The French word for a vacation (vacances) must surely come from the same root word that in English gives us “vacant”. And for me, I have to confess, being “vacant on vacation” is an important part of being on holiday in a foreign country where English isn’t the native language. It allows me to sit in a cafe, or spend time in a store, or be almost anywhere, in fact, and let my mind have a special sort of rest.
I don’t know what anyone is saying around me, and the experience is all the better for it. It gives me a serenity that I almost never have in day-to-day life back home, where even the most casual conversation at another table, or overheard on a bus, or just words spoken on the street, can’t help but catch my ear.
Hearing that sort of stuff is something we just take for granted, and while we say we tune it out, it’s always still there. For me, it’s only when I’m in a foreign-language country that it truly disappears. The feeling is sublime, and is one of the reasons I love travel so much.
The silence doesn’t involve being without the sound of words. And it certainly doesn’t mean not communicating with people at all. I’m more-or-less capable of greeting people on the street here in France, as well as struggling my way through the purchase of our daily baguette. And of course my wife’s ability with the language has improved to the point where she can carry on conversations, at least for a while, with most of the people we meet.
She’s even been known to make jokes that produce a good chuckle, and as time goes on more and more people compliment her on her accent, since she’s adopted the lovely sing-song way that French women always talk.
No, the silence I’m talking about just means that neither of us are very likely to pick up on what people here are saying to each other virtually all the time (and goodness, the French really do like to chat). It’s something we get so used to that when we do on occasion hear some wontoks (that delightful term from Melanesian Pidgin that means people who speak the same language, and all that goes along with it), it can almost be like a radio has been abruptly turned on in the dark.
It isn’t their accent, no matter what sort of English it is, or even what they’re probably talking about (often it’s something like, “I wonder why none of the stores here are open today?”). No, it’s just the breaking of that wonderful silence you can have when only non-English speakers are around.
This “silence breaking” doesn’t happen very often in the many rural areas of France where we spend most of our time. Speakers of English as a first language there are few and far between. However, when we visit what we call “an officially famous place” like Fontainebleau or Chartres, the wontoks are everywhere, and it’s embarrassing to have to admit that at times hearing their words makes me want to turn away.
The silence of people talking in another language when you’re travelling can be a refreshment for the soul. And in my case it also lets my mind run to making up the most intriguing stores about people at the next table. Clearly being French, they are carrying out some sort of intellectual discourse (Sartre? Descartes?? DuChamp?!?); or perhaps discussing the finer points of the protest of the moment (in this case, Macron’s attempt to increase the age of retirement). Or ouh là là, maybe they’re arranging a rendez-vous scandal (a bagatelle) for later in the day.
Actually, of course, they’re probably just talking about who’s turn it is to make dinner, or who did what to whom and did you hear about so-and-so. But it doesn’t matter. The mundane has magically disappeared, and I’m happy in my silence-induced fantasy.
However, the down-side of being cocooned in our non-French language “cone of silence”, of course, is all the complexity and detail, and even sometimes wonder, that we also miss, especially as time goes on. It’s every non-fluent visitor’s sadness. We’ll of course never plumb the depths of the French personality, or fully understand their lives. But what it often just comes down to is simply not understanding what’s going on.
What is it that’s being said in the always very detailed signs at those out-of-the-way churches? And what are we missing in the tour guide’s French language explanations of drawings on a Neolithic cave that are so much longer than his English ones? And why does every wrapper on our daily baguette contain so many paragraphs of printed material (and compared to Google Translate what do those words really say?).
It’s here where the other principle we have now adopted when traveling can sometimes be of help. As the old hippie saying goes, you have to slow down to let the magic happen. And that’s never more true than when you travel. You’re in such a rush to get from A to B (and the next Air BnB), that you often miss what makes the whole thing so worth doing. Travel isn’t just about beautiful landscapes and famous buildings; it’s also about serendipity, and the people you meet by chance. But to do that, especially in a foreign country where language is often a barrier, usually takes a bit of time.
A case in point happened to us just the other day. We were cycling (very slowly, in the French style) along the Canal de Briare, a water-way that connects the Loire Valley with areas north, including Paris. It being almost 11 in the morning, we increased our speed somewhat, in hopes that the next village would have those two essentials of French life, a boulangerie for a lunch baguette, and a cafe for a shot of caffeine.
The village in question was Montbouy, a very small place centred around écluse No. 26. An écluse is a lock where the boats are either lifted or lowered, as the water course climbs up and down the various hills that were in the way when they built the canal. In the case of the Canal de Briare, that was in the early 1600s, and included a thankfully now replaced set of seven very steep locks at Rogny-Sept-Écluse (Rogny of the Seven Locks) that climbed 30m in just 8 times that amount in length.
When you’re cycling, you tend to stop at the écluses, either to watch holiday-makers on boats as they attempt to negotiate the locks, or because a barrier might have been constructed on the trail to slow down users, especially if the écluse also includes a small bridge. Hikers (the ever-present randonneurs) may have to wait for vehicle traffic on the bridge. And those on bicycles may have to do that, while at the same time trying to maintain their balance in the midst of scaling the small hill leading up from the canal.
What was unusual about the barrier at écluse No 26, however, was a very small sign, together with a container that held what looked like copies of a hand-made newspaper. Most cyclists, even if they were French, might have passed on by. But for some reason I decided to look across the écluse to where the sign was pointing, and there I saw an almost magical scene.
The 19th century écluse house, one of many along every canal in France, and almost always of the very same design, had been subtly transformed. Usually they are either abandoned, or maintained by locals who rent them from the government. The occupiers sometimes beautify the grounds with garden ornamentals, but generally seem to leave everything else except perhaps the shutters the same drab colour no matter where you are.
In the case of écluse No. 26, however, the entrance paving was painted in lovely soft pastels, and on that paving were set out several sets of cafe tables and chairs, in similar shades. There was a sign right next to the door, so discreet that I couldn’t quite make out what it said. And next to the house, as if icing on the cake, was a lovingly restored 2CV, with the number 26 painted on the side within a circle, as if it was a racing car.
The only problem was actually getting to the place. The simplest option, a walk of only about 25m in fact, could easily have been undertaken across the steel walkways that often sit on top of each side of the big doors of the lock; the doors that open and close to let the water go up or down. Sensibly, however, in this case there was a set of chains all around the side of the lock keeping bystanders from getting in harm’s way.
The other route, and the one we negotiated on our bikes, was further along the cycle path, up to and across the bridge, then along a sharply turning street, followed by a sharp left behind the church, a passage through an alleyway, and finally a return back along this opposite side of the canal.
The destination was certainly worth the detour, although with our very limited French vocabulary, and the owner’s slightly better English skills, it took us a while to come to grips with the place. The café crèmes were excellent, and thankfully very warm on an unseasonably cool August morning. And the apricot tart came from a tin, just like back home, although it was being kept in an amazingly-coloured bright pink fridge.
Upon looking back into the far room, we realised it was also a book store. And to the right there was a little door, only about a metre high, under the stairs, again in wonderful pastels, with a sign on it saying “Bureau des trolls”. Inside was a playroom for children, complete with lots of colouring books and crayons.
The name on the front of the écluse house read as follows:
La Maison Prodigieuse
(it took a while, but we finally realised that last word in English sounds very much the same)
Auberge Littéraire (Writers Hostel)
La Librairie (The Bookstore) Prodigieuse
La Papeterie (The Stationary Store) Prodigieuse
La Halte (The Stop) Prodigieuse
And then finally, in smaller print:
Et tout ce qui peut ravir nos prodigieux visiteurs
(and everything to delight our prodigious visitors).
It should also have read, “A lovely cafe, as well as a renovator’s work of art”.
The owners are Hélène Lett and Laurent Cruel, and La Maison Prodigieuse is their slightly quirky, certainly stylish creation. They’re running it in that shabby-chic, laid-back way we’ve come to really admire and enjoy here in France. Enjoyment in the doing, rather than serious and hard-driving.
But it belies a lot more than just hanging out. Because for Hélène and Laurent this really is just a summer retreat, where they can relax and unwind from their “other” lives – the restorers, owners, business managers, artistic directors, and lighting technicians of a commercial cargo barge, located on a canal just west of Paris, that has been converted into a (wait for it) venue for live theatre and cabaret.
It’s called Le Story-Boat, and along with other such conversions in France, has added a whole new dimension to live performance in the country. They run it in the winter months, and it has now had over 260 different acts and shows since it was first opened in 2011, following a five year fit-out. They are also, it turns out, authors of children’s books; he as the writer, and she as the very talented illustrator.
Hélène and Laurent chronicled the boat’s conversion in a series of broadsheets they produced called Les Cancans (The Gossip). And now that they’re residing at écluse No. 26, they’re doing the same with Les Cancans du Canal, the paper I saw at the lock that caused me to look across at the maison.
I only wish I knew more French, both to read further about their theatre, and decipher the newspaper more fully. I did work out, though, that in their usual quirky style they had give written directions on how to get to the écluse.
Along with en voiture (by car), en bateau (by boat), and a bicyclette (by bicycle) all the way from Norway, there are GPS coordinates for how to get there en ballon!
There is a small addendum that follows that last one, though: Gare à ne pas finir dans le pommier, le poirier, le noyer, ou noyé, which according to Google’s terrible translator reads something like “don’t park in the apple tree, the pear tree, the walnut, or drown”.
Yes, the silence of travel can be wonderful. But so is stopping, taking your time, and making a real effort to engage. The people you meet can sometimes have a story that goes way beyond anything I might be able to create, sitting in a French cafe dreaming about what the couple at the next table are talking about.
~originally composed in August, 2024~