It’d been four years since I last made the trip to Isabelle’s mom’s place in rural Burgundy, France. Isabelle had taken the trek yearly since I met her ten years ago until COVID, so this year to make up for missing twice she devoted a month, traveling across the nation from Le Raincy near Paris, to Saint Aubin sur Mer, Normandy, to Pont de Vaux in Burgundy. She met up with friends she’d known from childhood, sharing stories of life adventures.
I let her romp for a few weeks before flying to join her. I’m a seasoned traveler, but the world has changed, or perhaps just my perception of it. During my missionary years, I’d travel fearlessly, confident in my ability to make my way even in countries where English speakers were rare. Now, somehow, it seems a more dangerous world, more violent, or perhaps nearing seventy I’m more aware of my fragility, more aware of the rising evil in our beautiful world.
Yet, all went smoothly. Arriving at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris, I flew through the bureaucracy with ease. Twenty minutes of walking through the hallway led me to a jovial passport guard who laughed at my inadequate attempts to mumble French. Here, as everywhere, labor shortage delayed the processing of checked luggage. I retrieved my multi-stickered case and slid into an Uber, with a promised thirty-minute ride across the city to La Gare de Lyon, the train station.
All big cities look alike. Four lane freeways of bumper-to-bumper traffic weaved through ten-story apartments and office buildings, billboard advertisements and the occasional church the only breaks in monotony. Paris traffic slowed us so much, I ended up missing my train. For those who must deal with ticket changes in Paris, I’m happy to report the staff is bilingual, as are the machines that helped me change my ticket, only 27 euros extra. The dollar and euro are about at par, so except for bank charges conversion doesn’t even require calculation.
Americans rarely take train rides, which is a great loss as they’re delightful. On the TGV at 186 mph, it was a two-hour trip through rolling hill farmland from Paris to Macon, Burgundy, where Isabelle was born. Quiet, smooth, comfortably clean, the nonstop ride offered an incredible panorama of bucolic fields dotted by white cows. Occasional little villages popped up, a dozen whitewashed ancient structures with red tile roofs, spilling down the hills from a steeple topped church like a child’s throw of jacks or hunched around the one town road like football players at a scrimmage line. Occasionally we passed natural forests, maybe old growth from Roman times, with a two millennial old aqueduct standing witness.
Isabelle was waiting for me at the train station, decked out in her classy French style with new Parisian hat, white jewelry, white shirt, and white rimmed sunglasses. Her brother and mother and she welcomed me to France, Serge a retired police officer with a ready smile and French jokes I never understood, and Mémé, at eighty-nine bright and agile, still living self-sufficiently in her country home of fifteen years.
Serge drove us through the French countryside, two-lane roads with the French tiny cars puttering along, Peugeots, Citroens, and Renaults, beep beeping as they pass each other with friendly waves. Buildings loom over the roadside in the small villages we traversed, centuries-old brown bricked walls topped with red tile roofs. In the larger towns the first floors are modernized with big glass windows and plastic signs advertising the bakeries, patisseries, and markets. Little roundabouts populate most intersections, each with an individual statue or commemorative marker, such as airplanes or statues. Serge’s favorite he calls “The exploded banana.” Many of the fields held sad acres of stunted burnt corn stalks, victims of the hot summer drought.
The speed limits are strictly enforced, with signs constantly stating the changes as one approached or left the villages, 30 km/hr to 50 to 90. Serge has a heavy foot and the gendarme pulled him over for doing 111 in a 90 zone. He showed them his retired police I.D. and they let him off with a wave.
In three quarters of an hour, we arrived at Mémé’s home situated just outside the little village of Pont de Vaux (Bridge of value). It’s an ancient town once important for being on the border of two historic kingdoms separated by the River Saône and named for the bridge that traversed it since medieval times. During WWII, the Americans replaced the ancient pont with a one-lane metal-girder which to this day provides the only crossing for miles in either direction. Cars line up on either end waiting for their turn to cross. The French government was going to replace it with a bigger structure a few years ago, but someone spotted an endangered bat living under the bridge and the replacement was cancelled. French bureaucracy is a sloth in slowest motion.
Mémé’s home sits in a small cul-de-sac of five houses cut out of farmland about a mile outside the tiny village. Across a dirt lane from the neighborhood, cows roam a large field, horses neigh in the distance, and bees zip around the wildflowers. We arrived late, and after showering off the twenty-hour trip’s dust, I wandered down for le dîner. The French concept of dinner begins with an aperitif, a bit of snack served about seven, in this case olives and crackers, beer and aniseed liquor. Dinner won’t come until nine, a bit of soup this time, but often six or seven small dishes. Conversation flowed in French, and mostly I just smiled and nodded, ready to settle into bed.
Monday, we hopped over to la boulangerie, the bakery, to pick up treats for breakfast. We used to go to the one on Mémé’s side of town, but Serge said the new owners produce lower quality products, so now we shop at the other one, picking up chocolate filled rolls and two round quiches for a total of five euros. Listed at a population of 2112, the town consists of a ten-block main business road, shouldered by two parallel lanes of housing, and, at either end, clusters of houses on the roads leading out of town. None of the structures look younger than two centuries. In fact, the church, Église Notre Dame de Pont-de-Vaux, dates from the 16th century.
In the morning, Isabelle and I took a two-mile stroll through the farmland. Buildings of 18th century fame still show original brickwork and windows. Isabelle told me that until recently Parisians would buy up the old buildings and renovate the insides to use as summer or weekend homes, although it’s less common now due to energy prices. I munched on ripe figs and berries plucked from along the road and picked up a couple of potatoes left behind in a harvested field. Back at the house we sat on the porch, listening to the absolute quiet broken only by the occasional cow moo and the honeybees’ buzz, feeding off the large rosemary bush.
We spent the afternoon wandering through town taking photos and enjoying the atmosphere. It’s a homogenous culture, all Caucasian, all smiling and thin and relaxed. Resting in the outdoor café’s terraced patio, Isabelle sipped a classic wine/liquor drink called a kyr and I had a Coke Zero. Patrons around us smoked and rambled in French, Isabelle and other passersby joining in. We stopped at the little grocery store for a couple of bottles of wine, bringing them back to Mémé’s for aperitif.
Port-de-Vaux is an oasis of peace and history. It’s not unchanged, the main street offers a modern pharmacy, clothing, toys, real estate, tobacco … well, everything one could want. A few years ago, they suffered a mini-crime wave attributed to a large band of gypsies who settled temporarily nearby, trashed the area the town had kindly provided to their families – but that’s past. Now the area offers tranquility and security, a world for 89-year-old women to live out their lives as they’ve always lived, a culture unchanged and unchanging.