Arrested Activity

I hesitated over whether it was worth updating this blog for the time being. I, like most of the world, am under some form of house arrest in an effort to slow down the spread of the COVID-19 virus. It’s not as if much of the novel and unexpected can occur in these circumstances.

In many ways my routine is similar to what it was before the pandemic. I have been in between jobs. I continue to look for employment – albeit even more of a challenge in this climate- and work on personal development. The difference is I can't do the same extra-curricular activities to help shift perspective if and when I feel overwhelmed. When people ask how I am, I'd rather not respond. If pushed, I’ll say I’m taking a day at a time. It depends. Some days are better than others, I admit. I imagine most would agree.

The mismanagement of the crisis across the Channel and elsewhere only heightens my stress levels. On the phone, my mother recounts stories of individuals still flouting the relatively relaxed UK lockdown recommendations.

Hardly surprising given the mixed messages from the top. Mum is still obligated to go into the office, given the nature of her civil service department. She’s accosted by (sometimes overzealous) police one day, and told she needs to have an exemption form on her person. 

That’s been the reality in France now for weeks. Not having a printer, I carry my handwritten version of the required permission slip everywhere. Oddly enough, I’m yet to be stopped. I endeavour to make the most of the one hour of daily exercise allowed, under ever stricter rules of confinement. The weather has been mercifully fine. A source of comfort and ruefulness given that it can’t be enjoyed in the same way.

I look forward to the weekly shop, being a chance to get out into the elements. Mid-week mornings are sane and the foot traffic isn’t heavy-except in the lead up to Easter. I'm surprised by the relative serenity of one budget supermarket in town. Whilst in the dairy section, I hear a young woman cough. I lock eyes with a man nearby on his phone; a mutual look of dread. Then, in a flash, we burst out laughing. No words needed for the absurdity of this new reality.

The following week, it is less relaxed. When trying to return an item for which I’ve requested a refund, the previously civil cashier becomes terse. Seeing that I’ll have to walk past him, an elderly man belligerently asks me where I’m heading. I try to explain in gabbled French, caught off guard. I implore him to be kind in spite of the tense situation we all find ourselves in. He ignores me.

Going out now feels like a mixed blessing. I noted at first that the ambiance was distinctly more hostile if I stayed in my vicinity. Whilst lining up outside one supermarket a masked woman behind me, already at a safe distance, leans back with exaggerated wariness when I turn around. Her behaviour is especially bizarre given that I have not moved closer. More so since, standing behind me, it is for her to determine whether there's sufficient distance between us. Her behaviour is similarly irrational whilst inside the shop. It makes me irritable. I question her mental state.

It’s indicative of the sour mood enveloping society as the health crisis stretches into spring. Admittedly, it’s the older population who have been most uncharitable. Understandable, given their mortality rate is higher if infected, yet not entirely excusable.

It would be unfair however to claim it’s just the elderly who are more dog-eat-dog these days. In one supermarket, a beleaguered young shop assistant gives a customer a death look when she squeezes past him. She’s impatient but doesn’t seem unkind. She should have waited or asked to be excused. He should have been more conscious of his surroundings. 

I can’t blame those who are forced to keep civilisation going during the pandemic if they are not full of bonhomie. It can be a thankless job. I try to be more expressive of my gratitude to the medical staff, shop assistants, security guards and cleaners who are potentially putting theirs and their families health in jeopardy to run essential services. They would say they have no choice. Still, credit where it’s due. That’s why I endeavour never to miss the daily 8pm salute; pot and spoon or carnival whistle at the ready.

The lockdown has had an effect on other essentials. My local La Poste has closed like many others. A package that needs my signature is delivered the one morning in the week I am not available. I am redirected to a central post office. My heart sinks when I see the queue. Only very few customers are allowed in at a time. This new system seems illogical. Not only is it more inefficient, it requires more people to gather in the same space at the same time. Surely what we're trying to avoid.

Whilst lining up, I notice a homeless man join the queue, not wholly concerned about social distancing. I am ashamed of my own wary (over)reaction. I recognise that he is more likely to be exposed to the virus than most. At the same time, I do not wish to dehumanise him. 

After having waited for three quarters of an hour, the friendly cashier explains said package has been returned to the distribution office and might be delivered the following week. (I'm still waiting). Having missed my bus, which only comes once or twice an hour during lockdown, I have time to kill. I decide to call friend and fellow chorister, Michelle. She’s been checking in on me regularly.  Ever accommodating, she takes a pause from WFH to chat. 

It's a tough week. That weekend I learn the news that not only has Keir Starmer predictably won the British Labour Party leadership election (by a surprising margin), but the centre-right have made significant gains in regards to the overall party machine. I am quite distraught; still trying to make sense of it all. 

Add to that a few disappointing responses on the work front. I also receive a rejection email for a literary competition I entered for the third year in a row. I thought I'd be more philosophical about it this time. Obviously not. This comparative trifle triggers a meltdown. I’m surprised it’s taken this long. I’ve spent weeks trying not to dwell on all the demoralising things in my life and the outside world. For sanity’s sake, I don’t immerse myself in Coronavirus news; only catching up on headlines on average once or twice a day.

I’ve nevertheless felt another wave of melancholy mounting. After some delay, it comes crashing down with a vengeance. I’m an incoherent, blubbering mess. I cancel a Zoom call with a friend from my UK church. We’re good friends but not bosom buddies. It would be a bit much to howl down the phone. I’m not really in a talking mood either. For once.

Some days are better than others.

Now more than ever it’s the not-so-small mercies that count. Despite the mounting death toll, friends, family and acquaintances are safe and well. Some are even in recovery. I learn through a prayer meeting on Zoom, of a 92 year old grandparent who is on the mend after contracting COVID-19. Similarly, other testimonies of answered prayers pepper these daily meetings. Thank God. I marvel at the strength of Jeanne; a friend from my Strasbourg church community. She continues to post edifying content online, in spite of losing her grandmother to the wretched virus.

Living by myself comes with its challenges. On the other hand, there's no one around to get on my nerves. In some ways I feel more connected than ever. Faithful friends have been looking out for me from a distance.  I am able to partake in events spiritual (meditation, prayer groups), political (grassroots campaigns and knowledge sharing) and musical (Speakeasy's online DJ dance party) that geographical distance would have once precluded.  

I’m catching up with friends after months of radio silence. It’s a time to bury the hatchet. The olive branch has been extended both ways a number of times. Sadly, it's not always been accepted. More often than not, it has.

For every crushing disappointment in and around this crisis, there’s a scintilla of hope. As an arm against cynicism, despair and a way of keeping faith alive, it’s pretty much all we have now.

A Happy Resurrection Weekend to all.

Sign of the Times: Part 1

‘...Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit”; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.”…But as it is, you boast [falsely] in your presumption and your self-conceit. All such boasting is wrong. ’

James 4:13-16 (NKJV + AMP)


‘God willing’...’By God’s grace’...’Par la grâce de Dieu’...’Se Deus quiser’. Anyone with whom I’m reasonably acquainted would have heard me utter some variation of the above or sign off a text. It’s become a running joke with one friend in particular. He often responds ‘God does want it, so it will happen’.

It’s akin to a verbal tick. Africans and Caribbeans who have grown up within a Judaeo-Christian context would not be strangers to the habit. Some cultures are more familiar with the precarity of life than others. Similar to the Inshallah of Arabic/Islamic cultures, it’s a recognition that even the simplest plans aren’t guaranteed realisation. It’s not supposed to be an act of superstition “just say these words and nothing bad will happen” (although sometimes it unwittingly veers towards that.) It’s meant instead to be a humble acknowledgement that life is fragile. Every day a gift.

These utterances have greater salience now during the existential crisis humanity is currently facing.

In the wake of the COVID-19 or Coronavirus pandemic, the collocation of the words ‘unprecedented’, ‘crazy’, ‘mad’,'extraordinary', ‘strange’,’bizarre’,’frightening’… and ‘times’ have become grim clichés.

As I write these words, I am sitting in a quiet residential corner of Eastern France, close to the German border. Like the other 64 million-odd inhabitants of the country, I am on heavy lockdown. Following a recent national address by President Emmanuel Macron, we are under strict orders to only leave our homes for ‘essentials’; necessary food shopping, medical appointments and limited physical exercise for example. Visiting family and friends is prohibited bar a few exceptions. We are to venture outdoors with a signed and dated government-issued form or face a fine of up to €135. These measures are projected to be in place until at least the end of March. Places of worship, libraries, cafés, restaurants and most shops had already been obligated to close their doors until further notice. Weddings, baptisms and other rites are suspended, funerals restricted to brief grave yard ceremonies.

Like some of its other European neighbours, France has closed its borders for a month, with possibility of extension. The country is surrounded by the states most affected by the crisis on the Continent, alternating positions with Germany as the third worst hit after Italy and Spain. A planned visit to the UK was indefinitely postponed as a result. A blessing in disguise. By all accounts, cities across the Channel are turning into ghost towns. In the face of the Johnson government’s comparatively sluggish, apparently economically-motivated response, organisations and individuals have been using their discretion. Even if I’d somehow made it over to the UK before the borders shut, it would have been nigh on impossible to do anything or see anyone.

Globally, things have escalated so rapidly that it's enough for an Oscar-winning actor , returning from a fortnight's remote retreat, to be out of the loop.

At the start of the COVID-19 outbreak and for the ensuing months I maintained what I thought was a healthy scepticism. Bad news sells, I reasoned. It was in the interest of media outlets to sensationalise. After all, the flu can claim up to well over half a million lives a year. If I paid any mind, I too would succumb to panic and paranoia. Having mostly afflicted the Far East, it was somewhat abstracted; even with my sister living in Japan-not trusting the statistics put out by Shinzo Abe's government.

 I didn’t remain glued to the numerous news updates on the evolution of the disease, even as the confirmed cases soared and moved geographically closer. For a time, I paid more attention to the twists and turns of the hopeful, then ultimately frustrating, US Democrat race to select a presidential candidate.

I tried to ignore the ominous, ever-spiralling statistics. For weeks, I drew guilty and perverse comfort from knowing that most victims were elderly and/or already of fragile health.

I am inevitably drawn out of this self-imposed bubble after the ramifications spread closer to home. I am at a gathering of street outreach volunteers when I hear that a church in Greater Alsace has experienced a major COVID-19 outbreak. My own church starts to take precautionary measures. Public health posters near the entrance and a compulsory squirt of hand sanitiser at the door. I still maintain it is all a bit too much.

There remains some morbid humour about it; perhaps as a means of staving off the dread. I hear jokes about having Coronavirus when someone coughs or closes in to give the bise. Eventually, the more physical contact is discouraged, the jokes centre around fist-bumps and finally, not making contact at all.

My church takes the pre-emptive step of suspending all gatherings within its four walls and moving services online. Members are informed that there have been dozens of cases in our midst, some hospitalised. As the French government’s measures become more severe, the pastoral team put a halt to even small group meetings at home.

I notice music venues are emptier. That is, if the gigs happen at all. At one of the last events I attend before the total lockdown, the bandleader thanks the audience for showing up. Life has become very hard for musicians, he explains.

=
Still, I am determined to hold onto a semblance of normality. When a friend cancels a meet-up because of her COVID-19 related fears, I am irate. It is the latest in a long list of flimsy excuses for being a no-show. She’s a former colleague. She still works at the large-scale international NGO where we met. I hear that the Organisation has all but ceased activity in light of the health crisis. You have more chance of catching it at the office than a café, I tersely remind her.

An evening out with an acquaintance becomes awkward as soon as I mention I have a cold. He eyes me as if I were a suicide bomber. I attempt unsuccessfully to move the conversation away from the virus. He is stockpiling for Armageddon, he tells me, with only a little irony. 

I, on the other hand, have not been stockpiling. Currently in between jobs, I have a tighter budget to consider. Neither do I observe the shopping frenzy this side of the Channel that I’ve been hearing about in the UK. With the exception of less hand sanitiser and wipes on both sides of the Franco-German border; even with buying quotas imposed. My local chemist sells sanitiser at exorbitant prices. I discover this whilst on the hunt for masks which, I am promptly told, have been requisitioned by the French government for front-line medical staff.

As the situation in neighbouring Italy continues to rapidly deteriorate, I contact my acquaintances with a link to the country to ask after their families.

Meanwhile, I have been struggling with cabin fever, long before the lockdown. Months of uncertainty over my employment status have taken chunks out of my morale. I have had a head start on the post-COVID-19 economic instability that sadly now confronts many.

I enjoy my own company but I am a social animal. I fill my days with as much activity as possible but miss the consistent interaction of the workplace. The light depression I’ve experienced a number of times since relocating, begins to creep around the edges once again. I’m tearful for days at a time. The task of job hunting starts to overwhelm me.

I have outlets at least, like a community Gospel choir, church, volunteering, occasionally meeting up with friends. The Médiathèque in central Strasbourg is a sunlit sanctum; an alternative space to write and study.

One by one, these lifelines disappear within a couple of weeks. The virus’ impact on the French Grand Est region has been especially hard. The Prefecture clamps down before Central government does. Libraries are closed, as are arts and culture venues. The choir's administration team decide to indefinitely postpone rehearsals. I stay connected with church through Sunday morning livestreams.

At that moment, my planned trip to the UK becomes a distant beacon of respite from the solitude. I am even more preoccupied than usual about the details of the visit. If friends are slow to respond, it makes me disproportionately anxious.


The night before I am due to leave, I receive a cancellation email from the coach company. Another journey is suggested which I am unable to reserve. The system is in freefall. I have a mini meltdown. For the past week, this trip has been the one thing to keep the melancholy at bay. I have to escape.

It’s around midnight. I call my mum, shaking and crying. She keeps her sang-froid, calmly telling me to persist. If I can’t re-book now, I can try later. Suddenly, there’s a system breakthrough. I manage to reserve a journey a day after the original. Less reassuring, I am sent two tickets for two different itineraries.

The next morning I break out of self-isolation to print my ticket at the Post Office; one of the few places still operational. Whilst getting ready, I listen to reports on BBC World Service Africa.

It’s been encouraging to hear of so few confirmed cases on the African Continent so far. I had hoped citizens had not capitulated to the hysteria. But no. Panic buying occurs in countries whose confirmed cases are still only in the single digits. Ethiopia, Tanzania and Ghana close schools days before the more-at-risk UK population are instructed to do the same. Kenya’s Catholic churches no longer use holy water. Holy Communion is adapted to avoid contamination. South Africa, the hardest hit on the Continent, instates a wide-ranging travel ban. 

Later that morning, there’s a queue when I arrive at the Post Office. Only five customers allowed at a time. A staff member stands by the door, controlling it with a remote. It reminds me of the ‘two schoolchildren’ in some British newsagents.

As usual, the PO's printer doesn’t recognise my USB (although still takes my money). It would have been a wasted trip except for bumping into a former colleague en route. It’s through him that I hear the rumour of a heavier lockdown.

Earlier that morning, I had another meltdown over my forthcoming UK trip. Slowly but surely however, I start to make my peace about not going. I’ve had a stubborn cough for nearly a couple of weeks. An older friend with a history of heart problems asks me if it’s safe to visit. I reassure him as much as I can but I too have my doubts.

I pray the final decision is taken out of my hands. I don’t trust myself to make the right choice.

On the way back from the Post Office I take a detour to a local Catholic church. I don’t care about the denomination. I just need tranquillity. It might be the last time I have the opportunity before the major lockdown. The building is calm; modern and inviting.  I notice the holy water fonts are inaccessible, as in other parts of the world. It’s blissful inside, even if my thoughts are not.

I pass a woman on the way out. It turns into a spontaneous moment of solidarity; both of us admitting our initial incredulity, since turning into anxiety over the unknown.

We don’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I leave without knowing her name. I do thank her for the warm interaction. It helps me come to terms with this new reality. Thank God for faith.

(This post also features on my I Was Just Thinking blog)

Part 2

Cabin Fever

(courtesy of Houstonia magazine)

I routinely daydream about smashing things up. Throwing objects against walls and letting out a blood-curdling scream.

It could well be fatigue. I’ve developed an unconscious habit of waking up between 4 and 6am, pumped with adrenaline and unable to fall back asleep properly. (It would help if I could also discipline myself to go to bed earlier.)

Oddly enough it’s the days and not the nights that get to me. Perhaps because I’m more alert.

I persevere, continuing the job hunt despite my reluctance. I don't have the luxury of doing otherwise. I attend a workshop on working overseas. I continue my monthly meetings with my careers adviser. She asks me how I am doing. 'Not very well', I confess. It's all I can do not to weep in her office.

The isolation has begun to eat away at me. Light depression stalks at the edges.
I’ve been here before during unemployment. My soundness of mind has survived. Just. By the grace of God.

All I can do is wait it out. Lent is upon us. A time for spiritual recalibration and stillness. I’m in my own wilderness. It probably feels bigger than it is because I’m in the thick of it; in between calling out to God in frustrated prayer and waiting for a response.

I’ve started de facto small group therapy sessions at church, led by Chantelle.

She tells us not to deny our reality. We must acknowledge it, she advises, but framed in the light of God’s truth.

Easier said than done but salient nonetheless. By the time that session has come round, I’m emotionally spent.

Time to take the attention off myself.

I pop round to see fellow chorister and friend, Michelle, who’s recovering from an operation. She and her sister Karine give me a warm welcome. Of a similar political persuasion, I spend a lively hour in their company discussing the latest twists and turns in the UK and France.

After leaving Michelle's I make a well-needed spiritual pit stop at Temple Neuf for the weekly Respire meditation session.

Later that evening, it's the first choir rehearsal since that meeting. A few of the newer members have stayed away. I wouldn’t blame them for feeling dejected. It's a respectable turn out otherwise, considering. Nicole has asked me to revisit May The Lord God Bless You Real Good.

I focus on the general structure of the song, for those who are not yet familiar. The fine-tuning of the details will be for another time. It’s a task trying to get the fellows to keep their harmonies, especially not being a male vocalist myself. I encourage where I can and endeavour to keep it stimulating. I swap around harmonies and ask the choristers to switch places to help them develop some musical autonomy. The feedback is really positive. I'm chuffed.

(SNUipp)

Out in the real world, as the media hysteria ramps up, there's a lot of gallows humour amongst the Strasbourgeois about Coronavirus. I guess it’s all that cheek-kissing. And the relative proximity of Italy, which has seen a spike in cases.

The City's carnival, scheduled at the start of March, is cancelled once more. A combination of Coronavirus panic and ominous weather forecasts.  It makes no sense to hold it in late winter in any case. It's the second consecutive year the event has been pulled. I feel bad for the young uns involved.

On the way into my church building, I spot a poster imploring citizens to take necessary precautions. A member of the Welcome Team stands at the entrance. No-one is getting past without a squirt of hand sanitiser first. The senior pastor raises a prayer at the end of the service for anyone affected by the virus.

I give the evil eye to anyone coughing without covering their mouth. My racist streak surfaces when I witness an Oriental man doing just that on the bus home from church.

The following week, our normal Sunday service will be cancelled altogether after news of a COVID19 outbreak at a megachurch in the Greater Alsace area. During the alternative livestream service via Youtube, the pastoral team inform us that there have been a few congregants diagnosed with the virus. They're all confined but otherwise in relatively good shape, except for one who has been hospitalised. As an added precaution, the team announces that church will be closed all week at least and activities suspended.

Other events follow suit. A jobseekers' event I was supposed to attend is cancelled. As is a concert at which my choir were meant to perform.

I attend a midweek Jazz event that is only half as full as it was the previous fortnight. That same weekend, at another Jazz concert, the bandleader thanks the audience profusely. It's a difficult time to be a musician, he says with so many cancelled engagements. Heads swivel round whenever I cough or sneeze.

An acquaintance with whom I meet up later refuses to attend any shows during the COVID19 crisis. When I mention I have a cold, he looks at me as if I had a bomb strapped to my person. He later informs me he's stockpiling food. 'For Armageddon'. He's only half-joking.

Coronavirus is one of the many topics of conversation at the official opening of my friend Gael’s Afropean restaurant.

I could kick myself for not having worn something more traditional for the event, especially when I notice one of Gael’s guests representing the Motherland.

I feel a little intimidated by all the unfamiliar faces. Gael instantly welcomes me into the fold, introducing me to his crew who in turn take me under the wing.

How did you meet? they ask.

Oh she’s my ex. We slept together. I cheated on my boyfriend with a woman.

Cheeky monkey.

Phew. I say, It’s suddenly hot in here.

Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulate. Having gone vegetarian for Lent I fear I might miss out. Gael has me covered with his Tofu pastries. Used to it tasting like cardboard, I never knew the bean snack could be this good.

Gael's childhood friends, Claudine and Kéké are spontaneously complimentary about my French. God knows I need the encouragement. It relaxes me. We discuss topics such as language acquisition, their experience of Berlin (they don’t recommend it, at least in winter), our mutual distrust of Emmanuel Macron and disdain for his policies.

If I lived in the UK or US, I’d be a socialist too observes Claudine. In France, we don’t need to be socialist to protect what we already have.

In a shockingly underhanded move, the Prime Minister Édouard Phillippe has sneaked through the controversial retirement bill without a parliamentary vote. A legal loop hole has been used under the pretext of an emergency weekend sitting to discuss Coronavirus measures.

Prepare for war, says Claudine.

Vive la revolution, I reply.

The flamboyant Gerard introduces himself by voguing and seductively kissing my hand. Kéké starts ironically singing ABBA's Dancing Queen and Gael decides to put it on. I do a shimmy and work the room a bit more. I hold court with Gael’s newest (and dishiest) waiter whilst ordering my favourite sweet snack, Kudu. Gael offers to hook me up with a date but I demure on account of age. I’m happy just to admire from a distance.

I chat with another waitress; an Afrobeat and Hip-Hop dancer like sis. I pass on her Gram details.

(c) Olivier Galleano

At the end of the night, I bid a fond farewell to newly made acquaintances.

Gael’s crew will return to Paris the following day. His friends are a credit to him. I hope to see them again. Not knowing when my Strasbourg adventure will end, alas that might be wishful thinking.

For now, the evening has given my morale a well-needed if temporary boost. I could complain about my lot; my frustrations about being caught up in limbo once again and not exactly knowing how I'll continue to pay rent in the meantime. All those things are genuine challenges. To be grateful is not to pretend.

I would also do well to savour the fact that, thank God, I'm in good health in spite of the viral panic. I have the freedom and independence during this life season to come and go as I please. I can spend an evening eating good food and having stimulating conversation with a diverse and cultured crowd in a chic corner of the world.

Perspective my dear, perspective.

Soundtrack: Kamakiriad & The Nightfly by Donald Fagen, Letter from Home by the Pat Metheny Group and AmerElo by Emicida

Trouble in Paradise

Fierce late winter winds. Biblical hail storms. This is the wintry Alsatian weather I’ve come to know and, well, if not love find a form of habitual comfort.

Despite the crazy wind and rain, spring is apparently peeping over the horizon. Actually, this is pretty spring-like weather round these parts.

I didn’t expect to see out another winter in Strasbourg. There you go. If I should have learned anything by now, it's that things don’t tend to go to plan.

But plans I do still make. My sister comments on how busy I am during one of our weekly Skype chats. It’s a matter of survival. If I don't leave the confines of my flat at least once a day, I’ll go stir crazy.

One thing I anticipated -with trepidation- when my contract ended in autumn, was the lack of regular interaction. As psychologically exhausting as it could be working at The Organisation, I didn’t want for human contact. Now, outside of my regular extra-curricular activities, I have to make concerted efforts not to feel alienated by spending time in cafés or libraries. There’s no guarantee even then that I’ll have much in the way of meaningful conversation. I chat with the security guards at the Malraux Médiathèque. I might bump into someone I know or meet up with an acquaintance. Otherwise, I’ll spend several hours a day in my own company. Something I usually appreciate can at times feel like a mixed blessing.

By late February, my morale takes a major hit. It sometimes takes monumental psychological effort to will myself to apply for work. In nearly a year of job hunting, I’ve had one interview and that was only in January.

At least the choir is a sanctum.

One week in mid-late February we receive an email (or rather a summons) to an important meeting that Friday. The message is concise. Nothing particularly dramatic. Yet something between the lines suggests it’s not going to be cheerful news.

The mild urgency of the tone has the required effect. It’s a good turnout. Some members who haven’t shown their faces for many moons make an appearance. Choir director, Kiasi, is running late, having recently returned from an East African mission.

After waiting for half an hour, chief soprano and occasional director Nicole, decides to get things under way. She circulates the results of an online survey recently carried out amongst members. The results are mixed. A number of choristers claim the atmosphere has been tense of late. Whilst some (like myself) felt the recording session in December went well overall, others believe we were ill-prepared. A few minutes into Nicole’s overview, Kiasi waltzes in. He’s on edge about the meeting beginning without him. He and Nicole have a terse exchange.

The agenda moves to the real business of the day.  There's an important announcement. Flanked by Elisabeth and other members of the choir’s administrative team, Nicole explains they have taken the difficult decision to no longer collaborate with Kiasi.

Problems have not just materialised overnight. There have been numerous slights. Poor timekeeping. Not following up on engagements that he himself proposed. Divergent opinions on how the choir can or should move forward...

Recriminations fly back and forth. Kiasi is hyper-defensive.  He cuts off members of Le Bureau mid-flow. They in turn ask him to allow them to finish their sentences. He cites problems with his work schedule and examples where he believes he gave sufficient notice. He speaks of being bombarded with no-show messages minutes before rehearsal.  The choir has peaked below its potential, he states, and there doesn't seem to be a willingness to move forward.

Awkward isn’t the word. It’s like watching parents argue.

To complicate matters further, Johnny-Come-Lately, Marlène recites a litany of all that, according to her, has gone wrong with the choir. She blames a deterioration in quality for her own lack of attendance.

I just don’t get the chills anymore when I come.

She emphasises the spiritual aspect of singing in a Gospel choir, even if one does not believe.  She speaks of halcyon days when the choir's vocal performances not only gave her goosebumps but they members were also tight like a family.

Things start to get personal. Marlène critiques recent concerts that she has attended. She then makes a veiled reference to the last solo she heard me sing.

I felt nothing. Maybe she was just nervous that day...

Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine comes to my defence.

Hang on. That’s not very nice for the soloist, is it?

Marlène tries to back-pedal.

Oh, I wasn’t talking about her recorded solo. I really felt something then...

(For the record, I’m not overly-pleased with my studio vocal. It’s pitchy as heck).

I was already peeved by Marlène’s intervention. I’m aware of the choir’s shortfalls. As someone who enjoys clean and consistent harmonies I know we have a long way to go. I’ve noticed that many of the more innately musical members have left; either relocated to other parts of the country or simply can no longer be bothered to come.  There are too few male voices. Either their attendance fluctuates or their vocals do or both.

On the other hand, I’m also aware of the time and energy invested by certain members; new and old. I feel offended on theirs not to mention my own behalf. I also know that Marlène has a romanticised view of the past. By all accounts from more truthful veterans, schisms and fall outs have been part and parcel of the HRGS experience.

I wish I had said what was on my mind before Marlène dragged me into it. Now it will look as if I’m piping up because of ego. I can’t rule out that possibility but it’s not my main motivation.

With all due respect, I venture, you no longer come to rehearsals. You haven’t for a long time. You are not in the position to criticise us. Your feedback isn’t constructive and you’re doing nothing to improve the situation…

At this moment alto, Mia decides to add her two pence. She’s like a playground stirrer, egging on the mouthy kid in a fight. Both her and Marlène invoke the need to be honest. It's funny how for some, that means a licence to be insensitive. Mia too speaks of the choir’s mythical glory days; the need to recognise the spiritual significance of singing Gospel music etc etc...

How rich.

Her remarks infuriate me more than Marlène’s.

We should take the Good News message seriously, no doubt. But neither we should use the spiritual as an excuse to ignore the practical. Mia attends practices on a regular basis but contributes next to nothing. She’s been part of the group longer than most but still hasn’t mastered the required skills. She relies on the graft of more innately musical choristers. She thus has no right to indirectly undermine those who put in the work.

This is how it is all evening. An unedifying mess. Nicole and Le Bureau do their best to fight our corner; contextualise any perceived ‘decline’, point out that each new wave of members will bring a different sound and energy.

Soprano, Melissa speaks of how hurtful it is, as a comparatively newer chorister, to receive such negative commentary from veterans.

Kiasi spends most of the evening lamenting how much the group has been a disappointment lately. He says we always need a ‘carrot’ to motivate us. It’s not a wholly unjustified observation but lacks nuance.

His diva antics can be alternately entertaining and needlessly catty. No guesses which category he falls into that night.

Maybe it’s his bruised pride. I've sensed a disenchantment in him for some time. Things intimated in private. I believe it's deepened since Evan stepped down as co-director. I am trying to be even-handed but I'm too emotional; angry, tired, deflated...

So, does this mean you're leaving us?

Of course not, he reassures. He may no longer be director but he's still part of the family.

Hmm. On verra.

In the meantime, we'll have to muddle through. Evan will step in from time to time to direct our concerts. Nicole will do what she can. The rest of us will have to show more initiative, more often.

A couple of demoralising hours later, with no singing to compensate, the meeting starts to draw to a close. I have a bus to catch. I stand up abruptly whilst Kiasi is holding court. I say my goodbyes, ignoring his forced-cheery farewell.

The following morning, I’m bombarded with texts and emails of support from other choristers; some of whom weren’t at the meeting.

In the scheme of climate disaster, war and epidemic it’s really a non-event. Still, I’m seething. The messages of solidarity nevertheless take the edge off my annoyance.

Some offer a listening ear. I demur. Not now. It’ll only come out as a rant. At some point I’ll endeavour to have a conversation with those who put my nose out of joint, if time and opportunity allow. I need to calm down first.

That afternoon, whilst in the library I feel the prolonged vibration of my phone. Incoming from Kiasi. I press the ‘end call’ icon.

Soundtrack: Night Dreamer by Seu Jorge & Rogê,  Topaz Jones - various, Sweet by Pho Queue, Walkie Talkie by Brijean.

And The Beat Goes On...and On

Cast members from Nous Pour Un Moment
(c) Elisabeth Carecchio

I've noticed a culture deficiency in my life. More like an ache. There are several appealing films released of late which I haven't found the time to see. It’s also a good while since I’ve been to the theatre. One of the few advantages to being in-between-jobs is that it affords me a substantial discounts.

If I don’t make the time I won’t find it. I set a couple of moments aside one week to scratch that itch. I see the superlative coming-of-age comedy-drama Un Vrai Bonhomme, just before the end of its run. A few days later, I attend the final performance of Nous Pour Un Moment (Us For A Moment); an adaptation of a piece by Norwegian playwright Arne Lygre at the Theatre National de Strasbourg. Whilst waiting in the lobby, I catch the eye of a former colleague. We were never close. I wasn't wholly convinced of goodwill on her part. Nevertheless, she also had her fair share of THRO work-related problems; so much so, she was still on extended sick leave by the time I’d left. The last I heard she’d taken early retirement.

The moment is a tad awkward. We greet each other. I smile; surprised but genuine. Neither of us are predisposed to make conversation however, even when I end up seated behind her and her other half.  

Nous Pour Un Moment is high concept. The set piece is comprised of plain walls that slide up, down and sideways. The floor is replaced by a pool of water. Protagonists are anonymised and interchangeable, characterised by their relationship to one another; a friend, an enemy, a stranger. Female actors take on male roles. A supposedly incidental character becomes the protagonist of the next scene.

It’s a visceral and engaging production. Lygre strikes a good balance between experimental and relatable. There’s plenty of (implied) sex and death. As in all good theatre and in life; the greatest narrative of all.

I’m a little lost at the start but soon catch up.  As with my cinematic excursion earlier that week, I’m relieved to discover I am able to follow the majority of the dialogue; enough to become immersed. If my linguistic progress is slower than I’d like, these moments at least give me some hope.

Too bad that at times, I’m still too easily discouraged. In the middle of a long overdue meet-up with Jeanne the following week, I dissolve into tears of frustration over La Langue de Molière. Underneath is another minor-existential crisis. I’ll be staring down my 40s in the not-too-distant future and I hate being in limbo. Despite her calmness, my state distresses Jeanne. We’re in Oh My Goodness! Café. Customers stare, then avert their gaze. She tries to encourage me.

But you make yourself understood…

That’s not good enough. I want more reassurance. Ironically, my language skills that night seem to be holding up pretty well. I crave the affirmation.

That evening Jeanne and I will see each other again at church. It’s the first day of a week of fasting and prayers. I need the spiritual nourishment but, rather selfishly, I’m not in a sociable mood. I try to keep to myself all evening. It’s not easy when we’re expected to pray in small groups. I’m evasive where possible and stay quiet otherwise. Praying in French sets off my linguistic neuroses. Prayer should be instinctive and intimate; hard to achieve if deciding whether my turn of phrase necessitates the subjunctive. For better or worse, I speak from the heart best via the medium of another colonial language.

My plans to skulk off into a corner are scuppered early on. My two prayer partners try unsuccessfully to draw me in. I respond in monosyllables; as polite as I can muster. I still participate but quietly, muttering fervent Anglophone prayers.

I feel a hand rest gently on my forearm. It’s Jeanne. Eyes closed, her prayers heartfelt. My tears fall freely again.

That week I’ll prioritise the prayer meetings. I’ll forego the last session of a workshop on Christian ethics I've attended at Temple Neuf. I’m conflicted at first but in the end, I have no regrets. The nightly meetings reflect the beauty of the Community of Faith. The sharing. The solidarity. The edification. The surrender of self to each other and ultimately, a Greater Power.

The last evening is reserved for testimonies. People recount stories of how God has healed bodies and family relations; helped them to forgive grave offences and of salvation both spiritual and physical. Each succinct account is followed by an accompanying prayer point, for those in the room- and beyond - who need similar Divine Intervention.

I leave discreetly as I have done all week. This time, earlier still. I have choir rehearsal. We’ve been asked to do a last minute performance that weekend. Our director is out of town and we’re left to our own devices. Practice was cancelled the previous week owing to low turn-out. Exhausted by Brexit-related stress at the time, I was glad for the break. However, there's been a long enough gap for me to miss it.

I’ve taken the initiative of preparing a simple song for us to learn. I put my own modest four-part spin on James Cleveland’s standard May The Lord God Bless You Real Good. I give the melodies to the contralti for a change and make the sopranos work a little bit harder. With much difficulty, I attempt a bass harmony.

I come to rehearsal well prepared. After a couple of irritable sessions fiddling with Audacity software, I’ve recorded all the harmonies for future reference. The lyrics are printed with an accompanying French translation.

The modest turnout is still better than expected. I have exactly the right number of lyric sheets. There are even a couple of male voices in the mix; not a foregone conclusion at any given practice.

A moment arrives when star soprano and stand-in director Nicole calls on volunteers. I put myself forward.

Pleasantly surprised, my fellow choristers are supportive and respond with enthusiasm. It’s a task getting everyone to put the bluesy inflection in the right place but they get the gist. They can always refer to my (slightly off-tempo) recordings.

It’s a fun-packed, laughter-filled session. I (almost) always enjoy the ambiance of the choir. Yet, because of my linguistic insecurity, I haven’t always felt at ease in my own skin. I'm finally starting to relax. I am on a high that evening. It’s not only because of the other choristers’ gamely attitude and encouragement, as grateful as I am. I am also pleased that, at last, they get to see a more playful and spontaneous aspect of my personality; less inhibited and self-aware. Less vain.

Soundtrack: Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.

And the Beat Goes On

Reason to be cheerful part infinity. 

I’ve had my moments of feeling glum. Days on end of metallic grey skies don’t help. I endeavour-not entirely successfully- to avoid going into meltdown over the current grim state of British politics. Towards the end of January, it’s a real challenge. The deadline for Brexit is at hand.  A trusted family friend makes an insensitive and over-simplistic comment along the lines that it's an unquestionable gain.

I lose great respect for him. It puts me into an oppressive funk during the whole of Exit day. It takes me to the evening and a brief meditation session for it to lift.

Whilst Brexiteers jubilate in the streets, Remainers resign to the new reality; some more philosophical than others.

Living in France with a British passport, I have the very real consideration of my as now ambiguous citizenship weighing on my mind.

I’ve applied for a short term residence permit and await the results. The Consulate is no doubt snowed under.

And the beat goes on. Despite my anxiety, mercifully I have not had the bout of consuming S.A.D I’ve been expecting. I literally can’t afford to sit around moping. There are jobs to find, blogs to update, places to go and people to see.

January has not been the slow and quiet return to business as normal that I thought it would be. A myriad of self-imposed tasks and distractions eat into the time I set aside for self-development. A musical retrospective of the 2010s on which I’ve been working for months. A worthy and stimulating interview arranged with a restaurateur chum.

Nevertheless, I persevere with my routine as much as I can.

On the 1 February, the first official day of being a non-EU citizen, I attend the 40th birthday celebrations of church friend, Celina.  It's an 8pm start, according to the slick invitations. I give myself half an hour grace, not wanting to be rattling around an empty hall waiting for other guests to show up.

I spot Celina's husband, Angelo, outside the venue on arrival. I'm assuming it's fully underway. How naive. The hall is still all but deserted. I gravitate towards Raymond, the first familiar face I see. He's in full conversation with an unknown guest. I feel self-conscious. I notice some other church acquaintances across the hall. Raymond mentions he's based at this other table. I take the hint with gratitude and switch. The DJ is spinning some choice R&B and Hip-Hop from yesteryear. I bounce along without compunction. It's a shame there's hardly anyone around to dance. The birthday girl isn't even on the scene.

She won't rock up for almost another couple of hours. She'll make a carefully choreographed entrance, flanked by her lovely teenage daughter and a few others; moving in simple yet funky Afrobeat step. By then the room will be full. This would leave enough time for the hors d'oeuvres to get cold and for me to cast a disapproving eye at all the evident skin-bleaching. Having not eaten for most of the day, I'm hungry and irritable. I feel the necessity to apologise to Raymond and others for this especially sorry perpetuation of the 'African time' stereotype.

Oh, I'm used to it. Raymond brushes off my concern.

I'm not, even now.

It's coming up to 11pm.  Another church acquaintance, Eva and I have infrequent buses to catch. We consider leaving without any grub.

After a brief speech (in which Celina admits the party was more her husband's idea), dinner is finally served. It's dished out by slack-jawed and half-attentive adolescents. To the amusement of my fellow guests,  I pack my plate. It smells better than it tastes. Whether or not this is an accurate representation of traditional Lusophone African cuisine, I can't say. I hope not. Everything is either bland or seems to be suffused with fish, even when it's not compatible. I feel like gagging part way through. I cut my losses after unsuccessfully trying to minimise the waste. Another guest helps herself to an uneaten kebab. No objection from me.

Eva and I make our exit, not before another group photo is taken.

Soundtrack: The Free Nationals + Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.

A Short and Sweet Stay in Dresden

Dresden, Old City.

The festive season now a fond but distant memory, it’s back to my new normal. Life is still in a state of flux. I do what I can to maintain some sort of routine. I resume job hunting and my interim personal development activities.

I also now have a window to make good on the promise to visit my Tunisian belle, Coral in Eastern Germany. Befriending this kind, bright and thoughtful soul is undoubtedly one of the highlights of my Strasbourg experience. Since she relocated to Dresden last summer, it’s been more of a challenge staying in touch than when she lived just over the Franco-German border in Freiburg. Having made several fruitless plans to reunite during the second half of 2019, we finally put a date in the diary mid-January. At least it gives me something to look forward to amidst the deep winter lull.

Emails fly back and forth. According to my research, whether I travel by train or coach it’s still a lengthy trip involving at least one pit stop. I opt for coach as the more economic choice. With the ongoing industrial action in the face of Monsieur Macron's intransigence, travel by road is also currently the most reliable option.

As my Dresden trip draws closer, reluctance creeps in. It’s nearly 12 hours each way. I’m highly apprehensive about the overnight bus ride (including a three hour stop at Nuremberg). I’m not exactly heading to sunnier climes either. To my shame, I don’t even bother to check out what Dresden has to offer its visitors. I’m relying on Coral to show me her favourite spots, plus a top-up from one of the free walking tours I’ve read about. In the corner of my mind the City has vague connotations with wartime; more so than other German metropoli. Despite Coral’s insistence on Dresden’s charms, I imagine a grim and grey post industrial town. It doesn’t help that the region is strongly associated with the Far Right. And yet Coral seems to have made a life for herself there.

The weekend of travel arrives. The outbound coach is half an hour late. On the plus side, it's virtually empty to my pleasant surprise. I survive the first and longest leg of the trip by reading and sleeping in the customary awkward position. At Nuremberg, when I try to retrieve my modest luggage without his assistance, the gruff bus driver barks a reprimand in German. Still slightly groggy, I respond in polite but firm English; sounding more primary school teacher-like than as stern as I’d intended.

Looking around I feel uneasy. Nuremberg is in full, rowdy Friday night/early Saturday morning mode. It’s cold and grimy and I hear too many loud male voices.

The curmudgeonly driver’s tardiness at least eats into the waiting time. Thanks to a local hotel I’m redirected to the nearest train station, where I pass a couple of comfortable hours out of the cold. I’m hurrying back to the coach stop before I know it.

When I finally reach Dresden late Saturday morning, the temperature is milder and there’s a hint of sunshine. My face is bare of make-up and I’m recovering from sleep. I’ve texted Coral in advance to let her know I might look a state. She collects me at the Flixbus stop, waving away my enquiries about where to buy a tram ticket. She’s taken care of it.

I feel more self-conscious than I banked on. It takes a while for me to make consistent eye contact. It’s the first time Coral’s seen me in my natural state. Even when she stayed round Christmas 2018, I was glammed up and ready to go in the mornings.

The Kulturpalast, Dresden
 (courtesy of Aasarchitecture)

If you hadn’t said anything, honestly I wouldn’t have noticed.

She’s being too kind, not with the traces of bygone acne still visible.

By the time we reach her cosy and inviting flat, my vanity is forgotten. Initial plans to shower and nap fly out of the window as we catch up. Apart from one lengthy autumn phone call, Coral and I haven’t had a proper face to face conversation since early last summer. In her enviably calm and softly-spoken fashion, she expounds on the drama at her new workplace. Her line manager has fallen on his metaphoric sword and tried to pressure her into doing the same. She came to her senses before making a rash decision. Nevertheless, the incident has taken its emotional toll. She describes it as a couple of years of stress condensed into a few months.

The discussion turns to happier themes. She has a new man in her life. I’m due to meet him the following morning. For now, I’m curious to know how their paths crossed.

Coral shares the backstory. Following a fleeting and disappointing romantic episode, a close friend encouraged her to sign up to a 'sophisticated' dating app. She met Sandeep after a few pleasant but unremarkable dates. The kismet was there from the beginning, she says.

Coral gently encourages me to consider giving dating apps a try. I demure as politely as I can. I explain I once signed up to a site many, many moons ago for a laugh. Since then I’ve had no inclination. I have strong feelings about the whole Lonely Hearts industry. I deflect, not wanting my aversion to be a reflection on Coral’s personal choices.

The day is far spent by the time I do freshen up and change clothes. The walking tours would be long finished by now. We step out at dusk, making a quick stop off at her local shopping precinct to buy some items I haven’t had the time of late to pick up at Kehl.

I’ll have to make do with seeing Dresden after dark. It has its own night time appeal, Coral reassures.

Indeed, the City is a revelation. I’m almost glad to have had low-to-zero expectations, only to be enchanted all the more.

Once the heart of the old kingdom of Saxony, I’m awe-struck by the majestic and imposing beauty of the baroque architecture.

A luminous modern-looking glass structure catches my attention. Coral introduces the Kulturpalast; a former government building from the era of Communist East Germany. Now converted into a civic centre, inside are plenty of seating areas, a gorgeous modern library and a concert venue dedicated to the City’s philharmonic orchestra. I'm enamoured with the rose-coloured space. According to Coral the locals tend to have a poor opinion of relics from the DDR period. It takes an outsider to appreciate it, I reply. She confesses she’s never spent much time in the building. That'll now change.

The Fürstenzag, Dresden
(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

Coral shows me more of the old town, pointing out historical sites such as the various places of worship and administrative buildings. Most have been rebuilt after Dresden was levelled by allied carpet bombing during the Second World War. We stand underneath the eye-catching, if intimidating, Fürstenzag mural. It depicts the various Saxon monarchs; many of whom have  blood ties to the modern British Royal family. 

Coral takes me to one of the bridges overlooking the Elbe river. She insists the view of the old town is even more stunning from the other side. As well as Germany, the Elbe traverses the neighbouring Czech Republic and touches the periphery of Poland. Prague, Coral’s favourite European city, is only an hour away by bus she tells me. That explains why my connecting coach was heading in that direction. The Czech capital is somewhere I feel I should know but have never visited. I suggest we cross the border if and when I’m next in town.

Coral’s Italian restaurant of choice is full to Saturday night capacity. We head home for some delicious home cooking via a quick detour to Aldi. (I want to see if the budget supermarket superstar is as good in its country of origin as its UK homologue. Not bad but not as good, either.)

The following morning after I've done my ablutions, Sandeep materialises soundlessly in Coral’s living room.

I have a key…

Still. Secret Service levels of discretion.

Sandeep and I hit it off immediately, thanks to his fascinating back story. I get so carried away in conversation I worry I’m neglecting Coral.

Having lived all over the Indian subcontinent and collecting a bevy of languages along the way, Sandeep is a fountain of knowledge. He’s well versed in linguistic, regional and religious history, disabusing me of many of my half-baked notions. ‘Hinduism’, for example, is a western conceit for something that does not fit easily into a single religious practice. We talk about the state of politics in India, Britain (continuing a conversation Coral and I started the night before) and across the African continent. Sandeep explains why he first voted for Modi and how he’s since become disillusioned.

At first horrified, I learn a lesson about those who support Populist-Nationalist leaders.

Dresden Cathedral: Restored after the original
was bombed during the Second World War
(wallpapers.io)

 An insightful polymath, Sandeep is as far from the ill-informed, frothing-at-the-mouth patriot you can get. The truth is always more complicated, as if I needed reminding. I’m very aware of aggressive comments and violence towards religious minorities in India. Sandeep argues there’s a history of some anti-Hindu sentiment that stoked nationalism. I’m a little sceptical (all the more given it proves hard to substantiate when I do my own research). However, out of respect to Coral and conscious that Sandeep would have first hand experience of things that don’t make the front pages, I give his account the benefit of the doubt.

We’ll spend the whole day together, in and out of the flat and eating establishments. Our topics of conversation seem to cover the length and breadth of the human condition.
Talk shifts around topics such as faith, misunderstandings around Afro hair (it's my turn to disabuse this time) and the ease of language acquisition for lifelong polyglots like Sandeep. We discuss post-colonial trauma, all three of us having lived through the reality in one form or the other. We broach lighter themes such as childhood literature and TV favourites, and the comedy of Eddie Izzard (of whom Sandeep is a fan).  

In spite of their efforts to be inclusive, Coral and Sandeep can’t help gazing into each other’s eyes or stealing a kiss. She wasn’t exaggerating when she spoke of their organic rapport. They could have known each other for years rather than months. Case in point: Sandeep has a passion for fine art and photography. At one point he shows me a life-drawing of an ex-girlfriend. Coral doesn't show the slightest sign of unease. I laugh nervously, telling her she's a stronger, less uptight woman than I would be. Theirs is a candid and easygoing relationship.

I’m happy for Coral. Yet as is typical when I’m around a couple, I feel like the awkward third wheel; as if my presence intrudes on a sacred intimacy. If it weren’t for my love and respect for my friend and curiosity to meet the man who captured her heart, I’d avoid the trio set-up like the plague.

Late afternoon, we head out for another impromptu dusk excursion.  Sandeep shows us around Neustadt; the Boho district of Dresden where he happens to live. The aesthetic is distinct from the Baroque Old Town. It rather reminds me of some of the major French cities like Paris or Lyon.  Sandeep has an impressive knowledge of the boutiques, novelty cafés and restaurants that characterise the area.  We take detours down side streets and attractive passageways. The whole neighbourhood is a giant canvass. Murals and artistic graffiti abound. Residential buildings double up as art installations. One spellbinding aquamarine facade in Kunsthof for instance, is also bestowed with cone-shaped water receptacles, said to create sweet music when it rains.

Kunsthof in the Neustadt district, Dresden
(courtesy of Welt)

Coral and Sandeep treat me to a delicious mango lassi. Later, we enjoy a hearty supper at a falafel restaurant serving generous portions at ridiculously good value. Whilst dining, Sandeep speaks more of his dreams to retire early from a career in architecture.  He plans to live off the fatta-the-land somewhere in his native India or The Med. He feels more affinity with the Iberian peninsula and southern Italy than Germany. The warm weather is better suited to him, for a start.

It’s my turn to treat the couple. I sneakily settle the bill in appreciation for their hospitality.

Late that evening, not long before midnight, I retire to my guest room. It's been a full day of verbal and visual stimuli. It’s time to leave the love birds to it.

On the way back from a late night shower, I see no sign of Sandeep. He leaves as inconspicuously as he arrived.

Coral takes a leaf out of his book the following morning, heading out earlier for work than she mentioned. She’ll explain later that she didn’t want to disturb me before my long coach trip back to Strasbourg.

It's not clear when we’ll next meet up. I don’t like emotional farewells. Still, I’m not happy to be deprived of a heartfelt goodbye hug.

Soundtrack: Free Nationals (self-titled album).