Weekend in Rouen

Prologue

I’m stunned. As I write these words, I recall having written why I spend my “Weekends in Paris (2016)“ while I was living in Rouen. And now, I’m writing something about the same, but the other way around!

“It’s not a weekend, it’s the weekend.” - RF, paraphrasing White Chicks (2004)

There’s something about arriving in a city just as the afternoon light begins to fade. It’s the golden hour for possibilities: the moment when the streets start to hum with the quiet energy of the evening. This was the backdrop of my weekend in Rouen with RF.

Arrival in the Heart of Normandy

“It’s not a weekend, it’s the weekend.” - RF

We took a FlixBus from Paris, the ride reminiscent of the Victory Liner journeys in the Philippines. Efficient, no-frills, and oddly comforting in its predictability. The 1-hour-45-minute trip brought us to Avenue Champlain, a convenient 20-minute walk to Rue de République, right in the heart of Rouen, where we rented an Airbnb. From there, the city unfolded at our feet. Everything within walking distance, every corner whispering stories of its medieval past.

The sky was gray, but it didn’t matter. We wandered through the cobblestone streets, settling into the city's rhythm. Our first stop? The Gros Horloge, the jewel of this medieval city. We went on to stroll across Rue Jeanne d’Arc to the old market, where a church named after the saint stands. It’s erected there as a reminder of her grim ending. We hit a pause at Au QG, a quiet bar near the Vieux Marché (Old Market). Over glasses of beer, we toasted to the weekend ahead, the gentle clinking of our glasses punctuating the hushed conversations around us.

For dinner, we walked to Pascaline, an unassuming spot that turned out to be lively with live music and warm company. A friendly couple offered us their table before leaving, exchanging pleasantries like old friends.

"It’s a good seat in the house, but the music is loud—you’ll have to shout to talk," the woman advised with a knowing smile.

"That’s fine, I need to shut my mouth anyway," I laughed, feeling a bit woozy.

Before they left, she asked where we were from. The Philippines, we answered, to which she remarked how well we spoke French. I asked if she was from Normandy, but she shook her head with a grin.

"I’m German, actually."

"YOUR French is amazing," I told her, sincerely impressed.

"Oh, thank you," she said with a laugh. "I’ve been here 40 years, so it’s probably about time!"

We exchanged goodbyes, RF bidding her Auf Wiedersehen, before settling in for the night’s feast. I indulged in moules-frites, while RF opted for Normand chicken, both generous portions. A pitcher of white wine made its way to our table (because why stop at just a glass of beer?). And for dessert? A decadent profiterole, its velvety chocolate sauce cascading over the delicate pastry.

We walked back to our apartment under the glow of streetlights, our laughter echoing through the damp streets. The grocery stores had closed by then, but our Airbnb host had left us homemade jam, butter, Biscotte, and coffee, enough to tide us over until morning.

A Rain-Soaked Saturday of Stories

There was no strict itinerary for the trip, let alone for this day. Just a loose plan sketched in my mind. (Read: Day trip itinerary in Rouen, 2020) RF, ever the early riser, offered to do a grocery run while I took my time waking up. By the time he returned, he had gathered the ingredients and whipped up a breakfast that felt like home: hotdog, eggs, and rice.

RF whipped up a breakfast that felt like home: hotdog, eggs, and rice

The rain was persistent but gentle. Very much a Normandy experience. We ventured out, making our way toward Rouen’s grand Hôtel de Ville, Napoleon’s statue standing proudly in front. This was familiar ground for me; I had once worked in one of the nearby buildings as a part-time English teacher. The streets held echoes of my past, and I pointed out the places that had once been a part of my daily routine.

Our morning stroll took us to Joan of Arc’s dungeon, where history lingered in the stone walls, then to the spot where she was burned at the stake close by, and her ashes dumped into the Seine. The weight of history settled on our shoulders, tempered only by the charm of nearby Café Le Métropole, once frequented by Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Unfortunately, it was now closed and up for sale.

As we made our way back toward the center, we passed through Rouen’s train station, where I told RF tales of my (dare I say) naughty student adventures, which this station was a witness to. Spring was upon us, and we wandered beneath trees that had begun to bloom. It felt surreal to stand here again, now as a visitor.

We attempted to visit the Abbey of Saint-Ouen, sitting right next to the majestic town hall, only to find it under renovation, its entrance elusive. Instead, we wandered into the park behind it, where a statue of Rollon, the Viking who became the first ruler of Normandy, stood beside a replica of a Rune stone left by the Danes.

Couleur Café: Cozy and familiar, it was the kind of place where time seemed to slow.

My favorite corner of Rouen:Rue Eau de Robec

Social Perk, a Friends-themed café that transported us to the fictional Central Perk

As we puzzled over the museum closures, it hit us: it was lunchtime. Of course. This wasn’t Paris. The world here still paused for meals.

We adjusted our plans and strolled toward my favorite corner of Rouen, along the picturesque Rue Eau de Robec. This street, with its tiny canals and timber-framed houses, always felt like a secret passage to a different century. We ducked into Couleur Café, my go-to spot. Cozy and familiar, it was the kind of place where time seemed to slow. Over coffee, we warmed our hands and let conversations drift between past and present.

University of Rouen campus at Mont-Saint-Aignan

When the rain let up, we explored the Musée National de l’Éducation, taking advantage of its free entrance (thank you to us taxpayers but also to our public officials who use it wisely) before indulging in an afternoon snack at Social Perk, a Friends-themed café that transported us to the fictional Central Perk. The rain threatened to pick up again, but we pushed forward, visiting Rouen Cathedral, its Gothic silhouette looming grandly against the stormy sky.

We considered skipping the panoramic viewpoint at Mont-Saint-Aignan, but something in me wanted RF to see it. The climb was rewarded with a sweeping view, the rooftops of Rouen stretching below us like an Impressionist painting. We took the bus up to my university, wandering through the campus that had once been my world. How had it been ten years already? The streets were the same, but I was not.

Fatigue crept in as the evening settled, so we returned to town, capping the night with a round of drinks at Milk, a bar conveniently located just across our Airbnb. Back at the apartment, RF cooked Sinigang sa Hipon. A warm, familiar, comforting taste of home in a foreign land.

Sunday Markets and Farewells

Sunday was for slow goodbyes. Our bus back to Paris wasn’t until the afternoon, so we made the most of the morning by heading to the Saint-Marc Sunday Market. There, among the stalls brimming with fresh produce and artisanal goods, I found three handcrafted rings from a vendor, originally from Bergerac. I struck up a conversation with her, and as we spoke, I felt an unexpected sense of pride. I could understand her references, and follow her humor, in a way I wouldn’t have years ago. My past experiences, my encounters with different cultures, and my time in Rouen had built this moment.

"Has it really been ten years since you first walked these streets?" RF mused.

I found three handcrafted rings from a vendor, originally from Bergerac

I let the weight of that statement settle. It had. And yet, it felt like no time had passed at all.

"How does it feel to be back?" he asked.

I thought for a moment before answering.

"It feels like a dream. But also, an accomplishment."

Because while that chapter of my life felt like a distant memory, it had shaped me. That small parenthesis in time had led to everything I was now.

For our last meal in Rouen, we settled into a table at JM Café, Place du Vieux Marché, savoring our last moments in the city. An hour before departure, we took one final stroll through Rouen’s medieval streets, past bridges and timber-framed houses, breathing in the essence of a city that had shaped a small yet significant part of my life.

As we boarded our bus, I glanced back one last time. Rouen, with its rain-drenched streets and timeless charm, was now a beautiful memory etched in my mind.

Why Visit Rouen?

Rouen is a city of stories: from Joan of Arc’s legendary trials to the literary cafés once graced by great thinkers. It’s a place where Gothic cathedrals meet cozy coffee shops, where history isn’t confined to museums but interlaced into everyday life.

Come for the architecture, the food, or simply to wander, Rouen will embrace you like an old friend, rain and all.