That Horrible City -- Rouen, France

I'm starting this post from a roadside cafe in Rouen, France. I sip an espresso (one that I ordered in French, I'm proud to say) and watch the people walking past. Listen to their shoes hit the cobblestones. Keep an eye on the dark clouds fomenting overhead.

This region of France feels like England. In that it seems to have equally shitty weather. 

  

It's my second morning in the city that wins the award for the most unpronounceable name in all of France.

Rouen. 

Rouen. 

Blurgh. 

My table doesn't have a vase of flowers on it.   It has a pineapple with an orange in its hair.

  

In and of itself, a pineapple on the table is about enough to make me fall in love with a place (I'm easy), and go, "Aww.... Rouen! You're adorable..." 

Hervé is not in love with Rouen. Hervé has never been to Rouen, but Hervé hates Rouen. 

My host from Rennes was born in a village in Lower Normandy. And as such, it is his sacred duty to hate Upper Normandy. Of which Rouen is the capital.  

Hervé was positively gleeful that I could not properly pronounce "Rouen." Whenever I made an attempt, I grimaced like someone was forcing me to eat snails, and uttered a nasal "Rouen" that mostly sounded like a Nepali grandma was gearing up to spit. Hence, I just started calling it "that horrible place."

"It's boring," Hervé had informed me back in Rennes. "The only thing they have is a cathedral. I haven't been there, but it's in "Fake Normandy." So I know it's boring," my staunchly patriotic host drove home the dullness of Rouen. 

But I am not from Lower Normandy.

My only qualm with Rouen is its horrible, dreadful, impossible name.

The city itself, is remarkably easy to fall in love with. For more reasons than its coffee table pineapples with oranges in their hair.

Because of Hervé's dislike for Rouen, I didn't have the best expectations for the city. I figured it would have one decent cathedral and some pretty good cider. But walking through the cobbled streets of Rouen the evening of my first day convinced me that this horrible places is actually "pas mal."

 

It took me thirty five minutes of wandering through the charming city (sorry, Hervé. I'm betraying Lower Normandy)  before I arrived at the home of my next host. During the walk, I admired the unique apartments that looked as if they'd been clumsily sketched by children who were still learning how to make straight lines (seems like a theme in Normandy).

I was very excited to stay with Alix. The man had worked with the homeless in Nice for years, and I wanted to pick his brain about how find similar work in France. 

Don't get your hopes up too much, though. Just because you spent a few months working with homeless in Grand Junction doesn't mean you could hook a foreigner up with a job. A foreigner who doesn't even speak the language. 

Gosh. 

I'm hopeless. 

Alix greeted me with a large, genuine smile and introduced me to his spick and span flat. I plopped Fat Ellie in the corner between the futon and the sliding glass door with gauzy red drapes, and then collapsed onto the black velvet futon. 

How do I still want to sit after busing all day? 

Alix took me into the city that evening. I abandoned my camera in his flat so I could relax and enjoy my first few moments in the city with my host. 

(I never count time I'm wearing Ellie as actually being IN a city. Because seventy-five percent of the time, I'm grumbling, "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fat Ellie." And the other twenty-five percent of the time, I'm avoiding bludgeoning innocent passersby with her burgeoning bulk)

 So when Alix and I strolled through Rouen that evening, I took it all in. With my eyeballs, and not through the lens of my camera. 

"Do you want to go out to eat?" Alix asked me, gesturing to a very nice looking French restaurant. Prohibitively nice. 

"It looks good," I tried to remain cheerful and carefree as I began my difficult spiel. "But restaurants aren't in my vagabond budget. I have to shop at Carrefours and Lidls and Aldis and Spars. If I went out to dinner all the time, I'd have no money left ot travel. Which is like turture in France, because all the restaurants smell so good." 

Alix let the restaurant drop. And I felt thankful. Thankful that I'd mustered up the courage to say no before the restaurand and not just go in, order the cheapest thing on the menu, and then starve myself the next day to make up for it. 

Bourget. You. Are the reigning champion of intermittent fasting. 

Which isn't a good thing. In your case. 

We passed a chain burrito joint, and Alix stopped again. 

"Do you like Mexican food?" 

"Sure," I said, hoping he wouldn't ask me if I wanted to eat there. Because even the cheapest thing on the menu (a five euro set of tacos) was still equivalent to my budget for an entire day of food. 

"Okay," Alix smiled that same genuine smile. "I'll invite you." 

The next day was wet and bleak, but I spent a few hours walking about the city anyway. Using my camera and my eyeballs.

Hervé's gonna hate me... but I actually think this place is prettier than Rennes. The vibe in Rennes is much better. But Rouen is gorgeous.

I bought cider to share with Alix that night. He ordered pizza. And because he works at Kinder now and not with homeless youth, he provided the chocolate.

And we watched a comedy with Melissa McCarthy.

Rouen. You're not so horrible. You could do with a name change, but other than that, I like you as you are. With your pineapples.