Technical Hitch

On the last day of this London trip, I have decided to pay the extra to return to France by train. Flying might technically be cheaper and shorter but it takes up a whole day. Factor in the commute to and from the airport and security checks, I lose time rather than make up for it.

At least this way I can squeeze in another appointment. And it's better for the environment too.

I have arranged to meet former colleague Diana near the Eurostar at St. Pancras, during her lunch break. Whilst waiting I have the, ahem, honour of listening to passer-by murder The Commodores Easy and other tunes.  Her confidence is not commensurate to her vocal ability. In her defence, she's a much better pianist than singer. I imagine she wouldn't sound as bad if it were her own material.

Diana has a packed afternoon schedule thus, it's another speedy visit.  She's kind enough to pick up the bill. I've been mightily spoiled on this trip, rarely paying for my own drinks.

Diana waves me off at the Eurostar terminal.

The first part of the journey is a nice'n'easy one-hour ride to Lille. Onward to Strasbourg.

All is well. For a time. The usual pastoral scenery flies past our window. The weather is fine, if not especially warm. Nothing seems out of the ordinary; not even when the train comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere.

I'm not expecting the driver to make a grave-sounding announcement.

One bemused passenger bursts out laughing. Something about a problem with the carriage.  At one point I overhear talk of a motor issue.  The minutes and hours bleed into each other. My hope of making it back to Strasbourg at a decent time drains away with them. And to think, I was pleasantly surprised that my train was due to arrive earlier than I'd thought. How easily such things are taken for granted.

A member of staff is walking the length of the train, updating travellers in each carriage. Don't shoot the messenger.

Another young woman becomes a self-appointed liaison, traversing the train to find someone official for an update when another is not forthcoming. Her pacing irritates me until I realise what she's up to.

Eventually the news reaches us that it's unlikely we'll have to retreat back to Lille.

We spend more time waiting for an emergency rescue train. Technicians arrive in a small van. If the relevant safety tests are passed, our train will be hooked onto the emergency vehicle and taken back to Lille.

But will we be able to catch another train tonight? I enquire of the messenger.

He's doubtful. There's no guarantee there'll be any more Strasbourg-bound journeys that evening. Other passengers enquire about reimbursement for alternative forms of transport from Lille such as car hire. No chance. It's not SNCF policy.

Thank God for bright late spring evenings. We'd have otherwise been plunged into darkness by now. I check my watch -perversely 25 minutes fast- and mentally adjust to the correct time. Almost 9pm. If all had gone to plan, we would have been pulling into Strasbourg.

One young lady is distraught; tearfully enumerating to the self-appointed liaison all her projets gâchés for that evening. Amongst them, a missed rendez-vous with the boyfriend and family from what I gather.

I know! We're all in the same boat. It's better we stop than have an accident, snaps the unofficial liaison. Irritation aside, she has a point. Better to lose time than a life.

Later, the same distraught young woman makes a weepy phone call to her expectant loved ones. I rub her arm in solidarity. She turns to look, slightly alarmed. I give what I hope is a comforting smile.  It transpires that we'll have to spend a night in Lille. I hope against hope that there will be a last minute reprieve. I'm on my way back from London; one of the world's most expensive cities. I've just paid my electricity bill. I'll be on a tighter budget than usual for the rest of the month. It's too late to start hunting on AirBnb, even if I had a smartphone. A last minute hotel booking might clear out my current account.

SNCF assure us they'll cover the cost. Something of a silver lining. We assume that they're availing themselves of the time spent waiting for the emergency vehicle to contact local hotels.

Thus it's a rude awakening when we arrive at Lille Flandres station to discover that the accommodation situation is yet to be regulated.   Roughly a couple of hundred inconvenienced passengers are handed an emergency lunch box. I try to avoid nibbling. I'm hungry, having eaten nothing since breakfast. I snack on some of the sweets and nuts and save the more substantial parts of the meal for later. I take a peek at the main course. Tinned rice-based Tabbouleh. Yuck. I give mine away and make a detour to a nearby cafe for an alternative. I'm not alone. Judging from discarded boxes, a number of rough sleepers are beneficiaries that evening of these emergency meals.

Meanwhile, it's chaos on the platform. Station staff are taking names and contact details for both hotel reservations and to make plans for alternative onward journeys the next day. I am informed that there is an half-8 train in the morrow. It will be a public holiday. No work. A saving grace of sorts.

Some passengers abandon the whole process and vanish; presumably already based in Lille. One woman has a heated discussion with staff about a flight the next morning she's almost certain to miss. It leaves at 8am. The next train heading in the airport's direction leaves around 5am. It's a 2-3 hour journey. She won't make it in time. The plane ticket has set her back €2000. My heart goes out to her. She wanders the platform for a while, suitcase in tow, before also disappearing into the night.

I overhear some anglophones struggling to communicate their concerns to personnel. I volunteer to translate. It's good language practice. The English-speakers are a couple of amiable Aussies. They're on a month-long excursion; visiting the most famous battlegrounds in France and Belgium. They had reservations for a hotel in Alsace, where they were to do a one-day vineyard tour en route to Avignon. They make their peace with jettisoning those plans. As not to tempt fate, friends have advised they  get to Paris ASAP to avoid missing their southbound connection.

I tentatively suggest the Aussies try the coach, assuming they won't be keen. To the contrary. Fortunately for them, there's a bus heading to the Capital within the hour. I help confirm hotel reservations in Paris over the phone. My fleeting Antipodean acquaintances are off with a thank you and 'cheerio'.

It's around 11pm by the time SNCF staff have sorted out our accommodation. We're separated into batches. A young and possibly inexperienced member of personnel uses his phone's GPS to direct our group to one of several Novotels, only to send us in the wrong direction. It would have helped if he offered to come along.

We grumble about the poor customer service as we're left to navigate our own way. I visited Lille a few years ago as a birthday treat. I have fond memories of the city and its friendly inhabitants. I wish I could have returned under more positive circumstances.

It's midnight by the time I arrive at my surprisingly spacious and pleasant chambers. I shower, eat my now lukewarm merguez sandwich and prepare for bed. With the thought of a morning train to catch, the chances of a good night's rest are slim indeed. I debate whether to go down for breakfast. In the end I decide against a full Continental during the week. It would be too indulgent. Besides, better to make sure I have enough time to get to Lille International.

Apart from the miserable weather, the next morning is off to a better start. On arriving at the train station I scour the concourse for what are by now familiar faces. One of them shows me where to have my defunct e-ticket tamponné for a replacement train.

By the time I arrive in Strasbourg the transport service is in full effect, as much as it could be during a holiday. I rearrange or cancel plans made for that day. I'm frazzled, not looking forward to having to return to a tense work situation that week having only had disrupted sleep.

A couple of weeks later I receive a profusely apologetic email from SNCF offering a full refund. Unusual but only fair in the circumstances. We are given the choice between cash or a travel voucher. The compensation procedure is reassuringly straightforward and prompt. An inconvenience has, for me at least, turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

To the Place Where I Belong...

I’m making good on the promise to visit the UK more often.  Two months after my last London adventure, I’m back in Blighty.  My senior manager, Lucia begrudgingly grants my leave request, despite me having chosen one of the least disruptive moments.  In France, there are several public holidays during May; two of them will take place whilst I’m away. I don’t work on Mondays. I’ve cleared it with colleagues and my line managers…and yet Lucia makes me jump through another administrative hoop before she approves the request. When she refers to the leave I’m contractually entitled to as a potential ‘inconvenience’, I am livid. It’s indicative of the strained atmosphere of late.

Thank God for mum and sis’ recent visit and this London trip.   I mix-up my itinerary with a flight from Basel to Gatwick, to return to Strasbourg by train via St. Pancras the following week.  Sis and I overlap on my first night in town. Before heading to see her and mum, I drop my luggage off at Uncle Lenny’s in Shooter’s Hill. He and his step-daughter, Stassi have kindly offered me one of their spare rooms. The digs are clean and capacious with two bathrooms and lounges.  Stassi and Lenny are also very generous with their food. I make sure to do my own shopping as not to take advantage of their hospitality.

Sis is due to fly back to Japan the following morning. It’s a short and sweet visit owing to the late hour. I’m famished on arrival. I can count on mum for some decent grub. Sis hands over a Milky Bar Easter Egg and mum shows me the electronic pump for my wayward airbed that she found at Tesco's for a steal. 

The following day, I decide to stay local. I dutifully visit a trying relative only to wonder if the greater evil wasn’t avoiding another frustrating conversation full of vagaries and baseless assertions.  It doesn’t bring out my better self. I phone to apologise afterwards for not being a better listener. 
I have other plans that afternoon that go to the wall, having stayed longer than I should.

The next day begins more promisingly. My hair treatment at Shooter’s Hill College Beauty Salon (recommended by auntie J) goes very well. I am particularly appreciative of the one-to-one consultation. I'm a little apprehensive to have a European stylist handling my frizz but she does a good job, under the supportive but watchful eye of supervisor, Jen (of Nigerian extraction). That afternoon, my hairdresser auntie Femi’s nimble fingers make light work of my kinky twists.  In spite of my morning appointment running over, I’m now ahead of schedule to meet long time friend Bunmi in Brixton. Whilst I wait, I rock down Electric Avenue searching in vain for my favourite liquid foundation.

Bunmi and I have one of those friendships in which we drive each other round the bend as much as we do the other good.  This evening is no exception. She’s brutally frank; whether paying a compliment or otherwise. She builds some of the confidence that I have lost after the latest episodes at work, only to annoy me with her comments about my new auburn highlights (which everyone else loves by the way) or scepticism about Extinction Rebellion or criticism of Jeremy Corbyn’s honourable stance on the planned Trump state visit (she needs to pay less attention to the MSM).  She really gets my goat when she vehemently defends R. Kelly in light of the damning case against him and his apparent lack of remorse.  Bunmi can be generous to a fault. It’s one thing to try and see things from all angles; to question the validity of the court of public opinion. It’s quite another to downplay unconscionable behaviour or indulge in victim blaming; or justify male entitlement using dubious evolutionary biological theory; or believe that the law can always be trusted to do the right thing; or claim that every successful black man who's indicted is innocent by virtue of their ethnicity and is merely a pawn in a grand conspiracy theory. I almost fall off my chair when she posits that there are circumstances when a relationship with a minor would be legit. What about abuse of power and trust? Embedded power structures? Grooming?

I would have expected more from you, she laments.

I could say the same. I knew she’d make excuses for Kelly but not to this extent.  I have a sense of how Tom Dubois felt like trying to take on such skewed logic. Unlike him however, I won’t let this Riley Freeman win the argument. The conversation haunts me for days. I question why I'm taking it so personally. Yes, I care about justice and gender equality. But I know how intoxicating it is to want to be right. This shouldn't be about my ego.

Thankfully, the rest of the week is much more edifying.  I spend time in the company of yummy mummy friends and their tots; running around parks or pretending to eat play-dough pastries.  Afropean editor-in-chief, Jonny Pitts makes a surprise cameo at Rich Mix when I meet with co-editor Nat. I pop down to Aldgate East to hang out with rapper mate Ré at his day job in a plush cinema. We don’t get much quality time. The new Avengers film has taken over his schedule. That franchise pops up in a number of my conversations during my visit. En route to my next appointment, I enjoy an impromptu all-and-sundry chat with a natural-haired chocolate queen whose adorable baby boy I have been gushing over earlier. That evening, I catch-up with my old French tutor, Grégoire, after a two-year face-to-face hiatus. It’s some well needed language practice. The following afternoon, I learn about the mechanics of horror movie tropes from articulate cinephile and photographer David Mensah.

In the aftermath of the terror attack in Sri Lanka over Easter, I dare to debate the definition of persecution in the context of Christian minorities with intellectual giant Vinoth Ramachandran who also happens to be in town that weekend. Yusef Slim and I discuss militant veganism and the ethics of purging the music of fallen icons from our playlists. It’s especially meaningful that he’s made the effort to see me. He’s just received some shocking news about a friend.  As I am to learn days later, the story has a positive outcome. Thank God.

My pretty Brixton boy Samuel explains his own (more considered) reservations about Extinction Rebellion, why he’s a ‘virulently anti-Zionist’ Jew and I tentatively put forward my theory on why Nigeria has never had a socialist revolution. I have an especially meaningful conversation with one of my London pastors about isolation and meet up once more with Pete and Amelia after service. (She notes how I refer to her by pseudonym on these very pages.)

Not to mention the meet-ups with auntie J, erstwhile Uni friends or former CLP comrades. I talk to church friend, Nic about what it’s like being a new mum.  I chat with uncle Lenny into the wee small hours of the morning  about faith, relationships and the dearth of men in church. In between that I regularly popping round to see mum and catch-up on BBC iPlayer viewing I can't access in France (Songs of Praise, how I've missed thee). Then there are the many serendipitous encounters; such as bumping into one of my pastors whilst he's celebrating his birthday with his young family; or the poet acquaintance that I haven’t seen in so long, he has had a five-year-old son in the interim. Or the spiritual seeker who used to visit my church and is surprised that I remember his name.

Soundtrack: Space Cries + Left My Heart by Ed Mount

Easter Delight Part 2

Strasbourg Cathedral (c) Yinka Ositelu

The most significant holiday of the Christian calendar has an added element of excitement for me this year. My mother and sister will be spending the long weekend in Strasbourg. It’s the first time this trinome dynamique would have been in the same geographical space for over three years. Most of Good Friday is spent putting the finishing touch to preparations. Given that everything shuts down here during public holidays, I’ve left nothing to chance; staggering my shopping over the weeks and days ahead.

In the evening I attend a special meditation session at the Temple Neuf in the centre of town. These weekly gatherings, simply called Breathe, allow for Christians and those interested in the faith to take a break from the rat race and spend time in reflection. This Easter/Resurrection weekend, the pastor leaves even more room for quiet contemplation. I seek stillness more so than ever at this juncture of my life. Not being especially mellow by nature, Lord knows I need it. I’m struggling to spiritually connect this season more than I have in previous years. It doesn’t help that I’m re-reading Leviticus, one of the harshest books in the bible. The age old theological questions tug at my heart. Mum and sis’ visit will no doubt bring some well-needed spiritual refreshment. Indeed, many a heart-to-heart is to be had during their visit.

They arrive that Saturday evening. Sis has bought the good weather with her from the Land of the Rising Sun. They tell me excitedly of the good trip on the way in and the camaraderie of the other passengers. Mum attributes it to the sunny climes. I’m pleased that they have arrived in time to catch the last of the blossoms.

Back at mine, a spotless flat and my signature mixed-meat tagine awaits them. Sis’ relentless teasing about my housekeeping skills soon come to an end when she sees how much progress I’ve made in that area. Taking note of the little flourishes added for the benefit of guests she quips waggishly,

That’s one more recommendation to go on the report card.

Alas, mum’s many attempts to inflate the blow-up mattress are in vain. Sis takes the couch and mum makes the most of the flaccid portable bed. 

The morning of Resurrection Sunday is spent at my local church. I’ve been making enquiries about English translation ahead of time. Logistically it would be awkward to interpret for both my guests at the same time. Thankfully, there’s a very good in-ear service available that morning to my great relief. Afterwards, I’m asked to join the small team, including a Russian-speaking Cameroonian. There aren’t many Anglophones in the church but it’s worth it for the one elderly Asian regular. I’m apprehensive about my language skills but willing to help the modest-sized team. It would be very good practice too. The following Sunday, I’ll hit the ground running trying (with limited success) to translate for a guest speaker from Quebec; an accent that even some native Francophones struggle to comprehend.

At the end of the service, I attempt to introduce my family to as many of my church acquaintances I can find including Jeanne and her sis, Françoise who's visiting from the South. Unfortunately we miss a few but make some new ones. As usual, sis has endeared herself amongst some of the tinier members. En route home we stop in Etoile Bourse for a pleasant promenade around the environs. Outside the Andre Malraux Médiatheque, beside the canal, we're greeted by the incongruous sight of two swans resting near some road works. Sharp-eyed sis comments on the fashion differences between the UK and this corner of France as well as the impressive, hands-free biking skills of the Strasbourgeois.

Look at that core strength!

Being neither a cyclist nor a style guru, such observations naturally go over my head.

That evening we eat and chat over a late Easter supper. This is how we’ll spend most of our evenings together; food, conversation, Netflix or sis and I in stitches as she shows me amusing clips from her Instagram or YouTube accounts.

Rémy from the Happy Tours team
(courtesy of Tripadvisor)

With less than a week to show sis what Strasbourg has to offer, I need to be strategic. Easter Monday is crammed with on foot excursions. In the morning we walk through the Orangerie, particularly resplendent in the brilliant spring sunshine. The afternoon is spent on a walking tour with charismatic native Alsatian, Rémy from the Happy Tours team. I envy his knack for lacing his entertaining commentary with very English idioms. Mum and sis are equally admiring. The nearly two hour historic jaunt flies by. We full circle it back to the Cathedral. Mum and sis buy edible gifts from an exorbitant confectioners; albeit with great customer service. They notice before I do the young, German-speaking Namibian who follows us into the shop.

You guys are looking really cool, he flatters. After a brief but cordial chat, I politely turn down his overtures.

There’s enough time before our supper of Easter leftovers for a stroll to Robertsau Forest on the way home.

On the last full day of my family’s visit, I’ve planned a tour of the local markets. Too bad half of them are still on extended Easter break. Mum and sis don’t mind, picking up one or two items along the way. I take them to a vantage point in my favourite part of town, Petite France. To my amazement, mum claims it’s unfamiliar to her. I can’t imagine having made such an oversight. The afternoon is spent in the company of the gamely Oh My Goodness! Team; one of my Strasbourg haunts. The ambiance is welcoming as ever. I bump into Stéphane, a member of my church whom I’ve met on a number of occasions (usually in the presence of his missus) but still doesn’t know whom I am.

We have dinner plans that evening but not before I make a mad dash to one of the few remaining Portuguese lessons of the term. I deposit mum and sis at one of my other haunts, Manolya café; who serve the best and most indulgent smoothies. Despite my efforts I am late to class and never quite recover my bearings. I sheepishly slink off early to meet new mate Gael back at Manolya and introduce him to the fam. He’s an instant hit with my ladies. Sis digs his style, comparing him to Basquiat and mum thinks he’s wonderfully polite.

I’ve chosen Les Fines Gueules for our last meal together this trip. I don’t know if sis will have another chance to visit whilst I’m still based in Alsace so it’s only right she samples some traditional cuisine; even if it’s not the famous Quiche Lorraine she’s been on the hunt for all day. 

I can count on Lisa and the team for a good service. To my chagrin, sis and mum pick up the bill. I feel odd not contributing at least a little, given that they are my guests. Sis chides me for not being a more gracious recipient.

It’s back to work the next day. I rush home at lunch to see my favourite girls off at La Gare Centrale. God willing, sis and I will overlap the following week- during one of my UK visits- just before she flies back out.  The full impact of their absence will only hit me in the more quiet moments; such as that weekend, in the lonely expanse of my flat. Mum and sis catch their train without a hitch. It seems however, they take the good weather with them. The strong afternoon sunshine gives way to a violent storm in which their plane is caught up. Thank God, they make it back to the UK; a little shaken but safe and sound.

Easter Delight: Part 1

My Easter weekend starts early when I take leave on Maundy Thursday to attend a rare performance by one of my favourite contemporary artists, Benny Sings. The Dutch singer/songwriter is passing through Paris on the European leg of his tour. Whilst he regularly plays one off shows in the Land of the Rising Sun to his loyal and sizeable Japanese fanbase, Sings is not as active on his native continent.

It’s thus worth the inflated high-season travel fare. I don’t know when I’ll next have the opportunity. The train is too exorbitant, even with discount card so it’s the circuitous coach route for me. I opt for the early bus, giving me a whole day to catch up with acquaintances based in the French capital. The coach arrives well over an hour late owing to seasonal traffic, we’re told.  I frantically text my Parisian chums to rearrange my schedule. The knock-on effect of the delay isn’t as bad as I envisaged, however. We drive into Bercy bus garage only three-quarters of an hour later than planned.

First on my list is Julie. We met many moons ago via a language exchange group when she was based in London. Having since returned to France, our correspondence has become more sporadic. Our friendship would've been old news if it weren't for my stubbornness.  Apart from her occasional visits to the UK, life would get in the way. When I was in town last summer, it was mere weeks before her wedding to fellow Martinican, Jérémie. This will be our first face-to-face in at least four years. My hectic timetable doesn’t allow for more than an hour to summarise the last few years over a delicious crepe. After a rocky start on her return to France, Julie’s life has evolved in many respects. She looks refreshed; embracing both the challenges and blessings of newly-wed life.

She escorts me back to Gare de L’Est where I meet some of my Paris-based Labour International comrades.  The already good-natured bunch is in high spirits. The sun helps. After a few weeks of cold and/or wet weather, a scorcher takes us by surprise. Following the unveiling of the freshly-printed LI banner that new member Tim has designed (drawing quizzical looks from passers-by), we head to a nearby café for drinks and conversation. Next stop is a fly-by-night chat in the 11^th Arondissement with Rhys, another like-minded LI comrade. Appearances can be deceptive. Without prior knowledge of his politics, if I were to purely go by a superficial appraisal I would have Rhys down as a true—blue Tory rather than a red-blooded socialist of long-standing. In less than an hour we cram in an overview of the last 15 years of French politics and the appeal of AOC. I have much to learn from him. A pity we run out of time. Rhys has a meeting to officiate and I head off to Badaboum for Benny’s show.  

Compared to my last couple of European musical excursions, I arrive with time to spare. The intimate venue reminds me a little of the re-vamped London Jazz Café. I find a choice spot where I plant myself all evening. It turns out to be an auspicious decision. I’m right in the line of vision of support act Ed Mount when he inconspicuously weaves his way through the audience. I shower his performance with plaudits. Previously ignorant of his electro-soul oeuvre, I have become an instant fan. 

We both observe that Sings has more of a French fanbase than we’d have expected. By the time he steps on stage, guitar by his side, the Badaboum is heaving. I sing along word-for-word to almost every song. My uncharitable pedantic side questions the dedication of many of the other revellers, who only seem to be au fait with recent material. Not that it should matter. It’s an electric evening. Even the apparently mellow and self-effacing Benny is buoyed by all the good energy.

At the coach station I call my mum to check if my sister has arrived yet from Japan. Yep, it’s happening. My baby girl is back on Western European turf. For a little bit anyway.

She flew into town that morning and has a clubbing session planned with friends. My good mood is enough to sustain me through an overnight ride back to Strasbourg and awkwardly-positioned sleep.

Arriving in Strasbourg the early hours of Good Friday, I have caught the wrong end of the already sporadic public holiday transport service. Stepping off the tram for the long-ish walk back to my flat, I spot the errant boyfriend of a colleague/neighbour shuffling towards the homestead.

Soundtrack: The Best of Benny Sings, Data feat. Benny Sings, Don’t Sing.

The Changing of the Seasons

One Sunday morning, mid-Spring I wake up sounding like Red from Us. Making myself understood at church is…fun. Try speaking a foreign language whilst sounding like a demoniac. My sis, bless her, tolerates a couple of hours of this vocal freak show via Skype before admonishing me to rest my voice.

Just the day before, I was singing sans problème Gospel standards in French and English with gusto on the streets of central Strasbourg, alongside the youth group from my church. Not to mention whiling a good couple of hours away with an acquaintance at my haunt Oh My Goodness!

 My voice starts to give way by that evening. Croaking down the phone to my mum, she asks 

What happened?

Beats me. I’ve been blasting my body with my trusty vitamin C supplement, which usually does the trick. I have however felt the sensations of an itchy cough and the onset of a sore throat.  I don’t doubt I’ve avoided the worst of it. Colleagues and friends have succumbed to sickness left, right and centre. I have been spared, thank God but there’s only so much my body can fight off.

I blame the drastic change in temperature. Spring is always a mixed-bag but it’s been particularly chilly of late. To think a couple of months ago, much of Northern Europe flirted with the idea of retiring their heavy coats until autumn. We had early summer in February and now winter in April. Climate change is messing with our mind and bodies like a fickle love interest. 

You’re too busy. Times like this you should rest. Mum mildly rebukes.

Homebody? Me? Never. Not when there are stimulating conferences to attend on the role of faith and religion in contemporary Europe; or my choir is preparing to go into the studio for a recording session that has already been put back months at a time. In my defence, I’m also preparing for her Easter visit. Bearing in mind that very little, if anything, opens during public holidays, I can’t rely on last minute shopping come Good Friday. Easter Saturday will be mayhem.

Despite my hoarseness, I refuse to cancel my promised meet up with new chum Gael for his belated birthday drink. His special day was late March. We’ve already postponed for a couple of weeks owing to schedule clashes.  

He’s a great listener and source of genuine mirth. Not bad for a native Strasbourgeois.

That’s not entirely fair. I’ve made some lovely acquaintances here of which he is one of the latest.  A particularly cultured one at that. He knows his way around Strasbourg's bars, restaurants and museums. He wants to take me out dancing. In his own words he's a "slut on the dancefloor". That, I have to see. As it turns out I got the wrong end of the stick during our conversation about “Cultural Appropriation”. He wasn’t doing a Kanye after all when he told me about the Congolese-culture loving ‘girlfriend’ whom he considers a true Afropean. The French word Copine is open to (mis)interpretation. She’s just a mate. Not that it should matter, but still…

I tell him about the latest drama at work, as I have spent the whole weekend talking about to anyone who is kind enough to listen. We don’t even get round to the details of his recent Iberian holiday.  That’s partly down to me monopolising the conversation- to my shame -as well as Gael’s enthusiasm for Jordan Peele’s aforementioned new feature.  What was to me a slick and entertaining if unremarkable horror parody is, according to Gael, laden with subtext that I missed the first time. I won’t divulge the alternative theories discussed for fear of unleashing a ‘spoiler’ backlash for those yet to see it. Let’s just say, to paraphrase KRS-1, ours is an edu-taining discussion.

Back in the real world, it’s not just the season that has taken a surprise turn. By mid-April protests in Algeria have forced ex-President Bouteflika to step-down from his tenaciously-held office. Omar al-Bashir has been toppled by the army in Sudan also following a popular uprising and Turkey’s strongman Erdogan isn’t sitting as comfortably as he once was.

Closer to home Boss Man announces his intention to move on to greener pastures (not that I'm making any comparison to long time dictators, you understand).

20 years in the same team, he shakes his head. It’s too long.

(courtesy of http://www.scphysiciangroup.com)

Elsewhere, THRO has formally announced it will be scrapping hundreds of jobs; a disproportionate amount of them in our department. Boss Man is amongst the privileged old guard who started at The Organisation during the halcyon days when permanent contracts were handed out to any who set foot in the building. Oui, j’abuse but you get the point. Long gone are the days they were easier to come by. The fortunate CDI so-and-sos are sheltered from the worst of the cull.  For the rest of us mortals with fixed term (CDD) or temporary contracts, even those working on well-funded projects aren’t necessarily safe. I’m brought to tears by stories of expat colleagues whose contracts are only renewed the evening of their expiry. 

To add to the sense of unease, there are of course my aforementioned issues with personnel.

Of all the many existential crises I’ve had thus far since moving to Alsace, this one might require more immediate pragmatism than the rest.

Another bell goes off when speaking to my errant guardian angel, Gordon, on the way home one evening. We've barely seen or spoken to each other this side of the New Year. After taunting him for abandoning his earthly mission (snowed-under with work over at The Chateau, he apologises in his good-natured fashion), he makes a passing comment that only serves to confirm my presentiment of a sea change.

The following day,  my voice having returned to some normality, I share such thoughts during elevenses with Safiyah, a kindly colleague. She's spent most of her 35 years in France working at The Organisation. She has a multifaceted artistic streak. I believe she is capable of better than what she’s doing now career-wise. She’s inclined to agree. It's not the first time she's done some serious soul-searching since she started working at THRO. She describes the comfort and stability as a Golden Cage.

She’s at an age where she feels liberated from the opinions of others but wary of starting afresh.

We speak about our differing views on faith and the spiritual. She’s asking herself the important ontological questions. It’s a good start, I say. 

Both of us sense it’s a season of great transition. The wind is blowing in a new direction although the details are still unclear.   For Safiyah, even the recent devastation of the Notre Dame signifies change, albeit tinted with sadness. A centuries old structure that has survived revolutions and wars will never be the same.

Both Safiyah and I are experiencing a shift in dynamic in our respective friendships; deciding what to hold on to and when to let go. Doing a life inventory, I call it.

In conversation with friends I detect similar restlessness and upheaval. It's necessary; even auspicious, if unsettling.

Soundtrack: Ziminino by Ziminino + The Back In Brazil Compilation by Gilles Peterson.

German Excursions

Considering how close I am to France’s Teutonic neighbour, I haven’t yet made as many trips across the border as might be expected. Shopping for household goods in Kehl doesn’t really count.

I admit, I’m not a fan of the language nor the often abrupt mannerisms, neither has Germany previously been high on my travel wish-list. But it would be a waste not to take advantage of Strasbourg’s geographical position as a nexus to other European states.  God knows, for sanity’s sake I need the occasional change of scene.

The picture at work has been less than rosy, particularly as far as senior management is concerned. I’m on edge, making more mistakes than I should which has had a vicious cycle effect. As much as I’m grateful for the opportunity and that the recent increased work load staves off boredom, I find I’m not making the most of my wider skill set.

Thankfully, I can look forward to a day spent in Freiburg with kindred spirit Coral. We’ve stayed in touch since meeting at a writing workshop and her Christmas visit.  It’s nevertheless taken us three months to coordinate diaries for my long overdue trip to her adopted home.  It’s a relatively painless coach journey save for a near-miss with border patrol, after I happen to forget my passport. The skies overhead vary from an inauspicious grey to intermittent bursts of sunshine.  Coral meets me at the station and we head straight to what she tells me is the best vantage point in town; overlooking some of the expanse of the Black Forest.  She points out an arched bridge opposite, explaining the foolhardy Freiburg tradition of clambering on top to enjoy the view in the warmer months. She confesses she’s had a go and the descent was terrifying.  I don’t fancy it. The morbid thought crosses my mind that the potentially suicidal could be mistaken as just another bridge-climbing adventurer. Hmm.

Coral shows me around the student district; architecture old(ish) and new, including the University library which is one of the largest in Europe. She’s not impressed, however, given that the building has had many structural issues in its short existence.  In a student café and then at a Vegan restaurant over delicious falafel dishes, we while away several enjoyable hours encouraging each other’s writing efforts and exchanging doleful pseudo-romance anecdotes. There’s comfort in not being a complete outlier in this regards.  Before I know it, the day has gone. There’s just enough time for Coral to take me to some more of her favourite haunts and city landmarks including the cathedral. Although the exterior has nothing on Strasbourg’s Notre Dame, the interior is more inviting than its French counterpart. Coral adores the Gothic architecture of the region, taking a special interest in the stain-glass windows of these sacred Orthodox Christian spaces. She points out the difference between the attractive mosaic-style glasswork of Freiburg cathedral compared to Strasbourg’s more traditional design. I confess, I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.  The sun is setting as we approach the coach station. I had concerns that having to entertain me all day would take it out of Coral.  Not so.

Anderson .Paak & The Free Nationals

That Saturday it’s back across the border again to see Anderson.Paak and The Free Nationals in Frankfurt. Not having yet visited this major German city, I decide to make a weekend of it. I opt again for the scenic coach route, arriving with a good few hours to spare despite a 20 minute delay. I lose at least three quarters of an hour trying to get my bearings. Dragging my suitcase around, I pass two men urinating in a doorway in broad daylight. So much for German cleanliness.

I locate the station entrance and the information desk. My Google Maps printout tells me one thing (complicated route to my AirBnb), my host tells me another (hassle-free, direct tram journey).   At the information desk I am informed that what would have been a simple commute has been disrupted by a demonstration and suspended public transport. On the way to purchase a day pass from the ticket machine, I call one of the AirBnb hosts. His English falters on the phone. According to his online searches, normal transport has resumed, contrary to what I've just been told. I am at a loss. Before taking my chances with the rococo Google route, I head back to tourist information figuring their advice would be more trustworthy.  I explain I don’t use a smartphone. I give the rep the details of my accommodation. Despite her previous reluctance, she prints off instructions that seem pretty straightforward. Bloody Google. I knew they couldn’t be trusted.

Neither it turns out, can she. She sends me on a wild goose chase to Offenbach. 

My day ticket doesn’t work here, I learn from a bemused bus driver following a frustrating conversation, neither of us speaking the other’s language.

I pay nearly 3€ for a very short bus ride and arrive in what I think is the locality of my AirBnb. I’m unable to find the building. I ask an elderly man who whips out his phone- apparently to help- but then disappears down the road. I circle a police station before going in and asking for help from a kindly stranger who happens to speak English. Despite being in even more of a pickle (lost wallet) she’s keen to assist.

It’s dusk by the time we locate the block of flats and an hour away from doors-opening.  Unable to find the correct doorbell, I call my host again.  

I’m right outside.

I hear movement on the end of the line; doors opening and steps. It's not corresponding with my visuals.

‘I can’t see you…’

He says something about Offenbach.

Yes, I’m in Offenbach.

‘No. The address is Johannplatz in Frankfurt, not Offenbach’

No!!!

Thank God a bus back to the local station pulls up just in time. On this occasion the driver takes pity on me. It’s a free ride.  After another frenzied call to my host, I make it back to Frankfurt thanks to some helpful English-speaking strangers at the station.  Mercifully, the tram service has resumed. It’s a mad rush back to the Airbnb to dump my small suitcase; back out; another frustratingly long wait for a tram; a journey that doesn’t seem to end; another train and then a 10 minute walk to the venue, 

Jahrhunderthalle. The streets are eerily quiet. I see one other pedestrian, apparently on his way to the same destination. The lack of other revellers is cause for concern. Approaching the venue, I hear music and start running in my heels.  I half-expect to be turned away at the door. It is Germany after all; rivalled perhaps only by Japan for punctuality and efficiency. Maybe 8pm doesn't mean 'doors open' but 'showtime'.

St Bartholomew's Cathedral: Frankfurt, Germany

Half-9 approx. The show is well underway. I sheepishly make my way to my seat, irritated at being an unwitting stereotype.  I ask the gentleman to my right when the show started. 15 minutes ago, thereabouts. That would be roughly three songs. Not terrible, as long as I haven’t missed any favourites. I daren’t ask the set list so far.

My annoyance fades as I’m swept up in the dynamic performance. I don’t care for Paak’s choice of fruity language but he puts on a fantastic show.  I have a very good view of the stage and ample room to manouevre thanks to a few empty seats. We sincerely get our groove on in the stalls. 

I have one full day left in Frankfurt. The City is grimmer than I anticipated but I’ve seen one or two attractive sites en route by tram.  After a rare Sunday lie-in, I take a scenic stroll to and from St. Bartholomew’s cathedral in the town centre. Later that evening, I'll explore some of the City by hopping on random trams before dinner. I’m wearing a red dress and leather jacket, the combination of which emphasise certain assets more than intended. Several men make that known to me. One fellow quizzes me on why I’m on my own.

There’s no good way to answer that. I respond, charily.

He offers to accompany me. When I decline, he tells me to reconsider; three times.

It’s my experience that European men-even those from the more subdued Nordic countries-are more direct, not to mention less conservative, than their Anglo-Saxon cousins.

The interior of the Cathedral is inviting and surprisingly modern. As usual I'm in pursuit of stillness. Slim chance, being a Sunday. It's a busy tourist period. Whilst seeking solace in the vestibule some Oriental tourists start taking pictures as if I’m part of the attraction. When my consternation fails to dissuade them, I make a hasty exit.

Soundtrack: Cover Art, selections from Venice + Malibu by Anderson .Paak.