The best of times…sort of

The day after the memorial service, I’ve arranged to meet with newest acquaintance, Gabriela. She has just celebrated her 23rd birthday the day before. I owe her a celebratory beverage. 

I invite Gabbie to the annual music and food festival, Street Bouche. 

I momentarily reconsider the appropriateness in light of the previous night’s events. Yet life, rather uncaring, goes on. Arrangements have already been made. Knowing how lonely Strasbourg life can get, I’d want Gabriela to feel welcome.

I wasn’t wholly impressed by the staid atmosphere of Street Bouche last year. Perhaps its 2019 iteration will be different. It’s in the heart of the student district this year, scheduled on a weekend that sees the last of the real summer sunshine.  Gabbie informs me by text she’s inviting a friend. I'm not over the moon about this last minute addition-I never am-but have no choice.

I arrive earlier than Gabriela and her guest to scope out the festival. Admittedly, the venue is better suited to the event than the previous year. On the food front, it’s less impressive. There are too many hamburger joints and not enough grub from the MENA region. There are a few African fusion pop-ups but I’m not in the mood to experiment. The one stall that really grabs my eye is selling enormous  bubble waffles stuffed with ice cream and enticing toppings. My waistline will be glad I’ve just eaten as I stare down temptation.  Instead I’ll enjoy these treats vicariously, when I buy some for Gabriela and her mate, Crystal later on.

For the moment, they're running late. The music policy is less ambient electro than last year and more hardcore hip-hop. I sit near the speakers with a book whilst I wait for my guests.  My reading is pleasantly interrupted a couple of times when the DJ drops some veritable 90s jams (a remix of Nonchalant’s 5 O’Clock and perennial favourite, Runnin’ by the Pharcyde). I indulge in a solo boogie both times, returning to my novel when I lose interest in the next tune.

 As much as I pride myself on being able to hang out at culture events on my own, Strasbourg isn’t the best city for it. I’m therefore relieved when Gabriela and Crystal arrive. We circle the premises sampling some of the wares and engaging in deep discussion; notably about the writing process. A homeless man approaches us. The interaction turns out to be one of those fleeting yet transcendent moments.

We head out at dusk, just as the festival is getting really busy. Whilst accompanying me to my bus stop, Gabbie makes some affirmative comments about my physique. I return the compliment. She wants to fill out more. Having grown up in a West African context, her mind hasn’t been as warped by Western beauty standards as mine. Just as my bus approaches she asks if I’m single and what the dating scene is like. I give her a preview of my near-misses but…

That’s for another conversation…I promise.

That week at work is chaotic. A number of missions taking place around the Continent are thrown off schedule by numerous travel woes; a domino effect from the collapse of Thomas Cooke and Adria Airways. I spend most of the week fighting fires. The following week, the Head of State will pass by to mark THRO's anniversary. The city's transport is temporarily thrown into disarray. Most of the proceedings are taking place at Le Chateau. I'm not especially interested in what Macron has to say.  I shove in my earphones to stop my head from exploding when I overhear a colleague say he's the best president France has had since the recently deceased Jacques Chirac.

The hectic work schedule takes my mind off other matters. My feelings about my looming departure are conflicted. On one hand, I’ll be glad for the psychological respite from working in my department. On the other, I will miss several colleagues. I’ve started to notify the security team and those with whom I have brief but positive interactions. The process makes me maudlin. My work diary fills up with elevenses and lunch time meet-ups. Over the coming weeks I'll be moved by the supportive responses from those who seem genuinely sad to see me go.

I discover that one such lovely colleague, Josef, attends a church I used to visit on moving to Strasbourg. He informs me of a THRO trainee, Winnie, who is part of the same fellowship. Great. All this time praying to meet fellow Christians at The Organisation, and now they show up al once? God has a sense of humour, I quip. Better late than never. All three of us make arrangements to meet up for elevenses before I leave.

I’m beginning to have an affection for Strasbourg that eluded me during my first year. Maybe it's because I’ve ironically just found my feet. Maybe the fondness is engendered by only having a finite time left in the region. I suspect I wouldn’t be as favourable if I were staying indefinitely in the same unfulfilling job.

One Friday night I skip choir rehearsal to join the street outreach team; supporting the homeless and women who sell sex. It will be one of my last outings with them. For once we have an equal male: female ratio. 

A difficult ministry on both the emotional and psychological front, it's nonetheless rewarding and an eye-opener. We come across some of the regulars as well as those less familiar. One woman's faith in God is heavily mixed with superstition. She refuses to touch crosses or bibles claiming she’s “ not clean”. No one is, we counter. The universal need for redemption is the heart of the Gospel message.

It’s more church-related activity the following afternoon. For a change, I’m able to make one of the meetings for single women.

It’s an informal affair at Oh My Goodness café.  Founding member Patrice outlines her plan for the coming term and year.  If we're a little nervous at first, by the end the atmosphere is convivial. I end up sticking around longer than planned and leave in good spirits. André Malraux Médiathèque awaits.

Just as I’m in the throes of short story inspiration, I spot a striking young man with deep chocolate skin and an impressive bone structure. We mutually acknowledge one another.  Well aware of an age gap and the futility of any romantic engagement when I have one foot out of the door, I have no designs on him. I thus feel more liberated- maybe a little too free- to compliment him.

Beau visage !

On exiting he stops to tell me I remind him of his cousin (hence the initial eye-contact). Thus begins a half hour or so of impromptu dialogue. He introduces himself as Mamadou; born in Benin to parents from Niger and Congo Brazzaville. We talk about cultural liminality, the Alsatian reserve and his interest in graphic design amongst other things. He informs me of a conference taking place a stone’s throw away from work. Genuinely enthused, I ask for him to forward me the information. At the same time, I'm hesitant to share my details not wanting him read too much into it.

Over the next few days, my initial apprehension appears to be well-founded. Mamadou finds various pretexts to contact me. My responses are polite but brief. I’ll wait it out. Too often I’ve been in a position where my platonic intentions are a mismatch with that of my interlocutor. I don’t like to send mixed signals. They bugger off once it becomes clear I am not interested in romance. I hope this time I’m just overreacting and history won’t repeat itself.

Hmm. Ce n’est pas demain, la veille. 

Another potential misadventure to report to Gabriela.

Soundtrack: Remix Boy by Suff Daddy, Collections Vol. 1 by Simbad. The Scope by Manu Katché.

...Plus La Même Chose

My experience with the male

population hasn’t been wholly positive since moving to France. Any interest usually comes with mixed motives (again, that’s where my heartache has been a respectful exception). Creepy Thomas has at last disappeared into the ether after he alludes to me being withdrawn. I explain that his overly-tactile manner leaves me feeling uneasy. He feigns much indignation. The texts and ‘language exchange’ requests come to an abrupt halt.

Benoit’s behaviour is also of increasing concern. When we bump into each other, as we do fairly often working and living so close to each other, I notice he’s far more excitable. His olive palate flushes red; he perspires and is short of breath. In turn it makes me feel very uncomfortable in his presence. I start to wonder if our interactions are hazardous for his health. I wouldn’t want him having a cardiac episode on my account. Death by infatuation; I think not.

I receive a random text from him one morning.

Hello pretty. I've been thinking of you.

I'd rather he weren't. Not to be a cynic, but I fear what that might mean.

During one birthday-related text, Benoit brags that he knows all about me, including my age. I call his bluff, knowing that my internet footprint doesn’t give much away. Unbeknownst to me he takes it as a challenge.

The next day there's another chance encounter on the way to the local supermarket after work. We discuss a novel he's lent me by French bestselling author Pierre LeMaitre. To Benoit's credit, it's a good recommendation. Thrillers aren't usually my thing but it's a highly intriguing and original escapade; albeit involving abduction, torture, sexual abuse, incest and gruesome murders.

At some point in the conversation, Benoit proceeds to tell me my date of birth and the pictures he found of me and my sister. I’m horrified and react accordingly. Meanwhile, he seems quite pleased with his presumed resourcefulness. I rush home to find out how accessible this personal information is. Not very. He would have had to do some serious digging to find my DOB, on an obscure poetry site from a decade ago. Flip-ping heck.

We are due to meet up for a language exchange the following week but I’m having my doubts. I draft a stern-ish email and wait to send it based on sis’ level-headed advice. Good thing. It goes through some revisions. It's another bi-lingual effort. I explain why I was so agitated the other day; that I have no intentions of being his girlfriend (as I’ve made clear in the past) and he won’t convince me otherwise. Although I am willing to continue with the language exchange, I ask that he be more mindful in future. He demurs, with an apology. He’d rather scrap the planned meet-ups. However, he affirms, he’ll retain pleasant memories of our interactions.

My relief is mixed with profound disappointment. I once respected Benoit for what I thought was a mature attitude about his unrequited affection. Now my suspicions have been confirmed he was merely biding his time. It feels like a betrayal. He was one of the first acquaintances I made and in one of the most organic circumstances. It used to be so simple.

This contributes to the isolation-related mild depression threatening to re-surface after summer, despite my busyness. 

 I’m often asked how I’m settling in. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to give anything but an honest reply. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about the maddening insularity of Strasbourg.

Whilst my heartache believes I’ll eventually be ‘adopted’ into the Strasbourg family, I have my doubts. Those with experience living elsewhere –or who simply have an international outlook- feel my pain. Multilingual David, whom I meet at an Internations event, has lived and worked across Europe. He’s half-Alsatian, has lived in Strasbourg for a few years and still finds his local connections are yet to deepen. He says Alsace natives are content with just seeing the same small circle of friends. Besides, he adds, it’s the stage of life in which we find ourselves.  In this corner of the world, unlike the varied landscape say in London, 30-somethings have all settled down and are focused on family. But, he reassures, all you need is  a couple of good connections to turn the experience around.

Italian colleague, Alessandra whom I meet at the in-house French class, is an honorary Londoner. It was her home for a decade before relocating to Strasbourg.  She understands my plight as a solitary female living in the city. As does my Cypriot colleague, single mum Daphnia. She takes the words out of my mouth. I find another sympathetic ear speaking to Evan, the linguistically-talented co-director of the community Gospel choir I’ve just joined (a thoroughly therapeutic way to forget my troubles).  He explains it’s hard to hang out with folks in this region, even on the weekend. Since most of them are local, they tend to go back to their home towns... 

And so it continues. I am made ever-conscious of the unintentionally self-involved and parochial Alsace mindset. If they’re not hanging around in groups, they’re part of a couple. It’s all I can do not to sneer. Those under 50-women in particular-hardly seem to go out alone. On one hand I can understand why singleness would seem an unappealing option in this lonely neck of the woods (which might partly account for Benoit’s desperation). Then again, I imagine it’s not the healthiest place to be in a relationship. Co-dependency would be inevitable.

On a chilly Saturday afternoon, I make my way to food and music festival Street Bouche au Jardin des Deux Rives.  It’s a far more organised and sedate affair than I envisage. Perhaps the sudden drop in temperature has dissuaded revellers. It’ll be much worse the following day, when an unexpected storm hits. 

I purchase an impressive-looking Chawarma from a Lebanese vendor (which I save for my ‘cheat’ day) and take a seat near the DJ corner. The music policy of soulful electronica is pleasing to my ears. I’d like to dance but it’s impossible without appearing to be an exhibitionist. Dance like nobody’s watching? I wish. I daydream of a good old jam with friends and family. 

Looking around the park, a few moves are made here and there in jest. A group of gamely friends snatch a boogie in between what looks like a twist on crochet. I observe a family of Malagasy women; three generations. The grandmother is the most enthusiastic dancer. She approaches the group of sort-of crochet players, apparently inciting them to move more. Elsewhere, the male component of a pretty-looking African-Caribbean couple seated next to me jiggles his hips, apparently for my benefit. It seems important to him that I notice.

I wriggle rhythmically in my seat. Not sure if it’s even worth the two euro entry fee but that’s as good as it gets round these parts.

This Week's Soundtrack- Inspiration Information by Shuggie Otis, Soniquete: The Sensational Sound of Gecko Turner.