Life is Full of Surprises

 

Sounds Jazz Club, Brussels
(courtesy of Visit Brussels)

7 min. read

A few hours after my plane from Italy touches down, I’m back in the gym. That same evening, I attend a French conversation social.  The longer days and warmer weather bring more opportunities to socialise. I intend to avail myself of them all.

Meanwhile, my job search is ongoing. One upside to unemployment - I don’t have to worry about being too groggy for work in the morning.

I have a tendency to commit to things in advance, sometimes only to find my diary close to overload. I am in that exact position as April draws to a close. 

I continue my discovery of what Brussels has to offer on the open mic night front (these events have been some of the last to recommence post-lockdowns). 

One of the most proactive Internations consuls organises a midweek trip to Sounds Jazz club in Ixelles. 

The venue would normally be apprised of guests’ arrival, so we can all be seated in the same area. Not this time. My enquiries are met with blank expressions from staff. A petite woman with a fabulous dusty-blonde afro wanders around looking equally lost. We realise we’re part of the same group. She introduces herself as Delia; originally from Angola now based in Gent. She’s having trouble getting hold of the organiser. Another guest shows up - Emma- overhears our conversation and signals she’s also there for the same reason. 

The venue is fast filling up. I volunteer to speak to a small party near the stage who look as if they might be in the know. My gamble pays off. I’m signposted to a group in the corner, presided over by Helena – the co-organiser. I call over Delia and Emma. There's just about enough space for everyone. 

None of us have previously met. Most are relatively new to Brussels; some only moving to Belgium weeks beforehand. I’m almost a veteran in comparison. At less than two years in the country, I’m used to being amongst the newbies. Lively Helena has maintained a strong Antipodean accent, despite having spent at least half her life based in either North America or Europe. Part-Greek and Part-Italian (speaking neither), she has more official nationalities than anyone I’ve met. Four; including New Zealand and US. I didn’t think it were possible.

Delia and I discuss natural hair care and I speak about my recent trip to Florence with a gentleman originally from the Calabria region. I strike a particular rapport with Fredricka, a Half-Ugandan, Half-German director recently moved to Belgium after a brief stint in the UK. She’s in Brussels to research her next project. We discuss cultural liminality, colonial spillover, observations about the male species in the European context and exchange perspectives on living in France (she in the South, I in the North).

You must meet my friend, Karin. I insist.

The discussion is so enjoyable, we’re all distracted from the high quality musicianship on offer. After the House Trio finish their set, young bloods (all men, as usual) line up to jam. I had seriously played with the idea of adding some vocals (for a change), but the moment passes. It’s getting late.

Sons of Abraham (Théâtre National, BXL)

We all head home at a similar time, not before numbers are swapped and friendship requests sent. I’m buoyed by the night’s proceedings. I went with an open mind and my expectations have been exceeded. 

Quelle belle surprise.

Later in the week, I head to the National Theatre in Central Brussels for a performance of new play, Sons of Abraham. Months ago, Lorenzo and I had plans to see it together.  A lot has happened in the meantime. Instead, I attend with the Internations Theatre contingent. I’m almost tempted to bow out when I discover that a concert is being held that same night at Bozar, to commemorate what would’ve been the 100^th birthday of Belgian Jazz Legend, Toots Thielemans. The event boasts illustrious names like Brazilian singer/songwriter Ivan Lins and guitarist Philippe Catherine. Conflicted, I decide to honour my theatre commitment.

It’s not at all a bad trade off. Sons of Abraham is what experimental theatre should be like when done well. Fusing music with an interactive narrative, an Iranian refugee, his Israeli creative-collaborator and a Turkish-Kurdish singer examine the brutal reality of hostile migration policy. The biblical account of half-brothers Ishmael and Isaac is the source material. Raw, self-aware, irreverent and shockingly candid, the performers roam the sparse stage, engaging every element of their being in the story-telling process. The script is updated to include the recent invasion of Ukraine and the double-standards in Western reportage. No interval, no let-up. 

After roughly 90 minutes, we’re left reeling but impressed. There’s not too much lingering after the performance. I’ve been bracing myself to bump into Lorenzo. I don’t see him. I have mixed feelings about it. Mostly relief.

I head back towards the station with a fellow theatre-goer.  De Brouckère square has been commandeered by the Balkans Traffik festival. The music carries so far and wide, and the stage so visible from street level, you don’t need to have purchased a ticket to benefit.

I’ll be back at the theatre the following night. Before then, I attend an inaugural Mixed Conversation Circle, organised by a life coach - Bruno - with whom I became acquainted in late 2021. The aim is to have open discussions, irrespective of gender, about negotiating concepts of masculinity and femininity in the 21st century. Bruno is already experienced in running Masculinity circles. He credits me for the Mixed Conversation event, since it was my demand that they be open to women which gave him the spark.

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I fall short of my good intentions and arrive a quarter hour late. Bruno isn't fussed.

By the way, you’ll be the only woman present for this first session, he warns.

That’s odd, I reply, more nervous now. It's usually harder to convince the menfolk to attend these activities.

Bruno directs me upstairs. I hear him mention Lorenzo’s name.

Bruno knows we’re acquainted and that it was I who encouraged Lorenzo to attend last year’s Masculinity Circles. However, Bruno is not aware that we’re currently estranged. We haven't seen each other for a couple of months. Bar the odd email or a perfunctory text exchange over Easter, we have hardly communicated at all.

I don’t have enough time to fix a neutral expression. With a sheepish grin, I throw a cursory glance in Lorenzo’s direction. I expect a cool reception. Instead he smiles and winks, as if he’s not as surprised at my presence as I am at his. 

There are two empty seats; one next to Bruno and the other beside Lorenzo. I choose the former. Instinctively -if unconscious - I angle my body away from Lorenzo for the majority of the meeting. In retrospect, he’s the only one with whom I never make eye-contact when he takes the floor. (It’s not something I can completely avoid. At the end of the discussion, Bruno insists that we look into each other’s eyes. A disarming request at the best of times, it’s a moment I find too excruciating for words in these circumstances.)

I still have love in my heart for my erstwhile friend but I don't feel emotionally safe around him at present. I realise we can't go back to what was. Yet, neither do I see an immediate way forward. 

For the early part of the session, I am completely thrown off. I haven't had time to mentally prepare. This is supposed to be an intimate space. I don’t know how I am going to open up with someone in the room who makes me feel very uncomfortable. 

It doesn’t help that the other attendees stress the point about me being the only woman. It’s all affirmative. In a different context, I’d appreciate the show of respect. For now, I find the attention too intense. I take deep breaths. I try to be as honest about my unease as possible without being indiscreet. (Later, I’ll explain to Bruno by text message the reason for my disorientated state). I intend to listen more than I speak.

Orphelins (Varia Theatre)

I eventually calm down enough to make some meaningful contributions. The discussion doesn’t turn specifically around gender relations, so much as our individual self-image and thought patterns. For the sake of discretion, I won’t divulge more. Suffice to say, once I'm settled, I find the session overall constructive. From the positive feedback I receive from the others, the sentiment is mutual.

Once the mortifying eye-contact ritual is over, I remain only briefly to make conversation with everyone but the person whom I once considered a best friend. He’s not exactly forthcoming himself. I make a beeline for the door, giving a gesture vaguely resembling a wave as I leave. On exiting, I hear a burst of laughter. I try to dispel any paranoia. It’s not in the spirit of the Circle to be catty.

The theatre will be solace of sorts later that evening. A macabre and sophisticated piece about adult siblings - orphaned as children - and the lengths one would go to protect the other from the consequences of a heinous act. There’s much to hold my attention; the rapid-fire dialogue, intriguing plot developments and poignant performances. And yet, my mind occasionally roams. 

The following day, 1 May, is the National Holiday for Workers. After church and a quick detour to Midi market, I head to Mont des Arts in the Gare Centrale area for the official commemoration. I'm due to meet a new comrade, Augustin. This will be my first real Worker's Day experience since moving to Belgium. I expect the gathering to be a typical political rally. It's more like a carnival. The sun is out. There's a temporary stage, where a band with a female lead vocalist and bassist (woo-hoo!) are playing infectious Afro-funk. There are food vans and bouncy castles, as well as numerous stalls set up by Leftist European political parties and CSOs. I collect various flyers en route to meeting Augustin and co. He introduces me to his wife, Molly and their children. Belgian Augustin and Congolese Molly have a rainbow tribe that resembles the cast of Different Strokes, and then some. 

It's an upbeat way to spend my post-church afternoon and beat the solo Sunday blues. That evening, Fredricka and I will reconnect again at a DJ set in Parc Royale. The following week, we’ll make it a wholesome threesome with Karin.

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun compiled by Paul Hillery. Basically Sober by Suff Daddy.

Summer Highlights: Part 1

 

A new acquaintance recently commented on the silence of these pages since the reflections on my dreamy Croatian holiday. I signed off to take a break over summer for an undefined period. (September still counts as (late) summer for me).

I’ve needed the respite. Maintaining two blogs amongs other interests and professional obligations can be quite a commitment. I gave myself permission not to feel guilty if I missed a few updates...

...And then my acquaintance's comments made that guilt resurge.

Besides. If I don’t resume now, I don’t know if or when.

As the weeks roll on, I have more to report which adds to the pressure. And so I decided to kickstart la rentrée de LVC with a fly-by-night retrospective.

On the work front many changes are afoot since the departure of my former manager, Ama in early summer.  It's forced me to become acquainted with internal political machinations that can be demoralising and distract from the work itself. Nonetheless, the job remains fulfilling and I pray to be able to continue in that vein.

On the social side, it's been a busy summer. I’ve made the most of what previously-cancelled activities have been available this year. 

I’ve also created my own fun.

Most significant of which is the belated 40^th birthday dinner I organise shortly after my return from Croatia. Despite taking place in mid-August and a number of potential invitées being away, I still have a decent turnout for the Senegalese buffet I have reserved in Matongé.  The alchemy is wonderful. My guests- encountered through work, church or social settings- develop an instant rapport. Whilst we don’t have much opportunity to mix and mingle at a sit-down dinner, the conversations flow freely in their respective corners. I have also invited Nik, the Dutch owner of the hotel where I first stayed on moving to Belgium. Although we’ve remained in touch fairly regularly, I’m still surprised at his enthusiastic RSVP. Later, a few other guests will remark on his eccentricism and provocative, no doubt facetious, commentary.

A handful of us hang around late into the night, feigning to leave only to continue our discussions outside the restaurant, slowly making our way to the metro. We talk some more, before finally descending into the bowels of Brussels. 

I receive a number of compliments on the calibre of friends I’ve managed to assemble over the months, in spite of the many challenges that the pandemic and human frailty have thrown up. It’s mad to think I’ve known these folks for a year at the most; some for a far shorter period.

Sis often reassured me it would work itself out; that we can be blessed with meaningful relationships in the blink of an eye. I am truly grateful and proud of the dynamic and multicultural community of which, by God’s grace, I am becoming part.

Elsewhere, I’ve been availing myself of the explosion of events on the Internations expat site. There are picnics, lunches, dinners and a five euro soirée with little to show for even that nominal sum. At the end of the evening, I try and tag along with auntie Carol and her crew of older ravers when they beg off to find somewhere to dance. Alas, the torrential rain that night literally puts a dampener on our plans.

I attend a Middle Eastern dinner in Antwerp organised by one of Carol's besties, Rob; my former frenemy and now just plain old nemesis. I have purposefully been avoiding the numerous activities he’s organised, even when he sends me direct invitations (something to which he'd never admit). However, I figure the odd group meal wouldn't hurt. It’s possible we’ll hardly have the chance to speak.

Still, I feel a nervous agitation, as is now normal whenever I have to interact with Rob. 

He is scandalously late to his own event. Annoyed, I make stilted conversation with the other (unknown) guests waiting at Gare Central, in between sending sanctimonious texts to Rob about disorganisation. We miss a couple of trains waiting for our errant host.

Subsequently, things are cordial enough. That is, until Rob and I have a blazing row towards the end of the evening triggered by another instance of his flakiness and cavalier attitude about other people’s time.

 I’m apologetic to the other guests on leaving. I hear a burst of laughter as I exit to catch the train with another attendee. I look down to see my treacherous belt has loosened. 

My mind is preoccupied with how this man-child always manages to get under my skin.

By some miracle my travel companion wants to remain in touch. We part ways at Gare Centrale. There, I bump into a sullen Rob and another guest from the dinner. It’s an awkward metro ride back, all the more so that the nemesis has parked his rented car in my neck of the woods for some reason. I’m voluble with his friend, a highly intelligent polyglot with apparent Aspergers. We’ve also had heated discussions in the past.

A few weeks later, I pop round to Rob’s office to pass on an article that might be of interest. It's a pretext for diplomacy. 

I hate that I lost control. 

Friendship is unrealistic but we can at least be on civil terms. 

It’s meant to be a quick stop over. I have other lunchtime plans. Before I know it, I’m sucked into another futile, revisionist conversation. Rob dissembles or self-contradicts when he believes it’s convenient. Failing that, he flat-out lies. There is an uncharacteristic moment of self-awareness on his part that’s promptly overridden by more bad faith. I am constantly surprised by my capacity to expect more from Rob than has ever been justified.

This impromptu meeting was motivated by a desire to live up to my Christian ideals. Instead, it’s a reminder that interacting with Rob is like trying to negotiate an emotional black hole. It sucks in everything around it and emits no light. I need to recognise my limits. Some people should be kept at a safe, City-wide distance.

Thankfully, there are more auspicious encounters. A week before our non-reconciliation I bump into one of Rob’s merry band of mulattos, Dénis. It's almost a year to the first and only time we met.  I recall his overall slickness and acerbic wit; entertaining for one night but would probably turn deadly in the long term. I imagine he'd be the kind of man always between girlfriends or ex-wives; past and future. On this occasion, with his adolescent daughter in tow, Dénis is on his best behaviour.

He explains he'll be relocating to Eastern Europe for work. By some bizarre social compulsion, I suggest we exchange numbers. As if we'll ever see each other again. 

I’m nonetheless glad our paths cross before Dénis' departure. I’d wondered what became of him.

There are more farewells as a couple of the younger sisters at church also relocate. One is going back to the UK before returning to mainland Europe to begin a placement in Geneva. The other, a former au pair, returns to South Africa, after being bullied by her mercurial boss. She has handled it with such grace and cheer, it’s hard to believe the stress she’s been under when she finally tells all.

It's generally been a great time for Christian fellowship. There are various dinners organised chez Dorian; a church sister from Guam. She also graced my 40th birthday guestlist and is one of the most generous individuals I’ve ever known. 

One Sunday after church I am invited to lunch at Karin and Felix’. This allows me to finally ingratiate myself with their kids. Result.

I am treated to some delicious homecooking over at my colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia’s house with their (now) multi-lingual brood. The couple are also both present at my 40^th dinner party. 

It’s now a running joke that Sylvia has appropriated me, with no objections on my part. We share a lot of cultural and political interests. She’s a thoughtful and effusive communicator. During supper at their house, I demand to know how her and Steve met. The two gladly regale me of the epic tale, with much predictable eye-rolling and interruption from the kids. Meanwhile, their obscenely fat feline, Gino lumbers around nonchalantly. Apparently, he was even heavier when they adopted him.

One mid-week evening I attend a multilingual social where I debate with a Frenchman over the existence of structural racism, or more specifically, white supremacy. Refusing to acknowledge the racial legacy of French colonialism, he whitesplains away discrimination as purely class-based, insisting that the concept of racism is an American import. Besides. Africans are super-racist to each other, he avers.

At the same venue a few nights later, after a solitary and vertiginous turn on the summer Ferris wheel in Louise, I show up for a DJ set. 

It’s a dead Saturday night, save for staff and a few stragglers. A girl with Jade-coloured hair whoops and dances madly to monotonous Trap. A crazy Caucasian pretends to fall off a stool for my benefit. He's inexplicably wasted when his entourage are clearly not. He moves to a corner to stare conspicuously at me then approaches to apologise for an unknown reason. 

When against my better judgment I ask why, that's the opening he's been looking for. He brags about being the best rapper in Brussels (or is it Belgium?), proceeding to show off his skills, track after indistinguishable track. I sip my everlasting Schweppes in bemused embarrassment until a waitress comes to my rescue and shoos him away. This story tickles everyone I tell.

I quit the establishment when it fails to become sufficiently lit. En route home, I pause at the foot of the Palais de Justice for some far better free entertainment courtesy of a multicultural funk band. They cover everything from Bobby Caldwell to James Brown, via Louis Armstrong. The lyrics are often fluffed but no-one apart from me appears to notice.

Heading to Parc station, a diminutive young man chases after me. I stop, wondering if he needs change. Instead he launches into some well-rehearsed, if charmingly delivered poetic chat-up lines. I don’t swallow the bait, and his request for a hug is declined. But I’ll take the compliment. It’s been one of those nights.

In early September, my pandemic-enforced theatrical hiatus ends with a whimper rather than a bang. I book tickets for an underwhelming piece supposedly based on the life of  late Hip-Hop icon, Tupac Shakur and Tupac Amaru; the Inca warrior after whom he was named. 2021 marks the 25^th anniversary of Shakur's death. The play is a multilingual, culturally-confused mess that’s nowhere as clever as it’s trying to be. It spreads itself too thin and badly so, becoming an unintentional parody of experimental theatre. The main subjects eventually become incidental to the chaos. 

There are better ways to spend 20€...

Musical Interlude

One weekday in early October, I pass by one of the main performance venues in central Strasbourg. It’s a good one stop-shop for finding out what’s on the musical calendar each season. One flyer catches my attention. It promises a night of vibraphone and vocals, the following Saturday evening. I imagine an intimate acoustic set of jazz standards, accompanied by one of the most underrated but enchanting instruments. I am forever in awe of the immense coordination it requires to master the vibes. (Partly because I know my own hand-to-eye is rather pitiful.)

The event is free and in my neck of the woods. An all round win.

Saturday rolls around. I’ve made plans to meet Catarina that afternoon. We haven’t seen each other since the summer. We catch up on our news. She’s less surprised than I expected when I inform her I'll be leaving THRO the coming week. Like several of my friends, she sees the end of my contract as a blessing in disguise.

Look, she reasons, it's for the best if you weren't flourishing there...

Catarina fills me in on some of her own work drama. One of her colleagues lost all his belongings in the same fire that killed the little boy at whose memorial service my choir performed. She says the racially-motivated allegations have been discredited, according to the local press. I’m not convinced.

Early evening. I bid à bientôt to Catarina and head home to freshen up before the event.

It’s night fall. I decide to take the bus to avoid a long, solitary walk through my quiet neighbourhood. En route, I bump into my colleague Daphnia; also local. My affection for her has grown this year, having been a well-needed source of moral support during discouraging moments in the office. She asks where I’m off to. I show her the flyer, rabbiting on about a jazz gig. For the first time I notice that the publicity doesn’t actually mention the musical genre. I dismiss any misgivings. The organisers probably didn’t want to alienate a certain demographic. Some people find jazz intimidating and might not otherwise give the gig a chance. 

Daphnia kindly volunteers to walk me to the venue which, it transpires, she knows a lot better than I.  She doesn't hang around once we arrive, leaving to prepare for her son’s camping trip that weekend.

The show is to take place in an old barn now converted into a gallery.

I'm a little early.  Presciently, I choose a seat in the back row. You never know. I might wish to make a premature exit. 

The show doesn’t begin on time. Strange, considering the Alsatians' Germanic adherence to time-keeping. The audience drifts in at a fashion. I spot a highly apprehensive-looking little girl of about 8 or 9. She has translucent skin and lank blonde hair cut into a bob. Her accompanying adults usher her to the front of the room.

20 minutes or so after the advertised start time, a hush slowly descends. The room goes dark. The vibraphonist takes his place behind the instrument. The gamine female vocalist stands at the far end of the gallery. She shifts her head to the right and holds the position. 

Now, it’s my turn to feel apprehensive.

The show begins with a monologue; alternating between French and a Germanic-sounding language that could be Alsatian. She slowly steps forward. The vibraphonist plays a desultory rhythm of the Phillip Glass variety.

Wait a minute. I wasn’t preparing my mind for Francophone theatre. It requires a deeper level of concentration.

Calme-toi, I tell myself, don’t panic. Yes, it's an unusual start to a jazz concert but perhaps this is just to wake us up.

Any illusion of a relaxing night of the Great American Songbook or interpretations of Bossa Nova ballads is soon shattered. The vocalist proceeds to make the first of many disconcerting movements. She repeatedly joins her fingertips together and draws them away again -as if straightening an invisible piece of string-whilst shaking her head from side to side. 

After the strange soliloquy, her bell clear voice soars towards something resembling a melody (to her credit, she has good pitch and great vocal control). If this weren't disorientating enough, she starts to emit a series of peculiar, non-articulated noises; another ‘theme’ to which she’ll frequently return.

She intersperses these non-songs with jerky movements and more odd vocal emissions. I can only describe the ensemble as equivalent to a particularly musical form of Tourette's.

I see heads turning with polite trepidation. I imagine these are friends and family who, invested in this freak show, can't leave before the end without causing offence. 

I laugh at their misfortune and mine; stuck in a parody of experimental theatre. Loufoque, the French would charitably call it. My heart goes to the timid little girl at the front; the only minor in the room. This is more punitive than entertaining, even for adults. Poor, innocent child. What harrowing memories will she retain well into adulthood of this mind-numbing evening?

I too look around, to see how feasible it would be to leave. A man stands at the back, possibly the owner of the premises or an employee. He crosses his hands behind him. Something about this stance seems intent on intimidation. 

I feel a mix of incredulity, bemusement and anger. The young duo apparently don't care about connecting with the audience. This is not an evening of comforting jazz. No moment of transcendence. It’s artistic self-indulgence of the highest order. You have to have a certain contempt for your public to make them sit through this.

A moment of respite comes when the vocalist deigns to sing a discernable tune. She and her musician sit in front of the vibraphone. He strikes the ‘wrong’ end of the instrument with his batons.

My first impressions of her voice are on point. It’s clear, melodious and has a very attractive tone. Alas, she swiftly reverts to self-administered slaps, other frenetic movements and vocal ticks.

I’ve had enough. I’ve been in two minds about leaving mid-show.  As much as they’ve tried our patience, I wouldn't like to distract the performers. But life is short. I'm suddenly exhausted. I want to redeem what’s left of my Saturday night. As discreetly as possible I move my seat back. I notice my choker has slipped. I can readjust it on the way out, I reassure myself.

It would be a smooth exit if my stupid accessory doesn’t choose that moment to slip off, clattering against the wooden seat. I’m apologetic but resolute. I head to the door. The man at the back doesn’t stop me, nodding politely instead.

I am tempted to recount this musical theatre misadventure to Daphnia when I’m back at the office the following week. I change my mind however when, in the light of day, the kooky event fades into insignificance.

Bonne Continuation

Between Brexit May-hem and The Organisation’s financial problems, I have the impression that those of us with Brit connection are being pressed on all sides. Honorary Londoner, Claudia tells me the atmosphere during recent trips to Blighty has been demoralising to say the least. Everything is in suspended animation. Brexit and all its uncertainty only aggravate existing socio-economic problems. She’s seriously considering moving back to Sicily.  My Labour International branch have heated discussions about strategy and possible outcomes via video conference or email. British colleagues and acquaintances with the opportunity of acquiring another nationality are doing so sharp-ish.

The putative effects of a hard or No Deal-Brexit are indirectly being felt in The Organisation. Not that they don’t already have their own difficulties.  With two major donors pulling out, the belt is going to be tightened. It looks as if the last-in-first-out policy will be applied, signifying the potential loss of hundreds of jobs.

I attend my first Union meeting since I (belatedly to my shame) joined a TU. I’ve been invited by a former French classmate.  The speaker has one of the best French accents I’ve heard on an Anglophone. She switches effortlessly between the two, giving us the latest feedback from the higher echelons on how to navigate the crisis. Not surprisingly, there’s much opaque management-speak on their end. Over free grub we discuss possible future action including a demo. Colleagues speak of eye-watering financial waste within the organisation; the cumulative effect of which would be the equivalent at least of several salaries. I can’t say I’ve witnessed anything so profligate yet in my own department, I’ve observed where sacrifices could comfortably be made.  Boss Man for instance, gives me a rollicking –more than once-for reserving a seat in a second class train carriage for a mission to Zurich. He waxes indignant over the need for leg room (diminutive man that he is), noisy children and wishing to work in transit. Always having travelled by second class on principle, I can attest it’s perfectly possible to be productive without the need for total silence and capacious surroundings. Hmm. Here am I thinking that I was saving The Organisation money. I’m learning that it doesn’t always pay round these parts to show initiative.

Lucia, one of his deputies, is proving to be a challenge with her disjointed instructions, gauche manner and underestimation of my abilities. She isn’t vindictive. I can tell when she’s making a special effort to be friendly. She just isn’t the most socially adept of managers. I’ve noticed on both sides of the Channel that such skills aren’t valued nearly enough when considering candidates for promotion.

Lucia’s management style and I aren’t gelling. It’s having a counter-productive effect and I find myself making silly errors more often than usual. I attempt to own up to my mistakes whilst being diplomatically forthright about my reservations. There's a limit to how much this can be done. She’s also responsible for my appraisals. It’s stressing me out. As a coping mechanism, I try to reframe the situation as yet another opportunity to adapt to different ways of working and show patience and compassion towards Lucia. 

All this anxiety exacerbates my already grim outlook on Strasbourg. I feel the absence of the moral support of family and close friends. On that note, one or two of my friendships back home are in a state of flux. My stubborn Love Jones for my former heartache wants to make a resurgence. The slowness of my linguistic progress brings me low more than most things. Trying times.

Never say die. I persist. I’m doing my best to simplify my life and, where I can, eliminate unnecessary aggro. I’ve discovered some helpful French grammar channels on YouTube. I decide to re-enrol on a different advanced French class at work, having already had my fill of the tutor's dismissiveness, passive-aggression, mordant humour and the suspect political views of one of my classmates. I miss my old class.

I know I’ve made a good decision when, having used a refined French idiom, the tutor Léa condescendingly declares before my fellow students that I must have looked it up in a dictionary.

As ever, keeping active is a good remedy for navel-gazing. Choir rehearsals are slowly returning to life as more members get back into the swing. I’m invited by erstwhile contralto, Yvette to watch her perform with her reggae band; a swan song of sorts before she relocates to Brittany in March. We’ve met up a couple of times since she announced she was leaving.  A few weeks earlier I have an unexpected melt-down over my linguistic frustration when we meet up at a bar in Krutenau. Yvette is most sympathetic, recounting her own experience of moving overseas (albeit, much further afield in Mali). Tears dried, the conversation turns to the global political situation, her lovely singing voice and great musical taste. 

For the reggae gig, I take my little church sister Stacee along. It’s a school night and the band is last on the bill. Alas, I can’t stay for the show but it’s a good opportunity to bid Yvette farewell before she moves on.

A couple of days before the gig, I attend a matinee of THRO Theatre Company’s long-awaited Lewis Carroll/Brexit-related musical parody.  The show is a hit; sold out performances almost every night of its brief run.  It’s as topical as satires come, casting a scathing eye at the whole post-referendum debacle.  The show has evolved quite a bit since I sat in on the first reading. There’s still a cast of thousands. You can tell the experienced from the ingénues and the kids’ performances are more wooden than anticipated. Boris Johnson, Jacob Rees-Mogg, Nigel Farage and David Cameron are given too easy a ride.  Nevertheless it’s still a pretty sophisticated affair, poking fun at Britain’s lost empire-complex and the illegitimate offspring of national identity; racism and xenophobia.  As is often the case, the bit-part actors steal the show once again (Doris Schaal's Cheshire Cat, Mihail Stojanoski's myriad roles, Paula Hinchy's Cook...). Stanislavski was right.

Soundtrack: Outer Peace by Toro Y Moi

My (Cultured) Cup Runneth Over…

When the French hear I’m from the Big Smoke, there’s almost a commiserating reaction to my move to Strasbourg…

It’s a lot smaller isn’t it?

Yes. The transport and rent is cheaper and it's a lot less manic too. I often reply that it’s a bel equilibre between the madness of Big City Life and the (supposed) dullness of a small town/village. Strasbourg is an international city after all. Throughout the year its cultural calendar boasts an impressive number of events. On that front, I shall not want.

I’m reminded of this the first weekend in June, when my diary fills up very quickly.

I’ve sorely missed the UK theatre scene since relocating. Apart from loved ones and the NHS, it’s just about the only thing thus far that I am nostalgic about living in London. Imagine my delight when I discover that the proverbial mountain will be coming to Mohamed. Two Anglophone theatre productions on the same weekend; a double bill by early 20^th Century theatre great, Terence Rattigan and a biographical one-man show about Chet Baker, one of my favourite jazz vocalists.

The Terence Rattigan two-piece is organised and performed by a community theatre group linked to The Organisation. I recognise at least one familiar face amongst them. The troupe might consist of volunteers but the output is pretty slick. These are amateurs in the true sense; lovers of the art form even if not financially remunerated for their efforts. I am oddly comforted to hear the various British regional accents in second play Harlequinade. The following week, when I email a link for my review to some of the cast and crew, one of the moonlighting actors pops round to personally thank me. Before I know it, I’m being asked to muck in with the team. I warn them that I am no actress. Besides, my short term memory lags behind my long term. Learning lines wouldn’t be my forte. Nevertheless, the team reassure me, I can make myself useful elsewhere. A suivre…

A day after the Rattigan-fest, I attend the final night of Scottish Jazz aficionado Mike Maran’s A Funny Valentine. After church is done, I wouldn’t normally go back out on a Sunday afternoon but heck. It’s for Chet.

At some point during one of my weekend jaunts, I find out that there’s also a free Hip-Hop festival –or Block Party Jam-taking place in the vicinity of the play. I stop off en route to watch …Valentine. It’s a hot and dazzlingly sunny day. I’ve gone traditional with a dress I had sewn on my too-long-ago trip to Naija. I’m vain enough to half-heartedly expect to turn some heads. The crowd is a mix of solo revellers, families on a day out and cliques. There’s a dance battle going on, at a fashion.

A graffiti artist does the rounds decorating installations erected for the event. When I arrive the DJ switches from Donell Jones’ You Know What’s Up to the not-so-obvious Full Crew remix of Craig David’s Fill Me In. Nice.

My admiration doesn’t last for long. The music policy shifts towards unfamiliar (to me) rap joints. There’s not enough spontaneous dancing going on, neither is the battle setting my heart a flutter. Thanks to sis’ lifelong interest in dance, I’ve been exposed to enough of the scene to be fairly elitist about what is impressive or not. I remind myself we all have to start from somewhere. It’s not fair to judge a dancer on the basis of one competition. They could be affected by any number of factors; the heat, nerves, an uninspiring tune, the competitive environment itself…

I decide to check back in after the play.

A Funny Valentine is staged at the mysterious-sounding Cabaret Onirique (roughly translated The Fantasy Cabaret); a converted barge that now serves as a bar/performance space. Basically, the Jazz Café on a boat.

Dressed all in white, Maran embodies heroin itself; Baker’s sole lifetime companion. He narrates Baker’s story as filtered through various biographies and Chet’s own unreliable accounts. Maran is a serious fan-boy but not an apologist. He injects sympathy but does not excuse. Let the fact, fiction and half-truths speak for themselves. He does avoid cynicism about the curious circumstances surrounding Baker’s untimely death. In spring 1988, aged 58 he defenestrated himself (or was defenestrated) from an Amsterdam hotel window; by accident or design, nobody really knows. Maran prefers to believe it was the former.

The audience are transformed into voyeurs. Baker’s life was a veritable, self-inflicted train-wreck from which you cannot avert your eyes. Through his own making this once strangely beautiful man, with his arresting bone structure and luscious dark hair, morphs into a cadaver. He looks like an octogenarian in his 50s. Of all the many Jazz tragedies, Baker’s is particularly affecting. Just as his voice encapsulates life’s sorrow, his story reflects both the beauty and tragic farce of the human condition. Self-destructive behaviour is not unique to junkies. There’s a Chet in all of us.

After the show, I air these thoughts in discussion with trumpeter Colin Steele who accompanies Maran alongside last-minute addition Alan Benzies; a trio of Scots.

I gatecrash the conversation Steele is having with another audience member who happens to have been sitting behind me during the show. We have already exchanged a few words in French and English. I tease him for mangling the lyrics of My Funny Valentine. We are later joined by Tatjana, who has also just finished enjoying the show.

I commend Steele for capturing some of the essence of Baker’s playing. Admittedly, I’m far less familiar with his trumpet than his vocals. I lament to Steele (and later Maran, when he briefly joins us) that the piece doesn’t give enough attention to Chet’s eerily gorgeous voice. Mike blames it on his own 'bad' singing.

Colin has lived with the spectre of Baker for decades. He explains that those close to Chet revealed how he valued his fix above all else; even music. He reportedly shot up a million dollars’ worth of the stuff over his lifetime. Baker was a natural musician who eschewed practice, something Steele would never countenance. He was talented enough to half-arse a legendary career. Perhaps it came too easily for him, I suggest to Colin. That was his undoing. There’s something to be said for the struggle, after all.

Despite the macabre subject, it’s a stimulating conversation. I say my farewells just as I hear a melodramatic groan from Maran downstairs. Steele rushes to his aid. I will later feel rightly ashamed for my hasty departure without first checking on Mike. Tatjana doesn’t look impressed. Nevertheless, I leave the Cabaret conversely buoyed.

Back at the Block Party, much of the crowd has dispersed as it creeps towards its close. The playlist has diversified somewhat. A couple of Fugees classics, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme tune (huh? Apparently, that’s a thing), Montell Jordan… After sitting out a few I find a spot where I feel more at ease to get down. Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Jump On It, a guilty pleasure, has me doing the signature rodeo moves. I lose it when the DJ drops Heads High by Mr. Vegas.

My insouciance catches the attention of a Franco-Vietnamese called Cédric. He sidles up to me. I’m relaxed enough not to be stand-offish. In between the boogie, we make polite but unspectacular conversation. I politely demure his invitation for a drink. It’s straight home for me to finish watching the New Edition biopic and eat a rare treat from Burger King.

Cédric graciously retires. His behaviour is far more becoming than that of the creepy gentleman who follows me on the bus home, asking me in broken English if I’d ‘accept him’. Thankfully, he promptly descends once I decline; firmly but politely (again- not characteristic of me in these situations).

Soundtrack of the week: Heart Break by New Edition.