You're probably wondering, unless you speak street French, what on earth the title of my post means. I'm fairly certain this word comes from Arabic, but it's very common in modern French, and it basically means a small town. It's a bit implied that said small town is rather a "ville de merde", but I'm using this metaphorically, because as you will see, neither of the bleds in question are necessarily unpleasant: they're just small. I've visited two of them in the past few weeks, and I'll write about them in two separate posts. Here's the first one.
A couple of weekends ago, Finn and I, in the haze of boredom that typically hits on a Sunday afternoon in a small town in France (or, forget small town: ANYwhere in France), decided to spend the day hanging out. First we had coffee with friends in the Brasserie St.-Germain, which is located, no surprise, next to the Eglise St.-Germain, in the center of Flers. We weren't rushed at all, of course, being as usual without occupation for the rest of the day, since every single establishment in town is closed on Sundays in France. I am not joking, either: the fact that the brasserie is open is probably due to the fact that, in spite of having been named after a church, it's owned by immigrants, presumably Turkish since the menu offers a dazzling, if a bit ambitious, array of franco-turk options. But lest you get too excited and attempt to order the kefta, or simply have a hankering for that mountain of seafood atop a pile of lettuce, the staff will very kindly let you know (most of the time) that they "don't have that", and that you would be better off ordering the "plat du jour", which is usually some sort of fish or meat dish with a side of fries. "Welcome to Flers! Where the bars close on a Saturday night at 9 p.m., and the local restaurants probably don't have half the items listed on their menus on any given day! Enjoy your stay!"
So, after having downed our grand crèmes and eaten the little pieces of chocolate offered on the side (one of the sweet little pleasures of France is that you usually get a chocolate or a tiny cookie with your warm drink), and after I'd walked through the park with Danielle, to pass a little more time, Finn and I set off to my place to do something that, in a very onomatopoeic French, is called glandouiller: to which I'd like to offer, as a rough translation, "waste away all day long". We chatted, we chatted some more, and then we chatted some more. Then we decided to make lunch. After eating lunch, with no other occupation planned, and at least five more hours of daylight left, Finn proposed an excursion. I'd been wanting to visit Bagnoles-de-l'Orne for a while, so we hopped into his little Scottish car (=driver's side located where the passenger's side is located in France/U.S.) and set off into the countryside surrounding Flers.
When I first heard about the town "Bagnoles-de-l'Orne" back in October, after I had arrived, I think I laughed out loud. The name is truly laughable. A search on the "Trésor de la Langue Française Informatisée" comes up with these origins:
But in current French, the meaning no longer has anything to do with a maisonette (=small house), but rather simply means what I usually like to call "a shitmobile" (what, in older English, one might have called a "jalopy"; or, in the 'hood, a "hoopdie"). Basically, an old, broken-down car. So, the town might nowadays translate to, "Shitmobiles-of-the-Orne-Region".
The fact is, in a certain sense, Bagnoles-de-l'Orne is indeed in the shadow of its former glory. Once a popular town centered around hot springs, a sort of spa-and-baths destination of the turn-of-the-20th century, Bagnoles now features somewhat art nouveau-inspired edifices that have clearly seen better days. The big, once-majestic "casino", next to a pond with a large bridge under which a few ducks swam, made me daydream about Lol V. Stein (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, don't feel stupid; at least 99.9% of visitors to this site won't know, either, and if you look it up you'll realize that that's probably okay). You get a sense of walking back into time in this town, but not in that sweet, nostalgic way; more in the "clearly-everything-needs-updating" sense. Even the train station has long been boarded up, its windows busted out undoubtedly by bored-senseless youths on long Sundays. Nonetheless, there is no denying that the countryside around is beautiful (remember this post, about the Parc Naturel Régional Normande-Maine? That's where we were!), and so Finn and I decided to save the town for later. We quickly found a small trail through the forest, and set off for a leisurely stroll amongst moss-covered trees.
Later, we passed our time walking all about the town. There wasn't a whole lot to do in Bagnoles-de-l'Orne, although, at the very least, the shops were open ("So this is what the French do on Sundays!", we said to each other). We perused a few antiques shops, Finn bought a book, and we spent the rest of the afternoon in a hotel lobby, drinking delicious café crèmes (again) and nibbling on slices of cake, while playing our own invented version of chinese checkers with a curious board covered with marbles (Finn won by a hair).
Finally, we decided to have dinner at a pizzeria, and then headed home full and satisfied after splitting a tartiflette pizza, a Norman specialty that I highly recommend, of course accompanied with a little pitcher of wine.
All-in-all, Bagnoles-de-l'Orne was a very cute little town, and it helped to pass a lazy Sunday. Here are the pictures, so you can judge for yourself:
A couple of weekends ago, Finn and I, in the haze of boredom that typically hits on a Sunday afternoon in a small town in France (or, forget small town: ANYwhere in France), decided to spend the day hanging out. First we had coffee with friends in the Brasserie St.-Germain, which is located, no surprise, next to the Eglise St.-Germain, in the center of Flers. We weren't rushed at all, of course, being as usual without occupation for the rest of the day, since every single establishment in town is closed on Sundays in France. I am not joking, either: the fact that the brasserie is open is probably due to the fact that, in spite of having been named after a church, it's owned by immigrants, presumably Turkish since the menu offers a dazzling, if a bit ambitious, array of franco-turk options. But lest you get too excited and attempt to order the kefta, or simply have a hankering for that mountain of seafood atop a pile of lettuce, the staff will very kindly let you know (most of the time) that they "don't have that", and that you would be better off ordering the "plat du jour", which is usually some sort of fish or meat dish with a side of fries. "Welcome to Flers! Where the bars close on a Saturday night at 9 p.m., and the local restaurants probably don't have half the items listed on their menus on any given day! Enjoy your stay!"
So, after having downed our grand crèmes and eaten the little pieces of chocolate offered on the side (one of the sweet little pleasures of France is that you usually get a chocolate or a tiny cookie with your warm drink), and after I'd walked through the park with Danielle, to pass a little more time, Finn and I set off to my place to do something that, in a very onomatopoeic French, is called glandouiller: to which I'd like to offer, as a rough translation, "waste away all day long". We chatted, we chatted some more, and then we chatted some more. Then we decided to make lunch. After eating lunch, with no other occupation planned, and at least five more hours of daylight left, Finn proposed an excursion. I'd been wanting to visit Bagnoles-de-l'Orne for a while, so we hopped into his little Scottish car (=driver's side located where the passenger's side is located in France/U.S.) and set off into the countryside surrounding Flers.
When I first heard about the town "Bagnoles-de-l'Orne" back in October, after I had arrived, I think I laughed out loud. The name is truly laughable. A search on the "Trésor de la Langue Française Informatisée" comes up with these origins:
But in current French, the meaning no longer has anything to do with a maisonette (=small house), but rather simply means what I usually like to call "a shitmobile" (what, in older English, one might have called a "jalopy"; or, in the 'hood, a "hoopdie"). Basically, an old, broken-down car. So, the town might nowadays translate to, "Shitmobiles-of-the-Orne-Region".
The fact is, in a certain sense, Bagnoles-de-l'Orne is indeed in the shadow of its former glory. Once a popular town centered around hot springs, a sort of spa-and-baths destination of the turn-of-the-20th century, Bagnoles now features somewhat art nouveau-inspired edifices that have clearly seen better days. The big, once-majestic "casino", next to a pond with a large bridge under which a few ducks swam, made me daydream about Lol V. Stein (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, don't feel stupid; at least 99.9% of visitors to this site won't know, either, and if you look it up you'll realize that that's probably okay). You get a sense of walking back into time in this town, but not in that sweet, nostalgic way; more in the "clearly-everything-needs-updating" sense. Even the train station has long been boarded up, its windows busted out undoubtedly by bored-senseless youths on long Sundays. Nonetheless, there is no denying that the countryside around is beautiful (remember this post, about the Parc Naturel Régional Normande-Maine? That's where we were!), and so Finn and I decided to save the town for later. We quickly found a small trail through the forest, and set off for a leisurely stroll amongst moss-covered trees.
Later, we passed our time walking all about the town. There wasn't a whole lot to do in Bagnoles-de-l'Orne, although, at the very least, the shops were open ("So this is what the French do on Sundays!", we said to each other). We perused a few antiques shops, Finn bought a book, and we spent the rest of the afternoon in a hotel lobby, drinking delicious café crèmes (again) and nibbling on slices of cake, while playing our own invented version of chinese checkers with a curious board covered with marbles (Finn won by a hair).
Finally, we decided to have dinner at a pizzeria, and then headed home full and satisfied after splitting a tartiflette pizza, a Norman specialty that I highly recommend, of course accompanied with a little pitcher of wine.
All-in-all, Bagnoles-de-l'Orne was a very cute little town, and it helped to pass a lazy Sunday. Here are the pictures, so you can judge for yourself:
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