Why Nantes is the best city in France

The Grand Elephant of Nantes. Image: Getty.

There are a few things you might know about Nantes. You might know that Nantes is a city in France, somewhere over there in the middle but towards the western coast; or that it is the title of a song by Beirut; or that it is occasionally good at football, but mostly just quite bad at football.

What you probably don’t know about Nantes is that it is the sixth biggest city in France, that it was in Brittany until it wasn’t, and that, depending on who you ask, it sort of is where May ‘68 really started.

These things are not very important. There is only one thing you need to know about Nantes, and it is that Nantes is the best city in France – no, the best place in France. Nantes is better than Paris, it is better than those sunny bits down towards the south of France, it is better than anywhere in the country. Nantes is the best bit of France.

Why is that? It is hard to even know where to start. Nantes is the perfect size for a city – it is big enough that you do not feel suffocated by its three streets and seven shops, but it is also small enough that you can walk from any place in the centre of town to another in under half an hour.

If you do not want to walk, you can always take the bus, the tramway, or the BusWay, which is in many ways just a bus that happens to have its own separate lane but Nantes is credited with bringing the tramway back into fashion in Europe so we’re quite keen on keeping that going as a brand.

Still, taking a stroll through the centre of town probably remains your best option. From the sinking buildings of the Ile Feydeau to the grandeur of Place Mellinet, our old-timey – to use a technical term – architecture is something to behold.

(If for whatever reason contemporary architecture is more your thing, go check out the vile monstrosity that is the Palais de Justice, a large and menacing black rectangle along the river built in 2000. Each to their own.)

The obligatory tramway map. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

“Wow. Great,” I hear you say. “Streets and buildings. Two things I can definitely only find in Nantes.” That is a fair point! Nantes doesn’t only have streets and buildings. It is also pretty good at parks.

In fact, there are 100 public parks, gardens and squares in Nantes, covering 540 acres of land. It won the European Green Capital Award in 2013, and according to Wikipedia the “European Commission noted the city's efforts to reduce air pollution and CO2 emissions, its high-quality and well-managed public transport system and its biodiversity”, which is nice of them.

(Has another city in France ever won the European Green Capital Award? No. It has never happened. Only Nantes has won a European Green Capital Award. This feels worth pointing out.)

Anyway – parks and streets and buildings are nice but the best place in France they do not make. No, what makes Nantes great is its culture, which is odd and quirky and diverse and punches comically above its weight.

Take festivals. If there is a thing you enjoy in life, chances are that at some point during the year, Nantes will have a festival about it. Spanish cinema? Every April. Classical music? Every February. Jazz? Every summer. African, Asian and Latin American cinema? ovember. Flowers? May. Science fiction? October. “Digital ecosystem”, whatever the hell that is? September, apparently. I could go on.

Beyond the festivals, Nantes is also home to (approximate figure) one million bars, cafes, and slightly random places. The best one might well be the Lieu Unique, a former biscuit factory that is now home to Turkish baths, a book shop, a cafe, a restaurant, a bar, a club, an exhibition space and a gig venue.

Does London have a place, former biscuit factory or not, that it home to Turkish baths, a book shop, a cafe, a restaurant, a bar, a club, an exhibition space and a gig venue? It does not. Not even close. Pathetic.

Another highlight is the Machines de l’Ile. It is a bit hard to explain what goes on in there, but it is mostly large wooden things that move. In a good way.

You might have seen pictures of a 12-metre tall wooden elephant just casually walking around in a non-descript French city before. It is our elephant. It is massive and wooden and it moves. It’s great.

Royal De Luxe, the group behind the big, moving bits of wood, has been in Nantes for years and is generally up to something. A personal highlight was the time they collected broken grand pianos people didn’t want or need anymore and just chucked them off buildings to see what sound it’d make.

They made exactly the sound you’d think a grand piano would make when thrown off several storeys and onto the pavement, and it was excellent.

If all of this still has not convinced you that Nantes is the best place in France, it seems worth mentioning that we are the home of muscadet, the dry white wine that is weirdly only ever in fancy and expensive restaurants in Britain.

While it is true that there are.. a number of wine regions in France where you can get merrily sozzled on the local wine for €2 a bottle, muscadet is a very light wine, which means that it was essentially made to be drunk in large quantities. Can’t say that about a full-bodied Bordeaux, can you?

So, to recap: Nantes is a place that is big enough to be interesting but small enough that you can walk around it, it has both a tramway and a busway, which covers most types of -ways, both its new and its old architectures are great, it has many parks, many things to do, good cheap white wine, and the ominous feeling that you might get flattened by a falling grand piano at any given time, like a dog who is also a bank robber in a children’s cartoon.

Nantes is the best place in France and the case is closed. Suck it, Paris.

Marie Le Conte is a freelance journalist you tweets as @youngvulgarian. She is, by coincidence, from Nantes. 


Canada’s gay neighbourhoods are struggling. Can queer pop-ups plug the gap?

Vancouver. Image: Getty.

Queer life was highly visible in Western Canada last year. In May, Vancouver declared 2018 the “Year of the Queer,” celebrating decades of service that the city’s cultural organisations have provided for lesbian, bisexual, gay, transgender, queer and two-spirit (LGBTQ/2S) people across the region.

Yet 2018 also saw the loss of multiple queer venues and gay bars. While economic forces, such as rapacious gentrification are part of the story and struggle, our research shows that something creative and generative is happening in the city as well.

In the face of changing urban landscapes, economic hardships, and more straights moving into historically gay neighbourhoods, queer pop-ups — ephemeral gathering spaces whose impact lingers among revellers long after the night is over — now play a large role in the fight for LGBTQ/2S equality.

Scattered gay places became neighbourhoods

Queer life germinated in “scattered gay places” across cities in North America from the late 1800s to the Second World War. Inside cabarets, bars, theatres or outside in public parks, washrooms and city streets, queers found spaces which could hold and celebrate transgressive sexual connections while also providing respite from daily experiences of discrimination and social exclusion.

After the Second World War, scattered gay places congealed into permanent gay bars and residential “gaybourhoods” in a period anthropologist Kath Weston calls “the great gay migration.” Queer people flocked to urban centres and sexual subcultures flourished in cities like New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Toronto.

The formation of queer community spaces has always been controversial. Cultural and legal backlashes marred early developments. A host of laws and regulations tried to suppress and contain homosexuality in North America by limiting its presence in the public sphere.

These measures resulted in frequent hostilities, police raids and violence. Queers congregated together not just to find love or community, but to protect themselves, to protect one another and to find refuge. Pride parades, now celebrated worldwide, commemorate these early turf wars.

Pop-ups revitalise queer spaces

Researchers have written a great deal on the cultural and political importance of gay districts in urban centres, and they have grappled with concerns that these areas, along with the establishments they house, are fading.

But innovative urban forms challenge arguments about the death and demise of queer spaces in the city. Our research suggests that queer pop-ups, or temporary cultural gathering spaces, cater to diverse and often marginalised queers.

Some gaybourhoods are dwindling in their residential concentration and gay bars are dropping like flies. But new queer place-making efforts are emerging.

Two of the authors at the queer pop-up in 2018 at East Side Studios in Vancouver. Ryan is on the far left, back row, Adriana is on the far right of the back row. Image: author provided.

Unlike gaybourhoods and gay bars, pop-ups are intentional in how they address persistent, intersectional forms of inequality. Queer pop-ups offer patrons a space to explore non-binary forms of gender and sexual identities, and especially a place to experience collective effervescence among queer people of colour, and femme lesbians.

Some pop-ups create environments that are explicitly trans-inclusive, consent-focused, and sex-positive. Pop-ups are not panaceas for queer life. Pop-ups can also be places where issues around socioeconomic status, gender identity and expression, and racial inequality are called out.

Yet these spaces directly and indirectly encourage dialogue on inequalities within the queer community, conversations that help produce safer spaces for marginalised queers to find each other and forge enduring queer consciousnesses.

Turf wars

Queer pop-ups show similar trajectories of infighting and compromise that the LGBT social movement encountered from the late 1970s through the early 2000s when trying to forge a collective consciousness, gain social visibility and win legal rights.

These turf wars, expressed as contests over space and inclusion, are generally sparked over three perennial concerns: privilege, race and gender. One interviewee, a 20-year-old self-identified queer, trans person of colour (QTPoC), who spoke about Vancouver’s gay district told us:

“I tend to avoid the gay bars on Davie [because] a lot of the gay bars there have now been taken over by cis-gender, heterosexual people. I’ve [also] heard from a lot of QTPoC friends that they are often uncomfortable going to gay bars on Davie, because it’s usually very dominated by cis-gender, white gay men.”

A 28-year-old white, cisgender, queer male found pop-ups more politically and culturally radical than gay bars. He put it this way:

“It’s very rare that we’ll ever have a conversation about politics [in gay bars]. It’s just about partying and things that we kind of see as very stereotypical portrayals of gay culture: like going out, dancing, drinking, fucking.”

Historically, gaybourhoods have served an important role in the fight for LGBT rights, but they have also developed to cater to a specific cis-gender, white, middle-class, male sensibility. One 30-year-old, white, trans DJ put it bluntly, “the mainstream scene is just not welcoming to trans people, in my experience,” adding that verbal transphobic harassment is common in the streets of Vancouver’s gaybourhood.

At Vancouver Pride this year we were reminded of this schism at a local pop-up event. “Gay men won’t come here, it’s too trashy,” shouted a white Australian lesbian playfully to friends over loud music. We were at Eastside Studios, a large warehouse turned into the newest collaborative queer venue in Vancouver.

The comment was striking because it highlights the visible bifurcation occurring in queer life and queer consumption in Vancouver. Many gay men tend to patronise businesses and events in the West End, Vancouver’s official gaybourhood; whereas, other members of the LGBTQ community are scattered across the city at events and venues that are far less permanent. Eastside Studios attempts to break through the homonormative bent some gay bars perpetuate. It is a space that generously houses some of the struggling pop up events who lost space to gentrification in Vancouver’s out of control rental market.

Historically, pop-ups arose as the first signs of urban sexual transgression. They continue to emerge as spatial innovations which nurture transgressive queer diversities that do not have space or representation in the gaybourhood. Weekly social media blasts via Facebook or Instagram and word-of-mouth dissemination play an important role in linking queers around the city to these events. Pop-ups take different tones and establish different vibes among patrons. Collectively, pop-ups highlight the many important projects local queers are undertaking to increase the plurality of what queer life looks like and how it is expressed.

Struggles for equality

Marriage is the leading story in many headlines these days, but queer struggles for equality were never only about relationship recognition or acceptance into the mainstream.

Queer struggles are also fights to resist oppressive normativity, to end racial inequality and white supremacy, to end sexualised violence, to reconcile generational traumas associated with colonialism.

Continuing these fights is perhaps what makes queer pop-ups unique. Organisers of these events are intentional and responsive to such concerns. They seek to create new worlds that soften the impact of inequalities, both in gaybourhoods and in other parts of Canadian cities as well.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives; they emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. Here an image from a Man Up pop-up event in Vancouver. Image: Shot by Steph/Facebook/The Conversation.

Many of these spaces are an opportunity for patrons to travel in a re-imagined world, even if only for the night. While not all pop-ups that appear survive, the ones that do matter, fundamentally, because they create spaces that resist heteronormative culture and homonormativity, address intersecting inequalities, assert and anchor queer cultural and political identities, and promote well-being for a wider portion of the community in ways that gaybourhoods used to and have always had the potential to.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives in ways that gaybourhoods and gay bars historically had. They emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. They allow patrons to dance and comfortably explore the implications of their gender and sexual identities around like-minded individuals. At times they are more than friendly social gatherings, becoming sites where the moral arch of the community is shaped through demonstrations on urgent issues impacting queer lives and the surrounding community.

Queer pop-ups are vibrant locations that work to push forward the unfinished projects of social justice first envisioned during gay liberation.

The Conversation

Ryan Stillwagon, Ph.D. Student, Sociology, University of British Columbia; Adriana Brodyn, Ph.D. Candidate, University of British Columbia; Amin Ghaziani, Associate Professor of Sociology and Canada Research Chair in Sexuality and Urban Studies, University of British Columbia, and D. Kyle Sutherland, PhD Student, Department of Sociology, University of British Columbia.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.