La Vie Lyonnaise Part 2

Place St Jean (thisislyon.fr)

Part 1

My birthday is at the start of the week.  I book a place on a cheap-as-chips walking tour that morning. I’ve developed a taste for these guided ambles since living in Strasbourg. Not much else to do on a Monday. 

I’m also looking forward to some human contact in a group setting. Having lived ‘abroad’ for a little while, travelling alone sometimes loses its novelty. As much as I like the freedom, I miss regular conversation all the same.

A sizeable group of us gathers at Place St. Jean in Lyon City Centre. The tour is led by towering Dutchman, Paul. He moved to Lyon six years ago and has never looked back. The free tour is his latest solo business venture, making money through tips. 

For the next two hours, he will take us through a whistle-stop overview of Vieux Lyon; one of the largest surviving Renaissance towns. We weave in and out of a couple of the 600 (approx) traboules -or secret passageways -as Paul informs us of their role during the French Resistance, amongst other things. He explains the City’s ancient, medieval and modern architecture, the ever-changing layout of its religious edifices; its past reputation as a hub of the silk industry and how its proximity to rich arable land gives it a culinary advantage. Throughout the tour, he recommends some eating establishments. 

It’s a perfect summer’s day and Paul is an affable guide. It beats disappearing into some mawkish mental rabbit-hole as I mope about getting older.

It’s midday before we know it. 

I wouldn’t normally entertain the thought of a three-course lunch but heck. It's a special occasion…

Following one of Paul's recommendations, I choose somewhere traditional with a reasonably-priced menu and a head-waiter wearing a rictus grin (I have a Pavlovian response to return the same artificial smile and hate myself for it). I’m seated discreetly in a tight corner of the bistro. 

The amicable American woman sitting next to me, squeezes past to pay her bill. She asks where I’m from. Alas, I believe my anglophone intonation has betrayed me once more. I compliment hers and her daughter’s French. Her husband is Francophone, she shares. When she mentions they're local, I find it reassuring that they’ve chosen to lunch in that establishment.

The meal is satisfying, save for the rubbery texture of the Tarte aux Pralines.

The heavy lunch has made me more flustered still in this warm weather.

I make for the ‘futuristic’ district of Confluence where the rivers Rhone and Saône meet (another of Paul's recommendations). En route, I'm touched to see my French mobile filled with birthday messages from my church family.

Natural History Museum at Confluence, Lyon

Confluence's central area is being transformed into a high-tech, eco-friendly utopia apparently. One that still relies heavily on commerce, mind you.

The district does boast some of the most daring architecture I’ve seen. I miss out unintentionally on the Natural History Museum which, according to Paul, resembles a spaceship. What he hasn't mentioned is the Navly; a driver-less electric shuttle service unique to the area. Given that it’s a pilot scheme, passengers board at their own risk. There is nonetheless a good-natured conductor present to supervise these dry-runs. It’s a relaxing, air conditioned trundle around the peninsula, endowed with stunning Mediterranean views.

I do a quick detour to the flat before dinner. I’ve tried to make reservations at the small but popular Lebanese place I couldn’t get into a couple of days prior. No response. I chance it. I’m not surprised to find the restaurant plunged in darkness without a soul in sight.

It’s a quick and easy metro to Cordeliers, where I’ve spotted another Lebanese eatery in the vicinity.

Once again, I’m seated in a corner; far from the inconsiderate smokers monopolising the terrace, comme d'habitude.

There’s little chance of being disturbed since there's not much of a Monday crowd...

I speak too soon. 

Couples and clans start trickling in. Three generations of a Middle-Eastern family sit opposite. In their midst is a fleshy-cheeked, cross-eyed baby; around a year old. He’s adorable. The only tot in the party, he keeps himself entertained; lost is in his own little world. Occasionally, his fidgeting and whimpering irritate his mum. I watch, transfixed. I start ruminating my own life journey. I sense the same old conflict between enjoying my independence and being somewhat incredulous that I’m in my late 30s, celebrating another birthday single. A lifetime commitment both appeals and fills me with trepidation. It is to open oneself up to the risk of hurt and betrayal as much as love and companionship. At least my life is far less complicated at the moment.

Rue de St Marie des Terreaux (courtesy of Deviant Art)

I marvel at motherhood; at the same time terrified of the life-altering responsibility of being a parent. I’m introspective as usual but not sad. 

This is the life I have even if it’s not what I thought it would be. It’s the life I am supposed to have at this point in time; even if it’s not all I’d hoped it would be. I am alive. I am grateful.

It’s another early-ish start the following morning; the last full day of mon excursion lyonnaise. I am so impressed with the amount of ground covered on Paul’s first tour, I book a place on another. I'm not the only one. I recognise some faces from the morning before, including the Brazilian woman with whom I was making faltering conversation in Portuguese.  

Starting in the Place des Terreaux, we take an uphill route via Croix-Rousse and back down again to the old Jewish quarter of Vieux Lyon. I enjoy this tour even more than the last. Paul leads us through parts of the City’s Bohemian district that I’d never have found left to my own devices when I passed through on the weekend.

He talks and walks us through more of the City’s roman history and identifies the famous Lyonnais that grace a majestic fresco. The traboules of Croix-Rousse might be less famous than that of Vieux Lyon but to me are more enchanting.

I am repeatedly awe-struck by central Lyon’s gorgeous vistas. It’s a shame I’m out of the habit of carrying a camera. I’ve left behind my Nokia feature phone (including basic camera) to avoid being disturbed.

Lyon's size surprises me. I underestimate how much there is to discover. I am used to visiting and/or living in French cities that are more like big-ish towns (from a London perspective in any case). More so than Marseille, Lyon has the feel of a proper city; akin to Paris.

Another two hours evaporate in Paul's company. I pick up some edible souvenirs after the tour before making a beeline for the metro.

I adapt my schedule according to my fatigue. My next main sightseeing stop is limited to Le Parc de la Tete D’Or; a substantial stretch of green that contains within its confines a lake, a botanical garden and a zoo.

La Fresque des Lyonnais (courtesy of This is Lyon)

The morning walk is catching up with me. As much as I’d like to cover the expanse of the park, my feet won’t allow it. I settle for lunch near the lake (fending off curious geese) and a peek at the giraffes, flamingos and deer. Alas, the bears and lemurs are nowhere to be seen.

It’s back to the accommodation for some French TV and a siesta. Refreshed, I venture out to another Trip-Advisor recommended restaurant. 

Thus far, I’ve not had the fortune of dining at any of those on my list. 

Tonight will be no exception. A note has magically appeared on the door of my bistro of choice: closed for a summer break. No prior warning on their website.

Thanks to all-knowing-guide Paul, I have a back-up plan. I’m craving crèpes so re-route to Bananas in Vieux Lyon. The harried-looking waiter barks an acknowledgement as I approach. He’s so unrelentingly abrupt, I change my mind. Not before giving him a piece of it first. Well, as much as I can in a second language. I’m not able to shake off his rudeness for a while.

Against my better judgement, I’m convinced by a personable waiter and cut-price menu to eat at the sort of non-descript establishment our Nordic tour guide advises we avoid. The décor is sombre, there’s no atmosphere and the meat still looks under-cooked despite my instructions (on health grounds) that it be well-done. The courteous service somewhat compensates. 

As far as Lyon being France’s culinary capital is concerned, my experience has been underwhelming. Notwithstanding the fickle-opening hours, the traditional cuisine of any-old-animal parts isn’t enticing. An acquaintance from Alsace warned me not to believe the hype. Maybe a longer stay during a different season could have convinced me otherwise.

Still hankering for pancakes, I order a delicious salted-caramel and vanilla ice-cream crèpe from a parlour I’ve been eyeing up since I arrived.

My attention is drawn to the large flat screen TV. I am fixated by a news report about the tragic death in Nantes of a young man named Steve Maia Caniço. Having disappeared for over a month, his body has just been retrieved from a river. He reportedly fell into the water as an indirect result of excessive police force. Later, on the way to the metro station I’ll notice graffiti on a bridge that has popped up all over France in the preceding weeks: ‘Où-est Steve ?’.

Before then, I take a stroll along the Rhone and join the other dreamers sitting along its paved banks. The Basilica/Fouvrière are glittering in the distance. I should leave to begin packing. Yet I am mesmerised by the combined audio-visual pleasure of the city lights shimmering on water, and good tunes courtesy of the new Tuxedo album.

At last, I pull myself away from the serenity. My journey comes full circle when I find myself back at Place des Terreaux, where some 12 hours ago the walking tour began.

Soundtrack: Tuxedo III by Tuxedo.

La Vie Lyonnaise Part 1

Basilica Notre Dame de Fouvrière

Part 2

As has become tradition, I’m heading down South for my birthday weekend to discover another French city. It’s a toss-up between Avignon (for the Tremplin Jazz Festival; long time on my bucket list), Nice and Lyon. The latter wins out. The Jazz festival doesn’t overlap with my birthday this year. Nice is high on my wish-list but further away and probably best avoided during the holiday peak season.

I’ve heard only good things about Lyon. It is said to be the gastronomical capital of France. This accolade could arguably extend to the world if you took an especially Eurocentric perspective on what makes good food. But I’ll put the seal back on that can of worms.

I plan my sight-seeing and food-eating itinerary for my sojourn with a degree of flexibility. Post-heatwave thunderstorms are forecast for the weekend. I restrict my activity for the first couple of days, on the assumption that anything too ambitious would be a washout.

Mon aventure Lyonnaise begins one Friday night in late July. I’ve taken a half-day off work to catch an evening train. On my way to the station I bump into recent acquaintance, Gustavo; originally from Mozambique. We first met one afternoon when mum was in town.  He spontaneously began a conversation that afternoon and has been keen to keep it going ever since. He defers his own evening promenade to accompany me to the train station. He wastes no time posing age-old existential questions. ‘What are your biggest dreams?’ or ‘Do you know yourself?’. Oddly enough, I’ve been reflecting on the same of late. It’s a good linguistic and cerebral workout, endeavouring to do justice to Gustavo’s transcendant queries in the few minutes waiting for my Ouigo.

After the train’s later-than-expected arrival and a frantic search for my seat, it’s a relatively smooth ride to Lyon. Save for the late evening storms. They apparently can't even wait for the weekend proper to rain on our parade.

Various passengers take a seat beside me during the course of the journey. One woman makes a comment whilst I'm munching on a miniature packet of Haribo. Its meant in jest. I take it as just another example of French hyper-scrutiny. It’s when she’s leaving and asks about my onward journey that I realise, to my regret, she’s only been trying to make conversation.

The incident as well as the short story collection I am reading gives me the urge to write. I grab my laptop from my suitcase. The remaining hours of the journey fly by.

Alighting at Lyon just after 10pm, Part Dieu station is alive with activity. I brave the rain and rush to the tram stop, following closely the transport instructions provided by my absent Airbnb host, Marion. I try and gauge the city’s cleanliness from what I’ve seen so far. Strasbourg has spoiled me in that regards. There are few cities I’ve visited that are as clean.

By big city standards, Lyon is pretty good on that front. In particular, the public transport is new and pleasing to the eye. Jazz, Soul, Funk and Disco classics blast from the metro stations’ speakers whilst we wait.

With little fuss, I locate my accommodation in the suburb of Villeurbanne. I succeed in retrieving the flat keys based on Marion’s espionage-style instructions. They lead me to a deserted car park in the basement. My fertile imagination starts to go wild; conjuring theories of elaborate ruses and ambush.

Nothing to fear. Once safely inside I find Marion’s digs more attractive and spacious than the photos give credit. I unpack, shower, pray and then it’s off to bed.

The following morning my usual holiday/day-off dilemma scuppers any chance of a real lie-in. I know I should take advantage of the fluid timetable to rest for longer. Yet I don't want to waste a minute.

First I need some supplies. It’s a wonder I'm eating at all. I let curiosity get the better of me that morning and use the electronic bathroom scales. I don’t own one myself for fear of it becoming the life-controlling obsession it has been in the past.

I am deflated by the numbers. My body stubbornly refuses to yield to efforts to closely monitor what I eat; always take the stairs instead of the lift, walk regularly and the like. It could also be pesky pre-menstrual pounds. All I know is capitulating to this masochistic urge puts me in a funk early in the day from which I don’t totally recover.

The 4th Arrondissement: Lyon's Bohemian district

On the bright side – literally - the weather is holding up very well. I expect to be awakened by violent thunder and torrential rain. Instead, it’s warm with bursts of sunshine.

I’m cautious nevertheless. I head to the second arrondissement as planned, assuming I’ll only have a limited window before the heavens open.

On the bus to Bellecour, I am disappointed by the number of road and building works marring the City’s topography. It’s only as we pass through the third and then second arrondissement that I notice its aesthetic appeal. La Place Bellecour is impressive; more so the resplendent place of worship overlooking the city on a distant hill. I pop into the tourist centre for some information and a city map. La Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière is not originally part of my itinerary but I’m open to change. Not least because the storms have not (yet) materialised. It is also an opportunity to take the famous ficelle cable car to the top of the hill. 

Alas, the ride is too short to be great fun. 

On my way from Minimes station to Fourvière by foot, I take a detour via the Lugdunum roman ruins. The site is also the venue for a summer music festival. Strains of West-meets-East arrangements can be heard as an experimental band do a sound check. Not even an entrance fee to worry about during the day.

I’m apprehensive about entering the Basilica on seeing the crowds. I usually like these spaces for their peace and quiet. Thankfully, a polite but assertive steward keeps order with regular amplified shushing. I move around the Basilica’s main hall, crypt and oratory at a leisurely pace. I examine the ceiling design and spend time in front of a mural depicting Christ’s ministry, trying to decipher the sequence of events. I do my best to stop my mind wandering to maudlin places, not entirely successful. Eventually the excessive veneration of Mary is too much for my charismatic-protestant sensibilities. The day has vanished. The heavens finally open. 

By the time I head out for dinner that evening, the modest-sized TripAdvisor-recommended Lebanese restaurant can’t accommodate even a solitary diner. Too late to risk trekking across town in this weather to any of the other establishments on my list. It’s bog standard kebab that night; albeit with personable service.

Sundays in Europe are always a challenge in terms of adequate distractions. The continent might be largely secular but they don’t play with their Sabbath.

I reason that it's a good time to visit the parts of town that might otherwise be busy. After wrestling with and then giving up on my Google maps printout, I eventually make my way to the Fourth Arrondissement; known as Lyon’s Bo-ho district. I descend at Croix Rousse Station and pass a bar/restaurant called ‘The Dog’s B*****ks’ (in English), on my way to a verdant vantage point overlooking the city.

Having caught the eye of some sketchy-looking characters, I keep it moving.

Meandering around these leafy quarters, with its high, clustered citrus-coloured buildings, I question whether it was a good idea to visit on a Sunday. Families are out enjoying the (intermittent) sunshine and not much else. I observe that a number of businesses are shut for weeks on end. It’s the first time I’ve seen these many summer closures in the southern region. (I will later discover that the Lyonnais head en masse even further South or to the Alps for their holidays.)

I’m obligated to postpone some of my other sight-seeing schedule, having set out later than planned that afternoon. To avoid a repetition of the previous evening’s dining issues, I start out earlier. My plans fall at the first, second and third hurdle. My preferred establishments are either closed or too far away. I traverse the City from hilly St Just down to Hotel de Ville Louis Pradel. Agitated, I walk around the first arrondissement wondering whether to risk another wasted journey.

Meanwhile, the sun is showing more commitment than it has all day. I begin to notice the attractive surroundings. I’ve stumbled into the bar and restaurant district. In the near distance is a delicious view of Vieux Lyon. I decide to return to my holiday tradition of letting spontaneity determine where I eat. I take my time to choose. Whilst studying one local menu, my attention is pulled towards an inebriated table singing-or rather yelling- tunes from The Lion King score. Whether they’ve just seen the remake or it’s for my ‘benefit’, I can’t tell.

Tarte aux Pralines

Put off by the either rowdy or gawking crowd (as if it’s a crime to dine alone), I settle on a welcoming restaurant that specialises in tartines. It’s light on the pocket too. I have forgotten that tartine is French for glorified toast, instead of little short-crust pastries. My dinner is really an elaborate snack. Whilst awaiting my order, I jot down notes for this blog. It occurs to me that the establishment might mistake me for a food critic. The waitress appears a little nervous. She’s particularly attentive, asking how I found the starter and main.

Not bad.

I don’t intend to be withholding. At least I can praise the more-ish tarte à la praline dessert (another Lyon speciality) and the good customer service.

Back outside, crepuscular views of the Rhone river call out to me. City lights in the distance beckon me further. I’m hoping to end up at Vieux Lyon metro. Instead, I duck in and out of side streets, paying criminal prices for run-of-the-mill pic’n’mix (I only felt sorry for the sales assistant) and getting wonderfully lost. So much for an early night.

It’s a highlight of the trip so far; all the better for being unanticipated.

I arrive back at Hotel de Ville metro station; just in time to hear Chet Baker’s rendition of Not For Me blaring through the speakers. My soprano gleefully accompanies Chet’s baritone whilst my train approaches. Apart from a couple of chancers making overtures (one more aggressive than the other) and a man vomiting violently at Part Dieu tram stop, it’s a drama-free late night commute back to my accommodation.

Soundtrack: Tuxedo III by Tuxedo.

Summer Nights

Onwards and upwards.

Things are starting to wind down now summer is in full swing. The halls of The Organisation are becoming quieter as colleagues vanish on leave. Not yet the case for me. I’m still busy organising a few last minute activities before the summer lull truly kicks in. A rearrangement of personnel is making my life easier, I can’t lie. But that’s for another, later blog.

In early July my Strasbourg lifeline, The High Rock Gospel Singers, meet for the last time before La Rentrée in September. The effect of the summer hiatus is already felt amongst the already fickle membership. That Friday night, I arrive to find an empty rehearsal space. Not having a Whats App account, I'm usually one of the last to know if practice has been cancelled again. I send an enquiring text to one of the directors. On their way. Transport problems.

In the end, only four of us gather for unhealthy snacks and an impromptu singalong; me, fellow soprano Aurélie and choir directors Kiasi and Evan. At the behest of the latter, we end up singing makeshift tributes to some of our favourite 90s-00s pop/R&B and Gospel acts. Rihanna, Beyoncé/Destiny’s Child, Neyo (them), Justin Timberlake (me), Janet, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Brandy, Christina Aguilera (shared)… Well, it’s mostly three of us playing this variation of Karaoke whilst Aurélie searches songs on her phone with which she’s not familiar. Sometimes, our trio’s harmonies spontaneously blend in a most enchanting manner.

If there is any hint of discord, it’s more theological; by way of discussing a controversial, highly gifted former Gospel singer. Not for the first time I have the impression that Kiasi and Evan’s understanding of the Good News is highly customised. The lines blur between enjoying the benefits of God’s grace and simply cherry-picking palatable aspects of scripture whilst ignoring the tougher portions. Kiasi and I have had friendly disagreement over these matters before. Again, albeit rather more tentatively, I venture to give an alternative viewpoint. I’m hesitant to spoil the ambiance. I can’t quite square if it is cowardice or discernment but it doesn’t seem the right time or place to pick this battle. Tempted to fret whether I’ve made a good decision, I have to remind myself that it’s God’s job to convince, not mine. I scarcely have a hold on my own issues. I pray for my brothers and by Divine grace, try and work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

It won’t be the last time I cross paths with Kiasi before the long summer break.

Etoile Bourse, Bastille Day fireworks: courtesy of jds.fr

That weekend is Bastille Day - the French National Holiday. It falls on a Sunday. I forsake my usual evening of rest to catch the late night fireworks. I contemplate inviting some acquaintances but decide to go it alone. I quite like the idea of floating through the crowds unencumbered. Living in Alsace, it's become a statement of sorts for me to fly solo at these large scale events. It's a response to what I perceive as co-dependency amongst the Strasbourgeois. Even if they don't like their own company, it shouldn't mean I am averse to mine.

Although still in the Étoile Bourse vicinity, the event's layout is different compared to 2018. Large areas are sectioned off. The security is heavier and it's less obvious where the crowd should gather. Thankfully, I arrive early enough to be able to lose time searching for a sweet spot. I end up not far from where my journey on foot began.

Like last year, it's a worthy spectacle. I don't detect the sort of cost-cutting measures that have beset the London fireworks displays I used to frequent. The light dancing off the reflective surfaces of the Malraux Médiathèque are as stunning as the main show itself. I'm plugged into my music player and pick tunes on a whim. The combined effect of the audio and visual stimulation is quite a trippy experience. Amen to natural highs.

(c) Pascale Ronson

The following week I’m pleasantly surprised to see Kiasi on stage as the opening act and BV’s at a free open-air Gospel concert in Place Kleber. It’s a late starter for a school night but I’m grateful to have made the effort. I stumble across HRGS soprano, Michelle. Over the months we’ve fallen into a positive dynamic. She’s akin to my Caucasian godmother, at least in the choir’s contest. She’s compassionate, encouraging and makes me feel safe. We already have plans to reconnect that Friday night, now rehearsals are officially over for summer.

Amidst the crowd we spot choir members and affiliates, past and present, including Aurélie. She joins us later. The main act herself is HRGS alumna.

The DJ set is on fire if a little schizophonic. He doesn’t -or can’t -mix. No song is played for longer than a minute. He hops from Anderson .Paak back to early 20th Century Jazz standards and forward again to The Jackson 5, then to 90s neo-soul and R&B. It sounds more like his personal collection on shuffle. Fortunately for him, he has good taste. I make the most of the snippets to get my groove on. As usual, our little group are some of the few dancing souls amongst the typically rigid Alsatian audience. Michelle is catching some of the magic on her trusty digital camera.

Meanwhile Kiasi and co s'éclatent sur la scene. I notice Jeanne from church’s gifted housemate, Annalise on keys. Jeanne is somewhere in the mix but I won’t find this out until I’m already on the way home.

HRGS members in the crowd have the advantage of being familiar with much of the repertoire as well as the specific arrangements. The main act’s compositions are a bit too bluesy for my taste but it does not impede my enjoyment. I’m a woman of simple pleasures. A confluence of factors make this one of my most memorable nights out in Strasbourg. Good music, good weather, good company, good atmosphere, Good God.

The night bus calls and the gig isn’t ending any time very soon. I bid Michelle farewell and beg off.

Soundtrack: Money (single) by Michael Kiwanuka & Tom Misch, In My Element by Robert Glasper, The Blu James LP.

Fragile

After mum’s visit, it’s back to reality. Despite the bleakness and my morale at an all-time low, by the grace of God I find the resolve to go to work.

There is some good news on the professional front. THRO’s impending financial gloom has been averted for the foreseeable future, thanks to canny diplomatic manoeuvres. 

Elsewhere, I hear things that deepen my sense of disillusion.  

There’s a two-tier system in place at The Organisation; those who were fortunate enough to join THRO when permanent contracts were handed out like sweets. Then, there’s everyone else.

If you’re not one of those jammy sorts with the golden ticket, to stand a chance at any upward mobility you have to go through an arduous selection process. This includes all-day tests, interviews and the like. The procedure takes several months. Most frustrating of all, those on fixed-term contracts -such as yours truly- would have already gone through all this carry-on to get a foot through the door in the first place.  Meanwhile, senior management pulls strings so that their friends and family get plummy positions via temporary contracts. They’re spared the indignity of job insecurity through these Godfather/Godmother-style connections. 

Fine. None of this is new to me.

What is new is learning that senior colleagues with permanent contracts, dogged by complaints and a dubious reputation, are simply moved on within the organisation or ‘reassigned’. Whilst those working on a fixed-term basis who fall out of favour with La Direction; well their contracts are simply not renewed.

The Human Rights Organisation, eh? Charity begins at home.

Recently a swathe of colleagues, including my line manager Sophie, have undergone one of these recruitment assessments (and not for the first time). During the preceding weeks they cram for a test that, in the end, pays little heed to the reference material. They spend the equivalent of a working day being made to jump through shape-shifting intellectual hoops. By the end, they feel shafted. Some don’t finish the paper. One colleague plans to make a formal complaint.

It’s as if we were set up to fail, Sophie observes ruefully.

The alternative strategy? Professional stagnation or seek opportunities elsewhere.

Previously, I have been adept at keeping a good work/life balance. Yet the office's disagreeable ambiance has started to insinuate its way into my personal life. I’m daily fighting to keep anxiety at bay. I’m not always getting a good night’s sleep. The fatigue exacerbates the unhappiness. I have to stop my thoughts from wandering to gloomier places.

Summer’s here and activities start to wind down. The first Friday of July, I expect to make a difficult choice between two places I’d like to be; an outing with the street team and choir practice. Both of these will be the last sessions before the long summer break.  In the end, neither go ahead that evening owing to poor turnout. The choir’s pot-luck is postponed until the following Friday. That suits me. I can delay the summer farewell for another week.

That Sunday after church, I’ve planned to meet up with recent acquaintance, Noelle in the picturesque Alsatian town of Barr. She’s based in Selestat, on the outskirts of Strasbourg herself. I’ve had to make my peace with trekking a little further for our meet-ups. She’s chosen Barr as a break from the norm. The views are to die for, Noelle insists. I don’t doubt it. I find that the aesthetic appeal of the Alsace region is consolation for its shortcomings.

Chateau Landsberg: Barr, France

The ominous forecasts of stormy weather do not materialise. Au contraire, il fait beau.

It’s a drama free commute to Barr. Noelle collects me from the station, dressed in jeans and trainers. It's the first time I've seen her in civs.  By contrast I am kitted out in my far less practical Sunday Best. My sandals are nonetheless sturdy and, as it turns out, more trustworthy than Noelle’s slippery trainers.

The first stop is the Andlau Chateau; dating back to the 13^th Century.

En route, Noelle comments on how much better my French is compared to when we last spoke.

Maybe you were tired but it was a bit of a disaster the other day.

I feel demoralised.

In fact, I’m probably more sleep-deprived this time, I explain. It really depends on the context. Perhaps my brain is just generally more alert during the day…

Noelle will proceed to correct my French at various points during the excursion. Later she will rephrase a message by text when I’m under the impression that it’s grammatically legit.

On the whole the outing is pleasant. The scenery is as lush as promised. The second stop at the Chateau de Landsberg reveals it to be more attractive still than its Andlau counterpart. The peripheries of the Black Forest in Germany can be seen from these heights. A group of Goths have organised a very modest-sized festival on the grounds. Noelle will later treat us both to Mint Diablos at an Inn with laid-back and friendly staff, overlooking more inviting verdure. We laugh often and Noelle speaks candidly about more painful chapters of her life.  And yet, what will remain of the day is her critique of my linguistic efforts (that, and the lingering suspicion she’s trying to recruit me into a cosmetics-flogging pyramid scheme).

Let’s get some perspective here. It’s not the end of the world if I make grammatical errors. It shouldn’t be. And yet I’ve reached a stage in my Alsatian Adventure where I’m especially fragile. Certain experiences have taken chunks out of what self-confidence I had; not least my current work situation. Living here has brought pre-existing neuroses to the surface like never before; something akin to the symptoms of an allergic reaction. If I was aware of my issues before, they’re flagged up even more in this context.

One area of particular sensitivity is my language skills; or rather the perceived personal failing it represents. After all, perfecting my French was one of the primary objectives of relocating to The Hexagon. It’s not as if I don’t welcome correction. It’s about the way it's done. A very French way; severe and dry. In a British anglophone context, you make corrections sparingly and in a tactful manner. An interlocutor would generally prioritise communication over accuracy.  In the Francophone context, the two might as well be inseparable.

I understand it’s cultural and reflects the strict pedagogy the French themselves undergo. It also betrays remnants of linguistic imperialism still at play, grounded in ideology that the French language (and by extension, the culture) is inherently superior, refined and has a 'civilising' effect on those who speak it. Thus, with the exception of some sympathetic individuals, non-Francophones feel as if they are constantly being judged on their linguistic merits. Any shortfall appears to be treated by the French as a moral failing. I am not alone in this sentiment. I’ve heard similar comments from many a non-Francophone on both sides of The Channel. Perhaps that perception is stronger in this region than elsewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s thoroughly dejecting. Faced by such exacting standards, it would be better for my peace of mind if I simply gave up trying to please the implacable. If only it were that straightforward. The pressure comes from within and without.

I would expect Noelle to know better. She lived  in the UK for over a decade. She should understand how challenging the process of acquiring another language can be; particularly if you grew up monolingual. She speaks good English but I’ve heard better from Francophones who’ve never lived in an Anglophone country. The difference is that I would not be pedantic about this.

The problem arises again the following day when I have a farewell meet-up with HRGS choir member, Elise. She’s returning to her hometown further south having lived in Strasbourg for several years.  She has a tendency to not only dryly correct my French but anything else she finds amiss. The comments aren't reserved just for me, either. I don’t know if this is a projection of her insecurities. At least on the language front, she’s gifted.

In any case, I’m not in the mood for it. Since waking up that morning, it’s been a battle to keep my emotions in check. I just about have a handle on things when I meet up with Elise. The melancholy is nevertheless close to the surface. It doesn’t take much for me to burst into tears. One too many of Elise’, no doubt well-intended, corrective remarks. I explain that this has been a long-standing niggle. For a while, I found myself avoiding her company. It is only right that I am candid with her. I apologise for this unintended absence.

Elise is contrite. She claims it's selfish of her to correct me so often, given I don't have trouble making myself understood.  I too feel bad. I hadn’t planned to dampen the mood of our parting rendez-vous. I’m also much older than Elise. I’m supposed to be robust. 

I am in the throes of one of my cyclical Strasbourg-related downturns. I intimate some of the issues at work. It resonates with Elise. She admits she’s stayed too long in the region. After a number of years trying to make the best of it, she’s finally relocating to be closer to her family. We have similar reservations about the local mindset. When Elise describes the choir as an oasis, she takes the words right out of my mouth.

It’s not right to complain when I am in good health and I live in relative luxury compared to much of the world. Those are the things I try to focus on when I’m in good form. Yet, there’s something about Strasbourg life that occasionally eats away at me. I believe I’m past the worst of it only for another vague à l’âme to momentarily wash over.

On the bright side, I’m due another upturn soon. It might be an uphill struggle sometimes but it's not a losing battle. Some wise words by Eitan Kenner, a musician I have recently interviewed on the beginning of his own spiritual journey, come to my rescue time and again. Like a God-sent refrain.

"...To me, God is just "being"; surrendering to the moment without all the background noise; without all the questions and all the little details..."

Soundtrack: Flamagra by Flying Lotus.

Visit Number Five: Part Two

Krutenau district, Strasbourg

Part One

The psychological comfort and familiarity of mum’s presence is an indescribable morale boost. My discouraging work situation has taken its toll. Mum comments a number of times that I’m more irritable.

I’ve always been a bit uptight. I counter, defensively.

Not like this.

I have no qualms admitting that my battle with anxiety has intensified of late; despite my prayers and non-chemically assisted efforts to stay on top of it (including said missing gratitude journal). Depressives often say that it is of no help at all when told to ‘cheer up’. If it were that easy, they wouldn’t need the advice. I believe anxiety works the same. Telling someone to relax is as counter-productive as ‘cheer up’. Mum is doing her best to understand. She is well-versed about my current professional situation. I don’t like to worry her by being so visibly unsettled by it.

Better out than in, she admonishes.

That Thursday we’ve arranged to have dinner with my gastronomically-astute pal, Gael. He and mum met on her previous visit with sis. The rapport was instant. Gael has mentioned introducing me to some more of what Strasbourg has to offer on the cuisine front. Mum’s trip is the perfect opportunity to make good on these intentions. He knows I like food from the MENA region. He sends me a selection of his personal recommendations from which to choose. By pure coincidence, I opt for Chevaliers in Krutenau; a restaurant he happens to be taking over for his new Afropean venture. It’s a splendid evening. The food is fine, if not spectacular. The customer service and present company make the night what it is. We talk and laugh late into the evening. Polyglot Gael switches to English for mum’s sake. He’s a knowledgeable and genteel interlocutor. He and mum swap tales about their West African childhoods. We’re intrigued by his extensive travels across the Motherland. Mum asks which country he enjoyed the most. Zimbabwe, he replies. It’s so much more than the dire news reports which we’re used to in the West.

Gael generously offers to pay for our meals. We insist on taking care of a decent tip for our gracious host, Hassiba.

On the bus back, a notification flashes on the electronic screen: Free transport all day Friday. It will be extended for the whole weekend by the following day. The City Council want to encourage drivers to leave their car behind. It’s great news for mum. She’ll barely use any of her transport credit during her trip.

Told you, mum. You bring good fortune. 

Back to work the next morning but only for half-a-day. TGIF, albeit a hectic one. Held up by last minute hitches at the office, I’m running late for a rendez-vous with mum and another one of our Strasbourg-based pals, Catarina. It’s almost a year to the day when we met at a church barbecue. Then, the country was in the grip of World Cup fever for the men. This year it’s the women’s turn. Alas, Les Bleues don’t take home the trophy this time.

We’ve agreed to meet Catarina at one of my regular haunts, Oh My Goodness! It’s been a while since she has spoken English. Bless her, she makes the effort for mum. I believe she appreciates the practice. Her knowledge of the current French political situation is impressive; as is her awareness of some of the UK’s neo-liberal travails. She predicts that Macron’s right-wing economic reforms will only drive the working class into Le Pen's clutches. It's something I’ve feared since his mandate began.

We part ways with Catarina at the tram stop and hop on the D to Kehl Rathaus. I want to show mum the changes since her last visit. As is her habit, she treats me to various household items for my flat.

I’m in a hurry but don’t wish to rush her. I have choir rehearsal that evening. I am reluctant to miss it. The following day we'll do our last show before the two and a half-month summer break. As a compromise, I notify the choir directors I might be late. I arrive even later than intended, having been hijacked by an email from a Labour Party-affiliated organisation of which I’m a member. They are reacting to another fomented ‘scandal’ with a disappointing lack of discernment and goodwill. Disillusioned, I let them know exactly what I think.

I feel the anxiety returning. I try to put it to the back of my mind on the way to choir practice, where temporary reprieve awaits.

It’s not just infuriating messages in my inbox that have set me off. The weekend schedule has run away from me. There are occasions where activities accrue until I find myself having to be in numerous places all at once. I’ve promised mum a market trip in the morning en route to a half-day conference at church. That evening my choir, HRGS will be part of the line-up of an open-air solidarity gig. I’ve had to jettison the idea of the free Petite France Happy Tour, I’d wanted to squeeze in.

Mum tries not to let my agitation get to her. Somehow I unwind despite running behind schedule. By the time we’re wandering through the market near Esplanade, picking up some unexpected bargains along the way, I’m pretty Zen about whether or not I’ll make the seminar. I’ve already emailed the organisers that I might be a no-show.

It's a full blown heatwave. My attention falls on a man in a brown leather jacket. What a fashion statement in this weather. I'm wondering how the poor thing copes. He starts to jerk, yell, and disappears through the crowd moving frenetically. I catch sight of his soles, hanging out of leather flip-flops. They're greyish-green with deep, canyon-like crevices. It takes me a few moments to recover from this apparition.

Mum and I head towards my church after thoroughly perusing the market wares. We’ll stop by at the Lidl’s opposite the church building but not before I pop into the conference to show my face. I’m not surprised to only have met the post-seminar refreshments. The organisers appreciate my efforts in any case. It’s a brief but edifying moment of fellowship over vol-au-vents.

At the LICRA Solidarity Open Air Performance,
Place St. Thomas, Strasbourg

After shopping it’s home again for some rest, preparation of supper and other tasks. I change into my evening outfit before mum and I head back out to St. Thomas’ Square for the Solidarity gig. Organised by anti-racism NGO, LICRA, the show is dedicated to 21-year old Afghan refugee, Habib who took his life in late May; dejected by a lack of financial and moral support. My mind will frequently return to this young man over the coming days. The event's hosts speak of how this isn’t representative of an international and welcoming city such as Strasbourg. Hmm. Even for those with creature comforts, the so-called Capital of Europe is alienating at the best of times. I can only imagine thus how desperately lonely and frustrating it would be for someone with neither language nor means.

Despite the tragic circumstances, the ambience is nonetheless celebratory. To my pleasant surprise, HRGS come out in encouraging numbers; even those who haven’t been to rehearsals for a while. Mum is a hit with the members. She has no issues communicating, many of them being fluent English-speakers. For the first time I hear the extent of Elise’ auto-didact linguistic genius. Her English is pretty impeccable for someone who has never studied it officially beyond secondary school. I feel inadequate.

The obligatory comments about mum’s youthfulness are forthcoming and welcome by both of us. Mum sits in on our practice. Five choirs use what available space there is to go over their repertoire. HRGS attracts a lot of attention before and during the performance. We’re second on the bill. It will be one of our best gigs to date; save for a very ropey rendition of The Circle of Life. Mum doesn’t have any compunction giving this frank feedback to choir directors, Evan and Kiasi. They receive it in good-humour.

The vibrant atmosphere is palpable. I am relieved and delighted to observe mum in her element. She thanks me repeatedly for bringing her along. She is touched by the choir's friendliness. Not for the only time during this trip, my mind goes to Maya Angelou's observations about the mother/child relationship. She speaks of how the very presence of a mother can change how your acquaintances perceive you; an invisible, protective force field.

After our presentation, most of the choir sticks around to see the other acts and for the grand finale performance of We Shall Overcome. All the choirs are supposed to perform. By the end, there are hardly any remaining. A choir specialising in Broadway standards and Yiddish folk-music take up a lot of stage time. As does the final jazz-folk vocalist. He’s meant to limit his set to three songs. We’re appreciative of his particular stamp on El Paso Condor and join in gamely with Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Then, emboldened by the crowd’s warm reception, he launches into a slow, folky-soul rendition of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall; a bizarrely morose choice.

It’s around this time, well past 11pm, the rest of us leave en masse towards the tram stop; save for Elise. It’s her last concert with HRGS before she moves down south to be closer to her family. Evan reminds us about the last rehearsal before summer. My heart sinks. It clashes with the last outing of the street team.

See you in September then.

I start singing EWF's hit. Inside however, I'm crestfallen.

I don’t know when next I’ll perform with the chorale. My heart breaks at the thought of another lonely summer stretched out before me; the activities that were a life-line on hold for months. That, and the thought of mum’s looming departure back to the UK, reduce me to hot tears several times that weekend.

Sunday morning doesn’t go according to plan. I have to change outfits owing to a malfunctioning zip. Time escapes me. I’m the one who makes us late to church in spite of nagging mum to be ready by half-9. On arriving, I find that the English interpretation service is not yet ready. I panic at the idea of having to do the translation again; one week after another shaky turn on the rota.

Much ado about nothing. Two interpreters turn up for this week’s session.

The message that Sunday is about knowing our value before God; how it's important to understand our own in order to properly affirm others. It's an interactive affair with short dramatic interludes and video clips. At the end, I offer tearful prayers to heaven. The sermon has taken on a personal urgency.

Mum will admit later that the translation isn’t as fluid as previously. The interpreter is a novice who disappears before the service is over, leaving me to translate the announcements.

We meet and greet a few familiar faces and head back in the direction of Étoile Bourse. Mum would like us to spend some time at the Orangerie; the park a stone's throw from my office. Just being in the vicinity of work makes me uneasy. Yet I can still appreciate the serenity of the adjacent green space.

It's a sweltering day; high 30s. We miss two of the irregular buses, partly down to a timing mistake on my part. I take every trivial disappointment to heart that morning; feeling personally responsible.

Calm down. Please. Do you see me upset? Mum reassures. We got here eventually. 

As was the case last year, something about the tranquillity of the Orangerie sparks off a tearful, soul-searching conversation with mum. I recount how anxiety and guilt have stalked me since childhood. Wrestling with perfectionism and feelings of inadequacy. We continue to share and pray. Faced with my anguish, Mum brings a healthy balance of compassion and rock-solid support.

Still, my weepiness gets her going a number of times. We both try to hold onto the night; eating a homecooked meal including mum’s jollof rice and akara bean cakes (by special request) and resuming our unofficial custom of watching Tales of The Unexpected. We go to bed long after 1am.

Monday morning. A week exactly since our Basel visit. Mum’s bags are packed, ready for the coach station. My flat is spotless, as it always is after one of her stays. I cry all morning. I recover, only to unceremoniously burst into tears. Mum prays for me before we leave.

God sees your tears.

I’m crying whilst speaking to mum on the bus; not about anything especially sad. Mum worries the other passengers will think something is amiss. My make up runs. I check my yellow summer dress for foundation stains. Mum wells up. I don’t want to upset her but can’t stop. I’ll be weeping on and off for the rest of the day.

By the grace of God, this will only be a temporary separation. Yet in light of my current issues at work, the coming hiatus of my extra-curricular activities and the general isolation of Strasbourg- most of all over summer-it feels more painful than usual. I try to keep perspective, thinking of the despair of poor Habib and those who have it worse off. That only sets me off again.

You’ve always been a sensitive soul. Mum remarks, waiting at the coach stop at Étoile Bourse.

Her luggage has been stowed away but neither of us are ready for her to board. Assured by the driver we still have some time, we prolong our farewell. The engine starts. Mum takes her seat. Normally, I leave once she’s safely on board. This time I wait, straining to see her through the tinted windows.

She waves; giving me a big, reassuring smile. Tears streaming down my face, I turn aside melodramatically. I intend to wait until the coach pulls away. Mum, seeing my distress, signals for me to leave. Realising that it would be unfair to her to remain whilst in this state, I turn to go; somewhat relieved.

Later, I'll recall that I didn’t even cry this much on my first day of school. I didn’t cry at all.

What do you know. A few years shy of 40 and I still want my mum.

Soundtrack: No Freedom Without Sacrifice by Homecut.

Visit Number Five: Part One

Basel Town Centre (Wikipedia)

Shortly after my detour to Pelouses Sonores 2019, I collect mum from Étoile Bourse coach station. It’s a bright and warm Sunday evening. Mum seems to take good weather wherever she goes (cue the Crowded House tune). Her presence will prove a boon in more ways than one. Her middle name means 'favour' in Ewe. By name and by nature.

The visit starts in earnest the next day with an afternoon trip to Basel. The whole world and their [insert close relative] has been raving to me about the Swiss city. It’s on my doorstep but up until that point, I’ve never ventured past the airport. I find cheaper-than-chips coach tickets that’ll give us a few intense hours in the town before having to return to Strasbourg. I’ve been warned of prohibitive costs so, on the advice of a good acquaintance, we take a picnic. In the end, although we do see some ludicrous prices, it’s not as bad as forewarned. The packed-lunch turns out to be a good call nonetheless.

I have been uncharacteristically lax and not done much Basel-related research. The night before I read a few day trip accounts. I don't use a smartphone and mum isn't in the habit of checking her GPS. I’m hoping to pick up a map from the tourist office on arrival. If we can find it.

I ask the assistant coach-driver how to get to the town centre. He shrugs.

No idea, sorry.

I try to make an educated guess. I spot a church steeple in the near-distance to my left. There appears to be more life in that direction too. We end up in the garden of the church with barely a soul around. It’s thanks to an English-speaking passer-by that we learn we’ve walked in the wrong direction. The coach stop looks deceptively isolated, when it’s just the other side of the train station.

By the time we recover our bearings, we’ve already lost some important site-seeing time. (In our haste to make up for it, we walk past the tourist information point; only to realise on our way back to the bus station to board the return coach.)

We settle down for some grub in the shade on an inviting green. On est bien, là. Basel is also in the throes of a heatwave; the same temperatures in the high 30s as Strasbourg but less oppressive. (Not that I wish to complain about having more sun.) The hours are flying past, chipping away at more of our site-seeing time. I’m enjoying the respite but torn by the desire to see more of this chic city.

It’s certainly more cosmopolitan than I anticipate. I hear the best way to discover Basel is to wander aimlessly. That suits me. Unfortunately, time is not on our side. Mum starts to get antsy over the idea of missing our coach. Despite my protests to the contrary, she’s convinced the bus might leave from a different spot from where we arrived. We bicker a little on the way. I want to see the quirky red town hall I’ve heard about. This meandering lark isn’t yielding the fortuitous fruit I’m used to. I admire some of the pastel coloured buildings and expanses of green but it’s time-sensitive. In the end, we make the coach; even if it feels like we haven't seen much of Basel. It goes on an ever-growing list of future activities for mum’s next visit, whenever that might be.

On arriving home, to my distress I discover that I’ve lost my gratitude journal. I’m more distraught by it than the occasion warrants. The evening is a write-off from there. Mum insists on me making dinner despite the picnic. I am not in the mood. She's lukewarm about the results, much to my consternation.

I don’t have any more outings planned until the end of the week. Apart from my usual Monday off and a half-day’s leave that Friday, it’s a normal working week. Fear not reader. Mum doesn’t feel abandoned. She welcomes the chance to rest. Between a stressful, public-facing job, chores and other commitments, she would not have an opportunity to lounge in the UK. I leave her with a transport pass and the spare key so she’s sorted if she wants to pop out. She spends much of the time however, catching up on sleep.

One evening we pass an emotional couple of hours in front of Netflix, watching the Oprah Winfrey interview with the writer/director, cast and real-life subjects of When They See Us; Ava Duvernay's biopic about the notorious Central Park Jogger case. Mum has watched the series twice and cried each time. Our hearts break in particular for Antron McCray and Korey Wise. The next morning, we’ll both remark that we have had only fitful sleep; our dreams haunted by these remarkably resilient men.

Part 2