The Reluctant Rentrée

I’m on the plane back from my latest adventure in the Land of the Rising Sun. The pilot announces that there’s a stunning view of Mount Fuji from the left side of the aircraft. I scramble across, shifting from window-to-window until I see it. Fuji-San never fails to take my breath away. From this elevated perspective it’s even more wondrous. Later I will laugh at a spoof making fun of the Japanese prefecture where sis lives.

These will be moments of levity during what is a difficult journey back. I intermittently burst into tears; on the coach to Narita Airport after sis accompanies me to Omiya station; on and off at the Airport; again when I land in Frankfurt.

This is not just post-holiday, back to work blues. My anxieties are not baseless. I have less than two months before my contract at The Human Rights Organisation comes to an end. It’s not been an easy year on the work front and there is unpleasant aftertaste about the whole affair.

The next chapter is still unfolding. Job applications are yet to yield fruit. I don’t have a burning desire to return to the UK at the moment, obvious reasons notwithstanding. I’m doing what is humanly possible. The rest is in God’s hands. The uncertainty is naturally discomfiting.

My malaise will last for weeks to come. My jetlag -usually less of a problem coming back from Asia than going-is compounded by mental exhaustion. A fortnight after my return and I’m still dog-tired.

At best, my feelings about returning to the office are mixed. I’ll be glad to see Sophie and a few other colleagues but I dread the phatic conversation about my holiday and the usual pretence. To take advantage of the necessity to use up the rest of my annual leave before my contract ends, I request an extra few days off after my return.

I keep a low profile, avoiding any circumstance where I might run into somebody I know. My heart is still in Japan. I resent Strasbourg and its cold, impolite residents. Even the sight of the Cathedral’s jagged steeple flanked by blue skies doesn’t cheer me up the way it used to. I don’t want to be present. I don’t want my time in Japan to be a faded memory. It’s recent enough to still be a comfort.

I skulk at Andre Malraux Médiathèque and, on a clear sunny day, make my way to the man-made Baggersee beach; a recent discovery courtesy of church friend, Stacee.

Emboldened by my recent beach visit to Kamakura where I waded into the Pacific, I paddle with more conviction. I’ve noted that those who frequent the fake beach, are far less body conscious than me. I baulk at the sight of old men in inappropriate speedos or sunburned bare breasts of all sizes.

The inevitable Back to School day comes around. Holiday treats for colleagues are at the ready. I catch up with the lovely Sophie. Her little ones have recently discovered the joys of 1980s Michael Jackson and it’s transformed the household.

Baggersee Lake

The interrogation about my holiday isn’t as bad as I expect. A part of me misses the chance to go into details.

Meanwhile, the end-of-contract process is in full swing. I have a number of administrative steps to complete and waste no time. I am obligated to start telling more colleagues of my departure. I organise a meeting with Yotis, my landlord. He seems surprised and perhaps a little disappointed. He's nevertheless supportive. He agrees to give me until the end of the year to sort out my next move. He’s been an ideal landlord, bless him.

 I have asked management not to arrange any farewell card or gift. It would be hypocritical. Neither would I like the news to be generally disclosed. I request to be left to inform colleagues as and when I see fit. 

Sometimes it's planned. Sometimes I’m forced to come clean when asked a pointed question. I find the process emotionally-draining. My first full week back after my holiday I am regularly in a melancholy funk.

Outside in the real world, I emerge from early hibernation to meet with pals. Gael is busy organising the opening of his new bar. I miss him. He’s yet to be fully in the know. 

I break the news to some church chums. Stacee doesn’t like me referring to my imminent exit. 

Michelle, my surrogate auntie from HRGS choir, admits she’ll be sad to see me go. She encourages me to apply for admin jobs at the main University. I explain that I’ve been lost too long in that professional limbo and need to escape it.

Speaking of the choir, there’s been a distinct radio silence since I notified HRGS’ directors and administrative team by email.

Still too jet-lagged to attend the chorale’s back-to-school get-together, I beg off and start back the next week in earnest. Sort of. I’m still tired and in a salty mood; no small part down to their apparent indifference to my departure. Whinge, whinge.

I’ll be the nonetheless glad to have overcome my reluctance that evening. Kiasi -or chief as I like to call him-asks the mostly female members in attendance (including the newbies) to do a solo. He then splits us up roughly according to register and instructs us to arrange a tune, with the objective of rotating the harmonies. I am fortunate to have been assigned to a group with mostly solid musicality including star soprano, Nicole. Kiasi adds members at whim but the centre still holds. We waste little time in selecting a tune (Down by the Riverside). Apart from a few false starts with the tenor harmony, it goes swimmingly. Each group showcases their efforts to the other.  Elisabeth’s daughter, Aline intermittently takes a break from the harmonising to attend to her new-born.  Daddy is in toe looking completely knackered. The little one has none of his chocolate complexion for now; firmly overridden by mummy’s caramel.

Once again I find solace in the choir’s bosom. I think better of bringing up that email. I prefer to leave the moment in pristine condition; unperturbed by anxiety over my immediate future.

After the home time prayer, we sing a couple of songs from the repertoire. I’m asked to reprise my solo on I Have a Dream. I’m secretly happy to have a chance to show off in front of the acolytes and simultaneously ashamed of my latent hubris.

That Sunday, I’m invited to lunch with Gloria and her husband, Romain from the church’s interpretation service. It’s supposed to be a team meeting but I am the only other member available. We discuss rotas, Gloria’s enviable natural linguistic flair and the pitfalls of translation. I’m feeling especially insecure about my language skills. Nearly two years in France and it still doesn’t roll off my tongue. Relocating was supposed to increase my confidence but I’m convinced it’s had the opposite effect.

The couple introduce me to a lovely young Ghanaian called Gabriella. She's come to Strasbourg (via Anglophone Canada) for a few months to enrol on a crash course in French. She’s been staying with the couple for a few days whilst she finds suitable accommodation.

Gabriella speaks a number of Ghana’s indigenous languages. Her brain already has an advantageous elasticity having grown up multi-lingual. I assure her that she’ll probably speak French better than I do by the time she leaves at Christmas.

The following afternoon I notify my new Afro-Lusophone acquaintance, Gustavo, of my leaving plans during a meet-up at my haunt, Oh My Goodness! café. He asks what’s in store. I have no clear answer for him. The conversation is dominated by less mundane matters, however. Gustavo is an admirably thoughtful young man. We speak about his life philosophy; how he literally hugs trees and kisses flowers. Of no particular religious confession, he nonetheless enjoys reading the Gospels. He adores Christ’s references to nature in the Sermon on the Mount. Gustavo opines about his thoughts on genius by way of a detailed bio of Isaac Newton. He gently interrogates me about my single status (no ulterior motive on either side. He’s far too young and already spoken for). It turns into an unexpected opportunity for me to go deeper about my faith.

Temple Neuf, Strasbourg (image: Tripadvisor)

There’s more theological pondering for me the next evening, albeit of the less spontaneous kind. The pastoral team at Temple Neuf has organised a fascinating fortnightly workshop on how the Extreme Right has attempted to co-opt Christianity over the past couple of hundred years. It’s led by the amiable, French and German speaking Pastor Rohan. His French is well-articulated, fluid and easy to follow (not unlike my own senior pastor at EPIS). There’s the occasional wholesome interruption by brunette Rohan’s very blond children.

(I’m rather confused around the pastor. Lately he reminds me of a less striking version of my erstwhile, also French and German-speaking crush. I don’t like that train of thought and thus keep him at a safe distance. I offer a hand instead of a cheek for the customary bise, for instance).

The first session is dedicated to the ideas of Houston Stewart Chamberlain; a Germanophile English anti-Semite, said to be hugely influential on Mein Kampf. Chamberlain somehow manages to rationalise away Jesus’ Jewish ethnicity to reinvent Him as a saviour uniquely of the Aryan race.

The discussion is stimulating. It encompasses Chamberlain's endeavours to separate the historical Jesus from the Gospel accounts, the inherent contradictions of cultural religiosity and how supremacist ideology spurred the growth of- and subtly under-girds - our current capitalist economic system.

I feel emboldened to contribute on hearing an American woman make a number of points in heavily-accented faltering French. It’s a safe space. Pastor Rohan is encouraging of our efforts. I want to pick him up on a comment he makes about Christians not necessarily having an affinity with the political Left but time doesn’t allow it. Maybe next session.

Soundtrack: Childqueen Outtakes by Kadhja Bonet, Hey! (single) by Gabriela Eva, Little Ghost by Moonchild.

Summer Vibrance

After Lyon, it’s straight back to work. I normally take a 'buffer' day of leave but there’s no need on this occasion. The work load is less intense now that most colleagues are away. Plus the countdown to my next, longer summer getaway is already on. No time to waste.

I do indulge in an afternoon off on Friday (technically I’m only at work one and half days that week). It comes in handy. Pete, my good friend and writing-accountability partner, will be visiting that weekend. Fresh from celebrating his 50^th in the UK, he’ll be passing by Strasbourg via Basel, where he’s spending time with an old acquaintance, Gregory.

That Saturday I’ll be entertaining them both. The plan is to do one of the great free city tours and come back to mine for dinner.

I use Friday afternoon to stock up on supplies in Kehl. Pete’s diet is restricted to fish and veg. Greg is less of a challenge. I prepare my signature mixed-meat tagine for Greg and I, baked salmon for Pete and well-preserved remnants of my mum’s jolloff rice and akara bean cakes for all.

The morning of their arrival, I’m still running around like a loon in pursuit of groceries that I haven’t been able to get my hands on. It’s making me grumpy. Jesus’ admonition to Martha comes to mind; albeit a very different context.

Just before 1pm, Pete and Gregory rock up in their rental; a metallic burnt-orange coloured vehicle. Hard to miss. They’ve been taking it in turns on the road. Seasoned driver Pete is still adjusting to manoeuvring on the left. After parking the car, they pop to mine for tea. There’s not much time for anything else before we have to leave for the tour.

I suggest they get a feel for public transport. The car stays in my residential parking lot all afternoon.

En route to the tour’s starting point at the Cathedral, Pete catches me up on the latest news about his charity walk. He’s raising funds for the school he intends to set up in South London. He intends to cover 1000 km over the summer. To chart his progress, he takes pictures in various locations holding up flash cards with the date, the distance covered that day and a map of the relevant country. He and Greg have already done a fair bit in Switzerland and have plans to continue. Pete concludes that we’ll cover a good distance on the tour and strolling around town. I’m happy to offer moral and financial support but have never been keen on the idea of being sponsored. As a compromise, I agree to the photo opp.

The weather is kind to our itinerary.  The tour is guided by yet another charismatic young Alsatian, Leo. I’m impressed by his powers of concentration. He has to contend with more interruptions than usual. A Gilet Jaune protest over the police-related death of Steve Maia Caniço, a covers band performing in Place St. Etienne… Leo takes it all in his stride, literally. Although I’ve done the tour on a previous occasion with mum and sis, it’s a good refresher. Each guide has their own style and different points of emphasis. No two outings will be the same.

Tour over, plans for a cool drink at Oh My Goodness! café come to nought. They’re closed for summer.

In any case, we’re all a bit hot and tired. It’s back to mine for supper. To my relief, the two men are very satisfied with all the grub on offer. During dinner, Pete poses searching eschatological questions. Yours truly segues to uncomfortable passages in the Torah. Christian engagement in the fight for social justice is also a recurring theme of the day. We share accounts of having survived cult-like churches. It's not all heavy or theological though. We compare living standards in the UK and Europe, different approaches to tax and the Swiss' intolerance for jay-walking. After the main meal, Pete and I read each of our latest flash fiction pieces to Gregory and exchange feedback.

Pete is one of my favourite people; one of the few with whom I can truly be myself. I’m grateful we have been able to socialise in the Strasbourg context, no matter how brief.

Early evening. Basel awaits. It’s time for the two friends to be making tracks. Gregory finishes off his (store-bought) raspberry tart. Paul sticks to a mini choc ice whilst I wrap his lemon dessert for the road. I accompany them as far as L’Orangerie before bidding a fond farewell.

The next day after church, I meet up with Serafine at Gare Centrale. Her daughter is at a summer camp and she’s just dropped off some guests. 

Half-Austrian, Half-Gabonese and based in Kehl, she’s invited me to an African Music Festival in a charming small German town. Serafine is especially looking forward to the headline act; Gambian singer/songwriter and kora virtuoso, Sona Jobarteh. The three hour drive there and back will give us plenty of time for conversation. Serafine puts me through my linguistic paces. We always broach thought-provoking topics. Yet she is encouraging and patient and my confidence grows in her presence.

On arriving at the festival, it’s a rude awakening to find that entry is not free. Neither is it cheap. I’m used to community festivals and/or those that have a tier system. But there’s no turning back now. As I’m bringing out my wallet, Serafine offers to pay and won’t take no for an answer. Fortunately for us, one of her generous male acquaintances pays for both our tickets.

To my delight we’ll soon be joined later by my Strasbourg bestie, Gael and his childhood chum, Agnès. Unimpressed by the beer festival they have just attended in a Strasbourg suburb, they hit the motorway to the Afro-Fest. 

Despite their similar Afropean backgrounds and moving in the same circles, it's the first time Serafine and Gael are meeting. They get on like a house on fire. Gael has that effect on folk.

It’s the third and final day of the festival. It’s ‘African’ in the loosest sense of the word; at least as far as music policy is concerned. A female impersonator of advanced years (whom I suspect of skin-bleaching) does an hilarious, heavily-accented cover of Tina Turner’s Simply The Best; signature dance moves et al. Some adorable youngsters -ranging from tots to teens -perform a traditional dance before bizarrely switching to The Black Eyed Peas’ Where is the Love?. Not speaking any German, I haven’t a clue what instigates the change in tone. I don’t want to keep asking Serafine to translate. 

Sona’s headline set is preceded by a German ska-band. We eat mediocre crèpes and over-priced traditional West African dishes whilst we wait for the main act.

I observe the festival’s demographic as the audience slowly but surely drips in. Despite the German reputation for being cold and reserved, this is a far less inhibited crowd than what I'm used to in Strasbourg. It's also quite diverse. Your 'average' German rubs shoulders with hippies and the Afrocentric. 

Other clichés abound, however. You have your dread-locked, white bo-ho types. One woman walks around in what I assume is a very loose halterneck underneath the baby-carrier strapped to her chest. I soon realise she's topless. Only her infant comes between her breasts and the elements (this doesn’t wholly prevent some spillage, mind you). 

There are plenty of proud African men with their European wives/girlfriends in tow; sporting blonde braids and wearing matching wax or kente.

Sona Jobarteh @ The Emmendingen African Festival, August 2019
(c) Gilles Dolatabadi

There are comparatively few women of African descent in the vicinity. A few are selling their wares or mingling in the crowd. 

You could count them all though, jokes Serafine. 

Even at an African culture festival we’re all but invisible.

Some consolation can be found in the fact that the festival is being closed by a strong, talented and resourceful African woman. Sona graces the stage with a regal presence, resplendent in a native red and gold ensemble; her heavy-looking kora strapped to her front (occasionally swapped for the guitar). She has the sharp, figure-eight curves I see on few other women. A little bit of representation goes a long way.

Gael is smitten. He claims her as his wife. Agnès and I threaten to tell his boyfriend, Patric.

T'inquiètes. I’ll just tell him I found better!

I watch with a mix of admiration and unease as Sona pushes past the pain barrier to pluck intricate melodies on her chosen instrument. She does call-and-response stand-off instrumentals with her effervescent percussionist, who habitually challenges his fellow musicians and the audience to keep up. Sona welcomes her son on stage to play the balafon; an African xylophone. The bashful but focused young gent holds his own. He is a pupil at a school Jobarteh has established in Gambia, where local children are immersed in their culture and history alongside standard academic subjects. It’s a superb initiative which she hopes will spread across the continent.

During a rendition of the ode she wrote to celebrate the country's 50th anniversary of independence, Sona calls out to her compatriots. They have shown up in full force to support. There are probably more Gambians present that evening than I’ve come across cumulatively. So elated are they to be represented by their countrywoman, a number of them leap on stage before being ushered away by sluggish security.

Gael is not amused to see other suitors vying for his would-be spouse’s affections.

Is this how they carry on in the Gambia? He says, with mock-indignation. I’m going to write a strongly-worded letter to the embassy!

The feverish atmosphere is contagious. I dance to the very end despite my aching legs. Our group hangs around to chat, take pics (Gael) and stalk Sona (Gael again). 

Unlike me, Serafine has work in the morning.  She nonetheless kindly offers to drop me off home.

At last, we head to her car. A parking ticket has appeared on her windshield. She shrugs it off.

An hour-and-a-half later of deep discussion on the road, and it’s after midnight by the time I step through the door.

Soundtrack: Tabansi Records Sampler– Various Artists (BBE Records)

* LVS will be on a summer break until September. Bel été ! *

La Vie Lyonnaise Part 2

Place St Jean (thisislyon.fr)

Part 1

My birthday is at the start of the week.  I book a place on a cheap-as-chips walking tour that morning. I’ve developed a taste for these guided ambles since living in Strasbourg. Not much else to do on a Monday. 

I’m also looking forward to some human contact in a group setting. Having lived ‘abroad’ for a little while, travelling alone sometimes loses its novelty. As much as I like the freedom, I miss regular conversation all the same.

A sizeable group of us gathers at Place St. Jean in Lyon City Centre. The tour is led by towering Dutchman, Paul. He moved to Lyon six years ago and has never looked back. The free tour is his latest solo business venture, making money through tips. 

For the next two hours, he will take us through a whistle-stop overview of Vieux Lyon; one of the largest surviving Renaissance towns. We weave in and out of a couple of the 600 (approx) traboules -or secret passageways -as Paul informs us of their role during the French Resistance, amongst other things. He explains the City’s ancient, medieval and modern architecture, the ever-changing layout of its religious edifices; its past reputation as a hub of the silk industry and how its proximity to rich arable land gives it a culinary advantage. Throughout the tour, he recommends some eating establishments. 

It’s a perfect summer’s day and Paul is an affable guide. It beats disappearing into some mawkish mental rabbit-hole as I mope about getting older.

It’s midday before we know it. 

I wouldn’t normally entertain the thought of a three-course lunch but heck. It's a special occasion…

Following one of Paul's recommendations, I choose somewhere traditional with a reasonably-priced menu and a head-waiter wearing a rictus grin (I have a Pavlovian response to return the same artificial smile and hate myself for it). I’m seated discreetly in a tight corner of the bistro. 

The amicable American woman sitting next to me, squeezes past to pay her bill. She asks where I’m from. Alas, I believe my anglophone intonation has betrayed me once more. I compliment hers and her daughter’s French. Her husband is Francophone, she shares. When she mentions they're local, I find it reassuring that they’ve chosen to lunch in that establishment.

The meal is satisfying, save for the rubbery texture of the Tarte aux Pralines.

The heavy lunch has made me more flustered still in this warm weather.

I make for the ‘futuristic’ district of Confluence where the rivers Rhone and Saône meet (another of Paul's recommendations). En route, I'm touched to see my French mobile filled with birthday messages from my church family.

Natural History Museum at Confluence, Lyon

Confluence's central area is being transformed into a high-tech, eco-friendly utopia apparently. One that still relies heavily on commerce, mind you.

The district does boast some of the most daring architecture I’ve seen. I miss out unintentionally on the Natural History Museum which, according to Paul, resembles a spaceship. What he hasn't mentioned is the Navly; a driver-less electric shuttle service unique to the area. Given that it’s a pilot scheme, passengers board at their own risk. There is nonetheless a good-natured conductor present to supervise these dry-runs. It’s a relaxing, air conditioned trundle around the peninsula, endowed with stunning Mediterranean views.

I do a quick detour to the flat before dinner. I’ve tried to make reservations at the small but popular Lebanese place I couldn’t get into a couple of days prior. No response. I chance it. I’m not surprised to find the restaurant plunged in darkness without a soul in sight.

It’s a quick and easy metro to Cordeliers, where I’ve spotted another Lebanese eatery in the vicinity.

Once again, I’m seated in a corner; far from the inconsiderate smokers monopolising the terrace, comme d'habitude.

There’s little chance of being disturbed since there's not much of a Monday crowd...

I speak too soon. 

Couples and clans start trickling in. Three generations of a Middle-Eastern family sit opposite. In their midst is a fleshy-cheeked, cross-eyed baby; around a year old. He’s adorable. The only tot in the party, he keeps himself entertained; lost is in his own little world. Occasionally, his fidgeting and whimpering irritate his mum. I watch, transfixed. I start ruminating my own life journey. I sense the same old conflict between enjoying my independence and being somewhat incredulous that I’m in my late 30s, celebrating another birthday single. A lifetime commitment both appeals and fills me with trepidation. It is to open oneself up to the risk of hurt and betrayal as much as love and companionship. At least my life is far less complicated at the moment.

Rue de St Marie des Terreaux (courtesy of Deviant Art)

I marvel at motherhood; at the same time terrified of the life-altering responsibility of being a parent. I’m introspective as usual but not sad. 

This is the life I have even if it’s not what I thought it would be. It’s the life I am supposed to have at this point in time; even if it’s not all I’d hoped it would be. I am alive. I am grateful.

It’s another early-ish start the following morning; the last full day of mon excursion lyonnaise. I am so impressed with the amount of ground covered on Paul’s first tour, I book a place on another. I'm not the only one. I recognise some faces from the morning before, including the Brazilian woman with whom I was making faltering conversation in Portuguese.  

Starting in the Place des Terreaux, we take an uphill route via Croix-Rousse and back down again to the old Jewish quarter of Vieux Lyon. I enjoy this tour even more than the last. Paul leads us through parts of the City’s Bohemian district that I’d never have found left to my own devices when I passed through on the weekend.

He talks and walks us through more of the City’s roman history and identifies the famous Lyonnais that grace a majestic fresco. The traboules of Croix-Rousse might be less famous than that of Vieux Lyon but to me are more enchanting.

I am repeatedly awe-struck by central Lyon’s gorgeous vistas. It’s a shame I’m out of the habit of carrying a camera. I’ve left behind my Nokia feature phone (including basic camera) to avoid being disturbed.

Lyon's size surprises me. I underestimate how much there is to discover. I am used to visiting and/or living in French cities that are more like big-ish towns (from a London perspective in any case). More so than Marseille, Lyon has the feel of a proper city; akin to Paris.

Another two hours evaporate in Paul's company. I pick up some edible souvenirs after the tour before making a beeline for the metro.

I adapt my schedule according to my fatigue. My next main sightseeing stop is limited to Le Parc de la Tete D’Or; a substantial stretch of green that contains within its confines a lake, a botanical garden and a zoo.

La Fresque des Lyonnais (courtesy of This is Lyon)

The morning walk is catching up with me. As much as I’d like to cover the expanse of the park, my feet won’t allow it. I settle for lunch near the lake (fending off curious geese) and a peek at the giraffes, flamingos and deer. Alas, the bears and lemurs are nowhere to be seen.

It’s back to the accommodation for some French TV and a siesta. Refreshed, I venture out to another Trip-Advisor recommended restaurant. 

Thus far, I’ve not had the fortune of dining at any of those on my list. 

Tonight will be no exception. A note has magically appeared on the door of my bistro of choice: closed for a summer break. No prior warning on their website.

Thanks to all-knowing-guide Paul, I have a back-up plan. I’m craving crèpes so re-route to Bananas in Vieux Lyon. The harried-looking waiter barks an acknowledgement as I approach. He’s so unrelentingly abrupt, I change my mind. Not before giving him a piece of it first. Well, as much as I can in a second language. I’m not able to shake off his rudeness for a while.

Against my better judgement, I’m convinced by a personable waiter and cut-price menu to eat at the sort of non-descript establishment our Nordic tour guide advises we avoid. The décor is sombre, there’s no atmosphere and the meat still looks under-cooked despite my instructions (on health grounds) that it be well-done. The courteous service somewhat compensates. 

As far as Lyon being France’s culinary capital is concerned, my experience has been underwhelming. Notwithstanding the fickle-opening hours, the traditional cuisine of any-old-animal parts isn’t enticing. An acquaintance from Alsace warned me not to believe the hype. Maybe a longer stay during a different season could have convinced me otherwise.

Still hankering for pancakes, I order a delicious salted-caramel and vanilla ice-cream crèpe from a parlour I’ve been eyeing up since I arrived.

My attention is drawn to the large flat screen TV. I am fixated by a news report about the tragic death in Nantes of a young man named Steve Maia Caniço. Having disappeared for over a month, his body has just been retrieved from a river. He reportedly fell into the water as an indirect result of excessive police force. Later, on the way to the metro station I’ll notice graffiti on a bridge that has popped up all over France in the preceding weeks: ‘Où-est Steve ?’.

Before then, I take a stroll along the Rhone and join the other dreamers sitting along its paved banks. The Basilica/Fouvrière are glittering in the distance. I should leave to begin packing. Yet I am mesmerised by the combined audio-visual pleasure of the city lights shimmering on water, and good tunes courtesy of the new Tuxedo album.

At last, I pull myself away from the serenity. My journey comes full circle when I find myself back at Place des Terreaux, where some 12 hours ago the walking tour began.

Soundtrack: Tuxedo III by Tuxedo.

La Vie Lyonnaise Part 1

Basilica Notre Dame de Fouvrière

Part 2

As has become tradition, I’m heading down South for my birthday weekend to discover another French city. It’s a toss-up between Avignon (for the Tremplin Jazz Festival; long time on my bucket list), Nice and Lyon. The latter wins out. The Jazz festival doesn’t overlap with my birthday this year. Nice is high on my wish-list but further away and probably best avoided during the holiday peak season.

I’ve heard only good things about Lyon. It is said to be the gastronomical capital of France. This accolade could arguably extend to the world if you took an especially Eurocentric perspective on what makes good food. But I’ll put the seal back on that can of worms.

I plan my sight-seeing and food-eating itinerary for my sojourn with a degree of flexibility. Post-heatwave thunderstorms are forecast for the weekend. I restrict my activity for the first couple of days, on the assumption that anything too ambitious would be a washout.

Mon aventure Lyonnaise begins one Friday night in late July. I’ve taken a half-day off work to catch an evening train. On my way to the station I bump into recent acquaintance, Gustavo; originally from Mozambique. We first met one afternoon when mum was in town.  He spontaneously began a conversation that afternoon and has been keen to keep it going ever since. He defers his own evening promenade to accompany me to the train station. He wastes no time posing age-old existential questions. ‘What are your biggest dreams?’ or ‘Do you know yourself?’. Oddly enough, I’ve been reflecting on the same of late. It’s a good linguistic and cerebral workout, endeavouring to do justice to Gustavo’s transcendant queries in the few minutes waiting for my Ouigo.

After the train’s later-than-expected arrival and a frantic search for my seat, it’s a relatively smooth ride to Lyon. Save for the late evening storms. They apparently can't even wait for the weekend proper to rain on our parade.

Various passengers take a seat beside me during the course of the journey. One woman makes a comment whilst I'm munching on a miniature packet of Haribo. Its meant in jest. I take it as just another example of French hyper-scrutiny. It’s when she’s leaving and asks about my onward journey that I realise, to my regret, she’s only been trying to make conversation.

The incident as well as the short story collection I am reading gives me the urge to write. I grab my laptop from my suitcase. The remaining hours of the journey fly by.

Alighting at Lyon just after 10pm, Part Dieu station is alive with activity. I brave the rain and rush to the tram stop, following closely the transport instructions provided by my absent Airbnb host, Marion. I try and gauge the city’s cleanliness from what I’ve seen so far. Strasbourg has spoiled me in that regards. There are few cities I’ve visited that are as clean.

By big city standards, Lyon is pretty good on that front. In particular, the public transport is new and pleasing to the eye. Jazz, Soul, Funk and Disco classics blast from the metro stations’ speakers whilst we wait.

With little fuss, I locate my accommodation in the suburb of Villeurbanne. I succeed in retrieving the flat keys based on Marion’s espionage-style instructions. They lead me to a deserted car park in the basement. My fertile imagination starts to go wild; conjuring theories of elaborate ruses and ambush.

Nothing to fear. Once safely inside I find Marion’s digs more attractive and spacious than the photos give credit. I unpack, shower, pray and then it’s off to bed.

The following morning my usual holiday/day-off dilemma scuppers any chance of a real lie-in. I know I should take advantage of the fluid timetable to rest for longer. Yet I don't want to waste a minute.

First I need some supplies. It’s a wonder I'm eating at all. I let curiosity get the better of me that morning and use the electronic bathroom scales. I don’t own one myself for fear of it becoming the life-controlling obsession it has been in the past.

I am deflated by the numbers. My body stubbornly refuses to yield to efforts to closely monitor what I eat; always take the stairs instead of the lift, walk regularly and the like. It could also be pesky pre-menstrual pounds. All I know is capitulating to this masochistic urge puts me in a funk early in the day from which I don’t totally recover.

The 4th Arrondissement: Lyon's Bohemian district

On the bright side – literally - the weather is holding up very well. I expect to be awakened by violent thunder and torrential rain. Instead, it’s warm with bursts of sunshine.

I’m cautious nevertheless. I head to the second arrondissement as planned, assuming I’ll only have a limited window before the heavens open.

On the bus to Bellecour, I am disappointed by the number of road and building works marring the City’s topography. It’s only as we pass through the third and then second arrondissement that I notice its aesthetic appeal. La Place Bellecour is impressive; more so the resplendent place of worship overlooking the city on a distant hill. I pop into the tourist centre for some information and a city map. La Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière is not originally part of my itinerary but I’m open to change. Not least because the storms have not (yet) materialised. It is also an opportunity to take the famous ficelle cable car to the top of the hill. 

Alas, the ride is too short to be great fun. 

On my way from Minimes station to Fourvière by foot, I take a detour via the Lugdunum roman ruins. The site is also the venue for a summer music festival. Strains of West-meets-East arrangements can be heard as an experimental band do a sound check. Not even an entrance fee to worry about during the day.

I’m apprehensive about entering the Basilica on seeing the crowds. I usually like these spaces for their peace and quiet. Thankfully, a polite but assertive steward keeps order with regular amplified shushing. I move around the Basilica’s main hall, crypt and oratory at a leisurely pace. I examine the ceiling design and spend time in front of a mural depicting Christ’s ministry, trying to decipher the sequence of events. I do my best to stop my mind wandering to maudlin places, not entirely successful. Eventually the excessive veneration of Mary is too much for my charismatic-protestant sensibilities. The day has vanished. The heavens finally open. 

By the time I head out for dinner that evening, the modest-sized TripAdvisor-recommended Lebanese restaurant can’t accommodate even a solitary diner. Too late to risk trekking across town in this weather to any of the other establishments on my list. It’s bog standard kebab that night; albeit with personable service.

Sundays in Europe are always a challenge in terms of adequate distractions. The continent might be largely secular but they don’t play with their Sabbath.

I reason that it's a good time to visit the parts of town that might otherwise be busy. After wrestling with and then giving up on my Google maps printout, I eventually make my way to the Fourth Arrondissement; known as Lyon’s Bo-ho district. I descend at Croix Rousse Station and pass a bar/restaurant called ‘The Dog’s B*****ks’ (in English), on my way to a verdant vantage point overlooking the city.

Having caught the eye of some sketchy-looking characters, I keep it moving.

Meandering around these leafy quarters, with its high, clustered citrus-coloured buildings, I question whether it was a good idea to visit on a Sunday. Families are out enjoying the (intermittent) sunshine and not much else. I observe that a number of businesses are shut for weeks on end. It’s the first time I’ve seen these many summer closures in the southern region. (I will later discover that the Lyonnais head en masse even further South or to the Alps for their holidays.)

I’m obligated to postpone some of my other sight-seeing schedule, having set out later than planned that afternoon. To avoid a repetition of the previous evening’s dining issues, I start out earlier. My plans fall at the first, second and third hurdle. My preferred establishments are either closed or too far away. I traverse the City from hilly St Just down to Hotel de Ville Louis Pradel. Agitated, I walk around the first arrondissement wondering whether to risk another wasted journey.

Meanwhile, the sun is showing more commitment than it has all day. I begin to notice the attractive surroundings. I’ve stumbled into the bar and restaurant district. In the near distance is a delicious view of Vieux Lyon. I decide to return to my holiday tradition of letting spontaneity determine where I eat. I take my time to choose. Whilst studying one local menu, my attention is pulled towards an inebriated table singing-or rather yelling- tunes from The Lion King score. Whether they’ve just seen the remake or it’s for my ‘benefit’, I can’t tell.

Tarte aux Pralines

Put off by the either rowdy or gawking crowd (as if it’s a crime to dine alone), I settle on a welcoming restaurant that specialises in tartines. It’s light on the pocket too. I have forgotten that tartine is French for glorified toast, instead of little short-crust pastries. My dinner is really an elaborate snack. Whilst awaiting my order, I jot down notes for this blog. It occurs to me that the establishment might mistake me for a food critic. The waitress appears a little nervous. She’s particularly attentive, asking how I found the starter and main.

Not bad.

I don’t intend to be withholding. At least I can praise the more-ish tarte à la praline dessert (another Lyon speciality) and the good customer service.

Back outside, crepuscular views of the Rhone river call out to me. City lights in the distance beckon me further. I’m hoping to end up at Vieux Lyon metro. Instead, I duck in and out of side streets, paying criminal prices for run-of-the-mill pic’n’mix (I only felt sorry for the sales assistant) and getting wonderfully lost. So much for an early night.

It’s a highlight of the trip so far; all the better for being unanticipated.

I arrive back at Hotel de Ville metro station; just in time to hear Chet Baker’s rendition of Not For Me blaring through the speakers. My soprano gleefully accompanies Chet’s baritone whilst my train approaches. Apart from a couple of chancers making overtures (one more aggressive than the other) and a man vomiting violently at Part Dieu tram stop, it’s a drama-free late night commute back to my accommodation.

Soundtrack: Tuxedo III by Tuxedo.

Summer Nights

Onwards and upwards.

Things are starting to wind down now summer is in full swing. The halls of The Organisation are becoming quieter as colleagues vanish on leave. Not yet the case for me. I’m still busy organising a few last minute activities before the summer lull truly kicks in. A rearrangement of personnel is making my life easier, I can’t lie. But that’s for another, later blog.

In early July my Strasbourg lifeline, The High Rock Gospel Singers, meet for the last time before La Rentrée in September. The effect of the summer hiatus is already felt amongst the already fickle membership. That Friday night, I arrive to find an empty rehearsal space. Not having a Whats App account, I'm usually one of the last to know if practice has been cancelled again. I send an enquiring text to one of the directors. On their way. Transport problems.

In the end, only four of us gather for unhealthy snacks and an impromptu singalong; me, fellow soprano Aurélie and choir directors Kiasi and Evan. At the behest of the latter, we end up singing makeshift tributes to some of our favourite 90s-00s pop/R&B and Gospel acts. Rihanna, Beyoncé/Destiny’s Child, Neyo (them), Justin Timberlake (me), Janet, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Brandy, Christina Aguilera (shared)… Well, it’s mostly three of us playing this variation of Karaoke whilst Aurélie searches songs on her phone with which she’s not familiar. Sometimes, our trio’s harmonies spontaneously blend in a most enchanting manner.

If there is any hint of discord, it’s more theological; by way of discussing a controversial, highly gifted former Gospel singer. Not for the first time I have the impression that Kiasi and Evan’s understanding of the Good News is highly customised. The lines blur between enjoying the benefits of God’s grace and simply cherry-picking palatable aspects of scripture whilst ignoring the tougher portions. Kiasi and I have had friendly disagreement over these matters before. Again, albeit rather more tentatively, I venture to give an alternative viewpoint. I’m hesitant to spoil the ambiance. I can’t quite square if it is cowardice or discernment but it doesn’t seem the right time or place to pick this battle. Tempted to fret whether I’ve made a good decision, I have to remind myself that it’s God’s job to convince, not mine. I scarcely have a hold on my own issues. I pray for my brothers and by Divine grace, try and work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

It won’t be the last time I cross paths with Kiasi before the long summer break.

Etoile Bourse, Bastille Day fireworks: courtesy of jds.fr

That weekend is Bastille Day - the French National Holiday. It falls on a Sunday. I forsake my usual evening of rest to catch the late night fireworks. I contemplate inviting some acquaintances but decide to go it alone. I quite like the idea of floating through the crowds unencumbered. Living in Alsace, it's become a statement of sorts for me to fly solo at these large scale events. It's a response to what I perceive as co-dependency amongst the Strasbourgeois. Even if they don't like their own company, it shouldn't mean I am averse to mine.

Although still in the Étoile Bourse vicinity, the event's layout is different compared to 2018. Large areas are sectioned off. The security is heavier and it's less obvious where the crowd should gather. Thankfully, I arrive early enough to be able to lose time searching for a sweet spot. I end up not far from where my journey on foot began.

Like last year, it's a worthy spectacle. I don't detect the sort of cost-cutting measures that have beset the London fireworks displays I used to frequent. The light dancing off the reflective surfaces of the Malraux Médiathèque are as stunning as the main show itself. I'm plugged into my music player and pick tunes on a whim. The combined effect of the audio and visual stimulation is quite a trippy experience. Amen to natural highs.

(c) Pascale Ronson

The following week I’m pleasantly surprised to see Kiasi on stage as the opening act and BV’s at a free open-air Gospel concert in Place Kleber. It’s a late starter for a school night but I’m grateful to have made the effort. I stumble across HRGS soprano, Michelle. Over the months we’ve fallen into a positive dynamic. She’s akin to my Caucasian godmother, at least in the choir’s contest. She’s compassionate, encouraging and makes me feel safe. We already have plans to reconnect that Friday night, now rehearsals are officially over for summer.

Amidst the crowd we spot choir members and affiliates, past and present, including Aurélie. She joins us later. The main act herself is HRGS alumna.

The DJ set is on fire if a little schizophonic. He doesn’t -or can’t -mix. No song is played for longer than a minute. He hops from Anderson .Paak back to early 20th Century Jazz standards and forward again to The Jackson 5, then to 90s neo-soul and R&B. It sounds more like his personal collection on shuffle. Fortunately for him, he has good taste. I make the most of the snippets to get my groove on. As usual, our little group are some of the few dancing souls amongst the typically rigid Alsatian audience. Michelle is catching some of the magic on her trusty digital camera.

Meanwhile Kiasi and co s'éclatent sur la scene. I notice Jeanne from church’s gifted housemate, Annalise on keys. Jeanne is somewhere in the mix but I won’t find this out until I’m already on the way home.

HRGS members in the crowd have the advantage of being familiar with much of the repertoire as well as the specific arrangements. The main act’s compositions are a bit too bluesy for my taste but it does not impede my enjoyment. I’m a woman of simple pleasures. A confluence of factors make this one of my most memorable nights out in Strasbourg. Good music, good weather, good company, good atmosphere, Good God.

The night bus calls and the gig isn’t ending any time very soon. I bid Michelle farewell and beg off.

Soundtrack: Money (single) by Michael Kiwanuka & Tom Misch, In My Element by Robert Glasper, The Blu James LP.