Travel & Hotspots

TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE IN FRANCE

It was a quarter to 5 in the morning when the alarm went off last Thursday. I had 45 minutes to get dressed and catch the train to Schiphol at Amsterdam Central, where I would arrive at 6 o'clock and fly at 7. I had quickly packed my suitcase the night before, in the dark, with no idea what I had thrown in. Everywhere in the house, devices were charging, and as I gathered everything together, I slipped down my fairly steep and high stairs just a bit too late, into the still dark city.

My travel companion's preparation went very differently. The day before, he had neatly made piles of clothes on his bed so he knew exactly what was going. ‘And here are some extra T-shirts in case it gets really cold.“ The travel itinerary was neatly printed, in duplicate, with a paperclip and in a plastic folder, maps and extra information were copied from travel guides and placed in that same folder, and all chargers and books were in the right compartment.

We meet at Schiphol, where we fly to Nantes via Paris, a city about 400 kilometers south of the French capital. And that travel companion? That's my father. We are going on a trip together, on a father-daughter weekend. We did that once before when I turned 16, to New York. Between then and now, of course, there have been other vacations where we were both present, but we never really went out just the two of us again. Until now.

We pick up our rented manual car (neither of us is very good at shifting gears, and especially for me, that thing causes quite a bit of stress, even when I'm just sitting in the passenger seat) and roll into Nantes with bumps and jolts. Once I catch my breath and we have put our suitcases in our rooms, we walk to La Cigale, the restaurant where a table is ready for us. “It's already a great weekend,” says Dad as the glasses of white wine are brought.

We wander through the city, past Les Machines de l’île, where a gigantic hydraulic elephant walks through the high halls, the halls that were once the shipyard. Dad sits on a bench, I take photos, the guide speaks in French, we don't understand it very well, but it is impressive nonetheless. We see the Château des Ducs de Bretagne, walk through the Passage Pommeraye, stroll over Place Royal, and dine with cheeses and bread, before heading to our rooms at a decent hour, because that early alarm has taken its toll.

The next day, a new city. We go to Rennes, a little over an hour's drive. The brand new beautiful hotel (Le Magic Hall) where we are staying has a large communal kitchen instead of a reception and a nice sitting area that makes you feel at home right away, and that was exactly the owner's goal: “I want guests to want to plop down, kick off their shoes, grab a glass of wine, and if they feel like it, they can fry an egg in the morning themselves.”

“He likes to characterize himself as a “young god”, but secretly even young gods get older.”

Rennes is picturesque, the city is filled with colorful 15th-century houses, grand squares, sunny terraces, and Gothic churches. Together with a guide, we walk through the city, Dad takes photos enthusiastically, throws in facts (that man is a kind of walking encyclopedia, sometimes it's unclear who exactly the guide is) and stumbles over an old stone or curb left and right.

My father and I have an exceptionally good bond, we often enjoy a glass of wine together at home in Amsterdam, and if something is wrong, I call him first, and for really important life questions, he always has wise advice. “That's what fathers are for, kid!” he happily exclaims. He likes to characterize himself as a “young god”, but secretly even young gods get older (he turned 70 last year). His left leg sometimes swings out a bit, and he likes to make jokes about it, or use it as an excuse when a guide is hard to keep up with and wants to drag us through the whole city for hours.

He is still from the generation that navigates from A to B with a paper map, and even cuts it out and puts it in folders: “Admit that it's handy!” When a message comes in on his phone, he has to stop everything he's doing to read it, because that doesn't go together with walking. And so we often stand still in the middle of the street, a square, or a sidewalk, because quite a few messages come in. Especially from women, because besides being a young god, he is also quite an adonis. One who is full of stories from the past, where some facts are often exaggerated, and we have probably heard those stories a thousand times, ‘yes, but I tell them just a little differently every time,“ and he has to laugh about that too.

After Rennes, we go to Angers, two hours further. That evening we sit on a terrace at Place de Raillement, we drink gin and tonics, sit under heaters, I smoke, he doesn't, never has, a hit from five years ago is playing inside, and then the big reminiscing begins. We reminisce a lot, about school, about arguments from back then, happy vacations, less happy vacations, about when life was tough, when it was downright stupid, about future plans, new adventures, life, that sort of thing.

We end the weekend in Poitiers, the fourth and final city of the weekend. A student city, where 30% of the residents are under 30. The streets are quiet, a Sunday in France, even in Paris the shops are closed then. All in all, it was an incredibly special weekend, and I can wholeheartedly recommend it to everyone. France is wonderful, the cities are so beautiful, so much prettier than the provincial towns in the Netherlands. The wine is local, the cheese just how you want it, terraces everywhere, nice shops, and the distances are incredibly manageable. My tip to you: book a ticket, rent a car, and take your father with you. Or your mother, but really, you sometimes forget how nice it is to spend time with your parents.

By the way, next Sunday a detailed travel guide will be online, and a video of the weekend.