Au revoir, France

I have just eaten the last croissant of my trip, and drained my last café au lait. I am flying home today.

J left yesterday, leaving me on my own for my last 24 hours. I'm not sure if I have been bottling up shopping desires or what, but I made yesterday into Parisian retail adventure of major proportions. Of all my purchases, I'm most pleased with what my new friends at Comptoir des Cotonniers called "carotte" pants: seriously fashion-forward tapered and cuffed trousers that I've seen on a few style mavens here. This shopping excursion, among other things, has widened my vocabulary considerably, and I'm happy to report that I have once again achieved conversational comfort in this lovely language. I'll be looking for a French tutor, or at least a French conversation-partner, once I get back to the states. (My language flows most fluently in the presence of tall and handsome French men who like to tell me I'm ravissante, so keep your eyes peeled for candidates.)

So, armed with a few books from Shakespeare & Co. to tide me over until I land, I'm off. The meaning of au revoir comforts me now: it's not "goodbye," but rather, "until I see you again." Au revoir, France.

Chars a voile, NRJ and medieval mists

We have just returned one tiny black hatch-back Mercedes to Europcar in Caen. It was an automatic, thank goodness, and it had a lot of legroom. J and I drove it through Normandy and Brittany (la Normandie et la Bretagne) for the last three days, pumping French and English jams courtesy of our new favorite station, NRJ (pronounced "energy"), unintentionally filling it with sand from an extreme beach excursion, and switch-backing through the winding roads of the Breton countryside.

We left Caen on Monday afternoon, with me at the wheel and J managing navigation, which was no small task. (Both of us are used to signs for 95 taking up the skyline, whereas the French technique is far more subtle. Due to another French roadway strategy, we have also achieved a new level of roundabout-courage.) Our destination was Dinard, just south-west of St. Malo on the coast, but curiosity got the better of us and we decided to investigate a new sandy activity and hope for the best, accommodation-wise, once we had our fill. We were drawn to the beach when we saw dozens of sails circulating on some hidden track, and once we realized that these sails were attached to go-karts, we decided to go for it. An hour later, we were covered in dirt and sporting windblown hairstyles, having sand-sailed on chars a voile. It was still very light out, so we thought that, before leaving, we would attempt to cross the desert-like dunes to find the actual coast-line. What must have been a mile later, we were in mud past our ankles, seemingly no closer to the pilings that we had been certain indicated where the water began. We gave it 10 more minutes, but decided to can our quest when the mud crept up our calves, and there was still no real water in sight.

By the time we got back to our car, it was after 8 pm, and we thought that we should probably find a place to lay our heads. We ended up in a medieval-tower of a bed and breakfast, welcomed by a charming host, Edith, and her black lab Tempo, who had a red bandana endearingly knotted around his neck. We dumped our things, and dined in St. Malo, finishing our day with a stroll along the ramparts of the old city.

Yesterday morning, after breakfast and easy conversation with Edith, we drove further inland to Huelgoat, stopping for a home-style lunch in Guerlesquin on the way. The village of Huelgoat had everything we had hoped for: mist, tons of hiking trails, some fairy-tale gullies and, to our great surprise, a tiny little cafe hidden in the middle of the forest, where the celtic music tinkled, and local artists had us digging into our wallets. But the best part of the afternoon was the hour or so that we spent scaling and bounding over, around and between enormous moss-covered boulders, not stopping until our shoulders and quads were sore.

Today we spent most of the day on the road, making our way back to Caen, where we are currently sipping beer and waiting for our train back to Paris. Just two more days for me-- I'm determined to speak as much French as possible.

La route des vins d'Alsace

J made the statement early on today: "We could not have picked a better day for this." "This" was our bike trip from Seléstat to Colmar, along La route des vins d'Alsace, and he was completely right.

We woke up at 7, in time for a lovely breakfast at the hotel, then pedalled over to the train station, where we boarded our train for Seléstat, a town about 20 minutes south of Strasbourg. We quickly happened upon two locals who were able to direct us to une piste cyclable, a bicycle route, but their expertise was not the best part of the interaction. The coolest part, for me, was that they spoke Alsatian, a mixture of French and German that is the regional dialect. They spoke to me in French (in which I have regained my confidence, the product of many sustained conversations during the days I was by myself, as well as a few well-placed compliments), but would consult with each other in a language I kind of understood, but mostly did not. I was so happy I got the chance to hear it.

Then J and I were on our way, zooming through acres and acres of vinyards, corn, and sunflowers. We stopped in Bergheim around 11 to have a degustation with a lovely man, who inherited his vinyard and winery from his father. Three sweet sips of white wine later, we got back on the road with a bottle of our favorite in my basket. We wandered through Ribeauvillé, and then headed up into the foothills, where the biking got a little harder, but the views got even more impressive. We finally hit the brakes in Colmar around 4, unable to believe how beautiful the entire ride had been. Between our aching quads and the bottle of white that we neatly put away while sitting under various trellises and sprawled on lawns through the trip, we we able to soundly sleep slumped-over in our seats on the train home. Now we have showered away our grime, and eaten a serious dinner, and are calling it a night. Another early wake-up call tomorrow, for our 7 am train to Caen!

Deux étoiles, minimum

Sitting in the lobby of the THREE star hotel that J and I have decided upon for our stay in Strasbourg, France's most German city. I am supremely content with these accomodations, which are a departure from our original plan, and respresent the second time this week that I've privileged cleanliness over cost. While travelling alone, it made sense to stay in hostels (and I found one EXCELLENT one in Marseille, called Vertigo), since I was often able to meet and hang with people there. However, now that J and I have met up, we've made a collective decision to direct some funding towards pristine accomodations.

One change of plans from earlier this week, which also landed me a sweet spot to sleep, was a trip to Dijon. I spent less than 24 hours there, but enjoyed a good run in one of the several parks, as well as an afternoon at the Musée des Beaux-Arts, where I fell hard for an artist named Picquart, whose style reminded me of Chagall in form and Gauguin in color. From Dijon (where, by the way, I did make a point of buying mustard), I made my way to Paris to meet up with J and a friend of his.

Now we are enjoying the very different feel of Strasbourg and are excited for a day-long bicycle trip tomorrow, from Sélestat south through Haut-Rhin to Colmar, along La Route des Vin, or the Wine Road. We are also planning a foray into French cinema tonight, and are looking forward to testing our comprehension skills with a movie called Le premier qui l'a dit, or The first one who said it. Neither of us cares too much about the plot, which may end up being a good thing!

Cuisine courage

I'm rounding out my time by myself, which has been a circuit between the three largest cities in France, with a trip to Lyon, about halfway between Marseille and Paris. Considered the gastronomic capital of France, it is quite a different feel from Marseille: more pig cuisine, more hipsters, less sun. In general, the French people I've spoken with would agree that it is "plus tranquille."

Speaking of cuisine, it is only fair that I give it some attention: I AM in France, after all. Marseille represents a cool mix of Provençal style with north African: I went from papetoun, a tower of goat cheese and tomato, doused in olive oil and basil with olive tapanade in the middle, to a tajine of chicken. Les pates au pistou is like pasta with pesto and alfredo sauce, another classic from Provence. And today, I tried a popular dish from Lyon, unfamiliar to me at the time. I grew suspicious when I dug in, and then did the background research: le boudin is black pudding, sometimes called blood pudding. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but it was not bad at all. I am what one might call a reformed vegetarian.

Other than that, I'm enjoying croissants for breakfast, and small amounts of strong coffee as often as I can. In fact, I'm planning to search for one now, before I head off to explore Lyon's Musée des Beaux-Arts!

Marseille, c'est le pop.

Had a lovely trek to the beach today, many kilometers away. It was windy, and much sandier than Nice, with lots of people doing lots of extreme sports. Sometimes I like to do extreme things, but today I was happy to alternate between watching others, and reading my wonderful book, A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, which paints a remarkably detailed picture of India on the heels of partition. (...1474 pages worth of a picture. The inscription at the beginning, attributed to Voltaire, reads: "The secret of being a bore is to say everything.")

At dinner last night, I got into a conversation with my waiter about how much he loves Marseille. I mentioned that I had been to Nice, and that I preferred Marseille, to which he responded, "Nice, c'est la musique classique. Mais Marseille, c'est le pop. E le pop vient du corps." (Nice, that's classical music. But Marseille is pop. And pop comes from the body.)

I quickly glanced at the tome that had been my dinner companion, turned to my pithy waiter, and replied: "Je suis absoluement d'accord."

Heaven on the Mediterranean

I have found a crazy, noisy, combustible and beautiful version of heaven on earth. I spotted the pearly gates from the train, where the man in the cafe car complimented my accent (an instant path to my heart). Within 2 hours of my arrival, a local on a mo-ped careened to a halt in front of me to say, genuinely, "Ou vas-tu? Je t'emmène." ("Where are you going? I'll take you."). I politely declined . But it was my two waiters last night, both named Philippe, who convinced me that this is a version of paradise, with its mix of Miami heat and midwest openness. Philippe #1 slipped me a note with his number, ...si j'avais besoin d'un guide, and though I turned this would-be guide down graciously, I left him something like an 80% tip for my drink. Philippe #2 not only m'a offerte un p'tit kir (French-restaurant-speak for giving it to me for free), but loaded me up a zillion calissons (marzipan candies) on my way out the door. He seemed truly disappointed that I will be heading up to Alsace-Lorraine soon, telling me "Mais, vous allez geler!" ("But you are going to freeze!").

Aside from the lovely Marseillais, my hostel is also heaven-like, and not only because of its seemingly bottomless coffee-pot. After taking advantage of this feature this morning, I set out for a walk through the open-air market on the other side of town. After enjoying myself tremendously, and having purchased a few small things, I decided to walk up the enormous hill that I saw to my right, assuming that I'd find the Marseille's famous basilica, Notre Dame de la Garde, at the top. I did: in the form of a gorgeous view. Determined, I kept walking, and finally reached this stunning church, as different from Matisse's Rosary Chapel as can be. The mosaics on the domed ceilings, the framed pictures on the walls, and the 6 mobiles of ships hanging down above my head, not to mention the shining golden statue of virgin and child at the very top, captured my attention for a long time.

I spent the afternoon continuing to wander, and booking the rest of my solo-trip: on Sunday, I'm off to Lyon, and will spend Tuesday night in Dijon before meeting up with J in Paris on Wednesday! But, for now, I'm content to soak up this version of what I've realized is actually the Mediterranean life.