A Spot of Bother

Two weeks have already lapsed and I still haven’t found anywhere to live long term. Over the weekend I attend a viewing in a part of town with a mixed reputation. As soon as I step off the tram, I notice a group of youth arguing vehemently on the platform. They are holding beer cans and shoving each other around. It’s only late afternoon but it’s already dark. I’m alarmed. 

The raucousness doesn’t really abate as I roam the street, trying unsuccessfully to find the address without being conspicuous. There are a number of young men hanging around aimlessly. A local shopkeeper directs me to the right building. 

The communal area is shabby to say the least. The current tenant Jérémie shows me around. He’s surprised I’m on my own. Perhaps he expected a couple. It turns out he’s still living in the place until mid-December. He then intends to sub-let for around a year after which, from what I understand, he’ll be away for an extended period. The flat is spacious, attractive and well-kitted out but I am unsettled by the rowdy environment and specificities of the living arrangement. It’s not evident where Jérémie will sleep whilst he’s still around.

I share my misgivings about the locality. He assures me it’s calm and emphasises the good transport links. It’s a stone’s throw away from German town, Kehl. Don’t worry about the young men, he says, they’re always hanging around. Hmm.

I let him know my decision the next day.

I have to leave my current AirBnb the following Monday. I didn’t envisage it would take me this long to find accommodation. Unfortunately, I can’t prolong my stay at Dominic’s since he has other bookings. I’m forced to find an alternative temporary residence at the last minute. My original choice falls through when the host doesn’t respond in time. I find another reasonably priced residence but it’s yet to be rated. I would never normally stay somewhere that has no customer feedback but I’m desperate. The pictures aren’t very impressive but it looks manageable. I book.

When the taxi drops me off at the new lodgings, my heart sinks. The hostess, the very English-monikered Liz, is not available. A downstairs’ neighbour shows be around in her absence. The place is musty and old. The cold landing reeks of damp and the temperamental sensor light means you’re plunged into darkness more often than not. Dust and cobwebs abound. My mattress is sunken. There's poorly cleaned cutlery in the drawers. Lodgers smoke indoors. Technically, it’s not permitted. The toilet and bathroom are not inviting to say the least and five people have to share. Oh, and the door doesn’t lock. Someone has scribbled a reversible note in highlighter and biro: ‘libre’ or ‘occupé’ to avoid any awkward interruptions. 

The only thing to recommend it is its proximity to work.

First world problems, I know. But when you’re in a foreign country with yet to be established networks and finite funds, you start to feel trapped by your limited options. For several hours I can’t access the internet to search for alternative accommodation, even if I wanted to. I shed several tears that day. 

Later that afternoon I receive a call from AirBnb. The downstairs’ neighbour must have informed Liz of my discontent, who in turn notified AirBnb. I haven't vocalised my concerns to the neighbour but he must have guessed from my reaction. I have never been so grateful for meddling. The wonderful Angelique- angel by name, angel by nature-gets in touch. We spend the rest of the day and evening trying to find an alternative. I make life harder for myself by insisting on speaking French. I have to get used to using the language in different contexts. 

It’s too late to find an alternative lodging tonight but there’s hope for tomorrow. Angelique offers to reimburse me for the current booking and also throws in a generous discount voucher. She sends me some better options, two of which are unavailable. I’m at my wits’ end. I sob down the phone. I have work the next day and have to pack my suitcase-again. I haven’t eaten...

‘C’est un cauchemar ! La recherche du logement, c’est galère’

Angelique remains calm; a stabilising force, soothing my distress.

In between this drama I’ve squeezed in another visit. The elderly landlady shows me around. She and her husband own the whole estate. In the process of my accommodation search, I've discovered that's not uncommon.

They’ve clearly tried to squeeze too much into one space. The shower is next to the kitchenette, the toilet is on the landing and the kitchen sink has to double up as a bathroom sink. No thanks. 

Later on, I become angry at the thought of their greed and contempt for their (usually student) tenants.

Claudia’s words about rip-offs ring in my ears. Strasbourg isn’t so different from London after all.

I do some perfunctory shopping on the way back to the dive. The full week’s shop that I had planned is something else that now has to be momentarily abandoned. I almost get lost on the way back. The streets are fairly well-lit but it’s not at all a busy neighbourhood. I feel vulnerable. I well up again. It’s early evening but long after night-fall, being that time of year. Mercifully, I see some familiar street signs and head back to the AirBnb with determined steps. The pretty daytime view of the canal that runs parallel to the road, resembles a sinister void after nightfall. Only the appealing electric-blue glow of a large illuminated structure in the distance disperses the gloom.

I make a tearful call to mum that evening, in between more emotional phone conversations with the patient Angelique. I am more aware than ever that I am a long way from home. I rage against Heaven, wondering why there has to be so much drama every time I am looking for accommodation. It’s embarrassing. I’ve had a few exchanges with friends back in the UK. It’s reassuring how many have been thinking of me. I’ve mentioned my problems finding a flat. Most of them would already be aware of my previous issues. There must come a point where it just gets repetitive. Or odd. Why is she always getting into these scrapes?

Being annoyed with an all-powerful, all knowing Being is pretty futile but it still feels like a satisfying-ish outlet. I don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t know or believe God can provide somewhere good. I just don’t know why it has to be so flaming hard. Rather than strengthening my faith it makes me afraid of what He’ll permit to happen.

Mum tries to assuage my frayed nerves and prays for me.

Thank God, I manage to find one of those quick, automatic bookings at the eleventh hour. I’m chancing it again with a new host. This time at least, the pictures are more promising.

It’s been a distressing day. It’s coming up to 11pm and I still have to pack and cook my evening meal. I’m famished but overwhelmed by all that needs to be done. I want to get a shower out of the way. I’ve resisted using the toilet yet. The less time I spend in that bathroom, the better.

I put the spaghetti on the boil and go to open the tuna. No can-opener. It’s too late to disturb the other residents. It’ll just be plain spaghetti, dried herbs and a dash of sweet Activa. I try to count my blessings. That’s more than many have. Hmm. I confess, I’m not in a very grateful mood. It’s been one of those days.

The next morning, I am ready to pack before I leave for work. It's about a quarter hour on foot door-to-door via the canal.  It would be picturesque, except that winter is already biting into autumn. It’s cold and foggy but it’s a new day and I am set to move into a better (I hope) accommodation. 

After work , I trundle my copious luggage down the steep steps of the dive, at the mercy of those sensor lights that give out within seconds. I feel around the walls in vain for a switch. 

I start with the heaviest suitcase first and make it downstairs all in one piece. The rest is easy.  My cab wastes no time arriving. He deposits me prematurely at the wrong end of the street, overcharging me for my trouble at that. 

I manoeuvre my baggage to the block of flats where my new host Javier resides. It’s in that same part of town  mentioned at the start of the post. The reputation varies according to what end of a road you’re on. I ring the buzzer. ‘Oui, c’est sixième étage’. End of transmission. How rude, I think. No offer to help. In Javier’s defence, he has no idea how loaded down I am. Erykah Badu’s ‘Bag Lady’ comes to mind at times like these.

Thank the Lord, there’s a functioning lift.  As I stumble out of the lift-a good while after I’ve been buzzed up- Javier pokes his head round the door and rushes to my aid.  To my great relief, his flat is pristine with modern cons and a decent kitchen he hardly uses. I have it more or less to myself. 

With a name like that, I expect my host to be a swarthy gent from Central America.  The AirBnb pic has been taken outside in bright sunshine. It’s over-exposed and not that clear an image. In person he’s a young, well-built Norman polyglot (another one, damn them!) whose farmer parents happened to like an Iberian-sounding name. He’s lived on the East Coast of the US, in Spain, Austria and New Zealand and his English is more confident than my French. It does come in handy when I’m searching for equivalent expressions, I admit. 

Javier is a solicitous host and a good conversationalist.  He patiently corrects my errors or offers constructive feedback when asked. He often furrows his brows whilst I’m gabbling. I’m not sure if it’s his attentive face or I regularly confuse him.

He shows me the lay of the land. His flat overlooks the lovely St Louise church, for which the street is named. We make small talk about jobs, home cities, cantankerous elderly neighbours and a shared sweet tooth. Over the course of my sojourn our discussions become more philosophical.

The only thing to cause immediate alarm is an absence of an iron.  Javier's girlfriend took it with her back to Normandy after a periodic stay, he tells me. Hmm. THRO has a reputation to uphold and though I am currently living like a (comparatively comfortable) vagabond, that shouldn’t mean I show up to work looking like one. I’ll have to improvise.

First Impressions Part 3: First Week @ School

I start my first day at THRO in the middle of the week, the day after a public holiday; All Saints’ Day. It’s either the best or the worst timing depending on your perspective. A bit of both. Most of my colleagues throughout The Organisation are still on post-All Saints’ Day leave including my supervisor, Sophie. 

It’s good for easing myself into the job. Not so convenient for sorting out all the other admin tasks to complete my professional transition such as residence permits, claiming relocation expenses, confirming my part time working hours and the like.

THRO has several buildings but two main sites, Le Chateau and the Arcadia. Both are close to other international institutions. My office is in the latter. True to the French tradition, there are often noisy demonstrations taking place outside (to be fair, these are usually by non-French nationals).  There's a faithful core of demonstrators who hold daily vigils for a political prisoner. Some march towards the Arcadia on a regular basis. It's normally during the lunch hour. Protesters surround the premises, kept at bay by the long-suffering security staff. Employees are barricaded inside save for a few circuitous emergency exits. Occasionally, there are fun and frolics. One lunch time, I catch sight of five demonstrators doing a synchronised, shoulder-to-shoulder jig to traditional Near-Eastern music.

Then there's the solitary Englishman who stands outside the European Court of Human Rights chanting barely comprehensible slogans. His placard is more incoherent still. But fair dues. I have to admire their determination. 

Compared to Le Chateau, with its fusty, sombre-looking offices that need updating, the Arcadia is relatively new.  It's all shiny wooden surfaces, splashes of bright colour and plenty of natural illumination. It’s substantially composed of glass, which is wonderful when the sun is out but not ideal if you want privacy. Or heat. Like Le Chateau, it’s something of a maze despite it’s circular design. I also have to get my head around the floor numbering system. What seems to be the ground floor is actually the first-(or is that the second?). The basement is the first (I think) and the sub-basement etc etc. 

The offices’ surrounding scenery is stunning. The first few days after I arrive are mild and unseasonably sunny; all the better to enjoy the view. Strasbourg is resplendent in the Autumn. During one of my first lunch breaks I take a stroll down a nearby canal. The trees on either side are a glorious display of the season’s broad colour palette; from pale amber to copper red. The City during this season has a special place in my heart. I first visited Strasbourg in the Autumn of 2016 for my make-or-break interview. I became enamoured with it back then.

On my first day I am welcomed by Boss Man, a jovial fellow of diminutive stature. Bilingual, he gives me the option of communicating in English. Keen to practise my French, I suggest we start as I mean to go on. I will verify in English if I’m lost. Boss Man has another life as a senior local politician in a nearby Alsatian town. He gives an overview of the Central/Eastern European projects I’ll be supporting. He's pleased to have a native-level English speaker, he says, for some of the translation work. He introduces me to a myriad of personnel (those who are not on leave), neither of us really expecting me to remember them all on my first try. I note that the department is majority female. I am not one for biologically essentialist stereotypes. Not all women or men are compelled to act the same. I can't however deny that certain behavioural patterns are reinforced by socialisation. I'm wary of any circumstance in which one group is predominant-whether based on gender, ethnicity, class (...fill in the blank...).

I note sooner than I’d care to admit that I’m the Only Black in the Village. Well, nearly. On my first day I spot a young man of mixed-heritage working in one of the canteens. Over the coming week I see a cleaner of African descent and the odd brown face around the sites. I usually pride myself on not always picking up on these things unless I am made to feel especially aware of it. Perhaps it’s the novelty of being in a country with a mixed reputation for social integration that I am initially conscious of it. Anyway, that novelty soon wears off.

I don’t meet my supervisor until the following day. Sophie is much younger than I expect and surprisingly chaleureuse. Half-French (mum) and Half-English (dad), she’s perfectly bilingual with an almost undetectable Francophone lilt en parlant anglais. Sophie is quite the yummy-mummy (imagine a teal-eyed Carol Vorderman in her heyday, with the matching Yorkshire roots). She has a two year old daughter whom she clearly adores. She immediately offers to help with my accommodation search. She suggests I use her address for post in the interim. I am grateful but reluctant to take her up on it. Just when I think she’s forgotten, she grabs a post-it and slides the details in my direction.

Sophie is initially very obliging about helping me practise my French and makes encouraging noises. Before long however, she has a quiet word in my ear about doing all my official correspondence in English. It’s to avoid miscommunication, she explains apologetically. I miss the opportunity to speak French as part of my role. I thus insist on using it with as many colleagues who will humour me. This isn’t as straightforward as I would like. Speaking so much English during the day, my brain can be slow to make the switch when I need to spontaneously.

To my delight Sophie gives me some news bulletins to translate from English to French for an affiliate website. She points me in the direction of useful templates. When I make some classic second language errors-sometimes against my better judgment- she politely recommends that I use Google translate. I baulk at the idea. It feels like cheating, with an unreliable source at that.

Autumn in Strasbourg: Parc de L'Orangerie
(Trip Advisor)

I have the privilege of sharing an attractive office with just one other person. My colleague Claudia is a polyglot former academic who, on my last count, speaks upwards of five languages; a variety of Slavic, Romance and Germanic.  She's currently adding Farsi to her linguistic repertoire. Originally from Sicily, she’s an honorary Londoner whose former stomping ground was Clapham for some two and a half decades.  When exasperated, she reverts to angry mutterings in her native tongue.

There’s a lot for me to get my head around. Sophie has entrusted me into Claudia's care for the more technical admin tasks. I persevere gamely with the Francophone keyboard. It’s great having French accents at my fingertips but the completely different ordering is messing with my head and slowing down my typing speed. Claudia suggests I pop over to the Chateau for an Anglophone alternative, or QWERTY as it’s known in the business.

She’s helpful in a no-nonsense way. Within minutes of meeting each other, Claudia advises me on which parts of Strasbourg to avoid whilst flat-hunting. It turns out one I have recently viewed (and seriously considered) is in one of the most notorious parts of town. She and Sophie keep me in the loop about the saner-priced shopping establishments and regional attractions.

Claudia warns that living in Strasbourg is potentially as expensive as London, without the budget shopping as consolation. Still anything is better than London, surely? The low cost travel, the affordable accommodation…

Claudia concurs that commuting is a lot cheaper. But she also points out how distorted a gauge London can be. For well-remunerated THRO staff, Strasbourg living is cost effective compared to the exorbitance of major cities. Not so for the average local. Spending 500-600 Euros on rent (the lower end of the scale) is not such good value when it’s roughly half your wage.

I’m a tad ashamed of my lack of awareness. It’s strange how one can become the oblivious elite once the context has changed.

Claudia adds that certain Strasbourgeois tend to resent employees of The Organisation. They assume we live a pampered existence. This might not be totally unfounded when one compares the quality of life.

I feel uneasier still when she mentions an erstwhile British-born Gambian colleague and a Spanish ex. Both quit Strasbourg for the UK, sharpish. Claudia herself has a love/hate relationship with the City. Her experience has been coloured by what she perceives as extreme parochialism on the part of locals and a lack of integration. She has a similar ambivalence towards The Organisation, for different reasons. When a missive circulates announcing a potentially significant change for the worst in THRO’s fortunes, Claudia gives me some background. This leads to a discussion about the internal politics and inconsistencies within The Organisation. For reasons of confidentiality and self-preservation I cannot go into detail here but let’s just say, it’s less than inspiring. THRO often finds itself caught between a rock and a hard place.

Back to cheerier themes. There are so many perks that come with the job.  There's the very generous leave allowance, even on my part time hours. For someone who has spent most of her professional life so far working in the public sector and is used to the flexible hours culture, it's still impressive. 30+ days A/L standard. That's not including the many French public holidays a year and special leave allowance.

I'm still getting accustomed to the long Continental lunches. Core hours for both private and public organisations tend to be from 9-12 and 2-5 with some variation either side. You'd think it would be staggered or there would be some kind of tag team arrangement to make sure services are covered over that period. Nope. It's tools down at midday for a solid couple of hours. This isn't great if you want to do some formal errands during your lunch break; say, going to the bank. I'd be less surprised in Southern France where the climate and culture are more mediterranean. I thought the good old Saxon, 'Protestant work ethic' would engender a more regimented work day in Alsace. My own exposure to it in the UK has obviously rubbed off on me, where my previous manager would tie herself in knots if I took an extra half hour.

THRO is like a microcosmic town. There’s an in-house bank, post office and medical centre. There’s also an online social hub, Solidarité which provides information on all sorts of work-related and extra-curricular activities; from exercises classes to cultural events, library services and classified ads. 

During my first full week I attend one of the reasonably priced supplementary language classes; basic Portuguese. Well, it’s supposed to be basic. My one other classmate, a native Francophone, appears to have an intermediate level. Our tutor, Carina speaks the European variety whilst I'm more comfortable with the South American. The class is a Latinate hybrid of French and Portuguese. Despite my patchwork knowledge of the latter, getting to grips with Carina’s Lisbon inflections and having to think in three languages, I manage to follow a fair chunk of the class. It’s a baptism by fire.

My staff photocard affords me free access to some of the events on which THRO collaborates with other institutions. Each autumn there is a democracy conference. 2017’s theme is the disturbing trend of extremist elements in mainstream politics. The event attracts international luminaries including the daughter of a famous belated Jazz chanteuse. A performer herself, she provides some entertainment before one of the plenaries. Unfortunately, most of the events take place during working hours. I do manage to make a late, after work cameo to a panel discussion on political narratives. I observe the UN-like set-up; long desks arranged in a semi-circle, equipped with headsets through which one can access contemporaneous translations in several languages at the switch of a button. I feel like a true citoyenne mondiale now.

For the practice, I listen to the French translation of one speaker from a country at the edges of Europe (both geographically and politically) with an infamous reputation for lack of transparency or respect for the rule of law. For argument’s sake let’s call this state ‘Goose’. I could be wrong but the speaker seems to be painting a rose-tinted picture of her country’s current political climate. She makes reference to Marine Le Pen as if to imply such a figure could not thrive in Goose. But why worry about one party with an admittedly pernicious ideology, when you have a whole state gone rogue? I’m not the only one with strong reservations about her comments. The speaker’s Q&A is forcefully interrupted by an irate heckler. The chairwoman tries in vain to calm the situation. The protester gathers her belongings and makes a dramatic exit, all the while impugning the speaker for her apparent delusion. It’s certainly an exciting way to end the evening’s events.

The next morning I regale Claudia with the details. My colleague is used to such heated exchanges at these events. It’s nothing new she says. I express my indignation at what I believe to be the Goose speaker’s propaganda. Claudia patiently reminds me that I’m speaking from a sheltered Western perspective where one (usually) has the luxury of criticising heads of state without grave consequence. For many parts of the world there are delicate interests to balance, including one's own liberty. Claudia has witnessed it first hand in her professional experience. Perhaps the Goose speaker felt obligated to defend her country; for her own security and, as I reflect, perhaps to challenge Western double-standards.

So much for a cheerier theme.

First Impressions Part 2: The Hunt

(c) Lexis-Byron Bay

One thing my flat-hunt has afforded me is plenty of French practice. There’s something about the necessity of having to make myself understood which initially prevents me over-thinking what I am about to say as much as I normally would. I am using French in all sorts of hitherto unfamiliar contexts. Apart from the accommodation search I’m dealing with official documentation at work, medical examinations...

I am relieved how much I understand on the first go. I wouldn’t describe myself as fluent. A few more months of consistent interaction, however will do my language levels no end of good. I hope. After a month, this early optimism looks to be something of a false dawn. It amazes and frustrates me how inconsistent my linguistic competencies can be. One minute I’m off and away. On a different day-or simply different time of day-it’s as if that part of my brain has gone on strike. It feels like my skills are receding rather than flourishing. I'm surrounded by polyglots and yet I'm still trying to master a second language that I've been studying since the age of 7. Je m'en veux.

Nevertheless, familiarity with French is helping me become quite adept at sniffing out the property crooks; those who post false adverts in hope of fleecing some poor, unsuspecting desperado. There’s usually some story about not being based in Strasbourg and needing to rent the property to a ‘trustworthy’ person in theirs or some other's absence. Their messages contain too much detail and they demand the same. They often insist on communicating via less official channels. They talk about signing leases and paying deposits before even meeting the potential tenant. No respectable landlord/lady would be so lax with scrutiny. Then there’s always the suspiciously professional-looking photos of plush premises at mouthwateringly low prices. A quick search via Google images can trace the provenance of some these appropriated snaps. At first, I confront them in forthright and dry French (as much as I can attempt irony in another language). After a while, I'm canny enough not to bother responding to them at all.

There are genuine proprietors (and even then, I'm in a vulnerable position as I do all my viewings solo. On mum's wise suggestion, I make a point to notify her where I'll be and when). The problem is the lodgings are either too small and/or don’t have sufficient amenities, or are not immediately available.

The lack of accommodation is a real test of faith. I know the Good Lord will provide. There have been miracles paving the way for my trip including an impromptu, highly generous donation from a Christian former work colleague who barely knew me. And yet. I wrestle with the instinct to panic. Last minute acts of the Divine are wonderful but I’d prefer more timely intervention.

Petite France

For a start, it’s difficult to mentally unpack. My new life is in a state of suspension. It's hard to put down roots without a fixed address. For the first fortnight, I have been fortunate to find a whole condominium in a central-ish location via AirBnb. The regular resident, Dominic Lumumba (no relation) divides his time between Paris and Strasbourg. To my pleasant surprise, it’s a lot more spacious than the online pictures capture. Since he's away on business I am welcomed by Dominic’s friend, Patricia. The flat is clearly still lived-in. Lumumba’s wardrobe is full, his freezer stuffed to capacity. Patricia’s clothes are drying in the airing cupboard. Dominic’s bedroom notice board is replete with pictures from his night’s out. Quite the social butterfly, it seems.

I make myself as comfortable as I can without going overboard. I’ve only booked it for two weeks after all. Patricia doesn’t hide her mild shock when she learns of my limited window to find suitable accommodation. That makes me panic even more.

‘At least just try and enjoy this period for what it is’ advises mum. She’s right. I do live in an unbelievably picturesque town. It has many likeably quaint features. The tram network and the general layout mean nowhere is really far from anywhere. Some trams play curious little jingles as we approach a stop. I can’t believe I live here now!

During my first proper weekend in Strasbourg, I take the opportunity to acquaint myself better with the city whilst doing some errands. I need to take some pictures for my residence permit. I find a photographer’s studio with rave reviews online in the Faubourg National area. I engage in a fascinating conversation with the Bengali owner, who settled in France 20 years ago without speaking a word of the language. He learned from friends, he tells me. He points out that, compared to the shiny upmarket part of town where I work, this is the ‘quartier populaire’. He mentions a couple of African food retailers. On emerging from the shop I realise that I have indeed stumbled upon Le Quartier Noir. Overpriced African delicacies. Obtrusive cat-callers. Afro hair and beauty shops. I find a salon that does all and sundry including skin treatments. My French falters trying to use more technical terms to describe what I want. The clientele is noticeably diverse. I catch the eye of a Caucasian transgender customer. There’s a wide-eyed curiosity to how s/he observes me. I wink and smile. The latter is reciprocated.

I allow myself to get lost in Strasbourg’s cobbled streets and become acquainted with La Petite France and other scenic parts. There are buskers playing the accordion in the street. Seriously. I wander through a free exhibition on anti-semitic Nazi Propaganda trying to access the terrace of Le Barrage Vauban.

Occasionally the topography reminds me of other European cities; flashes of Amsterdam or Toulouse. Perhaps somewhere in Belgium.

There’s something about going abroad that makes me more conscious of the architecture than when I’m in the UK; especially churches. Strasbourg has its own distinct mix of classic Roman or Gothic influences (the stunning Cathedral for instance) and big shiny new steel edifices (EU institutions).

In terms of pace, Strasbourg is somewhere between the chaos of metropoles like Paris or London and a peaceful small town. Un bel equilibre. (Very un-London like, I quickly pick up the local habit of greeting strangers.)

Still, it’s not a backwater. The high streets have most of the familiar creature comforts. There are posters everywhere advertising performances by international artists, a forthcoming Jazz festival, socio-political conferences…

One thing for which I am not prepared is the cost of food. I am aware that grocery shopping in France can be pricey but that has been based on cursory knowledge from short breaks. I hoped once in the country, learning where the locals shop, I’d be pleasantly surprised. If nothing else, there’s always Aldi and Lidl. All will be well.

My first trip to Aldi’s is a rude awakening. It’s not as close to my temporary accommodation as hoped. I spend two hours looking for the damned place, traversing hills and vales and losing my bearings in the process. It’s not a journey that’s supposed to be made on foot. The nearest public transport is a solid 10-15 minute walk.

On arriving there are no small shopping baskets, just the over-sized trollies; not much use to a solo shopper. The shop is woefully lacking in variety compared to its British counterpart . I am stunned at the so-called discounted prices. Four (high calorie) pita breads at 1 Euro 15 cents? Double the equivalent of what I’d pay in the UK for more product? You’re having a bubble. I spend nearly 25 euros on an insubstantial shop.

An after-work trip to Lidl proves, ahem, little better. This time, there are no trolleys or baskets whatsoever. I am obliged to stuff my yet-to-be-paid goods into my bag-for-life like some poxy novice shoplifter. A furtive glance over my shoulder reveal others have had to resort to similar measures. I don’t know what the Francofied German supermarket chains have against portable metallic repositories. It’s another disgruntled shopping experience.

Less than a week later I am a lot more accustomed to the general state of play. Washing detergent starting from seven euros. Hmm. The limited range also means shopping will have to be divided amongst several retailers. I suppose I do the same in the UK but for the opposite reason; more competition, more consumer choice. Maybe this French experience will wean me off this capitalist indulgence.

First Impressions: Living the Dream...Maybe

After years-maybe even decades-in the making, I’m finally realising my European dream.

10 years since I first applied for a position at The Human Rights Organisation (THRO), I have finally been offered the opportunity to work in their Justice Department. I’m swapping the long commutes and overpriced rents of London for charming Strasbourg, in the Alsace region Eastern France.

The territory has had a contentious history, passing hands between Germany and France and back again. Although it’s been definitively French since the Second World War, the area still occupies a cultural netherworld between Franco and Germanic influences. It’s evident in the appellations of localities. Some are francofied versions of German alternatives (as in the City’s name itself). Others suggest the French gave up on replacements altogether (Neudorf, Alt Winmarik, Illkirch-Graffenstaden…).

It is similar to Brussels in that sense, although that’s not all the two cities have in common. Both have the honour of being the official headquarters for the EU institutions. 

That’s enough historical context for now. I won’t promise there will never be more.

This particular THRO application process (or competition, as it's formally known) takes two years. Several months go past before I receive an initial response. I expect a rejection email like all the others. Instead, I am called in for the next stage; an examination which happens to take place a few days after the UK’s EU Referendum. I anticipate all the Brits to be sent home ‘Be gone, thou fickle little Englanders. We don’t need your trouble round these parts’.

Instead I’m told that the Brexit result makes no difference. Although collaborating regularly on shared projects, THRO and the EU are distinct entities. To my great surprise, I ace the entrance exam and several months later, I am invited to Strasbourg for an interview.

In the time it takes for me to be formally accepted and do a number of further interviews for various THRO departments (some across the Channel, some via Skype), I’ve changed jobs in the UK and moved house. Finally, this summer an auspicious video conference interview leads to a firm offer. Eventually.

My notice period at the North London Council is two months. The formal paperwork from THRO doesn’t come through as quickly as I’d hoped and they want me to start by early November at the latest. Hence the six weeks from mid-September (when I receive an official offer from THRO) and making the move to Strasbourg are a flurry of activity. I start sharing the news with friends and attempt to meet as many of them as possible. I notify my pastors at church and step down from serving in the youth ministry. I formally resign from the NLC after nine short but turbulent months. There are no tearful farewells on my last day. Having joined my local Labour Party relatively recently, I throw myself into as many meetings and campaigns as I have time to attend before my departure.

Amidst tying up loose ends on the London front, I’m preparing to adapt to La Vie Strasbourgeoise. I research accommodation, local churches, supermarkets and cultural events. A very supportive contact from the Human Resources team at THRO is of great help.

Still, the most basic of needs eludes me. At the end of October, despite making an additional trip to Strasbourg for the express purpose of looking for accommodation, I am to spend several weeks AirBnb’ing it.

I have displacement issues beyond the usual and varied second generation migrant pathologies. My recent housing travails and brushes with homelessness in London have me longing for stability. My move to Alsace will be the third in 18 months (I didn’t even bother blogging about the last experience. There’s only so much deja vu before it gets boring). Admittedly it's not as bad as some, but more uncertainty than is welcome for someone who thrives on being organised and settled as far in advance as possible.

The good news is that, it seems one can live more civilised for a lot less money in Strasbourg compared to London; both in terms of commuting costs and accommodation. Even without the employer subsidy, I spend roughly a third on monthly travel than what I would in the Big Smoke.

Long term rentals are common in France (roughly 40% of the population). The home-owning, milestone-debt-around-your-neck-mortgage-culture doesn't seem to be as prevalent as in the UK. That's not to say there aren't a lot of people (at least in Strasbourg) who have invested in buy-to-rent property. However, there are protective tenancy rights enshrined in French law to redress the power balance. There are rent regulatory measures, such as caps for instance. 'Short' term leases for furnished accommodation are usually at least a year (three years for unfurnished) as oppose to the standard 6-month ASTs in the UK.   

Studios and one bedroom flats vary in quality. I’ve seen some bizarre set-ups such as shower cabinets in the corner of kitchens. (The layout often doesn't lend to good hygiene practices with toilets in worryingly close proximity to cooking areas, for example. I am to discover later that gastric illnesses are quite common). But even some beautiful shoeboxes are reasonably priced. By London standards.

The problem is finding somewhere spacious enough (in the not unlikely event I’ll have guests) with sufficient amenities. My requirements are modest. I would like a washing machine on site. Launderettes are a common high street feature but I don’t trust them. I have vivid childhood memories of seriously itchy clothes before my family invested in their own machine. (We were probably at the mercy of some malicious prankster, mixing powdered soap with a skin irritant but I can’t prove it). 

I’m also having to negotiate the difference between what the French mean by ‘bills included’ and what I’m used to in the UK. There are additional levies for the removal of refuse and the equivalent of council tax. Landlords might throw in heating and water supply but the electricity bills and internet access are almost always for the tenant to arrange. So much for my simple one-payment-for-all plan.

As mentioned, prior to the Big Move I do an additional reconnaissance mission to Strasbourg with the intention of securing accommodation and opening a post office account.

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I’ve taken the more romantic and carbon footprint-friendly journey to Strasbourg by train. But it’s long, pricey and involves mid-journey changes. I hate to fly such short distances but I am enticed by Easyjet’s one-hour plus, cheap-as-chips flights. Gatwick Airport is a straight, relatively brief train ride from my London address.

En route, I spot former UKIP leader Nigel Farage in the departure lounge. He’s tucked away in a less conspicuous corner. I only notice him as I attempt to steer clear of the more congested seating area myself. I approach him with the intention of speaking about faith rather than politics. First, I try to find a segue of mutual interest and do a friendly interrogation of his unpalatable views. 

Mr Farage. May I ask you a cheeky question? Won't you miss all this easy European travel once we're out of the EU?

He’s genial and willing to entertain conversation. He tells me about a recent US tour. He’s also on his way to Strasbourg, I imagine to petition the European Parliament for some reason or the other. It occurs to me we might end up sitting next to each other. Not a thought I particularly relish but a chance to have a meaningful (I hope) back and forth. By the time we reach the aircraft, after trying to make a case for socialist policies that address economic imbalance rather than blaming immigrants, Farage’s words are fewer. I detect from his near-silence that he didn’t know what he was getting himself into. We don’t get round to discussing faith. I turn around to find Farage has been spirited away to the Easyjet equivalent of First Class. It’s all quite surreal.

Once I touchdown in Strasbourg, I continue my quest for the most ethical banking service I can find. Alas, my UK-based building society has no branches overseas. Main ethical player Triodos doesn’t yet do business in France despite having sites in neighbouring countries. A Nationwide rep (who also happens to have spent a year living across the Channel) suggests a French Post Office account. Great idea! If only it were that easy. I can’t push past all the bureaucracy.

My flat-searching endeavours fare no better. In spite of my best efforts, I can’t secure many visits within the two day window I’ve given myself. I do manage to arrange one via THRO’s online employee hub, Solidarité. A retired widow has converted her late husband’s home office into a very attractive studio. The rent is unbelievably reasonable and is as close to all-inclusive as I could hope. There are a couple of issues though. The flat is in her garden, like an especially well-equipped treehouse. Let’s just say it’s prone to unwanted little visitors.

On a more practical note, it’s in the middle of a quiet residential area, a long and secluded walk from the main road. It will be the most appealing residence I visit for some time but, as a visible foreigner, I can’t face walking down those quiet avenues during the darker autumn/winter months. Thus my trip feels futile. I call mum for some cheering up and perspective. She suggests I make my peace with my reality in the short term. I have been hoping to avoid any unnecessary expenditure like temporary accommodation. Mum encourages me to be practical. It’ll be a lot easier to look for a flat when I’m based out here.

I also contact Lucille, my kindly future colleague from THRO’s HR department. She forwards helpful links and puts me in touch with a young Swiss woman who also recently made the move to Strasbourg. Admittedly, the move is more straightforward for her in regards to local links, bank accounts and being paid in the same currency as always. Still, it’s good to have another sympathetic ear within the organisation.