Easter Delight Part 2

Strasbourg Cathedral (c) Yinka Ositelu

The most significant holiday of the Christian calendar has an added element of excitement for me this year. My mother and sister will be spending the long weekend in Strasbourg. It’s the first time this trinome dynamique would have been in the same geographical space for over three years. Most of Good Friday is spent putting the finishing touch to preparations. Given that everything shuts down here during public holidays, I’ve left nothing to chance; staggering my shopping over the weeks and days ahead.

In the evening I attend a special meditation session at the Temple Neuf in the centre of town. These weekly gatherings, simply called Breathe, allow for Christians and those interested in the faith to take a break from the rat race and spend time in reflection. This Easter/Resurrection weekend, the pastor leaves even more room for quiet contemplation. I seek stillness more so than ever at this juncture of my life. Not being especially mellow by nature, Lord knows I need it. I’m struggling to spiritually connect this season more than I have in previous years. It doesn’t help that I’m re-reading Leviticus, one of the harshest books in the bible. The age old theological questions tug at my heart. Mum and sis’ visit will no doubt bring some well-needed spiritual refreshment. Indeed, many a heart-to-heart is to be had during their visit.

They arrive that Saturday evening. Sis has bought the good weather with her from the Land of the Rising Sun. They tell me excitedly of the good trip on the way in and the camaraderie of the other passengers. Mum attributes it to the sunny climes. I’m pleased that they have arrived in time to catch the last of the blossoms.

Back at mine, a spotless flat and my signature mixed-meat tagine awaits them. Sis’ relentless teasing about my housekeeping skills soon come to an end when she sees how much progress I’ve made in that area. Taking note of the little flourishes added for the benefit of guests she quips waggishly,

That’s one more recommendation to go on the report card.

Alas, mum’s many attempts to inflate the blow-up mattress are in vain. Sis takes the couch and mum makes the most of the flaccid portable bed. 

The morning of Resurrection Sunday is spent at my local church. I’ve been making enquiries about English translation ahead of time. Logistically it would be awkward to interpret for both my guests at the same time. Thankfully, there’s a very good in-ear service available that morning to my great relief. Afterwards, I’m asked to join the small team, including a Russian-speaking Cameroonian. There aren’t many Anglophones in the church but it’s worth it for the one elderly Asian regular. I’m apprehensive about my language skills but willing to help the modest-sized team. It would be very good practice too. The following Sunday, I’ll hit the ground running trying (with limited success) to translate for a guest speaker from Quebec; an accent that even some native Francophones struggle to comprehend.

At the end of the service, I attempt to introduce my family to as many of my church acquaintances I can find including Jeanne and her sis, Françoise who's visiting from the South. Unfortunately we miss a few but make some new ones. As usual, sis has endeared herself amongst some of the tinier members. En route home we stop in Etoile Bourse for a pleasant promenade around the environs. Outside the Andre Malraux Médiatheque, beside the canal, we're greeted by the incongruous sight of two swans resting near some road works. Sharp-eyed sis comments on the fashion differences between the UK and this corner of France as well as the impressive, hands-free biking skills of the Strasbourgeois.

Look at that core strength!

Being neither a cyclist nor a style guru, such observations naturally go over my head.

That evening we eat and chat over a late Easter supper. This is how we’ll spend most of our evenings together; food, conversation, Netflix or sis and I in stitches as she shows me amusing clips from her Instagram or YouTube accounts.

Rémy from the Happy Tours team
(courtesy of Tripadvisor)

With less than a week to show sis what Strasbourg has to offer, I need to be strategic. Easter Monday is crammed with on foot excursions. In the morning we walk through the Orangerie, particularly resplendent in the brilliant spring sunshine. The afternoon is spent on a walking tour with charismatic native Alsatian, Rémy from the Happy Tours team. I envy his knack for lacing his entertaining commentary with very English idioms. Mum and sis are equally admiring. The nearly two hour historic jaunt flies by. We full circle it back to the Cathedral. Mum and sis buy edible gifts from an exorbitant confectioners; albeit with great customer service. They notice before I do the young, German-speaking Namibian who follows us into the shop.

You guys are looking really cool, he flatters. After a brief but cordial chat, I politely turn down his overtures.

There’s enough time before our supper of Easter leftovers for a stroll to Robertsau Forest on the way home.

On the last full day of my family’s visit, I’ve planned a tour of the local markets. Too bad half of them are still on extended Easter break. Mum and sis don’t mind, picking up one or two items along the way. I take them to a vantage point in my favourite part of town, Petite France. To my amazement, mum claims it’s unfamiliar to her. I can’t imagine having made such an oversight. The afternoon is spent in the company of the gamely Oh My Goodness! Team; one of my Strasbourg haunts. The ambiance is welcoming as ever. I bump into Stéphane, a member of my church whom I’ve met on a number of occasions (usually in the presence of his missus) but still doesn’t know whom I am.

We have dinner plans that evening but not before I make a mad dash to one of the few remaining Portuguese lessons of the term. I deposit mum and sis at one of my other haunts, Manolya café; who serve the best and most indulgent smoothies. Despite my efforts I am late to class and never quite recover my bearings. I sheepishly slink off early to meet new mate Gael back at Manolya and introduce him to the fam. He’s an instant hit with my ladies. Sis digs his style, comparing him to Basquiat and mum thinks he’s wonderfully polite.

I’ve chosen Les Fines Gueules for our last meal together this trip. I don’t know if sis will have another chance to visit whilst I’m still based in Alsace so it’s only right she samples some traditional cuisine; even if it’s not the famous Quiche Lorraine she’s been on the hunt for all day. 

I can count on Lisa and the team for a good service. To my chagrin, sis and mum pick up the bill. I feel odd not contributing at least a little, given that they are my guests. Sis chides me for not being a more gracious recipient.

It’s back to work the next day. I rush home at lunch to see my favourite girls off at La Gare Centrale. God willing, sis and I will overlap the following week- during one of my UK visits- just before she flies back out.  The full impact of their absence will only hit me in the more quiet moments; such as that weekend, in the lonely expanse of my flat. Mum and sis catch their train without a hitch. It seems however, they take the good weather with them. The strong afternoon sunshine gives way to a violent storm in which their plane is caught up. Thank God, they make it back to the UK; a little shaken but safe and sound.

In Search of Soul Food

St Thomas' Church, Strasbourg

My quest for a new spiritual home in Strasbourg gets off to a ropey start. On my first Sunday in town, I bump Blessed Souls’ Anglican Congregation to the top of my search list. I’ve not grown up in the orthodox tradition. However, BSAC’s website suggests they are an inclusive bunch, the congregants being drawn from various Christian professions. It’s based in the youthful University district. I’m expecting something vaguely charismatic. You know, like HTB. Hmm. Not quite. The service is as cold as the stone walls. The confusingly-American vicar alternates the liturgy between French and English. That's all good. Nevertheless, I’m not used to such regimented styles of worship with no room for spontaneity. I don’t understand this business of taking Holy Communion/the Eucharist standing in a semi-circle on the altar. And they only have real red wine; no grape juice or blackcurrent squash for us teetotallers.

As for the sermon-if I can stretch the definition so far- it’s a tepid, brief, and poorly-prepared reflection on All Saints’ Day/Halloween. At one stage he compares the ghouls associated with All Hallow’s Eve with our personal demons. Good Lord. The praise and worship is makeshift; a couple of coy young women all but giggling their way through it, one of them tentatively strumming an acoustic guitar. I’m constantly distracted by a young French-African couple making an almighty racket near the altar, setting up for their impossibly cute one-year old’s birthday celebration. They have the cheek to come in late. A red-blooded hetero female, my eyes are nonetheless constantly drawn to the woman’s remarkable cleavage. Each time she bends over to heft a drinks carton or the other, the material of her sparkling red and gold traditional garments barely stretch over her gargantuan bosom. The couple finish the commotion around the time the service is drawing to a close. All I can see is a cake and stacks of soft drinks. After all that palaver I’d expect an elaborate hot buffet and silver service.

I slip out as unobtrusively as possible. Not that anyone is rushing to speak to me anyway. I wouldn’t dare to question the sincerity of another’s faith or their preferred style of worship but BSAC is not for me.  It's not the only orthodox service I attend. St Paul's near the town centre is also brief and liturgical but a far more pleasant experience. I have passed the resplendent building countless times without venturing in. It's somewhat of a personal landmark for me.

I find it refreshing to see the service led entirely by a female minister. I am surprised, perhaps unfairly, that the congregants are accepting of this. They are much older and less diverse than the other churches I will attend. I enjoy practising pronunciation wrapping my mouth around traditional Francophone hymns. The organ accompaniment is sublime. I have no plans to join the parish of St Paul's but I appreciate the opportunity to experience a different style of worship.

Another Sunday I attend the bilingual, modest-sized but multicultural Trinity International Church of Strasbourg (TICOS). With the exception of St Paul's, I am struck on my first few church-related expeditions by how impressively diverse the congregations are. True, Strasbourg is an international city. But so is London and there’s no guarantee that any given place of worship will be as cosmopolitan as the general population. My home church are one of the few to manage it. 

Trinity is definitely more my cup of tea. Bernard, head of the welcome team, ably lives up to his ministry’s mandate by making me feel immediately at ease. Despite the vast majority of members being proficient English speakers, he humours my desire to practise French. There are UN-style personal headsets through which interpreters simultaneously translate the English sermon into French. The worship songs have a comforting familiarity. The kindly American (again) Pastor Karl preaches on Jesus' holy anger against the commercialisation of God’s temple. He relates it to modern examples of filthy lucre corrupting the church. I’m on the look-out for any unsavoury blood-red Republican political references or Trump cheerleading. Hallelujah, none are forthcoming. It’s a big tick for TICOS but still too early to make up my mind just yet.

Strasbourg.eu

The following Sunday I am on the move again. Thanks to the convoluted directions I printed out from Google Maps (I should just trust my instincts), I darken the doors of Eglise Pentecôte Internationale de Strasbourg (EPIS) a quarter of an hour late. Judging from the other stragglers, the congregation isn’t as diverse as the website would lead me to believe. On entering, my quick assumptions are proved wrong. It’s just stereotypes about certain cultures’ timekeeping have a grain of truth. Being amongst the (unintentionally) guilty, I’ll say no more.

I take my seat near the back. Just a few rows in front I spot Jeanne, the young Lyonnaise I befriended at a jazz gig a few days earlier. She’s with the friend whom she came to support that night. We catch up with each other after the service on the tram ride home.


EPIS is not just cosmopolitan. Like Trinity, it has an outward focus. Some guest missionaries show excerpts from a documentary about their initiatives in Madagascar. A few weeks later I attend a Christmas fundraising concert for projects in Eastern Europe South-East Asia and West Africa.

EPIS has a more sizeable congregation than I anticipate. It would be easy to get lost. But there’s much that appeals. The pastoral staff seem warm and approachable. It's not only ethnically diverse but inclusive in other ways. I'm heartened to see provisions made for disabled congregants and their seemingly active engagement in church life. The service is monolingual but is delivered at a reasonable pace. Any concerns that I might be out of my depth are quickly dispersed. The guest minister preaches from 1 Corinthians 13; the famous Love Chapter. He asks a soul-searching question on which I’ve only just recently been reflecting in light of my accommodation trouble; Do we love God for who He is or what we can get?

(c) Trip Advisor

Overall, a thumbs up. EPIS is added to my shortlist.

Once service is over, Sunday afternoons are spent wandering around Strasbourg town centre.As much as France prides itself on its strong secularity, they don't mess with their Sabbath. You'd be hard pressed to find all but a few determined restaurants and cafés open. It does engender a sense of calm and balance to the week. The streets are less busy. Families take a stroll together. Everyone moves at a more leisurely pace. It's ideal for exploring the City.  I'm forever making discoveries. One Sunday in late November I drift into the famed Christmas Market, by chance.  It's a sensory feast of enticing aromas, trinkets of varying attraction and bright lights. I make a mental note to come back within the month for street cart waffles and pancakes.

So far I'm more or less winning the battle against the boulangeries. Not an easy task when there's an artisan patisserie on every corner. Praise be, I have mostly managed to confine my pastry indulgence to once a week after church.

First Impressions Part 2: The Hunt

(c) Lexis-Byron Bay

One thing my flat-hunt has afforded me is plenty of French practice. There’s something about the necessity of having to make myself understood which initially prevents me over-thinking what I am about to say as much as I normally would. I am using French in all sorts of hitherto unfamiliar contexts. Apart from the accommodation search I’m dealing with official documentation at work, medical examinations...

I am relieved how much I understand on the first go. I wouldn’t describe myself as fluent. A few more months of consistent interaction, however will do my language levels no end of good. I hope. After a month, this early optimism looks to be something of a false dawn. It amazes and frustrates me how inconsistent my linguistic competencies can be. One minute I’m off and away. On a different day-or simply different time of day-it’s as if that part of my brain has gone on strike. It feels like my skills are receding rather than flourishing. I'm surrounded by polyglots and yet I'm still trying to master a second language that I've been studying since the age of 7. Je m'en veux.

Nevertheless, familiarity with French is helping me become quite adept at sniffing out the property crooks; those who post false adverts in hope of fleecing some poor, unsuspecting desperado. There’s usually some story about not being based in Strasbourg and needing to rent the property to a ‘trustworthy’ person in theirs or some other's absence. Their messages contain too much detail and they demand the same. They often insist on communicating via less official channels. They talk about signing leases and paying deposits before even meeting the potential tenant. No respectable landlord/lady would be so lax with scrutiny. Then there’s always the suspiciously professional-looking photos of plush premises at mouthwateringly low prices. A quick search via Google images can trace the provenance of some these appropriated snaps. At first, I confront them in forthright and dry French (as much as I can attempt irony in another language). After a while, I'm canny enough not to bother responding to them at all.

There are genuine proprietors (and even then, I'm in a vulnerable position as I do all my viewings solo. On mum's wise suggestion, I make a point to notify her where I'll be and when). The problem is the lodgings are either too small and/or don’t have sufficient amenities, or are not immediately available.

The lack of accommodation is a real test of faith. I know the Good Lord will provide. There have been miracles paving the way for my trip including an impromptu, highly generous donation from a Christian former work colleague who barely knew me. And yet. I wrestle with the instinct to panic. Last minute acts of the Divine are wonderful but I’d prefer more timely intervention.

Petite France

For a start, it’s difficult to mentally unpack. My new life is in a state of suspension. It's hard to put down roots without a fixed address. For the first fortnight, I have been fortunate to find a whole condominium in a central-ish location via AirBnb. The regular resident, Dominic Lumumba (no relation) divides his time between Paris and Strasbourg. To my pleasant surprise, it’s a lot more spacious than the online pictures capture. Since he's away on business I am welcomed by Dominic’s friend, Patricia. The flat is clearly still lived-in. Lumumba’s wardrobe is full, his freezer stuffed to capacity. Patricia’s clothes are drying in the airing cupboard. Dominic’s bedroom notice board is replete with pictures from his night’s out. Quite the social butterfly, it seems.

I make myself as comfortable as I can without going overboard. I’ve only booked it for two weeks after all. Patricia doesn’t hide her mild shock when she learns of my limited window to find suitable accommodation. That makes me panic even more.

‘At least just try and enjoy this period for what it is’ advises mum. She’s right. I do live in an unbelievably picturesque town. It has many likeably quaint features. The tram network and the general layout mean nowhere is really far from anywhere. Some trams play curious little jingles as we approach a stop. I can’t believe I live here now!

During my first proper weekend in Strasbourg, I take the opportunity to acquaint myself better with the city whilst doing some errands. I need to take some pictures for my residence permit. I find a photographer’s studio with rave reviews online in the Faubourg National area. I engage in a fascinating conversation with the Bengali owner, who settled in France 20 years ago without speaking a word of the language. He learned from friends, he tells me. He points out that, compared to the shiny upmarket part of town where I work, this is the ‘quartier populaire’. He mentions a couple of African food retailers. On emerging from the shop I realise that I have indeed stumbled upon Le Quartier Noir. Overpriced African delicacies. Obtrusive cat-callers. Afro hair and beauty shops. I find a salon that does all and sundry including skin treatments. My French falters trying to use more technical terms to describe what I want. The clientele is noticeably diverse. I catch the eye of a Caucasian transgender customer. There’s a wide-eyed curiosity to how s/he observes me. I wink and smile. The latter is reciprocated.

I allow myself to get lost in Strasbourg’s cobbled streets and become acquainted with La Petite France and other scenic parts. There are buskers playing the accordion in the street. Seriously. I wander through a free exhibition on anti-semitic Nazi Propaganda trying to access the terrace of Le Barrage Vauban.

Occasionally the topography reminds me of other European cities; flashes of Amsterdam or Toulouse. Perhaps somewhere in Belgium.

There’s something about going abroad that makes me more conscious of the architecture than when I’m in the UK; especially churches. Strasbourg has its own distinct mix of classic Roman or Gothic influences (the stunning Cathedral for instance) and big shiny new steel edifices (EU institutions).

In terms of pace, Strasbourg is somewhere between the chaos of metropoles like Paris or London and a peaceful small town. Un bel equilibre. (Very un-London like, I quickly pick up the local habit of greeting strangers.)

Still, it’s not a backwater. The high streets have most of the familiar creature comforts. There are posters everywhere advertising performances by international artists, a forthcoming Jazz festival, socio-political conferences…

One thing for which I am not prepared is the cost of food. I am aware that grocery shopping in France can be pricey but that has been based on cursory knowledge from short breaks. I hoped once in the country, learning where the locals shop, I’d be pleasantly surprised. If nothing else, there’s always Aldi and Lidl. All will be well.

My first trip to Aldi’s is a rude awakening. It’s not as close to my temporary accommodation as hoped. I spend two hours looking for the damned place, traversing hills and vales and losing my bearings in the process. It’s not a journey that’s supposed to be made on foot. The nearest public transport is a solid 10-15 minute walk.

On arriving there are no small shopping baskets, just the over-sized trollies; not much use to a solo shopper. The shop is woefully lacking in variety compared to its British counterpart . I am stunned at the so-called discounted prices. Four (high calorie) pita breads at 1 Euro 15 cents? Double the equivalent of what I’d pay in the UK for more product? You’re having a bubble. I spend nearly 25 euros on an insubstantial shop.

An after-work trip to Lidl proves, ahem, little better. This time, there are no trolleys or baskets whatsoever. I am obliged to stuff my yet-to-be-paid goods into my bag-for-life like some poxy novice shoplifter. A furtive glance over my shoulder reveal others have had to resort to similar measures. I don’t know what the Francofied German supermarket chains have against portable metallic repositories. It’s another disgruntled shopping experience.

Less than a week later I am a lot more accustomed to the general state of play. Washing detergent starting from seven euros. Hmm. The limited range also means shopping will have to be divided amongst several retailers. I suppose I do the same in the UK but for the opposite reason; more competition, more consumer choice. Maybe this French experience will wean me off this capitalist indulgence.