Counter Culture

Hats off to my wife (I wonder why ‘hats’ is plural?) – for driving down from Paris to pick up both me and my various musical instruments. She’d been up since six in the morning on the Friday, driven through Parisian traffic to attend a training day – left at 4.00pm and then driven down to her folks to stay there the night. On Saturday she drove down to me – arriving around 3.00pm. To my shame I watched the football while she went to see a friend re our cat (who has had to be re-homed…). She arrived back right on time for us to go shopping. Bear in mind we hadn’t seen each other for four weeks either. After we picked up and ate some food I proceeded to dismantle my computer, making a note for each cable and attaching it. Then with not too much daylight I began packing the car. The removal men had taken some stuff on Wednesday, including most of one of my drumkits. The rest of that kit (for instance the cymbals, which are very expensive) was packed into the car along with guitars of various kinds, an amp and stands, my clothes etc. It was well and truly stuffed over the Saturday night and Sunday morning. We left with it still just about morning and drove back to her parents.

Three and a half hours of driving meant that stopping en route (as she had done on the way down) was a very welcome break. Theoretically we should have been at our new home (hers for four weeks) around 7:30pm all being well. But. It was a Sunday evening/night and many Parisians would be on their way back to the metropolis after fleeing to the countryside and the sun for the weekend. As we entered Greater Paris we were surrounded by countryside for the most part. You could see where older buildings lay hidden behind graffitied walls. New elevated railway lines seemed to be under construction too. Then in the distance we could see the Eiffel Tower and La Defence. We’d taken tea with an Algerian friend there over thirty years previously. He’d been in the Algerian airforce – but got killed on a motorbike not long after our last meeting.
 

The satnav for a reason known only to itself decided to take us through the heart of Paris. My wife’s a great driver but it was hairy driving. We crossed the Seine and were taken on the interior peripherique. Every man, woman and car for themselves! Apparently at night this is used as a race track. The traffic began to flow once again as we passed Le Stade de France where President Macron had been roundly booed before one of France’s rugby games. It seems they’re going to try and clamp down on this kind of behaviour. Every avenue of protest for the French people seems to be gradually being curtailed – even making it illegal to bang on pots and pans! Regardless, I had a big grin on my face thinking of Macron facing the people.
 

Night had reached us before we made it to ‘home’. The town seemed full of life and folk but as we are in a cloistered (gated) location it all seemed even stranger for me. Getting stuff out from the car meant passing through three doors then up six short flights of steps. The apartment (what we used to call a flat) was rather a pleasant surprise. The only ‘downer’ being a very small bathroom. The lounge is immense. We were exhausted – my wife more so obviously. Tea. The quintessential drink of the English (and ma femme francaise) soothing all problems. No matter the direness of any situation we calmly offer each other tea. That night there was the noise of traffic and aeroplanes through the open window but it wasn’t too disturbing. I’d lived at the bottom end of an English town in the early nineties where the noise was threatening and violent during the night. I’d lived in Birmingham and London. This seemed fine – but was in contrast to the sound of owls, or sheep, or hedgehogs, or complete silence I was used to.
 

Very early next morning, with my wife at work at the college (school for roughly 11-15 year-olds in France), I answered a knock at the door. The removal men had arrived. I knew one of them from the previous Wednesday. His fellow worker this time was an interesting chap: an Algerian who had been living in the Ukraine for 16 years. He had a Ukrainian wife and child and had been teaching English up until the war. Nice bloke. I didn’t comment on the war out of politeness. As ever I helped getting our stuff in – which wasn’t much at all. But now, at least, I had a full drum kit – which I have only recently assembled. Everything in good time. Up and down those stairs takes its toll. Going out to get boxes and cases from the lorry was my only exposure to the ‘outside’ at that point. But looking out from the windows I can say we’re in a haven of peace and greenery. It was slightly unsettling to hear that rival Pakistani gangs had recently clashed in the next town and one of them had been partly eviscerated and killed. It was interesting hearing that Pakistanis were there – I get the connection with England but not with France.
           

Tuesday I ventured out for the first time. Breezily I passed a black girl with headphones and said ‘bonjour’ – but she was in a world of her own, or maybe thought I was a ‘weirdo’ and avoided eye contact. There’s a cornfield here (more of this in part three) which cannot be built on. This might be because of underground water or the pylons running overhead – or perhaps the pylons took advantage of the fields as there are restrictions on building houses beneath their cables. This first venture I crossed between the dry stalks through a narrow path. Rubbish was everywhere and the corn near the path had been taken – though I doubt it would be destined for human consumption. It was somewhat surreal to be there, in the sun, walking across a field in a bustling suburb (banlieu). At the end there is a ditch running beside a new industrial estate. There was a black chap there who I said ‘bonjour’ to and he responded in kind then said something which suggested he was expecting more. I just said I was saying ‘hello’ and he had a wide grin on his face. Down a path through modern buildings I felt relatively buoyant. The path had grass and trees either side but round one of the benches it looked like a party had taken place and all the rubbish left scattered about. It seemed the same wherever I went – the buildings mostly seemed quite new and the flats white-walled. There were plenty of trees but rubbish was everywhere. My quest was to find a boulangerie (bread shop) and I didn’t hesitate to ask people directions. It has to be said that my willingness to talk with anyone seemed to elicit a kind of frightened shock which usually shifted to a relaxed state when it became clear I wasn’t asking for, or up to, anything nefarious.
 

The following day I went down with what turned out to be a 24 hour flu-type virus. I imagine this was a combination of not eating too well during the week and weekend prior to being here and the amount of energy expended – both physical and mental. I was doing my best to settle in – and it’s okay. Thus on the Thursday I decided to head into the town itself. It has to be said I was still up for greeting folk with ‘bonjour’ but you can really tell if that’s the done thing or not and I soon stopped – though I did probably carry the look and demeanour of someone open to polite greetings. One woman at least must have picked up on this as we smiled naturally at each other. The road I followed was busy – plenty of litter on the pavement but no dog excrement – and no dogs in fact. As I think back I was like a child placed in unusual circumstances looking about both in wonder and dread. It was very interesting. Some of the houses were old and had character but now seemed completely out of place. There were men sitting outside cafes with, well, cafes (sorry coffees). I must have stuck out a bit like a freshly-scrubbed thumb.
 

I had decided to find the RER station. Back in the 90s my wife was in hospital in central Paris and I had left uni to visit her. During that time I made some money busking on the metro and RER with an Arab chap whose girlfriend was on my course – in fact they were both staying in Paris at the time. I recall their flat right in the eaves of an old apartment block with huge twisting pipework within their living space – very odd. But I digress! I got to the station which was a mainline SNCF and thus asked various men hanging about if they knew where the RER station was. Well, none of them understood me and I didn’t understand any of them. It was a tad dodgy but didn’t feel too threatening. I found out that the RER platform was next to the station and that satisfied me. Now on the way down, before turning into this road I had noticed a couple of women (black) with a board talking about Dieu (God). They seemed friendly. I have to say here, otherwise it could get repetitive, that most folk in the area are African, North African (Arabs), Turkish, Asian (Pakistani/Indian), Kurds and some Europeans like me (I heard someone speaking what I took to be Ukrainian) and obviously a few French. Thus, unless it’s relevant I won’t mention ethnicity again. I got back to the ladies and said hello/bonjour and they were friendly. Then having gone down a few roads from the roundabout where they were, realised I was lost! How was that possible? I asked a few chaps for directions but again communication was difficult. Then after panicking slightly – I admit – I thought of the two women.
           

The two evangelists, as I took them to be, were very helpful and I had noticed an Armenian evangelical church on my way down which I thought they might know. But in fact technology came to the rescue (I have to admit) and one of the women took out a mobile and ‘dialled in’ the college I was trying to return to. Of course I couldn’t resist talking to them about Emanuel Swedenborg . I guess they thought I was a typical eccentric Englishman – and that’s exactly how I felt. But I was very grateful to them and their friendliness. Wishing them ‘au revoir’ I managed to get on the correct path and immediately noticed some already familiar sites. I had survived my first visit to the town.
 

Tapping in the code to a wide gateway I got back into the college’s grounds then into the apartment block where we lived. As a younger man I probably would have thought nothing about all this – but to be catapulted from where I usually lived into this new environment was impressive. I’m always ready for a challenge though – it wasn’t like climbing Montblanc admittedly but I felt a sense of achievement.

By Tim Bragg