End of Nancy

Saturday morning's walk along the river took me past the Moulins de Paris plant, seen here from across the canal feeding the mill. The plant still makes a lot of noise, but none of it comes from the water-driven part over the river.

The canal now just ends here. A little water seeps over the edge, just at that iron passageway. Looking down, it's just a damp mess of debris.

A bright spot of street art under an underpass. Up close you can see this canal has flooded over the entire image, leaving bits of vegetation behind.

One of the main churches in the old part of town is a perfect candidate for my Sights Under Scaffolding album. Before cleaning (right) it looks quite dull and forbidding, but the results are quite nice.

Statues in front of it: lion with wings (common), angel with wings (normal), eagle with wings (obligatory), cow with wings (???).

From the other side. I never did find out what was up with the cow.
By 5 on Saturday I've been to the Museums (not going to the regional museum; two is my limit for one weekend), gone back across town by bus to the section of riverside I hadn't seen yet, discovered it's just as dull as the morning's stretch (less the interesting wrecks), and find myself wandering the shopping district. Anny Blatt yarns has four gorgeous balls of purple cotton-silk for half price. No idea what I'll make of it, but it's mine now.

At a bookstore I gather up four before taking stock of their weight and that of my shoulder bag, which weighs a ton with just the camera, the extra lens, my notebook, and 200 grams of yarn. Remember the luggage! Put down the books! You may have one. The biggest one, naturally.

Also acquired: two cotton tops, a silk scarf, and a necklace I'll wear for a week then forget.
For dinner, in a tiny family-run place, only five tables occupied this Saturday night but with an interesting menu and pleasant decor, I have a nice, regional meal. I learn tourte Lorraine is not the same as quiche Lorraine, but it's ok. I notice a family seated in the corner. The daughter, about 10, is absorbed by her electonic gadget. The dishes are cleared away, Mom and Dad are on their coffee, and two untouched glasses of champagne send their bubbles skyward. The couple doesn't talk. They barely look at each other, or at anything. They look like they're just marking time until they can decently leave. Why the champagne? Why order it and just leave it there?

Their coffee finished, they sip their champagne at last, not remarking on it. As if it's just some wine still hanging around on their table and they're not yet ready to go and face an evening at home. I leave before they do.

Then Sunday, not too early, is homeward. Fast train to Paris, 90 minutes. Just time for a bowl of onion soup and a beer before catching my second train. Home by 5, to three very happy cats.

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the rest of Day 1, and part of Day 2

In the bookstores I keep an eye out for pretty books of Nancy and the Lorraine region, but there's nothing I really like. They have endless books on the Nancy School of art and all its history, but I'm not so interested in art history. I want to go see it, but not take it home in a book. On the wall would be fine too.

So no photo book of Nancy in all the seasons and corners I won't get to. My own photos will have to do, and I don't find myself taking a lot of pictures. Maybe it's the dark season and the lack of green. Maybe it's the emptiness of the grand Place Stanislas, lined with gilded fantasies but cold and pointless, the monumental fountains in the corners just grotesque.

After a rest at the hotel and another delightful soak, it's off to a small pizzeria for a light dinner. Italian twice in a row while I'm discovering the Lorraine? No, no; they serve flammenkuche as well. A sort of Alsacian version of pizza, with a thin crust topped with cream, onions and bacon bits as a base, then add cheese, potatos, ham, salmon, whatever on top of that (though not tomatos. that would be pizza). If the crust is done properly and not soggy, it's a real treat.

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Morning!

Clearer today than yesterday, so I take a long stroll down the river, to see what becomes of it outside of the city. After a couple of miles I don't really get out of the city, and it's just a straight course with severe banks and nothing in particular. Just as managed and boring as a canal. Maybe if I'd gone the other way...

Around 11 it clouds over again. I find the much-touted Cours Léopold, but if there's one thing the French are really bad at, it's these long "parks" made of gravel, with a couple spots of forbidden lawn and rows of plane trees "trimmed" to within an inch of their lives. Any self-respecting tree should just die from the humiliation of submitting to this butchery.

Hey, what is this??

Along a disused section of railway, the most fabulous graffiti. Wilder than the Trains of Culoz. Here's a little tour.

Then I went on, and discovered that this is the back yard of an art school, the front of which looks like this: Ah, so that explains that.

After an indifferent but local lunch, it's on to the Museum of the Nancy School. Tucked away in a fantastic turn of the century house on what is now a quite ordinary street, I had to go back up the block because I passed it the first time. One of those frenchy, secret places, where on the street there's just a wall - everything of interest is hidden away from view.

Though the glassworks, woodworking, metal sculpting, and painting of the early 20th century are remarkable and a pleasure (as long as you stay away from the overdose of pastels), whole roomfuls of furniture together becomes too much. The huge commodes are fabulous in their details, but they're too imposing, the dining sets too look-at-me insistent. They're not in fact something I want in my house. I'm cured of that late high-school, early college fantasy.

Paul Nicolas, master glassman, was one of the later arrivals at the N-school. His diploma is on display, and an error in his name is crossed out in pencil: Emile replaced with Paul. Must have been a shock to receive this distinguished parchment, so beautifully and officially engraved, and have to correct your name. Personally, I'm accustomed to be amputated of an H, but Emile for Paul!

When I was in Marrakech last, visiting the Majorelle gardens was one of the highlights of the city, an island of calm, gently flowing streams, and lush vegetation. Majorelle too was of the N-school, and you can see how the perpetual spring-summer of this art works well farther south. Here in the north it's more dreaming.

The whole Art Nouveau movement was something of an idyll. It's perpetually pleasant. The colors are soft. I realize that, while I like prettiness, I also want more, and other periods are just as interesting.

Looking at my own photos of Nancy - aside from the birds on the river and the fresh graffiti - I spent by far the most time on the half-abandoned industrial sites along the river, and on the old flour mill and its broken windows. I think I was inspired for that by Bridget Callahan's gorgeous work in abandoned sections of New Jersey.

Because of the annoying way Blogger adds photos to the top of the post, I'll break here and show you those in the next post. Perhaps tomorrow.

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Photos of Nancy, part 1

First thing seen, right out of the train station, this sculpture. It's all hearts!
A typical residential street from the early 20th century.

Birds swarming on the river.

One of the old industrial backyards along the waterfront.

The not-yet renovated boating center.

Mugging for treats.

Some fancy bird houses.

The market square, where all the vendors seem to be selling clothes that are black.

Stanislaus Plaza, a World Heritage site these days.

One of the old city gates. This is actually up one level - there's a road that goes right under that little door.

; And a decoration on one of the important buildings, now the regional history museum.

More tomorrow!

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Nancy, day 1

Arriving in Nancy, it's begun to rain. Not pouring, but enough to make a look around on foot with all my stuff for a place to stay just Out. Fortunately, Nancy is one of those modern cities with a tramway going right through all the most important bits of town. Including the train station (Clermont, get a clue!), of course. A 24hour pass will be just the ticket for me.
Alas, it is so crowded and foggy on the tram that I can't see much of anything at all aside from the elbows and faces next to me. We pass a couple of small hotels that I can look into on the return trip, all take-your-chances places. I'm more in the mood for boring but reliable, rather than Mom & Pop but gross and/or noisy.
This end of the tram is at the University Hospital complex, and lo & behold, what is there across the street but one - two - three mid-range chain hotels. The first is booked up tonight, but the second has nonsmoking space for me. Forget the third.
After dropping off my stuff and using the bathroom (at last! don't even think of using train toilets unless you're seriously ill) it's off to see just a bit of Nancy. By now it's 5, still raining on & off, and getting dark. It is also the first week of the winter sale season. So. A bit of browsing is in order. Nothing too radical: I've got to haul my luggage from train to train and across Paris and Clermont with my own two hands. In fact, I end up getting nothing, but it's fun to try stuff on.
My room has a treat for me: a bathtub. Not much interested in going out on the town tonight, I spend instead an eternity in blissful bathing. My house in Aubière has only a shower, so I can only relax in a hot bath when travelling. And most of these cheaper hotels I stay in prefer to maximize profits by keeping the rooms and bathrooms as small as possible. Not so this particular Ibis. Not only am I bathing, but I can walk around without smacking anything with my knees. And my bathroom is grand. Not huge, just normal. But so much bigger than at the house!
So I laze about in the tub. I can sit and rub the callouses on my feet (a trick in the shower). I can lie back with my head on a towel and feel the air bubbles on my back tickle their way to freedom. I can scrunch down until my ears are under water, and listen. The world of sound is so peaceful in the bath. Just the sound of my own breathing, hear from the inside, and my pulse going back and forth in my ears.
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In the morning it's off to discover Nancy. There's a river, and some canals. Shopping. Big official buildings, and Art Nouveau. Nancy is home to one of the major schools of Art Nouveau, and remains a center for painting, so the art museums are of interest, both the Museum of Fine Arts on the grand Place Stanislaus, and the Museum of the Nancy School, on bus route 123 or somesuch.
This morning it isn't raining, so I decide to check out the waterfront first. A very pleasant stroll is available along both banks of the Meurthe, where space is given in case of flooding. Good move, since it floods all the time. Some of these other cities on rivers, where they've shoehorned it into one concrete channel, you have to wonder what they were thinking.
There are swans and geese and cormorants and coots ("waterchickens" here). Joggers and old men reading newspapers and parents with toddlers. A rower in a 1-man shell is pursued by two men in a motorboat, who shout advice. Another rower goes peacefully up and down the river, unharassed. The only downside is the sad accumulation of trash in the reeds along the banks.
In spots of urban renewal, apartment blocks with huge river-view terrasses are going up. In other spots a river-industrial life is fading away. No longer a significant way of transport or power (and why? renewable power is so popular these days!), factories with docks or mills stand vacant or nearly so. Once the largest flour mill in the country, the Moulin de Paris straddles a canal, five stories of broken windows. Getting closer reveals a thrumming noise from the buildings farthest from the water, however, showing the mill is not dead, just not river-driven. The 21st century activity fits into a fifth of its former space.
Wandering back to the Place Stanislaus, with its grand gilded gates, it's far past noon and time for lunch. I end up having Italian, in spite of being in the heart of Lorraine, but it's what looked best at the moment. My favorite cuisine, Italian...
The Museum of Fine Arts is full of students. People of 15 to 25 line the steps, are scattered around the floor, require stepping over, with their sketch tablets on their knees, working away. Groups of children are being led around and lectured. A young man enthousiastically explains to 20 of them how Picasso is not in fact breaking the rules of perspective with his double portrait, but is taking them to new heights.
Whatever Picasso did or didn't to the rules, I just think his work is ugly. Move on.
Leaving the Fine Arts, I discover I missed the whole Art Nouveau section. It's in the basement! I just thought there wasn't any Nouveau aside from a few paintings, simply because there's a whole museum dedicated to the period elsewhere in town. Well. I'll see that tomorrow.
After all that walking about, only seated for lunch - I didn't get to sit at all in the museum, all available surfaces being occupied with France's artsy youth - and passing in front of the n-ieme hairdresser's, I decide to sit for a haircut. At last. I've been meaning to get a cut for a month now. The stylist barely understands my accented french (I hardly ever have that problem any more) and is alarmed that I want my bangs out of my eyes (and in fact short enough to not be in my eyes next week, either), but I am the customer. I am foreign and I am queen. I have a scissors at home, if need be.
Really, it's a nice cut. I'm very pleased.

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Photos with the next post - it's time for dinner!

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Nancy: getting there

The tiny restaurant on the little street that goes along the north side of Gare de l'Est, not the big one place on the corner or the one next to it, but the one down the block half lost in the industrial zone, does couscous on Thursdays. Could be interesting, but I really wanted the onion soup. You hardly ever see onion soup on the menu in my part of France. I don't see why; we've plenty of onions, and cold weather begging for a rustic warm-up. Simple eateries in Paris are the best bet for onion soup that I've found.
So I ordered the soup, and the table on eight colleagues next to me all had the couscous. What a layout. Platter after platter: huge bowls of pale yellow couscous, platters of sausages and chicken and mutton chunks piled high, swimming bowls of vegetables in sauce. There was a flurry of passing around, some taking extra merguez, some passing on the mutton, and calls of Maurice! to bring carafes of wine. More wine.
It definitely looked good. I don't have work lunches like that. It looked like the crowd knew exactly what they were coming for, like it was a Thursday Thing.
My small bowl of soup was served molten hot and smelling heavenly, with a side of bread and a knife and fork. For my steak & fries to follow. No spoon?
Um, a spoon?
Maurice?
No matter; it was so full of onions and chunk of bread topped with melted cheese that there wasn't much liquid soup there, and that was all very well taken care of with bits of sourdough bread. A delight.
Which is how I spent 90 minutes waiting for my train to Nancy.
Other passengers didn't have so much time for lunch before our 2:12 departure, and the train car was filled with the sound and odor of a hundred bag lunches. Like the deep fried nuggets and stinky sauce of the guy sitting next to me. Not nearly as appetizing as the table a comfortable distance away at the restaurant!
After the smells die down, the journey becomes more ordinary. The old man in the row ahead dismantles the plastic trash container between his seat and the next, perhaps looking for more space for his copious lunch trash. The next quarter hour is filled with the plasticky noises of his trying to get the thing back together.
As we glide through the northeastern suburbs of Paris, the bright graffiti along the right of way is a welcome relief to the drab sky, drab winter landscape, dull depressed projects. I know a lot of people are against graffiti, but along the tracks it doesn't get erased quickly, and the artists have time to really get into it.
First stop: Champagne Ardennes.
Middle of nowhere! Even the smallest of stops on the lines around Clermont have towns (villages at least), but this is a park & ride amid potato fields. Two minutes later we come to the "Champagne" part, with acres and acres of vineyards on the hillsides, crisscrossed by dirt roads and decorated with dozens of small white vans or trucks. Working the vines even in January.
Mostly the train runs through a long ditch, and we don't get to see the countryside at all. Just as quickly as it came upon us, the wine country is gone, leaving a wide, flat land of industrial crops and dull, low sky.
Meuse: another stop with nothing but a parking lot. Bus to Verdun waiting in the yard. Hilltops with thick forest, bottomlands empty, waiting sodden for spring.
This train is air conditioned. I wish I hadn't packed my sweater in my backpack, but it was so warm in Clermont and Paris that for a time I regretted bringing it at all. Such are the vestimentary trials of travel in winter.

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*more later!*

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