The Life in My Years

An American’s observations of a first time trip to France.

*The road less traveled.

When I told friends that Cora and I were going to venture outside of Paris during our trip to France I was advised to take the train. “The trains in Europe are great,” they (the ubiquitous ‘they’) all said.

It’s an open secret that, by and large, European trains are a great way to travel and that America could learn a lot from Europe about train travel (America could actually learn a lot from Europe about many things, but that’s another multi-volume set of books).

I have no argument with the argument for taking European trains but for my purposes the train presents two problems. One, it follows a single track, with no veering onto an intriguing track less followed, and two, the train only stops when and where the schedule says it will stop.

When you’re on the train you can’t just stop whenever you spot something interesting that captures your imagination. Sure you can pull the emergency stop handle but that only works the first time around. After that you’re no longer welcome on the train.

The train does stop in Bodilis, France. To get there you pretty much have to know the place exists and then have a reason to buy a train ticket to get there. It’s only by car that one can make a rewarding unplanned stop at Bodilis or most of the other French villages.

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We don’t know that Bodilis exists until we get there, and even as we enter the town we don’t know the town’s name.

We’re on the D30 in the Finistere district of Brittany, coming out of Guingamp and heading for the Château de Kerjean, when, in the distance, we see the characteristic steeple that marks another French village. Nameless (to us anyway), these old villages dot the green French countryside. We’ve passed countless, and stopped at a few but there are so many that it would take months to pause and see every one.

At the edge of town the D30 goes through a temporary name change to Rue Notre Dame (countless Rue Notre Dames in France). It’s one in the afternoon, and with only the Château on the day’s agenda, we decide to stop and see if the church is open.

Bodilis’ boom days took place in the early 16th century, spurred by the linen industry. Things change over time, and 500+ years is a shit ton of time. The boom days seem to be long gone in sleepy Bodilis. Like many of the villages we’ve passed or stopped at for a quick visit, Bodilis seems almost deserted today. We pass a beauty salon, a book store, and the post office, but all of the other old buildings are nameless and quiet. The only life we see is a two man construction crew working across the street from the looming Gothic structure.

That said, it is the lunch hour, when businesses in France, outside of the big cities, stop and shutter their doors for two hours. It’s a civilized custom that runs hard against America’s business practice of squeezing every last drop of sweat out of their employees. Because in America, as Bob Dylan once wrote, “money doesn’t talk, it swears.”

There’s parking across the street from the church. We leave the car and as we approach the big church our eyes are drawn upwards, following the lines of the soaring towers. That’s how it is with these Gothic shrines; you always look skyward – towards God. There’s an ironic beauty in their foreboding eeriness that seems to belie the idea that these are supposed to be places of peace and sanctuary (maybe not so much when they were first planned and built).

There’s a better than an outside chance that, like many that like many old churches that we’ve stopped to visit, this one is going to be closed. Sure enough, the old, worn front door is locked. There’s a small door (and by small, there’s just enough clearance that Cora could pass through) on one side of the church but that’s also locked. Off to the other side, and we’re figuring that this will be another case of a church that’s closed for the day.

We cross the front, turn the corner and there’s a side door that’s slightly ajar. A push and it opens with the creaking complaint of an old soul that’s survived five long centuries.

“We’re in business,” I whisper to Cora. It’s a reflex that we speak in hushed tones in these old churches even when we’re the only visitors. Don’t want to disturb the spirits.

Our eyes adjust to the darkness and we’re both struck by the same realization.
“This is very old,” says Cora. I have to agree. The place cries of age in a hoary quivering old voice.

We walk around the church in awe of its antiquity. We’ve seen older churches but this one wears the epochs like few we’ve ever visited. On one column, a simple statue of St. Francis (I’m assuming) holds his hands up to display the stigmata. Like this statue of St. Francis, all of the carvings in this church lack the sophistication of sculptures we’ve seen in other churches.

As happens in every church we visit, Cora pauses to pray while I wander around to look around, marvel, and take some photos.

When we leave, I make sure to take a photo of a sign that shows the name of the village. Too many times we visit a place, take photos, and then later forget what names to put to the places. Yeah, we’re old. Not as old as the churches but old enough to forget what we took photos of.

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In 2021 I took a road trip around America’s Midwest; 8500 miles. It was largely an unplanned journey and whatever plan was in place on any given day could be overruled by a sign, a town name, or just a wild hair, that demanded a detour to see what was around the bend or over the rise. I stopped at roadhouses and diners, walked small town streets and chatted with locals. It’s really the best way to travel if you refuse to get away from the allure of the big city or the desire to turn your skin fire engine red on a beach.

We aren’t being so free and easy here in France. It isn’t out of any fear of being rebuffed. After all, the French are crazy friendly. For us it’s the language thing and the uncertainty about local laws and mores that give us pause. You can stop in a boulangerie or a bar and try to take in the local way of life but unless you’re fluent you can’t really soak it all in. Still, a stop at a little restaurant in a small village, or even a McDonalds at the French version of a highway travel center presents a chance to be, for a few brief moments, a part of the culture (Yes, McDonalds and the other American fat vats are entrenched in a country where excellent food options are a national trait). Hell, even stopping to fill up the tank and buy a bag of chips for the road is fun.

As in America’s midsection, rural France is simple and slow paced. People know each other and there’s a sense of community. But there’s a stark difference. I’ve walked into diners and roadhouses in rural America and received the “who in the fuck is that” stares. In France, flash a bonjour and you’re golden.