CROIX, PETITE VILLE CHARMANTE

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SUBJECT: CROIX, PETITE VILLE CHARMANTE

Let’s take a walk. I leave my school, Anatole France, and pass the old façade of the Victor Provo Hospital. A long, brick, gate-like structure with five arched gates, of which the center arch is the tallest and widest. Above it is written: “Centre médicale Victor Provo” or something of the like in golden capital letters. It is a pleasingly symmetrical gate that hides the more modern, dismal structure that contains the hospital itself, which is a depressing combination of lifeless blues and concrete grays.

Anyway, I’m not going to the hospital. Instead, I come upon the hospital gate and turn away, heading down the street toward the tram tracks. The tram is an interesting place. At this particular stop, there are often loads of high school students hopping on and off or just milling around, as there is a high school right behind the stop. Their adolescent bodies are harshly outlined by their dark, tight-fitting jeans and flat, Converse-like shoes (or knee-height boots into which the skinny jeans and the legs underneath them disappear). Boys and girls have oversized scarves, which they call cache-nez (literally: hide-nose) to protect their delicate bodies from the bitter cold of winter.

Mixed in with these high school students at the tram stop are several senior citizens. There is a small chain café, Paul, across the street from the tram stop where many older folks go for a cup of coffee and a pastry or something else to snack on before continuing on their way (to where? We do not know).

There is usually also a less-than-completely-sane person slinking around the tram stop. He might be talking to himself, he might be talking to others, he may be singing, he may be yelling, he may be dancing, he may be rocking back and forth, he may be drinking… it is often a combination of at least two of these.

There are also businessmen wearing suits and expensive-looking, pointed shoes. They carry briefcases and wear relatively small, tightly knit scarves and black, fitted wool trenches. Their faces reveal their inability to stop thinking about whatever it is they must do next, and do after that, and after that. Their faces are a sharp contrast to the relaxed expression worn by the senior citizens. There is a hint of a smile somewhere behind their face that somehow shows, especially in the corners of their eyes and lips. Their movements are slow; they look around just to look around, rather than moving swiftly and with purpose.

…But I’m not taking the tram, either. I am, however, using it as a guide to get to my next school. The tram tracks run along a big, beautiful park that separates Croix and Roubaix called Parc Barbieux. The park is slightly lower than the roads around it, which creates a visual and aural boundary between you (in the park) and the outside world that is The City. Once inside the park, you are enveloped by green. There are ponds in the park in which ducks and swans convene, swim, and chat - you know, that low, continuous, muttering quacking where you are almost certain they must be talking about all the banal, daily life things like the kids, car payments, the weather, what might be for dinner that night, school, work, their friends and neighbors, or whatever the duck equivalent(s) must be. Dogs run around, proudly toting branches. They radiate the joie-de-vivre that only comes from being outside, breathing fresh morning air, and doing exactly whatever they feel like doing in that precise moment without needing to think about the past or future.

Couples sit on benches, absorbing the sun’s rays that filter down to illuminate the park and just existing side-by-side in the world around them. People walk, sometimes in groups, sometimes in twos, sometimes with an animal or two. Whatever the company, the pace can only be described as leisurely. Even those who surely are cutting through the park on their way to work or school or meeting friends have still slowed down at least enough to appreciate where they are.

The park stretches on for four tram stops. Depending on the weather and my mood, I cut through it or don’t. Today, I don’t. It has been raining, after all. I cross the street instead and walk parallel to the park and tram tracks down the main boulevard that leads all the way to the train stations of the center of Lille.

It’s a really nice walk, this boulevard. There are some fantastic old houses to see. Most of them are now divided into apartments on the inside, but they were originally where a lot of the rich people in the area lived. It was a good location, being slightly away from the craziness of the city center but still a nice, easy drive (or carriage ride) straight into the center.

There are houses in several styles along this road. There are big, imposing Tudor-style houses with dark wooden beams that contrast sharply with the cream colors on the rest of the house. There are brick houses with turrets and vines. There are houses made of grayish-white stone with sculptures of faces and flowers carved into or around them. I often wonder about the people who once lived in these houses. What did they do? What did they dress like? And which houses came first? Which was the very first to be built along this road? And when did it become acceptable to wedge drab, nondescript apartment buildings in between these fantastic structures? They seem so out of place amidst the old mansions.

Anyway. I continue walking down the boulevard, the park across from me all the while. The park actually stretches out for four tram stops. At the fourth and final tram stop at the edge of the park, I turn right and head away from the park and away from the tram, heading into Croix. This, too, is an adorable little street, though it is entirely different from the main boulevard I just left. There are quaint little houses (yes, actual HOUSES, rather than townhouses or apartments) lining the street, almost all red brick or painted white, and all very simple in design - more or less symmetrical, square, minimalist. They remind me of Shaker houses, actually. It is easy to spot what must have been the very first house on this street. It is on the left, and there is a wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the driveway, which is filled with small pebbles in various shades of browns, oranges, and creams. The driveway leads up to and then wraps around a gigantic white house with black shutters. It is a very regal house with plants lining the stone stairs that lead up to the gigantic, red front door.

As I pass the white house, my attention is drawn to a place across the street. It is a small restaurant/inn called the Duquénière. They have an easel perched on the sidewalk, onto which are scrawled the specials of the day in watery, florescent colors that strain to stand out on the black background. The inn itself is made of imperfect wooden siding that has been painted a medium shade of blue with a slightly gray undertone. The lack of straight lines in the siding adds to the building’s charm. The windows, keeping with this style, are old and imperfect, so that you can see a warped reflection of the trees across the street. A few stray reddish-brown vines snake their way across the house, traversing even one window via the wooden windowpane divider. Vines are also intertwined all over the bottom of the inn, reaching up about almost third of the way to the roof in some places. A black lamppost stands out front, holding three translucent spheres that light the sidewalk that leads up to the awning, where there is a step up to the covered porch that leads to the door.

I have always wanted to go into the inn for a meal. I imagine it being run by a nice, middle-aged couple who are both there working the restaurant - she would be waiting tables and he would be absentmindedly drying glasses behind the bar. They would be friendly and warm, having lived all of their lives in the small town of Croix. I am greeted by both with a smile. The décor in the restaurant is simple. The lighting is dim and a warm yellow. The simple wooden tables and chairs are dark and sturdy. There might be a couple eating at a table in the corner, and a man sitting at another table across the room with a coffee and a newspaper, in which he is completely absorbed. He does, however, look up and nod in acknowledgement of my presence in the room. There are two old men seated at the bar. They are clearly regulars, and they are engaged in a conversation about town happenings; the owner is halfway listening, occasionally nodding or shaking his head in response as he dries glasses. The meal would be good - simple, homemade, rich in flavor. There would definitely be some sort of a creamy sauce involved, which is the perfect thing for a winter day. I would finish the meal with a coffee, at which point the owner (female) and I would engage in small talk about where I’m from, what I do, and exchange the thirty-second versions of the stories of our lives. The warm, genuine exchange feels good - human contact is harder to come by in France than in the United States, especially between strangers. When I pay and put on my coat to leave, I am told to stop in again sometime on my way to school. The owners and the men seated at the bar all bid me “au revoir” as I leave. What a nice meal - I will really have to go back…

Ahem. Anyway. Since I only mentally stopped, let’s keep going. I pass the Duquénière across the street and come across a big, red brick house completely covered in vines whose leaves have fallen off for the winter. I realize that the house itself is quite plain, but the vines give it charm, décor, and texture, all in one. Anyway, the nice little street I’m on has come to an end. I turn left at the T and head down the main street in Croix. Across the street from me are several adorable townhouses. Though they all have the same shape and are connected, they are very distinct. They are made of various materials and have differently-colored and -sized shutters, one with hearts cut out of the wood at the tops and bottoms. It is a charming row of townhouses. The colors range from a watered down coral to a chalky blue to a pale yellow. Plants hang outside some of the houses, and others have chosen to let the door be the focal point of the house.

I pass the police station, a pharmacy, a medical clinic, and La Maison Pour Tous. This mansion, which literally means “The House for Everyone,” is now a cultural center, with small concerts and art expositions. It is a fantastic brick mansion with a rounded turret on the left side of the house that is flat across the top, rather than having a pointed roof. It reminds me of a castle. There are floor-to-ceiling windows on both floors and small, oval windows across the attic. I then pass the post office and then here I am - my school.

I will write about the schools another time. What a nice walk, though!

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Comments

[David]

in a manner of thought...
It was indeed a lovely walk that you must have had. I think I most enjoyed the fictional stop at the local bar. In reading the interactions, I too was transported to my favorite - or perhaps most familiar - local restaurant in Montataire. Moreover, I couldn't help but to realize the similarities between every locally owned French restaurant. These commonalities are always found... the two men at the bar, the saucy steak and fries, the dim lighting and sturdy furniture, the cleaning husband... it's culturally iconic; but it is only in a way for those with an outside perspective and an insider experience, i think. It wouldn't hold so much acclaim - even if only in my thoughts - as an icon if these scenes weren't so prevalent and identical across the French landscape. I imagine that there is something to be said about inventing the restaurant concept and the inherent cultural implications. In any case, I guess the point is that when you come back to the United States, bring some mustard and I'll do the dishes.