In a Carpenters' State of Mind

Mid-July weekend. France is in jubilatory mode. Saturday is Bastille Day and Sunday will be the final World Cup face-off with Croatia. Ironically, I feel more intensely the mild depression I’ve been skirting round. Nevertheless, regretful for missing out on the celebrations during the Fete de la Musique, I am determined to make it to the late night 14 July fireworks display near Etoile Bourse in Strasbourg town centre. It would compensate for not being in the UK for Guy Fawkes' night last year, having already moved to Alsace.

My mood lifts as my usually quiet bus route fills up with revelers headed for the same destination. There’s a massive diversion owing to the fireworks. I ditch my original plan to make my own way

by foot from Les Halles and instead follow the crowd. It’s after 10pm. Dusk has finally made way for nightfall. Restaurants in the Etoile Bourse area are full to capacity, certain punters having decided to watch the display from the terraces. It occurs to me too late that I should have met up with Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro rather than fly solo. We text each other before and after the Light Show. She’s about but I don’t know where.

Despite the crowd I locate a suspiciously clear open space to park myself for the event, next to the temporary beach. My personal soundtrack to the spectacle is a collection of love songs by The Carpenters. Karen is one of my favourite vocalists but I mete out how often I listen to them. There’s something intrinsically mournful about her sublime voice. Even her happier songs sound ironic. Between that, the siblings’ less than cheerful backstory and Karen’s self-inflicted untimely demise, I can only take their painfully beautiful music in measured doses. But I am in that kind of mood.

There’s a sweet, almost twisted pleasure listening to Karen’s melodious hum as the sky lights up with multi-coloured pyrotechnics. It becomes clear why the spot I’ve found isn’t so busy. The view is obstructed by a decorative (yes decorative) crane. I shift around in a futile attempt to find a better vantage point that isn’t already occupied, before making my peace with it. In the end, it’s a serene half-an-hour spent. Life-affirming, even. Just what I need. Disruption to public transport and late hour notwithstanding, my journey home is auspicious.

The following day at church the kindly, avuncular senior pastor preaches from Psalm 23. He exhorts us to profit from the downtempo summer period to rest our weary souls. It’s a pertinent message that sets off much internal dialogue.

After the service, I hear a familiar voice calling out. It’s Serafine. I’m relieved to see her. I’d hoped our paths would cross. She looks fab in a traditional West-African print wrap-around summer dress.

She asks how I am doing. I don’t have the energy these days for pretence; at least not around certain individuals. I try to articulate my complex mind state as best I can in French. Whilst endeavouring to explain my pre-birthday anxiety, I burst into tears. Serafine embraces me. She needs to fetch her daughter from Sunday school but asks if I have plans this afternoon.

Not much.

Her offer to spend time is a small but significant gesture. It’s the tonic that I need that afternoon. We hardly know each other but have much in common. Half-Gabonese, Half-Austrian Serafine relates to my citizen-of-everywhere-and-nowhere sentiments.

Being mixed isn’t just about ethnicity. It’s very much cultural. She avers, citing examples of mixed heritage Africans who feel little connection to the West. I couldn’t agree more. I've met quite a few. In their eyes, I'm a lost little Westernised girl, ignorant of her roots.

Serafine explains that Strasbourg can be a lonely city. I don't get it. It's the right balance between the manic pace of a Megatropolis and the boredom of a small town. 

Serafine expounds. She's moved countries and cities several times. Because of the transitory lifestyle of mega-cities there are many individuals in a similar position. They arrive from all over, to work or study, with no family or relational ties. They are looking to connect with others in the same boat. Strasbourg on the other hand, is full of long established networks. Its residents are settled and have put down roots. It's tough for an outsider to make inroads.

I've never seen it from that perspective. So it's not just me.

Serafine and I find further common ground in our aversion to the reductive ideas about women within some Christian circles. Unlike one of the speakers at church who goes out of her way to distance herself from feminism, Serafine and I readily identify with it. Sitting in her car, with her patient and well-behaved young daughter looking on quietly, we swap notes about our similar choleric/melancholic tendencies (not that I’d guess from her mellow demeanour), our mutual self-defeating perfectionism and inherent idealism. She empathises with the difficulty of negotiating relations at work. I unburden about my crisis of faith. She listens, sympathetic. 

I count my blessings. It’s the second time that week I’ve been able to share with someone who listens without judgment; once with an old friend and this time with a relative stranger.

And of course, there’s my beautiful, loyal, patient sister and her ready ears.

Nothing has changed materially after these conversations but I feel understood. It makes all the difference. I begrudgingly acknowledge God’s love in such ordinary interactions. As much as I am looking for the Mountain Top/Burning Bush moments, I can’t turn my nose up at any experience of the Divine, no matter how commonplace.

(courtesy of The Wall Street Journal)

That evening, France’ celebratory weekend will conclude with resounding victory at the World Cup. The Blues take home the coveted trophy, 20 years on from their last memorable win against Brazil. Given that this has happened on his watch, President Macron’s expression is even jammier than usual.

Just as in 1998, the triumphant French team is significantly comprised of the sons of African and Arab immigrants from former Francophone colonies. I’m no football fan but there’s a multicultural sweetness to this glory. I send a congratulatory text to a few of my Francophone acquaintances.

Yeesssssssssssss is the ecstatic, Anglophone response from one.

This is the next best thing to living through the 1998 salad days. Footage of Paris on line shows a sea of red, white and blue gathered around L’Arc de Triomphe. I watch cars speeding past my window, horning furiously, occupants hanging out of the window, flag-waving.

I’m sincerely glad to be here right now.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy After All These Years by Paul Simon & Love Songs by The Carpenters.

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