The end of an era.

Well, it's pretty much over.  I head out of Paris and back to the land of coffee shops and indie punk music tomorrow morning around eleven. 

Brittany was absolutely lovely and Nick and I now have another possible location for retirement (in about ten years) but by the end of the trip, life started throwing some curve balls.  I woke up Thursday morning, feeling groggy and crabby, but tried to tough it out.  After breakfast, I decided that I needed a nap.  We were planning to stay fairly local, so we decided to take a lazy morning and do our stuff in the afternoon.  About twenty minutes before laying down, we got word from the roommate that our apartment in Seattle had been robbed the night before.  Sounds like it wasn't too terrible.  She was out of the house and obviously, most of our important things are with us right now.  They made a mess of things and took her computer, but sounds like all the other major electronics were not worth their time.  Once we determined that she was okay and that the earth would continue to sit comfortably on its axis without our interference, I finally got that nap in.

Three odd hours later, I woke up and it soon became very clear that I was developing a high fever and what turned out to be some sort of flu.  I spent the night in what I will succinctly describe merely as absolute misery, before we made the very long and equally miserable trip "home" to Paris.  I'm slowly inching towards recovery, but definitely not back at 100% yet and I'm dreading the flight tomorrow.

It was unfortunate that our trip to Brittany ended on such low notes because all the rest of it was amazing.  The weather was beautiful and our hosts were great.  We stayed with a very nice English couple. After two nights staying up and chatting until eleven or midnight it really felt like we had made great new friends.  

I'm too tired now to keep up to my usually verbose standards.  I'll just upload some pictures and let them all speak for themselves.  That's what you really want anyway.

Megaliths at Carnac (aka really old rocks)

Lovely little shopping bag/basket we picked up at market day in Rostrenen.

Market day in Rostrenen

Mmmm...

Bread!

This is the largest pan of paella that I've ever seen.  Not just a tricky camera angle.

Market day in Rostrenen

Abandoned abbey on Montagne St. Michel

Pretty little flowers growing in the heather.

Pretty view in Carnac where we stopped to picnic 

Picnic lunch in Carnac: fresh bread, salmon rillette, purple potato chips, fruit, beer and water.

 For this one, we were about two and half odd hours into a ramble around Rostrenen.  We'd been up hills, down valleys, through creeks, over bridges, in the heat and the sun, with a pathetically small water bottle between us (poor planning on our part).  I said that I must look disheveled or some more impressively descriptive adjective that I don't now remember.  He replied that that was only how I felt as I couldn't have any idea how I looked.  I promptly pulled out the camera to prove him wrong.

Rambling around Rostrenen

Rambling around Rostrenen

Canal du Nantes on our Ramble

Happy cows come from Rostrenen, not California.

More happy cows

I always pictured Ithilien something like this.

French highways look very like American.  Just make sure to yield to your right.

Concentrating really hard on the road :-P

On the train out to Brittany.  (Not sick and irritable on the way back.)

Rostrenen, Bretagne

Brittany is like the Pacific Northwest of France. Or more literally, it is the Atlantic Northwest.  When Nick told his coworkers that we were planning on vacationing in Brittany, they were a little dumbfounded.  Why would you head to the rainiest, wettest place in France when you could go down to the gloriously sunny, warm beaches on the Mediterranean?

To start with, those beaches become absolutely infested with tourists of all make and model during August.  August is the holiday month in both Britain and France; Paris clears out, as do many other northern cities and prices and populations skyrocket in all the southern resort cities.  Being the antisocial cheapskates that we are, that wasn't particularly to our tastes.  In addition after a month in the heart of Paris, we were reading for some peace and quiet.  So here we are.

The plan was to take a train out of Paris on Sunday morning, headed for the city of Rennes, the capital city of Brittany (I believe, but can't currently be bothered to look it up).  From there we intended to take a bus to the small airport, rent a car and be on our merry way, but Sunday night we discovered a possible kink in our plan.  We weren't originally planning on renting or driving any cars when we got here, so we didn't do any research into the matter and promptly forgot it existed.  While planning for this trip, we decided that it would be worth the splurge on the rental car to be able to get to the out of the way corners of Brittany and to really get some peace and quiet without depending on buses that (hopefully) run only once a day or (more likely) don't exist at all.  It wasn't until Nick had reserved the car and we had made our B&B reservations in a tiny town that is mostly inaccessible by public transport that he read the full rental agreement which said that they require an International Driver's Permit.  Suddenly, it seemed like some rather poor planning on our part was going to cause some problems.

We soldiered on, went through with our plans, under the belief that many much more ignorant and clueless tourists than us rent cars all the time, so hopefully, it was something that wasn't as "required," as the rental agreement made it sound.  We did have some time to kill in the train station in Rennes and did all we could to look up ways to get where we were going by bus or train and that seemed to no avail, making the anxiety even higher than it had been.  I told Nick when we finally ended up at the airport that I hoped it all worked out because my optimism muscles, being frequently out of use and permitted to atrophy, were quite exhausted.

Luckily, we got the car just fine, with nary a mention of the IDP and navigated ourselves out to the tiny town of Rostrenen with little incident.  We have discovered that roundabouts are indeed a foreigner's friend.  Miss your exit?  Just go around one more time, no worries.

The B&B or Chambres d'Hotes, as they're called in French, is lovely and owned by a very friendly British couple.  We tried Marmite at breakfast our first morning; with strong flavor comes great responsibility, but if one doesn't abuse their privileges, it's actually rather tasty.  Reminds me strongly of miso paste.

Yesterday we went out exploring in a local national park.  We got excellent views of the western most tip of Brittany, a region called Finistere.  According to patrons of one of the Lonely Planet travel forums, Finistere translates into "the end of the world" in French but "the beginning of the world" in Breton.  Rather apropos.

Here are some views from the top of the end of the world:

Nick and I aren't really sure what the Parisians are on about regarding the bad weather.  In the two days we've been out here, the weather has been more consistently nice and comfortable than most of the month prior in Paris.  The above photos were taken at Roch Trevezel; a local high point from which you can see out pretty near to the coastline.  Yesterday the wind was blowing with a vengeance.  If you faced into it, it came at you with such force it was almost difficult to breathe.  We spent an hour and a half walking trails down below, though, and the weather was very pleasant with just a nice breeze.

Our hostess was going on about how incredibly high the rock was.  We tried not smirk.   Flatlanders and islanders, what can you do with them?  Gorgeous view and area, all the same.

That's all for now, I not even going to bother editing.  We're going to go have a picnic of sausage, crepes and antipasti that we picked up in the town market for lunch and then head out for a hike of the Rostrenen area.  I'll try and get a few more photos up later in the day.  I s'pose I may come back eventually...but it really is beautiful out here so I may need some persuasion.

Ta!

Successfully arrived in Brittany.

I'm never coming back.

Cheers!

Off again!

After a few days of pleasant, dry sunniness, the overwhelming heat, humidity and rain has returned.  Paris has been particularly dreary lately.  I think it's true what they say, Paris is probably best in the spring.  Luckily, Nick and I are hopping on a train tomorrow morning, headed for a week's stay in Brittany.  We tracked down a nice looking B&B, somewhat centrally located for good access of a variety of different things and we'll be making that our home base.  We'll rent a car to get around from there.  

Since the trip to Paris overtook the original plans for backpacking through the Olympics, this week in the forgotten corner of France will be our honeymoon.  We're looking forward to authentic buckwheat crepes, locally brewed cider, long drizzly hikes along sea cliffs and mountains and a little bit of quiet.  If it's half of what I'm hoping, it will be a stellar time.  Anyway, not sure what kind of internet access we will have for the rest of the week, so if you don't hear from anybody for a while, that's why.

Au revoir!

French Mythbusters: Smells, cigarettes and updos

The French smell bad, because they never bathe.


No.  Where does this even come from?  My only guess is that Americans, so obsessed with cleanliness that they launched a polio epidemic of epic proportions*, still can't hack the European idea that maybe the oils your own body produces aren't so bad for you.  While there are some interesting health/hygiene/style trends to be found here, even while being crowded in the five o'clock sardine can of the metro, I haven't noticed any particularly smelly French people.  My nose is pretty reliable and doesn't miss much, so I say this with considerable confidence.  Consider that how you will.

The curious thing about this is that everyone smokes.  Okay, okay, not quite everyone**.  But from my perspective, there is a much larger prevalence of smokers in Paris than there are in Seattle.  In spite of this, even while crammed in tight places, I don't notice many people reeking of cigarette smoke.  Obviously, when they are sitting in front of you on a cafe terrace, cigarette in hand, and the wind is blowing in your face, you get a whiff from time to time.  On the whole, though, for coming into contact with that rank, stale, cigarette smell that turns even a smoker's stomach, Seattle buses are ten times worse.

Another interesting observation on the hygiene note, and one that I love, is how much more casual women's hair is.  It's pretty clear that many don't wash it every day, but it doesn't look dirty or greasy.  Having recently jumped on the no shampoo bandwagon (baking soda and apple cider vinegar!) that's something that I can really get behind.  Even if you do shampoo, the simplicity I've been seeing here is refreshing.

In the states, especially in downtown Seattle, most to many women obviously blow dry, straighten, layer on tons of product or do some horrible combination of the three.  Here, women wear their hair both long and short, but natural.  Very few seem to do much with it.  Sometimes it's pulled back or up, with little braids or a messy topknot, but for the most part, none of it would have taken more than five minutes to do.  As someone who has always been so anal about her hair that she rarely does anything with it (it won't be perfect!), it's been a good place to slowly get used to letting my hair do its own thing.

All in all, the French are no more unpleasantly odoriferous or lacking in necessary hygiene than the average American, at least, those with whom I am acquainted.


*Maybe this is still debatable?  If so, forgive me for not citing sources, that's not really what this blog is about.


**For those who like statistics and lying with numbers: I found information saying that with a recent (2008) ban on smoking in public places, the rate has dropped from 40% to 20% of adults.  Based on my brief, incomplete and entirely anecdotal evidence, I would guess that at least 40% of the people taking that survey are liars or are creative with their truth, but I realize there are factors that would contribute to a skewed perception on my part.  For example, I largely eat outside on cafe terraces - where it's still legal to smoke.  I find the cultural attitudes toward smoking here very interesting, but I've been having trouble finding many numbers. Here's an interesting article with comments for anyone else who finds it intriguing.

Rue Montorgueil: In which our heroine slogs the streets of Paris with camera in hand

Okay, so it wasn't quite that bad.  In fact, slogging is hardly an appropriate term, but how often do you get to use that in every day conversation?  My point exactly.

I went out this afternoon to take some photos of the aforementioned Rue Montorgueil.  Our landlady, while here checking on our internet, asked us if we went to the local supermarket, and then asked if we knew Rue Montorgueil.  We said yes and she said, "Well you know everything then!"  That's kind of what it feels like.  The street is mostly closed off to all but local traffic and pedestrians treat it as glorified sidewalk.  It bustles with cars, vans and motos in the morning, as the businesses open up and get ready for the day, but the rest of the time, driving down it is about as efficient as driving down the road directly in front of Pike Place.  Don't waste your time.

The entrance to Marche Montorgueil

The green, wire work arch, with gold letters reading Marche Montorgueil marks the entrance to what is probably the only street in Paris that one needs to survive.  It is lined with restaurants (French, Lebanese, Chinese, Japanese, Turkish, Italian, fast food), cafes, bakeries, butcher's shops, cheese shops, wine shops, pharmacies, a couple of supermarkets (though they really only supply what you can't get everywhere else on the street), newstands, flower shops, the list goes on.  Just this side of the arch and outside Montorgueil, sitting rejected and lonely, is a Starbucks that yearns to be allowed to hang with the cool kids.  Tough cookies.

Typical French cafe

Most, scratch that, all of the restaurants down Montorgueil have outdoor seating.  Most of them have surprisingly formidable protection against rain and inclement weather, which has been put to very good use lately.  Just after these shots were snapped, I sat down for coffee, watched the clouds roll in and the rain pour down.  Makes for good people-watching.

Pharmacy

In need of some ibuprofen to dull the pain of too many baguettes? Go searching for a neon green cross.  Sometimes they even flash in interesting and exciting patterns.

Outdoor displays from several different shops

Sidewalks are covered in the displays and cases from all the various stores.  Last night, Nick and I watched the butcher take everything down.  The very large, l-shaped refrigerated case that sits in front, fully on the sidewalk, was slid in front of the section of case housed inside the actual building.  Platforms under the outside case were picked up in three pieces and stowed behind the counter and the door was pulled down in front.  When open, the store is at least double its closed square footage.  No pictures though, they were closed when I walked by today.

Cheese shop!

The French buy, sell and eat lots and lots of delicious cheese.  Need I say more?

Our breakfast cafe of choice

Fruit and vegetable stand

Yum!

Mmmm....

If you're really lucky, after a day wandering down Montorgueil, drinking coffee and wiping the drool off your chin as you walk through wine shop after Greek importer after vegetable stand after, after, after...you end up, at home, with a delightful dinner like this.

Bon appetit!

PS For a more, er, French tour of the street, Nick's coworkers told him about this music video which was filmed down Montorgueil.  Be forewarned, it does feature women wearing nothing more than selectively placed black bars, but there's nothing crude, assuming you can handle French techno.

Lazy Weekend

We had a nice quiet weekend.  Went on some long walks close to home, up on Montmatre, saw the best view in the city (not the Eiffel Tower, in case you're wondering), ate some delicious food, crepes, curry, steak and all together too much crusty bread; I would have given a lot for some serious pain killers last night for the jaw.

Interesting tidbits for all, with delightfully cryptic, earmarks for those who I know will enjoy them particularly:

For the Tam-Flam:  Nick and I stumbled upon a cafe called the Pink Flamingo Cafe; didn't have a camera but may go back just for you.  Also, ordered a g&t yesterday and it came with gin in one glass and tonic, ice, and lemon in a separate small carafe.  Mix your own, to your tastes.  Genius!  I've seen this a few times. Tanqueray also seems to be the favorite here, silly Frenchpersons.

For my dearest illusion:  You are not allowed to come to Paris/France.  At least not without a giant bottle of ibuprofen and an ice pack for each side of your face.  That said, I found an art supply store the other day.  Ooh la la!  It was beautiful.  I really wanted to pick up some pastels, because I managed to come to Paris with the only medium that I find consistently disagreeable...but at 1.5 to 2.5 euro for a stick, I decided to hold off, though it saddened me greatly.

Brotha Z:  I saw someone who could have been your twin in Jardin du Luxembourg the other day.  Leastwise, if you had a twin with rather blondish hair.  The way he was sitting in the sun with his head tipped up, it looked like it could have just been the light and made me do a double take.  I do this all the time with different people.  It's like my subconscious is looking really hard for someone I know.

D Ele:  I found our hotel from sophomore year in high school.  Not a bad location, definitely missed out on some good night life.  Unfortunately, I rarely have the energy for night life here...by the time the French deem it appropriately late to begin living, I'm pretty much ready to go to sleep.  On the upside, I get to watch the city wake up all the time and that's pretty awesome.

For Z Lace Lady and others:  Here are pics from our trip out to Chantilly last weekend.  It's a quaint little town with a chateau formerly belonging to some member of French nobility and a racetrack, reachable by commuter train from Paris.  The weather was drizzly bordering on rainy, blustery and miserable with some deceiving moments of sun (most of these were while we were deciding whether or not to take an umbrella, of course).  

Chateau de Chantilly

Stables, but a likely looking chateau to the uninitiated

Turns out that what we thought was the chateau, was actually just the stables/horse museum.  The man loved his horses.  The chateau itself, after having been destroyed during the Revolution, was rebuilt and now houses a very nice art gallery and museum.

The man himself, Henri d'Orleans

  The surrounding area is filled with gardens, parks and lots of little byways on which to amble about; originally we went mostly to walk about in the quiet, but the weather put the kibosh on that.

 The museum in the chateau was also home to a very few examples of Chantilly lace, a handmade lace that is created using bobbins and a pillow, set up like this.  Through some miracle of time and patience that I will never truly understand, you get things that look like this:

This, is not bobbin lace.  But I wouldn't mind if it came home with me.