To Europe and Beyond #9: Lille, France - Lille, France

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Now Lille, in terms of size, was certainly more like it.

It was my first real French city, the first real urban sprawl of my travels but I must admit, upon reflection, that it proved to be far from being one of my favourites.

Not that I am saying that there was anything untowardly ugly or monumentally undesirable about Lille (though the outer districts certainly confirmed – through a plethora of scrawled graffiti and low-cost, poorly maintained housing – my earlier fears on its poverty, crime and regionalism), it's just that it didn't quite fit into the image of Continental magic that I realised I had expectantly placed around all the cities I planned to visit.

What I had desired had been cobbled streets leading onto cosy, caf�spotted squares where gaggles of old men wearing halos of fragrant pipe smoke grouped together to play quoits and recount bawdy tales of their amorous conquests of yesteryear, their eyes misting over with the softened memories of youthful audacity and tomfoolery.

What I got was very much different as I journeyed through the sad but true essence of city life. Each instance of vandalism was a reflection of human nature, each poor street an unfortunate notification of urban necessity, each empty or abandoned lot a tribute to the ways of society. Each and every yard I drove was a miserable confirmation of everything I had ever learned about the rotting evolution of the modern-day inner city, and each rotation of the wheels darkened my previously shining mood. Eventually, as grim the canvas unfolded around me, I reached a point where it was all I could do to stop myself from turning the car around and leaving the city in a screech of tyre smoke.

But that would have been unfair on Lille.

To judge the whole on only a sample of its parts would have been gross to say the least and to leave then, before I had seen the bigger picture, would have been nothing short of bigotry. So I dutifully gritted my teeth, took a bite out of the shit burger of life and drove onwards into the innards of Lille.

What sort of a writer would I be, after all, and what sort of a human being would I be if I failed to give my full attention to every voice that spoke in my direction?

How could I call myself an intelligent man if I was foolish enough to ignore three quarters of a painting in favour of being coloured by that one visited quarter?

Fuck preconception, fuck bigotry, fuck racism, fuck regionalism. I had a desire to be a man of the world so I had to be in receipt of the full list of facts, be they good or bad.

Besides, I was only going to be here for one night, so if I really didn't like the place I could always spend the night getting leathered in a bar and then slink out at first light.

Now, my first task upon entering the bowels of a new city (though never by choice or by design) is to furiously drive around in a random direction, like some sort of enraged and totally blind buffalo, charging haphazardly up and down countless streets all of which (as the driving madness descends upon me) begin to look the fucking same.

For endless minutes I go on the rampage, veering across lanes to the musical accompaniment of viciously blaring horns and speeding like a bullet towards dead ends. Rocketing the wrong way up one-way streets, before (in blind panic) reversing like a madman back down them whilst nose to nose with about three tonnes of angry city bus piloted by Satan himself in a blue uniform.

This wayward mayhem would be customarily punctuated by a furiously frothing stream of colourful expletives and generally accompanied by the determined thumping of my rapidly bruising forehead as I rhythmically beat out a frustrated percussion against the steering wheel in an attempt to discover just where in the ten realms of fuck I am actually located.

Yet it has never once failed to do the trick, as I would eventually be spat out of the maelstrom, spinning and screaming, to wash up against the shores of a suitable hotel or guest house or at the very least, a Tourist Information Bureau.

And this was to be the case in Lille as, after I had performed more death-defying stunts in a high-octane half-hour than even the most unhinged daredevil would dream of attempting, I eventually found myself suddenly placated by the calming vista of the 'Vieux Lille' and the sweet peace of the city's affluent sector.

I selected a hotel at whim (well in truth it was the first one I managed to stagger up to), paid a small fortune to hire a double for the night, lugged my bags in the plush interior, took a deep breath and then consulted my guide books so that I could work out what the hell I was going to do now that I was finally here.

My various tomes all confirmed that there would be little to keep me here for more than a night, so I decided that I would combine a search for a suitable eatery with a brief walking tour then crash out for a few hours and bail out as soon as the sun came up.

This sounded like the best plan as I had suddenly decided that I didn't really want to be in a city after all (yes, I really am that changeable), for what I really wanted were green fields, little villages and peace and tranquillity.

There would be plenty of cities to come, so I thought it best to stock up on rural idylls while I had the chance.

However, I was in Lille for the moment and I had the best part of a night to spare, so I might as well get on with it.

I had no wish to indulge in a further foray around the industrialised areas that had so affected my mood, so I grabbed my freshly purchased Lille city map, drew a ring around the more affluent 'old quarter' and set off for a whistle stop tour.

A brief walk would no doubt work up a bit of an appetite anyway and, upon reflection, the stroll I took in the warm evening air was worth every single step.

Down a couple of pleasant streets I strolled before coming up against a grand, aged-looking building which my guide map informed me was called the Hospice Contesse.

It had ostensibly been built in the 12th century to serve as a hospital, but now it was partly in use as an art museum.

I don't think it served as a hospital anymore anyway, I sure as hell wouldn't have fancied my chances of coming out of there alive, as it looked so wonderfully ancient as to still practice the medical techniques of medieval times.

Jees, if only those walls could talk then what tales they could no doubt tell.

I spent the length of a cigarette lost in the mists of my formidable imagination conjuring images of the monumental changes in understanding and scientific breakthrough that the hospital must have seen in the best part of a thousand years.

From boring holes in protesting patients foreheads to relieve the simple headache and prescribing a course of blood-fattened leeches for every malady from arthritis and piles to cancer of the pancreas to the relatively modern advances of penicillin and anaesthetics right up to brain surgery without the use of a saw, a hammer and a chisel.

The sheer volume of tales withheld inside those wizened walls overwhelmed me briefly until, lost in the kind of sadness that one often feels in the vicinity of a hospital or place for the ill and dying, the burning end of my cigarette broke my reverie by burrowing its fiery tip into my finger ends.

So I dropped the offending butt, let out a little yelp of pain and, leaving my melancholy moment behind, turned southwards and meandered into the 'Grand Place' at the heart of the old quarter.

I stood there for a moment, orienting myself in the plethora of ornate architecture and impressive building facades until a tramp, reeking of stale wine and even staler sweat, stumbled by and, with the flourish of a Shakespearean actor, informed me that this square had seen the birth of one of France's legendary statesmen, the great General de Gaulle.

However, this tit-bit of information was somewhat lost on me as my stomach began to overtake my senses, intimating in no uncertain times that it was indeed food time. But I'll say one thing for the 'Grand Place,' and that is that it contained the grandest building I had seen since my travels began: the glorious 'Ancienne Bourse'.

So, upon the advice of a fellow traveller, a very affable yank by the name of John, I once more headed southwards down the glamorous 'rue de Bethune' into the 'place Bethune' where the scented night air told me that I was certain to find something good to eat.

Now, so far I'd only touched the tip of the indigenous French food glacier so I made the determination to eat something wholly French, something which symbolised and encapsulated the essence of French cuisine.

Though I realise that my strict vegetarianism ruled out the staples of French culinary flair, namely frogs legs and snails, there was still plenty traditional fares to choose from.

I'd sampled French bread, croissants and crepes (and we all know about that escapade) so, seating myself outdoors at what looked like a well established eatery, I perused the menu, realised I could not understand a single word of it, put it down with an ashamed glance at the waiter and instead instructed him to bring me his finest bowl of onion soup.

Hey, it might not be the most adventurous choice, but it was the best I could muster at the time. I must say that my choice was most abundantly rewarded, as it was certainly an experience I shall not forget.

The steaming bowl arrived and my chops began to salivate immediately, overwhelmed by the exquisitely powerful tang of onion. I could wait no longer.

I reached for the pepper pot, foolishly misunderstanding its simplistic workings and somehow contrived to empty virtually its entire contents into my soup.

The waiter stared at me with a look halfway between humour and amazement on his face but, to my credit, I managed to rescue the situation with a weakly knowing smile and the intimation that I was an English idiot and that was how we liked our onion soup on my barbaric shores.

Well, I'd done it now so I'd damn well better get on with it.

The first few spoonfuls weren't really that bad, but as the pepper began to fully kick in and begin its volcanic assault upon my screaming taste buds, matters went from "not too bad" to "most definitely worse" in mere seconds.

First came the fire in my mouth, then the interminable itching at the back of my nasal cavity. Next came the beads of sweat forming upon my reddening brow. This was followed by the transformation of my stomach acid into a bubbling pool of red-hot magma.

Each spoonful brought fresh woe, each mouthful delivered fresh pain, each gulp turned up the internal furnace another few degrees until, praise god almighty, a final effort saw the dish thankfully empty.

Limply, I raised my hand and beckoned the waiter who, give him credit, had managed to not burst out into helpless fits of laughter as he watched my torturous progress from the corner of a very amused eye.

With my best attempt at nonchalance (an effort no doubt wasted by the torrents of sweat washing over my crimson brow) I ordered a glass of water and, with a wry smile, asked him if he could find it in his heart to drop a couple of chunks of ice in it, you know, if he had the time.

Gently he placed the glass in front of me and its cooling facade, tantalisingly bejewelled with crystal rivulets of melting frost, could not have been more alluring to my soul if he had placed the mythical Holy Grail itself in front of me.

I waited until he had turned his back and then downed the glass in one, feeling the icy glory wash over the raging inferno in my throat and stomach, surprised only by the fact that its cooling quench did not bring forth jets of steam from my mouth and ears.

Oh good lord, why was I so unlucky with food in this ungodly country?

So then, making the decision not to eat anything at all for the next four months for fear of something eventually bringing about my premature and untimely demise, I placed a handful of French notes on the payment plate (leaving him a handy tip for the ice alone) and got up and left as quickly as I could.

Making a right tit of myself in my own country was one thing but hell, I was in another country and I felt as though I was representing my whole country here.

Upon these foreign shores I was an ambassador for the English nation and I should account myself accordingly. I should be decorous and urbane, a regular paragon of understated wit and 'stiff upper lip' virtue, or at the very least a decent advertisement to banish the European conception of us British as a bunch of doddering social misfits or lager-fuelled thugs.

And I was certainly failing on all fronts, that much was without doubt.

My list of transgressions was growing daily, but fuck me if I wasn't beginning to enjoy it.

At least I was finding myself again.

If I was making a fool of myself, at least it was me that was doing it, and at least it was my choices that were making me look like a complete idiot.

I grinned then and, whistling a tuneless ditty, lit a cigarette and had a slow walk back to the hotel.

Tomorrow would bring a whole new day to fashion in my own particular goofy idiom. By hell, I was going to enjoy it.

Who knows what each day brings.

All we can do is live it, and love each and every second.


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