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

Summer Nights

Onwards and upwards.

Things are starting to wind down now summer is in full swing. The halls of The Organisation are becoming quieter as colleagues vanish on leave. Not yet the case for me. I’m still busy organising a few last minute activities before the summer lull truly kicks in. A rearrangement of personnel is making my life easier, I can’t lie. But that’s for another, later blog.

In early July my Strasbourg lifeline, The High Rock Gospel Singers, meet for the last time before La Rentrée in September. The effect of the summer hiatus is already felt amongst the already fickle membership. That Friday night, I arrive to find an empty rehearsal space. Not having a Whats App account, I'm usually one of the last to know if practice has been cancelled again. I send an enquiring text to one of the directors. On their way. Transport problems.

In the end, only four of us gather for unhealthy snacks and an impromptu singalong; me, fellow soprano Aurélie and choir directors Kiasi and Evan. At the behest of the latter, we end up singing makeshift tributes to some of our favourite 90s-00s pop/R&B and Gospel acts. Rihanna, Beyoncé/Destiny’s Child, Neyo (them), Justin Timberlake (me), Janet, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Brandy, Christina Aguilera (shared)… Well, it’s mostly three of us playing this variation of Karaoke whilst Aurélie searches songs on her phone with which she’s not familiar. Sometimes, our trio’s harmonies spontaneously blend in a most enchanting manner.

If there is any hint of discord, it’s more theological; by way of discussing a controversial, highly gifted former Gospel singer. Not for the first time I have the impression that Kiasi and Evan’s understanding of the Good News is highly customised. The lines blur between enjoying the benefits of God’s grace and simply cherry-picking palatable aspects of scripture whilst ignoring the tougher portions. Kiasi and I have had friendly disagreement over these matters before. Again, albeit rather more tentatively, I venture to give an alternative viewpoint. I’m hesitant to spoil the ambiance. I can’t quite square if it is cowardice or discernment but it doesn’t seem the right time or place to pick this battle. Tempted to fret whether I’ve made a good decision, I have to remind myself that it’s God’s job to convince, not mine. I scarcely have a hold on my own issues. I pray for my brothers and by Divine grace, try and work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

It won’t be the last time I cross paths with Kiasi before the long summer break.

Etoile Bourse, Bastille Day fireworks: courtesy of jds.fr

That weekend is Bastille Day - the French National Holiday. It falls on a Sunday. I forsake my usual evening of rest to catch the late night fireworks. I contemplate inviting some acquaintances but decide to go it alone. I quite like the idea of floating through the crowds unencumbered. Living in Alsace, it's become a statement of sorts for me to fly solo at these large scale events. It's a response to what I perceive as co-dependency amongst the Strasbourgeois. Even if they don't like their own company, it shouldn't mean I am averse to mine.

Although still in the Étoile Bourse vicinity, the event's layout is different compared to 2018. Large areas are sectioned off. The security is heavier and it's less obvious where the crowd should gather. Thankfully, I arrive early enough to be able to lose time searching for a sweet spot. I end up not far from where my journey on foot began.

Like last year, it's a worthy spectacle. I don't detect the sort of cost-cutting measures that have beset the London fireworks displays I used to frequent. The light dancing off the reflective surfaces of the Malraux Médiathèque are as stunning as the main show itself. I'm plugged into my music player and pick tunes on a whim. The combined effect of the audio and visual stimulation is quite a trippy experience. Amen to natural highs.

(c) Pascale Ronson

The following week I’m pleasantly surprised to see Kiasi on stage as the opening act and BV’s at a free open-air Gospel concert in Place Kleber. It’s a late starter for a school night but I’m grateful to have made the effort. I stumble across HRGS soprano, Michelle. Over the months we’ve fallen into a positive dynamic. She’s akin to my Caucasian godmother, at least in the choir’s contest. She’s compassionate, encouraging and makes me feel safe. We already have plans to reconnect that Friday night, now rehearsals are officially over for summer.

Amidst the crowd we spot choir members and affiliates, past and present, including Aurélie. She joins us later. The main act herself is HRGS alumna.

The DJ set is on fire if a little schizophonic. He doesn’t -or can’t -mix. No song is played for longer than a minute. He hops from Anderson .Paak back to early 20th Century Jazz standards and forward again to The Jackson 5, then to 90s neo-soul and R&B. It sounds more like his personal collection on shuffle. Fortunately for him, he has good taste. I make the most of the snippets to get my groove on. As usual, our little group are some of the few dancing souls amongst the typically rigid Alsatian audience. Michelle is catching some of the magic on her trusty digital camera.

Meanwhile Kiasi and co s'éclatent sur la scene. I notice Jeanne from church’s gifted housemate, Annalise on keys. Jeanne is somewhere in the mix but I won’t find this out until I’m already on the way home.

HRGS members in the crowd have the advantage of being familiar with much of the repertoire as well as the specific arrangements. The main act’s compositions are a bit too bluesy for my taste but it does not impede my enjoyment. I’m a woman of simple pleasures. A confluence of factors make this one of my most memorable nights out in Strasbourg. Good music, good weather, good company, good atmosphere, Good God.

The night bus calls and the gig isn’t ending any time very soon. I bid Michelle farewell and beg off.

Soundtrack: Money (single) by Michael Kiwanuka & Tom Misch, In My Element by Robert Glasper, The Blu James LP.

Visit Number Five: Part Two

Krutenau district, Strasbourg

Part One

The psychological comfort and familiarity of mum’s presence is an indescribable morale boost. My discouraging work situation has taken its toll. Mum comments a number of times that I’m more irritable.

I’ve always been a bit uptight. I counter, defensively.

Not like this.

I have no qualms admitting that my battle with anxiety has intensified of late; despite my prayers and non-chemically assisted efforts to stay on top of it (including said missing gratitude journal). Depressives often say that it is of no help at all when told to ‘cheer up’. If it were that easy, they wouldn’t need the advice. I believe anxiety works the same. Telling someone to relax is as counter-productive as ‘cheer up’. Mum is doing her best to understand. She is well-versed about my current professional situation. I don’t like to worry her by being so visibly unsettled by it.

Better out than in, she admonishes.

That Thursday we’ve arranged to have dinner with my gastronomically-astute pal, Gael. He and mum met on her previous visit with sis. The rapport was instant. Gael has mentioned introducing me to some more of what Strasbourg has to offer on the cuisine front. Mum’s trip is the perfect opportunity to make good on these intentions. He knows I like food from the MENA region. He sends me a selection of his personal recommendations from which to choose. By pure coincidence, I opt for Chevaliers in Krutenau; a restaurant he happens to be taking over for his new Afropean venture. It’s a splendid evening. The food is fine, if not spectacular. The customer service and present company make the night what it is. We talk and laugh late into the evening. Polyglot Gael switches to English for mum’s sake. He’s a knowledgeable and genteel interlocutor. He and mum swap tales about their West African childhoods. We’re intrigued by his extensive travels across the Motherland. Mum asks which country he enjoyed the most. Zimbabwe, he replies. It’s so much more than the dire news reports which we’re used to in the West.

Gael generously offers to pay for our meals. We insist on taking care of a decent tip for our gracious host, Hassiba.

On the bus back, a notification flashes on the electronic screen: Free transport all day Friday. It will be extended for the whole weekend by the following day. The City Council want to encourage drivers to leave their car behind. It’s great news for mum. She’ll barely use any of her transport credit during her trip.

Told you, mum. You bring good fortune. 

Back to work the next morning but only for half-a-day. TGIF, albeit a hectic one. Held up by last minute hitches at the office, I’m running late for a rendez-vous with mum and another one of our Strasbourg-based pals, Catarina. It’s almost a year to the day when we met at a church barbecue. Then, the country was in the grip of World Cup fever for the men. This year it’s the women’s turn. Alas, Les Bleues don’t take home the trophy this time.

We’ve agreed to meet Catarina at one of my regular haunts, Oh My Goodness! It’s been a while since she has spoken English. Bless her, she makes the effort for mum. I believe she appreciates the practice. Her knowledge of the current French political situation is impressive; as is her awareness of some of the UK’s neo-liberal travails. She predicts that Macron’s right-wing economic reforms will only drive the working class into Le Pen's clutches. It's something I’ve feared since his mandate began.

We part ways with Catarina at the tram stop and hop on the D to Kehl Rathaus. I want to show mum the changes since her last visit. As is her habit, she treats me to various household items for my flat.

I’m in a hurry but don’t wish to rush her. I have choir rehearsal that evening. I am reluctant to miss it. The following day we'll do our last show before the two and a half-month summer break. As a compromise, I notify the choir directors I might be late. I arrive even later than intended, having been hijacked by an email from a Labour Party-affiliated organisation of which I’m a member. They are reacting to another fomented ‘scandal’ with a disappointing lack of discernment and goodwill. Disillusioned, I let them know exactly what I think.

I feel the anxiety returning. I try to put it to the back of my mind on the way to choir practice, where temporary reprieve awaits.

It’s not just infuriating messages in my inbox that have set me off. The weekend schedule has run away from me. There are occasions where activities accrue until I find myself having to be in numerous places all at once. I’ve promised mum a market trip in the morning en route to a half-day conference at church. That evening my choir, HRGS will be part of the line-up of an open-air solidarity gig. I’ve had to jettison the idea of the free Petite France Happy Tour, I’d wanted to squeeze in.

Mum tries not to let my agitation get to her. Somehow I unwind despite running behind schedule. By the time we’re wandering through the market near Esplanade, picking up some unexpected bargains along the way, I’m pretty Zen about whether or not I’ll make the seminar. I’ve already emailed the organisers that I might be a no-show.

It's a full blown heatwave. My attention falls on a man in a brown leather jacket. What a fashion statement in this weather. I'm wondering how the poor thing copes. He starts to jerk, yell, and disappears through the crowd moving frenetically. I catch sight of his soles, hanging out of leather flip-flops. They're greyish-green with deep, canyon-like crevices. It takes me a few moments to recover from this apparition.

Mum and I head towards my church after thoroughly perusing the market wares. We’ll stop by at the Lidl’s opposite the church building but not before I pop into the conference to show my face. I’m not surprised to only have met the post-seminar refreshments. The organisers appreciate my efforts in any case. It’s a brief but edifying moment of fellowship over vol-au-vents.

At the LICRA Solidarity Open Air Performance,
Place St. Thomas, Strasbourg

After shopping it’s home again for some rest, preparation of supper and other tasks. I change into my evening outfit before mum and I head back out to St. Thomas’ Square for the Solidarity gig. Organised by anti-racism NGO, LICRA, the show is dedicated to 21-year old Afghan refugee, Habib who took his life in late May; dejected by a lack of financial and moral support. My mind will frequently return to this young man over the coming days. The event's hosts speak of how this isn’t representative of an international and welcoming city such as Strasbourg. Hmm. Even for those with creature comforts, the so-called Capital of Europe is alienating at the best of times. I can only imagine thus how desperately lonely and frustrating it would be for someone with neither language nor means.

Despite the tragic circumstances, the ambience is nonetheless celebratory. To my pleasant surprise, HRGS come out in encouraging numbers; even those who haven’t been to rehearsals for a while. Mum is a hit with the members. She has no issues communicating, many of them being fluent English-speakers. For the first time I hear the extent of Elise’ auto-didact linguistic genius. Her English is pretty impeccable for someone who has never studied it officially beyond secondary school. I feel inadequate.

The obligatory comments about mum’s youthfulness are forthcoming and welcome by both of us. Mum sits in on our practice. Five choirs use what available space there is to go over their repertoire. HRGS attracts a lot of attention before and during the performance. We’re second on the bill. It will be one of our best gigs to date; save for a very ropey rendition of The Circle of Life. Mum doesn’t have any compunction giving this frank feedback to choir directors, Evan and Kiasi. They receive it in good-humour.

The vibrant atmosphere is palpable. I am relieved and delighted to observe mum in her element. She thanks me repeatedly for bringing her along. She is touched by the choir's friendliness. Not for the only time during this trip, my mind goes to Maya Angelou's observations about the mother/child relationship. She speaks of how the very presence of a mother can change how your acquaintances perceive you; an invisible, protective force field.

After our presentation, most of the choir sticks around to see the other acts and for the grand finale performance of We Shall Overcome. All the choirs are supposed to perform. By the end, there are hardly any remaining. A choir specialising in Broadway standards and Yiddish folk-music take up a lot of stage time. As does the final jazz-folk vocalist. He’s meant to limit his set to three songs. We’re appreciative of his particular stamp on El Paso Condor and join in gamely with Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Then, emboldened by the crowd’s warm reception, he launches into a slow, folky-soul rendition of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall; a bizarrely morose choice.

It’s around this time, well past 11pm, the rest of us leave en masse towards the tram stop; save for Elise. It’s her last concert with HRGS before she moves down south to be closer to her family. Evan reminds us about the last rehearsal before summer. My heart sinks. It clashes with the last outing of the street team.

See you in September then.

I start singing EWF's hit. Inside however, I'm crestfallen.

I don’t know when next I’ll perform with the chorale. My heart breaks at the thought of another lonely summer stretched out before me; the activities that were a life-line on hold for months. That, and the thought of mum’s looming departure back to the UK, reduce me to hot tears several times that weekend.

Sunday morning doesn’t go according to plan. I have to change outfits owing to a malfunctioning zip. Time escapes me. I’m the one who makes us late to church in spite of nagging mum to be ready by half-9. On arriving, I find that the English interpretation service is not yet ready. I panic at the idea of having to do the translation again; one week after another shaky turn on the rota.

Much ado about nothing. Two interpreters turn up for this week’s session.

The message that Sunday is about knowing our value before God; how it's important to understand our own in order to properly affirm others. It's an interactive affair with short dramatic interludes and video clips. At the end, I offer tearful prayers to heaven. The sermon has taken on a personal urgency.

Mum will admit later that the translation isn’t as fluid as previously. The interpreter is a novice who disappears before the service is over, leaving me to translate the announcements.

We meet and greet a few familiar faces and head back in the direction of Étoile Bourse. Mum would like us to spend some time at the Orangerie; the park a stone's throw from my office. Just being in the vicinity of work makes me uneasy. Yet I can still appreciate the serenity of the adjacent green space.

It's a sweltering day; high 30s. We miss two of the irregular buses, partly down to a timing mistake on my part. I take every trivial disappointment to heart that morning; feeling personally responsible.

Calm down. Please. Do you see me upset? Mum reassures. We got here eventually. 

As was the case last year, something about the tranquillity of the Orangerie sparks off a tearful, soul-searching conversation with mum. I recount how anxiety and guilt have stalked me since childhood. Wrestling with perfectionism and feelings of inadequacy. We continue to share and pray. Faced with my anguish, Mum brings a healthy balance of compassion and rock-solid support.

Still, my weepiness gets her going a number of times. We both try to hold onto the night; eating a homecooked meal including mum’s jollof rice and akara bean cakes (by special request) and resuming our unofficial custom of watching Tales of The Unexpected. We go to bed long after 1am.

Monday morning. A week exactly since our Basel visit. Mum’s bags are packed, ready for the coach station. My flat is spotless, as it always is after one of her stays. I cry all morning. I recover, only to unceremoniously burst into tears. Mum prays for me before we leave.

God sees your tears.

I’m crying whilst speaking to mum on the bus; not about anything especially sad. Mum worries the other passengers will think something is amiss. My make up runs. I check my yellow summer dress for foundation stains. Mum wells up. I don’t want to upset her but can’t stop. I’ll be weeping on and off for the rest of the day.

By the grace of God, this will only be a temporary separation. Yet in light of my current issues at work, the coming hiatus of my extra-curricular activities and the general isolation of Strasbourg- most of all over summer-it feels more painful than usual. I try to keep perspective, thinking of the despair of poor Habib and those who have it worse off. That only sets me off again.

You’ve always been a sensitive soul. Mum remarks, waiting at the coach stop at Étoile Bourse.

Her luggage has been stowed away but neither of us are ready for her to board. Assured by the driver we still have some time, we prolong our farewell. The engine starts. Mum takes her seat. Normally, I leave once she’s safely on board. This time I wait, straining to see her through the tinted windows.

She waves; giving me a big, reassuring smile. Tears streaming down my face, I turn aside melodramatically. I intend to wait until the coach pulls away. Mum, seeing my distress, signals for me to leave. Realising that it would be unfair to her to remain whilst in this state, I turn to go; somewhat relieved.

Later, I'll recall that I didn’t even cry this much on my first day of school. I didn’t cry at all.

What do you know. A few years shy of 40 and I still want my mum.

Soundtrack: No Freedom Without Sacrifice by Homecut.

Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 2

Abbaye de Senones

Part 1

The day after my anti-climactic experience at the Fête de la Musique, I participate in my first wedding performance with HRGS choir. The ceremony is to take place at the Abbaye de Senones, deep in the Vosges mountains located in Alsace’s famous twin region, Lorraine. That morning, the weather on the Strasbourg side of the border is not at all promising for the happy occasion.

Stalwart HRGS member Elisabeth and her husband, Gilles-Pierre give the choral delegation a lift in their people carrier. We take the scenic route in every sense of the word; spending a good deal of time getting lost in ghost towns and villages in the shadows of the Vosges. All the better to enjoy the sumptuous landscape. I’m knackered but fight to keep my eyes open to take in the scenery, as well as avoid any snooze-related embarrassment. Apart from the light-hearted squabbles in front about the unreliability of the GPS, it would be a placid ride. That is, except for the harping of contralto Inès. Any obnoxiousness I’ve observed from afar isn’t purely down to my uncharitable side. In this confined space her screeches- becoming more shrill with each mile- are a true test of the patience. I assume she thinks being loud is synonymous with charisma. She wouldn’t be the first.

At last we arrive at the ruins of the Abbaye, where more stunning views of the surroundings await. The weather has also cheered up.

After several years together, Julien and Josette are finally tying the knot. The civil ceremony is to take place under a portico in one of the Abbaye's vast yards. The choir perform in between speeches and the exchange of rings. I admire the efficiency of the proceedings. The whole affair takes less than an hour. Not at all like a black wedding, I mutter to Elise, mischievously. The bride and groom aren't hours late, for a start. Neither are the guests, quips Elise.

Suffice to say it’s a mono-cultural affair. Scarcely a brown face amidst friends and family. Our multicultural choir adds most of the diversity.

Lifelong friends and the couple's mothers give brief and emotive speeches on the journey J+J have walked together.  It occurs to me that if I were to marry, I have no childhood friends left to bear witness to my journey. C’est la vie. Weddings are a strange cocktail of solemnity and celebration. Nothing like these community rituals to provoke contemplation. 

If Josette is moved, Julien is beside himself. He tries to restrain the tears. By the middle of the ceremony, he’s sobbing with red-faced abandon. Julien’s cheeky groomsmen offer something strong to drink to steady his emotions. When his five-year old daughter gives her short, tiny-voiced tribute, it’s all over. He even gets Inès going. I start to thaw towards her. I ask if she’s all right and compliment her rich-chocolate complexion.

On the couple's request, the choir’s repertoire is also a mix of the solemn and festive. From Cohen's Hallelujah to an especially jubilant rendition of This Little Light of Mine at the end. I manage not to fluff my I Have a Dream solo this time. After, the service I’m starved. Thankfully, there’s an abundance of tasty appetisers that amount to a banquet; if consumed in the large quantities that we do.

On the way back to rainy Strasbourg, choir co-director Evan, Elise and I humour ourselves with impromptu Karaoke. Our unpredictable repertoire encompasses anything from Queen, Tina Turner, The Commodores, Janet Jackson, Stevie Wonder, The Sister Act 2 OST, Celine Dion, The Verve and New Jack Swing. These 90s babies make me feel old. They are surprisingly au fait with some vintage hits but have significant gaps in their knowledge of tunes from the decade when they were born.

I savour this moment of pure, unexpected pleasure. Elise will be leaving us soon to start life again the South. I don’t know either exactly when my Strasbourg adventure will end. I sense nonetheless that it's imminent.

That weekend, I have one more musical stop courtesy of the annual summer festival Pelouses Sonores. En route to collect mum from the coach station for a week long visit on Sunday, I pass by Le Parc des Deux Rives near Port du Rhin for some Afrofunk. The stickly front-man dresses like Fela and writes and arranges tunes like JB.

Pelouses Sonores is one of the few – if only – occasions where I’ve witnessed Strasbourgeois truly throw off inhibition en masse to shake their (often rhythmically-challenged) selves. Arms and legs flailing, lit cigarettes in the air and pre-pubescent girls doing somersaults in the corner.

I make the most of the liberated ambiance to shimmy a little myself.

When the band leader starts to exhort the practice of voodoo however, this church girls takes it as her cue to exit.

Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 1

In France, the summer solstice coincides with the National Day of Music.  Last year, through ignorance I missed out on what sounded like a world of fun.  I won't make the same mistake. For a start, it falls on a Friday night; the weekend invitingly stretched out ahead.  Furthermore, choir practice has been cancelled; possibly because several members plan to skive off to catch some of the action.

The list of events looks tantalising. I have a few showcases in mind but first I hope to support my manager Sophie and her husband Marcel's Brazilian percussion band. It will be their swan song gig.  After 15 years performing Batacuda as an outfit, Marcel wants to focus on other ventures.

My evening timetable is scuppered pretty early on, however. I leave work much later than usual owing to a last minute hitch.  A friend from London texts me for prayer and moral support.  I call to see how she is doing. It's a half-hour well spent.  Unfortunately, I miss the kick-off of Sophie and co's ambulant performance. I wander the streets of Broglie, heading to the Cathedral; trying to follow the route that Sophie has outlined.  In my percussive pursuit, I pass a couple of sound-systems that mildly pique my interest but I can't allow myself to be distracted.

Peine perdue. I can't locate them. I don't even hear drums in the distance.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg heave with activity. Crowds gather around Zumba dancers and impromptu drumming. The main stages are large scale festival-style affairs. No expense spared. The sun is out.  The smell of over-priced street food, from different corners of the globe, fills the already humid air.  It's the closest Strasbourg gets to the Notting Hill Carnival-sans floats, Calypso and Soca.

I drift from one stage or sound-system to another in search of enticing grooves.  Without much trouble I work my way to the front of the main stage in Place Kleber, trying to avoid the panoramic gaze of the cameras. I stifle giggles during the set of a Jazz/Funk/Pop outfit. The musicians are solid but I'm tickled by the lead singer's cheesy nasalised vocals, English-as-second-language lyrics and overall corny demeanour.  I've seen enough here. I head to Petite France for a DJ set promising Electronica and Soul amongst other things.  Cutting through Grand Rue, I stumble upon members of the Extreme inter-church Outreach Group sharing the Good News with revellers. One of them is incredulous that I'm out alone.

I'm a Londoner. We do what we want.

This concept appears somewhat alien to the Strasbourgeois. It's the same old story. Everywhere I look, people hang around in their tight cliques. Very few, if any, are solo travellers and none are female from what I gather.  I feel a mixture of bemused fascination over this compulsion to group and smugness about my seasoned independence.

On the other hand, spontaneous encounters with like-minded individuals are far less likely to occur.

There isn't much dancing going on either. When I arrive at the Petite France sound-system, punters are sitting around in groups (naturally); smoking, talking, eating...All things they could do at home.

Place de Kléber, image courtesy of France 3 Régions

I hang around a little to check out the music policy and people-watch. The music isn't bad but it would be odd to be dancing when no-one else is. As a lone female, I don't want to attract unnecessary attention.  I send some update texts to the UK in the meantime. When I look up, I notice some chancer has sidled up undetected whilst I've been distracted. A tad unnerved, I make an early departure. Nothing really to see here.

The next stop is the 'urban' stage at Étoile Bourse. I circumnavigate the crowds by taking a scenic detour via Lycée Pasteur, exploring new corners.

A couple of the lasses from my choir, HRGS, will be putting on their dancing shoes for a set at la scène urbaine. The atmosphere is vibrant, no question. The peninsula is rammed. It's difficult to breathe smoke-free air. There's a concentration of security in the area. The DJ sets are underwhelming; non-descript commercial Afrobeat, Ragga or Hip-Hop fodder that sounds like knock-off Drake.

I'm bored.  I've spent the evening searching in vain for an above-average sound system. I'm a woman of simple pleasures. That's all I ask.  Alas, even that seems too much. This town has a way of disappointing my expectations before I realised I had any.

First world problems.

I text fellow chorister, Claire to check when she's scheduled to perform.  I didn't plan to stay late but I'm here now. She's on her way. She suggests I look out for her partners-in-dance; mingling in the crowd near the main stage. Whilst searching for them a young, all-female troupe commence a raunchy routine to a bass-heavy medley.  The audience go into a frenzy. A few of the girls are dancing in their knickers. Literally. T-shirt & panties. Squatting and shaking their exposed bum cheeks. I avert my gaze. Still, much as I don't care for women self-objectifying, I have to hand it to them. It takes some temerity to do a vigorous dance routine in public dressed in little more than underwear. As they exit, one of the larger girls grabs her right buttock and, with a sly smile to the audience, jiggles it.

I can't see my acquaintances.

I spot some other revellers climbing up the steps of the André Malraux Médiatheque next door. I like the idea of the expansive view from the top and follow suite. A couple of floors from the top I lose my nerve. I can see straight down through the griddled metallic steps. My vertigo kicks in. The holes also allow a group of little pot-smoking perverts to look up my skirt whilst I climb to the next floor.

I give up on the third storey, fearing there's not enough to protect me should I lose my balance. I sit down on the steps to text Sophie an apology. To my surprise, she texts back right away. The band are around the corner from the Cathedral. I toy with the prospect but know I won't make it there and back in time to catch Claire & co's performance. Shame.

I rejoin the crowds for more monotone tunes. I'm just killing time at this point. The anticipated dance routine is impressive from what I can see at a distance, with no glasses. Two Senegalese siblings from the chorale, Fatima and younger sis Farida in particular, prove themselves skilled Afro-beat performers. But no sign of Claire. I text to find out why. I'm injured, is the response, I was just filming the show.

The crowd is by now so dense that I only emerge from the Presqu'ile in time to see my bus disappearing into the distance.

On my way to the stop, I bump into a glamorous and outgoing colleague from The Human Rights Organisation, out with her family.

So how've you found it? she asks

Meh, as the Yanks would say.

I enjoyed the people-watching but... and proceed to list my Fête-related quibbles.

I love the typically British moan-y response. She teases.

(For one thing, I don't consider myself that British.)

Dancing en masse in the streets? Hardly. She tells me to adjust my expectations. She's lived in different cities around the world.  There's a limit to how excitable Strasbourg gets. This is it.

Donc, je sais maintenant.

Still en route to the bus stop, kept company by K-Os' 2010 album Yes! (far better than anything I've heard all evening), a couple of lads pass by. The Caucasian one mouths something in my direction. I remove my earphones.

Pardon?

Vous etes ravissante.

Ah, merci.

Je vous vraiment en prie.

Ego-boosts from handsome blokes. I'll take some of that.

Maybe this night wasn't a complete wash-out after all.

Soundtrack: Yes! by K-Os.

Part 2

Easter Delight: Part 1

My Easter weekend starts early when I take leave on Maundy Thursday to attend a rare performance by one of my favourite contemporary artists, Benny Sings. The Dutch singer/songwriter is passing through Paris on the European leg of his tour. Whilst he regularly plays one off shows in the Land of the Rising Sun to his loyal and sizeable Japanese fanbase, Sings is not as active on his native continent.

It’s thus worth the inflated high-season travel fare. I don’t know when I’ll next have the opportunity. The train is too exorbitant, even with discount card so it’s the circuitous coach route for me. I opt for the early bus, giving me a whole day to catch up with acquaintances based in the French capital. The coach arrives well over an hour late owing to seasonal traffic, we’re told.  I frantically text my Parisian chums to rearrange my schedule. The knock-on effect of the delay isn’t as bad as I envisaged, however. We drive into Bercy bus garage only three-quarters of an hour later than planned.

First on my list is Julie. We met many moons ago via a language exchange group when she was based in London. Having since returned to France, our correspondence has become more sporadic. Our friendship would've been old news if it weren't for my stubbornness.  Apart from her occasional visits to the UK, life would get in the way. When I was in town last summer, it was mere weeks before her wedding to fellow Martinican, Jérémie. This will be our first face-to-face in at least four years. My hectic timetable doesn’t allow for more than an hour to summarise the last few years over a delicious crepe. After a rocky start on her return to France, Julie’s life has evolved in many respects. She looks refreshed; embracing both the challenges and blessings of newly-wed life.

She escorts me back to Gare de L’Est where I meet some of my Paris-based Labour International comrades.  The already good-natured bunch is in high spirits. The sun helps. After a few weeks of cold and/or wet weather, a scorcher takes us by surprise. Following the unveiling of the freshly-printed LI banner that new member Tim has designed (drawing quizzical looks from passers-by), we head to a nearby café for drinks and conversation. Next stop is a fly-by-night chat in the 11^th Arondissement with Rhys, another like-minded LI comrade. Appearances can be deceptive. Without prior knowledge of his politics, if I were to purely go by a superficial appraisal I would have Rhys down as a true—blue Tory rather than a red-blooded socialist of long-standing. In less than an hour we cram in an overview of the last 15 years of French politics and the appeal of AOC. I have much to learn from him. A pity we run out of time. Rhys has a meeting to officiate and I head off to Badaboum for Benny’s show.  

Compared to my last couple of European musical excursions, I arrive with time to spare. The intimate venue reminds me a little of the re-vamped London Jazz Café. I find a choice spot where I plant myself all evening. It turns out to be an auspicious decision. I’m right in the line of vision of support act Ed Mount when he inconspicuously weaves his way through the audience. I shower his performance with plaudits. Previously ignorant of his electro-soul oeuvre, I have become an instant fan. 

We both observe that Sings has more of a French fanbase than we’d have expected. By the time he steps on stage, guitar by his side, the Badaboum is heaving. I sing along word-for-word to almost every song. My uncharitable pedantic side questions the dedication of many of the other revellers, who only seem to be au fait with recent material. Not that it should matter. It’s an electric evening. Even the apparently mellow and self-effacing Benny is buoyed by all the good energy.

At the coach station I call my mum to check if my sister has arrived yet from Japan. Yep, it’s happening. My baby girl is back on Western European turf. For a little bit anyway.

She flew into town that morning and has a clubbing session planned with friends. My good mood is enough to sustain me through an overnight ride back to Strasbourg and awkwardly-positioned sleep.

Arriving in Strasbourg the early hours of Good Friday, I have caught the wrong end of the already sporadic public holiday transport service. Stepping off the tram for the long-ish walk back to my flat, I spot the errant boyfriend of a colleague/neighbour shuffling towards the homestead.

Soundtrack: The Best of Benny Sings, Data feat. Benny Sings, Don’t Sing.

Pre Festive-Frenzy

The Christmas-related busyness has begun. 

The lead up to this year's celebrations coincides with the one year anniversary of moving into my flat. I commemorate the occasion by making my surroundings suitably and tastefully festive.

My choir’s unofficial tour of the Alsace region continues into December. We have two shows scheduled the second week of the month.

Members’ turnout is starting to diminish, including musical director Kiasi, whose day-job commitments call him away.

That Saturday, it’s a joint performance with Voix Solidaire; another community choir. Their MD, Richard, happens to be one of the founding members of HRGS (he is quite keen to stress the connection). The event is confusingly called a telethon. Apparently, in France these aren’t necessarily the televised fundraisers of yesteryear where celebrities pretend to take donations over the phone. It’s just a straightforward charity gig.

Members of VS make encouraging noises whilst we run through the night’s repertoire (still no Christmas songs). The two choirs are to collaborate on a couple of numbers.

Assistant choir director, Evan reminds us that it’s not the size of the choir, but the heart (it’s a play on words that works better in French). Still, he’s struggling. With Kiasi away, he can’t sing with the tenors who are especially thin on the ground. It’s true that we can produce a good sound with few people but it depends on who has shown up. Some have sharper musical sensibilities than others.

It’s showtime. We open with a combined performance of a traditional East African chorus. HRGS then leave the stage to let VS continue, taking our seats in the front row. A couple of the veteran members (now on maternity leave) are in the audience. I'm anxious to impress. I don’t want them to think the standard has deteriorated because of the newbies.

VS are a choir in the loosest sense of the word. Apart from Richard occasionally assisting us with his trusty bass and a gamely tenor (whom I wish we could poach), the other members have either forgotten their harmonies or didn’t have a concept of them in the first place. To make matters worse they swipe one of our medleys, butcher it and have the nerve to invite us on stage to partake in the carnage.

I can’t speak for the rest of the choir but I lose my sang-froid after that. My concentration is all over the place and my vocal range compromised by a cold. The rest of the choir isn’t on the best form either. Evan ditches one of the numbers on which I was meant to do a duet with fellow soprano Louise. He opts instead for some tunes for which we don’t have enough personnel to do justice.  One of the contraltos is off-key. He’s also having difficulty pitching us correctly. Too many false starts. Kiasi manifests towards the end. The mortification is complete. I leave straight after the show. It’s the worst performance since I joined the choir.

Or so I think, until the next day when do another telethon.

There are fewer of us. No Kiasi again. The pitching is still all over the place. Evan makes the mistake of giving a soprano solo to a contralto that is not a soloist and has a limited range. The result is strangled. A fellow new member is forcing herself to sing soprano when she’d sit more comfortably at a lower range. Another soprano descends into a fit of giggles and has to be reprimanded. It’s the first time I’ve seen Evan genuinely upset. My cold has worsened and my voice is unreliable. I’m trying to fill in the harmony gaps for missing members but find it hard at the best of times to project my bottom range.

Oh well. At least we’re given free cake and drinks at the end. The car journeys are fun too. En route to and from Strasbourg we sing along to Christine & the Queens (Evan is a fellow fan) and discuss the latest twists and turns of the Gilet Jaune movement that has taken over France. The choir is a good litmus test for Macron’s failing appeal; if it were ever there. He’s not popular, even amongst those who I assumed weren't politically radical.

Working mum Elisabeth says she doesn’t approve of the violence. However, she understands the why the motley movement protests against the escalating cost of living and the French president's seeming indifference. She and her family are just about keeping their head above water, she says. Besides, she adds, Macron only started to take the campaign seriously when it turned violent. 

It doesn’t surprise me that chickens have come home to roost. I never trusted former banker Macron and his third way approach. We’d seen it all before in the UK and where it leads. Nonetheless, any triumph I feel that Macron’s admirers across the Channel have been proved wrong comes at the cost of a frustrated French populace.

The following Friday is jam packed with activity. I have an appraisal in the morning that’s been postponed owing to my manager Lucia’s hectic schedule and, more recently, because of the terrorist attack in the City Centre earlier that week. That afternoon we have our team Christmas lunch and in the evening I’m performing again with HRGS. Despite the delicate security situation, the choir directors want to press ahead with the album fundraiser we had planned.

My appraisal goes fairly well. Lucia is pleased with my progress. One thing remains an issue. I’m still considered too reserved. My colleagues want to see me popping in and out of their offices more often. I challenge this objection as politely as I can. It strikes me as a nonsense. Following my previous appraisal, I’m already making a concerted effort to be more ‘visible’, speaking to colleagues in person rather than always by email and joining in with the odd tea and coffee break.

Lucia thinks I’m shy. I explain this is not the case. I’m just used to a different working culture (less 1984 I should add. I don’t say this).

Lucia suggests I attend one of the courses on working in a multi-cultural environment. I agree reluctantly and sign up. The next one is not until the Autumn 2019. I don’t bloody well need it anyway. I was born and raised in one of the most diverse cities in the world. I’ve worked in organisations far more multicultural than THRO; where I don’t even need both hands to count all the brown employees, excluding manual staff. Without wanting to blow my own cosmopolitan horn, I could teach The Organisation a thing or two about multiculturalism.

After stewing over it, I courteously explain my misgivings to Lucia the following week. To my mild surprise, she doesn’t contradict.

I forgot you came from London, she admits.

The team Christmas lunch is a more subdued (and thankfully economical) affair compared to 2017. There are fewer of us. Sophie doesn’t make her promised cameo. Other staff have moved on, are on mission, on leave or have other engagements. My office mate Daphnia is a saving grace. I feel more at ease speaking with her over my pot roast and tartine (glorified toast, rather than the quiche I have been expecting). She is fuming over what she sees as a callous reaction from some politicians to the death by shoot-out of the perpetrator of Tuesday’s attack, Cherif Chakatt. Only God can judge, she insists.

That evening I make my way through heightened security to St Paul Le Vieux church for the choir’s performance. It’s a welcoming space; far more modern than I expect. As if to make up for the poor turn out of the last couple of performances, the choir is out in full force. There are members present that I’ve only seen sporadically during rehearsals. Better still, Kiasi is free to conduct this evening. He’s been missed. Thanks to his innate abilities and great pitch, he makes choir directing look easier than it obviously is. 

SPLV church (courtesy of Alsace-Lorraine Photos)

He and co-director Evan have planned that we perform our splendid interpretation of Kumbaya as a flash mob. We blend with the audience, begin singing from our seats and gradually make our way to the stage. Considering we haven’t rehearsed it thoroughly, it’s a slick operation. I’m aware of making some errors especially being too hesitant to belt at key moments, given that the choir is scattered around the room and we’re not singing in our usual sections. Nevertheless it’s a transcendent moment; fitting as a homage to Chekatt’s victims. The church acoustics enrich the harmonies. It feels like a dream. I deem the whole performance a success; the best show I’ve done with HRGS.

At the end of the gig, I’m approached by Yvonne. She wants to apologise for earlier putting my nose out of joint. I took umbrage with her overly-inquisitive questions about my origins and comments about my Anglophone accent. It makes me self-conscious.

I’m Nigerian too. I had a feeling we had a similar background.

She is very conciliatory, showing true Christian good will. I relent and explain why I reacted so defensively. I know she means no harm. I can also be quite moody and guarded when I want to be. I keep this part to myself.