from Brittany, France: a place like no other

It’s settled. I choose to build my summer house here and not by the Mediterranean.

I cannot, nor do I really want to embark on anything remotely like that (well...), but in moments of fancy, it’s cool to imagine this other life. And those moments of fancy really get going when I am actually in the place I could easily call my second home.

(Eh, it’s too far from daughters. That is a problem. Good thing flights of fancy don’t call for a resolution of such tough issues.)

Each time I am in Brittany, it becomes crystal clear, as clear as the waters at low tide, that here I should stay, all summer, every summer. (Happily, I forget about this when I leave, but right now, I do not remember how it is that I forget it so quickly; right now, I’m in the thick of Brittany adoration.)

Our first full day here began to turn perfect in the wee hours of the morning, when the Internet became totally dysfunctional in our room at the Inn. Monsieur Jacques, the proprietor, proposed a small apartment in a building down the road, just at the water’s edge. The selling point? The view. And a solid HomePlug.

In the apartment, Ed installs several borrowed Netgear boxes and creats an Internet hub. Functional, fast, solid. And, sitting here now, I am looking out the windows and seeing this:









I did Monsieur Jacques a favor as well – I gave him a card and a note from an old friend of his whom I met by chance this winter in Door County, Wisconsin. The coincidence of me running into a once resident of the village of Aber Wrac’h so tickled Monsieur Jacques that he repeats the story to anyone who walked past. Imagine, we have a guest from America. Oui-scon-seen. So she is in this shop up there, in Oui-scon-seen…

The skies turn partly cloudy by noon and I suggest to Ed that we hike the coast, from our village, due west, just to see how far we can go. There is a trail right along the water’s edge that snakes its way to the next Aber (inlet), tracking that body of water for quite a distance.

And this is when I come to know that Aber Wrac’h is my future spot of choice – my slice of beautiful pie, or, more appropriately, my savory crepe, made in the traditional Breton way – with buckwheat flour (see bottom of post).


Let me go back to the hike now. Repeating it for Ocean puts me right there, with the ocean breezes and the sweet sweet scents of May. There’s an explosion of blooms here right now. Brittany has the most temperate climate in all of France (ahhh, ocean currents), so the awful season ends before it becomes really awful and roses bloom early enough to make it into a May basket.

So off we go, leaving Aber Wrac’h at low tide, when the oyster beds are above water…










…leaving the Inn at the bend in the road…





…and picking up the coastal path for a long walk on this most gorgeous of spring days.







































As we reach the mouth of the next “aber,” both barefoot now, warm sand rubbing against our winter feet, Ed, in a completely uncharacteristic for him move, tugs me down to sit on the beach. Ed doesn’t much care for sitting in unshaded spots, nor does he look for crowds or noise, especially when there are so many coves and stretches that are quiet and empty. But here we are, plopped down right where a group of kite surfers has put up a volleyball net. Music is cranked up – French pop. A dog runs in and out of the water and a boy and his father haul in a RIB. The breeze is gentle and cool, but the sun is warm on our shoulders. We watch the ball go from one side to the other, back and forth, back and forth and we cannot get ourselves to leave.










I’m sure we would have stayed til dusk, but dusk comes late here and we still have quite the hike back to our village.

We cut back along country roads, past stone walls covered with flowers, past fields and gardens, with views of the water, at high tide now, all the way back to our village.





















The sailing school is having a week-end festival in Aber Wrac'h and now Ed is drawn into the world of boats. I doubt that the week will pass without him heading out into the Channel. Most every Brittany coastal town has a sailing club with boats for hire. Last year only a tame wind and a stubborn traveling companion kept him on shore. But this year I've mellowed...





For now, I watch a lesson in a kayak roll, and, at the other side of the dock, children coming in with their boats. It’s evening now, they’re done for the day.












Inside the village bar, I ask for a cappuccino. I remember now that Bretons put whipped cream in theirs and remember how naturally sweet the cream is here. At the other end of the bar, we see groups of older men, as everywhere in this country, sitting down for their daily review of events.





My own review reminds me that somehow we missed lunch. We make our way back to our room on the water, but only long enough for me to take one more look at the splendid aber.





And it’s not that the view to the street, at the other side of the small apartment is that bad. Food: it suggests a place to eat and it tells us what to order.





A shared salad with smoked salmon, a shared Breton buckwheat crepe with goat cheese, and moules frites. And a sweet apple crepe for desert. The only question is – do we drink the apple liqueur served at the side, or do we dump it on the crepe?


















Okay, we're back now. One more look out the window. A killer sunset. Home sweet home...

from Brittany, France: the morning after

The Inn, La Baie des Anges, is at the curve of a narrow road. Not much traffic here. Who would travel along this barren coast to a village that hadn’t even a grocer or a boulanger? Who would drive 600 kilometers from Paris to wind up here, the most western corner of the continent?

The window looks out on slate roofs and beyond that, the Aber Wrac’h (a long, wide inlet). The names here are like that – not French and not easy to say out loud.





If you think there aren’t many quiet French places by the sea these days, then take a look at Aber Wrac’h.

Oh, but wait. You need to get here first. The rapid train will zip you from Paris to Brest, a mere 30 kms away from here, in no time. But for a price. You can also drive. The highways are good. Or you can stick to the lesser roads.

Ed and I most always stick to the lesser roads. Especially if we’re tired. Nothing pushes you to sleep more than a stretch of boring highway. On the backroads, on the other hand, now that's my idea of gorgeous. Lush, rural, punctuated by villages where people walk their dogs and shop for afternoon baguettes.
























Yesterday’s weather was varied. And therefore beautiful. A landscape against a pattern of clouds, a rain and then a clearing sky and then more clouds.

And if that wasn’t splendid enough, the detour toward the coast and the Normandy sight of all sights (Mont St. Michel), just as the storm broke over it was over the top magnificent.





We paused for a cappuccino and a baguette and watched sheets of rain pound the rural landscape.. It was a good moment.





So, Aber Wrac’h. I haven’t said much about this place. I’ll get to that. We’re here for a week. Last night we did only two things: had the meal that I think about so often when I am not here – plates of Brittany oysters, langoustines and grilled fish (followed by, of course, crème brulee; there is always a crème brulee on the menu; no, really: always).










You ask what was the second thing? We tried to get the Internet to work in the room. That’s another “always” in the more remote inns and b&bs in France. It’s part of the process of settling in here. When the little box says “limited or no connectivity,” I feel I’ve arrived.

from Brittany, France: the tip of the pinkie

So many hours to get here! Three on the bus, eight on the plane, and almost nine by car. We could have eased the burden by taking a train, but I am feeling frugal and so we drove.

Flight gets into Paris, Ed and I linger over a petit breakfast and head over to Budget to pick up the car. We beg for tiny and get small. And we set out – toward the furthest western point in France, where the Atlantic meets the Channel.

It is a long long drive. 600 kilometers and twice that amount of strain as we battle drowsiness and unpredictable weather (sun, rain, torrential rain, part sun, thunder, fog, drizzle).

So, as I sit here battling deep sleep, I just want to say that we made it to little tiny Aber Warc’h. It’s quiet here. And so very beautiful.

take off

In shorts?
It’s warm outside.
You’re flying to Paris. It’s not warm in Paris.
I’ll change in Paris.

He changed on the bus from Madison to Chicago. Not because he was convinced of the rightness of this step, but, most likely, because he wanted me to shut up. There is only so much of the Nina lecture on American arrogance abroad that one can take.

In truth, I don’t really think that wearing shorts (jean shorts no less!) demonstrates that you are a banner child for ideologies about imperialism and nationalism and who knows what, but I find that traveling with Ed really tests my longstanding ideas about when and why you should attempt to fit in. If people take on roles in a relationship, Ed has taken on the role of the person who has his own internal compass, while I carry the compass of the world around us. Neither of us is willing to admit that there is a middle ground out there.

Now, we are sitting in the lounge at O’Hare, eating up every bit of free food that is offered here and I wonder if this is really why I so rigorously adhere to airline loyalty. For a free glass of champagne and a chicken sandwich?

All this to say that I love travel because it makes me understand all the ways in which I am just one grain in the human Sahara of life.

on the eve

I leave tomorrow. I’ll be in France and French speaking places for five weeks, though only at the end will I be alone. At other times, my occasional traveling companion, my daughter, and finally, my old (!) law school buddies will keep me sane.

It’s been hectic here. Still, I can now, on the eve of departure, take stock:

The Writer’s Shed Project is moving forward, but oh so slowly! Me, I’d have it up in a week! (I don’t know how to build anything, so don’t take me too seriously here.) And predictably, it isn't the act of building that poses problems, it’s the “everything else.”

Farming: the fields next to Ed’s farmette are showing some signs of veggie growth, but not in leaps and bounds.

Slow. It’s not always bad to be slow. I’m a snail-pinned member of Slow Foods, for example. Don't rush it! Enjoy the ride!

Still, when I come back toward the end of June, I’m hoping for more than snail steps. Snails can afford to dally -- they walk with sheds all ready made, no questions asked. Me, I have to wait for Amos and Ed to get in the groove.


In the meantime, I sped between places today, taking care of all that could not be attended to from over there.

No photos. Okay, one photo: of something I am not terribly sorry to leave: the café life of Madison at exam time (in a wine cave, no less!). Really, the café life over there is… more vibrant.





Be patient tomorrow and the next day. I am in motion. Posting may or may not be easy.

A bientot.

ah...

…student-hood!





To be done with exams. To have that closure. Semester’s over and now I get to… whatever. I get to be somewhere else, someone else, everything stops, then starts again in a new frame, a fresh window.

I don’t really want to have a fresh window – I like my windows with their imperfect view onto a parking lot and a dumpster.

And I don’t usually want their past again, that student stage of uncertainty, but on the day they’re done with a semester, with exams, with school, I think – ahhh, that is one cool time.

bee behavior

If I am like any out there, it’ll have to be the bee. Busy. Taking care of what is expected of me. Running to finish up the work of this semester.





But it’s not all bad. Indeed, not any of it is bad. This evening, after finishing paper-reading, I went out to Ed’s farmette to finish planting. 36 tomato plants. Seeds of peas and onions. Cosmos flowers, around the already planted black eyed cones, russian sage, sweet william. A palate reflecting our backgrounds. I’m happy with veggies, but I miss the flowers.

People say it was sunny, but that it felt cool outside today. I did not notice.

being a mother

In the same way that Ed tells me he assumed he would not be a father from the day he had the mental capacity to assume anything, I assumed from day one I would be a mother someday.

(These childhood assumptions have, by the way, little to do with how suitable you are to the task; tweak circumstance a little and you could have had Ed as a successful parent and me as a mommy failure.)


On my first date with my future husband, we talked about wanting to be parents. We knew this about each other: we already worried about being parents and we began our joint worrying right then and there, on date one.

What we didn’t realize (and maybe what Ed did realize) is that for most people who become parents – well, they stay in that role for a good 75% of their life. I mean – all this talk about kids growing up and leaving home? That departure just ups the worry quotient, because you are not there to protect them!

I remember when storms would pass over Madison. I wanted to be near their school, just in case!

And following September 11th when one daughter was on the East Coast, I wanted to chart out a strategy to get to her, just in case!

Even before they were born, when I was a kid, growing up in post-war Poland, I worried how I would protect my children in the event of war.


And still, the word worry doesn’t describe things well. It’s not always an anxiety exactly, nor a pathological paralysis of some sort. It’s, for the most part, when they are well, an emotional embeddedness in their lives.

Motherhood. As a mom, you know, from day one that you can’t screw up. And yet you do screw up. But then you can’t give up. Where else in life do you have such patience with yourself? Come on, pull yourself up and try again. And do better!


I’m in the backseat now. They are zippin’ ahead on their own speed and inclination. And they’re good drivers. Great drivers. They take care. They give lifts to those who need a lift in life. They know when to slow down. And every once in a while, they look back at me, there in the back seat and smile and that smile makes me cry and laugh and give them a thumbs up in life.

God, I love my daughters!

Happy Mother’s Day to all – those still in the front seat, and us in the back.

And daughters -- thank you. At the very least, for this dinner:

the robin chase

I am watching two robins chase each other. They’re not flying – just hopping along a woodchip path. It’s a hugely amusing sight and it makes up a lot for what’s missing in this day.

Weather? There’s a sore subject. Lousy and cold. You can assume that sourness could not be a product of a sunny warm day.

Then there is the matter of the market. I try not to have expectations, but I read the newsletter announcing this and that and I get hopeful. Asparagus. Morels. Bunches of lilac. All of the above! I set out with basket swinging on the arm, thinking of how many lilac branches I dare place in my condo given that I am leaving in five days. But if there were such bunches, or morels, or asparagus at the market on this day, they are no more.

And I haven’t the time to go to the big market downtown.

Then there is the matter of work. Anything that cannot be done via computer has to be done before my departure. That’s a hunk of work. Many people accomplish a lot under pressure. Not me. I was raised to believe that pressure is a capitalist construct and that good people rise above it. It’s very hard for me to change my ways.

Let me continue.

The dove on my balcony came back, took a look at the crumbs I had left for her and flew away. I clearly haven’t impressed her with my offerings.

And finally, having not succeeded in buying branches of lilac at the market, I asked Ed to bike me over to the Arboretum. It’s their big lilac week-end – where everyone brings their aging mom and grandmom to look at lilacs. (Women over a certain age appear to like the scent of lilac. I can only say that my love for this plant preceded my maturity.)

There was a plant sale at the Arboretum and I boosted my spirits by convincing Ed that we must partake. (For those who select more than they can carry, there were plant sitters.)




But it was so cold. Did I mention that?

Oh, there was a note of color that I must acknowledge here. First of all, there were the lilacs. Not in full bloom, not in these cold cold times, but halfway there.





And there were the Laotian women, convening for something or other. Having watched the Hmong farmers till their soil for weeks on end, it was a pleasure to see them now in the colors of a celebration.





Finally, at Ed’s place, we are facing the prospect that we have ourselves a bunch of flakey shed builders helping us with our Writer's Shed project. Ones who miss appointments and forget things, ones who lead Ed to say – this is why I do not hire people to do things. It’s always safer to do it yourself.

Oh please no!
Bring out the robins again. I need a pick me up.

No robins? Oh, hi Amos. We thought you weren’t going to show up. Ed, wipe that scowl off your face, the man has one of his ten kids in his truck and orphans in Ghana on his mind. Surely we can forgive entrepreneurial lapses.

Such a Saturday. For the birds.

side by side?

Ed tells me – I’m heading out to get the second trailer load of insulation boards.
You don’t need me to come, do you? I ask.

If you use the words “do you need” with Ed, you’re guaranteed a “no” answer. Ed ranks high on the “self sufficient” continuum. Perhaps too high.

And so I spend an evening feeling the guilt of not insisting. Because I know that in my non-help, by sitting in the cab of the huge, borrowed truck and trailer, I would, actually, be helpful. Not in the erratic, annoying, terrified admonishments (“Ed! Be careful! Do a wider turn! Watch that car!”), but in being there, in my annoying presence. Annoying can be very entertaining when you are tired and have hundreds of glass slivers on your clothes and arms (the insulation itself is not fiberglass, but it sure spent a restful period next to fiberglass, because there are glass splinters everywhere).


The birds are back on my balcony this morning. What’ya doin’? – he asks her. Digging around, she answers.





Ed finishes unloading the last of the boards late, late into the night.


Today, I sit down to do a final sketch of the Shed, with all accurate dimensions. Ed teaches me how to do this on the computer. Or, rather, he does it on the computer while I parallel sketch windows and doors on my pad. We work side by side.

And now we are ready for the final pre-construction step: Amos, the co-builder, has to truck on down (when? I don’t know. Amos has a forgetfulness about him that is at once charming and disconcerting) and assess whether he can plunk down the structure in the space we have cleared for it.


In the meantime, we attend to our stuff. I’m immersed in my stack of papers. Ed talks about returning his buddy’s van and trailer combo.
I should help you! You can’t back that out onto the road!
Don’t be silly… Silly? I’m not silly. I helped him yesterday. The simple act of backing it onto the county road took many attempts and the fact that he missed the ditch, along with the entire crop of freshly planted by Cha berry bushes was a heavenly gift.


The bird moves closer to her. Can I help? But they seem to be poised to do different things there, in my disastrously cold-bitten bougainvillea pot.




I also have to fill the van with gas, Ed tells me.
You can’t possibly manipulate that thing into a gas station.
He looks at me with pity. Clearly I don’t get it. He says simply: my manhood is at stake.


The bird positions himself so that he is now parallel to her. It makes more sense that way. She makes room.





It’s all good, all beautiful, until I open the balcony door to share some crumbs and freak the daylights out of them both, so that they rush off banging into every glass surface on that hostile urban balcony.

I should have let them be.

outdoor work

Ask your friend – do you have a lot to do, or not so much? They’ll always say: tons! More than a lot! Beyond the impossible!

I took my own “beyond the impossible” stack of papers outside. Just for a few minutes… But it was so heavenly out there, in a field of dandelions, that my papers and I stayed put and watched the sun move from one end of the horizon to the next, wondering why it happened so fast.

Sunny May days should last forever.

In the meantime, the farming family in the field to my side settled in for an evening of outdoor work too.









Mother and son, I think.

The difference between them and me? Their work will produce crops. Mine will produce grades.

campus crossing

It didn’t rain, so I crossed campus on foot. All of these are campus beauties:

























If only I could include the May scent of lilac. It’s always there, even when there’s no lilac for miles. Ooops, there was lilac.




I can’t remember – why do people like spring?

Uff

Such a day! The one you later say had the best May skies and the kindest May temperatures. The one that lets you take all your work outside (if you are in a situation where your work can be done outside). The one that, when you bike, has you pass others enjoying the kindness of spring.





I biked for coffee and passed even more beauty and bounty and loveliness.










And then, evening set in. The time for Ed and I to retrieve the Janesville Ramada Inn insulation boards (the Ramada Inn came down to make room for a Menards; the insulation went up on Craig's list). Ed has purchased 130 boards in an effort to make the Writer’s Shed very warm.

You may ask – how big are these boards?
Ed would answer: everything in American construction is 4 by 8.

So, if you stack 130 boards, say on a trailer, say in 2 stacks, how tall would the stacks be? Ohhhhh, maybe 8 feet tall (each). (For the curious reader.)

We drive past beauty.






We enter hell. The seller lives on property that has the skeletons of everyone’s past life. Piles, everywhere. Old machines, old containers, old everything, littered, stacked, cast to the side.





The seller is not home yet and so we wonder around the place.
Ed comments – it's depressing.
For real! I mean, this place is dehumanizing. It is a terror of junk collection gone amuck. And the cats. Many cats. Sickly cats. Lethargic, sickly cats.

We wait close to an hour and suddenly the seller is back. As is his teenage daughter who saunters into the (cluttered) house as if the place was normal.

The seller helps with the loading of the insulation, but Ed rejects many of the boards. After an hour of this, I am hitting a low point. And it’s getting dark. And there is rain noise in the distance. We take 59 boards today and will come back for the rest in a day or two (without me – please, without me!).

Ed navigates his buddy’s pick up and twenty foot trailer (poorly) and I am sure now that I am staring death in its face. Or maybe I'm just tired and hungry and wishing I were in a nice clean place where I can soak the fiberglass out of my hands (no, the boards have none; who knows where those creepy glass bits came from).

Miraculously, we get backs safely to Ed’s farm where we unload the damn lot of them (I am very much in a cursing mode by now) and head back to the city where thank God, Dane Pub and Brewery still serves dinner at 10.

conversation

Ed has an entirely new idea about windows for The Writer’s Shed.

I read about these flexible magnet screens. Let’s get cheap windows (with very bad screen attachments – allowing beautiful entry opportunities for any number of insects) and add to them flexible magnet screens.
Okay, tell me. What have you discovered on the Net? (Ed on the Net is a loose cannon.)
In New Zealand, one company is making these flexible magnet screens. They sound absolutely perfect.
And so?
And so nothing. I sent them an email and it bounced back.

You would think this would cause Ed to think twice about the viability of this option, this company, this continent. (New Zealand??) You would think wrong.

Later, in the evening, at my condo:
Do you have that cheap longdistance dialing plan on your phone?
Yes…
Let me call New Zealand.

Ed calls New Zealand.

It tells me that circuits are busy.
Try again.
It tells me the number is wrong.

Let me try. (If there is anything that I’m good at it’s calling distant lands.)
I get a connection. I hand it to Ed.

Hello, I’m interested in your magnetic screens…

The conversation proceeds favorably. Ed is tickled. He’s asking for pricing. Things are looking good.

Tell them we’re thinking of moving to New Zealand (not Ed nor I are thinking of moving there, independently or together, but it is a phrase we use when things are not favorable in our own back yards).

By the way? Just so you know, Americans love New Zealand. We all want to go there!
We’ll be happy to have you come.

Yes, but in the meanwhile, I have to write exam questions. Besides, it’s just turning cold New Zealand. Who needs that. We’re enjoying the burst of bloom here.






Ribbit, ribbit.
Oh, who are you?
Just a frog in Ed’s old truck, wondering how I can get the hell out of here. Humans have such uninspired conversations. All about dollars and cents. Ribbit.





In the background, a student-recommended song fills my acoustical spaces. I’m not a perfect person…

Really, I don’t mention the downfalls of this day because so much of it was so blasted good!