Last Night A Language Blog Saved My Life

“…I feel like people who haven’t tried to live somewhere else and learn a language just don’t get it. To them, it seems logical that if you live somewhere and interact that you’ll just magically become fluent. It’s crazy how NOT true that is. And then when I explain this to people I get mad at myself for not being magically bilingual like people assume; like I’ve failed...It’s not a fun conversation to have…” (from the comments section of the post ‘Will You Be Fluent in French after Living in France for a Year?’ on ouifrance.com.)

Il fait un froid de canard.

Or brass-monkey weather. In other words, the last couple of weeks have been bloody freezing. Strasbourg, like most of Europe, has not been exempt from the cold snap blowing in from Siberia.  Each morning, the canal that runs parallel to my office is covered in sheets of ice. On the other hand, it’s been mostly gloriously sunny and dry. I can just about tolerate the freeze if there’s a lot of light around.

Speaking about a deep freeze, the atmosphere between my colleague Claudia and I has been decisively frosty of late. True, there has been an unofficial entente cordiale over the past few weeks but the overall outlook has not been good. Things come to a head one Tuesday morning when Claudia asks if we can talk. She shuts the office door. She means business.

I’ve been expecting it. I welcome it. Just that morning I’d been praying for an opportunity to clear the air. The previous week, I open up to Sophie about it after she calls me aside for an informal 1-2-1. She’s already picked up on my aversion to ask for help. It’s not that I relish the idea of snitching but it’s no longer tenable to keep it to myself. I try to be fair to Claudia. She has been of great help in getting me acclimatised to the role but I spill my heart out to Sophie about other issues. Her snappiness. Her perennially jaded outlook. Her increasingly condescending way of instructing me. Her over-reaction and you-might-be-sacked scaremongering when I make honest rookie mistakes. 

On the plus side, I'm becoming more self-sufficient. Sophie is both sympathetic and mildly appalled. It’s important that I feel free to ask questions, she explains. Rather than looking like I’m using initiative, it would be seen as suspicious. Sophie offers to arrange a friendly intervention after she returns from leave the following week. She can relate. She tells me an anecdote of a blazing row she had with a colleague after a year of simmering tensions. Now they're like peas in a pod. I agree to the mediation idea; reluctantly at first but more convinced by the end of our long heart-to-heart.

Claudia beats us both to it. She says she senses discomfort. I concur, as tactfully as I can manage. I thank her for her help thus far. I venture to constructively point out my concerns, stressing that I am aware of the subjectivity of my claims. She asks for examples. I have a number to cite both recent and otherwise. She responds defensively. I am not surprised. She calls me arrogant, strange, judgmental, inexperienced… I tell her that she is being immature and that I knew she would take it too personally. She thought I liked her directness. I do. I just think it's possible to be frank and still use tact. She asks why I didn’t speak up before. Because I’m new. Because I’m confrontational by nature so sometimes go to the other extreme. I didn’t want to fly off the deep end so early into a new job. She’s chagrined. It would have been better to say something than let resentment fester. True. It’s just difficult to get the timing right.

We verbally thrash it out for at least an hour. During that time we are able to contextualise our grievances. Claudia’s manner of mentoring me is harsh because that’s how she was trained for the role. I explain that I stand out whether I want to or not. We both feel like outsiders. I might not fraternise with colleagues as much as the others would like because I'm recovering from the unpleasant working environment at my previous job. Claudia has been at The Organisation long enough to have heard and seen so many things to leave her disillusioned. Matters aren’t so smooth between us yet that I can directly ask her why she doesn’t return to her adopted home, London but I politely (I hope) insinuate. It is a cathartic experience. It will be a lot easier for us to be frank with each other now. I’ll feel freer to ask questions. Claudia said it shouldn’t matter what mood she’s in. A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.

She falls ill not long after our discussion and doesn’t return for the rest of week. I'm glad she brought it up when she did.

One of her salvos lingers more than the rest though. You know, some colleagues find is so annoying when you take a long time to express yourself in French. I demand to know why she’d say that. I’m already paranoid as it is.

I have to face it. The wall I hit with French in the UK way back when hasn’t automatically crumbled on moving to Strasbourg as I’d anticipated. I start having lunchtime meetings with a gifted multi-linguist colleague who works in the Chateau. Bernard is half-Swiss, half-Guadeloupean. With straight, sandy-blond hair and misty-grey eyes, he could pass for an olive-skinned European. He speaks English like a dream, despite never having lived in an Anglophone country long term. He puts it down to knowing German thanks to his dad. He’s very encouraging about my efforts in French. To a fault. I have to beg him to correct me. He doesn’t think it’s always necessary. The important thing is to practise by speaking, he insists, the rest will come. After I push him he admits,

Sometimes, in searching for the right way to express yourself, you tend to speak French in an English way.

Why didn’t you tell me before?

I don’t mind being corrected. I just don’t like the idea of speaking wonky French for extensive periods without realising. Better to stop me mid-flow and iron out the kinks straight away before the mistakes fossilise.

A few days later I meet up with another Francophone with a German connection, my new acquaintance Murielle. It’s a Tuesday evening. The same day I have had that conversation with Claudia. My post-meridian brain has kicked in. My conversation is laboured, like I have a mouth -and brain- full of toffee. Murielle is patient but it is harder work for her than it should be. She suggests I speak in English sometimes just to feel more at ease. That’s exactly what I don’t need. I concede, briefly switching to English to explain some of my frustration.

Wow, it’s like there are two different versions of you; the one who speaks English and the one who speaks French, she exclaims.

My linguistic impasse reduces me to tears several times that week. it triggers another overblown existential crisis... Mid-30s and nothing to show for it, blah, blah, blah...  I make alternately angry and forlorn imprecations to heaven. I pray for a breakthrough. Any would do.

It comes in an unexpected form. One afternoon, during a lull in activities, I research ‘Language frustration plateau’ online. God bless the internet. I discover a few blogs that speak to my pain. My personality disappears when speaking another language. Check. Everyone back ‘home’ expects me to be fluent by now. Check. How the heck do I move past this plateau? Check. I’m worried I come across as thick. Check!

It’s just the psychological fillip that I need. There’s nothing like finding empathy through others willing to be open about their experiences; good, bad, indifferent.

This week's soundtrack: Heavy Rockin' Steady by Beatchild and the Slakadeliqs

Beating the Winter Blues

Within a few days of mum’s unfortunate visit, I slowly but surely manage to gain some perspective. It does come off the back of a few days of melancholy and anxiety. I’ve experienced far more challenging circumstances and yet it’s strange how I can be laid low by the comparatively trivial.

My travails with mastering the French language have knocked my confidence.  At work, an awkward impromptu training session with Claudia leaves me feeling like an idiot. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to come across as mildly exasperated as I over-complicate what should otherwise be a simple procedure. Still, it reinforces my reluctance to ask her for help. I start to feel anxious about my performance at work. Three months into the job and I won’t be able to get away with the newbie label for much longer. On the plus side, I am beginning to be more self-sufficient, false steps notwithstanding.

February marks the deepest depths of Northern Hemisphere winter. I am inclined to hibernate, especially on weekday evenings. I also realise just how much I am in recovery from the frantic London pace. I never felt I could slow down. I had so many interests. There were so many important things in which to be involved. For the first time in so long I can barely remember, I am becoming reacquainted with what it means to be well-rested.

That’s not to say I am anti-social. My language quest motivates me to get out and about. I attend another Internations event. It takes place at a novelty café in central Strasbourg where customers pay an hourly rate of €5 to occupy the space and can consume as much as they wish within that time. There's some mix-up with the owner. I arrive early. He knows nothing about the meet-up.

But I'm sure Annabelle said it was here.

Well Annabelle is my girlfriend and the co-proprietor. She mentioned nothing about a meeting.

It turns out both the group organiser and his girlfriend happened to be called Annabelle. No relation.

My Annabelle eventually shows up just as I go outside to give her a call. Soon other guests turn up. I meet a Kazak member who has lived in France for five years and scarcely speaks un trait mot de français; something to do with studying in English and not having any French monolingual acquaintances. I don’t hide my incredulity. I also make fast friends with Murielle; a half-Martinican, half -Togolese Swiss national who was born and raised in Zurich before relocating to Strasbourg.

In an effort to punch above my linguistic weight, I attend a couple of intellectually-stimulating conferences. The first is a bio-ethics lecture predominantly in French. The focus is on genome manipulation and Minority Report-style experiments with recently developed neuroscientific treatments, initially used for palliative care. The speaker, an Italian national, is diffident and not the most engaging orator. Still, it’s a stimulating discourse. I even challenge myself to make a comment in French (drafted out first in pencil). I say something about the risks of those with entrenched privilege and power abusing neuroscientific research in the name of crime prevention; exclusively pursuing those with little socio-political influence and ignoring so-called white collar crimes.

Almost a fortnight later I partake in some more intellectual stimuli at a conference in the Lieu d'Europe. This time the theme is linguistics, with which I'm a lot more familiar thanks to my MA. The guest speaker focuses specifically on various approaches to multilingualism in the classroom context; from disregard for non-majority languages to complex methods that ensure better integration and acceptance of diversity. Mid-way we are asked to represent our own linguistic repertoire using crayons on the simple outline of a cartoon figure. I colour the head blue and red for English and French. The heart is Green and Orange for Brazilian Portuguese and Efik respectively (something to do with wishful thinking). The rest is a patchwork of the various registers I use in everyday interaction (professional, social...), as we've also been instructed to represent.

One Friday evening, I invite my good-natured colleague Jean-Pierre to a free jazz event celebrating the clarinet. I am due to meet Jeanne just before the show. Since returning to full time work her body clock is still adjusting to the change. She’s often tired during the week. I am hoping to coax her into staying for the gig; sort of bringing things full circle, given that we met at a Jazz concert. Not likely. She has a meeting the following morning.

It’s not our usual social meet-up. I’ve agreed to help Jeanne improve her beginner's English. I scour the internet for adult-friendly ESL word games and exercises. She’s an attentive student. Her green eyes flash with intent and, despite her fatigue, she throws herself into the word puzzles. At some point, we're politely shushed by the librarian. I get so carried away, I’m late to meet Jean-Pierre and childhood chum, Tomasz.

The event itself is rather…peculiar. The publicity does make reference to a zany line-up but that’s not the half. Four middle-aged men make sporadic, occasionally rhythmic atonal sounds on bass clarinets. They cock their heads, place hands on hips and have mock-disputes. For the finale they are joined by younger performers of varying ages from pre-school upwards. Some of them are hardly bigger than their clarinets. It is an epic piece dedicated to the history of the wind instrument incorporating brief monologues, primal screams, foot stomps and young women shouting historical facts into small megaphones with their backs to the audience. There are about one and a half pieces with a discernable melody throughout the whole show. Tomasz and Jean-Pierre exchange comments throughout. Awkwardly Tomasz, whom I have never previously met, sits in the middle. Afterwards, all three of us mildly shell-shocked, the consensus is that it’s a little too oddball for our tastes.

Oh well. It’s not a wasted evening. I at least get some vigorous French practice trying to keep up with the lads’ rapid-fire conversation. We walk several yards in the opposite direction to my bus stop before I pipe up that I need to turn back. They courteously escort me.

Long Weekend Part 2

La Synagogue de la Paix-Parc du Contades, Strasbourg
(courtesy of Photos-alsace-lorraine.com)

Saturday morning. Mum is recovering from a cold. I’m struggling to put the fiasco of the previous evening behind me. I’m in full-blown self-flagellation mode. It’s hard to pray. 

On the bright side, I don’t have any cleaning to do this morning. I indulge as much as I can in a longer lie-in. I don’t intend to start today’s itinerary until mid- afternoon. The plan is to have dinner in town with mum after some sightseeing.

Mum’s feeling stronger; counting her blessings as always. She spends much of the weekend giving me better housekeeping pointers (You need to keep a box of tissues within arms' reach...you should buy some shampoo, for your white guests) and beaming with all the ideas she has for the flat. She’s quite the amateur interior designer. I haven't inherited that propensity.

A couple of hours before we leave, I Skype sis to recount last night’s events. She isn’t one to wallow in regret; one of a number of ways we are polar opposites. What’s done is done, a mantra of sorts. Don’t let it steal the good time you could still have.

It’s a milder and dryer day than the one before. Having idled away most of the daylight hours, I am determined for us to leave before sunset. I adapt the itinerary once again, postponing the stroll around my local neighbourhood until Sunday after church.

I decide to start mum’s Strasbourg orientation at the striking Synagogue de la Paix (Synagogue of Peace) opposite Parc du Contades tram stop. I’m horrified to see a heavily-armed guard outside the premises, keeping watch over the faithful as they come and go. I point it out to mum, blaming any heightened sense of unease on Trump’s reckless Jerusalem rhetoric.

Petite France.

We cross Place de République and head towards the Notre Dame Cathedral. My plan is to meander down to Petite France; one of my favourite Strasbourg spots. I am not quite sure of what route to take. In the past I’ve usually wandered into the area by chance. I’m hoping some gut instinct will similarly guide me today. Our conversation initially turns to a melancholy theme. Mum is too emotional at first to take in her environment. The imposing Cathedral does catch her attention. It’s a pretty upbeat ramble from then on. I eventually steer us towards Petite France by way of Grand Rue and Quai St Thomas-long after nightfall. This detour allows me to cover much of the City. I mention some of the other places I plan to show mum later that weekend.

Why not do it all now? Since we’re here.

Suits me. We’ve been on our feet for hours but we’re both avid walkers. I’m just a little bit concerned the Chinese buffet I had in mind might be closed by the time we arrive at the Place des Halles. For some reason shopping centres grind to a halt at 8pm; weekends too. My fears are realised when we arrive to find even the shutters of McDonald’s are down. Mum’s a bit restless now. She suggests we buy a takeaway and head home. I take her to one of my Middle-Eastern haunts near Alt Winmarik. We parade the streets of Homme de Fer and Broglie with our pizza and pide boxes.

Back at mine, we break bread whilst binge-watching Netflix’ ‘Alias Grace’. 

Mum requests another yoghurt for dessert.  I pettily deny her, keen to ration what’s left. You’ve already had one!

She eschews my (kind of) peace offering of chocolate pudding, although initially brought at her own behest. In the morning, I will be overcome by remorse. Nothing like living with someone else, even briefly, to remind me of my own selfishness. I have to be very deliberate about acts of generosity, particularly the spontaneous kind. As a result of my own broken humanity and a reaction to various adverse life experiences, I have a tendency to hoard. 

Sunday morning, mum has gamely volunteered to accompany me to church, even though she'll understand virtually none of it. We locate free seats as close to the back as possible, so I can translate without disturbing too many other members. During the offering, to my pleasant surprise, the senior pastor leads us in a rousing rendition of 'Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen (But Jesus)' accompanying us on guitar. Mum and I join in heartily; those congregants not as comfortable singing in English, less so. Mum is moved by guest speaker Philippe Barbuis’ account of losing his wife to cancer nearly 20 years ago, his struggle with grief and the demands of ministry. His experience resonates with her own on suddenly losing her mother. Both our hearts break on learning of the funeral arranged that week for a toddler, who ran into the road whilst his father was putting out the rubbish. From our depths, we pray as a church for God to strengthen and comfort the family. 

Despite the sombre tone, Barbuis' hopeful words of exhortation linger as we leave the service. Jeanne and I unfortunately miss each other. She has been playing bass during the service and can't get away quickly afterwards. Just when I give up on seeing any of the few familiar faces I know from EPIS, Louis joins us at the tram stop. I introduce mum. She leaves us to catch up.

Petite France...from another angle.

Having covered most of the walking itinerary the night before, mum suggests a lazy Sunday afternoon in. Once again the neighbourhood gander is postponed until the Monday before she flies back to the UK. Uncharacteristically for a Sunday, I spend much of the afternoon in the kitchen making mis-shapen crepes for lunch and some sort of game (advertised as, but too tough to be, chicken) for dinner. So far, the weekend seems to have compensated for the inauspicious start to mum’s first excursion francaise.

Monday early afternoon is a little more frantic. Realising that we might have cut it a little too fine with our morning activities for mum to make it comfortably back to Basel airport for her flight, it’s a mad dash to Gare Centrale. We decide en route she won’t check-in her luggage after all, to save time. We empty her suitcase of anything that might be confiscated.

I stand on the platform to wave her off, like a classic war-time movie scene.

Later that evening I pop round to retrieve my leather bag from local Algerian-Jewish cobbler, Bénjamin. Previous attempts to have the strap fixed have been scuppered by sporadic opening hours.

When I arrive, he’s notably glum.

Ca va?

Oui. Ca va.

I’m wary. I’m not sure if this is one of his habitual flirtatious ploys. Perhaps he's toying with the idea of a guilt-trip to coerce me on a date.

Cautiously, I ask again.

Je viens de perdre ma mere.

Oh dear. I couldn't have been more wrong. I offer him my profuse condolences. I apologise for my clumsy French. Not only is it ill-equipped to deal with the context of grief, I have been using too much English over the weekend with mum. I explain I have been hosting a guest from London. Out of sensitivity I don’t mention it’s my mother. I am silently grateful the shop was closed when we tried to pick up my bag earlier that morning. It would have been unbearable for poor Bénjamin. 

He’s still in shock. Jewish tradition demands his mother is buried immediately. He has not had a chance to process events, he tells me. Despite my insistence he has more rest, the pressures of being  a sole trader mean he can only close up shop for so long. I assure him I’ll be praying for him. My bag strap remains unfixed. I tell Bénjamin to take his time.

It’s moments like this one realises what’s truly of importance.

On leaving, I see my bus flying past. It’s a sign. I return to the shop to pray for Bénjamin. In English. He’s touched by the sentiment.

On the way home, I stop off at the supermarket next door to mine. I bump into my landlord, Yotis. We exchange pleasantries and I inform him I have had to replace the old mat in the guest bathroom, after mum narrowly escaped a serious fall.

I ring her later that evening to make sure she reached London safely and tell her about the rest of my day. She manages to catch the flight in the end. Ironically, it’s significantly delayed.

Alas, on the train from Strasbourg to Basel, she’s accosted by inspectors who insist on seeing the discount card I used to pay for her ticket. Of course, I am not with her to present it. She gives them my French mobile to call and confirm. I am in the cinema at the time and have stupidly kept the phone switched off, as is my habit. She’s is charged 35 euros for her trouble. More than I paid for the damned ticket.

Mum is incredibly gracious about it all, refusing my pleas to compensate her. She is just grateful to have caught her flight. To her consternation, I arrange a bank transfer against her wishes. I am beside myself with regret. It’s not as if I didn’t anticipate this could happen. I even mention it to mum before seeing her off. Giving her my French mobile details was part of the contingency plan. I am so angry with myself. Mum's first trip to France has been bookended by unpleasant experiences. I so wanted her to enjoy herself. I so wanted it to be perfect.

Mum’s efforts to help me keep perspective are all but futile. She reminds me of Bénjamin’s recent loss. What about that poor family in church who are burying their infant this week?

I know the mere inconveniences we've encountered over the past few days cannot begin to compare to these tragedies. And yet, Je m’en veux.

It's different for Bénjamin and the family from church. They had limited, if any, control over those circumstances. 

By contrast, I feel the responsibility of small, avoidable oversights that led to bigger incidents which have cast a shadow on mum’s trip. I can’t forgive myself. My evening is ruined.

Mum loses patience with me.

When you’re this hard on yourself, you’ll do the same to others. Why can’t you just accept mercy?

In bed, I tearfully and prayerfully wrestle over the same question. It’s a theological hazard that nevertheless, goes to the core of my being. I fear if I readily allow mercy, then my sense of justice and restitution/retribution will be thrown out with the bathwater. 

Resolution will take longer than a lachrymose night. I fall into a fitful sleep.

Long Weekend

 I have my first visitor from the UK coming to visit; mummy dearest. She’s fresh from her Eastern excursion spending Christmas and New Year’s with sis in Japan. A long weekend in Strasbourg is another opportunity for her to chase away the winter blues.

The day of her arrival, I take the afternoon off work. It’s getting busier and Sophie is away on sick leave (naughtily accessing her emails from time to time) but I am not swamped. I’ve been preparing for mum’s visit throughout the week. All that's left to do is to cook and give the flat another tidy, although an extensive clean is not required. I seem to spend a lot of my free time tidying the place in an attempt to keep it as spotless as when I moved in. Who’d have thunk it; Tola the domestic goddess? Ish. In any case, mum’s standards are a lot higher than mine. I don’t want her inspecting an undetected slither of dust with her finger.

My newly-discovered fussiness is a decision I come to regret. I don’t meet my own deadline to leave and pick up mum from Basel airport. My journey starts well enough. Not long to wait for the bus. But then, in a moment of clumsiness, I drop my wallet on descending from said bus. I just know in my gut it’s a sliding doors moment. Stopping to pick it up is the split second difference between catching the tram which sets off a chain reaction of sorry events. From then on it’s a sod’s law connection. I arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare to the next train and I haven’t even bought my ticket. It’s an impossible task. There’s a half hour wait for the next. I arrive at St Louis Station, and spot from a distance the shuttle bus to the airport pulling away. Another 15 minute wait. I’ve been fretting throughout the journey, praying that mum won’t be stoney-faced when I show up. Lo and behold, she’s as sullen as I expect; perhaps worse. She’s been waiting for two hours and, unbeknownst to me, she's unwell. I try to explain, defensive. Why didn't she upgrade to a no-roaming package like I suggested, so my messages would reach her? The anxiety has made my adrenaline sky-rocket. We have a stinking row on the shuttle back to St Louis, much to the quiet alarm of a fellow passenger.

I have purchased mum’s ticket en route so that saves us some time. I hope. A Strasbourg train is scheduled for half-7. By 20 to 8, with still no sign of it and the display panel now showing a later departure, I venture outside the waiting room to find out what’s happening. Other travellers are also scratching their heads. One astute observer notices the train opposite has been stationary for some time. She suspects something is amiss. She’s right. The next minute, we’re being evacuated from the building by station officials and the police. A suspicious package. Mum, myself and several other passengers stand outside in the cold and wet whilst the authorities fiddle around with what is likely someone’s forgotten shopping. Mercifully we’re allowed back in. Our Strasbourg train is now an hour behind schedule.

I have tried to time the journey to get a tram that will take us to a destination where we can catch a bus that stops at my front door. We’ve already missed one but if all goes well, we’ll arrive in time to catch the next without too long a wait in the cold. Timing finally seems to be on our side. On board the tram, Mum and I are in deep conversation when some inspectors approach us. I have a pre-paid monthly travel pass (A Badgeo). I’ve bought mum the top-up equivalent. Unfortunately, in Strasbourg there’s a system of having to validate temporary tickets before each journey. I try to do it on mum’s behalf well in advance of meeting her but all it does is deduct a ticket.

I don’t have to validate my pre-paid but I forget to remind mum to activate hers immediately before boarding. Everything has been so harried, it slipped my mind. I try to explain all this to the inspector. 

It’s not her fault. She’s a tourist. I forgot…

Very well. That’s an on the spot 40 euro fine.

What? 

She points officiously to the list of penalties that ironically, I'm sitting next to. 

That’s the last thing I need. I’ve just been paid and yet I’m already on a tight budget. Hosting guests is expensive.

B-But…

All we'd need to do is get off at the next stop, validate and hop back on. Thanks to my panic and fatigue and being in a highly unfamiliar situation, I can’t formulate an articulate sentence in French. The jobsworth inspector won’t budge despite my pleas. Mum is angered by my supplications. Leave it! She’s made up her mind.

Mum offers to pay. It would be a substantial chunk of her spending cash. I told her she wouldn’t need to bring much. I can always use my card.

I won’t have it. It’s like she’s being punished for my error. We reach our stop with only a few minutes left to catch the bus. I try and explain that we need to get off here. I’ve (sort of) made my peace with having to pay the fine but I’d like to speed things up. It’s already 10pm and the buses only come two an hour. Not that I’m able to get this out as clearly as I’d wished.

Still. No mercy.

You can get off at the next stop. It’s not far.

Silly woman. I know the area. I am familiar with it enough to be sure that we won’t make it back in time to catch our bus. (Mum later suggests that I could have insisted and made my way off the tram regardless. As a migrant of African descent, I don't fancy my chances of not being brutalised by French authorities. Especially in light of recent events).

 Once I’ve paid the 40 euros by card, there is yet more petty French bureaucracy. This time it's a temporary paper ticket which we don’t flipping-well need. Mum already has a Badgeo. We just need to validate. I try to explain that what they're telling me doesn't make sense. They switch to bad English.

I understand the French. I just don’t understand your point.

(In this context, I probably said ‘I don’t understand your full stop’ as my tired brain used a more English turn of phrase instead of what I now think would have been the correct French ('argument').)

All this wastes enough time for us to make futile efforts to catch our bus. We watch it pulling away on the horizon.

It’ll be nearly 11 before we reach mine. We’re tired, dejected and hungry. Mum is coming down with a cold. She tries to be gamely as I show her around. She enjoys the mixed-meat tagine I’ve prepared. I’m in a funk about the fine and an overall bloody difficult evening. So much for an auspicious start to my mum’s first holiday in France.

For want of a nail. Or a purse. 

Me and my butter fingers.

Waiting Out Winter

Strasbourg Cathedral

I confront a certain paradox during the first quarter of the year. Thankfully, I’m not as beset with the winter-related gloom (S.A.D) that used to hit in January. Admittedly, the change of country and scene is a great help.

Nonetheless, once the festivities are a distant memory I count down the days to March. I latch on to any sign that it’s brighter for a bit longer in the late afternoon (although I don’t mind the dark mornings for some reason). I try and give myself little incentives I can look forward to before the blossoms start to appear. Still, the Spring Equinox and its promise of warmer, longer days can’t come fast enough.

So where’s the paradox? Well, I've always had an old head on (now, not-so-young) shoulders. I have been prone to an ageing-related melancholia since I hit double-figures. Believe that I was lamenting the end of an era that turning 10 represented. The older I get, the more I try to savour the days, weeks and months which seem to speed up exponentially post-18. And yet, I’m always looking to the future. And so the curious cycle continues. Wishing the time away might be more costly in my current situation. I don’t know for sure how long I’ll be living and working in France.

Here in Strasbourg, the weather has at times been suspiciously mild in between the odd day of intense rain. Spring is not quite in the air but I’ve caught a glimpse of what it could be like.

It’s been pretty quiet since my Parisian trip. Work is ticking along. Claudia appears to be in a permanent sulk, I suspect because I will no longer indulge her murmuring. On the other hand, that could be a very unfair projection on my part and she's just being quiet. I wish I knew how to lift her mood without running the risk of gossip. In any case, I'm less inclined to ask for her assistance. Another colleague comments in passing that I've lost weight. I feel more paranoid than flattered.

I’ve been spending quality time with the lovely Jeanne; when she can make it. Since joining the staff at EPIS church she’s either very busy, exhausted or both, bless her. 

 I’ve started attending EPIS more regularly. I join the faithful for the extra-curricular prayer and fasting events, which many churches across the globe hold at the start of the year. During January’s mission Sunday, a representative from an anti-trafficking organisation gives a tearful appeal on behalf of the sexually-exploited women and children his organisation supports. It's a cause close to my heart. They have partners across the country, of which EPIS is one of them. I’m pleased to learn that there’s a group that goes on weekly outreaches amongst the street workers. I contact Jeanne to use her staff connections to put me in touch with whoever is in charge of this ministry. To be continued...

By coincidence (or Providence) on one of my Médiatheque excursions whilst staying at Javier’s, I find myself sitting next to a young Mauritian couple, Louis and Celestine, who also attend EPIS on and off. By more happenstance we end up opposite each other on the Tram one Sunday, heading to the same destination. Medical student Louis is an articulate conversationalist with an impressive level of English. He credits once being a fan of US Hip-Hop. That Sunday, we talk about any and everything; from the insular mentality of island-dwelling people to the rise of populism.

My French continues to be in stop-start mode. It's frustrating me no end. It's is, after all, the main reason I wanted to live and work in France. Occasionally, I see small signs of hope. I still feel nervous about spontaneous conversation at work.  In other contexts, when I’m relaxed (like the aforementioned discussions with Louis), I wonder why it can't always flow so freely. I still make silly mistakes for which I kick myself. Other days, it seems some of the cloud is lifting. I can follow 80% of the service at EPIS. The ministers speak a clear and refined French. 

I still can't just passively listen to a conversation and manage to get the gist. It requires all of my focus; one lapse of concentration or loss of the thread and it's gone. Then again, I don't always experience that few seconds delay in comprehension when someone tells a joke. I’m listening to more French radio and regularly read novels, articles and magazines. I am absorbing new turns of phrase. During the mostly Francophone meetings at work I am an active listener, relieved when I can steadily follow the discussion points. I have enrolled on free intermediate/advanced French classes organised by THRO. I attend an Economics conference next door to work on the impact of international trade deals on the European political landscape. The speaker also covers the rise of populism, the discontent with the neoliberal order and the failures of and disillusion with social democracy. He is an engaging speaker but even in English it would be hard to consistently concentrate on such a dense topic. I know from experience. One of the native-Francophone organisers says as much herself, to my relief. Still, I can understand enough to appreciate (and at times disagree) with what is being discussed. The following week, I discover that one of the outgoing trainees at work, ten years my junior, speaks six languages. I feel a failure in comparison. Language acquisition is equally frustrating and incredibly rewarding. I’d recommend it to monolinguals everywhere.

(courtesy of Time Out)

As my social network slowly expands, I am at least more exposed to opportunities to practise French. I am getting better connected with the Internations crew. Although a member since I lived in the UK, I have only availed myself of the service since relocating to France. One Saturday afternoon, I attend a meet-up at an appealing Bistro-cum-Patisserie around the corner from Grande Rue. I recognise Natalia whom I met at the ChristmasMarket gathering in December. Most in attendance are fluent or native French speakers except for Lisa; an honorary Brit originally from Slovenia. There’s barely a trace of her original Slavic accent. I overhear her speaking English but as usual I’m resolute about practising with the Francophones. Eventually, I relent when I hear of her struggle to acquire French, no thanks to her impatient boyfriend and work colleagues. The group flits between the two languages, wary of not isolating Lisa.

Towards the end of the meeting I spend some time conversing with ex-Navy officer, Gautier. At the cusp of middle-age, he decided to set himself the challenge of joining the armed forces. He has the well-honed physique to prove it. He’s a fellow blogger, a craft he developed he says, to stave off the loneliness, boredom and potential madness of being out at sea for long stretches of time. He’s quite the globetrotter, taking pictures in adventurous locations if his website is anything to go by. We swap business cards. The group eventually disbands cordially. Gautier and I head towards the same tram stop. Perhaps he just accompanies me out of politeness. 

 I need to make a stop off.

I’ll be back, I’m just heading to the shop.

He mutters something about an urgent email and having to leave. There’s a momentary awkwardness as we decide how to avoid making the exit more abrupt than it already is. I’m still getting accustomed to this two kisses on the cheek lark (Even at work. I can feel my male colleagues' 3-day stubble. Yuck). To avoid it, I say a cheery, matter-of-fact farewell and I’m off.

Within half an hour, by the time I reach home, I have a slew of texts and missed calls waiting for me. Apparently Gautier is inviting me round for dinner (we don’t live too far from each other), if I want ‘to continue the conversation’ he writes in English. 

Blimey. 

I’m half-way through texting a polite refusal when my English mobile goes off. It’s Gautier checking that I have received his messages. I am courteous but slightly baffled. He certainly didn’t conduct himself in a flirty fashion during our conversation. He doesn’t come across as overly-keen. Despite myself, I’m flattered but also wary of being alone in the home of someone who has been trained to kill with efficiency. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m not interested in anything romantic but I’ve enjoyed his company. I’m still not so well-connected in France that I can turn down opportunities to make a new acquaintance. Enthusiastic dinner invitations aside, he seems decent. I suggest re-scheduling in a more neutral venue the following week. Not this time, says Gautier. He is off to Mali for several weeks. It’ll have to wait until his return.

La Vie Parisienne

A bottle portraying monastic scenes, 13th Century, Syria
 (c) Collection of the Furusiyya Art Foundation
Part of the exhibits at 'Eastern-Arab Christians:
2000 Years of History' @ the IMA, Paris

After the Christmas break, life is returning to normality slowly but surely. At THRO it’s more of the former. Some colleagues have opted to take the whole first week of January as leave. On my first day back in the office, only a handful from the department have returned. Claudia, Mustafa and I rattle around the empty corridors like phantoms. There’s a serenity to which I could easily become accustomed. My inbox is mercifully quiet. Most of the emails are those I sent to myself from home. It allows me time to work on a detailed report Sophie has given me to proof-read. I started before Christmas and I’m still only just over half-way through. The English is of an advanced level but is often not idiomatically correct. At roughly 28,000 words, it’s nearly double the length of my MA dissertation with none of the familiarity. Still, it's a good intellectual workout.

Sophie returns to work the day after, only to have to take some special leave for family reasons. She’s easygoing about the report. All the more reason to not take advantage of her good nature.

That weekend I’ve planned a trip to Paris to catch an exhibition on the 2000+ year history of Christianity in the Middle-East, at the Institut du Monde Arabe. 2018 will make it almost a decade since I did more than pass through the city en route elsewhere. I’ve decided to make a weekend of it. The train ticket is cheap. I’ve found a good bed-and-breakfast deal in the suburb of Asnieres-sur-Seine. The weather forecast isn’t bad.

I arrive late Friday night. My room is on the fifth floor of an Ibis Styles on a quiet side street. The spiral staircase is steep and narrow and the room compact. But it's clean and cosy and I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower, if I stand on my bed.  The plan is to attend the exhibition on Saturday. I’ve arranged a last minute press pass with one of my contacts.

Ah, the weekend. Not the best time to enjoy a soon-to-finish exhibition in peace and quiet. The IMA is packed with tourist groups and families with young children. The exhibition is substantial but the passageways are narrow. Everyone is jostling for space, doing ballroom-like manoeuvres to negotiate the tightness.

Very little of the exhibition is in English. Good. With everyone being away for Christmas, I’ve hardly spoken to a soul let alone had much French practice. My Parisian excursion will be the most consistent interaction I’ve had with the language for a few weeks.

One visitor sidles up to me as we both contemplate an ancient Eastern Orthodox relief, still in remarkably good condition. I’m making notes for my other blog.

The features are very African, don’t you think?

I look at her askance. I’m assuming she feels at liberty to make the comment to me, since there are few other brown faces around. Detecting my wariness she adds, ‘I’m North African, that’s why I’m saying it’. I’m still not entirely convinced but I start to thaw.

‘Yes, I suppose. Compared to how the artists of the Renaissance portrayed them’.

She continues ‘It’s far more realistic than the European depictions'. I agree, remorseful for initially being so defensive.

I spend over four hours at the exhibition, not wishing to rush through anything. A fatigue overwhelms me half way through. Perhaps it’s a mix of going to bed late, winding my way through the crowds, being on my block-heeled feet for a few hours and the consistent effort of reading in a second language. I have to force myself to actually look at the artefacts and absorb the information rather than just seeing them. It’s easy to go on autopilot. I’m not usually one for exhibitions unless the topic is really of interest, as is the case. It still feels a little out of habit.

After a rest on some strategically-placed seats, I gain a second wind and complete the rest of the expo.

Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

I go into the IMA in the early afternoon and emerge at sunset.  The night is still young. It’s high time to reacquaint myself with Paris for real.  Despite having grown up and lived most of my life in a Big City, I am surprised to find myself occasionally intimidated by other mega-metropoli; Paris being one of them. Especially now living in comparatively modest-sized Strasbourg. It hasn't always been the case. Maybe it's just old age kicking in. Or I'm recovering from my hectic London existence. A part of me is increasingly attracted to a quiet life. Just a little bit.

In the distance, the Eiffel Tower’s spotlight circles the city like a lighthouse. Across the bridge from the IMA, I spot a breathtaking Gothic building which I rightly suspect is the Notre Dame. I haven’t visited the medieval cathedral since a primary school trip. I make my way on foot.

En route, I’m stopped for directions by an attractive African-Caribbean couple. Assuming they are Francophones, I start to make my apologies...

‘Désolée. Je ne suis pas Parisienne. Je ne connais pas le quartier très bien…’

‘Uh...metro?’ asks the young man. Immediately perceiving a minimal level of the local language, I’m rather perversely tempted to continue to feign ignorance. In an effort to expose myself to as much French as possible, I’m resolute about distancing myself English-speakers, especially in social settings.

I relent. ‘Oh, you’re English speakers’, mildly disappointed, strangely relieved. They are taken aback at the switch, enquiring where I’m from.

Over at the Notre Dame there’s quite a buzz. Those fortunate enough to have passes are ushered in. Security guards line the streets. Outside the main gates a sizeable crowd has gathered, looking up expectantly. Whilst passing the famous bells explode into a rapturous chorus. Quasimodo would be proud (Sorry. I couldn’t resist).

Of course. It’s the Epiphany celebrations. How fortuitous to be in this part of town for it.

I've rambled enough. I need to write up this exhibition review. I start the journey back to the hotel. A quick change of plan and I decide to board the bus to Paris St. Lazare, one train stop away from Asnieres. It’s not the quickest route but it makes for a change. I don’t believe I’ve ever taken the bus in Paris. I treat it like a mini-tour.

The celebrated City of Lights is more illustrious still, draped in Christmas décor.

Back at my hotel, I gorge on French TV. It has an unfairly bad reputation. I can always find something to keep me entertained and/or informed. It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to indulge since moving to France. I didn’t have access to any at my former AirBnb’s and I’ve been debating whether to invest in one for my flat. It won’t remain undecided for much longer.

La Restaurant de la Sirène, Asnières-sur-Seine by Van Gogh

I wake up to a grey and damp Sunday morning. Nothing like a Continental breakfast buffet to cheer me up. Talk about an Achilles heel. It’s my habit to go down as close to the end as possible so I can dine in peace. It’s a gamble that doesn’t always pay off, as is the case that morning. A sizeable group of young French-Maghrebins, unconsciously or not sitting according to gender, are having a loud conversation across the cantine.

I soon scarper back to my room to watch a bit of ‘Un Sac de Billes’; a new TV adaptation of the (less engaging) novel that I had to study for French A-Level, about two Jewish brothers trying to survive Nazi-controlled Vichy France.

I pull myself away to explore the local surroundings. Asnieres-sur-Seine isn’t especially inspiring, less so when the weather is overcast. It does have the claim to fame of once being a muse for Van Gogh, whose paintings of the town during a more romantic era are dotted about.

On my stroll I notice a man with a bike come to a dead halt, grinning at me sheepishly. I return the smile somewhat tentatively. I am in the mind to walk past but realise it could be a chance to have a proper conversation. On my prompting he introduces himself as Denis. He’s on the way to have lunch with his parents. First, he wants to show me local landmarks such as the Chateau (more like an elaborate administrative building), a real life Swan Lake, some more scenes that Van Gogh painted and a farmer’s market. I encourage Denis to correct any of my grammatical mistakes. He’s keen, all right. He spent some time at boarding school in the UK in a town I’ve barely heard of. He has an advanced level of English. I ignore him and doggedly respond in French for most of the interaction. I keep warning him not to try and kidnap me. I’m only half-joking.

Denis is angling for some future socialising. I agree to send him a text about my plans that afternoon. I have a legitimate excuse. I'm awaiting a text from Julie, une connaissance Parisienne who might be able to meet up later. I don’t want to get Denis' hopes up but I’ll be polite about my demurral all the same. Besides, he has family from Alsace. It won’t hurt to say hello if he passes through that neck of the woods. We later have a lively linguistically-related text conversation that evening.

On the way back to my hotel for an afternoon siesta, I’m followed by a creepy old codger who, despite my obvious consternation, attempts to take pictures of my behind on his phone. I run to my hotel before he can get a clear view of where I’m staying.

(Incidentally, on the way back to Strasbourg, a cheeky bus driver, under the pretext of showing me where to catch my coach, asks me for my number.

What, my coach number?

No. Your telephone number.

What for?

So we can go out for a drink.

But I live in Strasbourg!

Well, whenever you come back to Paris.

Mes aïeux, Les Parisiens. Vous etes fous !

I don’t know what pheromones I’m giving off that attract eccentric older Caucasian men but I wish they worked as well on the younger, hotter variety instead).

After some more fun with satirical French puppets, comedians in drag and a couple of international Skype calls, I've had no word from Julie. I therefore return to the Parisian streets to do the stereotypically tourist-y stuff. Champs Elysee, L’Arc de Triomphe...because they’re there and it’s been a while and, like a kid, I get such a kick out of seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle every hour, on the hour. During the day it has the unglamorous air of an intricately decorated, rusty old giant pole. But at night, all lit-up... quel merveille. It’s like meeting a celebrity. So there. Don’t judge me.

It’s a Sunday night but it could be any other weekday evening on the Champs Elysee. It’s heaving with activity. It’s even more resplendent in its festive setting. L’Arc de Triomphe is more impressive than I recall. Paris is cleaner and less odorous than I remember.

Overlooking the City from the great vantage point of the busy Trocadéro-Palais de Chaillot, I am reminded....  Ah yes. This is the City that once enchanted me so.

A Lady of Leisure…

...Or, the First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 3.

I am realising that the older I get, the more I enjoy my own company. Over the Christmas period, I have had plenty of time to ruminate over this. I hope I'm not becoming more anti-social with age.

Mum is in Japan enjoying the bright winter sunshine in the company of sis. I’ve just started to settle into life in Strasbourg, most particularly my new accommodation. It’s only been a few weeks. There’s no need to scarper off to London without my closest family members in town.

Besides, the extended Christmas leave from work will be the first opportunity to properly recover from all the upheaval of the past couple of months.

‘Don’t spend Christmas alone' warns my well-meaning colleague Lorette, fervently shaking her head ‘It’s too sad’. Au contraire. It doesn’t have to be, I reply. Plus (as I’ve been telling anyone who will listen), it will provide insight into what the festive season is like for those who are usually alone during this time, for far more heartbreaking circumstances than my own.

I’ve seasoned my meats and blended my root vegetable soup ahead of Christmas day to cut out some of the labour. I am determined to rest as much as possible. I wake up to sunshine streaming through my skylight-like bedroom window. It’s some of the best weather we’ve had in weeks. I am unable to have a proper lie-in. I check my phone for the message that stirred me from sleep in the wee small hours of the morning. It’s the first of several texts and/or phone calls that pour in throughout the day on both my UK and French mobiles. I’m touched that a number of friends have kept me in their thoughts despite their own seasonal busyness.

I Skype mum and sis. There's an eight hour time difference. It’s well into the evening over there and they still haven’t eaten. Something about being slowed down by a long, leisurely afternoon stroll. I take one of those myself later in the day. It would be a shame to waste the sunshine. I remain in my locality. I make a point to wish passers-by ‘Joyeux Noel’. A bus occasionally drive past. Unlike in the UK, there is still public transport albeit on a reduced basis.

Colmar, Alsace @ Christmas
(thegoodlifefrance.com)

Towards the end of my ramble, I spot a familiar spiral and take a diversion. It has piqued my curiosity since first moving into the neighbourhood. It’s a Catholic church, with an attractive modernised interior, virtually deserted. Not being of that tradition, I skip the genuflecting to icons and lighting candles. I take my time around the two nativity scenes; one miniature, the other closer to life size (I seek out a number of these tableaux over the course of my break). On my MP3 Kevin Max’ unique tones bring an extra-haunting quality to his stark rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, my favourite carol. I decide to loop it with the Swingles livelier, Bobby McFerrin-influenced arrangement. Both are sublime. They help to make this quiet and meditative detour a transcendent experience. Other visitors, come in intermittently but for the most part, I have the building to myself. I start singing a carol medley. Despite the carpet, my medium volume-voice echoes off the stone walls thanks to the great acoustics. Another group of visitors enter. They’re attitude isn’t very festive. Judging by the side eye one of them gives me and her feverish signing of the cross, she finds my impromptu concert-for-none irreverent. That’s my cue to exit.

Later that evening, I light my festive candle and sit down to a decent meal: Guinea fowl, roast beef, mixed-potato mash, turkey sausage and tomato and green leaf salad with homemade dressing. It’s the most I’ve ever cooked at Christmas and it ain’t half bad. I don’t finish everything on my plate. I forgot how filling the root vegetable soup starter could be. The evening entertainment is so-so; a disappointingly whimsical French film clearly adapted from a stage musical.

I have a loose schedule for the rest of the week; a mix of local excursions and further afield. I visit the Cathedral, again but this time venture inside alongside hundreds of others. I roam the streets of central Strasbourg aimlessly, wandering down less familiar side streets and discovering more shortcuts. Signs of the festive market have all but vanished as of Christmas eve. (I pedantically hold onto the 12 days tradition. It's still technically Christmas until Epiphany and I won't be told otherwise).

Mid-week, I pop over to Kehl to shop for household items and hope to take advantage of the winter sales. It is busier than I have ever experienced.

I attend a matinee at an arthouse cinema I come across on one of my rambles. I watch French/Portuguese ‘Menina’; my ideal European language cocktail.

My evenings are relaxed. I use the time to catch up on much-lauded films I missed the first time round; both relatively old (‘The Pianist’) and recent (‘Get Out’-extremely entertaining, yes. Not quite the wheel-reinventing masterpiece as claimed by some, methinks).

On somewhat of a whim, one day I decide to make the most of my newly-acquired train discount card and head to neighbouring town, Colmar. At the station, the sales assistant insists I don’t need to show her the railcard. She then proceeds to apply the wrong discount, for those under 26. I am flattered but I promptly inform her otherwise. ‘Oh my! I would have taken you for 25...’

‘26’ says her facetious colleague. It’s a good problem to have, I reply. My honesty costs me five more euros but the boost to my ego is priceless.

Outside St Matthieu's Protestant Temple, Colmar

Colmar is, as I have been told, very picturesque. It’s like a giant toy town, all the more appealing draped in Christmas paraphernalia. I’ve packed the regional guide that my former colleagues at the North London Council bought me as a parting gift. I don’t follow it religiously, navigating the streets by gut instinct. Still, I manage to hit the main sites of interest and catch a glimpse of the surrounding Vosges landscape. Unlike Strasbourg, the Christmas markets and seasonal artisan enclaves are still in full swing. A smile lingers on my lips, spreading to a full grin as, with the turn of each corner it seems, I am hit by more delightful scenery.

The Cathedral has the most unorthodox nativity exhibition thus far; ethnically-correct, frizzy-haired cloth figures with no facial features. The key scenes of the two principal Gospel accounts of Christ’s birth have been recreated in elaborate detail.

Not being a fan of museums, I skip the pricey Musée d’Underlinden and the tour of Auguste ‘Statue of Liberty’ Bartholdi’s home. Perhaps I’ll save those for when I have a guest.

It’s cold enough to snow in Colmar. It holds off until just before I’m about to leave, having eaten an underwhelming caramel crepe in a cosy cafe next door to the charming Maison Pfister.

New Year's eve is spent at church in the morning and evening prayers at home. At 12am 1 January 2018, I look out of my window. Fireworks, both makeshift and professional, light up my vista for nearly an hour. The air is so full of gunpowder, that the normal view of Strasbourg Cathedral is soon completely obscured.

This Christmas break is the quietest and most serene I’ve had. It's also one of the best. I’ve enjoyed myself in ways that couldn’t be planned to the letter. A mix of foresight and happenstance. I doubt I’ll have the chance to experience the festive period in quite these circumstances again. All the more reason to savour this particular life season.