Chin Up (Part 1)

It’s been a February of extremes. Snow and sub-zero temperatures one moment, balmy late spring weather the next. Unnervingly splendid for this time of year. Shocking that some would still deny the threat of Climate Change.

Meanwhile, the Belgian authorities are rolling back some lockdown restrictions but at glacial speed. Hair and beauty salons are once again operational but with strict guidelines. Making an appointment even a week ahead is a mission. I’m so distracted by my failed attempts to squeeze one in on a forthcoming afternoon's leave, I am not concentrating when I use an ATM at my bank in Porte de Namur. I just about remember to withdraw my money but forget my card. A sketchy fellow hanging around smoking, grabs it just as I realise my error. He becomes overly defensive, swearing he only took what belonged to him. I’m so distressed, my French falters. 

I insist on searching his bag. Of course, he’s hid it elsewhere. He and his friend are off like a shot. Fortunately for me, I spread my money across accounts for budgeting purposes. After making my withdrawal, there wouldn’t be much left in my current account to steal (which my bank confirms later). Thanks to a kindly stranger who passes on the bank’s contact details ASAP, I am able to block the card fairly promptly. It precedes a frustrating few days of not being able to access any cash but it could have been worse. I am annoyed at my own absent-mindedness. I am angry at the offender's flagrant dishonesty but not livid. I don't bother filing a police report. If this fellow spends his time sleeping rough and skulking around banks hoping customers will forget their card, his life is already difficult enough. In the unlikely case that he's caught, a stint in prison won't improve his lot.

As far as the rest goes, I’m still taking a day at a time. My manager, Ama lets slip that the TTUO teleworking policy will remain in place for several months. It’s later confirmed by regional news sites that WFH will remain the new normal for a while to come. 

 The easing of some restrictions has nevertheless allowed me to add a few more activities to my calendar; albeit physically-distanced. 

This quarter I’ve signed up for a number of events organised by my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM).

Louisiana-native and Art-Deco enthusiast Doug, moved to Belgium with his family just before the pandemic hit. Not having had long enough to make deeper connections, he has started a church walking group. He plans intricate scavenger hunts, as a means of meeting new people as well as becoming more familiar with the city. The group walks in all kinds of weather. For the first hunt, I arrive too late to catch the main party. Doug, his 9-year old daughter and I gamely work through the clues (he created) in the pouring rain. The following session I attend falls on a cold and foggy Saturday morning, after a week of glorious weather. Nevertheless, the twin aims of socialising and discovery are readily attained.

In addition to these historically-themed rambles, I enrol on Monday evening piano lessons at the church site. The classes are led mainly by chalk and cheese brothers; Lionel (short, muscular-lean 'alpha male') and Lucien (tall, skinny and elaborately camp). I instantly develop a soft spot for Lucien. For the first lesson, we barely have enough time to go through our knowledge of music theory before we’re joined by the singing students. We spend the rest of the evening discussing one of my favourite things in life; harmonisation. It’s home time before we piano students even have a chance to play. I’m pretty zen about it all. I like the company. Plus, we do some impromptu harmonising before home time.

FWM have also set up voluntary sessions with the Red Cross at Molenbeek. COVID-restrictions dictate that our 15-strong volunteers have to break up into three groups of five and rotate our visits. 

 Not having a smartphone makes registering my interest a nightmare. It's only available through a special app. I speak to one of the team leaders at the Red Cross Centre, after she ignores my emails and texts. She denies any knowledge of my church’s involvement and becomes agitated at the (unsubstantiated) idea of us ‘proselytising’. Finally, I decide to chance it on the designated day. I communicate my intentions to our sympathetic group leader, Kwena (Belgian nationality, missionary parents, Ugandan name). Someone could always drop out at the last minute. Kwena agrees, encouraging me to come.

My gamble pays off. Our group of four is well-within the COVID limit.

The line of visitors snakes around the Red Cross building. We’re shown around the centre by handsome Syrian volunteers’ supervisor, Hamad. The mostly male beneficiaries eye up our all-female group with keen interest.

The centre is a sprawling complex. I am amazed to be in a building of that size with so many people, COVID-restrictions notwithstanding.

Red Cross, Brussels

Our group splits up according to tasks, to be reunited at the end of the afternoon. I elect to assist with shower duties; a complicated operation of swapping clothes for toiletries, bath slippers and the occasional sartorial donation. The men are very particular about what kind of underwear they’ll receive. Briefs are chucked back in favour of boxers. 

On a more serious note, the demographic of the visitors is a stark reminder of the issues around migration policy I address in my day job. The vast majority of the beneficiaries are brown and hail from the global South. The few Europeans at the centre are more often than not volunteers.

The shower team is supervised by laidback, charismatic music loving Eritrean, Micah. He brags, only half-joking, about being surrounded by a mostly female team. His eclectic taste in music encompasses Rod Stewart, 90s Hip-Hop, Blues Rock, Billy Ocean and Bobby Womack. The four-hour shift goes relatively quickly; all the more so considering I haven’t eaten lunch. It’s a thoroughly life-affirming experience. Simply being in a room full of people and activity is enough to boost my morale beyond measure.  I’ve missed this so much...

Due South or La Vie Marseillaise (Part 2)

Vieux Port, Marseille (Guideopolis.fr)

The first full day of my Marseillais adventure, I leave the grimy streets behind for the lustre of the Riviera-style Old Port/Town Hall area.

As it appears is the case with any city apart from London (or Tokyo), local transport in Marseille is incredibly cheap. A 72-hour travel pass will only set you back 10.80 euros. I take the bus 60 to the Notre Dame de la Garde Basilica, perched on a precipice overlooking the City. This is far more scenic than your average bus journey. The view of the City from the Basilica is spectacular. The tropical-like heat hasn’t yet kicked in and there’s a welcome sea breeze.

The interior of the Basilica is more modern and intimate than I anticipate, with Eastern/Byzantine influenced décor. Judging by the freshness, it’s been well maintained and touched up over the years. This is not the antiquated, intimidating grandeur of its ugly/beautiful Strasbourgeois namesake. 

By the time I head down the hill, the sun is out in full force. The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle, further awakening my senses. I’m in good spirits. I do little funky moves to Benny Sings’ Beat Tape as I wait for the bus back into town.

Le Vieux Port is the best place to lose oneself. I feel much safer in this neck of the woods too. I detour into St Jean's fortress, commissioned by Louis XIV in the late 17th Century. It boasts more splendid vistas of the City from a different angle. I allow my curiosity to lead me down the side streets. I find another holy space to sit in tranquillity, Sainte Marie Majeure. Its striped dome caught my attention from afar. I stumble upon it fortuitously.

Inside the Notre Dame Basilica, Marseille
(image courtesy of Trover)

After some more roaming, I make use of the Ferry Shuttle service to cross over in style to catch my bus on the other side of the Port. All the buses are full to capacity. A fellow traveller suggests we take the metro instead. En route I come across a procession of Kurds demanding the release of political prisoner and nationalist leader, Abdullah Ocalan. These sorts of protests are a daily reality working for The Human Rights Organisation. A vigil is kept opposite The Chateau every day. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that I'd encounter the same Down South.

That evening, after my Egyptian fusion meal, I head to the Jazz bar I passed the night before. It turns out that Cédric, the proprietor, exaggerated. According to his more pragmatic colleague, the jam sessions of which he spoke are ad hoc and drop off during the summer festival season. Never mind. 

I decide to buy a tonic. I need the company and French practice. I pass an agreeable evening with Cédric and co. The chef, Etienne, is a bit of a muso. He schools me on the genius and cultural impact of Miles Davis. The conversation digresses to the nature of genius itself and the overlap with mental instability. I mention that with the exception of perhaps Stan Getz and a little Gerry Mulligan, I’ve never paid much attention to horns players. I’m more into piano, guitar and most of all, vocal jazz. Cédric asks if I sing. Why not? It’ll be good to revive the habit of performing for an audience, even if very modestly-sized. I do a rendition of Stella by Starlight, since we’re on the theme of Miles and Manha de Carnaval. 

I’m asked to do an encore for a patron, Khadija, her daughter and gentleman friend. Khadija buys me a drink as thanks. She speaks very good English with a British-y accent. She lived in London for five years. She and her polyglot daughter are affirming of my French efforts. Half-Moroccan Khadija shows off her knowledge of Nigerian pidgin English. She pronounces wahala with a guttural, Arabic 'h'. I don't understand what she's saying at first. The rest of the evening is spent in their genial company. It’s almost midnight. A fight breaks out at the bar next door. It’s our cue to head to our respective corners.

The following day marks the start of my 37^th year on this planet. I decide to indulge in a pastry-heavy breakfast. I catch the sprawling view of Marseille from St Charles’ Station on the lookout for a boulangerie. Back at my lodgings, I Skype sis briefly. It’s not a cheerful exchange although unintentional on her part. I’m in even more of a funk than before. I’ve been dreading this birthday for months. It’s not as if I’m not grateful to be alive and healthy. I have much to appreciate. Being able to City-hop and travel widely is a privilege in itself.

However, I also need to make peace with certain disappointments. I feel my age and I don’t. 40 is fast approaching on the horizon. I’m a disenchanted version of the hopeful teen/20-something I once was.

I hope a day at the beach will assuage my mood. A couple of my French acquaintances have sent me some birthday wishes, including muso Etienne to whom I have mentioned it in passing the night before. Most people here don’t know the exact date. It means a lot they’ve made the effort. God bless them.

Prado beach is more impressive than my unfairly low expectations. Families are out in droves. Shapes of all sorts squeeze into one and two pieces; defying the stereotypical beach body tyranny. I sit fully clothed on a rock like a mock-Kente clad mermaid. I watch as kids hurl themselves into the inviting aqua-marine waters. I wish I could join them. As a non-swimmer, I don’t take it further than paddling my feet. It’s a lazy afternoon of people-watching, eating overpriced snacks by the beach and a little diversion via Bolery Park. I pick up a delicious-looking tan whilst I'm at it.

Prado Beach, Marseille
(HomeAway)

On one hand it’s been a peaceful day but I’m still disproportionately irritated about my earlier Skype conversation. I send sis long, angry IM’s. She asks me what’s really wrong. I suppose my birthday blues are biting particularly hard this year.

It does me good to go back out. I’ve spotted a restaurant on TripAdvisor with rave reviews near the Old Port. I decide to walk when it looks like it’ll be quicker than waiting for the tram. I had no idea how close my accommodation is to the Port. The Google map print out the day before had me literally going round the houses. 

The evening sunshine and sea breeze calm my state of mind. Tom Misch’s Geography is keeping me good company. By the time I locate La Caravelle, my mood has improved exponentially. I am not even crushed to learn that they only serve food at lunch time. The walk to and from has been uplifting. Now I have the perfect excuse to check out a Lebanese restaurant very close to my accommodation. It’s lighter on my purse too. Throw in a handsome young waiter, I’d consider it a bona fide blessing in disguise. I try to ignore the quiet insolence of his callow female colleague. Not entirely successful.

After my meal, rather than go straight back to my AirBnb where cake and melted ice cream awaits, I decide to spend a mellow moment by an attractive nearby water feature. I’m lost in thought. A local Francophone African interrupts my reverie. My begrudging silence should make it known I’m not interested. He won’t take the hint and taps my shoulder. I react. He accuses me of being aggressive. The bloody nerve. Calm down, he says in English. I tell him I will not -and why not-in French.

But you don’t even know why I wanted to speak to you?

When I ask what he wants, no answer is forthcoming but he won’t let me rest. He proffers a belligerent apology and insists I accept. The epitome of male entitlement. He feels he has a right to my attention and whatever else. Silence isn’t getting through to him. Exasperated, I tell him again, in English this time, to leave me in peace. He wants me to be grateful for his apology. When he doesn’t receive the desired response, he swears at me and storms off. 

For safety reasons, I decide not to rush back to my accommodation in case the creep follows me. I drunk woman passes by and starts fiddling with my porkpie hat. A fine conclusion to my birthday.

Aix-en-Provence town centre
(Independent.co.uk)

I’ve set aside the last full day of my trip to visit neighbouring town Aix-en-Provence, the birthplace and stomping ground of painter Paul Cezanne. It’s a short coach ride from St. Charles station.

Of all the European towns I’ve visited, this is one of them. The Telegraph visitors’ guide I’ve adapted isn’t much help on closer inspection. It’s more of a gastronomical tour with some sightseeing thrown in. An abundance of road works mars the topography. There is the odd architectural feature that catches my attention. I chance upon the Pavillon Vendôme through sheer nosiness and pass a few serene moments in the shade. I savour the walk back from the Pavillon to the town centre. The clear blue skies, the heat and the layout of the streets puts me in mind of more exotic locations. It’s a somewhat underwhelming excursion but I’m not regretful. It would have been a waste not to visit Marseille’s famous neighbour whilst I’m down here.

On his suggestion, I’ve made plans to meet up with Etienne the muso-chef after dinner. En route I stop off to buy some phone credit at the Orange Shop. I meet two Asian-Caribbean missionaries now based in Marseille. Their French is currently negligible. The gamely sales assistant does his best in English. The couple are in conversation with an apparently Anglophone gentleman with a very ambiguous accent (I find out later he's a misanthropic New Yorker who hates everyone in his native city. 'Black and White. They're all messed up'). The topic turns to Venezuela, which they have all visited at some point in the past 20 years. My ears perk up, waiting for the inevitable western anti-Chavismo propaganda. I rather rudely interrupt when it comes, citing Chavez’ achievements (albeit acknowledging mistakes) and the current parlous situation being as much to do with US sanctions as it is with Maduro’s economic mismanagement. This aspect is conveniently forgotten in most Western media analyses.

So you’re a socialist?

Yes and proudly so.

What about the rigged elections?

What about them? There has been no official report of any shenanigans by international observers. 

My interlocutor takes my zealous interjection in good humour. He admits he hasn’t delved much into the details of the Venezuelan crisis. It's hard, I reply. You have to look hard to find even-handed reports on the country. The discussion turns to the lighter topic of soca (of which he’s not a fan) and the clever socio-political wordplay of old school Calypso (of which he is). We part company. I wish them all the best with their Divine Call.

After a hearty, good value Turkish/Kurdish meal, I meet with Etienne near the Old Port. It's quite the intellectual workout. 

Similar to our previous conversation at the Jazz Bar, we cover a lot of ground; his stint in the army (really doesn't seem the sort), being the oldest of several siblings with very narrow age gaps, how he came to be an honorary Marseillais of nearly 30 years, seeing Kool and the Gang live, his interest in cosmetology, the veracity of the Bible and the claims of the Gospel, his love/hate relationship with gastronomy, the paradoxes of human nature and his admiration for the writing of Yves Simon with which I am not familiar. He generously gives me a copy of Sorties de Nuit. 

Following a mini-bio he asks me to guess his age. I give my instinctive -and incidentally correct-answer the second time around (early 50s). I ask him to guess mine in turn. He knocks five years off. I don't resent that. Etienne is surprised I'm not married. I wish I have the presence of mind to interrogate him about the same. He thinks I should widen my search beyond Christian men. I explain that faith is not a question of inconsequential tribalism; like supporting different football teams. It's a way of life.

Marseille Vieux Port @ Night
(Getty Images)

After we finish our tonic (me) and cocktail (him) we promenade around the Port. I’m amazed how vibrant it still is at 11pm. The streets are full with revellers of all ages on a stroll, appreciating the view or participating in impromptu dance contests.

The Port takes on a different beauty at night. I can see the Basilica lit up in the distance. I mention to Etienne that I’d planned to go alone to watch the sunset from the hill. I've missed my window.

I squeal with child-like delight and gabble some Franglais at the sight of the large moon, turned blood red by a lunar eclipse.

There’s nothing intimate about our body language but judging from the quizzical looks I receive from a number of black folk, they seem to believe I’ve found myself a Caucasian sugar daddy. I already have enough on my plate trying not to give Etienne the wrong idea. A casual reference to my ‘pretty smile’ by text put me on alert that he might have misinterpreted our earlier discussion a tad. At the same time, I don’t want to overreact and miss out on stimulating conversation with an enthusiast for life, not to mention the French practice. Speaking of which, my brain is slowing down with fatigue. I’m finding it hard to string a sentence together or keep up with Etienne. By his own admission, he speaks very fast.

My shoe strap snaps and I drop the ice cream Etienne kindly buys me. He asks if I need to sit down. I decline. It’s late and I need to get back to my accommodation before the freaks come out in full effect. I also need to pack for my departure the following afternoon.

He offers to accompany me to my AirBnb to allay any safety concerns. His flat is en route in any case.

It’s an awkward farewell. I can’t work out what’s culturally appropriate; a French bise or an English hug. I don’t want a tactile goodbye.  In the end I opt for a German handshake. Etienne looks slightly confused.

The following morning I’m overtaken by a familiar bereft feeling. I can’t say it’s because I’m sad to be leaving Marseille as such. I’ve found it to be a rather taxing city, although I’ll take away some pleasant memories. 

I miss sis. We haven’t spoken since my Birthday mini-meltdown and I can’t reach her on Skype. Before check-out, I cheer myself up watching a French serial with the most outrageous storylines.

I am one of the first to board the train. Thank God for Air Con. I receive a text from Etienne wishing me a safe journey. He hopes to see me again soon in Marseille. I’m not sure, I respond frankly. I’m in no hurry. I’ve scratched that itch for now. Not sure if and when I’ll next have the urge.

This week’s soundtrack: Beat Tape by Benny Sings & Geography by Tom Misch.

After the Homecoming: Part 1

courtesy of www.clipimage.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robertsau Forest

She leads me through some of her favourite secluded spaces.

Isn’t this picturesque?

Yes. Yes indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good question. I've often wondered myself.

Juanita leads me onto recognisable pathways.

This is more reassuring, isn’t it?

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

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

It’s my treat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What an adventure!

Quite.

The Homecoming

May marks a veritable glut of public holidays in France. There’s Worker’s Day on 1 May, Armistice Day on 8 May, Ascension on the 10^th and the Pentecost holiday, every third Monday of May. If one of these should fall in the middle of the week (as is the case this year for Worker’s Day) employers may give their staff an additional non-working day before or after, at their discretion.

It’s thus the ideal time to take an extended break in Blighty. I’d hardly need to touch my annual leave. It’s long overdue. I avoided the dreaded mal du pays for several months. It took my mum’s second visit earlier in spring and a hopeless crush on my unofficial French tutor Bernard, to make me realise how isolated I’ve started to feel in Strasbourg. (A former globetrotting friend reckons it usually kicks in around the 6-month mark). It’s not as much mal du pays as mal des proches. I’m not so far removed from hectic London living to begin to miss it. What I do miss is my networks; having history with people.

No history, no baggage. One astute friend observes during my UK visit. True. But I also like the idea of being round those who’ve seen me at my best and worst and stuck around. It takes time to build that goodwill. I am depressingly aware of how superficial my social life is in Strasbourg. I have a handful of acquaintances only one of which I could call a friend in the classic sense. She also has a life to lead. I can’t allow myself to become too clingy. Before my UK trip-the first since I relocated to Alsace-I feel the ache more acutely. It’s taking all my energy to resist an instinct to latch onto my few Connaissances Strasbourgeoises. I feel low, tearful and anxious. This is exacerbated the closer I come to the trip. The accommodation I’ve sorted with a friend is suddenly up in the air. A visit to the Midlands to see a friend after a nearly two year hiatus falls through…

In the end, it all resolves itself. My UK visit, now concentrated in London, is just the soul tonic that I need to revive my joie de vivre. My friend puts me up with her mum until things settle down and I can stay with her. She offers a somewhat chaotic but extremely warm welcome. My schedule is completely full with meet-ups, church visits, hair appointments and helping a friend’s campaign to become a Labour Councillor in a solidly Blue ward in Camden.   I traverse the City almost everyday meeting acquaintances old and new and spend most evenings eating with mum. I meet up with most of whom I hoped to see. There's something about not taking it for granted we're in the same country that helps us make the most of the time. I have several enriching conversations (one too many of which make reference to a viral news story involving a certain Mr West). I manage to squeeze in a little French practice at a Francophone event. 

After a cold and wet start, the skies clear and temperatures climb to Mediterranean heights for a substantial part of the holiday. Not even the UK media's devious attempts to twist the Labour Party's decent local election result into a defeat can wholly dampen my mood.

The 10 days naturally fly by. I am relieved to experience no drama on my return via Basel airport, despite my slightly over-the-limit cabin luggage.

Since the train strikes are still in full swing in France and there are no coaches back to Strasbourg available at a reasonable time, I make use of the carpool service recommended by my office-mate Claudia.  I am collected from Basel by the highly personable Olivier. He arrives early. We make it back to Strasbourg long before the ETA. He's inordinately excited to hear of my Nigerian connection.

I worked in Plateau state for years!

You're probably more Nigerian than me then. I quip with no malice.

Olivier speaks some pidgin to boot (again, more than I can claim).  We spend the duration of the drive talking about wanderlust and multilingualism. It's one of those unexpectedly reassuring moments; where the milk of human kindness flows freely and I'm reminded of God's Providence.

Back in Strasbourg, I have one day of respite before returning to work thanks to Ascension Day. I decide to go back on a Friday. Just to be contrary. And also to make a head-start on my emails (which still run into triple figures, despite the numerous public holidays). By the afternoon my inbox doesn’t have a single unopened message. The department is quiet, many colleagues taking the opportunity to have an extra long weekend, including my supervisor Sophie and Claudia. I like the calm. Not too many questions about my time off. A few comments on my change of hairstyle but not too much.

Another Long Weekend

Baden-Baden Town Centre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She remarks that I’ve lost weight.

I knew it.

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

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

Robertsau Forest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh. Not again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A [Wander]lust for Life

The Streets of Selestat, Alsace

I figure I might as well take advantage of Strasbourg’s strategic location. Whilst I’m here. It’s often called the Capital of Europe, sandwiched between the rest of France, Germany, Switzerland and Luxembourg. There’s also the vast region of Alsace on my doorstep to discover.

Having acquainted myself with the charms of Colmar over the Christmas period, the even closer Selestat is next on my list. It’s barely a town. More like a sizeable village. I avoid doing these daytime excursions on the weekend for obvious reasons. However, I appear to have chosen an especially uneventful Monday to become familiarised with Strasbourg’s neighbour. I comment to a local cafe proprietor on how deserted it is. She agrees. It’s never very busy but even then...today is particularly slow.

One of Selestat’s main claims to fame, the Humanist library, is closed for renovation. I walk around the ghostly quiet streets. Thanks to the quaint (as always) layout and the surrounding Vosges mountains, there’s enough pretty scenery to hold my attention. I’m tickled by the sight of more toy-town style houses from centuries passed. I have overestimated how long it would take to 'discover' Selestat. I have a lot of time to kill before my return train. As is my custom, I while away some of the afternoon in orthodox church buildings. Heavenly voices beckon me into St George’s, singing multi-part harmony cantons, acappella . Unable to locate from whence this celestial chorus emanates, I like to believe they are practising in the vestry. Alas, it’s a mere recording. The serene atmosphere is inviting, nonetheless. I find a corner to focus my overly-occupied mind. Suddenly, a burst of sunlight streams through a parallel stain glass window. I’m caught in its path. After an afternoon of almost solidly grey skies, it’s the first let-up.

My first trip to Luxembourg isn’t so propitious on the weather front. I’d have thought an early Spring foray would ensure at least a couple of days of sunlight. But much of Europe is still recovering from the so-called Beast from the East. Having rushed to the station with 10 minutes to spare before departure, I’m greeted with the news of a 40 minute delay to my journey. Adverse weather of course. I text my AirBnb hostess. I’ve rented a room in the suburbs, half an hour from Luxembourg City. She warns me of the slippery conditions. Thank God, I had the presence of mind to pack my wellies.

Arsenal Sainte-Barbe, Selestat

The non-committal metallic sky brings with it a malaise. I’ve booked a long weekend to see a country that could probably be visited in a day. When my supervisor, Sophie asks my weekend plans and I mention Lux she replies, with her ever-cheerful diplomacy. Cool. It’s small…

My unofficial French tutor, Bernard is visibly less enthusiastic. He falls silent at the mention of Luxembourg, pulling a face before he can stop himself. C'est petit... I venture; almost apologetic.

Oui, c'est ca, he replies in his austere baritone, with a firm nod.

Well, I’m here now. Cold weather or not. It’s not all bad. In the light of day, from the train window, the Luxembourgeois landscape looks like it’s covered in frosted icing. That will have all but vanished by the next day, when arctic-lite temperatures give way to milder climes.

A friend back in London recommends I check out the cliffs (and the night life but it’s not going to happen when it's Baltic outside). I suppose he means the precipices on which much of the main City is built. The bocks are stunning, in a morbid sort of way. Breathtaking even, quite literally. My mild vertigo kicks in at the sight of the sheer drop, particularly where the barriers are (to my mind) not high enough to protect my precious, soft body from the rocky surfaces below. The hazardous weather conditions make me more nervous still. I notice other tourists descending the steep steps built into the rock faces or walking across exposed bridges. It gives me the shivers.

I find tranquillity once again, in sacred spaces; this time in the capacious crypt of the Notre Dame Cathedral. It's enchanting, in a surprisingly modern way. The unsettlingly aged depiction of Christ on a stained glass window is out of place, however.

A View from the Bridge: Overlooking the Luxembourg bocks ,
one snowy weekend

I cover much of what I wanted to see within a few hours. I catch my train back to Rodange with less than two minutes to spare. It’s early evening when I arrive back at the AirBnb. My ever-smiling Greek host Delphina will soon retire, alongside her beautiful young son Jonas.

I’m a little undecided about the rest of my itinerary for the next couple of days. I could go to neighbouring village Echternach but being a Sunday, the trains are so infrequent. I’m hoping to make it back to Luxembourg that afternoon to see a film. In the end, I dilly-dally during the morning, chatting to sis on Skype which throws any half-baked plans into complete disarray.

Echternach it is then. A few tourists dot the deserted Sunday streets. I amble towards the Benedictine Abbey, stopping off at a cafe frequented by Portuguese customers and with Lusophone staff. It’s my second of many a Portuguese encounter on the trip. (The first was an unwanted overture by a Guinean (Bissau) in the impressively cosmopolitan Luxembourg City). I’ve been so busy worrying about French, I’ve almost completely neglected my rudimentary Portuguese. The few sentences I’d practically memorised to perfection come out more falteringly.

The Abbey’s devotion to St Willibrord is a little too idolatrous for me. On exiting, I take a moment to admire the arborous hills that flank the village. It must be quite a sight in the summer or during the copper-golden autumns.

At some point, Bernard’s cryptic admonition comes back to haunt me. It makes sense in hindsight. I didn’t need a long weekend to explore Luxembourg. It takes less time by train from Strasbourg than Paris. I could have done it on a day off; an overnight stay at most. I would have saved the accommodation fees.

You live and learn.

Travel soundtracks:

• Justin Timberlake (Various)
• Little Dragon: Sway Daisy/Best Friends (Double A-Side)
• Chris Dave & the Drumhedz: Self-titled LP