pink cloves and sunny skies

I should have purchased the garlic...

Well, garlic is garlic. And moreover, Wisconsin has garlic. Plenty of it. But this garlic – it was so fragrant and so very pretty! Rose toned, held in bundles – garlic to be proud of.





I’m not much into souvenirs these days, but I do like to bring interesting foods home. And at the market this morning, I was smitten with the garlic.


Thursday is market day in Dinan. It is such a big event in my otherwise delightfully slow paced day that I could hardly sleep. Market day! Wake up! -- I shout this more than once at sunrise. Ed is somewhat less excitable. It takes a while to push him out.

Overnight, the skies cleared. All but the morning fog that gently coats the already wet landscape.





Up the hill we hike, hurrying, because on market day, everyone hurries (in an unhurried French sort of way). The town is absolutely buzzing. The feeling is of some big event, of a holiday in the making. Except that the holiday is not anything at all. It’s just a regular old shopping for food day. Sort of like getting all in a dither about going to Woodman’s.




Lines form – for the chickens, the country breads (because the bakeries here don’t produce sufficiently wonderful bread?), the cheeses, the cauliflower. The leeks, the lettuce, the onions. (And garlic. Don’t forget the garlic.) Pots of flowers.

















We buy food for breakfast and lunch. Yogurt, cheese, tomatoes. Olives and pickled mushrooms. Macaroons and tarts.






















But on the bread, Ed holds back. Can we go back to last night’s restaurant? Why? They had the best bread ever. (I would agree: we ate two baskets of it. And they had to refill the little tub with Normandy butter. Neither Ed nor I could resist it).

We walk back toward the brasserie, past gloriously alive streets, past cafés where people brave the winter air and sit outside...





At the restaurant they smile at us as we come in. Ah. The people who ate all that bread and butter. Or maybe – the people who ate every last snail and left nothing on their dessert plates. I ask timidly about the bread.

Oh yes, it is good. It’s from the boulangerie just across the street. See it there? With the yellow awning. Ask for the pain traditionel.

Talk about buying local!

We go to the bakery, praise their bread to high heaven and bag the loaf in my pack. Walking back to the river port, we stop at a charcouterie, were, besides pork products you can pick up a great looking tomato, cucumber and egg salad (we get a tubful).

And the chocolate shop. The one where I had photographed this plate of chocolate everything (including the plate and tumbler).





We buy a bar of milk chocolate with spice cake (yes it has pieces of spice cake in it) and bits of bitter orange.

Finally we are ready for breakfast. At noon again. We go back to the café where, on our first morning here, we were told that by all means, we can eat our bakery purchased treats with the café crème. Today I pull out a sack with an apple almond tart for Ed and a red berry almond tart for myself, monsieur brings my coffee and I feel the power of good food and warm café air overtake me. Ed, less emotionally charged, sits back and reads the local paper. (He always spends a great while on this effort even though he speaks not a word of French. I’ve never questioned what exactly he gets from it. The vignette of him studying carefully an incomprehensible French word is somehow sweetly charming. It never fails to make me smile.)

Down the hill now. With my pack full of market foods.




But as we enter our apartment and I unpack, I am reminded of the garlic. I should have purchased the garlic.

You want to go back?
Up that hill? Should I? The market may be over. It’s supposed to be a morning thing. It is now 1.
You want that garlic, don’t you?

I turn around and head back up the hill. Past lace curtained windows, past lace curtained doors. At a panting trot, that’s a fifteen minute climb.








The streets are still alive, but the pace is slower. People aren't rushing. They're strolling now. Shopping's done. Midday meal is done with.





I am at the square just as the vendors are finishing packing up their vans. I see one crate of garlic, but it’s not THE pink toned garlic. The vendor watches as I hesitate. It’s great garlic! She shouts. Yes but...

I hurry forward. There’s my garlic girl! All packed and ready to jump in behind the wheel. Excuse me, can you still spare some bunches of garlic? But of course! She smiles and reaches into the bowels of the van. Voila!

I trot back down, delighted. (But also a little apprehensive; my pack is fragrant with garlic fumes. What will this do to my suitcase?)

Down to the port-facing timbered house -- where we occupy the ground floor (see it there? Looking out on the river path? Yes, that's an artist painting. Such a French scene, no?)





Ed is ready for lunch, presented in the way that he likes it best – roughly spread out on the bed, with laptops not too far away.

We eat our midday meal.


The rest of the day? We made some decisions about excursions for the days ahead. That took a lot of effort! Spent, we opted for a leisurely evening. Up the hill, a stroll through the old town and pizza for dinner.




Walking home late in the evening, we watch the fog roll in.

from Dinan

We sleep at odd hours and neither of us is making an attempt to set our clocks straight. I fade away in the early night, sure, after dinner, but then I am up, working, until almost predawn. And then I fade again, succumbing to sleep until most of the morning is gone. It is a long and wonderful rest.

Our apartment is on the river road. Access here is limited to the “riverains” -- those who live by the river. That means we get almost no traffic at all, which is good, because the bedroom faces the road (and the living room and garden look out onto the river).

I say “almost” no traffic, because there is road work further up the river road, and we hear back hoes and mini excavators going by fairly regularly during working hours. Blissfully short, here, in France, with a long pause for lunch. The machines roll by just a few feet from our window. Most certainly I could poke them with a broomstick without getting out of bed.

In spite of this, we sleep soundly. Lulled by the luxury of having no preset internal alarm urging me to get going, be on time, get going.

The downside of this unscheduled life? It is past noon today by the time we stumble out into the world. Here’s an important question: what do you even eat if you begin your day at 1? People are filling the bars and restaurants, cider is poured, or, in the alternative, wine is uncorked. Beefsteak and frites placed before a hungry lunch crowd and I am still craving my cup of café crème.

Surely the numerous creperies here are meant for people (like us) who can't tell the difference between morning and afternoon. We order galettes (buckwheat crepes) with eggs and now we fit right into the stream of life here. Only my café crème is a little off. But then, I carry a camera. I’m one of those. I’m excused.










It’s the last of the warm and wet days in Brittany this year (so I read). Whereas in Madison, a blizzard rages, here the temperatures have hovered in a narrow range of forties and fifties. Initially today, it is wet enough for me to take out an umbrella. But not for long.

We walk first along the river bank. Ed has been wanting to do his usual inspection of boats along the water’s edge.





And then, as before, we climb up the hill to Dinan center. The idea is that we should walk along the ramparts that encircle the town (or at least its historic center). It is a leisurely, at times muddy, at times quiet and serene, at times melodic walk (with strains of Auld Lang Syne coming in through a loudspeaker somewhere).





Halfway, Ed finds a bench and takes a moment to consider his surroundings (this is a habit of his when hiking – a charming Juhn Muirian kind of thing, I think). I wander off to inspect a row of flowering trees (yes, I am in northern Europe... such is the gentleness of Brittany: rough seas surround a very mellow and forever green landscape); he gets up slowly to join me. Within minutes a group of men gather near the same bench for a game of petanque (an import here from Provence).





You could spend a day just looking at this bench and watching the Breton world unfold, right here, by the old ramparts. And it would be, in my view, a beautiful day. But, we have more to see, more ramparts to circumvent, more Dinan life to look in on. Children singing Christmas songs in school (strains of “We wish you a merry Christmas” spill out onto the street). Artists, sketching scenes of squirrels and holiday trees. December in Dinan. Sometimes visible to the passerby. Sometimes hidden behind a holiday lace curtain.












In one shop, I see a seamstress working. I knock on the door. Might you know where I can get some yarn or thread in Dinan? Yes, yes, of course, there is just such a place. She gives me directions and Ed and I take a detour. I have an errand there for a friend. We find it easily: a tiny shop that couldn’t be more precious and colorful. Ed whispers -- is color ever not beautiful here?





I buy what I think is right and this takes more time than you could imagine because time now stretches for me without boundaries. The only constraints are hunger and light.

It is not yet dusk, but we are, by now, hungry. And that is good news indeed. I see food I want to eat constantly here. When I ask myself – am I really hungry to warrant this additional indulgence, most often I have to admit that I am not. But this time we give in. We are just around the corner from a terrific bakery – a biologique (organic) artisanal place with Breton pastries and breads.





We split the apple tart and walk away quickly before an imagined hunger nudges us to make another selection.

Back to the ramparts. Back to people watching, window shopping (that Breton lace!), back to smelling the dampness, to admiring the winter berries and blooms.






























And now the loop is completed. We are at the point of our cobbled walk down to the port. One last look over the old town...









... and we head back to our apartment by the water.


But in the late evening we turn around and climb up again. You’d think that we’d reconsider. The mist is crawling up the river bank. I reach for my umbrella.





But I am hungry for that plate of Breton seafood. The one that needs my full attention, because there are shrimp to peel and oysters to slurp and snails to pull out. The one that I have been thinking about for months, because it’s been way too long since I have said – don’t make me eat another snail! (A Breton seafood plate will always have more snails of varying sizes than you could possibly want.)

We walk along the wet cobbles, dazzled as always, by the strings of holiday lights.




We pass a large and fairly busy brasserie with great big terrace windows looking out on the town. We gratefully accept a table by the window and I order my Breton plate and because this is considered only a starter, I follow it by a seafood choucroute – three different fish in a pot of boiled potatoes and sauerkraut.









Honestly, no one could be hungry after that. But our fixed price dinner (a modestly priced one at 19 Euros, tax and tip included; oh, and 8 Euros for a pitcher of wine) comes with dessert and so I continue. A lemon tart is indeed the perfect ending.





Except that I really cannot finish it with the pleasure it deserves. French people do not take doggie bags of leftovers home. They finish what they like. And I do not want to suggest that this is anything but delicious. I sneak a Kleenex and I gently wrap the remains of my tart and Ed’s flan and discreetly place them in my pack.

The drizzle has almost stopped now. The holiday street lights have been turned off for the night. The town is quiet. We walk the cobbled way down to the river port, content, grateful.

both sides of the River Rance

It’s rush hour in and around Dinan – insofar as the French are ever really in a rush. We hike up into the village on our side of the river, finding the going rather uninteresting here. It’s one of those things: we are technically residing in Lanvallay, but the walk up to its commercial heart (two bakeries, two café bars, a tabac and an epicerie; oh, and a hair dresser) is longer than the walk to big Dinan’s hilltop center (population: circa 11,000).

But we like knowing even the plainness of our surroundings. There is a misty drizzle, though it's not really cold. It is indeed one reasons why I love Brittany so much. The weather is mild, never extreme. The south of France gets the winter winds that chill the socks off of you. In Brittany, life is always moderated by the gulf stream.

At the bakery, there is a small gathering: standing, waiting for the evening bread to come out of the oven. Should we get something? No, no. We can’t eat our way through this place.

We’re at the supermarket that's along the main road just outside the village. Not many customers here. Still, it's well stocked. I’m looking at rows and rows of rosés. Ed is searching for the local apple juice. We find it among crates of produce (pears from the region of Lyon, apples from Normandy). But it’s not just apple juice (I call it juice here even though it's our cider; in Brittany, I can’t say cider, because cider is always with alcohol). It’s pink lady apple juice. And granny smith apple juice. And so on.



Ed has me read the descriptions. I can see how people get into this with wine! It’s rather captivating. He selects the “Tentation” Apple – "mildly acidic, but on the sweet side of the continuum. Leaves you with a sense of tarte tatin (apple upside down cake)."

We walk up and down the aisles, looking for the little things that would make this a French supermarket. There are many to smile at. Okay, language, sure. But also the content of labels. Boxes of soup that spell out the percentage of each vegetable pureed within. 14% carrot, 12% leek. And so on. Then there is the chestnut spread. Cheap, Ed comments, checking the label to make sure it's really mainly about chestnuts. It is. But wait: there is one and only one type of snack chip. Potato. One wee bag. Don't Bretons love chips and TV as much as we do?? Finally we find the foods for the immigrant, separately placed, much as we segregate our Mexican foods back home. Except here, it's shelves of British foods. Oh British food! Digestives (cookies). Worcestershire Sauce. Lemon curd. Their own orange marmalade. Life's necessities.

Walking back to the apartment, we pass the second bakery. The line is forming here, too. Next door, at the epicerie, we admire the salmon, the salads. Sort of what delis used to be like back home - Ed comments. Not anymore. We prefer to shop for everything in our big markets. Here, so long as you’re stopping for bread at the bakery, you may as well go next door to pick up shrimp. Or a salad.


Food. That reminds me. Earlier, there was lunch. Oh, now let me completely go back in time. To the morning, when we woke up to a day view of the River Rance.





Crossing the bridge, we begin the long hike up that pretty cobbled street you saw here last night.





Our riverside road has a bakery and a few bars, but they’re closed. Our landlord explains – many businesses close now for a week or two. They like a break before the Christmas holidays. Of course they do.

Up we go. The climb is steep. We almost change weather systems by the time we reach the center of town – from the partly sunny skies that greeted us just minutes ago, to the cloudy misty air that will keep us company for the rest of the day.


















looking down at the river port where we are staying


Holidays in France. There isn’t the shopping flurry here. Not for another week or so. But the mood of Christmas is vividly with us.





We stop for a pain au chocolat and café crème at a bar and then we meander.

Dinan is a lovely old place and even Ed, who is no fan of towns on any side of any ocean, is charmed by it. Medieval, quiet, moody and imposing, it is one of Brittany’s best. And now, it is free of the tourists that, in the summer, come in for the day, pick at the foods and souvenirs and leave to get closer to the sea. Dinan is a passing through kind of place. That was me once. (Diana, remind me: what ghastly period of years ago were we here?) Not today. Today, I can pretend to be a resident.



















By noon, I am craving lunch. At home, I never eat this meal. Too busy, too mindful of the big dinner at the end of the day. But here, I cannot pass it by. We tell ourselves: a few more churches to explore, a few more passageways to go through and we’ll stop and do as the French do. Or at least as the old Bretons do. Because if you look inside the numerous creperies and moules frites restaurants, at midday, the clientele is going to be, well, our age. (Younger people in this neck of France so often eat at home.) We order the north coast special: la galette – a savory crepe made with buckwheat flour. It takes me only fifteen minutes to decide on the filling. (I finally settle for local scallops and leeks.) The beverage, a local cider (yes, cider) is, of course, the drink of choice.





You would think that this would tide me over until the next day. So wrong. By late evening, we are climbing up to Dinan’s heart again. Almost empty now, near 9 pm. The older people are replaced at the eateries by a younger crowd. We stop at a moules frites place (how many ways can you steam mussels? According to our menu, some two dozen; I opt for the moules in the Brittany style: the broth has wine, onion, cream and tiny shrimp; Ed's happy with a broth of wine, onions and mushrooms).





Night time. Quiet time here, along the river's edge. How many times can I photograph the river? With lights and reflections that take your breath away? Oh, so many.

twelve snails

Yes, you can read it on the bottle label: we are in the land of snails and cider. We are in perhaps my favorite corner of the continent. We are in Brittany.

We’ve hiked the Granit Rose Coast of this province some years back and not too long ago we spent splendid days at the western most tip of Brittany (Finistere – or, appropriately, land’s end). But when asked where in France I would most like to return to in the short, wet days of December, I thought at once of the River Rance (at the eastern end of Brittany), just as it completes its final twists and turns before spilling out into La Manche (the Channel).


the old river port of Dinan (our apartment is here)


It was a sleepy drive out here. Not wanting to navigate the indescribably complicated roads and alleys of Brittany late at night, we choose to take the quick highway route. I drive, Ed dozes, Ed drives, I doze and so it continues for five hours as the rains come down and the music of Rogers and Hammerstein fills the car. It is an odd choice of radio station in France, I know, but there is much to be said for a rousing rendition of when you walk through a storm, keep your chin up high... as the wipers of our sweet and Smart car automatically adjust themselves to the rain and splash of passing cars.

[No, no, don’t cry again! This from Ed, who is too used to seeing the tears well when music fills our spaces.
I can’t help it!
Indeed. I grew up on Carousel. Or at least on Jan Clayton singing every song that there is to be sung from Carousel. I had asked for the movie soundtrack when I was a kid and my mother, not knowing that it mattered, chose this discount version for a buck at Sam Goody's.
And now I start in on the familiar what’s the use of wondering, if he’s good or if he’s bad, he’s your feller and you love him, that’s all there is to that!
Ed shakes his head. I now see what the problem is here: you picked up the needle of the record player and replayed your favorite songs over and over, until you started to believe the lyrics!
Really. My occasional traveling companion thinks he has me figured out.
I go on to my little girl, is half again as bright as girls are meant to be...
I didn't buy into all of the lyrics. Just the ones that had to do with boys. And walking through storms at night.]


As we approach the town of Dinan, I'm thinking that the drive had a smooth middle and a complicated beginning and an unresolved ending.

At the car rental desk, we stubbornly reminded the clerk that we booked a mini. No upgrades, please, please no upgrades! We love the little car on this side of the ocean and if we have to rent, we do want just that, even if it takes the agent a while to bring one down from some far away lot and even if we have to relearn how to drive it.

[It’s automatic shifting! I tell Ed.
I mean, I think it’s automatic. There’s no clutch. But wait, there are gears and the dashboard is flashing warnings that I should switch!
Try that button!
Switching gears by the push of a button. Cool. Oh, and look, if I press this button, it goes into Automatic! Clever!]

But some things are just too smart for any of us. Not Ed, not myself (small wonder), nor the rental agent can figure out how to open the hatch. We give up and stick the suitcase in through the window.

Some 450 kilometers later, I slow down at an intersection. I stop. The car stalls. At the next intersection I stop again. The car stalls again. To be resolved: how do you stop an Eco Smart sort of automatic but sort of not without stalling? Or, will it be like the hatch? Forever a mystery?


And so we are at the old river port of Dinan. And the apartment is as good as the Internet promised it would be.




And at night, the holiday lights twinkle and the old stones glisten after the rains.

from somewhere on the other side of the ocean

Picture this (but do it without a photo in front of you): the plane takes off, leaving a field of sparkling city lights behind. The champagne rolls down the aisle, then the food trays with wine from the Pays d'Oc. The movie selection is large and Ed loses himself behind his screen. He wont emerge until the breakfast trays are put before us. He's comfortable. We have finally managed to get the precious to him bulkhead and exit row seats. His legs stretch out so far that the attendant has to ask him to pull back a little. She needs to sit down for take off and landing just about where his toes touch the wall.

And this: the clouds are misty, diffuse. The land below is patched with brown and green fields. The tall trees along the roads are skinny and bare. Their shadows fall in even rows -- visible now, in spite of the hazy morning air.

We land. We pause at the airport to shower and eat good breads and drink rich coffee, with a wallop of milk. Oh, and melon juice at the side.

That's my last handful of hours. Nothing more, nothing less.

two snails

And so we’re off. At a turtle’s crawl. I submitted my final finals, I cleaned, I packed, I googled driving routes for tomorrow and then I looked at the clock. An hour to go with nothing left on the list. This is so unlike me!

I wait.

Ed shows up with his backpack – the same old sack he lugs through the Rockies, through New York City – the one size fits all bag that must be as old as he is.

We have found a way to use public transportation to get to the Madison airport, but it takes time. Our bus meanders almost grudgingly. A poky, Sunday bus. Letting out passengers, one, two at a time, until, nearly empty, it arrives at the north hub, where it then waits lackadaisically until the hour seems right to head out again.






And now we are at the airport. Going through the rituals of travel. Hand over bag, show pass, take out everything, take off a lot, pass through, find gate, sit down.


This is how the day lolls along. Swaying to the music of a quiet little song.

I’m in Detroit now, waiting (five hours! Oh the beauty of finding the best fares!) for our late flight out, enjoying the graciousness of the Delta folks who have decided to open up their lounge today for us (I’d been barred for several years now; nothing personal they say, just my uncool preference for a frequent flyer program with an outlier airline; what can I say, they reward me faster over there!). Feet up, book next to me, crackers and cookies on a plate nearby.

Leisure. Two weeks ago that word was so foreign to me! Let me repeat it, because it sounds so strange and beautiful – leisure. A brief interlude of time, before it disappears again.

reviewing the possibilities

A number of weeks back, when we were both in New York, I asked my occasional traveling companion, Ed, if empty Manhattan apartments should perhaps be converted into furnished short terms rentals.

Not so easy – he tells me.
Why not? – I want to know. Hotels n NY are outrageously expensive. Personally, I would rather have a small apartment at a better price, so long as it was clean and in a good and safe enough location.
Not so easy – he repeats.
But we live in the age of the Internet. Couldn’t a landlord list availability there? What could be easier?
Scams. It's a problem. Say you're Internet savvy. You want to make a quick buck. You pick a Craig's listing, you put it up as your own, you collect the money in advance and you disappear, leaving many befuddled renters without a place to drop their bags.


Remember. This was s few weeks back. There is an updated version of this same conversation and it goes something like this:

Sweetie (that’s what you call your occasional traveling companion when you know you're stepping outside his comfort zone) – the landlord for that rental next week? He would like a damage deposit through paypal.

We have already paid this dude up front everything, and now there’s this.

He’ll give it back if we don’t damage anything...
Nina – (that’s what you call your traveling companions when you want to let her know that perhaps her actions aren't of the prudent sort) how do you know this guy’s for real? And not merely a scam?

I do not have an answer to this. I mean, I trust that he’s legitimate. Capitalism would not develop if you didn’t enter the marketplace with a trusting heart.


Now, speed forward to this day – the day before we leave, ready to lay claim to an apartment, rented over the Internet, without any guarantee that the place really exists.

But I can’t worry about that. I have a mountain-load of work to do. And a good half day of work at the little shop. And a tree to purchase and gingerbread cookies to procure for the holidays.








Once again, it is late as I sit down to write here on Ocean. But I think this is the last of the sleepy posts for the year. Tomorrow, I stop the cycle. I’ll be on the road. Or in flight, or actually both.

Until then, good night.

on finding the going to be icy

Icy tones, brittle surfaces, sharp edges, slippery surfaces. How unpleasant!

Some people are not bothered. Snow? No problem. They soldier on.




Me, I’m bothered. I know, I know. It’s not as if there’s one huge iceberg out there.





Not even bergy bits.

Indeed, even the little lake remains fluid.





I noted this driving to work from the airport. I’ve made a lot of trips to the airport lately. Daughters coming and going – that kind of thing.

Looking at the lake and shore from the east is lovely if you’re used to always gazing at it from the lake path on the west. I like the change.

Still, it’s cold out there. Absence of birgy bits notwithstanding.