I like the fact that in France, since the early 1990s, absolutely nothing has changed.
The Yop is still surprisingly delicious, the autoroutes are still extortionately expensive, the little towns you drive through on the routes nationales are still 100 percent devoid of any living being beyond about 11am, and much needed shops and hotels are still randomly closed for two week periods with no notice beyond a hand-written nore on the front door. There are still two pharmacies for every unpopulated village, people behind counters are still remarkably unfriendly by default and teenagers are still arguing with their parents about whether Jacques Brel counts as French, being Belgian. In all my conversations so far I've only heard Macron mentioned once. It really is as if the outside world continues to exert no influence over this country.
M and I met up just outside Paris in a surprising and fun way. He'd got the train into town and the plan was to meet in a random location as far west of the peripherique as was reachable with public transport, but the train he was hoping to get had been cancelled (strike action perhaps?) so we ended up in a destination randomly selected from the Parisian departure boards. The sight that greeted me when I turned onto the dead straight tree-lined avenue into town proved to me once again that driving round France is full of unexpected treats for the eye.
It turns out that we'd landed in a tourist hotspot, where the enormous and ornate Ministry of Culture building has huge public gardens and an amazing view out over Paris including, very remotely and almost lost in the haze, a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. (There being, as far as I can tell, no other Parisian landmark visible from a distance.)
We strolled idly around, catching up on one another's basics, leaving the big stories of our lives for the many days of driving we had ahead of us, and the left town in search of our first stop, randomly chosen from the road atlas I'd bought in Folkstone, and the Airbnb which was to be our first night's stop.
We arrived late, in complete darkness to a tiny village which looked identical to the many other tiny villages we'd passed through to get there, and were welcomed by a couple who, delightfully to me, and to M's irritation, spoke no English whatsoever.
In the morning over very weak coffee and a single slice of baguette and jam, I found out that the couple were more remarkable than they first appeared, having adopted three children from an unspecified (to me) country in Africa. The experience of these three black children growing up in rural France sounded full of contradications. La Madame told me that the oldest son, now in the army, has many friends who voted Front National this year. There seems to be a fairly predictable line of "you and your family are OK. Not like those others who come here etc. etc." It's crazy when what had previously only been news reports comes home to you in the form of someone's lived experience. Needless to say the woman was angry and frightened that people she'd known for years were willing to place a vote of no confidence in children's right to grow up as proud, included French citizens.
We made the mistake of going unbreakfasted to visit the Chateau Chambord, which is hidden in the middle of a sprawling, and at this time of year fabulously autumnal forest.
But having got into the car park and finding that it was 15€ to get in, we decided to beat a hasty retreat. We then found that it was 4€ to exit the car park, something we didn't want to pay as a matter of principle. So we had great fun trying to disable the entry barriers so we could get our car out without paying. In the end, a plastic bottle swiftly inserted between the barrier and its base, just after another car had entered through it, left the barrier swinging uselessly limp. We snuck our car through on an upswing with much schoolboy giggling from me, feeling like champions.
We went in search of breakfast, and found a nice little bar where the manager said there was no food avaiable but, on further pleading from me about our lack of breakfast, fetched us a half baguette and a pack of butter. We sat in the garden in the sun eating baguette and drinking coffee and feeling, for the first time, like everything was going to be ok.
In the first of what would turn out to be many such episodes, we then drove south, checking our phones to see whether the couchsurfing spots we'd requested would come through for us before dark, before giving up and getting out the car in a basically random spot.
This new destination turned out to be yet another spectacular Unesco-level town, where we perused a dusty old bookshop, drank a beer and ate tasty warming steaks, before giving up on the idea of getting accommodation for the night and deciding to head into the forest for our first night spent in the wild.
M has a hammock, a sheep's pelt and a tarp to keep him warm and dry between any two suitably placed trees, while I took the back seat of the car. An exciting, if cold and uncomfortable night. It was a good lesson in remembering that a dark forest is just a beautiful daytime forest without the sun: not every cracking branch and loudly nibbling beast is a spirit come to haunt you while you sleep.
The Yop is still surprisingly delicious, the autoroutes are still extortionately expensive, the little towns you drive through on the routes nationales are still 100 percent devoid of any living being beyond about 11am, and much needed shops and hotels are still randomly closed for two week periods with no notice beyond a hand-written nore on the front door. There are still two pharmacies for every unpopulated village, people behind counters are still remarkably unfriendly by default and teenagers are still arguing with their parents about whether Jacques Brel counts as French, being Belgian. In all my conversations so far I've only heard Macron mentioned once. It really is as if the outside world continues to exert no influence over this country.
M and I met up just outside Paris in a surprising and fun way. He'd got the train into town and the plan was to meet in a random location as far west of the peripherique as was reachable with public transport, but the train he was hoping to get had been cancelled (strike action perhaps?) so we ended up in a destination randomly selected from the Parisian departure boards. The sight that greeted me when I turned onto the dead straight tree-lined avenue into town proved to me once again that driving round France is full of unexpected treats for the eye.
It turns out that we'd landed in a tourist hotspot, where the enormous and ornate Ministry of Culture building has huge public gardens and an amazing view out over Paris including, very remotely and almost lost in the haze, a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. (There being, as far as I can tell, no other Parisian landmark visible from a distance.)
We strolled idly around, catching up on one another's basics, leaving the big stories of our lives for the many days of driving we had ahead of us, and the left town in search of our first stop, randomly chosen from the road atlas I'd bought in Folkstone, and the Airbnb which was to be our first night's stop.
We arrived late, in complete darkness to a tiny village which looked identical to the many other tiny villages we'd passed through to get there, and were welcomed by a couple who, delightfully to me, and to M's irritation, spoke no English whatsoever.
In the morning over very weak coffee and a single slice of baguette and jam, I found out that the couple were more remarkable than they first appeared, having adopted three children from an unspecified (to me) country in Africa. The experience of these three black children growing up in rural France sounded full of contradications. La Madame told me that the oldest son, now in the army, has many friends who voted Front National this year. There seems to be a fairly predictable line of "you and your family are OK. Not like those others who come here etc. etc." It's crazy when what had previously only been news reports comes home to you in the form of someone's lived experience. Needless to say the woman was angry and frightened that people she'd known for years were willing to place a vote of no confidence in children's right to grow up as proud, included French citizens.
We made the mistake of going unbreakfasted to visit the Chateau Chambord, which is hidden in the middle of a sprawling, and at this time of year fabulously autumnal forest.
But having got into the car park and finding that it was 15€ to get in, we decided to beat a hasty retreat. We then found that it was 4€ to exit the car park, something we didn't want to pay as a matter of principle. So we had great fun trying to disable the entry barriers so we could get our car out without paying. In the end, a plastic bottle swiftly inserted between the barrier and its base, just after another car had entered through it, left the barrier swinging uselessly limp. We snuck our car through on an upswing with much schoolboy giggling from me, feeling like champions.
We went in search of breakfast, and found a nice little bar where the manager said there was no food avaiable but, on further pleading from me about our lack of breakfast, fetched us a half baguette and a pack of butter. We sat in the garden in the sun eating baguette and drinking coffee and feeling, for the first time, like everything was going to be ok.
In the first of what would turn out to be many such episodes, we then drove south, checking our phones to see whether the couchsurfing spots we'd requested would come through for us before dark, before giving up and getting out the car in a basically random spot.
This new destination turned out to be yet another spectacular Unesco-level town, where we perused a dusty old bookshop, drank a beer and ate tasty warming steaks, before giving up on the idea of getting accommodation for the night and deciding to head into the forest for our first night spent in the wild.
M has a hammock, a sheep's pelt and a tarp to keep him warm and dry between any two suitably placed trees, while I took the back seat of the car. An exciting, if cold and uncomfortable night. It was a good lesson in remembering that a dark forest is just a beautiful daytime forest without the sun: not every cracking branch and loudly nibbling beast is a spirit come to haunt you while you sleep.
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