Bars de Lille - Episode 1

I’m never short of a bar to go to, even if I’m usually short of someone to go there with! When I was in the UK, going to a pub on my own was completely normal to me, as much as I didn’t always like that fact, so at least that meant that it was no transition at all for me to find myself in need of an escape from the apartment walls here in Lille from time to time and to satisfy this need by hitting the streets alone. Leeds? Lille? What the Hell? They’re twin towns, after all.

There are literally hundreds of bars and restaurants of all different moods, types, musical persuasions and natures of clientele and I have this rich spectrum available to me without ever needing to resort to transport beyond my own two feet so I can tailor my choice to suit the mood. I’d never lived in a city centre before moving to Lille and, despite the odd resultant problem, it’s a situation I find that I really quite like. City living is generally a good thing for a bod who’s alone although, like it or not, I’m sure it would be far more difficult for a female in similar circumstances.

I’ll do a couple of “bar reviews” (nothing pompous!) from time to time, just in case you’re over here at some stage and need a beer. I’ll start with these.

During the summer, I found myself thoroughly enjoying the intensive “people-watching” opportunities afforded by the terraces outside the many bars and brasseries of the centre of Lille (around the Grande Place, for those who know the place). Walking time from Chez Gray = 10 minutes. Having said that I like the situations of these places such as Café Leffe and Le Metropole and as much as the most comprehensive range of sights is usually to be seen from those terraces over the brim of a cinquante centilitre glass of Leffe or Stella, they’re very much “all or nothing” bars, depending upon the time of year. In the Winter, they’re fairly dead places as their main appeal is their terraces, no good in a biting wind and their interiors lack any real atmosphere. In the Summer, their terraces are almost invariably heaving and normally feature a table or two of Brit tourists who, as I’ve said before, rarely inspire me to “reveal myself” and don’t always do the UK much of a service as regards their lack of effort. Hearing someone say “Thanks, mate” to a French waiter rather than to exercise the minimum courtesy, effort and maturity it takes to say it in French makes my beer curdle. Still, I suppose it’s a step up from their not thanking the waiter at all.

Despite these reservations, these places still hold huge appeal for me in the Summer. They’re a bit pricy as a result of their orientation towards tourists (who are, of course, mainly from other parts of France). A pint can easily push $6 (about £4) but the vantage points they provide (especially Café Leffe, right on the corner of the focal point of Lille) and the sunny and interesting evenings they represent usually more than compensate.

I spent a lot of evening time making notes, designs and sketches in relation to “daft” future projects of mine over the summer and most of this was done in one or other of these two bars. I can tend to stand out a bit by doing things like that – hours on end, visibly pondering and then scratching away at a jotting pad with weird and wonderful scribbles. Like this, I get well-known to the staff and I get funny looks from the clientele. T’was ever thus (on both counts – in both countries!)

There was, however, a period this summer during which I didn’t do any writing or drawing at all as I sat at my favourite tables on those terraces. This period was, of course, that of the World Cup. Lille went totally nuts during the run that “Les Bleus” put together and the city seemed to gel, as one, to enjoy every second of it from the kick-off of Germany’s first game which, of course, opened the tournament, to the bizarre point at which Zinedine Zidane tried to find out if his eyebrows could mate with Marco Materazzi’s lungs. (Foreplay pictured above)

After that surreal event on that surreal evening of the final, it all seemed to go eerily quiet until, of course, the shoot-out. The whole of Lille and France woke up again. Up to that point, I’d barely watched France kick a ball in the tournament. I’d been far more interested in watching “them watching it”. I’d wait until the France match had started, knowing, of course, that the streets would, therefore, be practically deserted and that the terraces outside the bars, where no TV was available, would be relatively free. I’d sit there, “hearing” each cross, watching clutches of people sway in the doorways of the various bars in reaction to every free kick or near miss and seeing them explode onto the cobbles at every goal or anxiously-awaited final whistle and, ultimately, I’d watch, in intimidated wonder, as cars honked and parped their way into the night, victory in the bag, round after round, people clinging to their roofs, enormous flags swaying side to side and fireworks and flares blinding and cracking in all directions. At each passing round and expected victory, the fervour intensified and, each time, the steps of the Town Hall would, temporarily, be “owned” by whoever had brought the biggest tricolour along…… and so it was…… round after round…… until that shoot-out.

That night, even I watched the scenes on screen instead of watching the people around me. It wasn’t optional. I had to watch. As an Englishman, I knew what would happen (even as someone who doesn’t care that much about football, I was edgily aware of what I was used to seeing happen when these situations come along)….. it did. The country might have been different but the anticlimactic vacuum was the same one I’d experienced so many times before. Yes, there was the odd defiant “roof rider” and the occasional flare was let off but the town just turned itself inside out. The country did too.

Quiet disappointment. Thwarted hopes. Frustration. Parties cancelled. Poppers left unpopped.

Next time…..