Urban Exploration - The Poulain House

We received photos from a traveler and compiled them into a historical summary.

The Poulain House sits right along a busy main road. I must have driven past it fifteen thousand times and never noticed it. Why? I’m alone, I’m focused on the road—that’s how these little magical places escape me. Then, over a cup of coffee, this fairly large house was pointed out to me by Sophie Sokebana. I couldn't believe it. How could something so obvious have slipped by?

It doesn't matter that fleeting time was lost; it isn't a failure. You just have to make up for it as best you can, as is often the case in urbex: distances, delays, and a lot of "doing-what-you-can." So, on this cold but sunny day—a pleasant autumn afternoon—here I am, heading down to your place, André. The wind is powerful; this spot must be a natural wind tunnel. It rushes furiously through every crack in the house.

Shutters banging, the kitchen door closing all by itself. You don’t feel alone in this home—not at all, not one bit. A ghost? I don’t know. It’s as if I’m not receptive to that, but at no point did it feel suffocating. It felt good, actually. There was even a sense of kindness.

The Little Mechanic
This is the house of a "petit pépé"—the papet, as we say in my dialect. The more time passes, the more I find myself growing fond of him. He was a small-town mechanic. It ran in the family; his mother’s father was a mechanic and cartwright. A bit of history before the rest of the story:

André R. has an uncommon name, which will make the research easier. Yet there are so few papers in this house; only a myriad of old Paris-Match magazines, France Dimanche, and scattered, uninteresting documents. A life on the floor, strewn about. André was born in 1924 and passed away on September 11, 2010, at the age of 86.

His mother, Marie-Louise (née A.), was born in 1897 and died in 1983. Beyond that, it's a mystery—no trace of his father. However, there are two of André’s uncles, Gaston and André, both of whom died in 1933. Was André named in honor of his uncle? Why did they die on the same date?

Petrified Moments
In those days, everything was salvaged; everything had a use. Amidst the bric-a-brac are dozens upon dozens of "Poulain" chocolate tins. Some full, some empty. They were used for storage. Tins of flaxseed flour—one is half-full: moldy and petrified. On the table, a bottle of wine. It’s a quarter full. The glass sits beside it. A jacket is draped over the chair. Everything stopped. All at once. A photo of André on the table, very old.

This is the wonder of urbex: arriving in an authentic world, a life that froze, that stopped brutally like that. You become the visitor of a family intimacy that, in the end, truly matters. Such raw authenticity, such an incredible place; it simply hasn't moved since.

Searching for André
I had a hard time finding his grave. The house sits on a territorial boundary; it changed municipalities in the 1970s. Then, for no apparent reason, André was buried elsewhere—it took three cemeteries to find him. The weather is beautiful; I search for him tirelessly, feeling an immense sense of well-being. What luck to finally find him.

I am alone, and I talk to the winds (lonely people often do that). I confide in him: "Papè, your cross is broken; I’m going to change it for you." I place flowers on his grave. I really like this little old mechanic; he’s one more member of the great family.