Plus Ça Change…

The late summer/early autumn activities calendar is in full swing in Strasbourg.  Mouth-watering mental and sensory stimuli abounds (on paper at least).

I attend a couple of events at Bibliothèques Idéales (or Ideal Libraries: tag line “Only the Living Create the World”) in the centre of town. For nearly two weeks one of the main dance and music venues in the City is commandeered for lectures on politics, economics, literature and the arts. I sit in on a thought-provoking discussion between Senegalese philosopher Souleymane Bachir Diagne and French-Jewish anthropologist Jean-Loup Amselle about finding common ground in a post-colonial world. The following day I attend a seminar with vibrant UK-based leftist French academic Prof. Chantal Mouffe on Left Populism. She receives thumbs up for making some favourable comments about a certain leader of the British Labour Party. 

Back at work I keep bumping into my not-so-former infatuation. His good humour in the face of my sullenness is making it increasingly difficult to play it cool about his lack of contact. One Friday morning, he takes me unawares just as I thought the coast was clear. God has a sense of humour. The night before, I pray that we won’t see each other for a good while. It’s otherwise wreaking havoc with my recovery. Famous last words. The next day I have an overwhelming presentiment that our paths will cross. Walking into work, I see his graceful, instantly recognisable stride coming towards me on the horizon. The profanity can’t fall from my lips fast enough. I’d normally self-remonstrate but I’m too busy smarting at Heaven’s wink-n’-nudge at my expense. Reconciliation is clearly a bigger priority than my short-term ease.

He’s too close for me to hide or avoid him. 

My French is all over the place that morning. He asks me about my part-time hours. I suspect it’s his way of working out why he hasn’t heard from me. He says something about being poorly. My response is an abrupt Bonne Journée. We part ways. I hover in the lobby, wondering whether to find him and explain myself. I head to my office, greet my colleagues, change my mind and return to the basement where I know he’s holed up. He’s speaking to a colleague. I interrupt unceremoniously, demanding if he's free. He beams a big smile at me as he usually does these days, despite my ornery behaviour.

You want to ask a question?

No, a conversation.

He turns his violet eyes skyward for succour; a look that is both apologetic and exasperated.  He remains silent. His customary gentleness prevails over any annoyance. In that moment, I believe I love him more. Thus my subsequent response is a mystery even to me.

Never mind. You’re busy. Obviously.

I storm off. He tries to interject. I couldn’t tell you why my behaviour and tone is so stroppy. I’m on some cantankerous autopilot.

I feel instantly mortified and remorseful. Neither of them deserved that. I return later to apologise to his poor, unsuspecting colleague. She accepts more graciously than I deserve.

 Later that lunchtime, I’m returning from a very pleasant meet-up with lovely new Lusophone acquaintance, Christina. As we enter our building, 6 foot 3 inches of bitter-sweet torment is heading in the opposite direction. This is ridiculous. We never usually run into each other this often. It’s no longer practical to keep up with the cool-reception lark. I wave, just so he knows that this morning was out of character.

At an opportune moment back at my desk, I start working again on a bilingual email I’ve been musing over for a while. I add an apology for my earlier stroppiness. I acknowledge his consistent kindness. I ask about his family, give a little back story and then come clean about my frustration at what feels like a unilateral interest in our continued interaction. I switch between French and English depending on the sentiment I am trying to express. 

The following week he shoots me a sympathetic response. He explains he was taken ill suddenly over summer. I’m overcome with regret. I couldn't have known from his spritely demeanour. I would have visited him in hospital. He explains his poor track record with staying in touch. It’s nothing personal, he adds. He can go years without communicating with old friends. He apologises. I accept without reservation and offer to resume where we left off. No time this week and probably not the next, he replies. His team is short-staffed. Same ol’, bloody same ol’. I know his good intentions are often scuppered by unexpected changes to his already hectic schedule...Yet...

And so returns my ambiguity about our…whatever we have. I’m glad we’ve resolved our issues but I’m back to caring too much. At least the impasse gave me some respite; a sense of being liberated. Romantic affection aside, we have made a connection I have with very few others in Strasbourg. I’d like to make the most of it but it’s no use if we hardly spend any quality time together. Speaking infrequently with old friends is one thing. Even I understand that. Besides, the ground work has already been done. New friendships however need more careful cultivation. Somehow this one always seems to leave me feeling more upset and alone.

Back to School

La Rentrée –or Back to School-is big in France. Huge. It’s like the country’s fifth season; somewhere between summer and autumn. Evidently, activities evolve around the academic year. I learned that the hard way during the silent summer.

Residues of the isolation remain with me even as things start to get back to normal. Ever the drama queen, I can’t shake the feeling that if anything happened to me out here-God forbid-it would be a while before I’d be missed. I find solace in the classics. Late August, I’m in MJ mode to commemorate what would’ve been his 60^th birthday. Another day, Donnie Hathaway reassures me Everything has got to get better… Not that it did for him but I’ll focus on the positive.

It also helps to keep busy. That’s easier now that the summer lull is over. Sabrina from church has organised a one-off outreach for the ladies of the night before the official Rentrée. Online meetings with my ‘local’ Labour International branch have resumed. I’ve signed up for bargain-priced classes at the heavily-subsided Université Populaire. I still have my eyes set on joining HRGS. The empty corridor of my department slowly begins to fill up as colleagues return from holiday. The once virtually deserted building springs back to life. I notice the streets and public transport are filled with returning or newly-matriculated students.

I catch sight of my erstwhile crush at the end of August from a distance. I’m trying to avoid him. I need the emotional respite and to gain some well-needed perspective on the whole non-drama.

My recovery is going quite well until I bump into him unavoidably the following lunch time at the bus stop. By some freak happenstance our paths cross whilst he’s meeting an acquaintance outside my building. He’s all smiles. I salute him solemnly. I admit, I had it in mind to play it aloof but I’m also a bit blind-sided by the suddenness of it. I can’t say I’m wholly happy to see him. He disappears behind the bus shelter with his friend. I’m relieved. No need to chat if he has company.

He pops his head around the display panel, catching me a little off-guard. He’s chatty. I’m not particularly. He asks if I’m all right, not convinced but still cheerful. I give a non-committal response and return the question. He moves off, does a typing movement with his hand whilst mouthing something. I assume he plans to email me. None is forthcoming.

The next week, we cross paths again unexpectedly. I tend to scan the horizon to be on the alert. He takes me surprise by coming in another direction. His face lights up when he sees me. I’m less stand-offish. He’s in a hurry, as am I. He does the silly typing mime again. Clearly he thinks it’s my responsibility to initiate contact, comme d’hab. Not this side of La Rentrée, Sonny Jim. From what I can see his hands are functioning as normal. If he can’t lift a finger to send a quick text or email, if I don’t come to mind unless he sees me, it obviously doesn’t mean very much to him.

You can email me for a change. I say, as good-naturedly as my mood allows.

Something in his hurried nod tells me he heard but hasn’t registered what I’ve said.

And so an impasse results from his presumed indifference that I refuse to break. (It eventually becomes impractical not to, since we keep bumping into each other. Damn it! That’s for a different blog. Maybe).

Sis advises I let him know my disgruntlement, give him a chance to make amends. He might be blissfully unaware. It’s not worth being bloody-minded about one of the few real connections I have here, she warns. The problem is I’d have to be the one to get in touch first…again. It would somewhat defeat the purpose. It also betrays a dynamic of entitlement (irrespective of how unconscious) which I must take responsibility for fostering. Why should Mohammed go to the Mountain when she routinely comes to him, dressed to impress and sweetly-scented? A lifetime of being easy on the eye, not to mention a smidgen of jadedness, will do that to a man. I assume he’s used to not making an effort.

When I explain my dilemma to a friend in an email exchange, she tells me men do communication differently. I’ve anticipated this reasoning. How easily we retreat to these gender stereotypes. It’s a matter of socialisation, I retort. Men communicate badly-if at all- because that’s the expectation. There’s nothing inherent about it. Unless it’s addressed both on the personal and societal level, it will never change.

To be fair, I’m taking a more hands-off approach to socialising in general. Enough of running after tentative contacts to meet up for a simple drink, only for them to cancel or not respond at all. Strasbourg is like a giant clique. With the best will in the world, it’s tough finding a community. I share these sentiments with a sympathetic honorary Strasbourgeoise at an Internations event. She’s lived in the city for the best part of 20 years, having moved to France from Sicily. The first year was hard, she admits. At the same event I meet a Lithuanian colleague from The Organisation with whom I wasn’t previously familiar. It’s a pleasant exchange through which I become aware of the massive gaps in my knowledge of post-war Soviet history. The event takes place in a cave-like bar with a wall-sized mirror that makes the space look bigger than it is. Cocktails are made from scratch with fresh fruit. There are crates of the stuff everywhere and we can help ourselves to as much as we wish. Apart from that it’s a mixed night. One young man not-so-subtly makes his excuses after only a few minutes of conversation and moves to the other side of the room. Suit yourself.

I’ve decided to focus on enjoying experiences rather than being preoccupied with networking. It’s better for my peace of mind.

A couple of chance encounters help to lift my mood. One rainy Sunday afternoon in early September, I bump into Jeanne from church on the tram en route to a free concert by a brass band. She’s not normally in this part of town, nor on public transport let alone on a Sunday. She’s fresh from a recent excursion to my home town. I saw her at church earlier, hung around for a bit to say hello. She was deep in conversation. Plus, as I’ve said, I’m trying on for size this light-and-breezy approach to my acquaintances here. As much as someone as highly-strung as yours truly can manage insouciance.

Jeanne catches me up on some of her London adventure. I explain that I waited for her earlier but didn’t want to be too clingy, seeing she was busy and all.

You should have persisted. She gently remonstrates.

I miss the gig in the end (stopped early because of the rain) but it’s worth it to reconnect with Jeanne. I’d been nursing the solitary blues that day.

Jeanne’s job often takes it out of her in the week. I’ve learned to manage my expectations regarding her availability. Yet I notice she’s making a special effort to meet up. She invites me out for a post-church catch-up the next Sunday. We drink indulgently sweet beverages at one of my new favourite haunts and discuss that morning’s sermon about closed doors and open windows. It was more upbeat than expected. I’m in a good mood. Jeanne tries out some of her beginner’s English. She enunciates well. I believe she has the knack.

The following weekend, I link up with Katya, a brand new acquaintance I meet at an art exhibition at work. I’m the guest of one of the security guards, Raymond. The day job subsidises his true calling; art. Katya and I get talking once I’ve exhausted conversation with Raymond. She’s an honorary Londoner of sorts, having relocated to Alsace after over a decade in the English capital. I don’t detect from her anglicised vowels and Slavic name that she speaks native-level French. She spent her formative years in Strasbourg by way of the Czech Republic.

She hands me a business card, offering to help me with my French. I text my details to her. The following Saturday we meet up at the Oh My Goodness! café; an initiative set-up by a couple of community-minded pastors. Katya and I alternate between French and English. She wants to practise the latter (she really doesn’t need to). She patiently listens to my now familiar woe-is-me refrain. She well understands the challenges of being an outsider in Strasbourg after returning from her long sojourn in London. She offers lots of life advice. There’s some wisdom to be found amidst the mix of self-help and unspecified spirituality.

I regret that I’m a mass of neuroses.

If we were in London, the conversation would probably be different. More neutral, I apologise. 

She tells me not to be overly-concerned with what others think.

She has to dash to another appointment. Just as she’s leaving the conversation turns to our mutual appreciation of BlacKkKlansman. I caught the matinee that morning. She’s seen it twice.

I wish I’d mention it earlier. It would have made a change from discussing my pre-midlife crisis.

Soundtrack:

These Songs for You Live! By Donny Hathaway

Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson

It Gets Better with Time by The Internet

Select tracks from Travel Light by C of Z

The Visitor (Part 2)

(courtesy of Le Strassbuch)

Part 1  

Despite having a guest in town, I return to work mid-week. The time apart is good for both of us. The past few days constantly in each other’s company have been intense. It’s exhausting tending to the needs of non-family. You don’t necessarily have the same margin of error or blood-line loyalty on which to rely. I sense that my solicitude grates J and as stimulating a conversationalist she is, her tales are peppered with unflattering portrayals of friends and family. I wonder how I’d stand up to scrutiny.

It feels like gossip and I’m often not sure how to deflect it. To my shame, I haven’t always been as willing to as I should. 

I return from the office to find J recovering from an ambitious day of exploring the environs on foot. Over a cottage pie dinner, she expounds on her many careers. She’s been a nurse, a counsellor for recovering addicts; a key worker at an all-women hostel; an advocate for refugees, domestic violence victims and other vulnerable women…

J recounts stories of former charges that turn my blood cold. One in particular I can’t shake. A Congolese refugee is widowed in horrific circumstances. Later, she kills her daughter at the behest of the monsters who have sexually enslaved her for years. If she doesn’t, her captors threaten, they will murder the child themselves. Eventually finding refuge in the UK, pregnant with a child for who knows which of her rapists, she routinely crosses paths with one of them. He has managed to work the asylum system to his favour.

The following morning, still haunted by what I’ve heard, I have more angry and perplexed questions for God.

The weekend is dedicated to defrosting my rebellious fridge/freezer with J’s help and easy-does-it explorations of other parts of Strasbourg City. On Saturday morning and early afternoon, we do a tour of some of the markets. To my disgrace, nearly 10 months into my sojourn, I am only just becoming acquainted with most of them. J makes a beeline to markets wherever she travels. She believes they are, to an extent, the heart and soul of a city. 

 Le Marché de l’Esplanade is a revelation. I’ve finally found somewhere in Strasbourg to buy decently priced apples and grapes or leather accessories for a steal.

Médiatheque d'André Malraux: Étoile Bourse, Strasbourg.

We lounge in deck chairs at Étoile Bourse for most of the afternoon before heading to the imposing Médiatheque de Andre Malraux. Throughout the day we talk travel, friends, family, love and general life experience. She affirms me, tough-love style when my insecurities manifest. My relationship situation is a recurring theme. She tells me the former infatuation through whom we met once mentioned he liked me. I find this hard to believe. For one, it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d readily admit. Besides, it’s the first I ever heard of it.

In the evening we take a twilight stroll through the International Institutions district and Le Parc Orangerie; my neck of the woods. En route we bump into colleague and mate Klara, not for the first time that week.  I mention J’s love of Amsterdam and how much Strasbourg reminds me of a more capacious version of the Dutch capital. Klara begs to differ. She claims her adopted home has a ‘s**t*y’ vibe compared to the Netherlands’ Big City. I am surprisingly irate by her comment. Partly, because my first impressions of Amsterdam fell far short of the hype. Partly because, as a Londoner, I am used to vibrant city life. Strasbourg might not have the all-year buzz of a megapolis but culturally it still has much to recommend it.  

From whence cometh this unexpected loyalty to Stras?

L’Orangerie is still teeming with life, even as night falls. J is enchanted by the sight of a group of young friends, igniting tea lights for a crepuscule picnic.

At home, over dinner we discuss fair-weathered friends, amongst other topics. I share my tearful frustrations over the lack of proactivity from various acquaintances. It appears my enthusiasm to meet on a regular basis isn’t consistently reciprocated. I try to be understanding; to factor in differing commitments but still… The flaking on meet-ups happens too often for comfort. My crush inevitably crops up again. Whilst the wiser side of me wants to manage expectations, I am instinctively exasperated that I hear nothing from him beyond the work context. Not even the odd message to check on my well-being. If it's always left to me to initiate contact, that can't be a sign of a healthy, mutual exchange.  A person's indifference is more pronounced in our technological age. Staying in touch is so simple, even on the go.

Frank as ever, J tells me I sound bitter. She astutely points out that he wouldn’t mean as much to me if I had more solid relationships in Strasbourg. She likes my flat, a lot. However, she doesn’t think the area is appropriate for an outgoing single woman. J believes it would be better suited to the retired or those with young families looking for a quiet life. Since she knows I won’t relocate to another part of the City any time soon and moving back to London would make me even more miserable, she recommends I invest in a T.V.

It just gives a false sense of company. I argue Besides, I have a laptop. Well, when it’s working.

Sunday morning, I'm off to church- on the late side. Agnostic J has a lie-in. After some soul refreshment and an especially timely and comforting message, it’s a relatively lazy Sunday afternoon at mine. We head into town for some takeaway. I take my Sunday Sabbath seriously which means no cooking. Ever-generous J treats me to a smoothie at a newly-refurbished café I’ve passed numerous times without venturing inside. We go giddy for the egg-shaped swivel chairs and general décor. J is impressed by the leather furniture. I on the other hand don’t know my chesterfield from my Chippendales.  Our fellow customers are apparently fascinated by a couple of gamely Anglophones. My French falters as I swap between the two languages to converse with the staff. I make a basic, unforgivable grammatical error and kick myself for it for much of the evening.

That night auntie and I have a heated discussion about UK politics. We normally overlap in this area. Below the surface her ideas seem contradictory. Neither are they particularly cogent or well-informed. She gives a lot of anecdotal accounts. I try to counter with personal experience as well as more objective sources.  Any uncharitable feelings of victory are tempered by an unease at how we leave things. It lasts until the following morning when J departs for Belgium.

After finishing off the morning cleaning (and some unwelcome little invaders) we make it in time to the station for J to comfortably catch her train to the airport. I stay with her as close to the departure time as I dare.

I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the return to solitude that the end of J’s visit signifies. A reassuring telephone conversation that evening with one of my oldest friends from the UK (and experienced-traveller) strengthens my resolve to just embrace the loneliness.

There.
I said it.
I feel lonely.

Some days I'm more resilient than others. I can suppress the habitual lump in my throat. Other days, I capitulate to the tears.

No-one can say I haven't tried. I’ve done my best to alleviate the isolation, with mixed results. For now, let it be what it is.

The Visitor (Part 1)

Strasbourg Museum of Contemporary Art

 In mid-August, I welcome my first non-familial guest to Strasbourg. Just in time to take the edge off the high-summer lull.  

I met J at the birthday party of a former crush. As is often the case, the friendship has far out-lasted the infatuation.

She is a foursquare, intrepid globetrotting sexagenarian; full of zest and looking at least 10 years younger. Smooth skin and nary a wrinkle. She is half-way through a Theatre Studies degree. J is also one of the most engaging raconteurs I’ve come across, malaproprisms and all. She seems to attract outlandish characters or finds herself at the centre of the most unlikely scenarios. She is never short of an outrageous tale or five.  Having lived long enough to have seen the game from so many angles, she takes it all in her stride. All day and night we talk about everything from British politics and our writing pursuits, to divergent views on the questionable image of some high-profile women of African descent.

She is spending a week with me en route to Belgium. I’ve prepared a few meals in advance of her arrival including my signature mixed-meat tagine. I’ve tried to simplify travel around Strasbourg as much as possible with a ready-to-go Badgeo and various bus and tram timetables. I have an itinerary in mind for the first few days of her visit when I am free of work obligations. To balance out the week, I return to the office for the latter half. It works out well for both of us. J appreciates my efforts but reprimands me for fussing. Later on the phone to mum, she concurs

Yes, you do tend to go over the top.

Suits me. I’d rather err on the side of caution than be a negligent host.

On J’s first full day in Strasbourg, as is my custom, I take her on a lengthy promenade through the centre of town via République. As is also my custom, I get a bit lost around Petite France. I should know better, given that it’s one of my favourite parts of town.

Thanks to observant J, I see the town through new eyes. She points out architectural quirks that I hoped I'd never take for granted. She enquires about buildings I routinely pass and for which I've lost curiosity, if it were there at all. I have her to thank for properly bringing my attention to the Museum of Modern Contemporary Art; a luminous building covered in street art. It's a potential refuge to which I can steal away to read in pleasant surroundings, even if its raison d'etre doesn't interest me per se.

J asks to see what I dub the Quartier Noir. It’s a hop and a skip from Petite France. I warn her there isn’t much to see. Indeed, she seems resolutely unimpressed. She’s not even interested in popping inside the shops to see the over-priced food or Afro hair & beauty products.

Her first impression of Strasbourg is that it’s conservative (a common observation). According to J, the Francophone African/Caribbean community aren’t especially warm either.

I mention how much Strasbourg reminds me of a less congested version of Amsterdam, one of J’s favourite holiday destinations. According to some Strasbourgeois, it’s a comparison that’s frequently made. J can see the connection, except the Dutch capital would be livelier this time of year. She can’t get over how quiet it is.

I keep thinking it’s a Sunday. She remarks.

To my mind, there’s quite a buzz considering it’s the middle of the week during the summer holidays. Maybe I’m already adjusting to the desertion.

We return to mine thoroughly exhausted for a late afternoon/early evening siesta and dinner before going back out for the Strasbourg summertime light show, Lux. At three different locations around town after nightfall, silent silhouetted animations depicting key points in the City’s history are projected onto elevated diagonal screens. The spectacle has a Planetarium-like effect.  I choose the site next to the Cathedral and we join a couple of hundred other night-gazers. I am under the impression that it’s an hour long show. The advertised time is 10-11pm. I am mistaken. The display lasts but a few minutes, playing in a loop at regular intervals. I can barely appreciate it, so distracted I am by the pungent cigarettes smoked by inconsiderate audience members. 

On the plus side, we have more of the evening left than anticipated. The next day is a public holiday. There’s no rush. J wants to treat us both to iced dessert. We stop off at a parlour en route home, taking an unplanned scenic diversion via the banks of the canal. 

Plans to stroll to my local forest the following day are jettisoned when J shows interest in crossing the border to Kehl. Admittedly, the German town is likely to show more signs of life than its French neighbour. Public holidays here are quiet to an almost miserable extent.

I take J to my usual shopping haunts. Her arches are playing up and she needs to rest. It's hard for me to observe the ageing process slowly catching up with evergreen J. It's evident in her carriage and involuntary gestures that weren't previously apparent.

We take five before I pop into the church in the square for a moment of stillness. Our diverse conversation habit brings us to the topic of the Windrush generation. J describes her mum’s intimidating journey to the UK across the waters lasting weeks. A very young bride in her early teens, she was reuniting with her husband in London, pregnant with their first child (J). The discussion turns to her experiences of colourism within the West Indian community; the unabashed prejudice faced by dark-skinned Caribbeans from their lighter-skinned compatriots. J has been treated differently based on the assumption she is of mixed-heritage. Personally partial to darker complexions, it infuriates her. She once broke off a friendship when an otherwise close acquaintance wanted to use her supposed dual ethnicity as social capital.

For as long as I’ve known J, she has been the epitome of singleness lived to the fullest. Over the course of our many conversations, I realise just how much of the world she’s seen. I’m both envious and inspired to add more destinations to my wish list.  Not that she brags. It’s simply that J’s wanderlust is such an integral part of her, she has spent most of her adult life trying to satisfy it.

It's therefore always a surprise, and a bit of a disappointment, when she enquires about my love life. Not for the first time this trip, she raises the subject of me settling down.

What about you? I reply. You’re single and fulfilled.

Yes but...for you younger ones, it would be nice to marry. You have so many winning attributes…

 In spite of it being a sensitive topic, J’s concern doesn’t offend me the way it would coming from others.  It does make me wonder, though. What does it say if even J is starting to worry about my marital status? 

J is curious about why none of my French admirers have stirred romantic interest. She asks about my current (now fading) crush.  She’d like to know why it’s not viable. We talk attraction, long-term compatibility and how the two don’t always align. We theorise about why some remain single after a certain age. It’s never an exact science.

That evening, I plan to treat J to some traditional Alsatian food. It’s a thank you for offering me lodgings during my last trip to Blighty. There are however, a few false starts. I forget the directions to my restaurant of choice. By the time we arrive, we are told they are short-staffed and full-to-capacity. I apologise profusely to J, much to her irritation.

You’ve said it once. That’ll do.

Trip Advisor favourite Les Fines Gueules, is my last hope of salvaging the evening. The service is superb. Waitress Lisa gives us her full attention, perhaps because it’s a quiet night. Last time I tried to eat here, they were fully-booked.

Les Fines is just off a main road. It should be swarming with life on a public holiday. Instead, the dark and deserted streets unnerve me.

Soundtrack of the week: Atlantis: Hymns for Disco by K-Os.

Part 2