year of utter stalemate, the Front I have set out to see. In 1917 and
1918 the lines moved considerably in northern France, making any retrospective hike down no-man's-land an event for a zigzagger
of Olympian stamina. With that in mind, a few miles south of Armentieres I declare myself to be in Artois.
In fact, I have just entered a different type of buffer zone: suburbia. A landscape of bungalows lies ahead. On the road surface
are speed bumps or, as French highway slang has it, "sleeping policemen." Somehow it's more satisfying to drive over them
that way. I assume that the residents of this subdivision work in Lille, the big city, and not Armentieres, the small town,
because the dogs I encounter here are quivering little neurotics, more fashion accessories than faithful companions. Thus
the preemptive tactic I've been using to confuse charging farm dogs—I bark first—fails miserably. These inbred suburbanites
obey only their nerves. One toy-sized beast barrels out of a front gate, unimpressed by my bared incisors, and lets off a
volley of yaps that drills deep into my inner ear. The two of us stand our ground in the narrow street, snarling theatrically
at each other. I finally let loose a howl and lunge forward. The beast skitters back through the gate, its barking all the
more furious for having given way to a bigger opponent. I move on, but not before glimpsing the curtains of the bungalow's
front room fall back into place. So I'm not good with dogs, lady.
The tract housing thins and the cemeteries start cropping up again. The land is riddled with roads and tracks laid out in
a grid pattern. There are far more people living here than in the countryside of Belgian Flanders. Farmhouses have been gentrified,
rowhouses decorated, and a few garden sheds left in artful disarray. I pass several abandoned brickworks, testament to a once
thriving industry. Catholicism's taste for the big gesture also appears. The crossroads around here are just that—roads with
crosses. At several junctions, there are man-sized crucifixes on which are nailed extravagantly suffering Christs, like butterflies
under glass. They look down at me as I sweat in the morning sun.
At a hamlet called Fromelles I pass a roadside Calvary that's not on my map. Kitty-corner from Christ there's a country cafe,
which I enter to ask directions. Behind the counter a woman in a blue paisley smock watches bugs affix themselves to a long
strip of flypaper. She glances up as I close the door behind me.
"Are you looking for a job? Because there aren't any to be found around here."
I think briefly about the King of Hearts, then shake my head. I tell her I'm looking for the road to Aubers.
This doesn't cut it as a ploy to change the subject. She tells me that unemployment has hit the area hard. Her daughter can't
find a job and "might even have to go to Lille." I point out that Lille is only a dozen miles away. The cafe lady is not interested
in geography. She tells me that unemployment is a scourge for young people today.
A man of about seventy comes in the door, smiling and ready to engage in debate. I like him instantly. He's wearing a gray
tweed cap, a blue and white zip-up sweater, and navy-blue polyester bell-bottoms. He greets the cafe owner deferentially,
as if he's conferring a prize on her, then fires a question at me that I can't quite understand. The French language streams
out of his mouth, in a singsong accent I've never heard before. This is the legacy of the chti (pronounced "shtee"), the patois of northern France. The old man is what's called a chti'mi: He speaks French the way a Welsh auctioneer would speak English. On the third time around I understand what he's saying.
"Vous etes oisif msieu?"
He's asking me if I'm idle. I look at him, then at the cafe lady, suspecting that they're some sort of non sequitur tag team.
When I admit to loafing, I learn that today is a wonderful day for the
1918 the lines moved considerably in northern France, making any retrospective hike down no-man's-land an event for a zigzagger
of Olympian stamina. With that in mind, a few miles south of Armentieres I declare myself to be in Artois.
In fact, I have just entered a different type of buffer zone: suburbia. A landscape of bungalows lies ahead. On the road surface
are speed bumps or, as French highway slang has it, "sleeping policemen." Somehow it's more satisfying to drive over them
that way. I assume that the residents of this subdivision work in Lille, the big city, and not Armentieres, the small town,
because the dogs I encounter here are quivering little neurotics, more fashion accessories than faithful companions. Thus
the preemptive tactic I've been using to confuse charging farm dogs—I bark first—fails miserably. These inbred suburbanites
obey only their nerves. One toy-sized beast barrels out of a front gate, unimpressed by my bared incisors, and lets off a
volley of yaps that drills deep into my inner ear. The two of us stand our ground in the narrow street, snarling theatrically
at each other. I finally let loose a howl and lunge forward. The beast skitters back through the gate, its barking all the
more furious for having given way to a bigger opponent. I move on, but not before glimpsing the curtains of the bungalow's
front room fall back into place. So I'm not good with dogs, lady.
The tract housing thins and the cemeteries start cropping up again. The land is riddled with roads and tracks laid out in
a grid pattern. There are far more people living here than in the countryside of Belgian Flanders. Farmhouses have been gentrified,
rowhouses decorated, and a few garden sheds left in artful disarray. I pass several abandoned brickworks, testament to a once
thriving industry. Catholicism's taste for the big gesture also appears. The crossroads around here are just that—roads with
crosses. At several junctions, there are man-sized crucifixes on which are nailed extravagantly suffering Christs, like butterflies
under glass. They look down at me as I sweat in the morning sun.
At a hamlet called Fromelles I pass a roadside Calvary that's not on my map. Kitty-corner from Christ there's a country cafe,
which I enter to ask directions. Behind the counter a woman in a blue paisley smock watches bugs affix themselves to a long
strip of flypaper. She glances up as I close the door behind me.
"Are you looking for a job? Because there aren't any to be found around here."
I think briefly about the King of Hearts, then shake my head. I tell her I'm looking for the road to Aubers.
This doesn't cut it as a ploy to change the subject. She tells me that unemployment has hit the area hard. Her daughter can't
find a job and "might even have to go to Lille." I point out that Lille is only a dozen miles away. The cafe lady is not interested
in geography. She tells me that unemployment is a scourge for young people today.
A man of about seventy comes in the door, smiling and ready to engage in debate. I like him instantly. He's wearing a gray
tweed cap, a blue and white zip-up sweater, and navy-blue polyester bell-bottoms. He greets the cafe owner deferentially,
as if he's conferring a prize on her, then fires a question at me that I can't quite understand. The French language streams
out of his mouth, in a singsong accent I've never heard before. This is the legacy of the chti (pronounced "shtee"), the patois of northern France. The old man is what's called a chti'mi: He speaks French the way a Welsh auctioneer would speak English. On the third time around I understand what he's saying.
"Vous etes oisif msieu?"
He's asking me if I'm idle. I look at him, then at the cafe lady, suspecting that they're some sort of non sequitur tag team.
When I admit to loafing, I learn that today is a wonderful day for the
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