Naming My Fear, Finding the Ocean and Grilled cheese
From Dix, Neuf, Huit...The Countdown To France in Roscoff, France on Oct 08 '07
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Tuesday, October 9.
Today I awake with a resolve to go straight to the ocean. I pack my bags. This is off season, and I have seen plenty of rooms available, and people booking at the last minute. I will come back on Friday, only to check out of the creepy mill, as I have come to see it. Last night my nose was stopped up all night, and I don’t even have allergies. You have to understand, that even though I travel quite nicely by myself, there is always this underlying fear that I will die somewhere and nobody will know it. OK, I have put a name to my fear.
French people snort, sing and watch tv at wacky hours just like Americans
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It rains all the way to Roscoff, but I don’t care. I am happy the minute I see the empty, sandy harbor with its abandoned boats, because I know the water will come back soon. I check into an inexpensive Ibis Hotel, mostly because I can have a room that faces the ocean and there is internet. That is why you are suddenly hearing from me again! I am surprised that there are no ice machines at the hotel. I drink some lukewarm Leffe, and am perfectly satisfied. I also want to say that French people snort, sing and watch tv news at wacky hours just like Americans. I do have a room just 20 feet above the harbor, and I watch the tide come in, covering the rocks and the sloped concrete ramp that leads down to it. My window is open and the wind off the water fills my room with a sweet, salty fragrance that is invigorating and comforting. I can hear the waves splashing below, and the gulls calling (mine, mine, mine). I sleep well. No musty smells assault me, no underlying murmuring bothers me.
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Wednesday, October 9
Today is market day in Roscoff. It’s a small one, but I take pictures of the little crabs, and the big ones, the escargot, and clams. I buy two small potted violas, one yellow, one purple to put in my room for 2 euro. I run my hands over quilts and handmade pillows and try to figure out how I could get them home. I had coffee at the hotel (they heat the milk for café au lait), but no breakfast yet, so I order a crepe with fromage (cheese). The crepe trailers have large black burners and the big circle of off white batter sizzles as it is ladled on. As the crepe cooks it is rubbed with a stick of butter that melts into it, and then the cheese and some pepper is added. All that entertainment and a delicious treat for 2.40 euros! It is 100 times better than a grilled cheese, and I go back and order a second one. When Devon and I were young we would go to a lake in Arkansas in the summer with our cousins. Our moms were off duty, having a good time of their own, and we were allowed to do and eat pretty much whatever we wanted. I have very fond memories of grilled cheese and cold pork n’ beans for breakfast, without a thought about the rightness or wrongness of it. My crepe this morning is like that; total enjoyment, total pleasure, no thought.
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Observation: French men are very petite. Also, THEY push the baby strollers, NOT the women.
I stop in the tourist info office and get a map of town and some walking tour guides. There is an interesting history here. In 1548, Mary Stuart landed here when she was only 6,( Queen of Scotland and future Queen of France), but this was a small harbor of little consequence. There was only a small chapel, but two houses with turrets and gardens that sit on the old quay are named after her, even after the fact. In 1899 Dr. Louis Bagot opened a sea water therapy clinic here, claiming the increased iodine from the salt water and the healing properties from the algae were unsurpassed. There are still clinics, pain management and rehabilitation facilities along the water, in lovely old Victorian buildings with spires and steeply pitched roofs. One therapy clinic has a bubbling indoor hot tub facing the water, surrounded by aqua tinted glass, and ladies hang on the edge of the pool with their bathing caps on, their heads thrown back in relaxation. I know because I peeked over the edge of a rock wall on my way down to the sand to stick my feet in the salt water retained in square “pools” after the tide has gone out.
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I walk down “Pearl” street, now Rue Rosseau, once the busiest street in town, lined with the finest merchants shops and the most elegant houses. I wander past the church, Notre Dame de Croas-Batz and look up at the double towers with double bells on two levels, a unique design. Around the edge of the old harbor, where my hotel room faces out to sea, there is a walking bridge that spans a long distance over the water and out to a small island of stone. When the tide is out, you walk this bridge to the end to be picked up by the ferry that takes you to Ile de Batz several times a day. Ile de Batz has only 520 full time residents, and the island is a mere 3.5 km long by 1.5 km wide. But you can rent a bike there, and there are gardens and wild beachy paths and a main street with shops and restaurants. I think I’ll go there tomorrow, when I have the whole day ahead of me. The wind blows my pant legs against me, and the hood of my jacket behind me, but it’s not a cold wind. It has a smell of freshly cut grass, of salt and sand, clean but earthy. I spy a ruined foundation of flat stones about half way out on the bridge, and I know it will be completely under water soon. Why is it there? Is it old? Is it druid, celtic, roman?
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I walk back along Quai de Gaulle until I reach the chapelle of St Barbe. Now I smell a sweet fragrance, like when you tear a leaf in half, or pinch a flower bud: fresh, subtle. The chapel is a simple whitewashed structure that sits on the highest bluff overlooking the harbor, the worn stone steps leading up to it surrounded by gardens still in bloom. It’s said that it has always been white, as a landmark for sailors, and the “johnnies” that carry their onions to market still hoist their flags three times when they pass, as a salute to the saint. The tip of this bluff juts out and has always been used as a natural defense for the harbor. At one time there was a fort and cannons, then in the 1800’s a beautiful home that was blown up by the Germans in 1943 so they could build underground barracks and block houses instead. I walk past the Maritime Harbor, where the big Brittany Ferry will take you to Port-Aven, France or Cork, Ireland. There is a gambling casino on the road above it, and I can hear the tinkling of slot machines. An exotic garden is about another mile ahead, but I turn around to explore some of the back streets on my way to my hotel.
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I have a small dinner of prawns with an aoli mayonnaise sauce, and they are presented to me in the shell, with the heads, their big beady black eyes staring up at me. I work my way through a plate of pomme frites, and end with a peach tarte. And now I am here writing to you!
To answer a couple of recent questions and make a few remarks:
1) I am here until October 16th, but leave Brittany on the 12th. Hang in there, we still get to go to Paris for a few days and then ride the “chunnel” train from Paris to London (under the English Channel!)
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2) To Cheryl and Devon: Yeah, Andre the old dude had important info for me all right, in French! He actually found me two days later, I suspect by walking his dog up and down the few paths in Beynac. He basically asked me to marry him, no kidding! I don’t seem to have this affect on young, good looking men with 6 packs (abs, not beer).
3) Devon: I’m sorry, I had to throw the lettuce away, after eating salad and cheese and lettuce sandwiches all week.
4) Meg: the peacocks at Marqueyssac were so tame, they could have cared less if you went right up to them to take their picture. Also, I love your perspective on my “man” day. You are so right on, I just didn’t see it that way until you pointed it out!(* If you didn’t read her remark on my Oct 6 blog , I peed standing up, hassled somebody and bought a 6 pack, ha ha!)
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5) Carolyn: I should have known a fellow scorpio would be hiding the fact that they “parle un petit peu de francaise” themselves. I’m impressed.
6) Shannon: there will always be a dirty house, and kids love frozen pizza! I’m glad you took some time to read and join in. We will share an $8 beer when I get home.
7) Shelley: My northface jacket has come in very handy for wind and rain, just as it did for you in Scotland. I think it should become the traveling coat, and go on the next person’s adventure too. Also, I have been using the french phrase book a lot, thanks!
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Love to all, Margie
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