After all that, the actual form which the Historiae will take might, dear reader, remain shrouded in some obscurity. In essence, this will be a chronicle of my Bellovacum, an evocation, in words and photographs of noteworthy places, intriguing urban scenes, peculiar cultural activities - in short any thoughts, edifying or not, which I deem worthy of inclusion in my personal historical record. There may also be some gristly bits of historical or geographical information, and some of these may even be factual.
Among the teachers with whom I work, Bellovacum does not rate very highly. For several, it seems to be a place of exile - a not-Paris, and therefore a no-place. Others seem resigned to its provincial status - and amused at my claims to find it interesting at all. But, perhaps simply because of the novelty of living in France, I do find Bellovacum interesting. I like that the city bus which takes me to school stops next to a roadwork crew not to engage in confrontation à la St. Clair West, but rather to deliver coffee. I like that a dark plume of smoke seen from that same bus turns out to be not a house fire, but a bonfire, lit by dairy farmers to protest the difference between the retail and wholesale prices of milk. I like that the centreville McDonald's comes to a grinding halt to allow a group of schoolchildren, their faces painted for Halloween, to visit the deep-fryers. And I really like being able to buy baguettes for €0.37.
This is my Bellovacum. Welcome.
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