Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 2

Abbaye de Senones

Part 1

The day after my anti-climactic experience at the Fête de la Musique, I participate in my first wedding performance with HRGS choir. The ceremony is to take place at the Abbaye de Senones, deep in the Vosges mountains located in Alsace’s famous twin region, Lorraine. That morning, the weather on the Strasbourg side of the border is not at all promising for the happy occasion.

Stalwart HRGS member Elisabeth and her husband, Gilles-Pierre give the choral delegation a lift in their people carrier. We take the scenic route in every sense of the word; spending a good deal of time getting lost in ghost towns and villages in the shadows of the Vosges. All the better to enjoy the sumptuous landscape. I’m knackered but fight to keep my eyes open to take in the scenery, as well as avoid any snooze-related embarrassment. Apart from the light-hearted squabbles in front about the unreliability of the GPS, it would be a placid ride. That is, except for the harping of contralto Inès. Any obnoxiousness I’ve observed from afar isn’t purely down to my uncharitable side. In this confined space her screeches- becoming more shrill with each mile- are a true test of the patience. I assume she thinks being loud is synonymous with charisma. She wouldn’t be the first.

At last we arrive at the ruins of the Abbaye, where more stunning views of the surroundings await. The weather has also cheered up.

After several years together, Julien and Josette are finally tying the knot. The civil ceremony is to take place under a portico in one of the Abbaye's vast yards. The choir perform in between speeches and the exchange of rings. I admire the efficiency of the proceedings. The whole affair takes less than an hour. Not at all like a black wedding, I mutter to Elise, mischievously. The bride and groom aren't hours late, for a start. Neither are the guests, quips Elise.

Suffice to say it’s a mono-cultural affair. Scarcely a brown face amidst friends and family. Our multicultural choir adds most of the diversity.

Lifelong friends and the couple's mothers give brief and emotive speeches on the journey J+J have walked together.  It occurs to me that if I were to marry, I have no childhood friends left to bear witness to my journey. C’est la vie. Weddings are a strange cocktail of solemnity and celebration. Nothing like these community rituals to provoke contemplation. 

If Josette is moved, Julien is beside himself. He tries to restrain the tears. By the middle of the ceremony, he’s sobbing with red-faced abandon. Julien’s cheeky groomsmen offer something strong to drink to steady his emotions. When his five-year old daughter gives her short, tiny-voiced tribute, it’s all over. He even gets Inès going. I start to thaw towards her. I ask if she’s all right and compliment her rich-chocolate complexion.

On the couple's request, the choir’s repertoire is also a mix of the solemn and festive. From Cohen's Hallelujah to an especially jubilant rendition of This Little Light of Mine at the end. I manage not to fluff my I Have a Dream solo this time. After, the service I’m starved. Thankfully, there’s an abundance of tasty appetisers that amount to a banquet; if consumed in the large quantities that we do.

On the way back to rainy Strasbourg, choir co-director Evan, Elise and I humour ourselves with impromptu Karaoke. Our unpredictable repertoire encompasses anything from Queen, Tina Turner, The Commodores, Janet Jackson, Stevie Wonder, The Sister Act 2 OST, Celine Dion, The Verve and New Jack Swing. These 90s babies make me feel old. They are surprisingly au fait with some vintage hits but have significant gaps in their knowledge of tunes from the decade when they were born.

I savour this moment of pure, unexpected pleasure. Elise will be leaving us soon to start life again the South. I don’t know either exactly when my Strasbourg adventure will end. I sense nonetheless that it's imminent.

That weekend, I have one more musical stop courtesy of the annual summer festival Pelouses Sonores. En route to collect mum from the coach station for a week long visit on Sunday, I pass by Le Parc des Deux Rives near Port du Rhin for some Afrofunk. The stickly front-man dresses like Fela and writes and arranges tunes like JB.

Pelouses Sonores is one of the few – if only – occasions where I’ve witnessed Strasbourgeois truly throw off inhibition en masse to shake their (often rhythmically-challenged) selves. Arms and legs flailing, lit cigarettes in the air and pre-pubescent girls doing somersaults in the corner.

I make the most of the liberated ambiance to shimmy a little myself.

When the band leader starts to exhort the practice of voodoo however, this church girls takes it as her cue to exit.

Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 1

In France, the summer solstice coincides with the National Day of Music.  Last year, through ignorance I missed out on what sounded like a world of fun.  I won't make the same mistake. For a start, it falls on a Friday night; the weekend invitingly stretched out ahead.  Furthermore, choir practice has been cancelled; possibly because several members plan to skive off to catch some of the action.

The list of events looks tantalising. I have a few showcases in mind but first I hope to support my manager Sophie and her husband Marcel's Brazilian percussion band. It will be their swan song gig.  After 15 years performing Batacuda as an outfit, Marcel wants to focus on other ventures.

My evening timetable is scuppered pretty early on, however. I leave work much later than usual owing to a last minute hitch.  A friend from London texts me for prayer and moral support.  I call to see how she is doing. It's a half-hour well spent.  Unfortunately, I miss the kick-off of Sophie and co's ambulant performance. I wander the streets of Broglie, heading to the Cathedral; trying to follow the route that Sophie has outlined.  In my percussive pursuit, I pass a couple of sound-systems that mildly pique my interest but I can't allow myself to be distracted.

Peine perdue. I can't locate them. I don't even hear drums in the distance.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg heave with activity. Crowds gather around Zumba dancers and impromptu drumming. The main stages are large scale festival-style affairs. No expense spared. The sun is out.  The smell of over-priced street food, from different corners of the globe, fills the already humid air.  It's the closest Strasbourg gets to the Notting Hill Carnival-sans floats, Calypso and Soca.

I drift from one stage or sound-system to another in search of enticing grooves.  Without much trouble I work my way to the front of the main stage in Place Kleber, trying to avoid the panoramic gaze of the cameras. I stifle giggles during the set of a Jazz/Funk/Pop outfit. The musicians are solid but I'm tickled by the lead singer's cheesy nasalised vocals, English-as-second-language lyrics and overall corny demeanour.  I've seen enough here. I head to Petite France for a DJ set promising Electronica and Soul amongst other things.  Cutting through Grand Rue, I stumble upon members of the Extreme inter-church Outreach Group sharing the Good News with revellers. One of them is incredulous that I'm out alone.

I'm a Londoner. We do what we want.

This concept appears somewhat alien to the Strasbourgeois. It's the same old story. Everywhere I look, people hang around in their tight cliques. Very few, if any, are solo travellers and none are female from what I gather.  I feel a mixture of bemused fascination over this compulsion to group and smugness about my seasoned independence.

On the other hand, spontaneous encounters with like-minded individuals are far less likely to occur.

There isn't much dancing going on either. When I arrive at the Petite France sound-system, punters are sitting around in groups (naturally); smoking, talking, eating...All things they could do at home.

Place de Kléber, image courtesy of France 3 Régions

I hang around a little to check out the music policy and people-watch. The music isn't bad but it would be odd to be dancing when no-one else is. As a lone female, I don't want to attract unnecessary attention.  I send some update texts to the UK in the meantime. When I look up, I notice some chancer has sidled up undetected whilst I've been distracted. A tad unnerved, I make an early departure. Nothing really to see here.

The next stop is the 'urban' stage at Étoile Bourse. I circumnavigate the crowds by taking a scenic detour via Lycée Pasteur, exploring new corners.

A couple of the lasses from my choir, HRGS, will be putting on their dancing shoes for a set at la scène urbaine. The atmosphere is vibrant, no question. The peninsula is rammed. It's difficult to breathe smoke-free air. There's a concentration of security in the area. The DJ sets are underwhelming; non-descript commercial Afrobeat, Ragga or Hip-Hop fodder that sounds like knock-off Drake.

I'm bored.  I've spent the evening searching in vain for an above-average sound system. I'm a woman of simple pleasures. That's all I ask.  Alas, even that seems too much. This town has a way of disappointing my expectations before I realised I had any.

First world problems.

I text fellow chorister, Claire to check when she's scheduled to perform.  I didn't plan to stay late but I'm here now. She's on her way. She suggests I look out for her partners-in-dance; mingling in the crowd near the main stage. Whilst searching for them a young, all-female troupe commence a raunchy routine to a bass-heavy medley.  The audience go into a frenzy. A few of the girls are dancing in their knickers. Literally. T-shirt & panties. Squatting and shaking their exposed bum cheeks. I avert my gaze. Still, much as I don't care for women self-objectifying, I have to hand it to them. It takes some temerity to do a vigorous dance routine in public dressed in little more than underwear. As they exit, one of the larger girls grabs her right buttock and, with a sly smile to the audience, jiggles it.

I can't see my acquaintances.

I spot some other revellers climbing up the steps of the André Malraux Médiatheque next door. I like the idea of the expansive view from the top and follow suite. A couple of floors from the top I lose my nerve. I can see straight down through the griddled metallic steps. My vertigo kicks in. The holes also allow a group of little pot-smoking perverts to look up my skirt whilst I climb to the next floor.

I give up on the third storey, fearing there's not enough to protect me should I lose my balance. I sit down on the steps to text Sophie an apology. To my surprise, she texts back right away. The band are around the corner from the Cathedral. I toy with the prospect but know I won't make it there and back in time to catch Claire & co's performance. Shame.

I rejoin the crowds for more monotone tunes. I'm just killing time at this point. The anticipated dance routine is impressive from what I can see at a distance, with no glasses. Two Senegalese siblings from the chorale, Fatima and younger sis Farida in particular, prove themselves skilled Afro-beat performers. But no sign of Claire. I text to find out why. I'm injured, is the response, I was just filming the show.

The crowd is by now so dense that I only emerge from the Presqu'ile in time to see my bus disappearing into the distance.

On my way to the stop, I bump into a glamorous and outgoing colleague from The Human Rights Organisation, out with her family.

So how've you found it? she asks

Meh, as the Yanks would say.

I enjoyed the people-watching but... and proceed to list my Fête-related quibbles.

I love the typically British moan-y response. She teases.

(For one thing, I don't consider myself that British.)

Dancing en masse in the streets? Hardly. She tells me to adjust my expectations. She's lived in different cities around the world.  There's a limit to how excitable Strasbourg gets. This is it.

Donc, je sais maintenant.

Still en route to the bus stop, kept company by K-Os' 2010 album Yes! (far better than anything I've heard all evening), a couple of lads pass by. The Caucasian one mouths something in my direction. I remove my earphones.

Pardon?

Vous etes ravissante.

Ah, merci.

Je vous vraiment en prie.

Ego-boosts from handsome blokes. I'll take some of that.

Maybe this night wasn't a complete wash-out after all.

Soundtrack: Yes! by K-Os.

Part 2

…Though Your Heart Is Breaking

I like to believe I’m getting used to the emotional cycles that I’ve realised are part and parcel of my Strasbourg experience. Hmm. Well yes and no.  True, they no longer take me by surprise and the onset of depression that stalked me last year doesn’t feel as intense. Then again, I didn’t expect the indigo mood to necessarily recur as often as it has.  The workplace misery doesn’t help. And so, to keep myself sane I will count my blessings and focus on my happy places.

Like a visit from long-time acquaintance and former Catch-a-Vibe editor, Alice one Friday afternoon at the end of May. Now based in Switzerland, she spends a day in Strasbourg with her sister who’s visiting her from the Netherlands. Their encouragement about my French is a much-needed psychological boost. I express myself with more fluidity. I wish I could speak this well consistently. 

It’s their first time in Strasbourg. They’re understandably enchanted by the City’s aesthetic. Say what I like about Alsace, it’s a beautiful region; I can’t deny. The hospitality…not so much.  That’s normal, Alice and sis reassure. They should know. Born and raised in Francophone West Africa and having lived in various European cities, they are true Citoyennes Mondiales. It’s always a bit lonesome when you move to a new city, they assure. It could very well be a Nordic trait too.  Both of them have found it hard to connect with the natives in their respective adopted homes. It’s easier making friends with fellow expats. One thing’s for sure though. None of us is in a rush to return to the UK in its current state.

On a lighter note, They’re sufficiently tickled about my incredulity as I regale them with tales of romantic overtures from the French.

You’re just not used to it.

Choir rehearsals continue to be an oasis of joy, especially if I’ve had a tough week.  We’re preparing for a couple of gigs in June, including a wedding.  Church is another haven. I feel better connected having been able to attend the weekly house groups on a more regular basis since September.

The Monday after Pentecost Sunday is a public holiday.  One of the few drawbacks of having the first working day of the week off (apart from the annoying Alsatian tradition of most establishments being closed) is that there’s no novelty when it coincides with a national holiday.  To stave off the boredom, I plan a trip by bus to the convent on Mount St. Odile as recommended by a colleague. Outside of the height of summer, the bus route is very limited; public holidays being a somewhat ironic exception.

Mount St. Odile Convent, Alsace.

It’s a miserable early summer day but I’m determined. I even pack a lunch in case I decide to solo picnic. My mood is as glum as the weather. (Pathetic fallacy, anyone?) Yet, despite the grey skies and grey feelings, the stunning landscape takes me out of myself. It really is as much about the journey as the destination.

The best is yet to come. The view from the Convent is breath-taking; intimidatingly so.  I am reminded of observations made by Edmund Burke and Emmanuel Kant about the sublime; how the things that inspire awe are a mix of beauty and dread. The very word ‘awesome’ has been debased by its overuse, particularly by our American chums. Nevertheless, the view from Mount St. Odile is worthy of the word; even on a wet and overcast day.

I make the most of where I am and secrete off to sacred spaces, as is my habit. When I eventually manage to distance myself from the huddles of tourists, I find a virtually deserted chapel in plain view. Some solitude, finally. I try my best to commune with the Almighty in silence.

With buses back to Strasbourg running only every four hours, I decide to bring my trip to an early finish. I am determined however, to come back during sunnier climes; ideally with a guest. Mum would love it here.

The journey back down Mount Odile is delightful. The driver blasts 70s, 80s and 90s pop and soul hits (MJ, EWF, George Benson, Oliver Cheetham etc…) with a couple of guilty pleasures in the mix. I sing at the top of my voice whilst grooving in my seat. That’s not as anti-social as it might sound. For a brief but enjoyable moment, I’m the only passenger. I become a little more cautious once others straggle on board. I turn around to apologise to the man behind me and offer to move. He’s very accommodating. Perhaps a little too much. He is keen to keep me conversing. I’m pleased for the French practice but when I can’t immediately shake him on arriving at Strasbourg, I bluntly take my leave.

Music festival season starts early in Strasbourg. I unintentionally have missed out on some events so plan to make amends. Aisha, a former classmate from my evening Portuguese lessons, invites me to watch her Brazilian percussion band the following Sunday. I’m rarely in the mood for pure drum sets but I don't regret making the exception for this lively bunch. You wouldn’t know it from the crowd's typically staid Alsatian response. I can only admire the mettle of the featured dancers, whose enthusiasm isn’t dampened by the relative inertia of their audience. I try to make up for it by shaking my stuff. Aisha later shows her appreciation for my efforts.

I’m not sure if and when our paths will next cross. She’ll soon be heading to Sao Tomé & Principe to join her fiancé for an extended sojourn. She shares the news that she’s a few month's pregnant. Her belly is still flat. With Aisha’s French-Algerian heritage and her fiancé’s Afro-Portuguese mulatto roots, that’s going to be one international baby.

There are more happy reunions when I finally catch-up with Roisin, who made an impression a few months ago at a Meet-Up event. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take her details at the time but manage to track her down. It’s a relief to meet someone who talks as much as I do. It makes me less self-conscious.  Although she’s playing with the idea of extending her study stay in France, she’s found it similarly difficult to integrate into Strasbourg life. C’est la même ritournelle. It seems this is the experience of almost everyone I’ve met coming from outside of Alsace. No matter how many times I hear it, I feel perversely reassured. If someone as personable and outgoing as Roisin can struggle-even with, as she explains, pre-existing links to the City-I know it’s not just me.

Freiburg - View from Schlossberg Castle Tower

That Monday I head across the German border to Freiburg to while away another day in the splendid company of Coral. Tasty savoury pastries (courtesy of Coral) and delicious iced desserts also help. I’ve been experiencing a bit of a relapse of late in regard to my one-time infatuation.  Coral knows that refrain pretty well herself. Some of her wisdom echoes with what sis has shared during recent Skype conversations.

It's a blistering hot day. I notice a number of Freiburgers walking around barefoot. Coral explains that's normal around these parts. It's a boho city, she says. 

She takes me to a vantage point; the ruins of a hilltop castle.  From there we have a panoramic view of Freiburg, the peripheries of the Black Forest and a glimpse of France.

Six hours between coach rides evaporates when talking about everything under the sun. 

Soundtrack:  12 Little Spells by Esperanza Spalding, By Fire by Kneebody. Memoirs by Rox.

Ebb and Flow

My return to Strasbourg after my recent London trip has been the usual mix of ups and downs; both professionally and personally. I come back to the office to find a churlish email from one of my line managers.  The usually convivial 20-something hasn't addressed me like that before, although I have noticed subtle changes in her behaviour.

That same day I have a heart-to-heart with my main line manager, Sophie. There’s still no confirmation about whether our contracts will be renewed. She is optimistic nonetheless. There has been encouraging news, if yet to be made official. Over the coming days and weeks, she’ll tell me on a number of occasions that it’s a mere formality. We do agree however, that it's the height of unprofessionalism. This is The Human Rights Organisation after all. Charity begins at home. Obviously not.  It's as if the HR department is using the precarious financial situation as an excuse for shoddy admin.

The conversation segues into my genuine concerns about work. Psychologically, it’s been a battle of late to come into the office.

Sophie has already noted a change and wanted to approach me about it. This is an unexpected opportunity.

As is her wont, she gives both constructive critique about my performance and compassionate personal advice. I commend her managerial skills. If only it were always this way. I acknowledge my own errors whilst contextualising them in what I've found to be a non-conducive work environment. I outline some of the practical steps I’m taking to manage the situation, whilst remaining discreet about certain measures.  We bring the meeting to a close. She’s on half-day and I have some errands to run in town during the lunch hour.

Shortly afterwards, I see Sophie and senior manager, Lucia speaking intently in the corridor. I try to wave away any concern. It could just be coincidence. 

Coming back from my lunchtime errands, I bump into Sophie once more.

You’re still here?

I raise the spontaneous tête-à-tête with Lucia. My fleeting suspicions are confirmed, much to my consternation. Lucia was checking up on what was discussed.

This is exactly what I’m talking about! All this micro-management. I fume. Sophie tries to calm me down.

The following morning, I will myself out of bed. It’s Friday. It’s only my second day in the office that week and I’m already exhausted.  

Later that day, I’m reminded that sometimes God sends little lifelines when you desperately need them. 

I receive a call from the security team at the Magenta building. We have a good rapport but the ambiance at work recently has made me paranoid. I’m asked to pass by the security office when I have a moment. En route I bump into Yvonne, one of the lovely team members. She says I have nothing to worry about. She would know.

I am greeted by a wonderful surprise. A small but no less significant gesture of kindness from the team. It lifts my spirits beyond measure. I weep tears of gratitude, sending them an emotional email of thanks.  By chance I bump into another security team member that Saturday in town, after a disappointing cinematic excursion. I stop by an artisanal Turkish restaurant for some pide. One of the security guards, Laurence happens to be dining out with his youthful-looking mum. I attempt to bring her up to date on his thoughtful act but il m’a coiffée au Poteau.

...She's the one I was telling you about...

The following few weeks are suddenly busy. There are a number of significant meetings at work; some leaving me less reassured than others. 

My choir is performing as part of an event commemorating the end of slavery in France. There’s some free West Indian grub in it for us too. I’ve invited some Strasbourgeois acquaintances and a few colleagues, including the security team. I’m nervous about who will show up. Our performance will depend on an alchemy that can’t be guaranteed with a community choir.  It doesn’t help that several co-choristers are performing at a wedding that evening; including the director, Kiasi. I’m praying the others won’t disgrace me in front of my guests with a) a low turnout b) dodgy pitch. Thankfully, on the night the numbers are promising. Plus, star soprano and veteran member, Nicole is in the house. 

I am pleasantly surprised to see Yvonne in the audience with hubbie in tow. Seraphine from church also made the effort.

It’s not our best performance but neither is it terrible. Too bad that I fluff my solo. My singing comrades try to assuage my guilt/self-flagellation. I know I let the thought of guests in the audience get the better of me. I find it hard to sing in front of those I know. At least my new BFF, Gael has already left the building at that point. We catch-up briefly before I go on stage. It turns out one of his entourage used to sing with HRGS back in the day; a talented fellow at that, according to the veterans. Small world.

Gael and I will meet-up again the following weekend but not before another eventful seven days. 

The penultimate Thursday of May is officially the last day of mine and Sophie’s contract. A few minutes before 5pm, when we’ve given up on any updates that day and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to still access the building tomorrow, a confirmation from HR drops in our inboxes. 

Sophie manifests in the doorway.

Have you seen it?

I have. Just as I’d given up. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

I've received a stay of execution; at least until the end of my probation period. Hallelujah.

The following evening, I have an emotionally fraught and long overdue conversation with an old friend. It doesn’t end well. It was to be expected but I’m unnerved. Worse still, I find out late in the day that choir practice has been cancelled that night. Lord knows, I need the spiritual and emotional balm.

There’s no way I can stay indoors wallowing in my thoughts. I decide to attend the Friday night outreach with the street team. Fortunately, they have a session planned that evening. Better still, we’ll be joined again by the inspiring house church from Neudorf.

They’d make quite a fascinating subject for a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Each time I'm there, I  meet a new visitor from a different corner of the globe. This week it’s the turn of Kamir; a native of Afghanistan.  He converted from nominal Islam after fleeing to Luxembourg and meeting some life-filled Christians. He grew up in a multi-lingual environment, taught himself English back in Kabul and started learning German from scratch in his adopted home. He’s lived there just over a year. His agnostic girlfriend isn’t comfortable joining us so stays back at the house with a poorly church member. Kamir wants to join us for outreach to the Girls. Since he has no French, I and a few others help translate for him. Once we separate into our respective groups however, I’m the only other English-speaker.

I spend most of the night keeping Kamir company. There are five of us instead of the usual three (including a recently married young couple. The husband found God in prison). Group leader Sabrina doesn’t want us to overwhelm the Girls. Thus, Kamir and I stand at a distance for much of the evening.

In an effort to bond, Kamir begins talking about Africans and Nelson Mandela. I have less patience for these cultural missteps nowadays; especially living in France. On reflection, I could be more patient.

In one evening, Kamir goes from having a rather perplexed- at times sanctimonious- attitude towards the women, to one of understanding. On the other hand, it's a battle to have sympathy for the clients. I can wholly relate to that. I’m not saintly in that area either. Kamir can't get his head round the transactional and objectified approach to sex; orgasm without emotional connection.We catch sight of one louche-looking, overweight Caucasian male, sidling up to one of the Girls. He's a walking stereotype.

I had worried earlier that my presence was not only superfluous but an inconvenience. I have cause to change my mind by the end of the evening. Before the 15-strong outreach team gathers in town for a de-brief, we make one last stop. We meet two new West African girls; Christabel and Tess. Both are in their 20s. Tess came to France via Libya and Spain. I shudder at the thought. I ask whether they want to be prayed for. They accept. I probe further, asking them what they would do if they could get out of The Life. Christabel would like to be a seamstress. Tess was studying architecture in Delta State.

My heart is full. Perhaps it’s because we’re from the same part of the world. These beautiful women; Tess with her high, round cheekbones and Christabel whose dimples are so deep, she barely needs to smile. Strong women. Hope-filled women despite the lowered eyes and world-weariness.  I pray with everything in me, the Spirit taking over. Kamir's on standby. By the end we’re laughing and embracing each other.

The Museum of Modern & Contemporary Art (MAMCS), Strasbourg

The following day is the annual March for Jesus that takes place across France.

After a very variable late Spring we’re blessed with clement, even hot weather that Saturday. I spot many familiar faces in the crowd; both from church and the outreach group, including Kamir. The atmosphere is even more festive than last year.  We take over the heart of the City, trailing behind three floats carrying live musicians and vocalists. Pedestrians get their phones out. Drivers stop to stare. A veritable Carnival for Christ.

I am captivated by a young man from my church doing French Sign Language. He's not just signing the song lyrics, he's experiencing them in real time. He radiates so much unadulterated joy, I am moved to tears. These fleeting moments point to the Divine; the hope of something better and purer.

As chance would have it, we stop outside MAMCS which is where I happen to be meeting Gael. I take my leave.

I wait in the café tucked away in the corner of the building; another new discovery courtesy of Gael.

He’s held up by The March. I order some freshly-squeezed juice whilst I wait, overlooking a gorgeous view of Petite France; my favourite part of town. Gael arrives, pulling my chain about some annoying people crowding out the streets. Trusting sort that I am, I think he’s serious until he bursts into a sincere smile.

Soundtrack: Left My Heart by Ed Mount. Ventura by Anderson .Paak 

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.