looking down

I left Ocean dangling in Paris. Maybe that’s a good way to end the story of “my winter vacation.” [I do have another vacation soon, but it’s not over the ocean. And it’s not fully a vacation, as I have to take work along. But before, we have, of course, the holiday of holidays. If I get too lost in work, will I forget about Christmas? Not likely. That day is pure joy – with daughters, and lots and lost of good food, exceptionally lovely music, and a beautiful tree to smell and admire... Oh! But where is the tree? Waiting a few more days to make its way up into our living room.]

Had I written at length about the day I left Paris, most likely I would have inserted an unreasonable number of “sighs” into the post, even though it was not a terrible day at all. Well, not terrible once we swallowed the reality of having to take a cab to the airport. One reason to love out sweet little Parisian hotel is that is very, very close to the RER train for the airport. But Paris is having RER train issues at the moment. Sigh... (see??)

Our driver had a GPS gizmo, which allowed her to see traffic patterns in the city. We zipped through in good speed. Good-bye, Paris. Sigh... (oh dear.)





You’d think I would want to complain about the series of flights we had chosen for our trip back: Paris – Amsterdam – Detroit – Madison. No, not at all. All were very pleasant. And flying into Holland is always interesting: it’s so green and wet there (what with all the canals)!





...As opposed to flying over Canada to our upper Midwestern state. We’ve switched now to a blue and white world. That’s Canada for you. [I’m sorry: I do understand that Canadians hate American stereotypes about Canada. Something to do with our continued ignorance about any country anywhere, even one just a step away. But really, Oh Canada: you do have lots of snow covering a vast portion of your territories!]






At home now. The blizzard snow of last week is yesterday’s news. There’s a frozen crust out there that tells me the snow needs a fresh dusting. Either that, or it has my permission to melt and not come back until next December 10th. Foolish thoughts. Sigh... (oops! I didn’t see that one coming!)

Looking out my window I do note a combination of greens blues and whites, but it is most assuredly a drab world out there today. Not blue enough, not green enough, not even white enough.





Here’s where I end the post. Otherwise I’d get to the next in a series of “sighs.” Even though truly, I’m happy as anything to be home for the holidays.

I'll at least have Paris...

Tuesday. I wake up at 2 in the morning. I’d been out a couple of hours, but I note that Ed is still up.

Let’s pack up and drive to Paris now.
Now?

We were to leave in the morning, but not this kind of morning, not when the sky is black and still has five hours of blackness before it.

Now? – Ed is trying to decide if I’m serious.
Yes. You haven’t slept. You might as well sleep in the car. I’ll drive and we’ll rest up once we get to Paris.

The issue for me is now my old elusive friend: time. We leave France early Wednesday morning. That’s coming up very very quickly. If we sleep through the night and drive to Paris Tuesday, that wont leave many hours for my most favorite of all cities. And I have a list of holiday shopping that I would like to do. And stores close in Paris, as in Dinan, at 7. None of this late night shopping. Late night is for food, for love, for anything but the mad flying from place to place with oversized shopping bags.

And so, in the middle of the night, we finish cleaning the apartment in Dinan, we pack, we leave a note for our landlord and we are on the road by 3 a.m..

At first I think this is a good idea. All is quiet. Empty. I have the night road to myself.

But at the same time, I’ve added hours to the trip. I avoided the highway and chose the slower roads, because the highway is so incredibly boring. But it is easy to get lost on the secondary roads. For the first few hours, Ed stays awake just to navigate us from one village to the next.

Moreover, there are relatively few gas stations in France (compared to what we’re used to in the States) and most of them close for the night. The rare one that stays open requires a European credit card.

But, I am optimistic. We are better off having left early, I say to myself.

...Until we hit the outskirts of Paris and the morning rush hour traffic. And now Ed does sleep, because there’s nothing to be gained by looking at the line of cars in front of us.

I do have an idea – why don’t I drive to our hotel and call the car rental agency? Last time they let us drop off the car in city center. It’ll save us a trip to the airport (where we’re scheduled to leave the car).

We pull up to our tiny but sweet hotel by the Luxembourg Gardens. The hotel clerk calls the rental agency. Yes, yes, drop off the car anywhere in Paris. She writes down the address of the closest agent at the Gare Montparnasse (the railway station on the left bank).

We unload the car and head for the agency. I’m a little apprehensive. I’ve dropped off any number of cars at this station and it’s never been easy. And I’ve not rented from National before. I’m not certain where to leave the car. (The address is of the office, which is not the same as the drop off point.)

I’ll spare you the uninteresting details of the next two hours. Suffice it to say that we spend this amount of time searching the boulevards and streets and cavernous innards of the Montparnasse Station. We have no cell phone (we’ve been using Skype on our computers for even local calls) and we have no card for the public phone. The street address clearly belongs to some office inside the complex maze of shops and bureaus that surround the station. We cannot find National.

We are about to return to the hotel and start from the beginning, when one lonely mechanic does remember that National has garage space four levels down, in the bowels of the public garage just up the road. Who would have known! We locate the stalls with relief, leave the car and now search the streets on foot for the agency's office.

There must have been signs of distress on my face because a woman, some Parisian person who obviously has compassion in her soul, comes up to me and asks if she can help. She lends us her cell phone so that we can get directions. And she leaves us her phone card in case we run into further trouble. Please, do not pay me. It’s nothing. She smiles, wishes us bonne chance and walks off.


Her kindness saves the day. By 12:30, we are rid of the car and keys, and we are walking back to our hotel. Life feels easy. We stop for a substantial lunch (or is it breakfast?) at the packed Café du Metro. Squeezed at a table to the side, I think how soothing it is to be doing this! Yes, travel time into Paris took nine hours instead of five, but so what – we are here and we’re eating hearty and honest foods (a peasant salad for me – with tomatoes, bacon, Catalan cheese and a poached egg) and the people watching is magnificent.




So soothing is it that I see Ed is ready to fall asleep. We return to the hotel and I know that it is better for him to stay put... I shower, take a deep breath, forget about the fact that my eyes feel dry from lack of sleep and set out to face the shops of Paris.

But not immediately. I make a small detour first to the Luxembourg Gardens. If I had to choose a favorite place in Paris, I’d have to say I love these gardens best. Though this isn’t a day to contemplate life or much of anything here, from the chairs sprinkled throughout. It is brisk outside! And here, take a look at the fountain. Did you note that half of it is covered with a thin layer of ice?








So, no takers for the chairs? That’s not entirely true. Off to the side, I see that a young woman and her partner are oblivious to the cold. Did I say partner? He is now that. He’s just handed her a small box. With something in it for her finger. Look at her reaction. Meanwhile, he’s popping a champagne cork. Good luck you two young things! May you always have time on your side.









But they are the exception. Mostly, the park is in a state of waiting. Until Sunday. Until a climb of just five degrees. The chairs and benches will fill again, children will send boats sailing at the fountain.




I’m in a hurry now. I move from one favorite store to another, selecting, rejecting, returning to the original selection. At one favorite little shop, I ask a clerk to hold an item or two until closing. That’s four hours away. I’ll be passing here before that. A bientot!

And all the time I am mindful that it is quite cold. Enough to keep the dog inside. Or at least to leave him waiting for your return.




(Then there are those who shop without ever setting foot in a car; myself, sure, and others who move around on foot, by metro, or by motorbike.)




Finally, I think I am done. As I walk back toward the shop with the held items, I notice that someone is locking up her store. Those French! Always closing earlier than they should. But then I see another doing the same. I glance at my watch. Seven. How did it get to be so late??





Ed and I eat dinner at a place that I love for many reasons: it’s fantastic food in casual, artsy surroundings, it’s stuff I could never find back home, and finally – it has a big window between the dining room and the kitchen. Each time I’ve eaten here, I am able to watch the chef. He always looks up, he always catches your eye, and he always smiles. It is an extravagant meal -- far more so than our usual choices, but it is a warm and funky place too. Ed can wear his black t-shirt and jeans. He wont stand out (except for the fit of the jeans; what can I say -- Farm & Fleet, $19).

In a Parisian variation on the Brittany theme, Ed and I order (for an appetizer) the seafood (oysters, clams) in a ginger broth. Hello, Brittany, once again.




I had wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower after dinner. But it couldn’t be. I am too tired.

We take a few steps toward the river -- not the Rance anymore. We're now by the Seine. Still, it's beautiful. Brilliantly so. I'm thinking -- rivers are so very memorable.





I take the arm of my occasional traveling companion and slowly head back, away from the river, to the little hotel by the Luxembourg Gardens.

Dinan and the River Rance

The last day in Brittany. Monday. Clear and sunny. But the winter frost has settled in during the night. Nothing serious, mind you. Nice to look at.





I step outside into the garden and note that some flowers are still holding their own. Not many, but some. (I have to say, we could not be, in the end, happier with our Dinan apartment rental. I don’t really want you there at times when I’d like to return, but for those other months, ask about the place where Nina stayed, at this site.)

But how should we tackle this day? Here’s s a challenge: do we look for breakfast (late as ever)? Do we eat dessert crepes with jam, just across the river? Or do we climb up the hill and forget that it’s breakfast? We're remembering our one and only lunch on our first day here: buckwheat crepes with scallops. Or maybe we should climb up and hike over to the bakery and the hip café that we grew to love in the course of our stay?

Well of course. The latter. So, up the hill we go. Ed pauses halfway. See this alley? Don’t you wonder where it leads? So many times we climbed here and we never noticed it! We’re rewarded now with views of the river port below, and of the old town up the hill.








And now we’re at the bakery. Bonjour Monsieur-dames (a French shortcut: greeting for the man and woman who walk in together)! Qu’est-ce-que vous desirez?

What do I desire? Another week in Brittany. A summer in Brittany. The moon. But a baguette traditionel and a pepite (flaky pastry with chocolate and crème patisserie) will please me as well.



At the café, it’s lunch hour and we hesitate about taking space for a coffee and our own bakery treats. But the waiters here are superb and they encourage us to come in and sit at our old table. Ed “reads” and I watch, transfixed by the utter professionalism of these men.









Still, the afternoon is quickly speeding away from me. One last sip, one last glance. And now we’re moving briskly. Down the hill...




...where we retrieve our Smart little car. The idea was to hike the coast of the River Rance. It's interesting that we are so close to the sea and yet we have settled into river life, being loath now to leave it.

We drive up to Langolay-sur-Rance (maybe fifteen kilometers up from Dinan). We want to pick up the hiking trail there, but it’s hard. We don’t have good maps and the trail’s intersection with the road is not well marked.

Still, there is a lovely view of the wide at this point River Rance. Like in the Finistere, the tide works its way several miles down into the river basin. It’s low tide now.





...And still we cannot figure out where to start our walk.

Tick tock...

I suggest we stop looking and drive to the next village. By our most general map, the road goes down to the water and so does the trail. We can’t not find it.




Indeed, not only do we locate the trail, but we also encounter a group of hikers. Seniors, actually. Maybe a dozen. Where are you from? – I ask, curious about who would choose to straddle these coastal hills on a cold (it’s midthirties at best) December afternoon. From St Malo! Just across the river. There you go – it’s for the sport, isn’t it? I don’t ask what is their average daily consumption of le tele, or of frites for that matter. It’ll be less than mine and I’m not a big tele person.

They’re heading south, we’re heading north and so we bid au revoir by the heels of the Virgin Mary (at least I think it’s the Virgin Mary) and set out.




I can’t say that it is a warm trudge. The trail cuts through the woodlands midway up the bluff and we are on the western shore. Translation: there’s not much light, let alone sunlight here. The views are pretty, but the night’s frost hasn’t entirely melted away.




The trail moves away from the water for a few miles and now we do have the low sun on our backs as we admire the shapely trees and the... what? Fields of cauliflower? Collards?








Back to the river’s edge and onto another village...

...and the next one. The river is in the shadows of dusk now.

Tick tock....




It’s time to turn back. It’s past 4 and the sun does its disappearing act between 5 and 5:30, which gives us just a little over an hour of good walking light. If we swallow our pride and take the auto road rather than the coastal path, we should make it back to the car in good time.

I’m thinking -- it’s been a glorious week. Sigh... Ah well... Tomorrow, I’ll still have Paris.

But I should insert one caveat here: just after we passed the Virgin Mary some hours back, I asked Ed – did you take the map?
No... did you?
No...
I suppose we don’t need it. It’s not much good. Too general. Just lists the villages...

Alright. And now we walk along the road, in the silence of deep satisfaction. Another good day.
















We reach the first houses along the road. We go left, then right, then left again. Toward the river bank, past one set of houses, past another. Down the bluff, to the river.

So why isn’t there a Virgin Mary at the point where the road meets the river?

We look around. Strange – none of it is familiar. Where the hell are we?

Three old women are strolling along where the water sends wavelets onto the shore. What should I ask? I don’t know the name of the village or road where we parked. I don’t know anything at all, except that we are by the River Rance – a river that flows in an uncomplicated fashion so that, walking along its edge you cannot get lost. It is logically impossible to get lost.

Except that we are terribly lost. And the sun is touching the horizon.



Tick tock...

I ask one of the three – the oldest one actually, the one with pink cheeks and deep lines of maturity -- the trail is here, no? I see the markings. But where is the statute? You know, of the Virgin Mary. The one at the bottom of the road with the red lamp posts?
The Virgin Mary? Of, yes, I know. Yes. But really, it is far away!
So we can get there by taking this path?
Yes, I believe so...

We pick up the trail. The sun is gone. There are no more shadow. Ten minutes – Ed says – and we turn around.

Neither of us understands how it is that we could be in completely unfamiliar territory. But if we overshot the village by a great distance, we should not be out on a path that cuts through a steep bluff by the river. We should be back on the road, flagging cars, asking for directions... to somewhere with red lamp posts and the Virgin Mary.

Twenty minutes later and we still see nothing that is familiar. No road, no village. Ed says – let’s turn back.
I hesitate. I know we will not die by the River Rance. But we may well have to claw and grope our way back on all fours if we don't soon get ourselves into recognizable terrain.

But I believe the old ladies. We move forward, careful not to trip in the dimming light.

And finally, around the bend, we see it: village lights. The road leading to the river’s age. The faint outline of the statue.



Of course, logic wins every time. We simply took the wrong turn. At a place where the land juts out in a sweeping stretch away from the village itself. We could see that on the map. Once we found the car and looked at the map. (The car was right by this house:)



We drive back in the dark Brittany night. It’s getting close to seven. Stores will be closing soon. Dinan will become very quiet.

We’ll be eating crepes tonight – up there, at the top of the cobbled way. We stroll with the relief of being safe, on streets where we don’t need maps anymore.

What dessert do you want? Ed asks suddenly.
Dessert?
I was thinking maybe we could go down to the bakery and see if they had those mille feuilles we had the other day in Dinard.

Down to the other side of town, Stores are closing, but our bakery stays open. 7:30. We close at 7:30. No, they don’t have the mille feuille. Days don’t end in perfect bundles.

But, there are lemon tarts still on the shelf and really, we could use a baguette traditionel for the car ride to Paris tomorrow.

We’ve utterly strange pests at the bakery – me, waving my camera, Ed, stuffing the baguette each day into my pack. And then, suddenly, we will not show up anymore. I say good bye, but I skip the a bientot (see you soon). The ladies there who sometimes crack a smile (but often do not) will not see us again, nor we them.

The creperie we choose for the last evening meal...



... comes highly recommended, but we’re not smitten with it. We had our own favorite.

We do our final walk down the cobbled hill.




For a week we lived in Brittany. It’s time to return home.

and suddenly...

Perhaps you worried that the Ocean author had disappeared into the now thin and crispy Brittany air? (It is crispy now. It is at its crispest. In the morning, we awoke to a thin layer of frost.)

No, not that. But I’ll say this for now: life seemed pretty easy up there, in Brittany, until the travel gods decided to stir things up a bit for us. Suddenly, it all became rather tricky. Truly, were it not for the lovely old ladies (and I mean old: many decades older than Ed or myself) on the water’s edge outside of Dinan, and were it not for the angelic somewhat younger woman outside the Gare Montparnasse in Paris, Ed and I would not have had the good outcome that we can, in fact, boast of now, at the end of out trip here.

I cannot write about it at the moment. I am in a lovely albeit tiny hotel in Paris and the Eiffel Tower is just minutes away and all is (finally) calm, all is bright, or so they say. But I haven’t the spare minutes to even look at the Tower. I am catching my breath and packing my bag so that we can pick up our flights out of here soon. (Ed is sleeping. Adventure or not, a day, for him, cannot end without a decent spell of sleep.)

I’ll resume tomorrow. Come back then. I’ll explain why it is that you should always be prepared for mishaps. And you should, when traveling, take them with a smile. They are, after all, what you remember years from now when you think about that December trip to Brittany....



night comes quickly by the River Rance


...followed by a few hours in Paris...



driving in at dawn

More later.

Sunday en Bretagne: la vie en rose

Sunday. I step outside. Brisk. The fires are lit, the stoves are burning.




Overnight, the French made significant adjustments to their attire. Whereas at the start of the week-end, only half wore scarves (and I should note that there are those here who wear a scarf year round), by this morning, not many flaunted a bare neck to the elements.

The elements were not especially threatening, but the temperatures dropped and the wind kicked in. I would put it at an “upper thirties” level. A warm spell by Wisconsin winter standards, but nippy for the French man or woman. And let me emphasize this (are you listening, Ed?): it is not a sign of weakness to wear a scarf. Men and women guard that larynx. How else would you be able to carry on the many conversations you typically have in the course of a day?



at the marché de Noel in Taden


The routine has been set: we leave at noon in search of a breakfast. Today we climb up to the center and then down to the other side of town just to pick up a breakfast pastry at our very favorite bread place. We feel we owe support to the Mesdames who somehow always have a hot baguette traditionel there at the counter when we show up.

Not that they need our support. At noon, the line had formed. Which is fine. It gives us time to think about what would be best. We settle for, among other things, a slice of this:





Just around a corner, a café-bar appears inviting. Up to now, I had taken to ordering my café crème at a small place with a lot of horse betting traffic. The coffee was good and there were always spare newspapers for Ed to “read.” But the café we enter now is different. The clientele is more, should I say maybe “hip?” Stylish, in a lively Breton way. The scarves have flair. The buzz is around something other than horses.





I ask if I can take out our pastries and as always, I'm reassured with a biensur! We eat and people watch. It is so pleasant not to see a row of computers (the norm at Madison cafés) and to hear, instead, animated voices. (It must be the scarf effect.)





Sundays in France (and I know I have said this in previous posts) charm me no end. If the weather is at all favorable, the towns and cities spill out, as people fill every conceivable communal space. If you choose to join in on this mass outdoor promenade (with refreshment time thrown in), you feel like you are indeed part of something far bigger than just your own preoccupations.

But all this does not happen until after the time of le dejeuner (the big midday meal). And so at midday, the streets are only moderately alive. (I see many who have been charged with picking up the baguette for the meal -- a task made even more pleasant by the availability of so many places to pause along the way for a quick refreshment.) We take a brief stroll through the old town center, admiring the shops from the outside (and, for Ed, the cat on the inside).








But as we are nearing the end of our time in Brittany (we leave early Tuesday), time is suddenly very precious and I no longer want to simply drift through the day. I have plans.

There are two big items set for this day: a hike up to Taden, the next village along the River Rance, and an evening of gift shopping at Dinan.


Still, the minute we hit a good stride along the river path, I begin to have doubts. Yes, it’s sunny, but I have become softened by the gentle winter and the warm interiors (the French heat their indoor spaces to my preferred level of warmth – some ten degrees higher than you’re likely to find in, say, Madison). I am feeling a bit nipped by the Breton breeze there, by the Rance.













But, I recall the words of Monsieur the other day (courage! It’s for the sport!) and I trudge forth. The French, for all their love of warm scarves and toasty interiors, do take to le sport in no light manner. This morning, we had quite the commotion outside our apartment as groups of young and old enthusiasts carried boats back and forth for a quick spin.





Now, as we briskly walk in the northern direction, I notice that the Rance is wider here. There are water fowl to admire, too. Shy creatures that take one look at you and swim away.





Our walk has a destination. The village of Taden is hosting a Christmas market. I’ve read the ads for it: nearly 80 stalls of foods, gift items, hot wine, cold wine, champagne... the typical attractions.

We turn away from the river and walk up the hill toward the village.





At the fair, we taste and compare honey cakes and wines and champagnes, and I purchase all the above (you’re going to carry that back? – this from Ed. Of course! Backpacks were meant for bottles of champagne sold by Monsieur le producteur himself. As always, I’m quite smitten with the idea of buying food straight from the person who made it).





At the side, there is a bouncing area set up for kids...





...but mostly, children here stay dutifully at their parents' side. I always am struck by how strong the lure of family is here. Children don’t rock the boat. I've wondered if it is because their school days are so long and their parent time is, therefore, too short in the course of the week. In any case, fussing is rarely tolerated.





(My daughters will remind me that the no fussing allowed bit was the norm at our house too. As were the scarves. In these small ways, I suppose, we were quite French-like.)

The holiday market is crowded and we do not stay long. I think Ed is a little puzzled by it all. Holidays are a mystery to him and people coming together to crowd a Manoir courtyard and rub shoulders with each other, given that they could wander, instead, in the vast beautiful spaces around us has to be a little odd. I explain to him that it’s for the joy of being together, sipping hot mulled wine and eating bits of honey cake.





It’s for the fleeting encounter with Santa – who in this country is always quite thin and has a beard made of excessively coiffed curls.









And for a look at the newest in caps and hats (Breton older men appear to favor the cap that you see in the first two rows, whereas the middle aged often appear in the rimmed hat).





A food day, a family and friend day. A stroll in the fresh air day. Markers of a good week-end day.


As we walk back toward the river, momentarily lost even here, on roads that give every indication that we are headed in the right direction...





...I drift momentarily into a review of my Sunday routines back home: clean house, work, eat a hastily thrown together meal. If the weather is superb, we will hike, bike or ski, but these hours will be squeezed out of an otherwise overburdened day. I shake off that reality and concentrate on the other one: that sometimes, not too infrequently, I have the good fortune of being able to place myself in these other worlds, where people treat Sunday regally. Up there with Christmas and birthdays, it seems. Every Sunday is a holiday.

We walk back along the river toward Dinan, shouting out an occasional bonjour to the families we pass along the way. The light is fading, but I don't feel the cold anymore. The wind has died down. An evening calm has set in.

















At the Dinan river port, the night lights have already been turned on.





We climb up the hill and join the stream of pedestrian traffic in the old town. We buy chocolates and I make a few other small holiday purchases. Our plan had been to eat a supper of crepes, but the creperies are closed for the evening. We go back to yesterday’s little restaurant in the port across the river and order pizza. With veggies and a dollop of crème fraiche to make it just a little bit more of a Breton pizza (Brittany is seafood along the coast, and all about cows, fruits and vegetables as you head inland).





Again, I cannot help but express the feeling of contentment. It may be the country air, the fresh and honest food, the carafe of wine. The pink and rosy glassware, throwing pink and rosy hues on the table -- that may be it too.