not be my only one.

A First Time for Everything: Part I

 5 + 1/2 minute read

(c) Dan Dimmock

Way back at the start of my PhD journey, my supervisor, Brigitta, suggests we make a joint intervention at a conference in Spain, in early Autumn. She doesn’t have to ask twice. 

The start of October marks four months since my doctoral studies began. In that time, I’ve gathered a wealth of information; enough to feel comfortable sharing the first fruits of my research, even if the overall project is still taking shape.  This will be my maiden voyage; the first academic paper I'm presenting for an external audience. (It feels very grown-up just to utter those words.) Plus, Spain in Autumn beats temperamental Belgian weather any day. It’ll only be my second trip to the Iberian giant, almost two full decades after my first.

The run-up to the conference has its fair share of twists and turns. There are several iterations of the programme, issues with funding, and sporadic - not to mention confusing - communication. Brigitta is concerned it might not go ahead. Fortunately, conference coordinator, Maria-Teresa confirms in time for us to be reassured.

Brigitta and I will be making the same outbound voyage. I worry that it might be over-exposure. Yet, thank goodness, these concerns are largely unfounded. It’s a pleasant, albeit exhausting trip by plane, train and -in the end – by foot to the hotel. 

Brigitta invites me to take the window seat on the train ride from the airport, to enjoy the pleasant landscape. She is an individual of select words but we’re not short on conversation. Knowing my own loquacious tendencies, I try to be conscious of not over-sharing. Nevertheless, during the course of the week, at times I question whether I’ve held true to this resolve.

The conference will take place in a small city with a large university population. The weather is even more propitious than has been forecast when we arrive. Sunset also occurs later than in Belgium, allowing us to enjoy the vestiges of summer that bit longer. Sunrise, on the other hand, is surprisingly late.

The majority of conference participants are staying in the same hotel, a stone’s throw from the Faculty, as recommended by Maria. 

Each room is a capacious studio-style en suite, with kitchenette (although one has to pay five euros a day for access to utensils). From my window, on a clear day, there’s a decent view of the distant Pyrenees. 

The programme begins late in the afternoon and continues well into the evening. I assume these are stereotypical Spanish siesta hours. Rather, it appears that it's been adapted so that the university’s own students can also attend. The beauty of these unconventional hours is it leaves the whole day to catch up on other tasks, as well as explore our surroundings. On the days where the programme is predominantly or exclusively in Spanish (no funds available for simultaneous interpretation), I skip these sessions for more downtime, often joining towards the end of the evening’s activities which almost always overrun.

Apart from an especially soggy day, the weather is favourable for whiling away time in the old mediaeval town, browsing some of the discount Spanish chains, or taking advantage of my student status for a free trip to one of the museums. I’d prefer to do a guided walking tour but alas, there are none available in English or French during my stay. A gulf has grown between me and the Spanish language since my school days, when I was a more zealous student. It’s been surpassed by my interest in Portuguese which, unfortunately, doesn’t get me anywhere this side of the frontier.

(c) Rut Miit

The colloquium itself is truly a bilingual and inter-disciplinary affair; literature, history, linguistics, gender and sexuality studies, and ethnography to name a few areas of expertise. The thematic common denominator is the African Diaspora in Europe. The conference also commemorates the anniversary of the founding network, one in which Brigitta is embedded.  I’ll discover that I’ve crossed paths with a number of participants back at the 2022 Afro-European conference in Brussels, long before my doctoral studies were on the horizon.

By now, I’m used to these spaces being dominated by Europeans speaking about African-Diaspora related themes. (Maria-Teresa herself jokes that when Caucasians study their own societies and cultures, it falls under Sociology. If they embark on African-related socio-cultural studies, it becomes Anthropology.)  I’m thus pleasantly surprised to discover a decent number of fellow Afrodescendants presenting papers. This is relative, considering the power imbalances ensconced within academia. For all its liberal ideals – or maybe because of them  - universities' teaching staff largely replicate the structural inequalities that pervade wider society.

Amongst the black contingent is Clémentine; originally from Cote d’Ivoire. She decided to do several interdisciplinary masters and a PhD in Spanish because she ‘liked the challenge’. She’s on her second doctorate. There’s Reginald, or Reggie. Originally from the DRC, he’s spent most of his adult life in the Catalonia region. Ngame is a handsome yet down-to-earth, Rwandan whose family fled to Spain in the early 1990s.

African-American Dr Louisa-Grace Brown specialises in African migrant communities based in the Mediterranean and has a solid command of the European-variety of Spanish. Yet, as she points out, even with a proficient knowledge of the language, Spaniards tend to question the Black presence in the country more so than other former empires (e.g. Portugal). 

Louisa-Grace will give the inaugural address at the conference; a dynamic intervention that sets the standard. Dr Brown throws in smatterings of Spanish, and even Gaelic (she’s also studied Scottish & Welsh independence movements).

  A few other black participants connect remotely, making it more or less 50/50 African/European representation.

The first night, I join Brigitta and her friend and fellow academic, Clarissa for tapas. (By then, I’ve already done some panic grocery-shopping, unaware that evening meals are covered by external funding). Clarissa is a polyglot from Sardinia who has lived all over Europe. Our conversation encompasses the Continent's staunch denial about its colonial past, racially insensitive books, Mainland Europe vs. the UK and misogynoir; the latter subjects introduced by yours truly. Despite my efforts to exercise restraint, these being such sensitive topics, I find myself getting carried away.

Part II

Summer Diary: Part 1

 5 min. read

Weds. 29 June 2022: Gloria from Internations organises after-work drinks at a new bar in Flagey called The Gatsby. Turns out to be an alcohol-free establishment (although shisha smoking is indulged). For obvious reasons, I'm fine sans alcool, although it causes some consternation amongst a number of guests.  

Inside, it's all emerald green décor. Love the commitment to replicating the aesthetic of Fitzgerald’s literary classic – a personal favourite. Lovely ambiance; large flatscreen footage of dream tropical destinations. Speakers spill out calming and familiar Bossa Nova covers of Pop and Soul. The tee-total cocktails and smoothies are inviting, although price tag is comparatively high. Order a cheaper but still overpriced Lipton Ice. Strike up conversation with a genial half-Belgian, half-Brazilian polyglot, Emmanuella who has just moved back after a long stint in Spain. We’re joined later by Rik; an older, acerbic Englishman. He’s lived in Belgium for roughly the same time I’ve been alive. The sarcasm is too readily dispensed, though. Reminds me of the Oscar Wilde quip about the lowest form of wit... In hindsight, feel I’m too cordial about it. Maybe it’s because it’s our first proper conversation. I do protest when he takes a swipe at Sade whilst an interpretation of Your Love is King plays in the background.

Gloria – a fellow non-drinker herself – heeds her alcohol-deprived public and heads out to look for somewhere that sells booze and food. That’s my cue to head home. 

Thurs. 30 June:

A rude awakening. This month’s unemployment benefit comes through, significantly lower than expected. Was anticipating a drop but thought it started from late July. Once the essentials are paid, for the first time since this bout of joblessness, I wonder how I’m going to make ends meet the following month. Have a bit of a meltdown, prayers between tears. Job market is already sluggish. Slows down even more with the impending summer lull. Thankfully, much of my non-gratis summer activities have been paid in advance- when things weren't as constrained. Back then, I believed I’d already be back in work by early summer.

Herbie Hancock at Arena5 in the evening. An outdoor gig on the one day of the week when the weather is awful. Gloria is somewhere in the audience, as are a number of other Internations regulars. Hear word that they’re disgruntled about the venue’s poor organisation. Staff confiscate large umbrellas and there are not enough windbreakers to go round. Herbie deserves better, they say. The man himself is good-humoured about it all. Shame about disappointing weather but grateful to have caught an elderly living legend in action.

Fri. 1 July: Officially entered my birthday month. Hopefulness I felt after returning from the UK in June is slipping away. Not enough substantial change in my material circumstances, despite best efforts. Heavy blow to morale. Speak to mum about it on the phone. She shares my frustrations but her faith is robust.  Her prayers are very welcome.

Spend afternoon with Stéphanie; a transwoman I befriended last year. Been hesitant to put thoughts down on paper about our friendship, due to the sensitive nature of conversations. Stéphanie is often in extreme distress. More optimistic today however, looking forward to another round surgery. Over the weekend Stéphanie will call on the verge of tears. No family members willing or available to help with drop off and pick up from hospital in deep Wallonia. I don’t drive and Stéphanie insists it’s too difficult a journey by public transport. My morning prayer group suggest pooling resources together for a cab. Very proud of their kind gesture but by then, Stéphanie has already gone under the knife. We stay in touch during the recovery period, which proves even more complicated on a physical and psychological level.

Friday night: Invited round for dinner by Ludwig. Guest list is comprised of polyglots and/or linguaphiles, according to him. Assume he’s exaggerating.  He's not. Most in attendance speak at least four languages, with the host himself a hyper-polyglot (10 and counting). My linguistic tally is three-ish, if I’m being generous. Oh well. Already made my peace with leaving behind childhood dream to speak five languages to a high standard. Too many variables in the way. Only so much time and natural talent. I’ll be content to speak those I already know well.

French is the default for the evening. Would usually welcome the practice but super-tired and not on top form. I enjoy talking about language. I have a Masters in Linguistics. But this lot take it to another level.

Vegetarian meal is good; amazing starter. Ludwig has been customarily modest about his culinary skills. Modesty could not be attributed to one of his guests, Guy. A chronic braggard if I've ever had the misfortune to meet one. (Find out later from Ludwig that it’s an invitation he comes to regret.)

Can’t work out if it’s natural arrogance or the reverse side of insecurity. A few tell-tale signs suggests it's the latter. Much of a muchness, anyway. Never cease to be amazed by the extent to which some lack self-awareness. Mr Cocky will use any pretext to self-aggrandise. He's also a sanctimonious vegan – the worst kind. Boasts about his ‘gluten-free, no-waste, vegan-friendly’ brownies. He offers them long after everyone has eaten. I have a bona fide excuse. I’m stuffed. I could take some home, though I figure it would be cheeky, given my low opinion of their baker. His behaviour is a stark contrast to the other males in the room; namely Ludwig and younger guest Ramón. Also a gifted multi-linguist, the difference in behaviour is night and day. Ramón is kind enough to give a few of us a lift home.

Appreciate Ludwig opening up his home but have mixed feelings about a mentally exhausting evening. 

Sun. 3 July: Efforts to keep a low profile at church don’t quite work out. End up being sandwiched between two acquaintances; one of whom keeps disturbing me during the sermon to ask questions. Sundays take more emotional and psychological exertion these days than I can muster. Firm believer in fellowship but this season in particular, prefer smaller gatherings.

On the way back, Jake from my house group stops for a chat on the metro. Genuinely pleased to see him, ironically. Relieved even. It’s one-to-one, away from the (perceived) pressure to be upbeat after service. Jake is a gentle soul. He gets it. I leave the conversation refreshed.

Sunday night. I’m back again in the locality of the Atomium, a stone’s throw from where Herbie and his band have played a few days prior.  For the Brosella music festival, this time. Weather is much better. I realise at the last minute that Jazz-Harpist Brandee Younger is on the line up. Decide to hang around for her pre-finale set.

The whole event is class. The ‘children’s stage’ for example, is no watered-down substitute. More intimate but no less sophisticated.

A Flemish fellow named Jens randomly strikes up conversation. Sense some romantic interest on his end that I’m not willing to humour. However, happy to discuss music with someone who has a sound and broad knowledge. Sorely missed since moving to Brussels. For a city with its musical reputation,  met too few aficionados. 

Jens and I get so carried away, we're shushed by others in audience. I try to be quiet for Brandee's set.

Exchange some details with Jens (no more than an email address from me at this point). Not sure how willing I am to follow through. Generally cagey about making new acquaintances whilst I’m still healing from past disappointments. Head home after Brandee Younger wraps up.

Jens takes a break from the show to walk me to the tram stop and waits until it arrives.

Soundtrack: Gifts & Sacrifices by Heidi Martin

Fragile

After mum’s visit, it’s back to reality. Despite the bleakness and my morale at an all-time low, by the grace of God I find the resolve to go to work.

There is some good news on the professional front. THRO’s impending financial gloom has been averted for the foreseeable future, thanks to canny diplomatic manoeuvres. 

Elsewhere, I hear things that deepen my sense of disillusion.  

There’s a two-tier system in place at The Organisation; those who were fortunate enough to join THRO when permanent contracts were handed out like sweets. Then, there’s everyone else.

If you’re not one of those jammy sorts with the golden ticket, to stand a chance at any upward mobility you have to go through an arduous selection process. This includes all-day tests, interviews and the like. The procedure takes several months. Most frustrating of all, those on fixed-term contracts -such as yours truly- would have already gone through all this carry-on to get a foot through the door in the first place.  Meanwhile, senior management pulls strings so that their friends and family get plummy positions via temporary contracts. They’re spared the indignity of job insecurity through these Godfather/Godmother-style connections. 

Fine. None of this is new to me.

What is new is learning that senior colleagues with permanent contracts, dogged by complaints and a dubious reputation, are simply moved on within the organisation or ‘reassigned’. Whilst those working on a fixed-term basis who fall out of favour with La Direction; well their contracts are simply not renewed.

The Human Rights Organisation, eh? Charity begins at home.

Recently a swathe of colleagues, including my line manager Sophie, have undergone one of these recruitment assessments (and not for the first time). During the preceding weeks they cram for a test that, in the end, pays little heed to the reference material. They spend the equivalent of a working day being made to jump through shape-shifting intellectual hoops. By the end, they feel shafted. Some don’t finish the paper. One colleague plans to make a formal complaint.

It’s as if we were set up to fail, Sophie observes ruefully.

The alternative strategy? Professional stagnation or seek opportunities elsewhere.

Previously, I have been adept at keeping a good work/life balance. Yet the office's disagreeable ambiance has started to insinuate its way into my personal life. I’m daily fighting to keep anxiety at bay. I’m not always getting a good night’s sleep. The fatigue exacerbates the unhappiness. I have to stop my thoughts from wandering to gloomier places.

Summer’s here and activities start to wind down. The first Friday of July, I expect to make a difficult choice between two places I’d like to be; an outing with the street team and choir practice. Both of these will be the last sessions before the long summer break.  In the end, neither go ahead that evening owing to poor turnout. The choir’s pot-luck is postponed until the following Friday. That suits me. I can delay the summer farewell for another week.

That Sunday after church, I’ve planned to meet up with recent acquaintance, Noelle in the picturesque Alsatian town of Barr. She’s based in Selestat, on the outskirts of Strasbourg herself. I’ve had to make my peace with trekking a little further for our meet-ups. She’s chosen Barr as a break from the norm. The views are to die for, Noelle insists. I don’t doubt it. I find that the aesthetic appeal of the Alsace region is consolation for its shortcomings.

Chateau Landsberg: Barr, France

The ominous forecasts of stormy weather do not materialise. Au contraire, il fait beau.

It’s a drama free commute to Barr. Noelle collects me from the station, dressed in jeans and trainers. It's the first time I've seen her in civs.  By contrast I am kitted out in my far less practical Sunday Best. My sandals are nonetheless sturdy and, as it turns out, more trustworthy than Noelle’s slippery trainers.

The first stop is the Andlau Chateau; dating back to the 13^th Century.

En route, Noelle comments on how much better my French is compared to when we last spoke.

Maybe you were tired but it was a bit of a disaster the other day.

I feel demoralised.

In fact, I’m probably more sleep-deprived this time, I explain. It really depends on the context. Perhaps my brain is just generally more alert during the day…

Noelle will proceed to correct my French at various points during the excursion. Later she will rephrase a message by text when I’m under the impression that it’s grammatically legit.

On the whole the outing is pleasant. The scenery is as lush as promised. The second stop at the Chateau de Landsberg reveals it to be more attractive still than its Andlau counterpart. The peripheries of the Black Forest in Germany can be seen from these heights. A group of Goths have organised a very modest-sized festival on the grounds. Noelle will later treat us both to Mint Diablos at an Inn with laid-back and friendly staff, overlooking more inviting verdure. We laugh often and Noelle speaks candidly about more painful chapters of her life.  And yet, what will remain of the day is her critique of my linguistic efforts (that, and the lingering suspicion she’s trying to recruit me into a cosmetics-flogging pyramid scheme).

Let’s get some perspective here. It’s not the end of the world if I make grammatical errors. It shouldn’t be. And yet I’ve reached a stage in my Alsatian Adventure where I’m especially fragile. Certain experiences have taken chunks out of what self-confidence I had; not least my current work situation. Living here has brought pre-existing neuroses to the surface like never before; something akin to the symptoms of an allergic reaction. If I was aware of my issues before, they’re flagged up even more in this context.

One area of particular sensitivity is my language skills; or rather the perceived personal failing it represents. After all, perfecting my French was one of the primary objectives of relocating to The Hexagon. It’s not as if I don’t welcome correction. It’s about the way it's done. A very French way; severe and dry. In a British anglophone context, you make corrections sparingly and in a tactful manner. An interlocutor would generally prioritise communication over accuracy.  In the Francophone context, the two might as well be inseparable.

I understand it’s cultural and reflects the strict pedagogy the French themselves undergo. It also betrays remnants of linguistic imperialism still at play, grounded in ideology that the French language (and by extension, the culture) is inherently superior, refined and has a 'civilising' effect on those who speak it. Thus, with the exception of some sympathetic individuals, non-Francophones feel as if they are constantly being judged on their linguistic merits. Any shortfall appears to be treated by the French as a moral failing. I am not alone in this sentiment. I’ve heard similar comments from many a non-Francophone on both sides of The Channel. Perhaps that perception is stronger in this region than elsewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s thoroughly dejecting. Faced by such exacting standards, it would be better for my peace of mind if I simply gave up trying to please the implacable. If only it were that straightforward. The pressure comes from within and without.

I would expect Noelle to know better. She lived  in the UK for over a decade. She should understand how challenging the process of acquiring another language can be; particularly if you grew up monolingual. She speaks good English but I’ve heard better from Francophones who’ve never lived in an Anglophone country. The difference is that I would not be pedantic about this.

The problem arises again the following day when I have a farewell meet-up with HRGS choir member, Elise. She’s returning to her hometown further south having lived in Strasbourg for several years.  She has a tendency to not only dryly correct my French but anything else she finds amiss. The comments aren't reserved just for me, either. I don’t know if this is a projection of her insecurities. At least on the language front, she’s gifted.

In any case, I’m not in the mood for it. Since waking up that morning, it’s been a battle to keep my emotions in check. I just about have a handle on things when I meet up with Elise. The melancholy is nevertheless close to the surface. It doesn’t take much for me to burst into tears. One too many of Elise’, no doubt well-intended, corrective remarks. I explain that this has been a long-standing niggle. For a while, I found myself avoiding her company. It is only right that I am candid with her. I apologise for this unintended absence.

Elise is contrite. She claims it's selfish of her to correct me so often, given I don't have trouble making myself understood.  I too feel bad. I hadn’t planned to dampen the mood of our parting rendez-vous. I’m also much older than Elise. I’m supposed to be robust. 

I am in the throes of one of my cyclical Strasbourg-related downturns. I intimate some of the issues at work. It resonates with Elise. She admits she’s stayed too long in the region. After a number of years trying to make the best of it, she’s finally relocating to be closer to her family. We have similar reservations about the local mindset. When Elise describes the choir as an oasis, she takes the words right out of my mouth.

It’s not right to complain when I am in good health and I live in relative luxury compared to much of the world. Those are the things I try to focus on when I’m in good form. Yet, there’s something about Strasbourg life that occasionally eats away at me. I believe I’m past the worst of it only for another vague à l’âme to momentarily wash over.

On the bright side, I’m due another upturn soon. It might be an uphill struggle sometimes but it's not a losing battle. Some wise words by Eitan Kenner, a musician I have recently interviewed on the beginning of his own spiritual journey, come to my rescue time and again. Like a God-sent refrain.

"...To me, God is just "being"; surrendering to the moment without all the background noise; without all the questions and all the little details..."

Soundtrack: Flamagra by Flying Lotus.

Alternative Arrangements

My treacherous laptop is back in the shop. Just over two years old and brand new on purchase, it’s given me nothing but grief since the time it was delivered. Thankfully, I’ve found a reputable-looking PC repair at the Rivetoile shopping centre. The downside is that a diagnostic takes anything from 1-2 weeks.  It’s not the first time I’ve had to make do without any entertainment at home thanks to Asus’ dodgy manufacturing.  I haven’t yet invested in a TV and I’m still debating whether it’s worth the additional expense.

I choose not to use smart technology, thus I’m out of the loop save for the four days out of the week I’m in the office. I hear about the postponement of the Nigerian elections as well as the shenanigans of ex-Labour Party saboteurs across the Channel, a day after the news breaks. Over the weekend I fear private email accounts overflowing with unopened messages. In fact, to my relief, it’s not that bad.

To keep myself distracted I catch up on my backlog of podcasts from the likes of Novara Media, The Sacred Podcast, On Being and NEF.  It’s a good time too to do some additional reading that I don’t always get round to during the day. I rediscover the singular interpretive talents of underrated Jazz vocalist, Anita O’Day. A jazz singer’s jazz singer, if ever there were one.

A weekend without Skype and Netflix gives me a Sunday afternoon free to attend a language exchange meet-up that I don’t usually frequent.  I’ve enjoyed myself a good deal at these events of late (the positive affirmation I receive regarding my language efforts doesn’t hurt, I must admit).

I’ve met a number of stimulating interlocutors. There’s Noelle whose birthday happens to be between Christmas and New Year but who was in fact named after a nun of whom her mother was fond. A Strasbourg native, we nonetheless have a few things in common. We’re the same age. She spent significant periods living and working in different parts of the UK. Although from the region, she can understand my trepidation regarding some aspects of life in Alsace. We both bemoan the unsolicited advice from those who believe they have the right to comment on the life choices of a 30-something single woman. There’s also the confusingly Anglophone-monikered Jim; an affable French polyglot who has picked up a number of Slavic languages as well as Italian on his travels. Good-natured Roisin wears away my initial guardedness with her unflappable geniality.  She’s on an intense linguistic sojourn in France, having always wanted to learn the language.  Currently based in Helsinki, and a former resident of Zurich, she’s also a fluent Finnish, German and Portuguese speaker ( courtesy of a month's intense study in Lisbon). 

Finnish? That’s impressive. One of the most difficult European languages, they say. Everything else must be a breeze.

Not according to Roisin. She still finds French a challenge.  It’s reassuring somewhat to learn that even seasoned multi-linguists struggle with La Langue de Moliere. I’m in good company.
 

Earlier that weekend I re-join the inter-denominational group in Strasbourg that reaches out to sexually-exploited women.  It’s been a while. The timetable of the outings has been more sporadic recently and there’s often a clash with my choir schedule. Being a new member, I’m not keen on missing too many rehearsals. However, neither do I want to abandon a ministry close to my heart. Skipping one practice a month wouldn’t hurt.

 (courtesy of Crossroads Bible Church)

We gather at what I am to find out is a thriving house church, with people of all ages and backgrounds; both genders equally represented. It feels like living in the Book of Acts. I meet middle-aged new convert Billy (another Francophone whose parents confusingly bequeathed him with an Anglophone nickname). I also rub shoulders with a couple of Austrian missionaries whom the church are hosting over the weekend. Initially feeling awkward, wondering if my struggle to make small talk in French will get in the way, I’m soon caught up in the invigorating energy of it all.  I recognise a few faces from church.  We're soon joined by the group leaders, Sabrina, Dieudonné and Luc. I help translate for congenial Austrian missionary, Karin.  Despite herself being a multi-linguist (including Turkish, which she learned growing up in Ankara), she does not have French in her linguistic repertoire.

It's a sizeable group.  Over 20 of us in total.  After a moment of prayer and praise, we split into smaller groups of twos and threes depending on our area of interests. Whilst some like Karin and I will be focused on the sexually-exploited, others reach out to those sleeping rough or, like Dieudonné, share the Good News with groups of young revellers. Contrary to expectation there are many millennials/Xennials and Gen-Z’s doing a lot of soul-searching, according to Dieudonné. This younger generation respond with more enthusiasm to the big metaphysical questions than the one before.  

I team up with Karin and founding member of the initiative, Luc.  We always aim to have one male per group, bearing in mind the target group’s clientele.

It's the day after Valentine's. Alongside the usual hot drinks, Luc has brought along some roses for the women. He gamely speaks in English for Karin’s benefit. Eager and full of compassion, I try to gently disabuse her of certain preconceptions regarding the women without dampening her spirit. As we approach a couple of the girls, a car approaches and discussion ensues.

Wow, this is heavy stuff. Karin observes. 

Yet her presence that evening is auspicious. We come across several women, even the more withdrawn amongst them willingly accepting our offer of warm drinks and conversation. (We're fast running out of hot water but, by the grace of God, there's just enough to go round.)
A number of the girls also welcome our prayers. When asked if she has any requests, young Diana only speaks her family's needs back in Albania. Life is tough, she explains. Luc asks if they know what she’s doing in France.

Yes.

We exchange kisses with the bright and assertive Laura. She switches with ease between French and fluid German with Karin; just two of the several languages she speaks.  

There are quite a few women with whom I’m yet to become acquainted. Collette is one such.

Collette. That’s very French.

That’s because I am.

I’m not used to meeting nationals who work the street. I compliment her mesmerising eyes, which bear the Maghreb traits of her mother’s Moroccan heritage.  They moisten whilst we pray for her and her two year-old daughter.  Collette dreams of one day becoming a seamstress; or any in-road into fashion retail. 

Round midnight, the various groups reassemble for an encouraging debrief. Billy’s gang were so warmly received by a group of rough-sleepers, that they used their meagre funds to buy a bouquet of roses to express their gratitude. Billy gives one flower to each of the women. I’m usually bah-humbug about Valentine's, with all its build-up, caricatures of romance and cynical commercialism. In these circumstances however, I am only too pleased to accept Billy's floral offering. A pink rose takes pride of place on my dining table. 

Soundtrack: Gilles Peterson in Brazil (Part 1), Anita O’Day: Four Classic Albums.

One Year On

The autumn season has a particular significance since beginning of my relationship with Strasbourg. It was in the autumn of 2016 that I first visited the City for my make-or-break interview with The Human Rights Organisation (THRO).  I fell in love with Strasbourg in all its red and amber glory. Alsace is very becoming during autumn. The beauty of the season is especially vibrant here.

The last Monday of October marks my first year anniversary in Strasbourg. It seems to have arrived quickly and yet there are moments that are already like a distant memory. I approach the date with some dread. There’s the usual anxiety about getting older; how time seems to speed up with age. There’s also the on-going neurosis about my linguistic progress. My main motivation for moving to France was to master the language. Anything less defeats the purpose.

Years ago, former Francophone acquaintances reassured me that all I needed was a few months in France.

You’ll be fluent in no time! 

Although at that period in life I was more confident, my language level was inferior to what it was on moving to Strasbourg.

A year on and this optimistic forecast is far from my reality. I blame my stubborn mediocrity and self-flagellate accordingly.

To mark my one-year milestone-which happens to fall on my day off- I intend to indulge a little. On the way out, I spot a photocopy of the building rules in my post box.  The section about noise has passive-aggressively been highlighted in orange.  As far as I can tell, my other neighbours have not received such a missive. The rules are harsher than I anticipated. We’re banned from using vacuum cleaners during the lunch hour for instance, and on public holidays (of which there are many). The sound insulation in the building is top notch. Apart from a couple of times when I’ve had my radio on a bit loud after 10pm, I try to be a model neighbour. I wonder about the identity of this resident who has neither the courage nor the courtesy to address me directly. 

I press on with my day. After catching a matinee of Le Procès Contre Nelson Mandela et Les Autres, I head to the salon for my monthly ritual of skin treatment and a massage. This time, I have decided to throw in the longer, anti-stress rub down. It’s on sale for those with a monthly subscription, as is the skin treatment. I am looking forward to my afternoon of bargain pampering. I’m assigned a therapist I’ve not met before.

Imagine thus my horror when settling the bill, to find that it’s substantially more than what I’d expected.

You changed treatment, remember?, my crafty therapist posits.

Did I?

I recall our conversation. She offered an alternative treatment. I didn’t quite get what she meant and didn’t want to keep asking her to repeat herself. I assumed it was the same treatment, adapted to my skin time. I left the decision to her. I trusted her expertise. I didn’t expect her to sneakily throw in extras without pointing out the price difference.

But, but…it’s not my first language. I completely misunderstood!

I’m chagrined. Where there have been previous miscommunications, I’ve been offered some compensation. Not this time. She just gives me a falsely apologetic smile. I don’t have the presence of mind to call her out on her own culpability. I’m in such a state I couldn’t form the words properly in any case. I don’t know what upsets me more; the added expense or the linguistic blunder. It isn’t even worth it in the end. The full-body massage is too intimate for my tastes, having had to strip down to my underwear. What’s more, the therapist half-arses it.

My day of celebration and pampering has taken a turn for the worse. I attempt unsuccessfully to keep F.Scott Fitzgerald’s level-headed advice in mind.

“…You mustn’t confuse a single failure with a final defeat…”

Nonetheless, I reflect, the snide note and the misunderstanding at the salon pretty much sums up my experience so far in Strasbourg.  Cold people and linguistic frustration. To feel this disappointed, I must have had more of the naïve optimism needed to make a major life change than I realised when I arrived. Whilst I’m in pity-party mode, I recall how so few of my UK acquaintances have paid me a visit; considering I’m just across the Channel and accommodation is free. I pass the evening in a weepy state. A lengthy catch-up with mum helps. She believes I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not so sure. I know too many talented multi-linguists. The bar is set very high.

Well maybe French is harder to master than English, Mum counters. 

I have heard that theory a number of times. It might carry some weight from what I’ve observed. Then again, never having had to learn English as a second language, I can’t really gauge. 

Mum is convinced I’m not in the position to measure my own progress. It echoes something one of my fellow sopranos mentions at our last choir rehearsal. She describes her experience studying English.

You’re not always the best judge of how far you’ve come. It’s others who will notice over time.

Hmm. Maybe. It’s the curse of the idealist/perfectionist. Doomed to dissatisfaction.  My polyglot acquaintances might be gifted but they aren’t superhuman. It’s not out of the realms of possibility. If I can’t meet my own standards, it’s not very encouraging. 

All that remains is to do as always. Persevere.

Contrary to what the above might suggest, I don’t regret relocating. And as must be obvious by now, I am prone to regrets.

If I had turned down the opportunity to work for THRO out of apprehension, I would have added a huge one to my already long list. 

Certainly, I didn’t factor in how difficult it would be to find accommodation. I didn’t expect an international city like Strasbourg to be as socially closed-off. There are times when the isolation has been like a stalking presence, particularly during the summer. I’ve experienced unfamiliar emotional lows out here. 

Still. No regrets.

I enjoy a standard of living that wouldn't be feasible in the current British economic climate. I have opportunities and the freedom to explore them that should not be taken for granted. 

Living in Strasbourg is teaching me how to be present, something I’ve often grappled with.

More recently, fleeting interactions have helped me see things from a different angle.

Left to my instincts, I seek to hold onto potentially good relationships. Everything in life needs to serve a purpose. If it doesn’t blossom into a fully-fledged friendship or comes to what I believe is a premature end, it has all been for nought. 

I’m learning to hold that interpretation a lot more loosely. Sometimes the ephemeral interaction is the point. It’s served a purpose, in that moment. If a potential acquaintance turns out to be a flake, it’s a shame but not the end of the world. They were there for me at a specific point in time when I needed it.

Adjusting my expectations accordingly takes a lot of the pressure off. I don’t feel as resentful about lost contacts (Javier, Serafine etc). I am not as aggravated as I have been about the insularity of the City. I am free to enjoy the experience for what it is. Anything more is a bonus.  

I hope to remain this philosophical. My initial one year contract has been extended to late spring 2019. The current financial climate at The Organisation means anybody bar permanent staff is potentially dispensable. All the more reason to take one step at a time. A chaque jour suffit sa peine.