A vacation for the price of a metro ride

Appeared in The Republican Herald July 28, 2013

It’s official, in all the national papers and on the evening news. This year, four in six Frenchmen will be staying home instead of going on vacation. Those lucky enough to get away will be spending less and staying closer to home. Above all—and this represents a big change for the French, they’ll be cutting down on vacation time, going away for a week or two instead of a full month. It’s “la crise,” France is in crisis, as anchormen tell us almost every evening on the national news.

There was a time, not so long ago, when month-long paid vacations were the norm in France. The French language even created special words for the phenomenon. Those who set off for the month of July were the “Juilletistes” (based on “juillet,” July). Returning from vacation a month later, participating in a monstrous traffic jam extending from the Mediterranean all the way to the North Sea shores, they got a good look at the Aoûtiens (based on août, August), stalled in traffic, with motors overheating, just setting off when the Juilletistes were already heading home.

Some vacationers took off for more exotic destinations: a month on the beaches of Phuket in Thailand, an ascent into the mountains of Nepal, or a trip to the United States, a crossing of a continent in a Greyhound bus, with stopovers in places like Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, Rabbit-Hash, Kentucky, Tightwad, Missouri, or Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.

Those were the days. Now many who can get away visit friends or family. Those who can’t, in small Parisian apartments or small towns which don’t offer much in the way of recreation, sit at home, dreading the return of their neighbors who, once they’re back, will lavish them with stories and photos of “les vacances.”

For those of us in Paris and the Paris region, however, there is another option. Between July 13th and August 18th, using our monthly or yearly metro pass, called a “carte Navigo,” we can travel hundreds of miles throughout the region, to the borders of Normandy and Champagne, all the way north to Picardy, and all for free. Last Sunday, with my friend Karima, I tested this offer and we both returned to Paris more then satisfied. In fact, we were delighted after having spent a bright and sunny day crossing wheat fields, wandering along the banks of the Oise River, walking in the footsteps of Vincent Van Gogh.

Our destination was the town of Auvers-sur-Oise, about twenty miles from Paris and we left from the Gare du Nord, the city’s train station to all points north. There, we crossed paths with security guards, crowds heading in all directions, travellers dragging suitcases, soldiers with machine-guns, protecting us from a terrorist threat but unable to keep away pickpockets, riding up and down the escalators, hopping on and off trains, eyes peeled for wallets and purses to snatch.

After having swiped our metro card and boarded a suburban train, we were off, leaving behind that urban hive. Ten minutes later, just like in the famous painting by Monet, we were riding through wheat fields dotted with poppies, a rich tapestry of red and gold. Along the banks of the Oise River, we spotted fishermen, busy “at work,” sitting in the shade of birch trees and willows, lounging on folding chairs, their fishing rods fastened to the bank or resting lightly in their hands. Then our train pulled into a small, white station basking in the sun.

Everybody off, end of the line! We had arrived in Auvers-sur-Oise.

With no special itinerary in mind, Karima and I crossed the street in front of the station and headed up a hill, along a winding, cobble-stoned street lined with small stone homes. Some had front doors opening directly onto the street; others were enclosed behind stone walls covered with honey suckle or hawthorn. Beyond others, we could glimpse cherry trees, heavy with fruit gleaming red in the sun.

An hour before, we had been in the biggest train station in Europe. We had to blink, rub our eyes and noses (we were simply not used to air smelling so good). We were in another world, one we had not imagined so close to our front door.

But there was more, so much more! Leaving behind the narrow street, we arrived at the town’s Romanesque church, dating back to the 11th century—and we immediately recognized it. Van Gogh painted it in 1890, during his short stay in the town.

In fact, in two months, he completed seventy paintings of the church, the fields of wheat we would soon be crossing, the city hall, the banks of the Oise, and the people he came to know. One of them was Doctor Gachet. While he was under his care, Van Gogh painted incessantly. Only a short time before, he had been in an asylum in Saint-Rémy, in southern France. His stay in Auvers-sur-Oise, so productive, ended in suicide.

Climbing up a hill from the church, we were soon surrounded by fields of wheat, swaying in the breeze. In their midst, behind a gray stone wall, in the town’s cemetery, Van Gogh is buried, next to his younger brother Theo, who cared for him much of his adult life.

During the two months he spent in Auvers-sur-Oise, Van Gogh lived in an attic room in the Auberge Ravoux, an inn that still stands today, looking much as it did in the painter’s time. The building still serves as a restaurant; it is also a historic monument and houses “The Van Gogh Institute,” which organizes exhibits devoted to the artist’s life and work.

Karima and I picnicked on the banks of the Oise, where Van Gogh often painted, we walked through fields where he had walked himself, we wandered through the streets and took in scenes that figure in his paintings. All the while, we felt one thousand miles from home.

At the end of the day, we hopped on a train back to Paris, refreshed and renewed, after our fine “vacation,” for the price of a metro ride.

I have to admit, though, that I’m one of the lucky ones. Readers, I’ll be in Schuylkill County when you read this, visiting family and friends. If you recognize me in the street, I hope you’ll stop to say hello.