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.

Summer Breeze

(courtesy of Miss-Elka.fr)

A few days after my music-saturated weekend, I welcome mum for her third and longest visit thus far. I am a bit nervous about what to do with her for a week. It’s a hectic time at work and I haven’t taken much leave.

Don’t worry, she reassures,
June has been a busy month. I’m looking forward to the rest.

True. A stressful day job aside, mum’s weekends have overflowed with weddings and big birthday events at church. Once she arrives that Tuesday evening (thankfully without much of a hitch), to complete her sense of independence I give her a spare key and travelcard.

As usual, mum has gone over and beyond as far as UK goodies are concerned. I’m even more her baby now that I am living abroad. I can’t complain. And as much as I appreciate having my own space, I admit it’s also lovely having someone to welcome me home from work for a change. And somebody to squash any critters who try to invade my tidy home.

True to her word, mum is a lady of leisure for the first couple of days of her stay. However, I can’t have her cooped up indoors all trip. We must at least go out for dinner. 

Being a Thursday night, I naively think I can walk into some of the best reviewed establishments in town without a reservation. When both my first choice and contingency fall through, we have to improvise. Finalement, ca tombe bien, comme on dit.

We stumble upon an overlooked eaterie with cheerful customer service and hearty portions, just off La Grand Rue.

The next day, I rush home following a frantically busy morning at work to spend the afternoon with mum in Kehl. There's an incident on the tram as we approach the German border. We're in the middle of a heatwave. A pallid, frail-looking young woman collapses. Fortuitously for her, she is surrounded by expert first aiders. I pass her my tepid bottle of water. She accepts gratefully. I regret not at least first wiping the rim.

The tram comes to an emergency stop whilst the first aiders take care of the infirm.  We change vehicles and resume our Kehl-bound programme. I’d hoped to tack on a day trip deeper into Germany but mum has other ideas. That would be far too pressured, she advises. Unbeknownst to me, she plans to add some further flourishes to my flat.

That evening, I go upstairs to change and come down to find all manners of embellishments I’ve not seen before.

I’ve been invited (sort of) to a church barbeque that weekend. Mum is game, to my relief. One less activity to rack my head about. That Saturday is a scorcher; the hottest day of a consistently warm week. I expect to see dozens of guests milling around chewing on snacks, rendering it easier to inconspicuously make our late entrance (it would seem odd for two relative unknowns to show up early or even on time to a casual affair). Instead, the select few invitees are already sitting down to their grilled meat. Drinks have been served and much of the salad has already gone. Thank goodness, we're not too late for some succulent grub.  We receive a warm welcome from host Raymond, one of the few familiar faces. I also recognise Angelo originally from Mozambique, his Cape Verdean wife Celina and two of their adorable brood. I spot a strikingly handsome young fellow who bears a passing resemblance to Ghanaian-American actor Kofi Siriboe. An older unfamiliar man stares at me without compunction. I voice my unease to mum. He later tries to inveigle his way unsuccessfully into our conversations.

I’m nervous about having to translate for mum all afternoon. Having used too much English all week, I’m glad for the French practice but not sure if I’m mentally up to the task. Mum and I sit opposite Catarina who is keen to practise her English. We have met briefly before at Angelo’s house during a home fellowship. I speak to her in French, she replies in both languages. It puts mum at ease. Catarina nearly chokes on her drumstick when she realises the youthful woman sitting next to me is my mother. It's the first of many such reactions that weekend.

Catarina is refreshingly frank. We learn much about her Neapolitan family who settled in France during the Second World War. She talks about her strained relationship with her dad and disillusion with church. Following a particularly painful experience, she’s tentatively working her way back to faith. I can relate, I explain to her.

We pass a very cordial afternoon in the company of Raymond and co (no, not that one) before heading to town to pick up some ingredients for the jollof rice mum plans to cook. We hit the city centre shortly after France’s game with Argentina has commenced. I have wilfully ignored the World Cup. Not being in the least sporty, it used to be the one international tournament to coax me out of indifference. I abandoned interest long ago following one too many negative experiences.

This year my policy of World Cup apathy stands me in good stead. I learn from friends and family more devoted to the beautiful game that African nations have failed to live up to their potential.

Again.

That Saturday afternoon, my surprisingly football-enthusiastic mum has just about recovered from that disappointment.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg are at once busy and deserted, everyone congregated around the nearest flatscreen television. Outside one bar a patriot rouses the crowd with chants and a triumphant sounding mini-speech. Cries of ecstasy and frustration intermingle.

Mum and I look on with bemused fascination.

Tout le monde s’eclate, n’est ce pas? I comment to one shopkeeper.

Once France’s victory is confirmed (4-2), Strasbourg goes bat-crazy with jubilation. Fans cry out in the streets, faces painted in blue, white and red. Hours afterwards French nationals of all descriptions continue to shout with glee from car windows whilst horning furiously. That night, in the wee small hours of the morning I can still hear the odd victorious exclamation in my usually quiet neighbourhood.

There’ll be lots of celebratory sex tonight, I comment to mum. She giggles conspiratorially.

This isn’t even the quarter-finals (That's the following week. Everyone slouches off work early to watch what will be another French victory against Uruguay. My office becomes a ghost town). It makes me wish I could go back to World Cup 1998, when France beat Brazil to take home the trophy. The country must have come to a standstill for weeks in one collective paroxysm of joy.

The View from A Bridge: Orangerie, Strasbourg

Sunday morning at church, one of the associate pastors excuses himself for his lack of voice.

Blame it on singing the national anthem after yesterday's game. He apologises, not-so-guiltily.

Following my less than satisfactory attempts to translate the service for mum, we catch up with my good mate Jeanne after the service (whose mother also happens to be in town) and more recent acquaintance, Serafine whom mum has taken a shining to.

That afternoon I show mum round my local park, The Orangerie. It’s another gorgeous day, even better for the breeze. The oriental influenced landscape-gardening makes me a tad nostalgic for Japan. Mum comes to share the sentiment. In her company, we explore parts of the Park with which I have been previously unfamiliar. We find a choice spot under the shade, opposite a large pond. Before I know it, I am opening up about my latest-and deepest-crisis of faith. I have kept it to myself as not to demoralise her. In the end, she handles it better than expected. She draws from her own experience to encourage me. It’s an emotional but edifying exchange.

It’s hands down been mum’s most enjoyable stay to date. It flies past. Although confiding in me that she prefers the cultural inclusiveness of the UK to what she perceives of France, Strasbourg nevertheless has a place in her heart.

As is our unintentional custom, we manage to arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare before her train to Basel Airport. We barely have time to kiss our farewells.