May Day in the Loire Valley: Where Even the Sidewalks Bloom
It was the last day of April when I had stumbled off the train and into the commune of Tours, the Jewel of the Loire Valley, blissfully ignorant of smaller French towns, and of the particular customs of the Loire Valley. My journey from Saint Michel had counted not one but two train transfers, a bus ride, and a connection so confusing it involved three strangers, a ticketmaster, a broken kiosk, and two good Samaritans - one of whom had to reassure me right up until my very clumsy and final disembarkment of the train. Then, my short 10 minute walk from the station to my shared apartment (with a local resident) unraveled into a 45 minute Google Maps adventure (the adventure was that Google Maps was not working). So when I woke on the first of May to find the streets lined with vendors selling small bouquets of muguet, or, lily of the valley, for one euro each - I assumed this was simply what happened in springtime French countryside. Everyone buys flowers. Naturally.
It wasn't until later that I learned May Day, or as I saw written on the signs, La Fête du Muguet, in France belongs entirely to the muguet: a flower composed of delicate bell-shaped blossoms strung along a single vibrant stem of green that seems to "ring in" the event of Spring. For one euro, I bought my own little sachet and brought it to my nose.
The scent was nothing like the lily of the valley in perfume bottles or soaps, the polite, perhaps overly commercial whisper of spring. This was impolite. This was spring shouting. Rich, almost dizzying, and sweet enough to make you understand why the French had named an entire holiday around it. I carried it with me for the rest of the day, occasionally lifting it for another intoxicating hit.
Wandering the City: Gardens, Wine & Warm Encounters
Tours in spring doesn't need much help in the intoxication department. The entire city seemed to have erupted overnight. Even the most neglected corners had been claimed by something bursting with color. The entire city itself was in bloom. Not metaphorically, but literally. Flowers spilled from window boxes, climbed up ancient stone walls, and even the cracks in the sidewalks had made space for flowers, erupting with cheerful color and petals. The people of Tours didn't seem to mind; they stepped around them politely, as if not to interrupt the show.
I spent the morning wandering with no particular destination, which is the only proper way to spend a morning in a place like this. I wandered perhaps even more than initially anticipated, as the day was indeed a holiday, and a majority of the stores and cafes were closed. May Day in France is also a day of solidarity to celebrate labor rights - so naturally, all workers were celebrating by not working. I strolled the streets, pausing to admire the thatched houses, and lingered in the quiet cobblestone places, and stood awkwardly in front of shuttered cafes to read the menus of what I could have eaten the day before. Whenever I got hungry I took a whiff of my muguet flowers.
Eventually I found myself at the Jardin Botanique off Rue Saint-François, where I made the surprising discovery that botanical gardens in the French countryside apparently include a casual petting zoo. Not a petting zoo in the American sense - no tickets, no sanitizing stations, no liability waivers - just flamingos (admittedly not for petting, though I saw one child try), emus, peacocks displaying with absurd confidence, and several sociable goats who seemed genuinely pleased to see visitors. I saw a 150 year old ginkgo biloba tree. The air carried a confusion of scents: wet stone from the scattered spring rains, fresh bread from a nearby boulangerie, and always, underneath everything, flowers.
I was charmed by this. Flowers, yes, beautiful gardens, certainly, but also animals you could touch? The French, I knew, have strong opinions about many things, but I was learning that they maintain a refreshing lack of concern about letting goats mingle with prize roses.
By evening, I found myself in the town square, Place Plumereau, which had been filled with university students celebrating the weekend with the relief of people who had narrowly escaped something difficult. I ordered a buckwheat galette and a glass of wine and savored the passing of time. I also studied the bill when it arrived, certain there had been a mistake. But no: this was simply what things cost in Tours. After months of Parisian pricing, where a cafe creme required a small faint amount of shock, this felt like a clerical error in my favor.
The galette was perfect in that way that food in France often is; simple, nothing fancy, with a focus on fresh, local ingredients: buckwheat, butter, cheese, seasonal artichoke, and an egg that broke golden over everything. The wine was a local Vouvray, and it was, without exaggeration, the best wine I had ever tasted. Bright and clean with that slight petillance that good Loire whites have, as if the wine were barely containing its own excitement. I drank it slowly and revised my life plans.
I could live here, I thought. I really could make this work.
A Visit of Scent, Soft Adventure, and Simple Pleasures
It's a thought I'd had before in other places, always after good wine. But this time I meant it enough to wander past an estate agent's window on my way back and study the rental prices. They were, improbably, doable. I let myself imagine a summer here: long afternoons in the square, systematic exploration of the region's wines, the chateaux, with my evenings spent reading thick biographies of the various larger-than-life figures who'd shaped the Loire Valley: the queens, the courtesans, the architects who'd somehow convinced people to build castles that looked like wedding cakes (as you can imagine, I have in fact already started reading the biographies).
The fantasy lasted until I crossed the Pont Wilson and watched the Loire rushing beneath, swift and brown and indifferent to my plans. But it was a pleasant fantasy, and I was in no hurry to let it go.
The following day, I sat at the bar in a café; a solo breakfast for one, waiting for my château tour to begin. A French woman - the wife of the man who had served me, I assumed - stopped at my table. "C'est très jolie, votre barrette; your hair clip is lovely." She pointed to the pearl clip I'd chosen that morning without much thought.
Now, this may not sound significant. But I have been coming to France for years, and French women (and Parisian women especially), simply do not offer unsolicited compliments to strangers. They might notice, certainly. They might even approve, but silently. But they did not stop to tell you about it. (A French friend on the other hand will freely share her thoughts on your outfit, which I very much welcome and appreciate.)
I was absurdly pleased. I freely admit that I wore that clip every single day for the next two (ok three) weeks.
Historic Charm and Friendly Towers
This is the mark that Tours left on me… it reminded me of small kindnesses and affordable wine and the possibility of living differently. The city itself seems designed for this kind of gentle subversion. Medieval townhouses lean companionably against each other along cobblestone streets - as old friends sharing a memory or a joke. The Cathédrale Saint-Gatien towers over everything in a riot of Gothic styles, as if the builders couldn't decide on a single approach and simply tried them all. Its bells ring through the city at intervals, a sound I found myself waiting for. And if you look closely at the two towers, you'll see carved faces smiling down; a church keeping a friendly eye on its town for centuries, and apparently finding the whole business rather amusing.
The region of Touraine, I'd learned, was famous for having the "purest" French spoken anywhere in France. Whether this was true or merely something the Tourangeaux told themselves, I couldn't say. But there was something about the place with its unhurried pace, the abundance of flowers, the way even the goats seemed content, that made me want to believe it.
I made my way back through the streets as the evening light began to settle in, back to my room where my bouquet of lily of the valley sat on the windowsill. Tomorrow I would set off early for another regional tour, ready to be impressed by Renaissance architecture and royal excess. But tonight, I was content with this: flowers, cheap wine, stone walls covered in blooms, and the distant ringing of cathedral bells.
Tours had made its case. I was convinced. A return was indeed on my horizon.
