From socialists to bourgeois: How to go round France in 35 days
IN RUBRIC ABOUT TRAVEL Our heroines talk about their trips around the world. In this issue, journalist Tatyana Dvornikova is about hitchhiking France, pulling up her French, relaxing and spending the least amount of money on all of this.
The first attempts to contact with France
"Le cauchemar," that is, "nightmare," is the first word I learned in French. This and remember our lessons in school. The teacher was boring. We called her "nord". For some reason, she told us about her allergy to putty, and before each lesson we threw in a couple of jars of white odorous liquid to break the lesson. Going into the classroom, she pinched her nose and lamented: "Quel cauchemar!" Understandably, by the time I left school, I spoke little in this melodious language. At the institute, a French teacher — a young girl with perfect pronunciation, versatile and very educated — tried to teach us everything. However, each time we talked about it and jumped from a boring subjonctive to a discussion of Baudelaire's work, paintings by Modigliani, or Batay's erotic prose. Two years have passed, but I did not speak French fluently and naturally.
On my first trip to France with francophone, I also said little. We traveled with a friend, spoke in Russian, lived with Russian friends, several times fit in with the Parisians, but they preferred to speak English. It was possible to hone only the phrase: "Deux croissants, s'il vous plaît". It was a pity to forget the language. All free opportunities in Moscow were exhausted, so the idea arose to find French courses in the country of the language being studied. In addition, I was planning to enter the French College at Moscow State University, so someone had to inspire me to prepare for the exam.
Simone de Beauvoir and the choice of university
In order not to bother too much, I climbed onto the CampusFrance site, where I found a link to a convenient search engine for institutes and schools in different regions of France. There you can choose not only the language, but also other disciplines: from the humanities to the natural sciences. I was looking for courses in Lyon, where my friend lived. In addition, from there you can get to the Alps on weekends. But in September, I was waiting for the ill-fated exam, and August was already outside. Therefore, the period of study was strictly defined for three to four weeks.
A suitable option was found only in Paris at the Catholic Institute. I found out that this is the oldest university in France, where Simone de Beauvoir herself studied, and decided to give them her money. 63 hours of French cost 750 euros including all fees. By August, I quit my job, collected a backpack, and went alone for adventure and knowledge.
If you are not bound to the deadlines, cheap courses can be found at universities. Virtually every university involves training for foreign students. For a little money within six months there you can learn the language. Just choose the region you like - do not attach yourself to Paris, the rest of France is much more exciting! Carefully read the information on the websites of universities: many need to submit a standard set of documents for admission, but some accept it without them. After contacting the secretariat, send the paper - and voilà!
Desperate and, in my opinion, the coolest option is to punch free courses for migrants and in social schools for adults. To do this, you can contact the representatives of organizations working with migrants. In Paris, a few of these pieces. Unfortunately, I learned about this method only during the trip. If you communicate with someone from student organizations and trade unions, you can also try to break through a discount or free courses through them. However, this will require more time and hassle, but, of course, it is worth it.
The tricks of low cost and vegan discrimination in Paris
By the time of departure, I had nothing. Neither lists, nor plans, nor contacts. I hoped for Russian at random, and on the spot felt like a hopeless shantrapa. Tortured after an eight-hour flight through Riga with AirBaltic without food and water, I landed a sleepy tired child in Paris who wanted to shove all things back and curl up on the rug in the baggage claim area. Loukost turned out to be the most expensive flight in my life, when all the baggage fees were added to it. So I wanted to complain, poony, yell at someone for the purchase of stupid tickets and, as usual, to push the responsibility, but no one was there. It was my independent trip, and I had to put up with it in the future.
When I got to Châtelet - Les Halles, I ran to the supermarket for a piece of brie cheese, couscous and croissant. Having finished a simple lunch, she met with acquaintances from Russia, to whom she was to hand over medicines. They had already been traveling around Europe for a couple of months and, having become ill, they could not get the necessary medicines without a prescription.
This recommendation will obviously seem obvious to someone, but it needs to be voiced once again. If you are sick abroad, even with insurance, it is difficult to get certain medicines, such as antibiotics, you need a doctor's prescription. And all insurance companies are trying to save as much as possible, so they will find out for a long time whether you really feel so bad. This process takes a lot of time and nerves. So just in case, take the essential medicines with you.
The guys managed to spend several days in Paris and were horrified by the city’s unsuitability to the needs of punk vegans: all the cafes recommended by Happy Cow were closed for holidays, almost all pastries, except baguettes, were in butter, and the Parisians spoke little English and were generally inhospitable snobs. Therefore, my comrades pricked up their skis in Spain, and I pushed them to drop in on the way to a couple of French castles.
Sterenne - my girlfriend from Lyon - conquered Mont Blanc, I did not have time to join her, but she invited me to the conference of her comrades-socialists, which was held under the Alps in late August. Before this rally, I still had two and a half weeks of free swimming. The prospect of hanging around in September did not suit Paris, and we decided to go to the Loire Valley together. This course was on the way for the guys: they were moving towards Bilbao, and I was glad for the good fellow travelers.
At five in the morning we left the house - it was terribly cold and dark. In twenty minutes, I walked to Porte d'Orléans station, where, according to Hitchwiki, there is a hitchhiker's citadel. From here, the guys and I huddled to go on our voyage to the castles. After spending another hour and a half at the bus stop, wrapping myself in an autumn jacket and sweater, I considered Parisians, who are in a hurry to get their first tram to work or are just returning from parties. Finally, reconciled with everything around me, I felt the excitement of the road. Moscow and the work were left behind, in front - five weeks of France with all the resulting wines, cheeses, Alps, seas and a bunch of other things that I could not expect.
European hitchhiking and the legacy of Michel Foucault
If you google "the most beautiful places of France", then the Loire valley with hundreds of castles built in the Middle Ages is sure to come out. Here in the tags - the heritage of UNESCO, Leonardo da Vinci, who allegedly was one of the architects of the castle of Chambord, the kings of France, the Renaissance. In the pictures there are hefty chateau with green meadows, geometric gardens and the country's longest river - the Loire.
Before our first attempt to travel outside of Paris, I believed in European hitchhiking. After - hated him. We stood for five hours on the highway, along with a bunch of other losers who moved who went where: in Lyon, Toulouse, Marseille. But the relentless French drivers did not pay attention even to single girls in short skirts. I remembered with love Russia, where you do not have to trample on the highway for twenty minutes. On our cardboard tablet was written "Tour", after a few hours in the rain the inscription faded. Probably the first time I met such a negative reaction of drivers: many people twisted their fingers at their heads, someone showed the middle finger, someone turned around and was laughing from the car window. Finally, fate took pity. A pretty woman of about 45 years, who did not speak English at all, quickly shoved us into the car, smiled and pushed the gas, spluttering in French. I sat down next to her: for the first ten minutes, for a long time and clumsily I explained who we were and where we were going. Two hours later, we freely discussed the problem of psychiatry in France and Michel Foucault.
"You know, there still exists the problem of closed institutions, where for years seriously ill patients have been without any hope of improvement. Of course, the situation has improved since then, but not by much," she said. Valerie was a psychotherapist, she specialized in the most severe clinical cases. She was just going to one of the castles, which later became a hospital. In the evening, patients put on a theater, and this was one of its merits. The trip with her was an inspirational start. I completely lost the fear of communication in a language I had forgotten. Valerie brought us to an incredible beauty, like a medieval village. It was a completely different France, far from the noisy and inhospitable Paris. Finally, she left her address and offered to live with her in September, promising to introduce her to three children.
Having reached the Tour, we walked around the city for a long time, enjoying the charm of the half-timbered architecture. French pronunciation, by the way, is considered to be the cleanest here, with no admixtures of southern accents. At first I did not catch it, but, being in Marseilles, I remembered the validity of that conclusion. The night was fun: after some punk handshakes, the guys found Bris, a musician, traveler and just a great guy who plays in the GoatCheese group and travels a lot in Latin America alone, shooting great videos with tarantulas and crocodiles. Brice was very friendly and friendly, he played the piano, offered him wine, and the next day took him to Villandry Castle, which was the purpose of the trip.
Frankly, if you were already at Versailles, there is nothing special in the castles of the Loire. Those gardens, tourists, souvenirs at the exit. I remember only a large garden, from which I pulled a pumpkin - it became our dinner. Two days on tour were very emotional, not counting the campaign on the market, where we went to buy food for the journey.
Stereotypes about Russia and the tiny pig
French markets and fairs are worth the fun. By September, local merchants from villages bring all kinds of yields of ruddy apples, fragrant pears and ripe plums. They sell bread, meat and cheese of their own production. Someone even puts up for sale pets. In Tours, in such a market, we saw a palm-sized pig and a tiny lamb, which together fit into a shoebox.
Choosing avocados, we stumbled upon a seller who gave them almost for nothing: five pieces cost 2 euros. Having found the ones we liked, we handed the coin to the seller. At that moment he asked us: "Hey, guys, bonjour, and where are you from, are you from Russia? And who is your president?"
Having answered plainly that you probably know about Vladimir Putin yourself, we wanted to take our package of avocado, which he stretched across the counter. However, having heard the name of Putin, the seller began shouting the word "la guerre" to the whole market, ape, raise his hands up and pretend that we are shooting at him. It lasted about two minutes, until others finally stopped writhing in the efforts of his show. After this scene, he took the sixth avocado, put it in a bag, and repeated several times: "This is my gift to you, Russians." The guys did not understand the meaning of the scene at all, because they did not know the meaning of the word "la guerre" - war. I was in such a stupor that I even forgot all the abusive expressions.
Bordeaux, the bourgeoisie
If you go south, along the way there will be Poitiers, then Bordeaux, which is famous for its wines, architecture and the happiest people in the country. At least that's what the local opinion polls say. Bordeaux is so lush, pleased with itself, the climate and its geography France. Here is a very rich cultural life, a lot of sun, luxurious buildings, a wide embankment for morning runs, Gothic cathedrals and the ocean an hour away. That's why I went there.
In Bordeaux, Bries's girlfriend was waiting for me — a thirty-year-old miniature and smiling Marie, a midwife at a local public hospital. She worked very hard and, for example, had no idea what was happening in eastern Ukraine. I suspect that she, in general, also did not know about the existence of Ukraine. But sometimes it's very nice to meet such non-political people. We had few topics to discuss, as well as a problem with her English and my French, but we talked for hours. Marie introduced me to her collocateurs, flatmates. Every evening we drank wine on her spacious veranda, and she taught me everyday vocabulary in French. Even at a very adult age, many French people are forced to rent apartments together with other people in order to share the rent. By Moscow standards, Marie received not so much - only 1600 euros. However, according to her, this is a good salary, especially in a crisis.
In France, the crisis in general is constantly being discussed at all times - both economic in the eurozone and political in the country. Most of the electorate is disappointed in President Hollande, in particular, in his new government under the leadership of the conservative Waltz. In addition, at the end of the summer, the memoirs of the former wife of Hollande Valerie Trierweiler, who describes their life together, are not at their best.
Corks on the coast, dune Saw and kiting
"Le bouchon" is a word I learned from a trip to the ocean. The next morning, Marie and I set off towards the Atlantic. We were waited by the steepest coast of the Bay of Biscay and the largest dune in Europe - the dune of Pyla! But first, there was a traffic jam lasting many hours ... We chatted a lot in the car, and Marie suddenly asked: "Do you even plan to have children?" And she immediately replied for herself: "It seems to me that the French are such a specific nation: we constantly think about global problems of the world, we always write something, we study, in fact, we have no time to give birth to something."
Dune was a hefty sandy mountain, which is not so easy to climb. But it's worth it. The gaze reveals the endless relict forests, the air is saturated with a strong fir aroma, and your feet are buried in the sand. Below is a blue ocean with small sandy islets. Going down was more fun: we just rolled on the hot sand, so that by the end of the road I already felt it on my teeth, threw things and dived into the water.
I left Marie to sunbathe and walked for a long time along the shore, watching the kites cut through the water, and the parachutists in the distance descend from the sandy waves of this immense dune. I wanted to set up a tent and stay there for another couple of weeks. But a few hours later we returned to Bordeaux. All the next day I drove around the city on a bike, exploring parks, buildings, embankments. Bordeaux is truly a luxurious city, but in some places annoying with its deliberate bourgeoisness. Therefore, in the evening I began to plan my departure for Toulouse.
Tip: Covoiturage is a beautiful word that you need to remember. Trains and buses of the transport monopoly SNCF cost dreadful money - from 50 to 150 euros for a couple of hours of travel. And since all the roads in France are paid, and gasoline is expensive, the French do not disdain to use the search engine of companions through blablacar.fr. Offers, unlike the Russian counterpart, for every day more than a hundred. The average price of a trip is from 10 to 30 euros. If you get tired of hitchhiking - this is the best way.
However, the system has acquired its cunning. Kovuatyurazh often use not very conscientious, but enterprising citizens who fill the car entirely and take the most overpriced fee from each, not only beating off gasoline, but also earning 100 euros for each trip.
Toulouse and Violets
Before Toulouse, I found a car for 10 euros. At the train station, I was met by two 40-year-old women — a married couple, very sociable and lovely ladies. All the way, I did not stick out of the window: we drove a dozen locks, hidden in huge flowering vineyards. These are privately owned wineries for which France is so famous. As for Toulouse, this is the dream city of any urbanist. Here is a low-rise well-preserved historic building, many parks and cozy green areas with lots of entertainment, trams and uncut grass in the center of the city.
Toulouse is called the pink city: almost all houses are made of brick or painted in orange-coral shades. The city was once the capital of violets, which were used for a variety of purposes: candied flowers were sold as candies, they were also used to make liqueurs, syrups, ice cream, and even the shutters were painted in violet. Until the indigo color was discovered, Toulouse made great money on violets. The cult and the production of all kinds of sweets from the flowers still exists, but now it is entertainment for tourists. Julia and Daniel, a pair of physiotherapists with whom I stopped, fell in love with Toulouse at first sight and moved here from Alsace. If once I have to leave Russia, then Toulouse will definitely become my haven.
Poor quarters of Marseille and fresh fish
Marseille is a boiling cauldron with the atmosphere of a typical southern city. Все торгуют, гуляют, смеются, попрошайничают, пьют, мусорят и разговаривают с очень сильным акцентом. Женщины и мужчины закутаны в яркие этнические одежды до пола, азиаты ругаются с алжирцами, толкают на улице все, что ты даже и не думал найти. Вокруг орет музыка, под ногами летает бумага и пластик, бордюры собирают ленивых прохожих, кеды прилипают к грязной поверхности тротуаров.
В голове не укладывается, как это вообще все работает. The city is both fascinating and repelling. Marseille can hardly be called bourgeois: architecture, even if it is a mansion, fades under the general impression of disorder. The old city buildings have not been repaired for a long time; once the white arches of temples were covered with coal bloom. You can wander around the city for a long time and aimlessly, studying the atmosphere and testing yourself. But in general, this is a boring job, it is better to go to the embankment right away. You can feel yourself relaxed and at ease only in the port. The main square is always crowded. Here you can see hundreds of moored yachts - from very small boats to ships of impressive size. In the distance, powerful forts and fortifications are visible. In the morning they sell freshly caught fish - mollusks, shrimps, squid, octopuses and a dozen more les fruits de mer. The air is saturated with the smell of fish and bleach, which sellers wash the counters with. The gawkers are surrounded by magicians and street musicians. And even near the information desks, where they collect signatures in support of Kurdish women, passersby crowd.
For two days I explored the city far and wide. To the west of Marseille there are urban beaches, which are difficult to reach on foot. For 3 euros, you can take the boat or choose a bus and subway. Spacious yacht was much more fun! The captain seemed to deliberately drown us, exposing the open parts of the deck under the biggest waves. The result - got to the beach, being wet from head to toe, all in salty divorces. True, after a spacious Biska Mediterranean with a bunch of tourists just annoying.
Marseille is a city of contrasts, poverty and wealth are closely intertwined here. In the mornings on weekends in the emigrant quarters, the streets are covered with various kinds of junk and rags, for which residents require from a few centimes to ten euros. At the same time, along the rocky shore, there are towering villas, fenced off from annoying tourists by a high fence. Here I am the only time for the whole trip took advantage of the hotel. A room with a shower and a toilet in the very center of the city cost 45 euros, which is simply a find in season. I wanted so much to be alone and not to tell for the hundredth time a new acquaintance where I was from and what I forgot in France! Three days was enough to learn Marseille and get tired of his rhythm. Ahead were the long-awaited Alps.
Trailer in the mountains, ecohouse and stupid jokes
Somehow guys came to me on a couchsurf in Moscow. They mentioned that in France they live in a small trailer in the mountains, far from civilization. Three years later I found their contacts and decided to pay a return visit. By the time they managed to move to another village, but still remained in the Alps. The city, near which is their trailer, is called Die. In French, he, however, reads like Di, but this makes me want to be no less. By the way, in France there is another town with a stupid name - Montcuq. If you break it into two words, it reads like mon cul - "my ass." The reason for the stupid jokes was also the fact that they produce mustard there.
Di - a great place for lovers of a relaxing holiday. Very rural city surrounded by mountains, with lined bridge and small shops. Despite the provinciality, Di has a rich cultural life: a lot of alternative festivals, musical and literary, some good clubs, many shops with local goods. The coolest thing is that there is a natural exchange of products between the inhabitants of different villages.
Aurora and Max build a house of eco-materials with their own hands, but for now they live in a car with a huge body. There are two beds, shower, kitchen, stove, stove, Internet. True, the three of them fit in this caravan complicated. All electricity - from solar panels. There are no buildings and fences around - only green meadows and mountains. The guys have a cat and a dog named Django, who became my guides on walks. His favorite game - in a jump to catch a stream of water from a hose. In order not to wake up with the guys in the morning when they left for work, I took their tent and set it up near the trailer by my own little mountain. So, surrounded by oregano, lavender, thyme, and a howl of jackals spent the night for almost a week.
Aurora is a professional cook, Max is 25, a roofer with a lot of work experience and outstanding biceps. They do not like civilization, obsession with consumption and other diseases of Europe, so they lead a very modest, by the local standards, lifestyle at a height of a thousand meters, going to Dee only for work. So that I would not be bored, I was introduced to Amory and Madeleine - the same pair of intelligent hippies living in a trailer in a neighboring village. Amory works on a small goat farm where cheese is produced. He walks barefoot through the mountains and knows everything about every plant. Once I had to wake up early to get to know the process of making cheese. Amory and I fed the goats and connected the devices for milking. He showed how milk is processed and transformed into fromage de chèvre. Cheese dries for a long time, at first it looks like cottage cheese. The more it dries, the more specific its taste and smell. For a very old cheese - naturally, nothing is thrown out there - there is a lethal recipe. It is mixed with rum and boiled on the stove. A terrible dukhan spreads around the house, but the taste of the finished product is delightful.
Four days in excellent company, I conquered the local peaks. I did not want to leave Max and Aurora. They taught me expletives, told me about local government, and fed me traditional dishes every day.
Levatsky rally and gender inequality issues
Sterenne, a friend from Lyon, met me on a big yellow jeep, and we went to Saint-Julien-Molen-Molette, where the left sabbath was held. It is a member of the Communist Workers Party, which has similarities with the Communist Party of Iran. They participated in the action against the construction of the airport in Nantes, mainly working with migrants, and now actively support the Kurds. Unlike similar Moscow conferences, the French, rather, seemed like a pajama party. There was a lot of food and not too rich program. However, here I was able to pump my language on anti-authoritarian topics. The discussion, of course, was about the theme of capitalism. An anthropologist reporter stated that capitalism today provides maximum opportunities for gender equality. In modern society, it is all the same whether those who are exploited are male or female.
In response, feminist Leila, who works at a crisis center for women and teaches at a social school for adults, objected that gender differentiation is present, and exploitation towards women occurs not only from men, but also from other women, eat inside groups. In short, it was very informative. After six hours, everyone finally relaxed and took out the alcohol.
We went to explore the village and stumbled upon a very bad karaoke bar HarleyDavidson. I could imagine this only in Russia, well, or in Texas. Drunk men and women in old age bawled old French pop music and chanson into the microphone, swaying in the frenzy. The guys rated it as a chance to initiate the working class into movement and joined the drunken chant. I went to bed with a sore head, and the next morning I found several completely naked bodies, happily sleeping in mixed mattresses. Apparently, it was a hint of the film "Dreamers".
The delights of traveling alone and entering university
In a great company, I got to Lyon, and from there to Paris. Several guys from the conference offered to live with them, to which I happily agreed. It was a large house in Montroe, a motley emigre suburb with steppe access to the metro. In the evenings, the guys read aloud Paul Nizan, then we discussed his books. Sometimes we watched a debility series on a big screen with a projector - it became our little tradition. Tom, a Frenchman from Montpellier with an international name, often took me for walks and sang songs before going to bed. He loved Mayakovsky, so we read his poems in Russian. I taught him about the black flag and the workers in the Canaries. In order not to bother, from time to time I moved into the apartments of the couchsurfers either to Belleville, then to Montmartre, then to La Defense.
Unexpectedly, on the entrance test at the Catholic Institute, I passed French in B2. In my group there were students from Madagascar, Venezuela, Brazil, Bangladesh, the USA, several Korean women, Japanese women and one German woman. Most of all I fell in love with Vietnamese Catholics - they played the mafia best of all. Lecturer Mark worked out each lesson very carefully, so I had never studied with such pleasure.
To feel the contrast of the French north and south, I visited Normandy and the beautiful city of Etretou, which is famous for its picturesque rocks. Running along like a madman, I perfectly understood Courbet and Monet, who dedicated several paintings to these landscapes. Despite the autumn, the sea water of the northern region was quite pleasant for swimming. After drinking cider, I stuck it in the evening sunsets.
France is perfect geographically. From any point of the country to the sea - two hours, to the mountains - three. Several arrays and scenic ridges, several seas and bays. And cities and regions are very different from each other, so there is something to explore. In general, traveling alone is very cool. Because in fact you are almost never alone. Loneliness makes you communicate, and in just a couple of days you will acquire new acquaintances and contacts. And of course, it is more than productive for the language. Not so much studying, how many live communication helped me pass the exam in Moscow and inspire me to further study French.
