After the Homecoming: Part 1

courtesy of www.clipimage.net

My two priorities on coming back to Strasbourg: 1) be even more intentional about building community 2) (linked to previous) push past this bloody linguistic plateau with my French.

In regards to the first, my old melancholia -or saudade as my Brazilian chums might say-is creeping around the edges. Since my trip to London (and even before) my sense of disconnect is more pronounced. Despite my independent nature, I am increasingly aware (or reminded?) of a latent neediness and codependency that it's taking much of my energy to suppress. In this new context, I do not have years of goodwill stocked up with friends who have learned to accept and overlook my foibles. It's best foot forward all the time, except I'm not even managing that. I whinge a lot about my isolation and frustrations. If I make the mistake of being open with someone I scarcely know, it sends me into a panic that I've let myself be too vulnerable too soon.

As for my language objective, well that is my main motivation for wanting to work in France.

It's a shame that my Francophone acquaintances don't get to see the real me (whoever she is). It's a modified version. I'm all neuroses with the good bits cut out. I can't yet always accurately express the ideas swimming in my mind.

Shortly before going on holiday I join an online neighbourhood network. It’s not usually my sort of thing but makes sense in the context of wanting to establish more social links. On returning to Strasbourg I shoot a text to Juanita, who is also new-ish to the area according to her recent announcement on the site. In my absence, my Martinican/Togolese mate Muriel has sent me an invitation to a cultural event. I’ve barely looked at my French mobile in the UK. I try to make it up to her by offering to meet over the weekend. Alas, she won’t be in town.

I contact another acquaintance whom I met at a small gathering of internationals with a French connection. She has been inviting me round to hers since she moved closer to my neck of the woods. We agree to catch up after her forthcoming holiday to Croatia.

This is the issue. If my few regular contacts are unavailable, my socialising options are limited.

I sign up for a couple of events via my Internations account. Meanwhile, I've arranged a trip with Juanita to our local forest. She invites me to discover it from a different angle.

Why not? Last time I visited with mum, the trees were still bare. It would be good to see the woods in full bloom.

Juanita suggests meeting me at a couple of locations with which I am not familiar, despite their proximity. She offers to pick me up from a nearby bus stop after I miss my connection (bad time management). I arrive. She’s not there. She calls me. A confused conversation ensues. (I still hate doing phone calls in French). I insist I’m at the designated bus stop. She oppugns. I insist some more. Things become tense. She stops to check with a passer-by. Sufficiently persuaded she’s parked at the wrong bus stop, the argument is put to bed sans apology. Oh well. Love keeps no record of wrongs. I'm not quite there yet.

Emerging on the horizon, Juanita does some daredevil spins in the process of parking. I’m crossing the street back and forth like a nutcase trying to keep up with her. Goodness knows what the women at the bus stop must think.

Face to face, Juanita is a few decades older than I anticipated. Her profile pic was rather small to be fair. I expect to meet someone of roughly the same age. Furthermore, contrary to what her name suggests, she is not a Spanish expat with native-level French. She’s an honorary Alsatian of some 30 years, hailing originally from Brittany and only speaks French. She mentions Iberian heritage but her quest to trace her family tree hasn’t gone very far, through no fault of her own.

Juanita likes nature. Really likes it. As in, off the beaten-track, walk-through-dense-vegetation kind. She’s an animal-loving vegan who meditates in deserted clearings of the forest. She's evangelical about preserving ecosystems. She’s the kind to pick up beetles and small snakes on pathways to prevent them from being crushed by unsuspecting passers-by. I like nature too. At a safe distance. Pedestrianised walks through well-manicured green spaces. As for critters, I’m more likely to be the one crushing them, if not leaping over them.

Robertsau Forest

She leads me through some of her favourite secluded spaces.

Isn’t this picturesque?

Yes. Yes indeed.

I’m frantically brushing away foliage, paranoid about attracting unwanted wildlife. It doesn’t take long for Juanita to recognise my discomfort.

I’d like to show you more but you’re too much of a city girl.

I wonder why she looks disapprovingly at my sandals. It makes sense now. This is a trainers-advised nature trail. My footwear would otherwise be very much appropriate. It’s a hot day (Just like Africa, no? Juanita ventures. Overly-conscious of the angry-black-woman stereotype I mutter something inane in response).

Thanks to my exposed toes I am able to talk myself out of more dense, jungle-like forestry. Glory be.

Juanita enquires my age, why I'm in Strasbourg and my long term plans.

I don't know. Contrary to my instinct, I'm trying to take a day at a time.

This leads to a metaphysical discussion of sorts about God's plan vs. free-will. At some point on our jaunt Juanita remarks.

Is it worth the effort making friends, if you only have to leave at the end of your contract?

Good question. I've often wondered myself.

Juanita leads me onto recognisable pathways.

This is more reassuring, isn’t it?

Absolutely. I can better appreciate the scenery. Juanita is quite the flora expert. She points out various species. Beech and oak saplings look like majestic bamboo trees in their early stages. She explains the history of the dyke we pass on our travels.

It’s a decent trek. She suggests we stop for some refreshments. Fine, although I ate before I came. Plus I have left my wallet at home. Not that it would make much difference. My brief London stay has bled me dry anyway. It’s going to be a lean month.

It’s my treat.

Thanking Juanita for her generosity, I order a peach diablo from the bronzed and impish waiter. His movements are languid; his responses pithy but good natured. He bursts into impromptu renditions of unidentifiable English songs much to our amusement.

Whilst Juanita waits for her chocolate and coffee ice cream she confides,

I’m not in a rush to go home. There’s no-one waiting for me.

In hindsight, I understand why she’s slightly bemused when I explain that I like living alone. It’s a luxury in contemporary London.

We drift into a discussion about the City’s cosmopolitan nature.

I barely recognise Strasbourg. It’s changed so much over the years. I hardly hear a word of French on the tram these days.

Feeling awkward at yet another hint of casual racism, I try to make a case for diversity as an asset.

It’s time to go home. On approaching her car, Juanita notices she has left the hazard lights on.

Mince! J’espere que je n’ai pas epuisé la batterie.

It is as she’s feared. There’s not enough battery power to get the ignition going. I can make it home by foot but I don’t want to abandon Juanita. She can’t risk leaving the car overnight. There have been incidents of vandalism. Her only daughter is out of town on business. Local friends aren’t answering their phones. Juanita appeals to passers-by for help of any kind. Just as she convinces two young men to give the car a running start, someone shows up with a charger powerful enough to give the engine a kick start.

Finally on our way, she turns to me, beaming with relief.

What an adventure!

Quite.

Another Long Weekend

Baden-Baden Town Centre

Late March welcomes daylight saving hours. Time seems to speed up even more than usual. Easter is also a little on the earlier side this year.

I originally planned to go to  Blighty for a week or so. However, on her last visit mum suggests, off the cuff, spending the holiday with me in Strasbourg. I’m resistant at first but then warm to the idea. It would give us a chance to explore the region together. We fancy a few days in Frankfurt. Alas, by the time her leave is approved, travel prices have skyrocketed.

Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. France’s national rail company SNCF have scheduled a protracted strike that will put paid to a lot of regional travel by train in the short term.

Mum’s flight from Gatwick is scheduled to arrive on Easter Saturday. I spend Good Friday getting my house in order, literally. Come the afternoon, following an unsuccessful attempt to connect with sis via Skype, I feel my solitude more acutely than usual. It can’t help having been indoors all day. I don’t step out until the evening, to attend a special Vendredi Saint service near the town centre. The church I regularly attend doesn’t have any plans for Passion Week beyond the normal Easter Sunday service.

The ambiance at St Paul’s is intimate. A Passion concert is being set up in the main hall so we meet in the back. The room is illuminated by candlelight. The youthful female vicar’s message takes the form of a monologue from the perspective of Mary Magdalene, punctuated by what I assume are traditional French Easter-related hymns. A young Francophone African woman with a melodious voice and a tooth-sized gap between her front teeth attempts to teach us an acappella addition to the canon. I fumble through the Lord’s prayer. I don't know it off heart in French and oblivious to it being reproduced on the free pamphlet that was handed to me on entry.

The service ends with Holy Communion and a caveat from “Mary Magdalene” that the rumours about her being the Messiah’s main squeeze are merely prurient untruths. I head to the concert in the main hall. I change my mind when I realise that, rather than being free entry as I believed, the tickets will set me back nearly 20 euros.

Having finished my cleaning a day early, I’m a relatively free agent on Saturday before mum's arrival. I just have to put the finishing touches to my mixed-meat tagine. After the mini-disaster that was mum’s last trip, both of us hope her second French excursion will be far more promising. It wouldn’t take much. Just an absence of drama would suffice.

I’ve asked mum ahead of time to leave her interior decorating impulses behind in London. I don’t want her fussing, just to relax. And no general life tips either, unless solicited.

I’ve requested a few bits and bobs but not much. I still have a healthy amount remaining from the last stash mum brought. Nevertheless, true to her extremely generous nature, mum stuffs her suitcase with unexpected household items (many of which she ends up using herself, transforming my flat from clean to spotless). She has the excess luggage fee to show for it. As well as more chocolate and treats than would be kind to my waistline, she has smuggled in some of her very delicious Good Friday fish and yam speciality and various traditional South-East Nigerian ingredients. Thanks to mum’s provisions, I end up cooking only twice during her nearly one-week stay.

She remarks that I’ve lost weight.

I knew it.

Her loaded silences and side-long glances during her January visit gave away more than I wanted to know. I credit Lenten abstinence. It often does the trick.

Mum’s trip thus far has been mercifully strife-free. Having collected her at the coach station and unpacked her London-bought booty, we settle down to a relaxing meal and Netflix-related entertainment. For the rest of the week, Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected will be our viewing of choice after I mention it in a burst of bemused nostalgia.

Robertsau Forest

Sunday morning, mum and I find some strategic seating at the back of EPIS church-auditorium so I can translate the service for her. Afterwards, we are politely informed by a friendly couple that the church provides contemporaneous translations via headphones in a variety of languages, including English.

I catch up with Mon Ange Lyonnais, Jeanne, after service. At last, I have the chance to introduce her to mum. Easter Sunday weather is miserable. Thus, it’s straight home to indulge in high-sucrose grub and for me to get the meal ready. Mum can’t stand lamb so I’m preparing beef as a compromise. Following a recommendation by Jeanne, I’m experimenting with a tartiflette recipe. The final result is crunchier than hoped but mum’s hungry enough to finish it off.

To compensate for our temporarily abandoned Frankfurt plans, I’ve planned a series of day trips. We stay local on Easter Monday, taking a long stroll down to my local forest. The heavens are kind to us. The grim weather forecast that had me rearranging my itinerary never properly materialises. Some days are quite clement.

The forest is dense even in its still-bare post-winter state. We walk for a good half hour before we come across a proper seating area. During our ramble, we spy a young stag bounding along majestically, stalked by an exhausted but resolute hound.  Couples and families come and go in waves. At some point, I spot a dead ringer for Gautier; the former Navy officer who was very keen for me to come round to his place for dinner. We make eye-contact whilst I try and ascertain if it’s him. He (or his doppelganger) is in the company of a female friend. I decide it’s best not to interrupt.

The following day has been set aside for Baden-Baden; Germany’s equivalent of the English town of Bath. Everyone, from Sophie my supervisor to Yotis my landlord, has recommended it. SNCF’s industrial action doesn’t impede our plans as I’d feared (Vive Le Syndicalisme ! Rest assured, I still have love for the Unions). Our trains are operated by German companies. At the interchange in the middle-of-nowhere Appenweier, some little fraulines are inordinately fascinated with me and mum. They run away screaming with delirious laughter if I look in their direction. We play along. When I stick out my tongue, one of them promptly reports me to her mother, whose bare cranium is decorated with elaborate tattoos.

The weather is once again on our side. Unfortunately, I have not been my usual conscientious self and done some research. I assumed Baden-Baden was a remote Forest based outpost, as my mind’s eye has interpreted descriptions by my acquaintances.

The town is much bigger than I anticipate. I reluctantly ask for directions at the station on mum’s repeated behest. Thanks to the not-quite-accurate instructions we end up lost. We are told to descend at Leopoldplatz. Except our bus doesn’t stop there. I suggest we get off at the picturesque area surrounding the LA8 Museum. It looks close enough to civilisation. Mum insists we stay on board. We literally take the scenic route, covering the outer edges of the Black Forest. The bus does a loop without stopping. On our way back into town, some inspectors get on board. 

Sigh. Not again.

My German is virtually non-existent. Mum has even less. We try to explain that we were lost and didn’t realise the driver was going straight back into town. They demand to see our passports. Thankfully, I have the presence of mind that morning to suggest we carry them. The inspectors seem perversely impressed that we are British citizens.

One of them, stereotypically Aryan-looking, has limited English. None of them speak French. The sole female inspector asks other passengers if they know any English. A woman approaches with enough to convey (with some difficulty) our predicament. Mum is talking over me. I irritably demand that she stops. The situation is confusing enough as it is. It’s not the last time mum and I will have words about her well-intentioned but not-entirely-helpful interpretation efforts.

The intervention of the passerby is a God-send of sorts. She signals us to hush. We have the choice of paying for a return journey or a 60 euro fine each. No contest really.

The rest of the trip is reassuringly incident free. Baden-Baden is as pretty as I’ve been told. We arrive too late for the ridiculously brief opening hours of the Roman Baths Museum but there’s enough around town to keep us occupied for the whole afternoon.

On the penultimate day of mum’s sojourn, we pop to Kehl.  She is unimpressed by the bargains I’ve talked up, compared to what’s available in London. I suppose Strasbourg life has relativised my idea of a good buy. Your standard deal in the UK is comparatively bargain-basement here.

Mum whiles away hours looking for homeware.  Our plans for a leisurely crepe lunch in Strasbourg fall to the wayside.

I’ve warned her that my flat doesn’t need sprucing. I’m a simple woman of modest tastes. Against my wishes, she spends most of her own holiday cash on decorative flourishes. I tell her off, torn between sounding like an ingrate, wanting my autonomy respected and not wishing to be an inadvertent burden on her purse.

But I love spoiling people. It’s just the way I am…

We make it to the end of mum’s break with no disasters and fun memories to compensate somewhat for the bitter taste of her first visit. Having safely seen her off at the coach station, I receive a text a few hours later. Mum’s arrived in good time for check-in at Basel airport. All is well.