Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part III

Arles Amphitheatre (c) Lucas Miguel

Part I

Part II

The following day, I have plans to reconnect with Élise, an old acquaintance I met back in Strasbourg when I was a member of a community Gospel choir. We haven’t seen each other since before the pandemic. Élise relocated from Alsace further South to switch careers and enter the culinary world. On my recent trip to Strasbourg, her name came up whilst reminiscing with various friends who are still connected to the choir.  For a chorale anorak like me, Élise is a dream to sing with. Her good musical instincts, especially her knack for harmonies, makes her self-sufficient in that she holds her own when others with less musicality flounder. In my ideal chorale scenario, the group would be solely composed of Élises.  After my recent nostalgic trip in Strasbourg, I reach out to Élise to let her know she’s been on my mind and in my conversations. She mentions that she now lives near Arles, which turns out to be a mere 20 minute train ride away from Avignon. (Élise has moved around Southern France a lot in the intervening years).  I’ll not only have a chance to catch up with Élise but also explore another part of the region. The stars have aligned. 

When Élise meets me at Arles station, I notice straight away that she’s grown her hair out and left behind the fuchsia tint, returning to her natural colour. (It was apparently at the behest of some snooty Michelin-star establishment where she once worked). The industrial surroundings of the station mask what turns out to be a very picturesque bohemian old town. Iconography of Vincent Van Gogh is everywhere. The Dutch artist made Arles his home for a time. Élise and I initially grab a quick bite whilst we walk and talk. Considering the seven year hiatus, it doesn’t feel organic to catch up this way. I also require some readjustment to Élise’ at times (unintentionally) brusque mannerisms. We hover around the vast amphitheatre ruins, parts of it now apparently an improvised toilet judging from the odour, and follow the route of other remains of antiquity.  Arles is the kind of town that I’d like to come and get lost in on a solo trip. Whether I’ll squeeze it in this time is doubtful.

Arles waterfront (c) Baptiste Buisson

I suggest Élise and I find a café to sit and talk properly. We settle on an establishment that serves tasteless ice tea and bissap drinks. Nonetheless, as I thought, being stationary helps us to relax more. I summarise (ahem) the peaks and troughs of my Belgian experience. Élise equally recounts the antics of the merciless world of gastronomy. They say clichés always have a grain of truth, and abusive behaviour by senior chefs seems far too commonplace. 

After a couple of hours, we take the scenic route back to Arles station along the banks of the Rhône. The discussion now turns to our much reduced singing activities since leaving Strasbourg. Whilst Élise has at least acquired a new hobby learning the clarinet, neither of us has found a suitable choral opportunity since our Strasbourg days. 

We part ways at Arles station. On top of my 40 minutes early arrival, my return train is half an hour late. That’s precious time I could have spent discovering more of Arles on my own.

That evening, it’s back to ÔCargo for a more propitious eating experience. I opt this time for the very reasonably priced chicken tagine from the Tunisian restaurateurs. There’s a DJ set from 8pm, not that you would know it from the empty dancefloor. The music policy is reggaeton, Afrobeats and uncategorisable remixes of 2000s Pop-R&B hits by the likes of Nelly Furtado and Fergie.  The set is one of my motivations for passing by this evening. However, between the lack of engagement by other punters and the fact the selection isn’t compelling me to hit the dancefloor solo, I return to the accommodation earlier than scheduled.

Nîmes (c) Alix Guerin

The following day, just over the half-way mark of my trip, I’ve scheduled a visit to nearby Nîmes; another old Roman town and the home of denim (De + Nîmes). It takes me a while to drag myself out of bed. I pass out the night before, rather than going to bed properly, which has a knock-on effect. I feel especially fatigued. I’ve promised myself some patisserie to be eaten at a leisurely pace in a local boulangerie. I am making up for the missed opportunity on the morning of my birthday itself.

For the first time on this trip, it rains – lightly and intermittent. By the time I arrive at Avignon Central, according to some mildly insolent station staff, the next direct train will get me to Nîmes well after 2pm. It’ll be an express visit, indeed. I have evening plans to catch the JAM Tremplin contest in central Brussels, the only festival event in which I’ll participate. 

I make a beeline for the Nîmes arenas through an attractive avenue. I initially quibble over whether to pay the 11 euros entrance fee. I’m all the more hesitant having forgotten my student card back at the accommodation, which would have saved me a whole two euros. I can hear my mum’s voice telling me to repent of my miserly ways and seize the moment. I obey.

I’ve arrived just in time for a guided tour. The young woman at the box office asks where I’m from. I rue the Anglophone intonation that always gives me away. She reassures me that it's a good accent. Clearly not if she can pick up on me not being a 'native'. She apparently doubts my capabilities. The tour is in French, by the way. Fine. I live in a Francophone country.

The guided tour takes us through the arrival of the Romans, the establishment of the town of Nemausus (Nîmes' Roman appellation, named after a god) en route from Italy to Spain, and the social stratification of Roman society, as reflected in the seating arrangements of the amphitheatre. The guide recruits volunteers to re-enact some of the games that would have taken place in the arenas, including simulated animal hunts and specifically the gladiator show-downs. I learn that there were three gladiator eras of which during the last, a ban was imposed on fighting to the death or the winner being finished off by the Roman authorities, as would have happened in the earlier phases. I'll admit, with sheepishness, that I occasionally miss what the guide is saying or some of the high-speed exchanges with other 'native' tourists. Having lived in Francophone contexts for the best part of a decade, of course my linguistic skills have not stood still. I won't allow them to. However, I'm not one of those geniuses who has managed to acquire a could-have-fooled-me, near-native level in another language. I'm reminded of this more often than I'd like.

After an hour, the guide leaves us to our own devices. Those of us who can clamber over the enormous steps to the top of the amphitheatre are rewarded with a birdseye view of parts of Nîmes.  It does set off my mild vertigo, so I don’t hang around too long. 

Nîmes Cathedral (c) Youssef Jounaid

I’m mindful of the time. I have a long evening ahead and want to return to my accommodation before heading back out for dinner. La Maison Carrée, a very well preserved Roman temple, is a short walk from the arenas. I hear that visiting the inside is not worth the ticket price, so I keep it swiftly moving.

I stop by for some quiet time at the nearby St. Paul’s church. I see lots of meandering side streets and can’t resist the typical urge to get lost down them. My curiosity pays off. I stumble upon St. Castor’s Cathedral and some attractive water features. I regret that I don’t have the chance to check out Les Jardins de la Fontaine, Tour Magne or the ancient aqueduct, Pont du Gard, on the outskirts of Nîmes. Alas, time is of the essence. My get up isn’t the best for all this walking, either. My skirt is too long and my sandals too high.

My instincts correctly lead me back to Nîmes very sophisticated-looking, romanesque main station.

I couldn’t have timed it better to catch my return train to Avignon. I’m blessed with good connections all the way to Didi’s place. I decide to stop off at the local Lidl en route. On my way to the shop, I notice someone walking close behind me. It’s one of my pet peeves. I slow down so they can take over. It’s then that I notice it’s some older white creep who was eyeing me up on the bus earlier in the trip. He has no intention of taking over. He also happens to be going to Lidl. Funny that. 

The remains of the Roman arenas in Nîmes (c) Hongbin

I grab my purchase and fast track through the self-service. I rush back to the accommodation as quickly as my high sandals will carry me, constantly checking to see if I’m being followed.

As usual, this minor incident makes me self-conscious about my shape. I remind myself that for men who feel entitled to ogle women – or worse – there’s no ‘appropriate’ way to dress. Intellectually, I know the problem is theirs and not mine. Emotionally, I’m still wrestling with a kind of internalised misogyny that blames women for men’s sexual misconduct. More generally, from early on in my short séjour avignonnais I’m reminded that in France, la drague est le sport national. I’m made very aware of attention from the male species that I don’t consistently receive in Belgium. Fortunately, most of it isn’t as unnerving as the Lidl stalker.

Part IV

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko

...Don’t Stop, like the Hands of Time…

After an encouraging start to 2020, I wake up to foggy, overcast and frost-bitten New Year’s Day morning. I have a longer than customary Grasse Matinée having only gone to bed around 5am. Once dropped home by Katie earlier that morning, I shower, eat and exchange New Year salutations and prayers with mum on the phone. The hours vanish before I realise.

The sombre view from my bedroom window isn’t encouraging. I will myself out of bed, make some brunch and watch a mediocre instalment of Channel 4’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year on Youtube. The word trivia couldn’t be more apt. The winning team triumph thanks to one member’s prodigious knowledge of the banal. I am somewhat grateful to be out of the loop. 

 To break the monotony of the day I venture out into the cold weather to treat myself to ice cream, cookies and half a muffin at the B Chef Café in town. I’ve decided to take a break from my continuous state of dieting over the festive period. It seems to have confused my metabolism to the point it has been even slower than usual. I can resume the good intentions later in January.

The B Chef has become one of my haunts of late. The wi-fi is more reliable than at Oh My Goodness! for a start. I also have a soft spot for the camp, relentlessly hard-working manager, Dénis. He holds down multiple jobs, including as bar manager in another establishment across town. He doesn’t even rest on Christmas day.

I’m all prepared with my New Year’s greeting but he’s not about. Maybe he’s taking a cat nap somewhere, as I hope. His no-nonsense mother is at the helm, instead.

An elderly gent won’t let me read or snack in peace, wishing me bon appetit at regular intervals and interrogating me about what I’m reading. His younger friend looks a tad embarrassed. At least it’s good language practice. When they leave, Dénis’ mum tells me to pay the codger no mind. He’s always like that.

Back home I catch up with writing buddy Pete on the phone. I become excessively irritated by his seemingly blasé approach to the NYE Watch Night tradition. Typical white privilege, I think. Takes everything for granted. I recognise I’m being over-bearing and legalistic. I apologise for getting wound-up. I wish I could say it doesn’t still mildly irritate me in the days to come. That’s something I definitely need to work on in this life season.

Later that evening, I settle down to a New Year’s day meal by candlelight watching the excellent biopic The Two Popes.

I stubbornly hold onto the 12 days of Christmas tradition, correcting anyone referring to it in past tense before 6 January. Others don’t show the same commitment. I notice that the Christmas music channel disappears from one of my preferred online radio stations as soon as the New Year hits. The decorations in the Rivetoile shopping centre don’t even make it to Epiphany. Although it would have been easier to dismantle mine during my weekly spring clean, I dutifully hold off until 6 January.

Within the first few days of the month, there are two choir-related socials to distract me from the winter blues. Our usual Friday night rehearsal is swapped for a meal organised by Pastor Richard, the choir’s founder. An email invitation is circulated but with no time specified. It takes place at a church close to where I live and yet, given the nature of the area, it’s still awkward to get to.

I arrive just as everyone is about to settle down to hors d’oeuvres. I sheepishly deposit the snacks I’ve brought. A surprising number of choristers past and present, as well as friends and family, are in attendance. Everyone loves free food, I suppose. Whilst helping ourselves to fingers foods and crisps, I accidentally bump into Pastor Richard. He makes a joke about my rear that it takes a few moments to register. It’s overheard by other guests.

That’s not kind. I reply, only half-joking. 

It’s delicate. Custom dictates that as my elder from a similar background, I show him respect. I get on well with his older daughter too. Although only loosely acquainted, she's a friendly soul whom I wouldn’t want to offend. There’s also the fact I’m not as quick off the mark in French as I’d be in English.

He responds along the lines of You should be proud of your ‘heritage’

But it bothers me.

I’m referring to his comment, not my anatomy (although the size of my behind does bother me).

Pastor Richard takes it to mean the latter.

Oh no, I like it! He exclaims.

Later, I’ll discuss my discomfort with fellow choristers.

The evening goes well enough. Some rice (from which I abstain) and meat stew is served up with a delicious vegetarian option. The conversation is cordial enough although I find myself struggling to overcome my ‘evening brain’. The words don’t flow as eloquently as I’d like.

Towards the end of the night, as dessert is served, Pastor Richard comes over to our table. He makes a beeline for me, commencing a conversation about my cultural background. It branches into discussions about West African language families and (according to him) a linguistic link between Yoruba and Hebrew, which I dispute. It segues into pre-historic African migration and genetic links with other ethnicities. I rather naively indulge the discussion, thinking it’s good language practice and hoping my misgivings are unfounded.

Pastor Richard’s wife signals to him, exasperated. We’re supposed to be wrapping up and heading home. I’m not sure if it’s our conversation that irks her, the late hour or both.

A couple of days later the choir meet again for a team building day. I join for the afternoon session, skipping out on the morning treasure hunt to go to church. On the way to our usual meeting place, I notice the carcass of a burnt out van.

Indoors, fellow chorister and choir administrator, Elisabeth shows us montages of the arson and vandalism that took place across Strasbourg on New Year's Eve. That would explain the incinerated van. It's a seasonal tradition. We watch, horrified and incredulous. 

At some point Elisabeth whispers,

I see the pastor has taken a shine to you.

Elisabeth admits she didn’t notice at first until others pointed it out. Other members in the vicinity nod their agreement. My fears confirmed, I feel profound embarrassment. As women so often do in these circumstances, I absorb the shame that should be that of the offending party.

I sensed he might be giving me undue attention, even in group settings. Yet I dismissed it, thinking-wishing-he just wanted to show off his English.

What an appalling example, I think. A supposedly married 'man of God' behaving in such an inappropriate way.

I tell my sisters-in-song of the cultural imperative to be respectful. I’ve tried to defuse the situation by calling Richard ‘uncle’ (which he doesn’t seem to like). Feisty soprano Leila tells me the direct approach is the only way to go.

Someone like that would appreciate it, she adds. Sensing my chagrin and taking pity, the girls vow to form a shield of protection around me to avoid future awkward encounters. Like bodyguards. I suggest it’s better I avoid any activities where Richard is likely to be involved. Elisabeth doesn't believe that's necessary. Just say hello and keep it moving, they advise. I’m grateful for their concern but quietly maintain avoidance is the best strategy. Mum agrees with me, when I share the dilemma with her over the phone that evening.

The rest of the afternoon doesn’t go much better. Choir director Kiasi divides us into teams to play a game that I eventually recognise as Dodge Ball. I work out the rules too late to sidestep being the first one out in the initial round. I turn down the chance to redeem my place and sit the rest of the game out. I feel less self-conscious as others are caught out. I manage to enjoy what turns out to be quite a thrilling round which our team wins, thanks to Leila the Legend. I mentally apply myself to doing better in round two, only to be summarily struck out within seconds.

If there were the sporting equivalent of tone-deaf then that would apply to me. This trivial incident triggers a deluge of humiliating sport-related childhood and adolescent memories.  One choir member, a notorious stirrer, offers me the ball to touch,

Just so you know what it’s like.

I roll my eyes and feel like telling her to stick it up the proverbial. Even if I weren’t so sensitive, it’s not as if we have that sort of rapport.

After another refreshment break and just before home time, some board games are suggested. We settle on Times Up. Hesitant to get involved straight away, I am eventually talked around. The rules sound convoluted but it’s a word game and, once again, I figure it’s good French practice.

Elisabeth offers to help me when it comes to my turn... In case there are problems with the language.

Surely, it’s not that bad, I retort. I know that her gesture is made in good faith but it feels like one more humiliation.

In the end, although not brilliant, I don’t do terribly. I’m better at guessing (give or take the odd grammatical error). When it’s my turn to give clues, I go blank sometimes under the pressure, berating myself later for using one word instead of another. The boyfriend of Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine mocks me when I read out the wrong clue.

I try and convince myself I’ve had a good time. Days later, when I’m still smarting from the whole incident, I concede that it was one HRGS activity I wish I’d sat out. Judging from some of the reactions of other choir members, I’m not the only one to find the whole experience underwhelming.

Maybe the combination of the failed team-building day and general January melancholy sparks off a bout of neurosis. I put a lot of the frustrations of the other day down to me still not being at ease speaking French. It bothers me that members of the choir think I’m shy. On a couple of occasions, one of the basses compliments me on being discreet but present. Each time I protest that it’s not always the case. I just come across as reserved in a French context.

True, in the scheme of things, such as the threat of yet another war in the Middle East, my hang ups are nothing at all.

Plus, when I have my post-structuralist social science hat on, I remind myself that identity is not necessarily fixed. That it’s constructed and negotiated in interaction with others. Still, it irritates and saddens me that so much of my personality is suppressed when I’m speaking French. On one hand, I know that I shouldn't care about a comment made by an obnoxious kid almost half my age; probably monolingual to boot. Yet I hate that my intelligence is called into question. I’m often not able to articulate my thoughts (which run a thousand paces ahead in any language) as smoothly or precisely.

The day after the team-building event, sis and I send each other comforting voice notes as she also tries to shake off New Year melancholia.

That evening, on the way home from a study session at B Café, a chance encounter gives me reason to hope. I’ve dilly-dallied and left the café later than I’d planned.

I accidentally press the wrong button on my MP3 player. It takes me back to the start of the mixtape I’m in the middle of. Whilst fiddling with the device to return to where I was, I overhear a conversation in American English. It sounds faith-related.

A young man is telling his interlocutors about a time that, for years, he sought clarity from God on a particular situation. I lean in as discreetly (!) as possible to make sure it’s not my imagination.

Feeling bolder to interrupt in English than I would in French, I ask if he's a Christian.

He answers in the affirmative. I apologise for the imposition, adding that the snippet of conversation I’ve heard has already been a source of encouragement. Thus sparks a brief but meaningful discussion with Jonah from Tennessee about how he came to be a missionary in Germany. His acquaintances fall silent, eventually standing aside. They look slightly put out. I can’t blame them.

After five years in Munich, Jonah still struggles with German. I share some of my own linguistic frustrations. It’s funny, I remark, how you can apparently be in the will of God and things still feel like an uphill struggle.

We part ways with a reassuring word.

This passing moment of spiritual solidarity is just what is needed to re-align my perspective.

Soundtrack: My Best of...2019 mixes.