When You Know You're a Hobo -- Rennes, France

I am not a lady who can sleep on buses. I'm a lady who can sleep in cupboards, caves, abandoned restaurant patios, cement floors and Nepali beds (pretty much the same thing). 

But I cannot sleep on buses. 

My Flixbus rolled out of Bordeaux at 1:40 on Monday morning, and arrived in Rennes six hours later. In the past, I would have made lists of goals to accomplish during the six hour confinement to my seat. I would have dreamed up plans and promised myself that I'd be productive. 

But I've given up on all that. While busing, I can't sleep and I can't focus. The window calls to me, whether or not I can see anything out of it. And I end up spending the entire journey staring out the glass as I rush past the landscape. 

Hence, when I arrived in Rennes at seven thirty on Monday morning, I was comprehensively knackered. I grabbed Ellie from the Flixbus' underbelly and hit my head as I stood up. Dizzily, dead-tiredly, I buckled her straps and began the twenty-five minute walk to my next host's home. 

Hervé. 

I didn't have any expectations for Hervé. He'd sent me a short invitation a couple of weeks before, and I'd accepted because he had a few good references and his profile picture made me smile. Also, I'm a fan of silliness. As some of you may or may not be aware. And this portion of Hervé's profile tickled me.

"I love to hang out, and mix the discussion between serious things, and spontaneous silly things, and you gotta love the silliness. I also like to cook, and and I always make food for 3 or 4 persons, alone or with friends, so there's always leftovers for after!"   

I rang Hervé's door at eight am. 

No answer. 

French people and their sleeping. 

I sent him a text. No answer. I tried calling, but his phone was off. 

This is something I love and hate about France. I adore that everyone here seems so relaxed all the time. Always drinking coffee and wine and taking two hour lunch breaks and sleeping in. But holy bananas, it can make things awkward for me. Do I ring the doorbell again? I don't want to be rude. Blurgh. What other option do I have? I could try to call again in a few minutes and hope he's turned his phone on. But if Hervé is proper French, I bet he'll sleep in until noon. 

And Ellie, I love you, but I'm not gonna hang out with you until noon. You fatty. 

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP, I rang the doorbell a second time. 

No answer. 

Well, now I've committed myself to being exhausting. 

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! I held the button down extra long and grimaced, hating myself for having to ring three times. 

"Bonjour," a bleary-eyed Hervé stumbled to the door. "I was sleeping, I'm sorry. I didn't go to bed until four o'clock this morning." 

"It's fine, no problem," I dropped Ellie to the floor of his apartment. Which was the perfect amount of lived in. A few dishes to be done, blankets crumpled on the couch, colorful posters lining the walls, a red flag with two golden lions, video game controllers on the coffee table. 

"Here are the keys," Hervé handed me a set. "Make yourself at home... I'm... I'm going back to bed." 

"Super, thanks." 

So as Hervé closed his bedroom door, I crawled under the blankets on the living room futon and enthusiastically slipped into the sleep that had eluded me on the bus. 

I awoke at eleven thirty to the portentous rumbling of my stomach. 

Will you just. Calm down, I wrinkled my noise at my disruptive gut. 

Hervé had told me to make myself at home, which I guessed was inclusive of the fruit bowl on the counter. But I never feel comfortable eating my host's food without their explicit permission. The last six years of mostly living out of other peoples' homes has made me extra cautious about boundaries. I realize that my life is one that takes. A lot. I receive from total strangers a place to sleep, time, trust, companionship. And I'm reluctant to take any more. I'm afraid that I'll make people feel used, or that I'll accidentally violate their boundaries. 

So I put my wallet and camera in my banana bag, grabbed Hervé's keys, and set off to explore Rennes and find some food. 

But was stopped by the door. Which I couldn't figure out, for the life of me, how to lock. 

Fuck. I fail at doors. 

I fiddled with the key for ten minutes. Opening the door, closing the door, pulling the handle towards me, slipping the key in gently. Nothing worked. 

My stomach grumbled. 

This is when I feel like such an idiot. I am nearly twenty-eight years old. And doors, and the locking thereof, still completely baffle me. I need to record myself in these moments. And then make a compilation video to show all the people who tell me, "Aimee! you NEED to make a baby!" 

After I learn how to open doors. 

Which will be never.  

Hervé finally came to my rescue. 

"I was listening to you for five minutes. I thought you would get it... and then I was like, "no... she's not getting it... guess I should go help her." You have to hold the handle up when you turn the key, like this, see?" 

"I HATE DOORS," I had a perfectly proportional reaction. 

(This video makes me feel better about myself)

 

"Are you going out to the city?" 

"Yeah, I was planning on taking a walk. What are you doing today?" 

"Well, I need to go shopping... and then I'm free." 

"Want to walk together?" 

"Sure, early afternoon?" 

"Perfect." 

 I found myself a Lidl, bought some bananas and yogurt, and then walked around Rennes.

Rennes, the capital of Brittany, is the tenth largest city in France, with a population of about 210,000 people.

60,000 of the 210,000 residents are students. Making the city... uhh... not old.

Rennes is lined with bars and cafes, thanks to the its active student community. This was my favorite bar. For reasons you may or may not guess.

Rennes is famous for its galettes, its cidre and its abundance of festivals.

I liked Bordeaux for its architecture, its massive walking street and its park along the Garonne. I liked Toulouse for the unique brick buildings. Montpellier for its narrow, cobbled streets, its dirt, its street performers. I liked Avignon for how stately, how quiet, how epic it felt. With its fucking fortress and beautiful city walls. 

I like Rennes for the colors. The colors and the vibe of this place. People don't merely seem relaxed here -- they take it to the next level. To the acceptance level. Of anything. This is the "way to do you, man" city of France. So, "way to do you, homeless guy with chains on your boots, a rat on your shoulder, and a fricken wolf on a lead." 

 

Also, the cat. The fat cat tethered outside a cafe. Way to do you, fat cat.

Hervé took me to Parc du Thabor. A glorious park with flowers --

-- gazebos full of dancing people --

-- fountains --

-- and bizarre Dali-esque grass.

I spread out my sarong (Hervé didn't sit on it. No one ever sits on my sarong) and Hervé took out some dice. 

"You know how to play Yam?" 

"No." 

"Okay, I'll show you." 

And Hervé patiently explained the rules to Yam. And then I proceeded to beat him. And thanks to my resounding victory (sorry, Hervé), I learned a new French phrase. 

"Que de la chatte, pas d'talent!" Hervé told me when I'd won. 

(something like, "you only have luck, no talent)

We popped into a grocery store on the way back to Hervé's flat, bantering the whole way about my win at Yam. 

It's so rare to meet hosts who tease me right off the bat. With whom I can have this kind of effortless banter. But they're the best kind. They make me feel as if I've been their friend for years. And that's what Hervé does. And what Max did. And in a life so full of strangers, people who make me feel this kind of... ease... they're my lifesavers.

Back at Hervé's, I desperately beelined for the toilet. I'd used the toilet in the morning, but had been so worn out, that I didn't notice its rather unconventional decor.  

Some people keep magazines in their bathrooms. My host in Budapest had Oatmeal comic posters on the wall (the lengthiest bathroom trip of my life). As housewarming gifts, I sometimes give friends a bathroom guestbook. In which the visitor can doodle, rate the bathroom facilities, and circle a song which best describes their bathroom experience. Be it "Ring of Fire," or "Sound of Silence."

At Hervé's, the walls are plastered with fliers of missing kitties. Which led to the conflicting feelings of, "I LOVE KITTIES!" and, "the world is a relentlessly cruel place. Poor, lost kitties."

My host made us tartiflette that evening.

Tartiflette is a potato, bacon, cheese dish from the Savoy region of France.

And you should all eat it. Yesterday.

Tartiflette!

We watched Captain Fantastic that night, and Hervé introduced me to a prodigious amount of new music and youtube videos. Sometimes I get a little overwhelmed when people try to help me catch up with culture after all my homeschooling. I struggle with feelings of embarrassment and shame when I have to consistently say, "No, I haven't heard of that TV show/book/musician." It's difficult to not become defensive. 

But Hervé just loved to share. He quickly recovered from his shock upon learning of my monumental cultural ignorance, and enthusiastically, non-judgmentally, helped me fill in a few of my many, many gaps.

I hopped in the shower the next morning. As Hervé was still sleeping (French people...) I wasn't able to ask for a towel. And as I'm reluctant to use even a towel without permission, I used my... err.. painting rag to dry myself off.

When you know you're a hobo. 

This. 

Hervé went swimming and I went for another splendid wander about Rennes. 

I really, REALLY love this city...

The photo below is of the Opera. Across the square from it stands the City Hall. These buildings take their shapes because, as Hervé told me, "art asks the questions that politics must answer."

I sure wish that's how America worked right now. Seems like artists ask questions, and politicians just try to suffocate the artists. Instead of actually trying to find any solution. 

Hervé invited his brother and his brother's girlfriend over for a raclette party that evening. And convinced me that I ought to stay one more day to see Mont Saint Michel. 

"What's Mont Saint Michel?" 

"One of the top three tourists attractions in all of France. Versailles, the Eiffel Tower, and Mont Saint Michel." 

"This is me, Hervé. I've been to Kosovo, but I have no idea what Mont Saint Michel is." 

Guess I should probably stay and find out. Also, I'm not ready to leave this guy. Although if I stay with him much longer, two things will happen. One, I will develop an impeccable taste in music. Two, I will gain five kilos. In a week.