Adventures near Auray and Afar

24 Octobre 2011

Sometimes I just happen to have incredible luck, despite the tales of woe that I subject my loyal readers to on this site.  This past summer I happened to catch wind of the fact that the sailing team from Maine Maritime Academy in Castine, Maine was planning on attending a regatta at La Trinité-sur-Mer, in the province of Brittany.  Well, that was all well and good, but I wasn’t about to be trucking my tookus down to just watch some sailboat races by myself.  Not long after I learned that my bosses at Clifton Dock were planning on renting a house to watch the races, and BOOM: interest sparked.  

As the fall went on I emailed Jane and learned more about the event, and even received an invitation to come and stay with them at the house they were renting.  Well, the time finally arrived on the 24^th, when we left Paris’ Gare Montparnasse at 8:05 am to come to Auray, pick up a rental car, and then find the rental house after spending Friday together.  Having led a Death March around Paris on Friday, the early Saturday train ride was a welcome relief for everyone’s feet.  When I ran down the quai on Saturday morning I was convinced that I was going to miss the train, having only really woken up an hour before, taken what could be in the running for the world’s fastest shower, and then metro’ed myself to the train station with incredible luck.  Not only did I get there in time, and even got on the train before it left.  Major success.

A bit more than three hours later we were in Auray, the 6 of us, hoping to stumble up on Europcar location, the Hertz of France.  Upon arriving we saw lots of cars in all shapes and sizes, and we all assumed we had the biggest van in the parking lot, a large boxy thing that would hold 8, meaning space for the luggage and for us.  Jane and I went in to get things straightened out with the lady at the desk, and she literally turned white when she realized that all of us and our luggage had to fit in the car we’d reserved.  As Sweet Uncle Lew would say: You can’t fit a five pound tit in a three pound bag, and we definitely had a three pound bag.  Well, the crisis was averted by renting a second car, but it also came with a lesson.  When renting cars in France, there are two options: a car for 6 people, or a car for six people and their luggage.  I don’t remember the exact French term, but it basically boiled down to including a personal bubble space or not.  

Two cars later, we were on the road, with me as copilot (the stresses of being the one person who can read the street signs), a GPS on the dash, and a map in hand.  After giving everyone a nice tour of Auray by circling the city center about 3 times (obviously on purpose), we were on the road to La Trinité-sur-Mer, and the house at 35 rue Carnac.  We arrived in good shape, and then my second job reared its French head: translating between a French man and the people who had rented ⅓ of his his house/compound/condo-thing.  He was a great person and was very animated.  I learned all about his house, the electricians, the things that went well and the places where the architects screwed up.  He gave demonstrations of every volet (shutter) in the house, and how to close them all, ensuring that we’d be able to sleep in absolute darkness, and also gave a thorough tour of each drawer and cupboard in the kitchen.  About 45 minutes later were through with our tour and had our bags into the house.  

While one car drove to the harbor, the rest of the people walked about 15 minutes to the port.  We met up, looked at the boats (easily over a thousand in this one harbor, lined up like sardines, and then tried to figure out where the boats were sailing out of for the race.  Like all good problem solvers, when we couldn’t figure it out, we went into the restaurant located over the yacht club, and started drinking while waiting for a table.  About five 1664s apiece later and with full stomachs, we started seeing signs of the racing boats coming back in the harbor.  We hustled to follow the American boat and found that we were quite a hike from their pier, but we pressed on.  

The harbor at La Trinité-sur-Mer

The MMA boat docked and dealt with their stuff, while we waited on land, freezing in the gale.  This harbor, which was probably a few miles long was a giant wind tunnels for the gusts, which must have been a solid 30 knots, and maybe even more.  Making things even more hairy were the waves, practically tsunami in size, making everything that much more exciting.  Teams started walking up the ramp, and finally the Americans made their appearances.  Cold and a bit haggard, they were excited by the event, but less than enthused by the baguettes, shredded carrots, and canned pâte they’d been provided for lunch.  After doing our duty of saying hello, we did a bit of grocery and drink shopping, to fuel up for the next day.  

Arriving home, we found that the last people to stay with us (another kid’s mother and aunt) had arrived, and left their baggage outside, but were nowhere to be seen.  We sat down, poured a drink or, in my case, tried to figure out how to tap the 5 litre kegs of 1664 to no avail, and socialized while we waited for the rest to arrive.  Since the mom, Susan, had just flown from America that day, she was practically a zombie, and was more than ready for bed, but we still managed to keep her up for a little while, though everyone went to bed pretty early.  That is, after we figured out the answers for all the world’s problems over many a glass of wine, scotch, or beer.  

The next day, having slept like rocks, we made slow moves to get dressed, but were nonetheless down by the water by 9ish, when the racing teams showed up.  Having learned that racing would be cancelled for the day, everyone was free to do their own thing.  Most of the MMA students took the team car to the yacht club where they were having a skipper’s meeting, but we took John with us to Carnac, where they sailors were staying in a hostel, so he could get a headstart on the cleaning that needed to be done in the dorm room where everyone was sleeping.  Having dropped John off, we came across an enormous open air market in Carnac, and realized that we had to go there to do some shopping.  Making a 3 minute trip to our house to pick up the giant shopping bags we bought at the grocery store, we returned to fill most of them with fresh produce, smelly cheese, and good AOC wine.  All major foods were thus accounted for.  

We returned home for drinks and lunch (again, priorities), and then decided to go for a car tour to find the Carnac Alignements, giant rocks that are all stood up and perfectly aligned, but completely shrouded in mystery.  Nobody seems to know why they’re really there, how they got there, but they are believed to have been put in place by the Celts.  Let me tell you what, if the Celts were actually able to move these 20 foot high, 10 foot wide, and 5 foot thick rocks 2000 years ago, I’ll be damned.  As far as I’m concerned, it is just about impossible.  There are thousands of them, literally as far as the eye can see.  I can’t figure out how the rocks would be put in place, even today.  They’re soooo friggin’ huge.  My conclusion is that they were put in place by aliens as a way of delineating run ways.  It seems just as likely, maybe even more so, than suggesting that humans moved the rocks from where ever they were, formed perfectly straight and parallel lines, and then stood them up for us to ponder today. 

View from the top of the Old Windmill

After spending quite a long time looking at miles of lined up rocks, we returned home to rehydrate and relax.  Before long we were on the road again, having seen a place called Presque Île, and feeling a need to see it.  For those of you not from Maine, Presque Isle, Maine is just beyond East Assgrabber.  It’s so far north you may as well be in the Arctic, and all they do is grow potatoes and …… well, I guess that’s all they do there.  I’ve never been because it takes less time to drive to Florida than it does to get to Presque Isle and there is no reason to go.  Well, not really, but just about, so the chance to go to Presque-Île without having to pack a weekend suitcase seemed to good to pass up.  

Anyway, we loved Presque-Île,  and couldn’t help but notice the occasional German pillbox tucked into the dunes, and built along the road.  We drove along the coast, and saw some of the most amazing cliffs and dunes I’ve ever seen.  It really was awesome in the truest sense of the word.  These cliffs were well over a hundred feet tall, completely flat faced, and a rusty red color.  At the base were the most beautiful white sandy beaches being pummeled with huge waves, in blues that I thought were only found in the Caribbean.  It was really beautiful.  In reading the signs I realized that these cliffs and this whole area was called the Côté Sauvage, meaning Savage Coast, and that could not have been a more fitting name.  We drove for miles right on the coast, ooing and ahhing at the sheer harshness of it all, and constantly questioning the intelligence of those who decided to go windsurfing here despite the countless signs saying that all swimming and water activities were prohibited.  

Côte Sauvage

We drove all the way down Presque-Île, and to the town at the southern tip, Quiberon, which was a typical French fishing port, but terribly unprotected.  Everybody in the car was well acquainted with boats, and we were all shocked by how enormous the waves were in these places.  At Quiberon there was a man made harbor about the size of a football field, surrounded by concrete walls, 15 feet above the water level, but nonetheless the waves in the harbor were anything but calm, and every once in a while a wave would go over the concrete walls into the harbor.  We actually watched the ferry boat leave on its way to another island (which had a city called Bangor of all places), and even though the boat was quite large, it was tossed and turned as though it was a bath toy.  I can’t imagine doing that trip on a regular basis! 

Since there was no place else to go form there, we started our escape trip from the island, making a quick stop at Fort Neuf, a fort built and rebuilt from 1701-1886, and finally decommissioned in 1902.  It was pretty much destroyed, but it did give a nice view of the east side of the Island, and the size of the waves there - not much different than the other side: damned big.  We returned home for drinks, a very French dinner at 9:15 pm, and sustenance (code for ample amounts of cheese and dry sausages- donkey, boar, and pig).  

At dinner we discussed plans for the next day, knowing that there wouldn’t likely be any racing due to crappy weather coming in.  We looked into the beaches at Normandy and the American cemetery there, talked about Mount St Michel, and even about the chateaux of the Loire Valley.  Since we didn’t have internet, it was sort of difficult to do much real planning.  All we had was my Cambridge Illustrated History of France, a AAA France Guide, some maps, and a handful of local brochures.  When she got a French simcard for her phone, Jane also paid the 9 bucks for internet, but it wouldn’t be available for two days, meaning Sunday, and even then we couldn’t figure it out, so it was back to travel arrangements the old fashioned way.  Going from the fact that she could use her Android as a WiFi hotspot, everyone was up shit creek, with not a paddle in sight.  

In the end we decided to go to Mount St Michel, since it was only about 2.5 hours away, and since I had to be at the train station in Auray for a 6:45 pm train to Paris.  Around 7:40 the next morning, in the pitch dark, our two-car convoy left, with Captain Alan and Willie the navigator leading the expedition.  With only a few slight hiccups, we arrived at the Mont St Michel around 10:15, in one piece.  Despite the rain and incredible wind we had at La Trinité-sur-Mer at o’dark thirty, Le Mont St Michel, was beautiful and surrounded by blue skies above and mudflats below.  We climbed to the ticket booth and started our adventure.  (Thank you, SciencesPo for another free entry to a French national monument.)  It was just as amazing today as it was two weeks ago.  With its massive spire piercing the sky and surmounted by the gilded St. Michel, it really is a spectacle from the exterior, and awe inspiring from the interior.  Like the monolithic alignments of Carnac, one has to wonder how in Hell any human being could possibly construct such a massive structure on such an inhospitable piece of land.  Of course it only two 1500+ years to construct, but still, there are some massive pieces of granite there.  

After a thorough visit of the Mont St. Michel, we went to grab a bite to eat in an overpriced galette and crêpe shop.  They were very good, and you can’t fault businesses for wanting to make money, but still…  

Le Mont St Michel

Having spent a fair amount of time on the phone with the lovely people at Orange, the French phone company, in getting the internet working between my navigational duties on the way to Le Mont St Michel, we were able to use the phone to find other nearby si(gh)ts to visit on our way home.  I looked at a bunch of castles and churches on the phone, but then I found that the American Cemetery at Brittany was only a half hour away!  That had to be the destination, since a trip to see the American Cemetery in Normandy would be another 2 or 3 hours.  I plugged the address into the GPS, and also into the phone, and we made our way, winding through cow fields and tiny villages.  When the GPS ended up failing and not following through, the phone held strong and we were there in no time.  

This cemetery, much smaller than its Norman cousin, is still very impressive.  With very minimal signage, it wasn’t easy to find, and it only has a tiny parking lot, but since we were the only ones visiting when we arrived, we really got to take it all in.  Entering on a small paved road there was a visitor’s center on the left and a very simple, yet very elegant modernist style Gothic chapel ahead on the right.  As you walked toward the church, you approached it from the rear, so you had to walk down the side, facing the 4400 white headstones before you could turn and enter the chapel.  Quite a vision, to say the least.

4400 stones seems like a lot, but it’s less than ½ as many as are at the famous Normandy cemetery.  This isn’t meant to imply that the Brittany cemetery is any less important or moving than that at Normandy, because it isn’t.  In fact, I think you could argue that the Brittany cemetery is more accessible and less overwhelming than the one on Omaha Beach.  The fact that there were so few people there was also a very nice difference.  

Another fairly interesting thing that I noticed was that the stones are not arranged in an orthogonal grid; they are not all aligned in columns or in rows.  There are very clear rows, but toward the edges the rows curve up, almost making a very wide semi-circle around the chapel.  The stones do line up in columns based on the section, but the sections themselves don’t always align.  I wasn’t crazy about the unaligned columns, but I really enjoyed the wide semi circular rows.  It was almost like everyone was gathering to get the best view of the chapel, and it seemed so much more welcoming than the stark gridded arrangement of the Normandy cemetery.  

After spending a good chunk of time at the cemetery it started to drizzle, and we moved on.  I set the course for the Auray train station, and we were off.  Arriving around 4:45, I said my thank yous goodbyes, and bid adieu to my adopted family for the weekend.  While waiting for my 6:45 train I went to look at the bookshop, and even found the October issue of WoodenBoat (only 7 €), where the Museum is mentioned, which made me smile.  Now on the train, having just eaten a mediocre sandwich, I’m finishing up my fourth blog post in as many days.  

Tomorrow it’s off to SciencesPo for my class from 10:15 until 12:15 and then a quick trip home to do my packing for my solo voyage to Belgium for a week before catching a late afternoon train out of Paris for Belgium.  Lots to do, not much time, but I’m definitely looking forward to my vacation, and more time in trains zooming through the countryside.  

Just call me Spiderman

22 octobre but event took place on the 20^th - Mostly written on the train to Auray.  Clearly I was very productive.

You’ll all remember the incredibly large spider that I found walking across my crotch a while back.  Well, here’s round two.  I wanted to get up early on the 20^th to get some stuff done before school, so I asked Alexis to knock on my door when he got up to be sure that I would wake up.  He did, and I walked over, turned on the overhead light, and went back to bed so I could do my early morning facebook check.  Well, there from my bed, with my groggy eyes, I happened to see something very large on the inside of my door.  I wasn’t totally sure what it was, but I had a good idea, and I didn’t like it.  After I double checked to be sure I hadn’t shit myself, I got up to get my camera.  This thing was too big to be real.  I started next to my desk, taking a picture across the room.

The I put on my big boy pants and approached the 8-legged beast.  He was so damned big and brave he didn’t even flinch as I moved closer.  I guess that really shows how much weight I’ve lost.  I don’t even scare spiders anymore.  Putting my hand on the door, I got my first sense of the monster’s size.  

Well now I had a problem.  What was I going to do?  I couldn’t open the door!  If I opened it he could easily scurry away and make his way into my clothes, or worse: my bed.  Dilemma!  Then I remembered that there was a glass in my bathroom from earlier in the week.  I ran in there, grabbed a sheet of paper, and caught the BASp (Bad ass spider).  This one was much bigger than the last one.  And was very much alive.  I did not like this at all.  

That's an American quarter

Having now caught Spiderzilla, I went about taking a shower and getting dressed.  I was very happy to take a shower, because I had definitely worked up a sweat in the struggle to capture the beast.  In thinking about catching the spider, I reflected back on a story told to me second hand on Cranberry Island originating from a great storyteller.  As the story goes, a squirrel showed up on Cranberry Island, clearly brought over to the island by Southwest Harbor fisherman, because squirrels don’t naturally appear on Cranberry- they can’t swim.  Southwest Harbor fisherman, jealous of the Island’s great fleet of navigators and fishing professionals, have allegedly been known to drop the occasional miscreant critter on Cranberry to drive everyone nuts.  Personally, I wondered if it was a reference to what the Backside fishermen were good at catching?  As the story goes, this particular individual got the squirrel caught in a tree, and then climbed the tree to wrestle it to the ground.  Once back on an even playing field, it took a few blows of the right hand, a few blows of the left, a handful of gunshots, and finally the aid of a poison dart to rid the Island of its one and only squirrel.  Maybe my capture of the spider wasn’t so eloquently written, but in my mind, it was every bit as exciting and death-defying.  

Having caught the spider, I placed him on the living room mantle piece, with the other one from a few weeks ago.  My host mother said she was going to bring the first one to the guardian to show what a problem the spiders were, but she never did, and it has long since turned into a dried homage to its former glory.  Now the new one was there to keep him company.  He’s still there today, and my host mother looks at him, as do I, with pride and sheer horror.  Once the second one finally dies (I’m almost positive he’s bionic at this point), I’m considering putting one of each side of the mantlepiece, like the two stuffed duck heads that hold court in my grandmother’s dining room.  You may just start calling me the Great White Hunter.  

Even in France there is the occasional Frog

22 octobre 2011 part 2  Also written on the train to Auray

Took place 19 octobre

As a little kid, my favorite creature was, hands down, frogs.  8 year old Willie thought they were perfect in every sense of the word: they jump, they hide, they swim, and they eat.  What else do you need in life?  I think I often assumed that if I was around frogs enough, their coolness would rub off onto me.  So far did I take this infatuation that I was even known to take the occasional amphibian into the Colonel’s for breakfast, and at least one time the frog got lose and started jumping all over the restaurant, with me jumping in hot pursuit.  I don’t understand why I wasn’t banned after that.  I guess they knew it would be a bad business decision to ban the kid who comes in ever day for his “oatmeal toast, lightly toasted lightly buttered, please.”  After all, that’s a big sale.  

Anyway, it wasn’t until some time later that I learned that not only were frogs awesome animals, but they it was also a derogatory term for a French person.  I’ve been looking around since I arrived for any French person that I feel would be worthy of being called a frog, and for a long time I thought I might be on a wild goose chase.  Well stop the presses, I found the most despicable, miserable, froggy Frenchman, and here comes that story.

  

Background:

So, this coming week is our vacation from Trinity and SciencesPo.  Called Toussaint, it’s a very religious holiday for a “secular” country.  Well, I wasn’t really sure where I was going until Thursday the 20^th, when I finally went and bought my tickets for a week in Belgium, covering Brussels, Antwerp, and Bruges.  Well it was about that same that we received a death-threat email from Trinity that we had to get our OFII forms dealt with before we left on vacation, otherwise we’d pretty much be F’ed in the A if we were stopped at border control since we’d slacked off on our duties in France.  So, I received permission from my morning professor on Thursday to miss class if need be to get my OFII dealt with.  

Story:

That night I went home, gathered everything that I thought I would need, and half the stuff I was sure I wouldn’t need, and prepared to meet Ann Lawson at Trinity the next day a 9am to make some more photocopies of my passport and then to go to the OFII place at the Cité Universitaire (aka clear to Hell and gone).  I should have known that things were going to be a mess when I literally had to bribe a man to give me access to the Trinity rooms so I could do my work.  Excuse me, do I look like a creeper or a terrorist?  All I had to do was hijack the photocopier for 3 photocopies, I didn’t want his first born or right arm.  

So we arrived at the metro stop around 9:50, and promptly got lost.  Finally, around 10:15 we arrived at the Cité Universitaire, an enormous campus of students from all over the world, in buildings that “represent” the associated countries.  At 10:20 we sat down in line for round 1.  Now, in the US we might take a slip of paper with a number on it and sit in a big room.  Oh no, here we sat in a line of chairs, and as each person was called to the desk everybody got up and moved one seat.  It was like a silent game of musical chairs.  We sat in the line for a while, and then it came time for me to be called up to the desk for my interrogation.  I knew that the man was a bit gruff already, but I figure that he was either hungover or had a splintered boom handle lodged in a most unfortunate position (couldn’t quite figure it out).  Well he looked everything over and told me that I needed a facture (a bill) from my host mother to prove that she was who she was and lived where she said she lived.  So, dejected, I trudged off with my tail between my legs to the 16^th - on the OTHER side of the city- hoping like hell that my host mother would be there and could give me a facture right away.  

By 11:25 I had my facture in hand, a piece of bread in my belly, and I was headed back to  the OFII office for round 2.  Having now guaranteed that I was going to miss my class, I had to choice but to do what I had to do: OFII or bust.  A bit before noon I sat back down in the line,  this time a bit longer, and with only one person doing the initial interrogation.  After sitting in line for at least a half an hour, of course having left my book at home, I finally hear the lady announce that if you’re here for your OFII, the OFII person is at lunch, so you have to wait longer.  Oh great, I thought.  Well I stayed in position for a while longer when my favorite OFII man appeared, happy as ever having just had his daily meal of undercooked roofing nails and shard glass sauce.  Actually it was sort of like a having Lord Voldemort enter the room, as any aspect of even moderate happiness was sucked out as if he was a super sucker toilet.  

So, still in line and behind a few people, I waited patiently, like the polite American that I pretend to be.  Finally I was my turn, so I (re)handed him all the documents, this time with the facture on top.  He looked everything over, and then held up the facture.  “What’s this?” he asked.  “It’s the facture you requested,” I responded.  “Well it’s a facture from a mobile phone.”  “So?”  “Well why did you bring it?” he asked, clearly unimpressed.  “Because you told me to bring this with me, so I went all the way home, talked to my host mother and this is what she was able to find right away,” I said, fearing being turned away again.  “Well why did she give you this?”  “I’m not really sure, but you just said to bring a facture, so here’s a facture.  Will this work, or not?”  Like government workers worldwide, I figured that he just liked being as asshole, but I wasn’t prepared for his next maneuver.  He looked at the girl next to him, interrupted her conversation with another student, and started making fun of me for bringing a phone bill.  I was right there!  It’s not as though I’m deaf.  I can hear you, and I can understand you even thought we don’t speak the same mother tongue.  Finally he gave me my red ticket with a number on it and told me to move on to the next section after he felt as though he had sufficiently embarrassed me.

So I moved to the other side of the room, from whence I got a great view of how enormous the line had become behind me.  I mean HUGE!  Apparently I made it just in time.  So, sitting there, I had the chance to see my froggy French friend F with others.  He was horrible!  With one girl he looked at her said “I don’t understand why you came to France if you can’t even speak the language.”  With others he would take their paperwork and make fun of them with the person next to him.  I was really just in shock.  To make matters better there were many other workers there, but one by one they would take their (very long) lunch break, right at their desk, spreading out their food, newspapers, and magazines, looking up at those of us waiting while they chowed down.  I felt like saying, “don’t worry, it’s only 1:45 and I haven’t eaten since 7:30 this morning, I’m not hungry.”  Since they were short staffed, my happy friend would take a few students at the first desk, then move across the room and work with people in the second section as well.  I was terrified I would deal with him twice.

In the time I had to wait I got to see some serious antics.  At one point there were a lot of people waiting, and there weren’t enough chairs.  Everyone was quietly waiting their turn when bigmouth Froggy got up started screaming at them about how stupid they were to be standing there and how they needed to go into the hallway to wait.  Well, most of them were not French speakers, so they didn’t understand.  Then he continued on about how if you need an OFII form, you’d better just leave, because he didn’t want to do more that day.  Again, not many moved.  Finally he lost it and said “Fine, if you don’t want to do anything, neither do I.  I’m not going take any more people until you’re all in the hallway.”  With that he sat down, crossed his arms, and scowled.  

Finally they got the memo, and things got back underway.  This guy was a piece of work!  When he wanted somebody to come over and translate, he whistled like a dog trainer to get the attention of the person and instructed them to come over to translate.  It wasn’t posed as a question, it was an order, and they had no option but to accept.

While waiting I befriended a girl from Morocco who was trying to go back home for her school break, and had to get her OFII dealt with first.  She was very nice, albeit a bit chatty.  Finally, around 2:30 I had my forms dealt with (I got really lucky and didn’t have to deal with the asshole again, and had a nice girl with a 5 o’clock shadow).  By that point, having missed two classes, and thoroughly starving, I was ready for things to be over.  

Bref (as the French say):  Not all French are as phenomenal as others.  There are some incredibly successful douchebags to be found, in this case among government employees.  You really have to love how some things never change.  


There, 2 blogs posted in one night.  I have outdone myself.  Get reading!

Playing Catchup

22 octobre 2011

Writing this on the train to Auray, 8:08 am.  (The sun still hasn’t risen today.  No doubt he’s a socialist and doesn’t like to work either.) 

So much has happened in the last 11 days and I’ve been a little bit too busy to waste my time in front of a computer screen, judging from the number of visits to my blog, however, you haven’t been busy at all!  Amazing numbers come even when there’s nothing new.  Well, hope you’ve got some time, because today I have multiple blog postings!  Luckily, for me, I’m currently trapped in a lovely little (well actually quite sizable) French train, and I have nothing better to do than write.  Or do readings for homework.  So I’m writing.

After getting home from my weekend in Normandy, I had a few days of relative normality in my life.  Nothing really exciting happened, and it was a nice little rest.  My chic, hip, and ever-so American grandmother arrived on Thursday and I started right in on the daily death marches.  The day she arrived she went off on a walk of her own in the morning, leaving at 9 and getting lost until about 12:20.  Well, I was only in class until 11, so after calling her hotel about 7 times only to learn that she wasn’t there, I decided to waddle on down and wait her out.  (I realized while I was waiting that I’ve watch far too much Elmer Fudd if I find it to be a perfectly acceptable pastime to wait out a wascilly wabbit or, in this case, a lost grand-mama (I hope you read that in the most New England WASPy fashion possible.  We’ll try it again: graaaaannndd maamaaaaaa.)

Since the rest of my Thursday was open, we did a fairly good cover of the area: Luxembourg Gardens, lunch near the Sorbonne, a visit to Trinity College, lots of walking, and God only knows what else.  Suffice it to say that her ass was grass when I put on my UPS hat delivered her back to her hotel.  That night the hostess with the mostess, Mme duH-C, was planning on giving a dinner for her first ever host student, Gabe, who came to France in 2001, I think.  He’s now a lawyer in Washington, and came with his friend-girlfriend-pasthookup-wannabewife-now”justfriends”-female traveling buddy, who was from Maine, of all wonderful places.  We also had a Brazilian, whose name escapes me now, who was a complete dink and incredibly rude, and Juliette, the French girl who lives in Mme duH-C’s top floor studio.  With the exception of the Brazilian, who showed up on time or even ahead of time, was loud, spoke with his mouth open, called Mme du H-C by her first name, was just overall an unpleasant waste of fresh air, it was a great time.  Side note here: when invited out in France to a person’s house, it’s incredibly rude to show up any earlier than 15 minutes later, and you should probably be even a bit more “en retard.”  By 8:20 or so everyone had arrived and we were seated in the living room eating the smoked salmon on some sort of basil cream sauce and foie-gras appetizers that Béatrice, Mme’s ironing lady/favorite Spanish helper had prepared earlier after shining the crystal to within an inch of its life and giving the silver a healthy polishing too.  It was clear, even before anyone arrived, we were putting on the Ritz.  

Getting the Ritz on

Appetizers were good, and lasted until a bit after 9, including a few rounds of pommeau and a very good white wine.  From there we meandered (some people definitely didn’t walk in a straight line) to the dining room where we received our assigned seats for dinner.  I was placed at the head of the table because I’m family, dontcha know, with Juliette on one side and the lady friend of Gabe on the other.  Mme du H-C was therefore surrounded by guys.  Gotta love a French person who is still practicing seduction after 70.  Dinner was a nice big chunk of veal, almost raw enough to moo when it hit the table and vegetables (some sort of beans in cream sauce).  It was pretty damned good.  After round one, we went on to salad (and of course more bottles of wine), followed by quite a lot of cheese.  (My kind of meal!)  After the cheese course we went on the lemon bread that I made on Wednesday.  It was incredible.  Not exactly like Nanny’s but, for a first timer, I had a lot to be proud of.  It was bit over cooked on the outside, but since I had plenty of the juice-topping, it was no problem at all.  The inside was nice and moist.  (Great word, moist).  Anyway, after dessert we went back to the living room to have some coffees and to socialize a bit more.  All in all, the guests didn’t leave until midnight or so, and then I helped Mme du H-C clean up a bit, but we left most of it for the next day.  

The next day, bright and early, I was on a Train for Chartres with my Medieval Architecture Class, to take a look at the famous cathedral there.  I’d been there before, in high school, and it was rainy and crappy when we were there.  This time was totally different.  Bright blue sky, not a cloud to be seen, and the Gothic desire for big open windows was epitomized in the incredibly bright and airy interior.  Near the choir of the cathedral scaffolding was set up with men on it doing some cleaning, and WHAT A DIFFERENCE!  The ceiling, which in most places was jet black, was absolutely buttercream in color and reflected so much more light.  It was really amazing.  After men spent weeks and years up there with dental picks and scalpels scraping off centuries’ worth of dust, dirt, and smoke, it was worthy of admiration.  

Chartres from afar

Clean and dirty

Back in Paris, I met up with the Gimm-ster (grandmaaaamaaaa) and we did a nice tour of the city.  Hitting up some of my favorite sites, we went to Trocadéro to see the Eiffel Tower view, and then we wandered down to my apartment for initial introductions.  That completed, we went over toward the Eiffel Tower again for a bite to eat.  The next day we went all over again, marching high and low, from Montmartre all the way to the Champs Elysées.  That night we did dinner, with the host madre, at Paris’ oldest restaurant: À la Petite Chaise, on rue de Grenelle.  Founded in the mid 17^th century, it’s really a great restaurant, and we were very lucky to get reservations.  Unfortunately it took a bit longer than necessary for our taxi to get there because of the damned Occupy Wall Street strike arriving in Paris.  I don’t care if want to occupy Wall Street, because really it’s not going to do much, but to occupy Paris and double the cost of my taxi ride: screw off!  I’m not made of money and I don’t want to spend any more than necessary.  Bastards.  

The next day it was the the Saint Chapel, which was definitely mind blowing and beyond beautiful.  The stained glass windows soar far over the floor of the little chapel, and it is definitely a great 13^th century marvel.  Words can’t do it justice, so I won’t even try to waste your time, or mine.

The Saint Chapelle

From there we wandered over to the 3^rd, to a couple of my favorite places: the Place des Vosges, Louis XIII’s little pet project and current home to the infamous DSK, followed by Paris’ best museum: Le Musée Carnavalet.  Free, and covering all aspects of Parisian history, this place is a must see for anybody in the City of Lights.  After that we walked back to the ancient Île St Louis to indulge ourselves in a bit of ice cream from the famous Bérthillion.  That night Mme du H-C had us for dinner, and made a flat-out amazing quiche.  Sooooo light and airy, and with the best flavor known to man-kind.  That’s saying a lot for somebody who doesn’t really like eggs.  

The next day, her last in Paris, I had a morning tour of Les Invalides with SciencesPo, and after that I met up Grandmother dearest to spend the afternoon with her.  Despite the threats of rain and the fact that my umbrella remains in Honfleur, we braved the Musée Rodin, with its immense gardens.  There in the circa 1730 house,  we looked at countless beautiful bronzes and marbles, and many plaster models.  Although the house was in horrible condition, with big plywood patches on the floor, it was a great stop with lots to look at.  We even got to do the majority of the gardens before it started to really pour!  That night, for the last supper we went to the Parc aux Cerfs in the 6^th, and had a great meal.  My favorite part of that evening was when I got to take the crappy umbrella back home with me.  After all, even a shitty umbrella is better than no umbrella at all.  Nonetheless, I’d like to have MY umbrella back from Honfleur.  

Over the course of these events, I have to say that it’s interesting to me that Alexis doesn’t dine in the dining room when there are guests, and instead has a tray of food and takes it to his room.  I think some of this is at the request of his mother, who would rather enjoy her guests than deal with her son, but he still makes his presence known.  The night that we were having the dinner party, I think Alexis felt a bit dejected, so he came to my room to tell me about his day, something he’d never done before.  Just when I was wondering whether he was going to go on forever, he finished.  Story done.  Thank God.  I went back to whatever I was doing, and a few minutes later I heard him trying to sneak down the hall to my room.  Normally when he does this it means he’s going to “secretly” turn off the overhead light in my room, which is about as inconspicuous as a fat person in Paris.  I was ready for him when he slinked (slunk?) into my room, but he didn’t touch my light switch.  Instead he told me about his lunch.  The  poor guy eats at 10am, but what did he have to wash down his lunch this day?  I couldn’t have been happier when he told me that he had a “biere.”  Good for you, dude, I hope that was a solidly fantastic brewskie!  When Priscilla was meeting with my host mother, though, Alexis really gave me a good laugh.  We were in the living room, having a glass of pommeau, when Alexis walked from the kitchen toward his room galloping like a horse.  I mean, seriously, he was making horse noises and everything.  This was too good for me!  If you don’t already know about my Alexis/Horse association, I refer you to the September 11^th entry, Chapter 2: Living with Barbaro.  

Adventures in Normandy

11 octobre 2011

This past weekend the Trinity group went to Normandy to explore the sites of World War II, to avail ourselves of the dairy products and apple alcohols, among other things.  Thursday, the night before we left for Normandy, my French Theatre class ventured over the Comedie Française to see Molière’s “L’Avare” (The Miser).  It was really a great show, and I think everybody enjoyed it.  In the show, this old dude named Harpagon, counts every single nickel before spending anything.  He has two unhappy kids, and he’s hot and ready for marriage.  I’m not going to give away much more than that, because if you give a damn you can go to wikipedia yourself.

The theatre was particularly impressive, having been built in 1799, it was almost destroyed by a fire and rebuilt in 1900.  Sitting down in the orchestra, I sort of felt like I was in an aquarium as I looked up and all I could see were balconies and private boxes.  The show was 2 hours and 45 minutes, so a bit long, but it was worth it.  As I was changing and getting ready for the theatre, after showering and scrubbing up, I happened to look down, only to discover a fairly major problem.  No, it wasn’t that my gut was sticking out and blocking my view of the tiger patterned rug in my room, and it wasn’t finding a dead body on the floor (though I’d rather it was), it was largest spider I’d ever seen in my life, crawling across my crotch.

For those of you who think I exaggerate to make my stories better, good for you: you’re right.  NONETHELESS, shitting you not, this S.O.B. was the BIGGEST spider I’ve ever seen.  After making a conscious effort not to poop my pants, and post-initial scream, I swatting him to get him to fall off.  Because he was a direct descendant of spider man, and nearly as big, he held on and was too strong to fall.  Making matters even worse, he kept on trucking on, like my fat little hand didn’t even hurt.  So I swung and went for round two.  This time the stunned spider fell onto the tiger striped rug.  Well, I wasn’t done with him yet.  I ran (yeah, actually ran) to the kitchen to get a juice glass to catch him.  Arriving back in my room, and winded, I tried to find him.  How could a giant spider just go missing?  Seriously.  Now scared that I would wake up in the night to a giant spider on my nose, I was convinced I needed to find the monster.  Onto my hands and knees, I searched like Indiana Jones.  I finally found him, limping off into the darkness of the land under my bed, and I caught him. Here’s the kicker: when I put the juice glass over him, I caught two legs under the lip… on opposite edges of the glass.  Yeah, he was that big.  

I then brought him into the living room to present to my host mother and to see if these things were normal in Paris.  I sort of felt like a tomcat dragging a dead squirrel in to give it to my owner, but oh well.  She was shocked at his size and a bit shocked to know that it was in the house.  After calming down a bit, I left for the theatre.  Really needing a drink.  

Notice that his legs aren't even spread out and one is caught under the glass.  

Dead for 12 hours.  Size comparison

The next day we left for Normandy.  After waiting for about 30 minutes for the last stragglers to sober up enough to swerve their way onto the metro, we were off.  Lunch was at Honfleur, a great little fishing town that ended up being the new hometown of my umbrella, where it was left after lunch.  Major bummer.  From there we loaded back on the bus, this time waiting 30 minutes for the professors to come back to the bus.  I guess Trin time carries on to other time zones as well.  Then we bussed to Mont St Michel, an island abbey town which has its roots over a thousand years ago.  It was really awe inspiring and super amazing.  Literally, words can hardly describe the village and abby, which reek of the Middle Ages.  It was just one of those places that is totally worth the effort to see.  

Honfleur, the town from whence Champlain came to discover MDI in 1604

From there it was off to our hotel.  After the last hotel, nobody had high expectations for this one.  I, however, was keeping a weather eye for the nearest bar to soften the blow of a crappy hotel.  I couldn’t have been happier to find two bars within eyesight of the hotel.  And a third inside the hotel.  After dinner, it was time to go to the bar, and almost all of the Trinity kids availed themselves of the hotel bar.  Since we were in Normandy, I decided it would be a good idea to try a local beverage: calvados.  Basically it’s high test cider: 45-55% alcohol.  It was literally like drinking kerosine but, knowing that there are sober teenagers in the third world, I finished it off before ordering a different drink.  It was a fun time to be as a group, drinking, laughing, and enjoying one another.  The biggest problem came when Pascal, the hotel owner/desk worker/bar tender, decided to shut off the best customers in the hotel, who were still mostly sober.  I’m not econ major, but I know that’s a bad business decision.  

Le Mont St. Michel - The Romanesque Abbey

The next day, after two hours on the bus, we found ourselves at the artificial port at Arromanches, Omaha Beach, and Point d’Hoc.  I’ve been to these sites before, but there is literally nothing more awe-inspiring to stand on the beach, look up at the cliffs, and consider the incredible sacrifice made by the solders in World War II.  It’s also absolutely breathtaking to stand in the American cemetery, looking out, and only seeing 10,000 white marble crosses and the occasional Star of David.  There are really no words to describe the emotion and scene, and the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach is something that every American has to see.  It’s on the top ten American sites of the world, according to me.

Now sufficiently depressed and sombre, we did what any Trinity group would do to revive our emotions: drink.  Off we went to a cidery, where apples are turned into apple cider (which in France is alcoholic, 4%), pommeau (17% alcohol and used as an apéritif), and calvados (45-55% and used as a digestif.)  After trying out all the different flavors - multiple times - we were all in a very good mood, and many people bought some to bring back to Paris, including myself.  

On our way from the cidery to Bayeux, where we were staying that night, we happened to pass La Cambe, the main German cemetery at Normandy.  It was completely different in style than the American cemetery, but still beautiful.  I’d never considered where the Germans were buried, but further research on the topic shows that there are multiple German cemeteries in France.  In La Cambe, are over 21,000 Germans, more than twice the number in the American cemetery.  Reading on Wikipedia, the source for all information, I came across the message on the sign:

The German Cemetery at La Cambe: In the Same Soil of France

Until 1947, this was an American cemetery. The remains were exhumed and shipped to the United States. It has been German since 1948, and contains over 21,000 graves. With its melancholy rigour, it is a graveyard for soldiers not all of whom had chosen either the cause or the fight. They too have found rest in our soil of France.

It’s interesting to think that the Americans and Germans were interred in the same field before the American remains were moved to their current location.  At the end, however, both the Americans and Germans, found rest in the soil of France.

Dinner in Bayeux was followed by drinks in our hotel and subsequent drinks in local bars.  We met some locals and enjoyed some more local drinks.  This time I drank something called Embuscade, which was about 50% white wine, a shot of grenadine, a shot or two of calvados, and then beer.  It was really great, actually.  All in all it was an interesting night, and one I won’t soon forget (unlike others that I cannot remember).  

Cathedral de Bayeux

The next day, three cups of coffee later, we were headed back to Paris, by way of the Port de Bassin, another fishing town.  This one wasn’t nearly as quaint as Honfleur, but they had a great market going on, which had awesome food.  

Finally, three days later and many hours of bussing, we arrived back in Paris.  I got home to find Alexis with his friend, Stephanie, and the two mothers drinking coffee in the living room.  After the guests left, we had dinner (pompiettes of veal, which is essentially stuffed veal - and really awesome).  After dinner, as usual, Alexis cleared all the dishes, whether or not we were actually through with them, and left his mother and me at the table talking.  Apparently we had a lot to talk about, and we didn’t leave the table until after 11pm, and after solving the world’s problems.  

Since this disturbs his mother’s usual pattern of watching tv after dinner, it bothers Alexis a great deal that we sit at the table.  So much so that at one point he came out to turn off all the lights in the dining room, even though we were sitting at the table.  I had to laugh because it was really very funny.  Laughing, his mother asked if the restaurant was closed.  Straight faced he responded: Yes, it’s too late to be at the table.  

He’s also started to tell me that my phone is ringing so that I leave the table, hoping that I wont come back.  He gets rather angry that I don’t give a damn that my phone is ringing, and what he doesn’t realize is that my phone doesn’t ring.  It vibrates, and I know he can’t hear that from his room.

Last night, though, was an example of one of his better antics: having bought chicken, I wanted to cook it so that I would have chicken with which to make sandwiches.  My host mother was okay with this, but then Alexis caught wind.  He went all to pieces.  Since dinner was over, there was absolutely no reason for me to be in the kitchen, let alone at the stove.  It was not necessary, and not allowed in his book.  His mother came in as I was getting the chicken out of the refrigerator to see if I wanted a coffee and, sensing chicken activities, Alexis came running.  He tried again to get me to give up my cooking plans, and told me I was vraiment fou (absolutely crazy).  Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been called crazy (try eating warm apple sauce with vanilla ice cream!), so I just responded, yeah, I know, I’m crazy.  To that, totally straight-faced, he looked at me and said, “WELL STOP!”  I lost it.  His face, his tone of voice, everything.  I laughed.  And I laughed hard.  Even his mother gave a chuckle.  Realizing that I was going to cook, he left, but he wasn’t finished yet.

I was in the kitchen, cooking away, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Alexis.  I didn’t pay much attention, and next thing I know, he hit the light switch and left me in absolute darkness in the kitchen.  I turned around and said, “well, is the kitchen shut down too?”  He looked at me and said, “Yes, it’s too late.  Go to your room.”  Silly boy, I don’t respond well to orders, so I hit the light switch and cooked up a storm.  

Maybe I’m vraiment fou, but I have to say: my chicken sandwich was pretty damned good today.  

PS- I'd like to send a shout out to Ann Lawson, who figures that being mentioned on my blog will bring her immediate fame.  Clearly she's correct, especially after last week's major boost due to a facebook posting.  There are now nearly 700 hits on this site, from countries all over the world.  It's sort of cool to be famous, I'm not even going to lie.