Ticket to Ride

July is well underway and the summertime lull is starting in earnest.

I’ve been trying to arrange a catch-up with Jeanne for a couple of weeks. After a few days of radio silence, she texts me back, apologetic. Her schedule for the next two months is chocka. She reminds me she’ll be on tour with her old group until the end of the month, then she’ll be on leave for a chunk of August. We’re not sure when we’ll next see each other this side of September.

Another church acquaintance, Serafine, texts me excitedly about her summertime plans to visit Gabon, where she was born and raised. I try to be pleased for her. Selfishly, all I can think about is how my limited Strasbourg networks will be evaporating before my eyes for the next two months.

Later that week, during one of my unofficial French lessons with my heartache Bernard, the (admittedly melodramatic) sense of abandonment that has kicked in is further reinforced. We’ve already discussed our individual summer plans piecemeal but it suddenly dawns on me this could be our last meeting for a while. He’s not sure about his schedule the following week. He’ll have to cover for a colleague who’s going on leave before jetting off to Chicago himself. I’ll be away the following week and then he disappears for half of August. The lunchtime chat takes on deeper significance. I savour what I can of the moment. My eyes linger appreciatively over his freckles, the glossy locks (not a hint of grey!), smooth butterscotch skin, a whisper of stubble that I’ve never before noticed, the flash of deep dimples when he smiles and of course, those mesmerising crystal blues.

We spend half an hour in the corridor, discussing his love of the States. I’m not entirely convinced, I tell him, it’s not a part of the world I have a burning desire to visit for a variety of reasons. But conversing prolongs our inevitable separation that much longer. We’ll play it by ear about the following week. To brace myself for the disappointment of possibly not seeing him until early Autumn, I do my summer farewells there and then. As the realisation dawns, Bernard makes a split-second gesture in my direction; for a hug or cheek-kiss I don’t know. This is unchartered territory for us. As quickly as it takes me to notice, he thinks better of it. He retreats so swiftly, I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today, yeah. The boy that’s driving me mad is going away…

Back at my office, I listen to The Carpenters’ superior interpretation on loop.

The spiritual and emotional malaise that’s been creeping around the edges for the past few months hits me with full force that week. A welcome email from a dear UK-based friend prevents me from bursting into tears at my desk. It’s one of a very long chain of profoundly honest, soul-searching messages. I like the idea of living in Strasbourg. I like the aesthetic of the town but I cannot ignore how isolated I feel. My mind's been churning over the usual existential questions about suffering; both personal and on a larger societal level. My soundtrack for part of that week is Paul Simon’s rueful Still Crazy After All These Years album; more existential angst channelled through Country, Blues and Philadelphia-soul influences. To my mind, Simon speaks directly to the wretchedness and complexity of the human condition in a way few can. He makes me feel understood.

At work that week, I have my long-overdue appraisal. It’s generally positive. My supervisor Sophie preps me with an informal catch-up beforehand. I understand later on that she doesn’t want me to be taken by surprise by anything that comes up during the official meeting. She commends what I’m doing well, and as is her way, constructively critiques where I could improve. I applaud her affirming style of management; a far cry from the toxic experience I had at The North London Council. I tentatively give her some insight into the after-effects of working there. Sophie wishes I told her earlier. She said it would have explained some of my reticent behaviour when I joined the team.

The same issue comes up during the official appraisal meeting with my other manager, Lucia.

I don’t want to stand out.

Her English is very good but she’s not familiar with this idiom. I switch momentarily to French.

Faire remarquer...

I explain that I think being invisible is a good sign. It means I’m getting on with the job. She begs to differ. I concede there are occasions where I could be more evident. On the other hand, I have been making more of a conspicuous effort with my colleagues. I join them more often for elevenses, despite my apprehensions. It’s an opportunity to practise French. My nervousness about speaking to colleagues has been something of a barrier. But I am trying, I insist. There’s only so much I can manage others’ perceptions. Lucia speaks about better cohesion. I give her concrete examples of which she was not aware. She mentions colleagues have accused me of not greeting them in the morning. This, despite me going out of my way to say a cheery Bonjour. I might have lapsed a couple of times but…

Lucia cites-again-the example of a travel agent who complained when I politely confronted him for being aggressive and unprofessional during a telephone conversation. She inadvertently lets slip that it wasn’t a direct complaint. Rather, one of my colleagues relayed the story to management before asking for my take on it first. Months later, my version of events are still called into question. I can’t win.

I agree to continue to make endeavours to be social. Lucia suggests popping into my colleagues’ offices more often. I have no intention of routinely making phatic conversation just for the sake of appearances; nor for the contents of my personal life to be picked over by all and sundry, whether or not I trust them. I’m not persuaded by management’s insistence on the uniform benevolence of the team. Like any department, some individuals are kinder and more genuine than others. Mefies-toi.

All this negotiation can be mentally exhausting.

Outside of work, establishing a community is still something of an upward struggle. A number of my agemates have familial responsibilities. Enthusiastic noises about meeting up socially, amounts to just that. Noise.

I didn’t realise how much I miss the psychological crutch of being in the same geographical space as most of those closest to me; even if we only manage to see each other once in a blue moon.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy All These Years by Paul Simon

La Vie Musicale Part 2 or God Loves a Tryer...Maybe

A day after seeing mum off at the station, I embark on a 24-hour cultural excursion to Paris. I’m off to see Justin Timberlake play at the Bercy Arena. En route I’ll stop off at the Arab World Institute to review their exhibition on the Suez Canal.

It’s an odd timetable for the middle of the week. It wasn’t my original plan. Timberlake was supposed to play a Friday night in June but postponed for unspecified reasons. The show is rescheduled for a Tuesday night. It requires a couple days of annual leave. Suspicious that JT might cancel altogether, I put off buying a ticket to Paris as long as possible. Historically my efforts to see Mr Timberlake have come to nothing. I’ve either been too broke or not had the availability. My sister meanwhile has seen him twice. A friend paid for her ticket for one show.

By the time the show rolls around, I can’t say I’m overly-enthused. I fear the fierce backlash he’s experienced since his comeback this year will hamper his performance.

My day starts with an early morning coach from Strasbourg town centre. Despite the unusually early itinerary, I make it to the coach stop in good time. I have both seats to myself.

The coach driver gabbles something about safety belts and a rest stop at Reims. I’ve brought my laptop along. I have a busy writing schedule and I intend to make a head start between snoozes.

We arrive in Paris half an hour later than estimated. I waste a further hour working out from which side of the road I need to take the bus to the Arab World Institute. By the time I find my bearings I have more than a 20 minute wait.

I arrive at the Insitute to find the press pass I had been assured is nowhere to be found. I am magnanimously granted entry on the strength of my word alone.

One of the advantages of travelling during the week is that tourist attractions like the AWI are less busy. I can work through the exhibition at a leisurely pace, instead of having to fight my way through the crowd as on my previous visit. Perhaps a little too leisurely. My early wake up call and fitful sleep on the coach are catching up with me. It takes me longer to process some of the information around the exhibits. I’m determined to take in as much as possible, not being very familiar with the history of the Suez. Before I know it, security is rushing us out of the building. The Institute closes earlier during the summer months.

I have less than two hours before JT hits the stage. I had made vague rendez-vous plans with an acquaintance/former frenemy. She recently tossed out a casual ‘If you’re ever in Paris...’ invitation. She has been decidedly less keen since I’ve taken her up on her offer. It works to my advantage. I have too small a window between the exhibition and the concert. I while away the time drafting my review of the exhibition at a hotel in the Bercy vicinity.

Making my way through security at the Arena is a mission in itself. There are several layers. I also learn that my seat has been reassigned. The balcony is closed. The security guard assures me it’s an upgrade.

By the time I locate my seat, that section of the Bercy is almost full. I miss most of the opening act, Timberlake proteges, The Shadowboxers. I’m excited at first when a DJ takes over. My optimism is short-lived. Track after track of the most uninspired commercial pop-R&B and Hip-Hop. I don’t know most of the newer tunes and the old school selection is nothing to write home about. Neither of the punters on either side look very impressed. Our whole section is rather sedate compared to the youngsters getting down in the pit. I try to make conversation with the lady to my left.

It’s not my sort of thing either. I venture

Her reaction is rather steely. I’m not sure if it’s the noise, my faltering French or she's just being stand-offish. Probably a combination.

I don’t care. I’m just waiting…

Further attempts on my part come to nothing. That’s cold-hearted Parisians for you.

Image courtesy of Mouv.

JT and the Tennessee Kids finally make an appearance. He comes out kicking on all cylinders and keeps up the momentum for two hours. Almost. The first half of the show is near faultless. The second half patchier in comparison but several redeemable moments. JT is all in. That’s why his tours are few and far between. He needs time to recover. He’s accompanied by a full band (including horns section) several backing vocalists and dancers. I’m pleasantly surprised to see a fuller-figured dancer amongst the troupe. Timberlake’s choreography is intricate, even balletic in places. He alternates between piano and guitar. JT is no cut-corners blagger, whatever his detractors say to the contrary.

It ain’t over until the Southern Kid starts singing one of his more banal hits (Can’t Stop the Feeling). After wandering around the building trying to locate the exit, I make it out of the Bercy just in time to beat the crowd and make my coach. I spend an uncomfortable night in an aisle seat and arrive back at my flat in Strasbourg exactly 24 hours after my journey began.

It’s a short working week by the time I return to the office that Thursday. I decide to round it off at a rehearsal with the High Rock Gospel Singers (HRGS) who wooed me at their 20th Anniversary celebration a fortnight or so earlier. Muriel, who introduced me to the choir, has kindly agreed to accompany me. As a foreigner, I’m a bit trepidatious about venturing into a part of town with a dubious reputation. Muriel thinks I’m overreacting but humours me nonetheless.

The chorale rehearse every Friday. With one major event behind them and many members already on summer holidays, practices are mainly for forthcoming smaller performances such as weddings. It’s quite an informal affair. Members wander in at all hours. I join in the warm-ups but have to bow out for the main numbers. I sing familiar tunes from the pews when I can. Choir director Kiasi and his deputy, the confusingly-named Evan (originally from Benin) are two very special characters. These playful divas are determined to outdo each other in flamboyance. Evan wins hands down. He does funky club moves and handstands whilst directing the choir.

I am in my element. I ache to join the choir on stage. 

Kiasi frequently stops mid-flow to reprimand the members for missed cues and pitchy harmonies. Judging by their good-natured reaction, I take it his indignation is in jest. Kiasi code-switches between rapid-fire French and equally fast, idiomatic English. 

He has the voice of an angel to boot, as do several of his co-choristers. They seem to master English pronunciation of their mostly Anglophone repertoire much better than many French vocalists I’ve heard.

I’m absolutely fascinated by Kiasi’s linguistic acumen.

You should hear Evan. He speaks like a scholar.

Neither of them have ever lived in an Anglophone country. Just holidays, school (really?) and an interest in the English language. Later that evening, as Muriel and I kiss our goodbyes and Kiasi waits with me at my bus stop, we talk about our travel experiences and favourite destinations. He’s not a fan of London or its American counterpart New York. He dreams of LA living. I pick his brain further about his prodigious language abilities. My joy over the musical soul food I’ve imbibed that evening promptly turns to despondency over my own linguistic inadequacy. He’s encouraging of my efforts and warns me of being too hard on myself. It’s counter-productive he says.

Too late for that. I’m overcome by a heavy, self-flagellating funk. A well-known Nigerian saying comes to mind. Kiasi doesn’t have 10 heads. If he can become adept in a foreign language having never lived in the country, why can’t I with all the opportunities available to me?

"...They've got a name for the winners in the world, I wanna name when I lose..."

I’ve at last realised a long-held dream to live in a Francophone country. Eight months into my sojourn and nearly 30 years since my first French lesson, it appears I’m no closer to my goal of fluency. Au contraire. My confidence is through the floor. I know so many talented polyglots. I've been surrounded by them for years. Try as I might, I am yet to acquire their facility with languages by osmosis. The mediocrity I’ve fled all my life has caught up with me in Strasbourg.

Back at my flat, I sob into my light midnight meal. I recall every domain I’ve tried in earnest but failed to crack. Whilst I graft at being a better wordsmith, I just found out the winner of The Caine Prize 2018 is a crypto-currency code writer; a prodigious enough natural talent to fluke a major literary prize on her first go. I can't even get shortlisted for modest competitions.

Trial, error, repeat. It’s been the story of my adult life thus far. The only thing for which I am sure I have a natural propensity is persistence.

They say God loves a tryer. I’m still waiting to see how that turns out.

Soundtrack of the Week: My J. Timberlake mix + Everything is Always a Process by Bluestaeb.

Summer Breeze

(courtesy of Miss-Elka.fr)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

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

Mum and I look on with bemused fascination.

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

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

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

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

The View from A Bridge: Orangerie, Strasbourg

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

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

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

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

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

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

La Vie Musicale

It appears the passage of time speeds up with age. The year reaches the half-way point at a frightening pace. Once May arrives, it’s September before you know it.

The summer solstice always seems to come round too early. My favourite season is on the way out before I know it.

Midsummer’s night in France also coincides with the National Day of Music. It’s commemorated at The Organisation with two days of events, including a performance by the melodious in-house choir. I am however unaware of the extent of the celebrations in Strasbourg town centre; multiple stages catering for nearly every musical palate. My supervisor Sophie performs with her Latin band. Alas, I hear of it second hand from colleagues. I’ve had a fairly hectic week and a busy weekend ahead. I opt for a quiet night in. If I’d known how much fun and frolics there was to be had elsewhere, I’d have happily forsaken my evening rest. Next year, inshallah.

My weekend activities provide consolation. A Latin flavoured worship group are the guests of honour at church. Muriel invites me to a free Gospel performance at the Cité de la Musique et Danse by the High Rock Gospel Singers in which a couple of her chums are performing. The concert marks HRGS’ 20^th anniversary. 

Inspired by the cult classic Sister Act sequel, the choir was founded in Hautepierre (literally “high rock”) to help dispel some of the negative stereotypes associated with that locality. Being a Community choir, my expectations of quality aren’t especially high. It’s a bit of a lottery with these motley chorale outfits. HRGS swiftly quell my concerns. For the best part of two hours, this disciplined, ethnically-diverse outfit entertain a packed auditorium with soulful acapella interpretations of Gospel standards, Negro Spirituals and praise choruses from across the African continent. The latter is accompanied by choreography so nifty, it’s all I can do not to jump on stage myself. Muriel and her guests watch bemused, as I sing and dance along with enthusiasm.

As well as being blessed with strong soloists (including the choir director himself), the overall vocal blend is delicious. Unusually for a Gospel choir (and many others for that matter) the Sopranos aren’t always stuck with the melody and there’s a bass section. A couple more feathers in the HRGS cap. The very few male singers really hold their own.

Of course, being a live event anything can happen. There are a few pitching issues. A cheeky tyke who has been pulling faces at us in the crowd, wanders on stage mid-routine, eyeing the choir as if they're the ones out of place. It's an unexpected addition to our enjoyment. 

Giddy with goodwill after an uplifting show, I hop and skip to Les Pelouses Sonores music festival near the German border. An Internations member has organised a picnic at the event. I let her know I might be running late. They’ve long gone before I arrive. Never mind. The Fat Badgers keep me and hundreds of other revellers cheerily entertained with their serious grooves. They dress Glam Rock but play stone-cold funk of the George Clinton variety.

Soundtrack of the Week: Timsters

Sweet Misery

Melancholy can take several forms. Mine is currently incarnated in a multilingual, six foot three-ish, jewel-eyed quinquagenarian colleague of Germanic/French Caribbean heritage. The Nordic genes won out. There's not a trace of kink in his luxurious chestnut-brown locks. The only concession to his mulatto origins is a year round deep-olive complexion and notably sculpted cheekbones. Sigh. With the combined power of our sharp bone structures, imagine the babies…

We converse about everything from pop culture, politics and gender relations to our own personal experiences with cultural displacement. It gets deep, personal and candid. His softly-spoken bass can be hard to hear but is unintentionally sensual. He's funniest when pissed off. His wry humour manifests, sapphire eyes enlivened with indignation. The volume doesn't increase but his whole face is engaged in narrating the source of his irritation. I miss him terribly between rendezvous’. My mind races with the ideas I look forward to sharing with him, crafting them in my head with grammatical care.

Of course he’s fallible, like the rest of us. He tends to generalise about the sexes. He’s slow in acknowledging the depth of his own suppressed anguish. He drives a luxury car and I don’t believe he’s as committed to socialist policies as I am. On the other hand, he is a stable and calming presence. When I struggle to fully express myself in his language, he waits patiently; in silent encouragement. He’s a dedicated employee, conscientious father, a dutiful and devoted son, nephew and [fill the blank]. A beautiful man.

Our fairly consistent encounters are chaste. (My thoughts, well…not so much). We haven’t even shaken hands, let alone exchanged the customary French bises. 

He represents so much of what I’d desire in a significant other. And yet…

We’ll forever be kept apart by the unholy combination of vastly different life experiences (i.e. romantic), a generation gap (fancy me, an ageist Xennial falling for a late baby-boomer) and divergent values on matters of faith.  Whilst some factors could evolve with time, others are unyielding. History would have to be re-written for our stars to properly align. I doubt that I’ve met someone who so closely fits my ideal but is simultaneously so incompatible. Oh, the bitter ironies of life.

Although never articulated, tacitly we’ve both come to accept any latent mutual attraction will remain unconsummated. Think Lost in Translation or more apt still, Annie Edison and Jeff Winger-right down to the age and height differences.

I’ve grasped it intellectually but my emotions are playing catch-up. There are moments when I’ve overshared. Subconsciously, I want something from him that he cannot give. My face clouds over with possessiveness each time I witness his cheerful disposition towards a particular female colleague. My innards tighten with jealousy when, on occasion, he refers to former lovers or even the acrimonious relationship with his ex-wife. Although their liaisons might be a thing of the distant past, these women have known and held him in a way that I never will.

Being a man of experience, he has moved on far quicker than I. Our email exchanges were once playful and regular. Now, reality has kicked in and the demands of his hectic schedule have taken over. Where he used to lose track of time in my company, now he's more conscious of the clock. His eagerness and frequent dimpled smiles (in spite of his default solemnity) have mellowed into ad hoc responses and occasional chuckles. It makes me unnecessarily anxious. When he does reply to my emails, it gladens me more than it should.

I crave nonetheless our weekly fix of ‘informal’ French lessons. I am crestfallen if, as often happens, we have to reschedule. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

In the end, our connection might prove as ephemeral as a sandcastle. Nothing to show it was there when the tide comes in. The situation makes me feel lonelier than I otherwise would. If I had the courage, for the sake of sanity I’d make a brutal but clean break to totally recover my equilibrium.

He has thus come to embody every disappointment, unfulfilled longing or closed door. The heartache that has accompanied me for these past months is further compounded by a pre-birthday panic, as I approach my late 30s.

I have enough self-awareness to realise my misery is disproportionate. I need to maintain perspective. I am only broken-hearted, after all. I am not entitled to anything. There are circumstances far sadder in this world than a futile infatuation. Friendship is a higher and purer state of interaction anyway. And yet…

Life goes on. Dignity dictates that I don't build my world around a man. Besides, I can’t dwell in the doldrums as spring gives way to summer, and the day doesn’t surrender its light until long after 10pm. Aestival Strasbourg is bright, humid and given to spectacular thunderstorms at night.

I channel my chagrin into creativity. Nothing gets those juices flowing like a bit of pain. I am writing more often. I have turned to musical therapy, singing my blues away at night. That’s not quite as glamorous as it might sound. I’ve simply revived an adolescent obsession of recording myself singing harmonies; one of life’s greatest joys. The multiple cassette-stereos have been replaced by Audacity free-software. It’s an incredibly effective catharsis.

I seek refuge in my faith. I am joining more activities at church and endeavouring to look beyond myself. I push deeper; directing my hurt and disappointments towards heaven in tears of anger and frustration. I try to remember Christ is the source of -and ultimate response to -the yearnings of the soul that no one mortal or relationship can satisfy. Needing to understand what that means in real terms during this life season, I knock persistently- sometimes violently-on heaven’s door.

I pursue my political activism as much as I can remotely, being vice-chair of my regional branch of Labour International.

I continue to hit the town with fervour. Summer in Strasbourg is ablaze with free activities. I invite Muriel and my new work acquaintance Camila to a theatrical piece inspired by the uprisings of May 1968. Despite it being the 50^th anniversary of this seismic socio-historic event, it will be the first commemorative show I have attended. Alas, Muriel will drop out to support a friend’s product launch.

It’s my second foray into French theatre since relocating to Alsace. Paradis Maintenant is a mise-en-abime conversation piece about the titular controversial play, devised by The Living Theatre Company. The production opens with roughly 10-minutes of silence. A series of provocative questions posed by Julian Beck, one of the founding members of The LTC, are projected onto a screen.

When they do make an appearance, the student actors’ portrayals are assured. They articulate well enough for me to follow the dialogue without enormous effort. I gather that, amongst other issues, they’re engaging in a philosophical discussion about the efficacy of work destined to be censored. Whilst some characters believe it defeats the purpose, others maintain it is success in itself to attract the ire of the authorities.

My enjoyment is hampered slightly by the presence of Camila’s boyfriend, Pierrot. He’s a last minute addition. I am frank about my discomfort with the idea when she informs me the day before. I’d prefer by far to attend an event on my jack jones than be the third wheel. Some couples are self-involved. I don’t know in which reality it will be fun for a single friend to tag along, especially when there’s only one common denominator.

Camila is gracious about my reservations but Pierrot can’t exactly be uninvited. I groan inwardly as, on approaching our agreed meeting point, I spy them canoodling.

Pierrot does have his uses. He is knowledgeable about that period of history and fills in some contextual blanks.

The following weekend I attend an all day Sunday music-fest with Muriel (thankfully, sans copain this time) and Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro. I am dressed up from Sunday morning spent at church. I coat myself in gold shimmer and put on a dash of vibrant red lipstick. I call this dating myself.

The festival is organised by an institution for mature amateurs who want to hone their musical skills. The event is hosted in an establishment very similar to an English gastro-pub.

The main show doesn’t live up to the enticing programme. The first act, a Jazz covers band, is a mixed-bag. Some of the instrumentation is tight but the lead singer is visibly nervous. Bless. Her movements are stiff, her volume low and pronouncing the English lyrics is an obvious challenge. The other acts, although more accomplished, are too arcane for my tastes. The performances that would interest me most are billed towards the end of the evening. I have a workman coming round the next morning to fix my bathroom blind. Plus transport in Strasbourg on a Sunday is too rare a phenomenon to chance it. I’ll have to miss out on the Latin Jazz band this occasion. I leave underwhelmed but not regretful.

At least it gets me out of the house.

Soundtrack of the Week: Lost & Found by Jorja Smith.

My (Cultured) Cup Runneth Over…

When the French hear I’m from the Big Smoke, there’s almost a commiserating reaction to my move to Strasbourg…

It’s a lot smaller isn’t it?

Yes. The transport and rent is cheaper and it's a lot less manic too. I often reply that it’s a bel equilibre between the madness of Big City Life and the (supposed) dullness of a small town/village. Strasbourg is an international city after all. Throughout the year its cultural calendar boasts an impressive number of events. On that front, I shall not want.

I’m reminded of this the first weekend in June, when my diary fills up very quickly.

I’ve sorely missed the UK theatre scene since relocating. Apart from loved ones and the NHS, it’s just about the only thing thus far that I am nostalgic about living in London. Imagine my delight when I discover that the proverbial mountain will be coming to Mohamed. Two Anglophone theatre productions on the same weekend; a double bill by early 20^th Century theatre great, Terence Rattigan and a biographical one-man show about Chet Baker, one of my favourite jazz vocalists.

The Terence Rattigan two-piece is organised and performed by a community theatre group linked to The Organisation. I recognise at least one familiar face amongst them. The troupe might consist of volunteers but the output is pretty slick. These are amateurs in the true sense; lovers of the art form even if not financially remunerated for their efforts. I am oddly comforted to hear the various British regional accents in second play Harlequinade. The following week, when I email a link for my review to some of the cast and crew, one of the moonlighting actors pops round to personally thank me. Before I know it, I’m being asked to muck in with the team. I warn them that I am no actress. Besides, my short term memory lags behind my long term. Learning lines wouldn’t be my forte. Nevertheless, the team reassure me, I can make myself useful elsewhere. A suivre…

A day after the Rattigan-fest, I attend the final night of Scottish Jazz aficionado Mike Maran’s A Funny Valentine. After church is done, I wouldn’t normally go back out on a Sunday afternoon but heck. It’s for Chet.

At some point during one of my weekend jaunts, I find out that there’s also a free Hip-Hop festival –or Block Party Jam-taking place in the vicinity of the play. I stop off en route to watch …Valentine. It’s a hot and dazzlingly sunny day. I’ve gone traditional with a dress I had sewn on my too-long-ago trip to Naija. I’m vain enough to half-heartedly expect to turn some heads. The crowd is a mix of solo revellers, families on a day out and cliques. There’s a dance battle going on, at a fashion.

A graffiti artist does the rounds decorating installations erected for the event. When I arrive the DJ switches from Donell Jones’ You Know What’s Up to the not-so-obvious Full Crew remix of Craig David’s Fill Me In. Nice.

My admiration doesn’t last for long. The music policy shifts towards unfamiliar (to me) rap joints. There’s not enough spontaneous dancing going on, neither is the battle setting my heart a flutter. Thanks to sis’ lifelong interest in dance, I’ve been exposed to enough of the scene to be fairly elitist about what is impressive or not. I remind myself we all have to start from somewhere. It’s not fair to judge a dancer on the basis of one competition. They could be affected by any number of factors; the heat, nerves, an uninspiring tune, the competitive environment itself…

I decide to check back in after the play.

A Funny Valentine is staged at the mysterious-sounding Cabaret Onirique (roughly translated The Fantasy Cabaret); a converted barge that now serves as a bar/performance space. Basically, the Jazz Café on a boat.

Dressed all in white, Maran embodies heroin itself; Baker’s sole lifetime companion. He narrates Baker’s story as filtered through various biographies and Chet’s own unreliable accounts. Maran is a serious fan-boy but not an apologist. He injects sympathy but does not excuse. Let the fact, fiction and half-truths speak for themselves. He does avoid cynicism about the curious circumstances surrounding Baker’s untimely death. In spring 1988, aged 58 he defenestrated himself (or was defenestrated) from an Amsterdam hotel window; by accident or design, nobody really knows. Maran prefers to believe it was the former.

The audience are transformed into voyeurs. Baker’s life was a veritable, self-inflicted train-wreck from which you cannot avert your eyes. Through his own making this once strangely beautiful man, with his arresting bone structure and luscious dark hair, morphs into a cadaver. He looks like an octogenarian in his 50s. Of all the many Jazz tragedies, Baker’s is particularly affecting. Just as his voice encapsulates life’s sorrow, his story reflects both the beauty and tragic farce of the human condition. Self-destructive behaviour is not unique to junkies. There’s a Chet in all of us.

After the show, I air these thoughts in discussion with trumpeter Colin Steele who accompanies Maran alongside last-minute addition Alan Benzies; a trio of Scots.

I gatecrash the conversation Steele is having with another audience member who happens to have been sitting behind me during the show. We have already exchanged a few words in French and English. I tease him for mangling the lyrics of My Funny Valentine. We are later joined by Tatjana, who has also just finished enjoying the show.

I commend Steele for capturing some of the essence of Baker’s playing. Admittedly, I’m far less familiar with his trumpet than his vocals. I lament to Steele (and later Maran, when he briefly joins us) that the piece doesn’t give enough attention to Chet’s eerily gorgeous voice. Mike blames it on his own 'bad' singing.

Colin has lived with the spectre of Baker for decades. He explains that those close to Chet revealed how he valued his fix above all else; even music. He reportedly shot up a million dollars’ worth of the stuff over his lifetime. Baker was a natural musician who eschewed practice, something Steele would never countenance. He was talented enough to half-arse a legendary career. Perhaps it came too easily for him, I suggest to Colin. That was his undoing. There’s something to be said for the struggle, after all.

Despite the macabre subject, it’s a stimulating conversation. I say my farewells just as I hear a melodramatic groan from Maran downstairs. Steele rushes to his aid. I will later feel rightly ashamed for my hasty departure without first checking on Mike. Tatjana doesn’t look impressed. Nevertheless, I leave the Cabaret conversely buoyed.

Back at the Block Party, much of the crowd has dispersed as it creeps towards its close. The playlist has diversified somewhat. A couple of Fugees classics, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme tune (huh? Apparently, that’s a thing), Montell Jordan… After sitting out a few I find a spot where I feel more at ease to get down. Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Jump On It, a guilty pleasure, has me doing the signature rodeo moves. I lose it when the DJ drops Heads High by Mr. Vegas.

My insouciance catches the attention of a Franco-Vietnamese called Cédric. He sidles up to me. I’m relaxed enough not to be stand-offish. In between the boogie, we make polite but unspectacular conversation. I politely demure his invitation for a drink. It’s straight home for me to finish watching the New Edition biopic and eat a rare treat from Burger King.

Cédric graciously retires. His behaviour is far more becoming than that of the creepy gentleman who follows me on the bus home, asking me in broken English if I’d ‘accept him’. Thankfully, he promptly descends once I decline; firmly but politely (again- not characteristic of me in these situations).

Soundtrack of the week: Heart Break by New Edition.

Encounters

I am still actively trying to expand my social networks (offline) in Strasbourg.

Scrolling through suggested contacts on my Internations account, I usually only take a cursory look. I am aware that many of my THRO colleagues are also members but none that I know personally, bar one.

One evening I spot the profile of Camila; an Afro-Brazilian colleague who started working at The Organisation not long before I did. I’m giddy with excitement. So much so, I not only send her a message via my Internations account but I email her from work the next day. I wouldn’t usually wish to come across as so keen but heck. She speaks two of my favourite languages and is one of the few other brown faces at THRO (for some reason that’s more evident to me here than it would be in the UK.) Like me, Camila is also relatively new in town.

She responds to my email with alacrity. We arrange to meet up the following Thursday. My mood lifts instantly.

In the flesh Camila is a pretty and petite, good-natured 20-something. We cover a lot of ground in less than an hour-and-a-half lunch break. She’s originally from the Minas Gerais region of Brazil but was adopted by affluent Europeans. They relocated to the Old Continent when she was small. She’s a bona-fide polyglot, having either schooled or lived in various countries across Europe, not to mention Anglophone Africa. In merely eight months she has acquired a level of French it has taken me almost 30 years to attain. She met her Belgian boyfriend whilst living in Zambia. He relocated with her to France when she started her work placement at THRO. They plan to move to the American East Coast in the autumn.

I can’t begrudge sweet Camila for leading what seems to be a very charmed life. I shouldn’t complain. I have much for which to be grateful…and yet I am ashamed to say, I feel strangely depressed after what should have otherwise been an affirming rendezvous.

Onwards and upwards. After a little bit of uncertainty I decide to join the March for Jesus with which my French church is involved that weekend. I wouldn’t necessarily participate in a similar event in Britain. Here in France however, where aggressive secularism seeks to banish faith from the public sphere as much as possible (except for all the religious holidays, of course) it would be good to show some solidarity. Besides, as I am to discover the march isn’t some self-congratulatory jaunt down the streets of Strasbourg. It’s an opportunity to dialogue with the curious and pray for key social groups around town.

At a preparatory prayer meeting at church earlier that week, I find out that the police are one of the groups for which we’ll be petitioning heaven. The organisers perceive them to be a maligned bunch. It’s not wholly unjustified. French citizens originating from the former colonies have good reason to be wary of the police. I hope the empathy of my French sisters and brothers in Christ can extend to those members of society too.

The day of the march itself, the temperature rises to tropical levels. To my surprise, the event has a carnival atmosphere. There are a couple of floats. Songbooks are distributed. I see a couple of familiar faces from church including Hassan. He and much of his Tunisian family are converts from Islam. Cultural Islam he stresses. It’s perceived as turning your back on your people to convert.

Hassan is intense. At one point he invites me to be a prayer partner. I am not willing to accept without thinking it over. I also wonder if that is some sort of Christian pick up line.

Hundreds of the Faithful have turned up; of all hues, gender and ages. We walk along rhythmically, chanting to praise tunes played over West African-influenced beats. It matters not I am not familiar with most of the songs. They're easy to pick up. We stop occasionally to intercede in prayer for the young, for the City, the European institutions and yes, Law Enforcement. Onlookers pause to raise a quizzical eyebrow or snap us on their phones. My self-consciousness dissipates. I’m proud to be counted amongst such a diverse representation of the Body of Christ.

There’s to be a concert in the centre of town at the end of the march, lasting late into the evening. I break ranks half-way through proceedings to continue with the rest of my day.

I’m attending another event with a musical theme early that evening, albeit of a more terrestrial nature. There’s a free jazz gig at La Salle Européenne. It’s walking distance from my flat and next door to my office. After some shopping I return home to change. I’m hoping to meet some like-minded thirty-somethings (ish). It’s not that straightforward. I realise many people my age have commitments (work + significant other, kids etc) that don’t allow them much free time. There’s often a generation gap. Either you have youngsters with no responsibilities or an older demographic with a lot of free time. If there are folks a similar age to me, they are usually hanging around in groups.

That’s the case at the gig. It’s the silver-haired crew out in full force with a few younger faces dotted around. What’s more, the international quartet is truly loufoque. There’s clearly some virtuosity; not that they’ll give the audience enough reason to enjoy it. The musicians have chosen one of those needlessly abstract repertoires that take umbrage with a melody. The bassist is restive; walking in and out of the pavilion, fiddling with a deck chair, abandoning it, returning to it… At one point, the tenor saxophonist plays a sustained atonal note and disappears into the corner. His trumpeter colleague offers to play something in the interim. Any requests?

By the time the drummer and one of the horn players start lighting up mid-set, I walk out in disgust. They are taking Le Piss.

I’m about to storm off home but notice several revellers lounging on the lawn of La Salle. One young woman reads a novel in tranquillity, as if the main event is incidental. I follow her lead. I sit on the steps of the main building and bring out the very enjoyable novel I’m reviewing for my other site. I’m chagrined to hear something more akin to a melody just as I’ve stepped away. The trumpet player comes out of a side door (or flap) and starts tooting at the back of the audience. Maybe I was right to leave after all.

My thoughts are interrupted by Benoit. He works the door at La Salle. We’re practically neighbours. I once ignored him on the bus when he tried to smile at me. I didn’t properly recognise him in civilian clothes and thought he was just some weirdo. The penny dropped when I saw him entering La Salle.

Ever since that misunderstanding, I try to be extra sweet to Benoit. I think he might have a soft spot for me. He smiles a lot, gives me little trinkets from work and keeps telling me how good my French is.

I am so relieved to see a familiar face; particularly someone roughly the same age. The event hasn’t turned out to be the great networking opportunity that I hoped. Like me, Benoit is not too impressed with the show (I don’t meet anyone that night who is). We like our jazz a little less free.

The conversation is good language practice for us both. Benoit impresses me with the English he claims he learned watching Netflix. At one point he throws out a (sort of) invitation to a BBQ he’s hosting. Very indirectly. I am not sure whether to take him up on it. On one hand, I am keen to widen my circle. On the other, I can’t 100% vouch that I won’t end up in some makeshift dungeon.

The moment passes. He leaves me for a bit in the company of an acquaintance. The night is still young. Despite the underwhelming concert, I head home with a spring in my step.