One thing you can say about France is that the trains run on time. But when it's time for the Rentrée, a remark John made to Ben that "the train was stuffed," brought a retort from a young woman, struggling to her seat, that “All French trains are like this!” Ten long cars, a train that then doubled in size when SNCF added another train coming from Lorient at Rennes, and you have a train so full that with baggage there was no excess space... but it does move at 300 km per hour and makes the 500 km trip from Guingamp in Brittany to Paris in less than three hours.
We've spent the last two days talking with our friends hosts about the future. With more than ten years on us, they feel they are finishing out, but I can only add that the ten years that their granddaughter has lived is a long time for her, and they have at least that long left. We hope they will come to the States again.
They live in a lovely part of the world, with friends, farmers who deliver vegetables,oyster sellers they know well, short walks to the ocean and even a deer farm. The Pink Granite Coast is rocky and highly tidal, but it has an simple beauty about it, enhanced by the golden stone homes in Breton architecture that nestle along the coast and among the fields. The towns are universally pretty. Their intricate church spires are beautifully competitive with each other. The views of fields, hills and the shore add to the rural loveliness. While the province has a huge influx of summer people and tourists, it never seems overwhelmed. Our nightlife here is an evening of conversation around the dinner table after good meals of appetizers, main course, cheeses and then dessert. There's not much to do in the evening, and even trying to find a cup of coffee in our village, Penvenan, on Sunday afternoon was impossible. The place shuts up like a nunnery by nine in the evening.
We spent a lovely hour sitting on the edge of a rocky beach watching the sailboats tack into Port Blanc with the incoming tide, and a group of kids building a huge tower of a sandcastle.
Like much of France now, Bretons have no qualms about using their English. They are certainly pleased if you make an attempt at French, but if you slip into English, they then slip into English...many of the marketers, for instance, speak English for all the tourists who come here from the UK.
Now to Paris.
September 2, 2009
Paris is a whirl for us. We aren't tourists in the strictest sense since we are probably on our eighth visit. Now we do what we want, when we want with whom we want. Last night it was having a lovely, albeit wine-full, evening on August 31 at John and Eric's apartment, then a good night's sleep and then off to visit a museum.
Albert Kahn, an industrialist, spent a small fortune documenting with early color photography the world. About a hundred years ago he traveled to places that were not well-known to Parisians. While his photography collection wasn't on view on Tuesday morning at the Musée Albert-Kahn, even the dreary rainy weather couldn't dampen the beauty of his magnificent Japanese, French and English gardens. We agreed the gardens were worth a visit. We hope to see some of his photography next trip Unfortunately a show of autochrome color photography from the 1920s had closed last week.
We had a quick sandwich lunch, of mediocre note at a local Boulogne Billancourt sandwich shop and headed back into town to go shopping.
Ben had found several stores that offer the German Trippen shoes he loves. We found some in a store on the edge of the Marais. They now show off his tootsies to best advantage, particularly for our dinner in the 'burbs last night.
Poissy is a Paris suburb with lovely old houses along the islands in the middle of the Seine...it also has an ugly railway station and a bit Peugeot factory. Our friends, a free-lance writer and a middle school principal have one of the homes on the islands. We sat with champagne, talking about the last couple of years since we had been here, enjoying every minute, watching the river flow and the evening creep in. It didn't hurt to have pâté de fois to start and breast of duck with a 1994 St. Emilion for the main course.
Long conversations about American politics, the future of President Obama and his health care proposals, reactions from the right wingers and the state of the union, made for a long evening. We managed to get the very last train back into Paris from the railway station. We weren't even on the dernier Métro to our friends apartment.
Today was a trip by bus to the Ile Ste Louis to the 17th century upperclass housing development on the island in the middle of the river.
Our friend, from Brown and Washington days, was a great host and picked out a lovely restaurant for a formule lunch: 17 euros...Les Fous de l'Ile restaurant on Rues des deux Ponts. Lovely place. Salade des gisiers, saumon tartare, grilled chicken leg, bass, and duck breast. Good white macon, too.
The magnificence of Paris is always there. We saw the illuminated Eiffel Tower last night from the train and today was a long bus ride through the centre-ville along the Seine passing the palaces, the squares and the cathedrals. The beauty of this very human city is always evident. Thankyou Baron Haussman and Napoleon III.
Of course, the dinner party with French speakers was a good chance to prove that my French is not as good as I think it is. Discussing my daughter's wedding, I noted “Elle est marié à son garçon de treize ans,” which brought down the house. What I had said was she had married her thirteen year old boy. What I meant to say was “Elle est marié à son copain qu'elle a connu de treize ans.” She married her boyfriend she's known for 13 years.
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