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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it bothers me.

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

Pastor Richard takes it to mean the latter.

Oh no, I like it! He exclaims.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At some point Elisabeth whispers,

I see the pastor has taken a shine to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just so you know what it’s like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We part ways with a reassuring word.

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

Soundtrack: My Best of...2019 mixes.

Keep on Moving…

The days after my mother returns to the UK, my flat feels especially cavernous. That’s usually how it is after I’ve hosted a visitor. Around New Year’s, I’m even more susceptible to feelings of isolation than most other moments.

My mind turns to my plans for New Year’s Eve; La Reveillon. After two years in a row, the novelty has faded of a quiet one at home in prayer and reflection over the past year. I miss the Watch Night services at my church in London. For some nebulous reason, my French church doesn’t organise any special festive services; neither on Christmas morning nor New Year’s Eve. Something to do with building regulations or noise control in a residential area.

I am aware of a predominantly African/Caribbean congregation also in the La Meinau vicinity. Some members of my church attend their activities. In the final days of December, it occurs to me to check their website for any NYE activity. Bingo. My spirits perk up at the thought of spending 31 December worshipping and praying with others; albeit in a room full of strangers. Once I am assured that there’ll be public transport to get me home, my mind is made up.

I wear my Sunday best and head out that frosty evening to The International Christian Centre. When I arrive I’m handed an envelope and a form. I ask what it’s for. A pointless question, really. I am already very familiar with this particular African Christian tradition of writing prayer requests ahead of the New Year. I haven’t been inclined for a good while, after too many disappointments. I take the form anyway and follow the ushers obediently to a seat at the far end of my room.

There's more diversity amongst those in attendance than expected, to be fair. I’m sat next to an especially disruptive family whose children (some of them old enough to know much better) can’t sit still. At least I can see a familiar face. Seated two rows in front, I spot Katie who attends some of the events at my regular church. She flirted with membership before settling at ICC. I can’t get her attention without disturbing others. I’ll eventually work up the nerve to ask someone to tap her on the shoulder. For now, I hope she turns around.

ICC’s HQ is in Paris but has several branches across the globe. The main NYE service is conducted remotely via live stream.

I’m apprehensive. I have had enough exposure to both the good and (too often) the bad of West African church custom to have given it a wide berth for a long time. I watch with scepticism a video update on an extremely ambitious building project. The pastors say the vision is Heaven sent. I can’t obviously attest either way to the veracity of such a claim. Nevertheless, I seriously ponder the wisdom of building a multiplex when, to my mind, there are other more effective ways those funds could be used to reach the Community for Christ.

I become even more wary when the senior pastor approaches that evening’s theme; Welcome to the Decade of Dominion. I brace myself for some variation on the prosperity Gospel; building the Kingdom of God a mere pretext for self-agrandissement. This proves to be a hasty and unfair judgement. The message is refreshingly even-handed. The pastor extols Christian virtues like selflessness and humility, adding these need to be demonstrated in whichever domain the Faithful find themselves. He speaks of the Holy Spirit equipping the church to help bring solutions to the big problems facing Society today. He eschews selfish ambition, insisting that it betrays spiritual immaturity. The message ends half an hour or so before midnight as we pray, sing and dance into the New Year. By then I have scribbled down some prayer requests and am galvanised by a strong sense of hope and purpose. The countdown arrives. I still can’t get Katie’s attention. I have no-one to embrace at midnight.

Never mind. Good riddance 2010s. I won’t miss ya. I allow myself some not-so-cautious optimism looking ahead to the 2020s.

Shortly after midnight, we are politely asked to leave as the welcome team prepare the hall for the second round of festivities, including food and entertainment. It’s scheduled to last long into the wee small hours.

A few of us seize the opportunity to go home, however. Katie has the same idea as does Stacee from my church, whom I bump into at the exit. As I'm deciding the best way to kill time before the next bus, Katie offers me a lift home. The conversation is in-depth for a relatively short car ride. We speak of our similar backgrounds (her family were part of a wave of migration from Ghana to France in the 70s and 80s, of which I was not aware before living in Strasbourg). She explains how she came to faith living in the UK. We speak about the short-comings and advantages of various church cultures as well as reflect on the past and forthcoming decade. At the cusp of her 30s, Katie considers her 20s to have been a preparation period.  She uses the oft-visited cocoon analogy. A wave of melancholy sweeps over me. Coming to the end of my 30s, I recall the sense of optimism I felt at the beginning; once I had overcome certain neuroses. Much of that is yet to be fulfilled. I open up, nonetheless trying not to dampen Katie's enthusiasm. I reassure her she’ll flourish as anticipated. Inshallah.

Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 2

Colmar @ Christmas

Part 1

I organise a day trip to Colmar the Monday before Christmas. Mum and I continue our nativity tour at Colmar Cathedral. The exhibition features a thousand and one variations of the famous Christian scene, made from almost every conceivable material. 

A sizeable portion of the day is spent at the Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi museum, housed in the celebrated sculptor's old family home.

Bartholdi is best known for being the mastermind behind the Statue of Liberty. However, he was also an incredibly prolific all- round artist whose oeuvre included oil paintings, watercolours as well as sculpture. Walking around the museum, I wonder if he ever slept. He also found the time to trot the globe and be involved in the abolitionist movement. His views on race relations were progressive for an upper-middle class 19^th Century gent.  Bartholdi had a fascination with the African form as evidenced from the City’s Bruat Fountain and other work. His depictions are stunning. 

We have some unexpected musical accompaniment to our tour thanks to a teenage brass band outside. They busk their way through seasonal favourites both sacred and secular.

We exit the museum after dark. Hunger has set in.  I have more I'd like to show mum but the hour to catch our coach back to Strasbourg is fast approaching. We line up for crêpes in the cold and rain for an inordinate amount of time at a stall that is busy and short-staffed. The manager appears to join her over-worked underling, only to make herself some Nutella-based pancakes and bugger off. Another employee takes that inopportune moment to have a fag-break in full view. His stressed colleague tells him testily to lend a hand.

Mum keeps changing her mind about what she wants which increases my irritation.

Crêpes finally made, we are prevented from eating them in the associated establishment by the now terse would-be fag-smoking employee, who has suddenly found his officious side.

But I was just about to order a drink. Which I was. My protests are to no avail. He makes up some excuse about preparing for the evening clientele. His pettiness makes me fume. We walk around grumpily looking for somewhere warm to eat our  crêpes. I order what turns out to be delicious hot chocolate at an Italian establishment. We eat our now cold purchases on the sly. Despite my bad mood, I guffaw at mum’s furtive munching; as if she’s a thief on the run.  There's no more stops to be made before home time. A possible meet up with Noëlle, an acquaintance who works in Colmar, comes to nothing.  Initially enthused, she texts to say she can't make it. Held up at the office. (I have a feeling it might have something to do with me asking her earlier to not incessantly correct my French).

Tuesday morning - Christmas eve-we take a Happy Tour of my favourite part of town, Petite France, in the cold and wet. The foul weather doesn’t diffuse the customary bonhomie of our trusty guide, Leo. We have a handful of last minute purchases to make before heading to Christmas Eve service at Robertsau Eglise. During a quick stop-off at my bank, I spot a former colleague outside. I call out to him and introduce him to mum.  She's your sister, surely? he marvels.  I ask if he has any plans to return to The Human Rights Organisation.  At the time I left, he had been on sick leave for a year. Having worked for THRO for a quarter century, he's now seriously playing with the idea of early retirement.

An elaborate, festive-themed window display:
Rue des Orfèvres, Strasbourg

The Robertsau parish stage an alternative nativity story. Angel Gabriel has offended an apparently gruff God and is swiftly replaced by Angel Marcelle. The junior cast trip over their long white gowns and predictably fluff some of their lines. A badly behaved child on our row takes the attention off my translating the service for mum. A twee, rather generic message follows about the light and joy of Christmas. Quite unlike the far more circumspect Christmas morning sermon by Pastor Rohan the following day. Between his message based on the first view verses of John 1-balancing realism with hope- and the holy communion, mum is quite overcome.

Christmas day afternoon is our first extended break since mum arrived. We’ve done much of the preparation for the main meal the day before. That doesn't stop mum from doing most of the cooking itself. She’s not one for catnaps. I, on the other hand, am exhausted. After my siesta I watch the overrated A Christmas Tale (Un Conte de Noel). Off to a promising start, it’s inevitably marred by infuriatingly capricious and under-developed female protagonists. It’s an all too typical observation of French fiction; both in visual and literary form.

That evening we tuck into lentil, coconut and sweet potato soup (yours truly), a bread selection, capon, beef, pastries, potatoes, brockley, mini mince pies and traditional iced yule log, whilst watching Netflix family drama A Marriage Story. With a richer and far more layered narrative, it compensates for the disappointment of Un Conte de Noel. Mum routinely comments on Adam Driver’s organic and emotive performance.

On Thursday, I invite Gustavo and his girlfriend Raphaëlle for Boxing Day lunch. My mother offers a polite and friendly welcome before making herself scarce. Although the two have a decent level of English, mum doesn’t want me to feel obligated to translate when it falters.

Biscuits, cheese, casserole and assorted desserts are on the menu. Yet Raphaëlle and her fellow are selective eaters. Gustavo is picky and she doesn’t like the texture of meat. They should have warned me ahead of time, I insist, I could have adapted.

Not to worry, Raphaëlle replies. If we were to give you a list of our dietary requirements, we wouldn’t eat at all.

They’re an impressive young couple. Mature, well-informed and politically astute. Our conversation covers a lot of ground. There’s hope for the future with folk like this in it. They depart at twilight.

Following our hectic but enjoyable Christmas schedule, mum is content not to go out at all. By contrast, I need to expose myself to the elements at least once a day. I go for a brisk evening walk in the chill.

Inside Notre Dame Cathedral, Strasbourg

Friday. Just over a week since mum arrived for her festive visit. The way time flies never ceases to surprise me. Both of us try to resist an encroaching melancholy. I already find it hard to keep my spirits up over the New Year period. I avoid thinking too much about what it’ll be like after my mother returns to the UK.

For the last full day of her Christmas excursion, I’ve organised a visit to Strasbourg Notre Dame cathedral. It’ll be mum’s first time indoors. As much as I’m beguiled by the exterior, I avoid going inside most of the year. It’s too eerie.

The Cathedral’s customary sombre décor is nevertheless enlivened by this year’s seemingly rejuvenated Nativity scene.  Once more,  I leave mum in the evening to attend rehearsal for a Christmas spectacle that weekend, taking place after she jets off. It will involve several choirs including my own, the High Rock Gospel Singers. It’s a chaotic run-through. Pastor Richard continues with his unintentionally hilarious, pomp-filled antics. One soul-stirring chorus is conducted by the rhythmically-challenged director of a Mauritian chorale. Between following his spasmodic non-directions and being told we need to convey the simple but moving lyrics with more passion, it is like a mental assault course.

The concert will nevertheless be a source of well-timed distraction after seeing mum off at Etoile Bourse coach station that Saturday. I don’t have too much time to feel her absence that evening. It'll kick in later.

The next day we catch up on the phone. After her safe arrival back in Blighty the night before, Mum’s enjoying a relaxed Sunday (visit to the gym notwithstanding). She’s in good spirits despite having to be back at work the next morning. She spent some of the journey back to Sydenham re-watching the clips she filmed on her phone during the holiday. The transit time evaporated, she exclaims. 

We reflect once more on how splendid and stress-free her trip was, give or take the odd strop on my part.

Later that night, on the way back from the bathroom I’ll hesitate at the top of the stairs. For a brief moment I am mentally comforted by the thought of my mum sleeping in the living room. Just as quickly, I remember I’m on my own again.

Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 1

(routard.com)

A week before Christmas, I collect my mum from Gare Centrale. She has been fortunate to catch one of the intermittent trains from St. Louis during the ongoing strike action.

It’s my third Strasbourg Noel. Despite her numerous visits, this will be my mother’s first in the 'Capital of Christmas'. Seeing this is most likely the last December that I’ll be based in Alsace, I have a full itinerary planned. I want mum to experience all the things that make Christmas in Strasbourg special for me. I hope to squeeze in some of the sights I haven’t had a chance to show her before.

The day of mum’s arrival, I run around putting the finishing touches to a warm Yuletide welcome.  I illuminate the decorations for the first time since putting them up.

I arrive at the station a few minutes later than scheduled but still in good time. Mum's in high spirits; relieved to be away from the post-election turmoil and recrimination.

At home we unpack her laden suitcases. Any guilt over my list of special requests soon evaporates. Mum’s heavy cargo is mostly her own doing; bringing a bounty of treats for which I have not asked. I knew very well she might improvise. I tell her off for being an enabler and insist she takes a good portion back with her. Still, it’s a relief to see my almost bare cupboards filling up.

On the first full day of her trip, we make our way to Kehl. Having had to wait all morning and half-the afternoon for my water meter to be read, by the time we leave it’s a mad dash. We hope to make it ahead of the last minute Christmas rush. On arriving, it’s clear others have had the same idea.

Thanks to mum’s UK haul, we don’t have too much to worry about on the food front. The most important item would be the capon; proving somewhat elusive on that side of the German border. Back on the French side, my local butchers don’t give any assurances it’ll arrive before Christmas Eve.

I can’t worry about that now. I am already running late for the last street outreach session of the year. That evening we’re joined by Luc, one of the founding members of the team. It’s his first outreach since he married in the summer. The girls are delighted for him. Sherrie, originally from Nigeria, is especially pleased. You’re a man now, no longer a boy!

The women receive our festive treats eagerly; even those who claim not to have much of a sweet-tooth.  Pull the other one. Luc chides.

By the time the session is over and we’ve done a lengthy debrief in the cold, group-leader and co-founder Sabrina drops me off long after midnight. I warn mum ahead of time that I’ll be back late and she should eat dinner without me. She waits up all the same.

That weekend is dedicated to showing her Strasbourg in its full Christmas splendour; best seen after nightfall. I’m in a good mood after spotting some bargain capon and picking up mum’s gift for a steal during the morning shop. We set off late afternoon with a view to catch the live nativity in the vicinity of the cathedral before attending a carol service at Temple Neuf. La Creche Vivante plays in quarter-hourly loops. The cast is comprised of adult volunteers, children of the parish and real life sheep. We glimpse the final scenes, after the angels have appeared to the pint-sized cherubs. I’m pleasantly surprised to see Mary played by an African/Caribbean woman with dewy skin. She has the patient, beatific smile down to a tee. Too bad her pale baby doll bears no resemblance. Must take after the robust-sized Joseph by her side.

By the time we reach Temple Neuf, there’s no more room at the inn. We’re turned away by the austere pastor’s assistant (he and I have a little bit of beef from a while back). Hanging outside in vain, I hear someone call my name. Gloria from my church translation team has also made a fruitless trip with a friend to the Temple for a Christmas sing-along.

The truncated itinerary is a blessing in disguise, giving us more time to catch the Christmas sights and sounds. Mum and I head back to the Live Nativity to watch some of the elements we’ve previously missed. Some of the young cast have been replaced to give the others reprieve. One impish little shepherd is having trouble controlling her excitement. The director doesn’t look amused. Neither do the sheep.

We take in much of the length and breadth of Strasbourg bathed in Christmas glory.  My mother’s eyes are aglow as we stroll down the usually quiet Rue des Orfèvres; now overflowing with human traffic. We stand underneath the colossal Christmas tree in Place Kleber. The giant baubles change colour at indeterminate intervals. From green to jade. The last time I saw them they were purple. We wait several minutes for this violet transition before giving up to make our way to Krutenau. We plan to surprise my friend Gael at his Afro-blend café. On entering I bump into Gael’s sister, Claudette for the second time in the space of a week; her daughter in tow. We have met by chance at a supermarket the weekend before. Gael and mum exchange warm salutations. We both comment on his weight loss.

Live Nativity (photos-alsace-lorraine.com)

Claudette is expecting some friends, themselves formerly in the catering business. Once they arrive she orders multiple sample dishes and is generous with their distribution. For our part mum and I order delicious beef-based dishes, multiple rounds of the crepe-like Kenyan chapatti and shito sauce. Gael even convinces head chef (his mother) to make the finely-ground caramelised peanut brittle I adore, just for me. Towards the end of the evening I enter a heated discussion with Claudette and friends about the current strike action taking place across France. They appear to be rather Let them eat cake about the affair; more worried over the understandable short term inconvenience than the long-term stakes. In addition, they confound the violent anarchist elements of the Gilets Jaunes with the legitimate concerns of the trade unions over Macron’s proposed retirement reforms. As I passionately defend the union’s cause, mum glances from face to face, head turning as if at a tennis match. I just knew you were talking about politics, she shares after we leave. She believes I should have toned it down. I am a tad defensive, feeling conflicted. I don't like to leave on an awkward note. Yet, I feel it's important to present a different perspective to those otherwise seemingly too removed from the struggle to empathise.

The Sunday before Christmas, mum accompanies me to church. She’s a hit with some of the members yet to be of her acquaintance. Isn't she pretty? one of them admires. Indeed she is, I reply; not for the first time in life vicariously enjoying the compliment on mum's behalf.  After the service I take her to St Aloysius church in Neudorf to admire the epic nativity scene; spanning cultures and millennia. Mum is duly fascinated, filming the display from every feasible angle. In the evening she entertains herself with another epic; Martin Scorcese’s The Irishman. I can’t really commit. Mum’s much more a fan of mafioso drama than I’ve ever been.

Low Season, High Season

Demonstrations in France against Macron's proposed retirement reforms
(connexionfrance.com)

The weeks leading up to Christmas are a bewildering blur of joy and pain.

Anxiety about the UK General Election is punctuated with moments of hope, only to be dashed by a heartbreaking outcome. Still, hope lives on. I am comforted by the sympathetic reaction from friend and fellow HRGS soprano, Michelle at a rehearsal the day after the result. I have willed myself out of the flat. It’ll be far too glum staying indoors.

Michelle has kept abreast of the news from Blighty. Believing the Brits to be conservative by nature, she’s not so much shocked by a Tory win but by how much. She tells me not to worry about Boris in the long term. The clown will go back to the circus, she quips.  (The crown analogy is misleadingly innocuous, I warn.)

Michelle also points to the success of the recent strikes across France in protest of Macron’s unpopular proposed retirement reforms. The trade unions have been revived thanks to this wave of industrial action, she explains. All is not lost.

A few days later, I briefly join trade unionist chum, Catarina and comrades on the picket line in central Strasbourg. The initial plan is to meet up for a hot beverage after I attend a careers fair near her office. When she informs me she’s on strike and intends to join the demonstrations in the city centre, I wonder why it hasn’t yet occurred to me to lend my support. Vive la solidarité ! At least the French put up a fight, I tell my francophone acquaintances. I am frustrated by what seems to be the docile acceptance by too many Brits of detrimental policies.

It’s my first time demonstrating in France. Red smoke bombs are let off. The sound of hand-held sirens give the march an eerie urgency. Many establishments are closed in solidarity, including my usual post-work haunt, the Malraux Médiathèque.

Elsewhere, the Strasbourg Christmas frenzy continues as normal. The decorations seem even more enchanting this year. The world-famous Christmas market still disrupts life in the centre of town.

The suffusion of light isn’t the only thing to gladden my heart amidst the grim weather and political climate. I meet up with my Guardian Angel, Gordon; a former THRO colleague. He treats me to a smoothie and uplifting conversation one lunch time. There’s been a lot of changes at The Organisation in the relatively short time since I left, according to other former colleagues. I can’t help but feel a little vindicated on the news that one of the problematic managers has been ‘reassigned’. I hope that isn’t vindictive, I ask Gordon. No, he reassures, it's understandable. A thoughtful and sweet-natured individual, he’s exactly what THRO needs but somehow still manages to be too good for them.

I have more special festive dinners than I know what to do with. It takes some strategic manoeuvring and disciplined day time eating to make room for it all. I skip out on at least one.

Thanks to my church house group, I have my first ever traditional raclette experience. About blinkin' time.

It’s the Alsatian equivalent of fondue. Regional cheese is melted on a grill and consumed with potatoes, sliced meat preservatives, salad and whatever else is at hand. I’m a little uneasy at first. Being one of the few foreigners and unfamiliar with the raclette set-up, the group leaders regularly ask for feedback. It makes me even more self-conscious. I’m still not entirely at ease in certain Francophone social settings. Small talk is no less of a chore. It takes me a while to unwind but relax I do; no small thanks to the warm welcome from Cape Verdean, Magda and her lovely family. She encourages my efforts to speak Portuguese. I spend much of the evening chasing her curmudgeonly toddler for a cuddle.

My choir also organise an end of year social. One Sunday evening we gather for a buffet at a capacious Chinese restaurant a stone’s throw from my church in La Meinau. En route, I greet some of the Girls waiting for clients. I recognise them from previous outings with the street outreach team.

The dinner is a rather raucous affair, particularly where the choir directors are seated. Their rambunctious chat and laughter startles star soprano, Nicole’s baby girl. The usually placid tot bursts into tears. A little FOMA starts to niggle. My mood is tempered by an earlier sartorial mishap that forced me to swap outfits. I’m not entirely comfortable in my replacement wear. The food selection is respectable. Psychologically however, I can no longer bring myself to eat to bursting as I once would have done at such establishments. As I settle in, chorister Elisabeth asks about my future plans. I explain that I’ve postponed my departure for a month or two. She says I’ll be missed. She has observed I’m breezier and more at home in my skin. I’ve come into my own. I explain that I’m not shy by nature; or at least only in limited contexts. It’s just I still feel like an imposter speaking French. I’m not as quick off the mark as I’d be in English.

Le Palais de la Meinau, Strasbourg

I greatly appreciate her words of support, nonetheless. Leaving HRGS behind might well be the hardest aspect of moving on. It’s been an integral part of my Strasbourg experience and, without a shadow of a doubt, the source of most of my happiest memories here.

The following week alone I participate in two choir-related activities; a memorial service for the victims of last year’s Christmas market terrorism and a charity event for a young man, Lazare, who has been in a coma for over a year. It’s a joyous occasion in spite of the circumstances. More precious memories made on and off stage. Musical director Kiasi meets his match when he calls on Sylvestre, Lazare’s football coach, to help him lead an audience participation segment. He is a natural entertainer who knows how to work the crowd. I can’t sing for laughing. It’s forever refreshing to see a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Soundtrack: The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker, Christmas mix (various artists)

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The weekend following the HRGS recording session will also be musically-inclined. But first, I attend the long-awaited opening of the Afro-blend themed bar of Strasbourg BFF, Gael. Following months of uncertainty and construction hitches, Jabiru is open for business. The official launch party is scheduled in the new year. For now, it’s an informal gathering of choice acquaintances alongside passing clientele.

I’m one of the first to arrive.

 A partition made from traditional wax cloth opens into bright surroundings. Drink crates covered with more ornate wax cloth have been converted into seats. The walls are decorated with Asante Adinkra symbols alongside their French, English and German translations.

I comment on Gael’s weight loss. He’s gym-honed bod has diminished to simple leanness. I blame the pre-opening stress.

I fear I might be over-dressed for the occasion. A couple of male punters give me the eye, including an older gentleman whom I at first believe is Gael’s dad. Both refute it.

But I’m not black, says the older man. I point out that Gael is of mixed-heritage.

This does not dissuade the elderly lothario. I’m polite but try as much as possible to focus on the novel I'm reading, the Afro-blend snacks I ordered or speaking to Gael’s mature, pre-adolescent niece.

Aperitifs are scheduled for half-7 but I won’t hang around. I have choir practice that evening. I make an early exit feeling too conspicuous sitting on my own. There’s only so much Gael can entertain me in between taking orders. I settle the bill and promise I’ll be back very soon.

I’m a woman of my word. The next day I introduce Afropean acquaintance, Zainab to Jabiru. We met several months previously in one of those random, pleasant moments of happen-stance.

Zainab is impressed by the café's chic interior design and ambiance. I order a couple of helpings of a hard, caramelised snack that I've fallen in love with. She's less enthused.

I have plans for an early night ahead of a busy Sunday. Zainab nonetheless insists I join her for an evening of carols organised by a French Caribbean association. I’ve run out of excuses. It’s only a hop and a skip away.

We arrive at St Madeleine church tucked away in a secluded corner of the city. The main hall is buzzing with activity. Zainab introduces me to her acquaintances. 'She is anglophone' or 'she speaks English'. Between this needless (I hope) additional info and her regular correction of my French, I have the impression she's unconsciously embarrassed for-or by- me. We'll have to speak about it but not now.

The atmosphere is convivial.  It will be one of the most informal carol services I’ve attended. Snacks and vol-au-vents are circulated. Hymn books are distributed for those who wish to join in. A motley crew of singers gather on the makeshift stage. I spot one of the recent recruits to HRGS amongst them. We exchange les bises.

You’re a busy bee!

Most of those in attendance talk over the singing. I speak to a couple of Zainab's friends about the purported (not-always-so) friendly rivalry between their respective islands; Guadeloupe and Martinique. They assure me that it's mostly jest and deep down there's much solidarity, especially amongst the first wave of migrants to France.  I make a gamely effort to keep up with the singing, unfamiliar as I am with the vast majority of the selections. I’m nevertheless heartened by the unadulterated references to the Christian themes of the season. It’s a refreshing break from all the Black Friday, pre-festive commercialism. Advent is barely under way and it’s already feeling like my most authentic Christmas experience in Strasbourg. 

Wolfisheim Christmas market

There’s more French Yuletide cheer at church the following morning. A specially-invited troupe take over proceedings for their own interactive spin on the Nativity. It’s a bit chaotic as these ‘family services’ tend to be. On the other hand, my French church isn't given to much festive themed music. It's a welcome change.  I wasn’t well-acquainted with the francophone version of O Come All Ye Faithful, for instance. For the second time that weekend I find myself singing the French equivalent of one of my holiday favourites, Angels We Have Heard on High.

My first weekend of advent concludes with a HRGS gig at a modest Christmas market in Wolfisheim; a village in the Alsatian environs. It’s brass-monkey cold and we’re expected to perform outside. The venue resembles a cross between a fortress and a barn, transformed into an enchanted castle by the Christmas illumination. The performance is dodgy. We sounded better in rehearsals. Co-director Evan pitches us too high a couple of times, throwing off some of the choristers. As usual we have too few male singers present and performing outside brings with it challenges. Yet as is normally the case with HRGS, we enjoy ourselves all the same. More beautiful memories are made drinking our complimentary hot drinks and munching crepes under giant fairy lights.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker

No Time to Play...Well, Maybe a Little

Downtown studios, Strasbourg.

Strasbourg-aka the Capital of Christmas-is in full festive swing from late November. The landscape is barely clear, if at all, of its majestic autumnal display.  Yet winter has made a head start with the biting temperatures. Across the city, various fixtures, lamp-posts and trees light up with some of the prettiest Christmas décor you’re likely to see.

I’m continuing my in-between job schedule of studying, searching for work and appointments with municipal employment agencies. Somehow I also find time for church activities, writing workshops, meet-ups with chums, telephone conferences on UK GE campaign strategy and, of course, choral events. After a tame start to the Rentrée on the performance front, the High Rock Gospel Singers’ diary has suddenly become quite active.

On the last Sunday of the month, the choir directors book an all-day session at a studio in an obscure location not too far from the central station. I’m still a relative recording novice. It’s been a decade or two since I was last in the booth. We gather in front of the cave-like establishment on a chilly weekend morning. I've hitched a lift with a kindly alto.  The choristers turn up in full force except, as usual, for the men. The idea is for this recording session to be a test run for the album. Instead of trying to knock out a track during an intense afternoon session, the administrative team thought it would be more productive if we take our time over the course of a day. It turns out to be a fruitful gamble.

To our astonishment, the studio is far more modern and inviting than its less than prepossessing exterior. (It's to discourage thieves, according to the proprietor) The spacious brick and wood-panelled surroundings would be an ideal setting for a making-of documentary. I expect the establishment to be presided over by a young-ish fellow of African-descent. Instead we’re greeted by an ageing Frenchman, not nearly as curmudgeonly as first impressions suggest.

The day begins with some relaxed warm-ups. We then proceed to record a Gospel medley – chosen for its relative ease and familiarity. I also happen to sing the opening solo. We begin by attempting to record the bulk of the track separately according to harmonies; sopranos and altos together, then tenors and the solitary bass on his own. We discover by chance however, that the sound is richer and more cohesive when the first three registers record in the same room. This aspect of the recording is far less painful than anticipated.

It’s time for lunch. I abstain from the specially-ordered sandwiches, hoarding mine for later. A baguette won’t go down well with my vocals.

It takes a while for me to unwind during my solo. Although I have a booth all to myself, I am overly-aware of the other choristers listening in the main mixing room. The directors sense tension in my voice. They give me some pointers to help me relax ‘Take all the time you need...try and be a vehicle for the lyrics...think of Whitney...’

Chief soprano and occasional choir director Nicole, gives me a measured but supportive pep talk. By the time other members start adding their two pence however, I’m overwhelmed and a tad peeved. I remain polite; maybe more so because it would be hard to get the nuance of my feelings across in French without sounding curt.

I mention my self-consciousness around the rest of the choir. The directors ask them to clear the room. I further suggest it would help me to relax if I sang whilst lying down. The engineer graciously adjusts the microphone and equipment. He adds some reverb to set the mood. After a few takes, just as I begin to get the hang of it, I’m summonsed to the mixing room. The choristers are called back in. The directors are happy with some of my rough drafts. Very rough to my mind. Left to my own devices I would do a couple more takes.

The rest of the choir are effusive with praise. My British-influenced unease with compliments rubs up against my vanity.

There’s more trial and error recording the medley intro. We experiment with various configurations. Finally, each register is whittled down to a handful of vocalists to ensure a better blend. It’s the first time in the day a hint of demoralisation sets in. Choir director, Kiasi is a little cranky. The team decide to cut their losses with the best take of the bunch.

It's been a long day. Just after 5pm, most of the choir are released into the late autumn evening. A few of us stay behind for the finishing flourishes. Kiasi and Evan record some killer ad-libs in a handful of takes; like a couple of seasoned pros. My improv goes down well. So well that Kiasi sings it back to me in a voicemail later that evening.

But it’s the same-ol, same-ol ad-lib I always do!

Before leaving we listen back to the days efforts, as we have been doing periodically. Nicole and the boys pick up on a quarter-tone’s difference between the intro and the main medley. It’s difficult to know how we missed it. We routinely checked for pitch.

A few weary expletives fly around. The engineer reassures us it can be adjusted in the final mix. We manage to wrap everything up by early evening. Despite some of the tuning issues, we’ve had a blast.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker