A Place to Call Home...At Last

 

My moving in date draws tantalisingly closer. I’ve told hotel owner Nik, that I’m moving out by early September. I pay him for the first week of the month, to cover myself should any of my plans go awry.

I contact the removal company with the exact details of my new address. The earliest they can schedule is the first Monday of the month; the same day the internet is due to be installed. The delay turns out to be a blessing in disguise. European bureaucracy is still slowing me down.

I attend an inventory of the flat a few days before the move. The expert, M. Poêle, is held up. When he arrives, he’s thorough to the point of pedantry. There is, however, a genial side to his officiousness. He's a Buddhist, he says. He doesn’t take kindly to me squashing the stubborn insects that remain; even after the flat has been professionally cleaned.

M. Poêle notices every little stain or negligible dent left by the previous tenant. He's perplexed how she managed to do any damage in such a short period of time.

Everything was brand new when she moved in.

He keeps making reference to her oddity.

Nice girl but...he shakes his head.

Head in the clouds? I ask

More like she was on Mars or Venus.

At some point M. Poêle mentions that I am liable for half the cost of the Etat des Lieux; €150. That’s not something sexy Milo brought to my attention. I call him to check.

Oh yes, it's in the lease. [I check. It's not]. But you won’t have to pay right away.

Wrong again. Poêle requests for an upfront cash payment. I stop off at the ATM in the station opposite the flat. I make sure to obtain a receipt.

A few days later, I take Nik up on his generous offer to give me a lift to my new place. Starting with the heavy suitcase that accompanied me from Strasbourg, I plan to move in gradually that weekend.

I’m racked with all sorts of anxieties. Given its proximity to foliage, I’m afraid my new place has an insect problem and I might be overrun. Having sought a quote, I decide against an expensive fumigation. Instead, I ask one of the cleaning staff at the hotel to give the flat the once over that Saturday. It’ll also mean I won’t be on my own as I begin unpacking. 

She pulls out at the last minute. I can’t arrange an alternative at that late stage. The phobia of unwanted critters is real. Yet it’s starting to feel a lot like an externalisation of (yet another) mini-existential crisis.

2020 is a year characterised by isolation for many. I'm no exception. At the flat I feel alone and overwhelmed by the task of moving in. At least at the hotel I'd be guaranteed to come across another soul at some point. In pre-COVID circumstances, my mum would have probably paid a visit and helped me unpack. The arbitrary British quarantine puts paid to that. What’s more, I can’t confidently envisage any trips in either direction across the Channel. 

Overall, Brussels is definitely a better fit for my personality than Strasbourg. In the end, I’m a Big City girl. Nevertheless, relocating to a new country would always be as daunting as it might be exciting. There are no shortcuts to finding real community. How much more difficult when the world is still navigating a pandemic. I thought I’d made my peace with the reality of it. Not quite. Nine months into 2020 and the weight of the year’s difficulties is starting to drag on my emotions and psyche. As it is for most.

The gently-does-it weekend move goes better than expected, thanks to some insightful podcasts to keep me company. Back at the hotel, my last few days are anticlimactic.

The day of the move itself, I’m up and out early for a bikini wax and to make sure I have a head start before the removal company arrives. Indeed I do. I’m waiting for a good while, in fact, scratching around for things to do. I call the company HQ in France. I’m assured the team is on its way.

I decide to wait downstairs in the lobby, just in case they have trouble locating the building. Whilst waiting, I meet one of my neighbours, Henrik. He’s a disillusioned veteran of the block. He tells me not to expect anything from the tenant management company. The building is old and the walls are thin. The refuse system is a mess. There are no communal bins.

Clearly it’s working for you, if you’re still here.

Henrik says he's still in it for the proximity to the metro. By chance, our offices are in the same neck of the woods. 

He’s supposed to be teleworking. He sticks around long enough to tell me where to go shopping in the immediate vicinity.

He also warns that it’s not easy to find the building when travelling by road; even with GPS. 

 I bid Henrik cheerio and pace outside the building with my trusty podcasts. Close to two hours elapse and no sign. I call the removal company HQ again. A young woman answers this time. I ask for an ETA. She puts me on hold to check. On returning, she explains sheepishly that my goods have been delivered to my office address.

What?! That’s nuts! I’m sure I gave the right details.

I start to think I’m losing my mind. But no. It’s not me, it’s them. They hadn’t updated their system. 

I’m mortified. What will my colleagues think?

By the time the mistake is registered, the crew are on their way back to France via Luxembourg. I explain that I’ve already taken two days off work to relocate. I can't afford more time away from work.

I contact my HR team, gabbling my apologies. To my great relief, they are gracious about the mishap. My HR colleague asks when the delivery company will stop by again.  The best that can be done is an early afternoon delivery the next day. 

I go to a nearby café to use their Wi-Fi. I Skype sis in a panic. As always, she talks me off the ledge, tells me to make the most of the day.

Whilst waiting for the internet technician, I shop for some essentials.

The installation of my Wi-Fi goes so smoothly, I can hardly believe it. Based on past experience, I expected that to be more complicated than the delivery of my belongings. Quelle ironie.

I bid farewell to the lovely technician. 

Alone again, naturally.

...Evolution Part 2

If the last few months have warped our collective notion of time, it might explain why my imminent departure seems to have come round with lightning speed. Or maybe it’s just age.

Making a head start on my packing allows me the freedom to meet up with as many of my Strasbourg circles as time would allow.

For some, like Nicole from High Rock Gospel Singers, it’ll be the first occasion we’ve had a chance to speak at length. She explains the frustrating conversations she’s had with fellow Caucasians about the latest socio-political unrest over systemic racism. Some whom we both thought would know better. Her little one, Safiya, takes a shining to Gael whilst we drink virgin aperos at Jabiru café. Again.

I want to introduce more of my acquaintances to my friend’s vibrant eaterie before I leave. Gael’s new waiter, his name sake, is also part of the draw. A cross between a Franco brother and a younger Russell Brand, he’s on the dishy side. I alternate between brief, flirty interactions and shy murmured greetings.

A few days later, at the same establishment, I treat Gustavo to tangy-sweet, deep red Bissap juice and my favourite caramelised peanut snack, Kudu. Gustavo is even more wistful and distracted than usual. He doesn’t engage much when Gael addresses him in Portuguese. He’s in between jobs and hoping to secure a scholarship for the expensive private institution he’s due to attend from September. He speaks fondly of the five women in his life (Mum, sister, adorable nieces and girlfriend). He wants to see me married off; a recurring theme, especially with male acquaintances. Gael has also affectionately hinted at my relationship status in the past.

It’ll be the last interaction with both before my move. Gael’s mum has made me a sizeable batch of kudu. I feel myself well up as we say our farewells. The urge nevertheless remains controllable. If I were to begin, it would be the full waterworks. The prolonged exit from Strasbourg- which technically started last year and has been interrupted by the pandemic - has taken the edge off some of the melancholy.

The evening is still very young. My house group from church have organised a goodbye outdoor gathering. I am nervous to the point of reluctance. I don’t like being the centre of attention. It’s one reason why I tend to spend birthdays on my own. On the other hand, I don’t want to be an ingrate. The point of the group is to build community beyond the large and sometimes impersonal main Sunday service (pre-Rona). Better to make an effort than none at all. It’ll also be the first time the group has reunited offline since before lockdown.

At least I get to choose the venue. As the lockdown restrictions have eased further, I opt for the man-made beach at Baggersee.

I have a precious few moments to myself before Raymond and the crew arrive. The beach is busier than I’ve seen it.

There are more bum cheeks of all sizes than I’d care to see. Even tots are in booty-squeezing speedos. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned trunks?

The others slowly arrive with food in tow. There was no mention of a picnic. Thanks to the generosity of Gael’s mother, I have the vat of kudu to save face.

Once we find an agreeable spot, some distance from the maddening crowd, we sit down to break bread. Raymond brings up the wave of uprisings in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Just your conventional icebreaker, then.  Notwithstanding that this has dominated my thoughts and discussions for the past few weeks, I wouldn’t want to go into depth in this context. I'm still tender from the disappointing, if not offensive, responses I’ve gleaned from both the church and some laypersons in Europe. I nevertheless oblige. The Caucasians in attendance tread with relative caution; at least acknowledging that police violence exists. Rather, it’s an elderly Ivorian woman who insists that Rayshard Brooks was to blame for his death at the hands of the police.

God. Help. Us.

I can’t let it pass. I endeavour to be as respectful as culture dictates. I (just about) keep my sang-froid as I fumble through my second language to talk about systemic racism, a targeting of African-Americans and very briefly referencing state-sanctioned violence in France. 

Mercifully, the rest of the evening is far more propitious. More guests trickle in. I relax, taken in by the picturesque surroundings and delicious pastries. I don’t normally have treats during the week. Something will have to be sacrificed later.

To my pleasant surprise, Catarina shows up on her bike. I didn't expect to see her again before my departure. More food and drink circulates, as does the laughter. A farewell card is indiscreetly passed around. Other guests discuss their own plans to relocate in the near future; to the other end of France or as far flung as French Polynesia.

Raymond becomes philosophical in his light-hearted way. We're always on the move in life, in some form or the other, he posits. Only the dead stand still.

Absolutely.

There are far worse ways to spend my last days in SXB. I can now fully appreciate the gesture. I knew if I let myself, I would have a good time.

After a moment of song, prayer and a group photo, it’s home time. Just beforehand I clear the air with a sister with whom I’ve had unspoken beef. I wouldn’t want to leave with any unfinished business. I had the impression she was mocking me, or rather my imperfect French. I’m self-aware enough to know it could have been me merely projecting. Her ambiguous manner didn’t help. Her presence that evening makes me reconsider. It was gracious of her to attend. I can’t say I would do the same.

The evening is balmy. One of the group spies a family of peacocks parading around the main gate. This incongruous sight within an urban setting is somehow auspicious to me. A strutting male with a bolt blue, iridescent neck refuses to denies us the privilege of seeing his full plumage.

At Etoile Bourse, I purposefully miss two buses for a stroll around the Common that surrounds the canal. It’ll replace the sentimental tram ride I’d planned to take from one end of the city to another but time will not permit.

The next morning, as the final (still fairly modest) tally of boxes and suitcases stack up in my living room, I am struck by the paradoxical banality and significance of relocation. I give the flat one more clean before the removal company arrives. Within half an hour, everything is itemised, labelled and carted off to storage.

In the absence of the boxes, I notice how much their presence changed the acoustics of the living room. An echo returns that I hadn’t had time to miss.

Soundtrack: 3.15.20 by Donald Glover.

...Evolution (Part 1)

Whilst the world undergoes a very necessary upheaval, I am negotiating one of my own; albeit of a far less dramatic kind. It’s still significant on a personal level.

La Vie Strasbourgeoise is in need of a name-change. After six months of unemployment, despite living through what could turn out to be one of the worst economic crises for several generations, I have experienced a miracle first hand. I have been blessed with the opportunity to join a trade union organisation in Brussels. From this summer I’ll be working on projects relating to marginalised groups in the heart of Europe and around the world. 

Relocating is challenging at any time, let alone during a pandemic. My former employer, The Human Rights Organisation (THRO) have agreed to pay for my goods to be transported. First, I have to procure three quotes. Pinning down removal companies isn’t as straightforward as I hoped. 

The task feels overwhelming. COVID-19 quarantines notwithstanding, mum would have crossed the Channel to help. It intensifies any sense of loneliness. My sleep becomes even more disrupted than it already has been for the last year and a half. It’s taking its toll on my short term memory. I struggle to be coherent in my already fragile second language as well as sometimes being at a loss for words in my first.

Out in the real world, France is adapting to post-lockdown life. The Strasbourgeois take it slowly. I meet up with a former colleague for a farewell in the Parc Orangerie, surprised by the calm considering the fine weather.

When I catch-up with Catarina later that week, we have trouble finding an open café. Two of my usual haunts are closed. The third has the same name but under new management. I note other establishments are closed or open at reduced hours. The detrimental economic effects of the necessary lockdown have already started to show. I feel a wave of melancholy. It's the nature of change, Catarina consoles.

Another source of dolefulness is the lack of physical contact. As I meet up with friends for goodbye drinks, I ache to embrace. There are awkward moments of not knowing what to do with our hands. The safe elbow-bump du jour isn’t really cutting it. I miss hugs. One evening, whilst meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi at Café Jabiru, Gael greets us at the door. I lament once more about the absence of embrace.

You should just go for it, then, he advises, ever-daring.

Thus I do. It feels so good. It’s contagious. I extend the bear-hug love to Kiasi. (As my departure date draws ever-closer, I’ll throw caution to the wind and hug anyone who is willing)

Kiasi has been eager to meet since I announced my official departure date. My French is relatively free-flowing for a change, which isn’t always the case faced with his easy bilingualism.We pass a very enjoyable few hours in candid conversation. It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to clear the air since that infamous choir meeting. Opinions diverge but there’s no animosity.  At least we have had our day in court. 

I’m saddened to hear Kiasi has no plans in the near future to return to the chorale. It shouldn’t matter, since I will no longer be around either. Yet there's a part of me that'll remain attached to HRGS. Kiasi maintains the choir is still like family to him. I joke that I will have to edit out the last couple of months. He long predicted that a break would be good for the group. He couldn’t have anticipated it would be enforced, however. We both agree this unexpected sabbatical might signal a fresh start. For now, it’s not known exactly when that’ll be.

As the evening progresses, whilst working our way through Afropean snacks, we talk life, relationships, family, his future career plans (PR in the humanitarian sector) and extra-curricular activities (21^st century talk show) and of course lots and lots of music. We gush over Fred vs Kirk legendary lockdown livecast, dispute the Teddy Riley vs. Babyface showdown and converge naturally over the musicality of Brandy…

Perhaps emerging from lockdown has renewed my taste for the simple pleasure of good company and good conversation. 

Maybe not. I don’t want to reach for lazy clichés. I do know that relocating during a pandemic complicates the process.

On one level, having mentally prepared to leave Strasbourg since last year, I’ve had time to grieve the loss of my new familiar. Add to that being separated from my social circles for months, to an extent I’ve made my peace with disconnection. Not being able to meet in the conventional sense means there’ll be a lot of folk I won’t physically have the chance to see before I leave. In some ways that takes the sting out of it. At least there’ll be no tearfully dramatic scenes, I tell people. On the other hand it does distort any sense of resolution.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I am more lachrymose, as I fill up cardboard boxes with trinkets encased in bubble wrap and reflect on my two and a half years living in Strasbourg. It’s no small thing saying goodbye to my first proper flat. My first experience of not sharing with family or an assortment of strangers.

After a rather lengthy, bureaucratic process THRO select a removal company using the quotes I forward. If I’m not packing I’m meeting more friends and former colleagues around Strasbourg. We talk about life during and post-lockdown. Some single. Some in relationships. Others with children. Some working. Some retired. The cross-section of my Strasbourg community is a testament to the better part of the experience. 

I have also been fortunate enough of late to bump into fleeting local acquaintances. The kind where you stop to chat but don’t necessarily exchange numbers or even names. I’m pleased for the opportunity to inform them of my move rather than disappear into the ether. I hand out by now rather weathered business cards, having been gathering dust in my bag. I don’t expect them to be used but it makes me feel better.  As much as possible, I try to pass by the local businesses I've patronised to also let them know I'm on the move. That's still feasible in Strasbourg. It might have city status but it's more like a large-ish town.

I head to the newly re-opened Temple Neuf for a workshop with Pastor Rohan on the origins of the Gospels. It’ll be one of the last occasions to stop by before I leave. As we wrap up, I tell him of my imminent move, to which he responds with his habitual affability. On the way to the bus stop, by sweet serendipity, I bump into Kiasi once more.

A couple of days later I am back at Temple Neuf for a moment of quiet at the weekly meditative sessions. Considering it’s my last it’s far from the best. I arrive just a little late, after an afternoon of enriching conversation, as usual, with Stacee.

There is very little available seating in the main hall given the imposed physical-distancing. A woman confusingly removes a ‘do not sit’ sign from a seat then rather coolly informs me it's not free. By the time one of the young pastoral assistants brings out some extra chairs, my mind is elsewhere. On top of the existing mind traffic, I’m already distracted by the cold reception from the largely older, culturally homogeneous attendees. This is not the respite for which I came. 

I’ve long thought it pointless for churches to re-open whilst the virus is still active. Physical-distancing and over-preoccupation with disinfecting shared spaces aren’t conducive to a warm welcome and easy-going fellowship. Sadly, this episode doesn't prove me wrong.

Soundtrack: Classic Boyz II Men albums, La Vita Nuova by Christine & The Queens, Irreplaceable Love by Commissioned

Ticket to Ride

July is well underway and the summertime lull is starting in earnest.

I’ve been trying to arrange a catch-up with Jeanne for a couple of weeks. After a few days of radio silence, she texts me back, apologetic. Her schedule for the next two months is chocka. She reminds me she’ll be on tour with her old group until the end of the month, then she’ll be on leave for a chunk of August. We’re not sure when we’ll next see each other this side of September.

Another church acquaintance, Serafine, texts me excitedly about her summertime plans to visit Gabon, where she was born and raised. I try to be pleased for her. Selfishly, all I can think about is how my limited Strasbourg networks will be evaporating before my eyes for the next two months.

Later that week, during one of my unofficial French lessons with my heartache Bernard, the (admittedly melodramatic) sense of abandonment that has kicked in is further reinforced. We’ve already discussed our individual summer plans piecemeal but it suddenly dawns on me this could be our last meeting for a while. He’s not sure about his schedule the following week. He’ll have to cover for a colleague who’s going on leave before jetting off to Chicago himself. I’ll be away the following week and then he disappears for half of August. The lunchtime chat takes on deeper significance. I savour what I can of the moment. My eyes linger appreciatively over his freckles, the glossy locks (not a hint of grey!), smooth butterscotch skin, a whisper of stubble that I’ve never before noticed, the flash of deep dimples when he smiles and of course, those mesmerising crystal blues.

We spend half an hour in the corridor, discussing his love of the States. I’m not entirely convinced, I tell him, it’s not a part of the world I have a burning desire to visit for a variety of reasons. But conversing prolongs our inevitable separation that much longer. We’ll play it by ear about the following week. To brace myself for the disappointment of possibly not seeing him until early Autumn, I do my summer farewells there and then. As the realisation dawns, Bernard makes a split-second gesture in my direction; for a hug or cheek-kiss I don’t know. This is unchartered territory for us. As quickly as it takes me to notice, he thinks better of it. He retreats so swiftly, I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today, yeah. The boy that’s driving me mad is going away…

Back at my office, I listen to The Carpenters’ superior interpretation on loop.

The spiritual and emotional malaise that’s been creeping around the edges for the past few months hits me with full force that week. A welcome email from a dear UK-based friend prevents me from bursting into tears at my desk. It’s one of a very long chain of profoundly honest, soul-searching messages. I like the idea of living in Strasbourg. I like the aesthetic of the town but I cannot ignore how isolated I feel. My mind's been churning over the usual existential questions about suffering; both personal and on a larger societal level. My soundtrack for part of that week is Paul Simon’s rueful Still Crazy After All These Years album; more existential angst channelled through Country, Blues and Philadelphia-soul influences. To my mind, Simon speaks directly to the wretchedness and complexity of the human condition in a way few can. He makes me feel understood.

At work that week, I have my long-overdue appraisal. It’s generally positive. My supervisor Sophie preps me with an informal catch-up beforehand. I understand later on that she doesn’t want me to be taken by surprise by anything that comes up during the official meeting. She commends what I’m doing well, and as is her way, constructively critiques where I could improve. I applaud her affirming style of management; a far cry from the toxic experience I had at The North London Council. I tentatively give her some insight into the after-effects of working there. Sophie wishes I told her earlier. She said it would have explained some of my reticent behaviour when I joined the team.

The same issue comes up during the official appraisal meeting with my other manager, Lucia.

I don’t want to stand out.

Her English is very good but she’s not familiar with this idiom. I switch momentarily to French.

Faire remarquer...

I explain that I think being invisible is a good sign. It means I’m getting on with the job. She begs to differ. I concede there are occasions where I could be more evident. On the other hand, I have been making more of a conspicuous effort with my colleagues. I join them more often for elevenses, despite my apprehensions. It’s an opportunity to practise French. My nervousness about speaking to colleagues has been something of a barrier. But I am trying, I insist. There’s only so much I can manage others’ perceptions. Lucia speaks about better cohesion. I give her concrete examples of which she was not aware. She mentions colleagues have accused me of not greeting them in the morning. This, despite me going out of my way to say a cheery Bonjour. I might have lapsed a couple of times but…

Lucia cites-again-the example of a travel agent who complained when I politely confronted him for being aggressive and unprofessional during a telephone conversation. She inadvertently lets slip that it wasn’t a direct complaint. Rather, one of my colleagues relayed the story to management before asking for my take on it first. Months later, my version of events are still called into question. I can’t win.

I agree to continue to make endeavours to be social. Lucia suggests popping into my colleagues’ offices more often. I have no intention of routinely making phatic conversation just for the sake of appearances; nor for the contents of my personal life to be picked over by all and sundry, whether or not I trust them. I’m not persuaded by management’s insistence on the uniform benevolence of the team. Like any department, some individuals are kinder and more genuine than others. Mefies-toi.

All this negotiation can be mentally exhausting.

Outside of work, establishing a community is still something of an upward struggle. A number of my agemates have familial responsibilities. Enthusiastic noises about meeting up socially, amounts to just that. Noise.

I didn’t realise how much I miss the psychological crutch of being in the same geographical space as most of those closest to me; even if we only manage to see each other once in a blue moon.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy All These Years by Paul Simon

Beating the Winter Blues

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

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

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

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

But I'm sure Annabelle said it was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long Weekend Part 2

La Synagogue de la Paix-Parc du Contades, Strasbourg
(courtesy of Photos-alsace-lorraine.com)

Saturday morning. Mum is recovering from a cold. I’m struggling to put the fiasco of the previous evening behind me. I’m in full-blown self-flagellation mode. It’s hard to pray. 

On the bright side, I don’t have any cleaning to do this morning. I indulge as much as I can in a longer lie-in. I don’t intend to start today’s itinerary until mid- afternoon. The plan is to have dinner in town with mum after some sightseeing.

Mum’s feeling stronger; counting her blessings as always. She spends much of the weekend giving me better housekeeping pointers (You need to keep a box of tissues within arms' reach...you should buy some shampoo, for your white guests) and beaming with all the ideas she has for the flat. She’s quite the amateur interior designer. I haven't inherited that propensity.

A couple of hours before we leave, I Skype sis to recount last night’s events. She isn’t one to wallow in regret; one of a number of ways we are polar opposites. What’s done is done, a mantra of sorts. Don’t let it steal the good time you could still have.

It’s a milder and dryer day than the one before. Having idled away most of the daylight hours, I am determined for us to leave before sunset. I adapt the itinerary once again, postponing the stroll around my local neighbourhood until Sunday after church.

I decide to start mum’s Strasbourg orientation at the striking Synagogue de la Paix (Synagogue of Peace) opposite Parc du Contades tram stop. I’m horrified to see a heavily-armed guard outside the premises, keeping watch over the faithful as they come and go. I point it out to mum, blaming any heightened sense of unease on Trump’s reckless Jerusalem rhetoric.

Petite France.

We cross Place de République and head towards the Notre Dame Cathedral. My plan is to meander down to Petite France; one of my favourite Strasbourg spots. I am not quite sure of what route to take. In the past I’ve usually wandered into the area by chance. I’m hoping some gut instinct will similarly guide me today. Our conversation initially turns to a melancholy theme. Mum is too emotional at first to take in her environment. The imposing Cathedral does catch her attention. It’s a pretty upbeat ramble from then on. I eventually steer us towards Petite France by way of Grand Rue and Quai St Thomas-long after nightfall. This detour allows me to cover much of the City. I mention some of the other places I plan to show mum later that weekend.

Why not do it all now? Since we’re here.

Suits me. We’ve been on our feet for hours but we’re both avid walkers. I’m just a little bit concerned the Chinese buffet I had in mind might be closed by the time we arrive at the Place des Halles. For some reason shopping centres grind to a halt at 8pm; weekends too. My fears are realised when we arrive to find even the shutters of McDonald’s are down. Mum’s a bit restless now. She suggests we buy a takeaway and head home. I take her to one of my Middle-Eastern haunts near Alt Winmarik. We parade the streets of Homme de Fer and Broglie with our pizza and pide boxes.

Back at mine, we break bread whilst binge-watching Netflix’ ‘Alias Grace’. 

Mum requests another yoghurt for dessert.  I pettily deny her, keen to ration what’s left. You’ve already had one!

She eschews my (kind of) peace offering of chocolate pudding, although initially brought at her own behest. In the morning, I will be overcome by remorse. Nothing like living with someone else, even briefly, to remind me of my own selfishness. I have to be very deliberate about acts of generosity, particularly the spontaneous kind. As a result of my own broken humanity and a reaction to various adverse life experiences, I have a tendency to hoard. 

Sunday morning, mum has gamely volunteered to accompany me to church, even though she'll understand virtually none of it. We locate free seats as close to the back as possible, so I can translate without disturbing too many other members. During the offering, to my pleasant surprise, the senior pastor leads us in a rousing rendition of 'Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen (But Jesus)' accompanying us on guitar. Mum and I join in heartily; those congregants not as comfortable singing in English, less so. Mum is moved by guest speaker Philippe Barbuis’ account of losing his wife to cancer nearly 20 years ago, his struggle with grief and the demands of ministry. His experience resonates with her own on suddenly losing her mother. Both our hearts break on learning of the funeral arranged that week for a toddler, who ran into the road whilst his father was putting out the rubbish. From our depths, we pray as a church for God to strengthen and comfort the family. 

Despite the sombre tone, Barbuis' hopeful words of exhortation linger as we leave the service. Jeanne and I unfortunately miss each other. She has been playing bass during the service and can't get away quickly afterwards. Just when I give up on seeing any of the few familiar faces I know from EPIS, Louis joins us at the tram stop. I introduce mum. She leaves us to catch up.

Petite France...from another angle.

Having covered most of the walking itinerary the night before, mum suggests a lazy Sunday afternoon in. Once again the neighbourhood gander is postponed until the Monday before she flies back to the UK. Uncharacteristically for a Sunday, I spend much of the afternoon in the kitchen making mis-shapen crepes for lunch and some sort of game (advertised as, but too tough to be, chicken) for dinner. So far, the weekend seems to have compensated for the inauspicious start to mum’s first excursion francaise.

Monday early afternoon is a little more frantic. Realising that we might have cut it a little too fine with our morning activities for mum to make it comfortably back to Basel airport for her flight, it’s a mad dash to Gare Centrale. We decide en route she won’t check-in her luggage after all, to save time. We empty her suitcase of anything that might be confiscated.

I stand on the platform to wave her off, like a classic war-time movie scene.

Later that evening I pop round to retrieve my leather bag from local Algerian-Jewish cobbler, Bénjamin. Previous attempts to have the strap fixed have been scuppered by sporadic opening hours.

When I arrive, he’s notably glum.

Ca va?

Oui. Ca va.

I’m wary. I’m not sure if this is one of his habitual flirtatious ploys. Perhaps he's toying with the idea of a guilt-trip to coerce me on a date.

Cautiously, I ask again.

Je viens de perdre ma mere.

Oh dear. I couldn't have been more wrong. I offer him my profuse condolences. I apologise for my clumsy French. Not only is it ill-equipped to deal with the context of grief, I have been using too much English over the weekend with mum. I explain I have been hosting a guest from London. Out of sensitivity I don’t mention it’s my mother. I am silently grateful the shop was closed when we tried to pick up my bag earlier that morning. It would have been unbearable for poor Bénjamin. 

He’s still in shock. Jewish tradition demands his mother is buried immediately. He has not had a chance to process events, he tells me. Despite my insistence he has more rest, the pressures of being  a sole trader mean he can only close up shop for so long. I assure him I’ll be praying for him. My bag strap remains unfixed. I tell Bénjamin to take his time.

It’s moments like this one realises what’s truly of importance.

On leaving, I see my bus flying past. It’s a sign. I return to the shop to pray for Bénjamin. In English. He’s touched by the sentiment.

On the way home, I stop off at the supermarket next door to mine. I bump into my landlord, Yotis. We exchange pleasantries and I inform him I have had to replace the old mat in the guest bathroom, after mum narrowly escaped a serious fall.

I ring her later that evening to make sure she reached London safely and tell her about the rest of my day. She manages to catch the flight in the end. Ironically, it’s significantly delayed.

Alas, on the train from Strasbourg to Basel, she’s accosted by inspectors who insist on seeing the discount card I used to pay for her ticket. Of course, I am not with her to present it. She gives them my French mobile to call and confirm. I am in the cinema at the time and have stupidly kept the phone switched off, as is my habit. She’s is charged 35 euros for her trouble. More than I paid for the damned ticket.

Mum is incredibly gracious about it all, refusing my pleas to compensate her. She is just grateful to have caught her flight. To her consternation, I arrange a bank transfer against her wishes. I am beside myself with regret. It’s not as if I didn’t anticipate this could happen. I even mention it to mum before seeing her off. Giving her my French mobile details was part of the contingency plan. I am so angry with myself. Mum's first trip to France has been bookended by unpleasant experiences. I so wanted her to enjoy herself. I so wanted it to be perfect.

Mum’s efforts to help me keep perspective are all but futile. She reminds me of Bénjamin’s recent loss. What about that poor family in church who are burying their infant this week?

I know the mere inconveniences we've encountered over the past few days cannot begin to compare to these tragedies. And yet, Je m’en veux.

It's different for Bénjamin and the family from church. They had limited, if any, control over those circumstances. 

By contrast, I feel the responsibility of small, avoidable oversights that led to bigger incidents which have cast a shadow on mum’s trip. I can’t forgive myself. My evening is ruined.

Mum loses patience with me.

When you’re this hard on yourself, you’ll do the same to others. Why can’t you just accept mercy?

In bed, I tearfully and prayerfully wrestle over the same question. It’s a theological hazard that nevertheless, goes to the core of my being. I fear if I readily allow mercy, then my sense of justice and restitution/retribution will be thrown out with the bathwater. 

Resolution will take longer than a lachrymose night. I fall into a fitful sleep.

A Lady of Leisure…

...Or, the First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 3.

I am realising that the older I get, the more I enjoy my own company. Over the Christmas period, I have had plenty of time to ruminate over this. I hope I'm not becoming more anti-social with age.

Mum is in Japan enjoying the bright winter sunshine in the company of sis. I’ve just started to settle into life in Strasbourg, most particularly my new accommodation. It’s only been a few weeks. There’s no need to scarper off to London without my closest family members in town.

Besides, the extended Christmas leave from work will be the first opportunity to properly recover from all the upheaval of the past couple of months.

‘Don’t spend Christmas alone' warns my well-meaning colleague Lorette, fervently shaking her head ‘It’s too sad’. Au contraire. It doesn’t have to be, I reply. Plus (as I’ve been telling anyone who will listen), it will provide insight into what the festive season is like for those who are usually alone during this time, for far more heartbreaking circumstances than my own.

I’ve seasoned my meats and blended my root vegetable soup ahead of Christmas day to cut out some of the labour. I am determined to rest as much as possible. I wake up to sunshine streaming through my skylight-like bedroom window. It’s some of the best weather we’ve had in weeks. I am unable to have a proper lie-in. I check my phone for the message that stirred me from sleep in the wee small hours of the morning. It’s the first of several texts and/or phone calls that pour in throughout the day on both my UK and French mobiles. I’m touched that a number of friends have kept me in their thoughts despite their own seasonal busyness.

I Skype mum and sis. There's an eight hour time difference. It’s well into the evening over there and they still haven’t eaten. Something about being slowed down by a long, leisurely afternoon stroll. I take one of those myself later in the day. It would be a shame to waste the sunshine. I remain in my locality. I make a point to wish passers-by ‘Joyeux Noel’. A bus occasionally drive past. Unlike in the UK, there is still public transport albeit on a reduced basis.

Colmar, Alsace @ Christmas
(thegoodlifefrance.com)

Towards the end of my ramble, I spot a familiar spiral and take a diversion. It has piqued my curiosity since first moving into the neighbourhood. It’s a Catholic church, with an attractive modernised interior, virtually deserted. Not being of that tradition, I skip the genuflecting to icons and lighting candles. I take my time around the two nativity scenes; one miniature, the other closer to life size (I seek out a number of these tableaux over the course of my break). On my MP3 Kevin Max’ unique tones bring an extra-haunting quality to his stark rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, my favourite carol. I decide to loop it with the Swingles livelier, Bobby McFerrin-influenced arrangement. Both are sublime. They help to make this quiet and meditative detour a transcendent experience. Other visitors, come in intermittently but for the most part, I have the building to myself. I start singing a carol medley. Despite the carpet, my medium volume-voice echoes off the stone walls thanks to the great acoustics. Another group of visitors enter. They’re attitude isn’t very festive. Judging by the side eye one of them gives me and her feverish signing of the cross, she finds my impromptu concert-for-none irreverent. That’s my cue to exit.

Later that evening, I light my festive candle and sit down to a decent meal: Guinea fowl, roast beef, mixed-potato mash, turkey sausage and tomato and green leaf salad with homemade dressing. It’s the most I’ve ever cooked at Christmas and it ain’t half bad. I don’t finish everything on my plate. I forgot how filling the root vegetable soup starter could be. The evening entertainment is so-so; a disappointingly whimsical French film clearly adapted from a stage musical.

I have a loose schedule for the rest of the week; a mix of local excursions and further afield. I visit the Cathedral, again but this time venture inside alongside hundreds of others. I roam the streets of central Strasbourg aimlessly, wandering down less familiar side streets and discovering more shortcuts. Signs of the festive market have all but vanished as of Christmas eve. (I pedantically hold onto the 12 days tradition. It's still technically Christmas until Epiphany and I won't be told otherwise).

Mid-week, I pop over to Kehl to shop for household items and hope to take advantage of the winter sales. It is busier than I have ever experienced.

I attend a matinee at an arthouse cinema I come across on one of my rambles. I watch French/Portuguese ‘Menina’; my ideal European language cocktail.

My evenings are relaxed. I use the time to catch up on much-lauded films I missed the first time round; both relatively old (‘The Pianist’) and recent (‘Get Out’-extremely entertaining, yes. Not quite the wheel-reinventing masterpiece as claimed by some, methinks).

On somewhat of a whim, one day I decide to make the most of my newly-acquired train discount card and head to neighbouring town, Colmar. At the station, the sales assistant insists I don’t need to show her the railcard. She then proceeds to apply the wrong discount, for those under 26. I am flattered but I promptly inform her otherwise. ‘Oh my! I would have taken you for 25...’

‘26’ says her facetious colleague. It’s a good problem to have, I reply. My honesty costs me five more euros but the boost to my ego is priceless.

Outside St Matthieu's Protestant Temple, Colmar

Colmar is, as I have been told, very picturesque. It’s like a giant toy town, all the more appealing draped in Christmas paraphernalia. I’ve packed the regional guide that my former colleagues at the North London Council bought me as a parting gift. I don’t follow it religiously, navigating the streets by gut instinct. Still, I manage to hit the main sites of interest and catch a glimpse of the surrounding Vosges landscape. Unlike Strasbourg, the Christmas markets and seasonal artisan enclaves are still in full swing. A smile lingers on my lips, spreading to a full grin as, with the turn of each corner it seems, I am hit by more delightful scenery.

The Cathedral has the most unorthodox nativity exhibition thus far; ethnically-correct, frizzy-haired cloth figures with no facial features. The key scenes of the two principal Gospel accounts of Christ’s birth have been recreated in elaborate detail.

Not being a fan of museums, I skip the pricey Musée d’Underlinden and the tour of Auguste ‘Statue of Liberty’ Bartholdi’s home. Perhaps I’ll save those for when I have a guest.

It’s cold enough to snow in Colmar. It holds off until just before I’m about to leave, having eaten an underwhelming caramel crepe in a cosy cafe next door to the charming Maison Pfister.

New Year's eve is spent at church in the morning and evening prayers at home. At 12am 1 January 2018, I look out of my window. Fireworks, both makeshift and professional, light up my vista for nearly an hour. The air is so full of gunpowder, that the normal view of Strasbourg Cathedral is soon completely obscured.

This Christmas break is the quietest and most serene I’ve had. It's also one of the best. I’ve enjoyed myself in ways that couldn’t be planned to the letter. A mix of foresight and happenstance. I doubt I’ll have the chance to experience the festive period in quite these circumstances again. All the more reason to savour this particular life season.