'Good' Problems

Despite the gloom, sharp drop in temperature and the great indoors having more appeal come 5pm, I find myself busier as autumn makes way for winter in Strasbourg.  

The last weekend of November I spend in the delightful company of Coral, a fellow aspiring writer I met at a workshop earlier in the month. By some accident the event was over-subscribed but the ambiance was cordial. After the event, Coral and I remain in touch by email. Originally from Tunisia, she’s currently based in Frankfurt after completing a master’s in civil engineering. She and I bond over our shared tendency towards idealism, artistic insecurities and linguistic travails.  We exchange excerpts of our work and give feedback.

Her openness and ready vulnerability is refreshing and speaks to my own instincts. She’s also a patient listener (always useful in the presence of yours truly). 

We meet up at one of my new favourite city haunts, Oh My Goodness! Café. Whilst ordering my smoothie, I notice the American barista is struggling with her French. All too familiar with that feeling, I switch to our shared first language.

Multi-lingual Coral has plenty of experience on that front too. Having studied and mastered several languages (enough to make forays into literature) she’s nonetheless humble about the journey. She describes her German as ‘moody’; some days she is fluent, others she struggles to make a grammatically correct sentence.  We pass a few agreeable hours before I head off to my next rendezvous with another polyglot; my Eastern European angel, Clara. I promised her a meal after her sage advice saved me a packet on my Taxe d’Habitation. I initially sense reluctance on her part but she reassures me she’s keen; just very busy. We settle on Lebanese at Le Tarbouche.  I love MENA cuisine and have wanted an excuse to check out the always buzzing eatery. Even self-confessed picky-eater Clara is a fan. I am not disappointed. The food is delicious, the portions generous and the price is nice.

(c) Banksy

Once the pleasantries and usual catch-up information has been exchanged, much of the evening is spent talking about my seemingly relentless infatuation for Bernard. I don’t intend to confess but I feel an almost perverse relief from doing so. She’s the only person I’ve told who has actually met him. She’s sympathetic, even if she can’t at first wholly understand my perspective on why we're not compatible in the long term.

I lament how much head-space such trivial matters take up in the scheme of the world's problems. Clara tells me to go easy on myself.

She advises I find a replacement. For my part, this rebound strategy isn't worth considering. Unlike Brexit, no deal is better than a bad deal. Clara is so used to being in a relationship, perhaps this is lost on her.  For one thing Bernard can’t be replaced. For another, it wouldn’t be fair on the third party. Moreover, by adding another romantic entanglement to the mix I’d only be kicking the problem down the road. Best to face the pain alone now, for delayed gratification later.

One thing is agreed; not seeing Bernard is bad, being around him is even worse (hard to avoid as colleagues) Friendship isn’t a realistic option, Clara observes. She’s right.

Talking to her about it simultaneously lightens and adds to the load. Nothing like unfulfilled longing to kick start the blues. As always, my sis bears the brunt of my drama. She spends the best part of four hours trying to talk sense into me on Skype the following week.

Given that we work for the same organisation, my resolve to avoid Bernard is routinely challenged. I take to demurring invitations for the elevenses with colleagues in the café when I know he’ll be about. Relief turns to panic when, after weeks of our paths not crossing, I see him twice in one day. Neither encounter is as smooth as I’d have liked. The second occasion, when I spot Bernard from afar, my attempt at a slick escape turns to farce thanks to a temperamental security system. I have no choice but to interact with him briefly, accompanied by a new younger, female lunching buddy.

But at least there’s no conversation. For the sake of peace of mind and until emotion catches up with reason, small talk is more than I can handle.

Besides, despite his apparently warm sentiments when he sees me, I get the distinct impression that Bernard wants to keep me at arm’s length too, consciously or otherwise. If it’s distance he wants, it is distance he’ll get.

Thank God for music. A most effective antidote to a broken-heart. 

Not surprisingly, the run up to Christmas is a hectic season for my group HRGS. (Ironically, the choir doesn’t have much of a Christmas repertoire to my great disappointment. Neither do they seem very enthused by the idea. Perhaps the French carol tradition pales in comparison to the Anglophone). It’s apparently also a fertile period for the choir. A number of the female members have given birth within weeks, if not days of each other.

From late November to mid-December, we perform shows on successive weekends in and around Strasbourg. It’s like a tour of the Alsace region. 

I lose half a weekend, panicking over learning a solo in South African Sotho that late one Friday night after practice the choir director, Kiasi informs me I should learn. He’s crafty. I wouldn’t put it past him to make me perform it that weekend. 

He feigns innocence when we next meet.

It was just for future reference.

Great. I’ve aged five years overnight for nothing.

From my limited experience of performing with the choir thus far, I have made the following observations. Our audiences are largely older and Caucasian. Clapping in the customary off-beat rhythm of American Gospel music poses a particular challenge. 

  Most of the new recruits have carefully avoided these musical outings. Long-time members I’ve never laid eyes on materialise at random intervals.  They are clearly so familiar with the repertoire, they don’t feel the need to be at every rehearsal. It’s nonetheless a great opportunity for me to become acquainted with some of them. And the French practice is most welcome. During one long car ride, I swap Strasbourg anecdotes with fellow-30 something from Brittany, Yvette. The choir is a godsend, I tell her.

I have to hand it to Kiasi (or Chief, as I call him). He maintains his gusto throughout each performance, regardless of the enthusiasm (or lack thereof) of the crowd. He’s particularly keen on audience participation. He often invites guests to join us on stage for the finale. It can get crowded and pleasantly messy.

 Chief has a favourite party peace in which he teaches spectators a simple song. He then divides the room into two sections for some friendly competition. If the mood takes him, he’ll even pounce on unsuspecting audience members to lead each section. On one occasion, he selects two couples from a large but notably subdued crowd. When one of the males opens his mouth, it’s only the context that gives it any semblance of a song. You’d think Kiasi was holding him at gunpoint from the rigid claps and morose expression. 

After that particular performance, I am looking forward to going home to redeem what’s left of my Sunday evening. I’m knackered, feeling the absence of my day of rest.  

So much for that. Before I know it, we’re ushered Last Supper-style by our zealous hosts into the Upper Room of the impressive church for some sweetmeats and beverages.

Meanwhile, I could sleep standing up. I really don’t have the brain space to make conversation in a second language. I struggle with small talk in French at the best of times.  Alas, there is no escape. We’re in an Alsatian village in the middle-of-nowhere. I don’t drive and my lift, the choir’s treasurer, is also obligated to stay for snacks. I sit in a corner in an apologetic sulk. I’m not hungry and don’t have the inclination to indulge in unnecessary calories.

I sneak off to find a quiet space and come across fellow soprano Michelle. We have an affinity. She lived in the UK whilst studying English. She’s thus a willing and supportive unofficial language coach. By the time we bump into each other fatigue has made me emotional. She understands. She was also tearful earlier. The combination of tiredness and being on the wrong end of Kiasi’s sometimes catty humour got the better of her.

I find a quiet space to give mum a follow-up to the birthday call that was cut short pre-performance. Hearing a familiar voice lifts my spirits.  

Hidden away in an empty church office, Mum is worried I’ll miss my ride. Not a chance. I hot step it when I hear voices. At last we head towards the car park. En route Kiasi stops to take a photo of the illuminated church clock. Co-director Evan doesn’t approve.

That’s White People s***, he mocks in English. I reprimand him playfully in French for stereotyping. 

In the car, I reflect on the evening with my fellow passengers. The consensus is that it’s the better of the two performances that weekend. I beg to differ. Saturday night’s gig at the choir’s home parish is characterised by bonhomie, a more gamely audience and impromptu cameos by cute tots. Tonight, the atmosphere has been tense, the crowd stiff, the choir thinner on the ground. The sopranos sang sharp and energy levels were lower. 

Back in Strasbourg, going home is another palaver. Trams are running a reduced service owing to  security issues. Given that Sunday transport to my neck of woods is about as regular as a solar eclipse without the added hassle, the journey back takes me 2 hours door to door.

But let me accentuate the positive for a change. I am singing on the regular, overcoming my aversion to performing as a result and sharing the Gospel through song. 

Choir-related busyness and travel upsets are good problems to have.

Cultural Excursions

There haven’t been many things I’ve missed about the UK since moving to Strasbourg. Loved ones. The NHS. British Aldi and Lidl. I can add the London theatre scene to that list. 

I’ve not availed myself of the French theatre tradition either. That is until now. The Bienvenue á Strasbourg association have finally organised an event I can attend. It’s a production of the satirical two-hander ‘Ciel, Mon Mari est muté en Alsace !’ or (Heavens, My Husband has been Transferred to Alsace!’), staged at the Munsterhof, a stone’s throw from the Cathedral. It’s told from the perspective of a sophisticated Parisian wife highly reluctant to head East, based on the many stereotypes about the hybrid Franco-German culture, odd social mores and bad weather (Please. I grew up in Britain).

The audience is filled with a fair amount of Alsatians, making sure the region isn’t done a disservice. One native spends the night apoplectic with mirth. Her male companion teasingly nudges her after one of several fits of hysteria. I don’t understand all the jokes nor, frustratingly, a lot of the dialogue during the poignant Second World War historical overview. I do learn that the Marx Bros and Django Reinhardt all have Alsatian roots. In the end, it’s not a bad first encounter with French theatre. The male actor’s absurdist turns are sufficiently entertaining and any language practice is useful.

The play finishes earlier than expected. Great. It’s a school night anyway. As I’m heading towards the exit, I’m lured into an adjacent room by the smell of grub. I vaguely recall mention of an after-show reception. Ah. Vol-au-vents. How I’ve missed thee. This is doing my post-Lent austere intentions no good. I capitulate somewhat, squirrelling away snacks with the intention of freezing them and indulging on a ‘treat day’.

(courtesy of L'Alsace)

Looking around, I suddenly feel maudlin. There are contexts in the UK in which I’d be confident speaking to strangers. In Strasbourg, I’m too self-conscious about my imperfect French. I leave the venue, self-chastising and feeling guilty about my hors-d’oeuvres haul. I seize an opportunity to divest myself of them when I spot a couple sleeping rough.

Walking from the venue to my bus stop, the fresh Spring evening air lifts my mood before I know it. Strasbourg beguiles me with its beauty despite myself; even at night.

That weekend I’m back at the Munsterhof to attend the award ceremony for the annual Anglophone short story competition for Strasbourg residents. The invitation arrives in my nom-de-plume inbox, contained in the same email informing me that my entry was not successful. Not surprisingly, I don’t have much interest at first in attending the ceremony. If my story wasn’t good enough for your poxy competition, leave me be. Besides. I don’t want to be reminded of my own inadequacy when hearing the shortlisted entries. Half are written by authors for which English is not their first language. Oh yes and there’s a junior under-18 category too, to twist the knife into my mediocrity.

Then again, it’s an excuse to dress up, go out and meet those with a common interest. I might also learn a thing or two from the winning entries.

Considering the prize is now in its 10^th year, it’s a curiously informal affair; almost chaotic. I’m over-dressed -as always- judging by most of the casual apparel (where is the sense of occasion?). I sit next to a woman whose handbag is wide-open. Upwards of 100 euros cash is visible through a transparent wallet. I wonder what sort of economic security can make a person so lax with their belongings. There’s a fair share of guests milling around. A few walk out mid-ceremony.

The main event is not the soul-destroying experience I have feared. Yes, the all female finalists from the under-18 categories are depressingly accomplished. (It does make me wonder how ‘non-native’ English has been defined. This year’s Junior Laureate, Ferre Wuchner, is young and proficient enough to be classified as a first language speaker. My question is never answered). However, most of the ‘native’ level shortlist are reassuringly hoary-haired. There’s time yet for me to hone the craft.

I’m also heartened by the encouragement and advice from co-host and one of the three competition judges, Michael Wright. A successful journalist and author in his own right, he admits to never having won a writing contest. Also comforting are his empathetic observations about artistic insecurities and how the inner critic’s voice only becomes louder with age. The solution he says, is simply to persevere. The man is All Wright. Even if he has written for the Daily Telegraph. To my shame, this latent prejudice precludes me from thanking him in person after the ceremony. Once again, I’m not feeling up to the required post-show socialising. I’m knackered from the night before, having returned in the early hours of the morning. (Nothing untoward, of course).

I head straight to my bus stop, strolling through the bustling sun-drenched streets. My heart skips to see more evidence of blossoms in full bloom. Despite being flanked by a seasonal melancholy these past couple of weeks, I can’t begrudge the advent of Spring and all it promises.

The following day I’ve arranged to attend a photography exhibition at La Chambre with recently-made acquaintance Muriel. It showcases the work of Stephen Shames, focusing on his documentation of the Black Panther movement during the 1960s and 70s. I originally invite my unofficial French tutor Bernard but he flakes without warning.

A few minutes before we meet, Muriel sends me a text asking if I mind if the boyfriend tags along. Damn it. I don’t like the idea of being the third-wheel in this couple-based trinome but I can hardly say no at the last minute. I will myself to be gracious.

La Chambre is smaller than I anticipate. Cosy. We are shown around by an enthusiastic and attractive young brunette who speaks a mile a minute. Miraculously, I can follow most of it. Muriel and I look on in envy at the full Afros, carried regally by African-Americans with amazing bone structures. 

The exhibition isn’t limited to Shames’ work with the Black Panthers, coming right up to date with the Black Lives Matter movement. The photographer has spent several decades documenting the inhabitants of deprived areas in his native New York; mostly in monochrome. 

Muriel and I marvel at how Shames earned the trust of his subjects. Some portraits are incredibly intimate. Naked adolescents scrub down in the communal showers of an adult prison. A shirtless Huey Newton stands in the middle of his living room, following his release from prison. He’s holding a Bob Dylan LP, sporting a rakish (maybe even triumphant) grin. A young man clutches his girlfriend in what looks like perturbed sleep. A smirking biker yanks down his lover’s top, exposing her bare breast. She also smiles, complicit in her degradation. There’s an image from the early 90s of the open-casket funeral of a 12-year old slain by bullets, his family understandably ravaged by grief.

(c) Stephen Shames

Afterwards all three of us head to Place d’Austerlitz for a natter. Muriel and boyfriend Gustav have plans to catch a film later. We chat about Strasbourg vs. London life, my work at the Organisation, pop culture, Gustav’s Slavic/Germanic roots and Afro hair maintenance. Gustav is bemusedly fascinated by the mysteries of the latter. He makes one or two comments that verge on the casually racist. Or perhaps I'm just being sensitive.

He and Muriel bicker affectionately like an elderly couple but I don’t feel excluded. Once in a while these things turn out better than expected.

This week's soundtrack:

'Black on Blonde' + 'The Anchorman Mixtape' by K-Os