What Remains of a Dying Mall
A photo essay of a shopping centre in France that I discovered by accident
The other day, I caught the train to Boissy-Saint-Léger. I wanted to get to the Domaine de Grosbois, a park on the outskirts of the town, so I caught an RER-A train not far from home and headed towards the terminus, or last stop on the line.
Upon arrival, I was immediately struck by how rural the town looked. Though it might only be a few kilometres from Paris, it felt worlds apart from the capital. In the place of noise and pollution were fresh air and silence. Although I live in a suburb of Paris, it tends to feel more like a natural extension of the city, with the same Haussmannian buildings and dubious air quality that characterise it. Here, though, the atmosphere was completely different. If I hadn’t known there was a direct train to Paris, I wouldn’t have thought it was in the same region.
After exiting the train, I soon realised I had no idea where I was heading, so I walked for a bit and ended up on a skybridge. The grey sky created a sense of brooding that just wouldn’t abate. Going down a flight of stairs, I found myself at the entrance of a mall. It had these white doors that opened like the ones you’d imagine at a western saloon — or, to be more visually accurate, like the ones you’d find in a hospital.
