from Brittany to Paris

The morning is mapped out for me: I have a train from Plouaret Tregor to Paris, leaving at 10:01. This is what you do when you dont know the habits and designs of a locality -- you play it safe. The better connection would have been from Lannion, taking the local to Plouaret Tregor and changing there to the rapid TGV to Paris. But the change time was short -- just a handful of minutes, so that any delay in the Lannion train would have caused me to miss my connection. So I played it safe and booked from Plouaret Tregor, booking a taxi to that more distant town. That added thirty Euro to the taxi tab, but again, I absolutely cannot afford to miss the connection to Paris. I did not know that the Lannion train is deliberately positioned to take people to the Paris-bound train. It shuttles a whole bunch of people to make that connection. I would have been fine going along with them. 

So I had this booked cab. It's normally a half hour ride to Plouaret Tregor (as opposed to 15 minutes to Lannion), but the cab driver, too, wanted to play it safe. There may be traffic. There's road construction. Could we please leave at 8:45? 

All this to say that I got up when it was still dark. That sounds a lot worse than it really is, since, as a reminder, the sun rises here at around 8:30 a.m. right now, but still, it felt like the middle of the night.

Showered and packed by 7:30. Hey, I have time for one last walk! And I want that walk. To the beach, to the sea, to breathe in that salty air one last time.

I'm becoming a pro at the steps! (I could try the road to the beach, but the steps are ... an adventure! At least for me they are...)

 

 

 

It's beautiful by the water's edge!

Not a soul in sight. Wait, is there someone in the water? Looks like it!

 

 

The boardwalk, on the other hand, is deserted, the shops, restaurants -- closed. I like the silence -- the absence of cars, of people. You can really take in the waves. And the song of the noisy European Robin.

Back at the hotel now -- breakfast. The usual. Good, but not Breton enough. It's the one flaw that I would ascribe to L'Agapa. And I really searched to supplement it. And still, I feel I missed out on a lot of Breton baked goods.

One last look outside....

I'm off.

My taxi driver is chatty. A really pleasant guy, with three young daughters at home. Curious about his passengers. Testing the waters of my political convictions ("so, you're going to have a new president soon?"). I dont need to tell you how most of the French feel about the future of our country. Particularly here, in Brittany. (In the south, around Sorede, Marine Le Pen's far right party has made greater strides.) Still, he is very amused that gender appears to be an issue in our presidential elections. ("Only in America do they still talk about this as something unusual!") 

We switch to more neutral topics. He asks if I like it here, I ask if he is from this region. Yes indeed! He says it with great pride. ("Life is so much less stressful! I drive a taxi, life is good.") In the summer, of course, he is busy. French vacationers in July and August, British and German in the shoulder seasons. I ask if he sees many Americans. He tells me -- yes, because there are now tour groups that come here for hiking. He is hired to transport their bags from one hotel to the next as they walk along the coast.

I had to laugh at that. I told him we had carried our packs ourselves. I suppose I said it with a note of boastfulness. I was, after all, already in my fifties. It's easy to see nothing but the glory in that feat, but of course, I have memories too of the endless search for an internet connection (for Ocean writing!), and, too, of the pouring rain on that last day, drenching us, our packs, our spirits. Kids these days have it so easy, what with their smart phones, Ubers, organized treks, dont you think?

Needless to say, we arrived at Plouaret Tregor way too early. It's a small station, with nothing going for it, so I take a brief stroll, suitcase and all.

And then the TGV comes and I settle into my amazingly comfy seat for the three hour ride to Paris.

(this too is Brittany)

 

(and this...)

 

 

(passing through Pays de la Loire at 300 km/hour, or 186mph)

Paris.

I surprise myself at how happy I am to be back at my hotel, this time in my very favorite room (I'm done with trying out others -- I like this one too much!). I missed the intimacy of a smaller place, with a known to me staff.

The view out onto the street, the Odeon Theater, just adds to my cup, which runneth over anyway.

Do I have a plan for this day? Are ideas popping into my head like on the day I arrived? No, and no. Tomorrow promises to be a very, very wet day. And the day after -- I return home. This afternoon is my best bet for a last long walk.

When in doubt, walk along the Seine.

On the way there, I pass a coffee shop -- I remember it from the days I was here with the young family. I could use a cup of good coffee and believe me, that is not always easy to find in Paris. Lots of cafes, lots of coffee, most of it just okay. I go inside this one (and yes, I appreciate the name!)..

It's tiny inside, but I am lucky to find a table. Oh! They have small cakes! Perfect. 

(a the table next to mine, rapid fire French...)

(superb coffee! some of the best I've ever had! and good cake, too...)

I found it sweet that both the server and the barista were quite friendly -- unusually so, for a big city cafe. They asked if I was a photographer, where was I from -- that kind of "small town" stuff. I think of Paris as a very polite city, and sometimes the shop keepers will ask about my French, but in general, cafes and restaurants work with too many people to take an interest in individual customers. Here, they took an interest.

Okay, to the river. I'll post a few photos. Today it's more about people than actual shop windows or Parisian sights (with a few exceptions!). Here we go:

(reminds me of Ed's hair when it gets to be long...)

(You have to be pretty in love and oblivious to the dangers of this world to sit right on the edge of the Seine...)

(a walk by the river does not mean that I focus just on the river...)

(so many intense conversations...)

(the wind has really picked up... I see storm clouds back there...)

(more conversations...)

(remember when you were a kid and you had to wait for the grownups to shut up already?)

(the pace is so much faster here than, say, in Brittany!)

And home. But not for long. It's getting close to dinner time.

Where to this evening? It's at a new place for me -- one that seems fitting for this trip, if you go by it's name: Oktobre. It's a fairly recent opening, and it's located in a space where other restaurants have had successful runs -- both ones that I had liked in years past. The chef of Oktobre used to be second in command at one of them (Kitchen Galerie Bis). This babe is totally his and I'm curious how a young mind might change the direction of a kitchen.

 

It's a small place with a very small menu.Two appetizers, four mains to choose from. But here's a super nice thing: one of the appetizers offers a sample of three completely different tastes (one based on carrots, another on beef, a third on mushrooms). And it is magnificent! I wont bother describing it in detail. What for... I only want to encourage you to try this place if ever you are lucky enough to be in Paris, and in this area, and in search of a good, innovative dinner. 

And then came the main course -- for me it was cuttlefish (and there were peppers, and beans, and chanterelle mushrooms, with a sublime sauce). Undoubtedly the best cuttlefish I have ever eaten anywhere. Not that I have eaten cuttlefish on any regular basis, but I have to say, this was just exquisite!

Now, I have to say, it may have been one of those dinners where I just ordered right. Perhaps other dishes were fine but not exquisite. I can't be the judge of that. But I am absolutely sure that if I am back in Paris, alone, I will eat here again. (The dessert was okay. Nice, but not memorable.)

It's a short walk back to my hotel. I pass so many crowded eateries, absolutely packed and indeed, spilling out onto the sidewalk, even though it's not really warm anymore. I wonder if older people, like my age people, also participate in this national mania of eating out late into the night... If I lived in Paris, would I have to push myself out the door more often, because that is what friends, family do? Or would I be the one person in the whole city who stays home on a comfy sofa and dozes off as the light fades? I do not know...

Tomorrow -- I'm finally aiming to do not much at all! We'll see how that goes!

with love...