La Vie Parisienne

A bottle portraying monastic scenes, 13th Century, Syria
 (c) Collection of the Furusiyya Art Foundation
Part of the exhibits at 'Eastern-Arab Christians:
2000 Years of History' @ the IMA, Paris

After the Christmas break, life is returning to normality slowly but surely. At THRO it’s more of the former. Some colleagues have opted to take the whole first week of January as leave. On my first day back in the office, only a handful from the department have returned. Claudia, Mustafa and I rattle around the empty corridors like phantoms. There’s a serenity to which I could easily become accustomed. My inbox is mercifully quiet. Most of the emails are those I sent to myself from home. It allows me time to work on a detailed report Sophie has given me to proof-read. I started before Christmas and I’m still only just over half-way through. The English is of an advanced level but is often not idiomatically correct. At roughly 28,000 words, it’s nearly double the length of my MA dissertation with none of the familiarity. Still, it's a good intellectual workout.

Sophie returns to work the day after, only to have to take some special leave for family reasons. She’s easygoing about the report. All the more reason to not take advantage of her good nature.

That weekend I’ve planned a trip to Paris to catch an exhibition on the 2000+ year history of Christianity in the Middle-East, at the Institut du Monde Arabe. 2018 will make it almost a decade since I did more than pass through the city en route elsewhere. I’ve decided to make a weekend of it. The train ticket is cheap. I’ve found a good bed-and-breakfast deal in the suburb of Asnieres-sur-Seine. The weather forecast isn’t bad.

I arrive late Friday night. My room is on the fifth floor of an Ibis Styles on a quiet side street. The spiral staircase is steep and narrow and the room compact. But it's clean and cosy and I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower, if I stand on my bed.  The plan is to attend the exhibition on Saturday. I’ve arranged a last minute press pass with one of my contacts.

Ah, the weekend. Not the best time to enjoy a soon-to-finish exhibition in peace and quiet. The IMA is packed with tourist groups and families with young children. The exhibition is substantial but the passageways are narrow. Everyone is jostling for space, doing ballroom-like manoeuvres to negotiate the tightness.

Very little of the exhibition is in English. Good. With everyone being away for Christmas, I’ve hardly spoken to a soul let alone had much French practice. My Parisian excursion will be the most consistent interaction I’ve had with the language for a few weeks.

One visitor sidles up to me as we both contemplate an ancient Eastern Orthodox relief, still in remarkably good condition. I’m making notes for my other blog.

The features are very African, don’t you think?

I look at her askance. I’m assuming she feels at liberty to make the comment to me, since there are few other brown faces around. Detecting my wariness she adds, ‘I’m North African, that’s why I’m saying it’. I’m still not entirely convinced but I start to thaw.

‘Yes, I suppose. Compared to how the artists of the Renaissance portrayed them’.

She continues ‘It’s far more realistic than the European depictions'. I agree, remorseful for initially being so defensive.

I spend over four hours at the exhibition, not wishing to rush through anything. A fatigue overwhelms me half way through. Perhaps it’s a mix of going to bed late, winding my way through the crowds, being on my block-heeled feet for a few hours and the consistent effort of reading in a second language. I have to force myself to actually look at the artefacts and absorb the information rather than just seeing them. It’s easy to go on autopilot. I’m not usually one for exhibitions unless the topic is really of interest, as is the case. It still feels a little out of habit.

After a rest on some strategically-placed seats, I gain a second wind and complete the rest of the expo.

Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

I go into the IMA in the early afternoon and emerge at sunset.  The night is still young. It’s high time to reacquaint myself with Paris for real.  Despite having grown up and lived most of my life in a Big City, I am surprised to find myself occasionally intimidated by other mega-metropoli; Paris being one of them. Especially now living in comparatively modest-sized Strasbourg. It hasn't always been the case. Maybe it's just old age kicking in. Or I'm recovering from my hectic London existence. A part of me is increasingly attracted to a quiet life. Just a little bit.

In the distance, the Eiffel Tower’s spotlight circles the city like a lighthouse. Across the bridge from the IMA, I spot a breathtaking Gothic building which I rightly suspect is the Notre Dame. I haven’t visited the medieval cathedral since a primary school trip. I make my way on foot.

En route, I’m stopped for directions by an attractive African-Caribbean couple. Assuming they are Francophones, I start to make my apologies...

‘Désolée. Je ne suis pas Parisienne. Je ne connais pas le quartier très bien…’

‘Uh...metro?’ asks the young man. Immediately perceiving a minimal level of the local language, I’m rather perversely tempted to continue to feign ignorance. In an effort to expose myself to as much French as possible, I’m resolute about distancing myself English-speakers, especially in social settings.

I relent. ‘Oh, you’re English speakers’, mildly disappointed, strangely relieved. They are taken aback at the switch, enquiring where I’m from.

Over at the Notre Dame there’s quite a buzz. Those fortunate enough to have passes are ushered in. Security guards line the streets. Outside the main gates a sizeable crowd has gathered, looking up expectantly. Whilst passing the famous bells explode into a rapturous chorus. Quasimodo would be proud (Sorry. I couldn’t resist).

Of course. It’s the Epiphany celebrations. How fortuitous to be in this part of town for it.

I've rambled enough. I need to write up this exhibition review. I start the journey back to the hotel. A quick change of plan and I decide to board the bus to Paris St. Lazare, one train stop away from Asnieres. It’s not the quickest route but it makes for a change. I don’t believe I’ve ever taken the bus in Paris. I treat it like a mini-tour.

The celebrated City of Lights is more illustrious still, draped in Christmas décor.

Back at my hotel, I gorge on French TV. It has an unfairly bad reputation. I can always find something to keep me entertained and/or informed. It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to indulge since moving to France. I didn’t have access to any at my former AirBnb’s and I’ve been debating whether to invest in one for my flat. It won’t remain undecided for much longer.

La Restaurant de la Sirène, Asnières-sur-Seine by Van Gogh

I wake up to a grey and damp Sunday morning. Nothing like a Continental breakfast buffet to cheer me up. Talk about an Achilles heel. It’s my habit to go down as close to the end as possible so I can dine in peace. It’s a gamble that doesn’t always pay off, as is the case that morning. A sizeable group of young French-Maghrebins, unconsciously or not sitting according to gender, are having a loud conversation across the cantine.

I soon scarper back to my room to watch a bit of ‘Un Sac de Billes’; a new TV adaptation of the (less engaging) novel that I had to study for French A-Level, about two Jewish brothers trying to survive Nazi-controlled Vichy France.

I pull myself away to explore the local surroundings. Asnieres-sur-Seine isn’t especially inspiring, less so when the weather is overcast. It does have the claim to fame of once being a muse for Van Gogh, whose paintings of the town during a more romantic era are dotted about.

On my stroll I notice a man with a bike come to a dead halt, grinning at me sheepishly. I return the smile somewhat tentatively. I am in the mind to walk past but realise it could be a chance to have a proper conversation. On my prompting he introduces himself as Denis. He’s on the way to have lunch with his parents. First, he wants to show me local landmarks such as the Chateau (more like an elaborate administrative building), a real life Swan Lake, some more scenes that Van Gogh painted and a farmer’s market. I encourage Denis to correct any of my grammatical mistakes. He’s keen, all right. He spent some time at boarding school in the UK in a town I’ve barely heard of. He has an advanced level of English. I ignore him and doggedly respond in French for most of the interaction. I keep warning him not to try and kidnap me. I’m only half-joking.

Denis is angling for some future socialising. I agree to send him a text about my plans that afternoon. I have a legitimate excuse. I'm awaiting a text from Julie, une connaissance Parisienne who might be able to meet up later. I don’t want to get Denis' hopes up but I’ll be polite about my demurral all the same. Besides, he has family from Alsace. It won’t hurt to say hello if he passes through that neck of the woods. We later have a lively linguistically-related text conversation that evening.

On the way back to my hotel for an afternoon siesta, I’m followed by a creepy old codger who, despite my obvious consternation, attempts to take pictures of my behind on his phone. I run to my hotel before he can get a clear view of where I’m staying.

(Incidentally, on the way back to Strasbourg, a cheeky bus driver, under the pretext of showing me where to catch my coach, asks me for my number.

What, my coach number?

No. Your telephone number.

What for?

So we can go out for a drink.

But I live in Strasbourg!

Well, whenever you come back to Paris.

Mes aïeux, Les Parisiens. Vous etes fous !

I don’t know what pheromones I’m giving off that attract eccentric older Caucasian men but I wish they worked as well on the younger, hotter variety instead).

After some more fun with satirical French puppets, comedians in drag and a couple of international Skype calls, I've had no word from Julie. I therefore return to the Parisian streets to do the stereotypically tourist-y stuff. Champs Elysee, L’Arc de Triomphe...because they’re there and it’s been a while and, like a kid, I get such a kick out of seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle every hour, on the hour. During the day it has the unglamorous air of an intricately decorated, rusty old giant pole. But at night, all lit-up... quel merveille. It’s like meeting a celebrity. So there. Don’t judge me.

It’s a Sunday night but it could be any other weekday evening on the Champs Elysee. It’s heaving with activity. It’s even more resplendent in its festive setting. L’Arc de Triomphe is more impressive than I recall. Paris is cleaner and less odorous than I remember.

Overlooking the City from the great vantage point of the busy Trocadéro-Palais de Chaillot, I am reminded....  Ah yes. This is the City that once enchanted me so.

A Lady of Leisure…

...Or, the First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 3.

I am realising that the older I get, the more I enjoy my own company. Over the Christmas period, I have had plenty of time to ruminate over this. I hope I'm not becoming more anti-social with age.

Mum is in Japan enjoying the bright winter sunshine in the company of sis. I’ve just started to settle into life in Strasbourg, most particularly my new accommodation. It’s only been a few weeks. There’s no need to scarper off to London without my closest family members in town.

Besides, the extended Christmas leave from work will be the first opportunity to properly recover from all the upheaval of the past couple of months.

‘Don’t spend Christmas alone' warns my well-meaning colleague Lorette, fervently shaking her head ‘It’s too sad’. Au contraire. It doesn’t have to be, I reply. Plus (as I’ve been telling anyone who will listen), it will provide insight into what the festive season is like for those who are usually alone during this time, for far more heartbreaking circumstances than my own.

I’ve seasoned my meats and blended my root vegetable soup ahead of Christmas day to cut out some of the labour. I am determined to rest as much as possible. I wake up to sunshine streaming through my skylight-like bedroom window. It’s some of the best weather we’ve had in weeks. I am unable to have a proper lie-in. I check my phone for the message that stirred me from sleep in the wee small hours of the morning. It’s the first of several texts and/or phone calls that pour in throughout the day on both my UK and French mobiles. I’m touched that a number of friends have kept me in their thoughts despite their own seasonal busyness.

I Skype mum and sis. There's an eight hour time difference. It’s well into the evening over there and they still haven’t eaten. Something about being slowed down by a long, leisurely afternoon stroll. I take one of those myself later in the day. It would be a shame to waste the sunshine. I remain in my locality. I make a point to wish passers-by ‘Joyeux Noel’. A bus occasionally drive past. Unlike in the UK, there is still public transport albeit on a reduced basis.

Colmar, Alsace @ Christmas
(thegoodlifefrance.com)

Towards the end of my ramble, I spot a familiar spiral and take a diversion. It has piqued my curiosity since first moving into the neighbourhood. It’s a Catholic church, with an attractive modernised interior, virtually deserted. Not being of that tradition, I skip the genuflecting to icons and lighting candles. I take my time around the two nativity scenes; one miniature, the other closer to life size (I seek out a number of these tableaux over the course of my break). On my MP3 Kevin Max’ unique tones bring an extra-haunting quality to his stark rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, my favourite carol. I decide to loop it with the Swingles livelier, Bobby McFerrin-influenced arrangement. Both are sublime. They help to make this quiet and meditative detour a transcendent experience. Other visitors, come in intermittently but for the most part, I have the building to myself. I start singing a carol medley. Despite the carpet, my medium volume-voice echoes off the stone walls thanks to the great acoustics. Another group of visitors enter. They’re attitude isn’t very festive. Judging by the side eye one of them gives me and her feverish signing of the cross, she finds my impromptu concert-for-none irreverent. That’s my cue to exit.

Later that evening, I light my festive candle and sit down to a decent meal: Guinea fowl, roast beef, mixed-potato mash, turkey sausage and tomato and green leaf salad with homemade dressing. It’s the most I’ve ever cooked at Christmas and it ain’t half bad. I don’t finish everything on my plate. I forgot how filling the root vegetable soup starter could be. The evening entertainment is so-so; a disappointingly whimsical French film clearly adapted from a stage musical.

I have a loose schedule for the rest of the week; a mix of local excursions and further afield. I visit the Cathedral, again but this time venture inside alongside hundreds of others. I roam the streets of central Strasbourg aimlessly, wandering down less familiar side streets and discovering more shortcuts. Signs of the festive market have all but vanished as of Christmas eve. (I pedantically hold onto the 12 days tradition. It's still technically Christmas until Epiphany and I won't be told otherwise).

Mid-week, I pop over to Kehl to shop for household items and hope to take advantage of the winter sales. It is busier than I have ever experienced.

I attend a matinee at an arthouse cinema I come across on one of my rambles. I watch French/Portuguese ‘Menina’; my ideal European language cocktail.

My evenings are relaxed. I use the time to catch up on much-lauded films I missed the first time round; both relatively old (‘The Pianist’) and recent (‘Get Out’-extremely entertaining, yes. Not quite the wheel-reinventing masterpiece as claimed by some, methinks).

On somewhat of a whim, one day I decide to make the most of my newly-acquired train discount card and head to neighbouring town, Colmar. At the station, the sales assistant insists I don’t need to show her the railcard. She then proceeds to apply the wrong discount, for those under 26. I am flattered but I promptly inform her otherwise. ‘Oh my! I would have taken you for 25...’

‘26’ says her facetious colleague. It’s a good problem to have, I reply. My honesty costs me five more euros but the boost to my ego is priceless.

Outside St Matthieu's Protestant Temple, Colmar

Colmar is, as I have been told, very picturesque. It’s like a giant toy town, all the more appealing draped in Christmas paraphernalia. I’ve packed the regional guide that my former colleagues at the North London Council bought me as a parting gift. I don’t follow it religiously, navigating the streets by gut instinct. Still, I manage to hit the main sites of interest and catch a glimpse of the surrounding Vosges landscape. Unlike Strasbourg, the Christmas markets and seasonal artisan enclaves are still in full swing. A smile lingers on my lips, spreading to a full grin as, with the turn of each corner it seems, I am hit by more delightful scenery.

The Cathedral has the most unorthodox nativity exhibition thus far; ethnically-correct, frizzy-haired cloth figures with no facial features. The key scenes of the two principal Gospel accounts of Christ’s birth have been recreated in elaborate detail.

Not being a fan of museums, I skip the pricey Musée d’Underlinden and the tour of Auguste ‘Statue of Liberty’ Bartholdi’s home. Perhaps I’ll save those for when I have a guest.

It’s cold enough to snow in Colmar. It holds off until just before I’m about to leave, having eaten an underwhelming caramel crepe in a cosy cafe next door to the charming Maison Pfister.

New Year's eve is spent at church in the morning and evening prayers at home. At 12am 1 January 2018, I look out of my window. Fireworks, both makeshift and professional, light up my vista for nearly an hour. The air is so full of gunpowder, that the normal view of Strasbourg Cathedral is soon completely obscured.

This Christmas break is the quietest and most serene I’ve had. It's also one of the best. I’ve enjoyed myself in ways that couldn’t be planned to the letter. A mix of foresight and happenstance. I doubt I’ll have the chance to experience the festive period in quite these circumstances again. All the more reason to savour this particular life season.

The First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 2

Angels we have heard on high...Strasbourg Cathedral
(c) me.

Now that I am settling into my new flat, it’s even more incumbent on me to make concerted efforts to build a Strasbourg community.

Church, as always, helps. I return to EPIS mid-December. By now I have developed a soft spot for it. It’s starting to remind me of my church back in London. I happen to attend on yet another fundraising Sunday (every third week of the month). December’s cause are the persecuted Christians supported by Portes Ouvertes; the French equivalent of Open Doors, a charity with which I am very familiar. A number of EPIS members do stirring presentations about stories that have impacted them on attending a recent Open Doors conference. It’s a challenge focussing on both their words and that of the sermon. A woman behind me noisily translates proceedings for her Serbian, non-French speaking family. A kindly congregant later explains when she notices my agitation.

I love learning the French translation of worship songs and carols I already know. As well as great language practice, it gives me a fresh appreciation of the message. Sometimes the lyrics are virtual transliterations. Others are approximations of the general sentiment. As the offering buckets are passed round, I am moved to tears by the rendition of ‘Le Premier Noel’.

I catch up with Jeanne after service. She’s up for hanging out in town, walking around the Christmas market and accompanying me as I pick up pastries and my usual Sunday takeaway (no cooking for me on my Sabbath). Jeanne is easy company. We meet up again a few days later after work. I want to see her before she leaves to spend her Christmas holidays divided between Lyon and Sardinia, where her sister’s in-laws reside. I remark how blessed she is to have such a close relationship with her extended family. She seems to come from very wholesome stock.

Jeanne listens patiently whilst I take the time to formulate my sentences in French as accurately as possible. I veer towards some complex topics. Jeanne is attentive, encouraging my efforts but also readily correcting me, as I have asked. It’s a small gesture but it means a lot for her to listen so well. It’s not as if she can recourse to English if I struggle to get the words out as quickly as I’d like.

We plan to do more organised language exchanges in the New Year, God willing.

In the lead-up to Christmas I finally meet my kindly HR contact Klara in the flesh. We spend a lunch hour catching up in one of several of THRO's eating establishments. Speaking at least five languages, with a heart of gold, she's an impressive young lady.

Strasbourg City Centre@ Christmas
(courtesy of Eurostar)

As part of my endeavour to expand my Strasbourg networks, I sign up for a Market-related event organised by Internations; an globetrotting variant of Meet Up. 18 guests register. Typically, only five of us attend. I get to kill two birds with one socialising stone; to see more of the Market in its full illuminated glory after dark and meet new people. Three birds, in fact as it’s another opportunity to communicate solely in French. None of the party are native Francophones. They are a multi-lingual set hailing from Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean. Most have lived in France for so long, I dub them honorary countrywomen. Our first stop is the artisanal end of the Christmas Market. Event organiser Martina says this is the authentic Christmas food market, not the overpriced made-from-a-packet stuff sold in the commercial parts. It’s the middle of the week and reassuringly mellow. The crowds are less dense. Martina wants us to sample the varieties of warm beverages on offer; from soups to hot beer. I stick with some hot blackberry juice, with no added naughtiness. We talk about their shared experiences of being global citizens and, one of my favourite subjects, what is fluency and how to attain it. Latvian Nina thinks it’s no more complicated than making yourself understood. Bulgarian Leona believes any aspiring linguist has arrived if s/he can properly articulate themselves in a confrontational situation. I am inclined to agree.

It’s a cold and damp evening and my frozen toes feel like they are dissolving into mush, whilst I can still feel them at all. It’s a school night, I inform the group apologetically. I need to run. Martina is having none of it. She entices me with promises of more beautifully lit streets and Christmas related displays such as the itinerant Icelandic Village mock-up which is passing through Strasbourg in 2017. It’s all right for Martina. She lives within walking distance.

I admit, the City looks stunning despite the drizzle. I am forever captivated by the magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral. Whether in daylight or after nightfall, it’s one of the most arresting I’ve come across; at once beautiful and grotesque. The German translation for Cathedral, 'Munster' feels most apt.

In advance of Christmas, the offices of THRO seem to be emptying in inverse proportion to the number of international visitors pouring into the City centre. By Friday 22^nd it’s a ghost town.

Most of my department have already gone on leave. Some will not be returning in the New Year. The Organisation is facing financial challenges. Temporary contracts are not being renewed. There are rumours of redundancies. Claudia has been a veritable Cassandra of late, prophesying doom at every turn. I can’t understand. If she’s so unhappy with THRO and is ambivalent towards Strasbourg, it seems obvious she should return to London where her gentleman friend awaits. She has her reasons, I'm sure. It’s too personal to ask. Plus, I wouldn’t want to seem like an ingrate. Her guidance in this early stage of the role has been invaluable. But I am still relatively new and don’t want to be infected by her jadedness. I am looking for tactful ways to stem the steady stream of negativity that comes out of her these days. I am somewhat relieved when she starts her Christmas break a day early.

(c) me

All THRO buildings close around midday the Friday before Christmas for a week and a half. I remain behind to try (in vain) to complete some detailed proof-reading Sophie has assigned before she goes on leave. My colleagues who are still present urge me not to stay too late. By the time I head to the exit after 1pm, even the security staff have vacated the building.

The day is still young. I pop into town to do some last minute food shopping. I have my Christmas playlist on repeat; a mix of modern classics (Donny Hathaway), obscure stone-cold Gospel gems, contemporary versions of a favourite carol and more recent additions to the Festive canon like the 'Black Nativity' soundtrack.

I’ve already bought most of my festive meat. I haven’t had Turkey at Christmas for years and have no intention of starting now. I opt for some Guinea fowl to be seasoned with a MENA region touch and roast beef.  I'll vary the menu slightly for New Year's Day.  As I’ll be cooking for one, I can’t justify over-indulging in too many seasonal treats. I choose my cheeses carefully with an eye on the calories. I have one packet of mulled wine seasoning left. My cranberry & raspberry juice is at the ready. Mum has already sent me a number of sweetmeats before flying off for her Eastern holiday. I stock up on a few more, with the intention of spreading them over January and beyond. Not quite ‘famous last words’. I’ve managed before.

The First (Strasbourg) Noel: Part 1

I’ve said it before. Strasbourg is really into Christmas. It’s described by some –and marketed on the City's website -as the Capital of Christmas; no doubt in light of the popularity of the festive market. It’s often viewed by residents as a mixed blessing. I’m beginning to join that camp. On one hand, the way this already belle ville is transformed into a sparkling multi-sensory wonder could make anyone revert to a childlike awe. On the other hand, it’s also bloody busy. At particular junctions, temporary security stations have been set up to check belongings for explosive devices. This is not great for yours truly. Not because I have any nefarious intentions but because I’m usually weighed down with household shopping and seasonal trinkets. I’ve even been asked to partially undress (well, my coat) in the process. Goodness.

There’s also the unnerving presence of armed personnel; both law enforcement and the military. They stroll around, machine guns nonchalantly slung across a shoulder like it’s the most casual thing in the world. More disturbing still, a number of them don’t look old enough to drive let alone be carrying firearms. Weapons and youthful hubris can be a dangerous (Molotov) cocktail. Having lived for so long in the UK where it’s unusual to see armed police, I doubt I’ll ever become accustomed to it on the Continent, regardless of how often I've witnessed it. I’m uncertain if this heightened security around the Christmas Market is routine or a response to France being a regular target for terrorism in the past few years.

The Place Kleber Christmas Tree, Strasbourg
(c) me

My colleague Claudia (who lives in the eye of the Market storm) has mentioned that there were fewer visitors in previous years in the immediate aftermath of the massacres in Paris. My Lyonnaise acquaintance, Jeanne, confirms the sense of anxiety is more recent.

Back in the office, preparations are underway for the Office Christmas lunch. It's being coordinated by the docile Lorette. She gently presses me for a RSVP. I prevaricate, having historically found the thought of organised fun with colleagues particularly awkward. Plus it’s almost 50 euros per head. It is not the tradition for the employer to subsidise the meal. At least it’s not just me who is wary. Sophie exclaims she could buy several presents for her daughter at that price.

Still, I am new and it would be a diplomatic faux pas to absent myself. Thankfully, I have sufficient funds.

It would be a good opportunity to defuse some end of year tension as well. I’ve unwittingly walked into an office politics mini-storm of late. Two colleagues, Celeste and Lucia are re-negotiating their roles after having had overlapping maternity/sickness leave. One, who would normally deputise, took over the other’s post in absentia. Job titles are now a sore point. When I seek to standardise how Celeste is referenced in official paperwork and online, I receive a slightly stern email from her (in English, not the usual French) tacitly suggesting I don’t interfere.

Meanwhile, I’ve continued my tradition of handing out Christmas cards.  I tend to arrive at the office earlier than most, which is preferable for leaving the cards inconspicuously on desks. Later that morning, I am told by my colleagues that it’s a tradition très anglaise. I receive heartfelt emails of gratitude, hugs and continental kisses on each cheek. I always opt for cards with an obvious biblical theme. One colleague even commends me for the Magnificat reminder. I am moved to the point of embarrassment by their response.

At lunchtime, the department heads to the restaurant en masse by foot or by car. The eatery has a gastro pub feel but provides haute cuisine. For starters I am served mustard ice cream and Red Kuri squash; the existence of which I was unaware before seeing the menu. My main arrives last. I am the only one to order my steak well done. The thought of blood saturated meat isn't as appetising to me as it evidently is to my colleagues.

It’s an altogether cordial affair. I feel a little uneasy at first but Sophie helps me relax. I sit beside and opposite two colleagues (Lorette being one of them) who are Alsatians born and bred. In the original, non-canine sense. Hearing about the region’s history and their Franco-Germanic linguistic repertoire makes for stimulating conversation. It’s the most consistent French practice I’ve had with colleagues since I joined THRO.

Between the main and dessert, the ever-convivial Mustafa signals for our attention. He’s a good natured wild-card; the kind to wear bright, primary-coloured trousers in an office environment.  He commences a parlour game that’s a cross between Secret Santa and Pass the Parcel. 

The rules are a tad confusing (although when I later explain them to sis, she’s quite well-versed). Participants pick a random number and when it’s his/her turn, they select a novelty gift out of a lucky-dip. They have the choice to keep it or swap (within certain limits), with a previous present chosen by another guest.

When it’s my turn I’m quite pleased with my turntable key-ring; illumination, sound effects et al. It’s practical too. I’m not inclined to draw unnecessary attention to myself by exchanging for another.

When the party games are over, I assume Mustafa has paid for these tokens out of the goodness of his heart. The next minute a makeshift float is being passed around with a request for a five euro reimbursement. As if most of them even cost that much.

I leave the Christmas lunch exactly 50 euros poorer.  

Settling In...Finally

The first week of December is arguably my busiest yet. My supervisor Sophie has been poorly, as has her little one Aloise.  I'd like to tell her I'm praying for them. This early on in the job, it could be risky especially in super-secular France.  In her absence she forwards instructions on the most urgent tasks. When I later find out she’s been sending emails from her hospital bed, I mildly reprimand her. A bit rich, as I know how hard it is to switch off even when hospitalised. But still.

In between tasks I assist another colleague, Geri (hard ‘G’, not like Halliwell or whatever she goes by now). She’s helping to organise a conference in Algeria. When I first join the team, I’m not sure what to make of her. You usually hear Geri before you see her. She speaks very good French, very loudly with a noticeable Eastern European inflection (Hungarian, I’m told). Her laugh is louder still, almost forced. I’m polite towards her, even cordial but circumspect. Still, she’s a maven of all things administrative in the department and I’m grateful to have the chance to assist on another project.

Later that week, I’m invited to a new starters' HR training session. Just before I attend, I pass by Yotis’ office to sign the lease on my new flat. It’s really happening, folks. He has prepared a meticulous inventory of all the furniture and equipment and the few items that are not quite in pristine condition. I’m impressed with the integrity. He draws my attention to barely perceptible imperfections I wouldn’t otherwise notice. It has been agreed that I’ll move in that Friday. I manage to keep it from most of my colleagues save one of my three line managers, Lucia, from whom I must request special leave. I inform Sophie as casually as possible when she asks. I had intended to surprise her after I was bien installée.

At the HR meeting, I finally put faces to the names with which I’ve interacted regularly via email. There’s a session on the private health insurance that comes with the contract. All health care in France works on a private basis with government subsidies that cover (often a large) percentage of the costs in the form of reimbursements. Those who can afford it supplement the rest with private insurance. As employees of THRO, we have a global policy that replaces any other healthcare support -state or otherwise-to which we might have been entitled. That means bye-bye NHS. I am horrified. I had intended to stick with my UK GP whenever I were in town. The HR colleague gently admonishes that it would be fraudulent to benefit from a system into which I am not currently paying. Perish the thought. I apologise for giving her that impression. It’s just the alternative is so unpalatable; going to a private clinic. Thank God for walk-in centres. She suggests I could offer to pay my GP for any consultation. It’s worth a try. Anything is better than going private.

After the session, I swap stories with other organisation newbies. Ana has also recently relocated from the UK with her husband. She’s spent the past month, like myself, looking for accommodation. Consider yourself fortunate, says Romana. She’s a THRO veteran of sorts. She’s worked for the organisation for years as a temp and only just been offered a fixed term contract (or CDD-Contrat á Durée Déterminée). A month in limbo isn’t bad compared to some. Spare a thought for the temps and work placement candidates who receive no financial assistance from The Organisation and whose employment situation is too precarious for most landlords to risk. Ana and Romana compare THRO’s intricate bureaucracy with other public institutions. Ana has worked for several around the world. She considers this the most complex, even by public sector standards. Au contraire, I tell them. I find it reassuring. At least this way, there's more accountability with how money is spent.

End of an era...The late Johnny Hallyday
(courtesy of Melody magazine)

Back in the office I’m balancing work with sorting out all that needs to be done for my move. Internet access, electricity accounts, building insurance (in France, it's the tenant's responsibility)… Nearly every little formality comes with a processing charge, before you even get to the main tariff. I’m ever grateful for that substantial relocation allowance.

I also need to accustom myself to carrying my passport around more often. I am asked to present it even for relatively trivial purchases like a pay-as-you-go SIM. Cette maudite bureaucratie francaise ! It would hardly be worth the bother except my supposedly EU-friendly UK mobile isn’t very reliable these days.

THRO permits expats two days of special leave to move house. Most handy indeed. A few days before the move my AirBnb host Javier, God bless him, offers me a lift to my new digs. He won’t countenance me wasting the taxi fare. He asks if I’ve heard about the demise of French Rock Legend Johnny Hallyday. Bien sur. On the main page of the BBC website of all places. Hallyday’s death doesn’t have the cultural impact I expect at work but everywhere else is abuzz with the news. That weekend, to commemorate his burial, Strasbourg tram stations rather disconcertingly blast his greatest hits from their speakers. From what I do catch of live news coverage, French celebs give gushing eulogies at Hallyday’s memorial and Paris comes to a halt for a vigil.

When the day of moving arrives, it is a mercifully smooth transition. Javier takes time out of his lunch break to drop me off, as planned. Yotis and I go through some final formalities and, save for some initial issues with the heating, I’m good to go. I creep around my maisonnette like a guest. I’m still in Airbnb mode. I can’t believe I live here now. Look at all that fridge space! I buy almost a month’s worth of meat and still only fill one freezer tray. The place is so clean. I’m conscious of keeping it that way to the point of paranoia. I’ve even adopted my mum’s no-outdoor-shoes-in-the-house rule. It used to drive me round the bend.

A few days after the move, it’s an early start to my non-work day. Some workmen are coming round; one on Yotis’ behest to give the kitchen a spruce and the other to install my internet. They too become subject to the new shoes rule. It’s another potentially intimidating but ultimately useful linguistic exercise. When Hassan, the freckled, fresh-faced broadband engineer starts explaining the technical aspects of the installation process in as basic language as possible, I wonder if I’d completely follow him in English. It’s not the simple procedure that I expected. It’s a bit of a bloody rigmarole in fact, enlisting the help of neighbours and eventually the building maintenance company.

It’s turning out to be a somewhat chaotic day as far as strangers coming and goings are concerned. I’m also expecting the arrival of my belongings from London. Owing to bad weather (snow again) the removal company have postponed the delivery a number of times within just a couple of days. The control freak in me instinctively panics. I’m constantly re-arranging my schedule. Plans to make the flat more festive must be delayed until the basics are sorted. Thankfully, I've been organised enough to purchase other household goods in bulk the day before. The cost is temporary backache from carrying such a heavy load all the way back from Kehl, but it saves be future hassle.

I had hoped to have mum’s assistance if I’d found accommodation sooner. Ironically, the day my possessions are set to arrive, she’s flying out to Japan to spend Christmas with sis. Not to worry. I have a stack of podcasts lined up to keep me company as I organise my stuff. Provided I can manoeuvre around the workers.

That morning is a productive blur. The delivery from London arrives earlier than I anticipate. Hassan and the most congenial painter Pierrot are beavering away. I commence unpacking in between.

It takes much longer than I thought. Thanks to my early start, I still have most of the day. I’m full of energy and relieved to be finally setting up house. There’s enough storage space to ensure everything has its place and then some. All that’s left to do is make another extra set of keys (so expensive here) and start putting up those Christmas decorations I’ve bought.

I guess this is what the kids today call adulting.

It's off to the village-within-a-city that is my new neighbourhood. There's the cosy looking mediatheque. Another artisan boulangerie.  Farmers market on the weekend...

Lord, lead us not into bourgeois-fication...

The middle-aged cobbler/key-cutter Eli, makes shameless ouvertures. For my sins, he asks me out for a drink after I comment on the excitability of his chocolate Labrador and take a genuine interest in his Jewish-Algerian heritage. ‘Ce n’est pas de tout professionnel’ I playfully remonstrate.

The following evening, after a busy day in the office catching up on my backlog and finishing off moving-related life admin, I set about sprinkling some seasonal cheer around the flat. I’m not one for garish decorations; lurid streamers and the like. Just a few tasteful trimmings (I like to believe); a little tinsel and some LED fairy/tea lights.

Once done, I survey my demurely festive kingdom. I plan to add a few more bits and pieces here and there. Apart from that, it’s warm and cosy and beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Thank. You. Lord.

First Snow

(c) Les Petits Frenchies

On 1 December, the city of Strasbourg wakes up to snowfall; the first of many. Un Noel Blanc is far more likely than in London, it seems. I've heard the winters here can be harsh. I experience it first-hand that lunch time when, despite my decent quality gloves, I suffer the most painful frostbite in recent memory.

Claudia has shown me pictures of frozen canals and icebreakers. She warns me to be prepared and pile on the layers. Not easy to do when most of my stuff is still in London. The last day of November marks one whole month since my arrival in Alsace. My accommodation situation is still up in the air.

I’ve extended my stay at Javier’s. I just can’t face the upheaval and awkwardness of moving in with Klara and her boyfriend (albeit it’s free). It is extremely kind of her to offer a perfect stranger, I admit. Her colleague Lucille has a French-Canadian friend heading back home for unpaid leave for a year. She also lives close to The Organisation and can offer her place once vacant. The problem is it’s only a short-term solution. Potentially. She has a friend who is applying for a role at THRO, who might be successful and who might need somewhere to stay. That’s too much uncertainty for me but I appreciate the willingness to help. My housing issues have revealed how reliant I have been on the milk of human kindness. By the grace of God, it has flowed in abundance since my arrival.

That brings me back to Javier. What a mother’s pride he is. He agrees to let me stay for the same rate as I have been, rather than exploiting the Christmas market rush. Either way you look at it, temporary accommodation over an extended period ain’t cheap. Cumulatively, over the month I have spent upwards of a grand (in either currency) on AirBnb. Still, it’s a lot more affordable than hotels and with better privacy and amenities than your average budget hostel.

Javier tells me I’m a good guest and trustworthy. He will be away on personal and business trips. He wouldn’t normally have someone stay in his property during his absence but he’s making the exception. It’s sound business too, he says.

That’s a relief of sorts but I’m still anxious to move on. My savings have taken a dent and I’m not feeling this unintentionally nomadic lifestyle.

The search is nonetheless becoming harder. The closer to Chrimbo the scarcer the accommodation. Whatever hasn’t been converted into AirBnb to take advantage of the Christmas Market mayhem, is not available until late December or even the New Year.

As November makes way for the next, there are a few glimmers of hope. HMRC have decided, (not for the first time), that I’ve paid too much income tax and I’m due an unexpected rebate. THRO’s installation allowance is more generous than I anticipate, thank God. I’m glad I didn’t ask for an advance or I’d have possibly blown it on the wrong kind of accommodation in my desperation and worry. I’ve also set up a couple of viewings. Both happen to be walking distance from the office and have direct connections to THRO. Both are advertised on Solidarité’s internal classifieds page. They’ve both been doing the rounds for some time. Should I be suspicious?

My first viewing is with Yotis. I spot his ad on the public listings site Le Bon Coin before I notice it on Solidarité. The pics are all right. Nothing spectacular but it is well-furnished. I pop Yotis an email. I mention The Organisation as a selling point, since it’s in such close proximity to the property.

Oh, I work for THRO too.

Do you now.

We arrange a time and date and I make a mental note to look him up on the work intranet the next day. Just to be certain he's legit. Yotis beats me to it. He is all official, sending me an Outlook meeting invitation to lock the viewing into our diaries. He says he’ll drive me to the property, since he’s local too.

In this post-#MeToo era it might not be worth the bother to assault me en route; not with the awkwardness of being colleagues and everything. Still, I take the precaution of forwarding the details to mum and notifying Claudia.

There’s nothing to worry about. Yotis is an upstanding professional; approachable, even diffident. Originally from Cyprus, he studied law at LSE and has settled in France with his Austrian wife. After the pleasantries and swapping notes about London are out of the way, it’s down to business. The accommodation is next to a large supermarket. That’s a plus. It’s on a fairly busy road. That’s another. Oh yes, c’est vachement for-mi-dable. A little palace for a relative bargain. Formerly occupied by a PhD student, his wife and two young children, they’ve returned to their native South-East Asia, leaving the premises in spotless condition. It is fully equipped down to washed bed linen. I’d want for nothing as I await the delivery of my remaining belongings from London. It’s also ideal for a interior designing novice. I don’t have the vision for that sort of thing.

The flat is available straight away, a stone’s throw from my office, with regular bus routes directly outside my door. A tram stop 10-15 minutes’ away on foot. Yotis only lives a few streets down should there be any internal issues…what’s not to love?

The long, quiet walk through residential streets to the tram stop, that’s what. After the viewing, Yotis kindly accompanies me to the nearest public transport. I attempt the walk the following afternoon during my lunch break. I figure in the light of day I’d be better able to familiarise myself with the neighbourhood. I get lost several times. Irony upon ironies, it is around the corner from the very first viewing I had in Strasbourg; the elaborate tree house. I turned it down because of the distance from the main road. If I take this property, I wonder, would it make the last month of searching futile when I could have just stuck to my first option?

But, still. It’s gorgeous. And the main bus is pretty regular. So yes, I would have to time my exits better. There are elements of the walk over uncomfortable terrain. I could probably only make my way on foot to work when it’s clear and dry weather. Still, are these not mere obstacles I’m unnecessarily putting in my way? The exercise will be welcome, especially during the warmer months. Once I reach civilisation there are lots of local shops and plenty of life. It’s a village within a City, (like Blackheath, Greenwich or Dulwich for the South Londoners. Forget the walk. My main concern should be avoiding becoming a Bourgeois hipster ponce (too old for that now methinks). Or worse still, a champagne socialist.)

Another viewing in a similar part of town strengthens my resolve. Yes, it’s vast, with capacious storage facilities and has some brand new amenities. The monthly rent for the whole space is not much more than what an average London tenant would pay to just live out of one of the large rooms. But it’s not homely. The communal areas are old and the stone design is somewhat off-putting. It would be a pain to keep warm in the winter. By then, I’ve already let Yotis know my decision. This alternative viewing is academic.

I try not to let myself get too excited until Yotis and I have both signed on the dotted line.

Out and About

I’m doing what I can to slowly but surely build my Strasbourgeois networks beyond work. My new Lyonnaise acquaintance, Jeanne is intentional about staying in touch.  When we first meet, qualified social worker Jeanne is looking for a job and I for accommodation. We encourage each other by text during the ups and downs of our bread and butter quests. We meet up one early evening. Jeanne's breakthrough has come quicker than she thought. She has been offered a position at EPIS, the church we both happened to visit on the same Sunday a few weeks back. She has been headhunted. I buy her a celebratory hot chocolate. She consoles me as I open up about my frustrations with my language acquisition and latest crisis of faith. She listens patiently, not judging as I'd feared and proffers sound advice. There are no grand gestures but the simple, soothing balm of good companionship is every bit as effective right now.

It's a contrast to my last attempt to tentatively widen my Strasbourg circle. One evening after work, I meet up with Nicolas. We first connect when I answer his classified ad for a studio on listings site, Le Bon Coin. The viewing isn’t a success but the interaction is amicable. He seems to be a pleasant character. That’s why I feel a little worse for turning down his compact student-friendly pied-a-terre. I tell him so. Nicolas reciprocates with his mobile number. I text him back, asking if he minds remaining in touch. I’m new in town. I need to establish links. He invites me out for a drink.

We try and fail many times to coordinate schedules. He has a full time job plus his own consultancy business. I’m busy when he’s free and vice versa. Life gets in the way. A free hour on a school night finally suits us both.

Nicolas' meeting location of choice is Paddy’s. It’s an Irish pub in the Jewish quarter, a choice possibly influenced by my British connection. A lot of cultural (con) fusion. It’s a short tram ride from work but we’re both running late. I’m held up by a last minute personal call to try and sort out my housing situation. 

I'm nervous I won't remember how Nicolas looks like. He arrives before I do. He spots me first. He's on his mobile. The tone is intimate. He ends the call.

‘Tu es à l’heure, comme d’habitude’. He grins.

I mumble a sheepish response. I was late to his viewing as well, both times for valid(ish) reasons. He’s better looking than I recall, sans lunettes; a sort of slender Clark Kent type. It’s an awkward but convivial enough meeting; a bit giggly. Lots of useful French practice for me. During one of the short but uncomfortable lulls I ask about his Christmas plans. He says something about going to Spain with his family. 

'Do you have a cultural connection?'

No, just a holiday with family and the girlfriend. I don’t hear much after he casually mentions his other half. For the sake of disambiguation, I switch languages momentarily. It would be tricky enough in English without being blunt.

Does your girlfriend know you’re out with strange women? (I'm paraphrasing). Back to French. It’s just that I think it would be a courtesy to be informed, if I were in her place.

Well, he begins. He doesn’t want to generalise. It depends on the person. His girlfriend is of Polish extraction. The culture is very insular, he gently insists. They’re not necessarily interested in going out, socialising. Meeting new people. It’s easier if she doesn’t know. Besides, he adds, if you were a guy, new in town and we wanted to fraternise over drinks, it wouldn't be an issue.

Hmm. It’s not quite the same, I reply. Male and female relationships can be very open to (mis) interpretation.

Dear reader, calm your feverish imagination. This is not a date. There are no set expectations. Still, the parameters would have been different if I knew Nicolas was attached. I might have decided against it altogether, so not to give the wrong impression.

I choose my words carefully. It is hard to have such a delicate conversation in any case, let alone in a second language. I don’t want to judge him, I explain. It’s just I like to put myself in the shoes of the significant other. I tell him my sister and I have had this debate a few times. She thinks I tend to err too much on the side of caution. 

It does depend on the dynamic, true. Still. I’m not convinced. There’s a hint of the deceitful. (Later that week I recount the episode to sis. She’s surprisingly supportive. No. It isn’t all in my head. There were mixed signals. Sounds as if he’s playing the ‘what if?’ parallel reality game, she posits, getting some sullied sense of validation).

The most constructive part of the evening is when Nicolas brings up faith. He notices that I have signed off some of my texts with ‘Par la grace de Dieu’.

‘Tu es croyante. C’est rare’. I assume he means for our generation. I answer in the affirmative. He’s an intermittently observant Catholic by his own admission, probably fitting it in between his myriad other obligations. It’s a particular challenge discussing things of a metaphysical nature in another language. But no excuses. It’s not as if I’ve never done it before. I say something about faith not being a question of ritual observance. Neither should it be a mere add-on. It is the core of who I am.

Nicolas and I part ways. I consider texting him later to say thanks (I end up paying for my drink anyway, by default of him having no change). For obvious reasons, I think better of it.