Kig Ha Farz

Today I have no photos to offer you, only a memory. I am a naturally shy person, and I am not one of those people who makes friends in every foreign country she visits, so today as I spent the afternoon in a French chef's kitchen learning how to make a Breton specialty, I felt particularly proud of myself. Not only did I converse in French (mostly unbroken, well, okay, maybe about 54% unbroken), but I conversed with not one, but two complete strangers (the chef, Amadine, and Jo, our host who also accompanied us to the cooking lesson) and  learned how to prepare a foreign dish. Phew!

Amadine was a female version of Gerard Depardieu: tall and portly. She was full of bon vivant and often utilized the French nonverbal saying, "pffft" which is a substitute for anything that doesn't require further explanation. The onions are burning, pfft, oh well. She added more butter and broth. While we waited for the duck liver to soften in the milk (yes, I did learn how to make foie gras today--I'm sorry vegetarians), she gave us a tour around her auberge. She gave a running monologue about the poor season she's had so far withe very reservations plus a grand wedding that canceled three days before the big day. She was "furious", insert hand gesturing and "pfft" at the same time.

I must say going into this, I was petrified. I had visions of Chef Ramsay yelling at me and throwing out my burning sauces spewing swear words constantly, but Amadine rarely corrected us and when she did, she was kind and civil. Just a "oh no, not like that" and then a "pfft" what does it matter anyway. She made cooking in her professional kitchen (Michelin star even) a comfortable and amusing experience.

With flies buzzing around us, we carefully prepared our Breton stew (Kig Ha Farz) which is a lot easier than it sounds. In fact, I'd be happy to prepare it for you someday. And, once we completed our promenade and coffee, we went to work on the duck liver. Now, foie gras is not something I enjoy that often. I don't really like the taste of liver. Again, I'm sorry vegetarians for what I'm about to say...but making my own foie gras has changed my mind. It was kind of fun digging around to remove the vein structure...a lot like playing with play dough. Yes, it is also completely disgusting, but I've never been that intimate with an animal's innards before and really there was a scientific curiosity satisfied by creating this French specialty. Yes, it is also completely cruel that they stuff these birds full of food to create their abnormally sized livers, but really, I guess you have to dig your own hands into a liver to understand what I mean. Unfortunately, we don't get to eat the foie gras we prepared, because it need to set for 48 hours before eating once it had been cooked. Amadine joked that if her customers liked it, she'd take all the credit, but if they didn't, she would know it was our fault. I was silently mortified to think that she'd serve what we made to her customers...It's a good thing I washed my hands!

When we returned to our cottage, we sat down to dinner with our hosts to partake in our Breton meal. It was delicious and heart attack inducing. There had to be at least a pound of butter in the dish not to mention the salted pork that simmered with the vegetables. I could literally feel my valves clogging up and my cholesterol soaring. I didn't mind though, because it was a small sacrifice I was willing to take for this wonderful experience. I felt like Anthony Bourdain except without the cigarettes and skinny jeans...well, and the camera crew, but close enough. Maybe one day, I could have my own Travel Channel show in which I traversed the globe eating local foods and conversing with local chefs. And, boy did I converse. Our hosts now know all that I grow in my garden, that I'm getting married in September, and the horrible economic situation of education in the US. From them, I learned that there daughter is also getting married soon, and Jo's parents are celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary on September 25th. He joked that it will bring me good luck and perhaps we will one day celebrate our 65th anniversary...I did the math quickly in my head and decided I'd be lucky to live another 65 years! Pffft!

Our Lady of Disappointment was indeed a no-show today, and I am so grateful for this way-out-of-my-comfort-zone-but-I-enjoyed-it-thoroughly-anyhow experience.

Tomorrow, we leave our peaceful cottage for the coast of Quimper and a night in a chateau. Yes - I get to be a princess for a night!

Our Lady of Disappointment

Let's just say that when your day begins with another night of bad sleep (another school nightmare: can you believe they switched my prep to 7th and made me move classrooms all on the first day of school?!), you know that the rest will not go so well. I know that when I tell you that I now have five, count 'em, five grease stains on my only suitable travel pants from a dropped chaussons de pommes (apple pastry), you will truly feel my pain and agony at being in France with pastry stains!

But wait! There's more pain and agony to be had. I will work in reverse since here I sit, exhausted and wearing greasy pants. We went in search of the famed Cote Rosee and while it may sound like a wine, it is actually cliffs of rose-pink granite. First, let me clarify the reality: there are no cliffs and the non-cliffs are decidedly not pink. When I envision pink, I envision roses, sunsets, Hello Kitty clothing, but not the view of rocks that were presented to me. They were ok, I guess just not exactly what I had in mind.

Before that disappointment, there was the disappointing nature preserve on the island Ille Grande which despite having the only available public toilets in the last 100km, did not have the famed puffins of this region! In fact, the puffin population is slowly dwindling due to oil spills, tromping tourists, and rapid urban growth. Big bummer! In fact, the only birds we did see were in the "recovery pen" and were just plain old seagulls. Ho hum.

But wait, there's even more disappointment. Before the lacking of birds bird sanctuary, there was Le Vaudet, the famed village of Asterix and Obelix. Nowhere in sight was there a dolmen, menhir, or even a druid. Not even a silly sign with the comic characters! Not that I like that sort of silly tourist kitsche, but still, a mention of them or even a pizzeria named after them would have been a good photo opportunity to send back home to the bro. Oh well! It did have a pretty stone church and a pretty sea view.

And, let us not forget the Chateau de Rozenbo which was closed until 2pm. It was a lovely stop to eat lunch though, and that was what we did. We tried peeking through the archer's holes and above the walls for a glimpse of the impressive chateau (at least the roof suggested it was impressive). I only could see more stone walls though.

Thus, the Lady of Our Disappointment occasionally graces us with her presence when we travel. Yesterday, she was nowhere to be seen. The Chateau of Kerjean had exciting secret passageways, and our crepe making experience with our hosts was both death-defying (in that it was awkward and way out of my comfort zone...lots of broken French) and amusing (both Jo and Sylvie are incredibly generous and patient), so all in all, when the Lady visits she cannot doom the entire trip. 

PS

I encountered three French dogs taking themselves on walks today. Two were together (a puppy shepherd and a fluffy white thing) trotting down a country road, the other was this evening (an older male version of Pomona...perhaps her French twin) as a doggie face peered into our back patio while we ate. He accepted a few crumbs of crepe and then sauntered down the lane when the treats ended. Later, the kitty Grebouille chased him off. She may be 11, but she if feisty. 

Il fait chaud

I must make this quick. We are about to eat pain perdu (French toast) made from the completely dry baguette that was no good in the first place, plus we have a 11 o'clock cooking lesson with Jo, our host. He is going to show us how to make Breton crepes. Yesterday, we saw their beautiful potager (veggie garden), and he gave me a handful of strawberries because they are good for the "rheum" (my bronchial congestion).

It is very warm in the interior which is where we headed yesterday among the wilds of Armorique, and I am glad that we are staying on the coast where it is cool and the breeze is refreshing. We walked to view the sunset last night at 10pm! I just can't believe how long it takes for the day to end here. It really does feel like the end of the world...although that's a few kilometers to the west of us. 

Ah, this is the life I tell you! When I am an old and rich (ha!), retired teacher, I would like a little stone farmhouse with a potager and nature within walking distance. Our hostess is a retired teacher, so if she can do it, so can I!

For your viewing pleasure, I have many religious artifacts for you today including the natural formation of the Grotte de diable (Devil's grotto) accessible by slippery, rusting ladder rungs as well as carved stone "enclos" outside a church. Sometimes I think these ancient Christians had a bit of a sense of humor about these things (you'll see in the picture of what I mean). You'll also have the pleasure of viewing the church on top of the world: Mont St. Michel (no not the island).

Can you tell that I am groggy and tired today? My "rheum" has not left me, and I think today should include the obligatory siesta after lunch, or in our case, after crepe preparation. 

A bientot! (see you later)

The Great Cultural Divide

The glory of travel is to remind you what you love about home. I love public restrooms. I love clearly marked roads. I love friendly waiters who ask if you're ready for the bill.

As a traveler in an European country, it is easy to die a slow death in the corner of a restaurant waiting for the bill, or the l'addition as they call it here in France. The waiters assume that you want to linger over your meal (it is true that the average restaurant visit lasts two hours) and will not bug you about things such as when you want the bill. There is a huge deficit here between US and French citizens. I can only imagine that any French tourist in America would find our friendly waiters incredibly rude with the constant questions, "More coffee? More water? Would you like dessert? Would you like the bill?" Here, in order to survive, you must make eye contact at the exact, appropriate moment. If this crucial moment is lost, forget it; you are there until closing or when they need to kick you out to make way for the next wave of diners. We have experienced three of these moments so far only to discover in two of the instances that we must go to the "caisse" (cash register) to pay. There were no tell-tale signs that this was the case. We assume there must be a secret signal involved between the waiter and the diners. Be wary! One of the three moments was spent in L'Auberge de Meneham in a ruined (now restored) village of thatched fishing huts a stone's throw from the ocean. I dined on my first crepe of the trip: oozing, hot, buttery chevre with poitrine fume (smoked breast...breast of what, I am not sure). It was delicious. I also had my first real coffee of the trip, and I died for a moment in the dark, mysterious aroma of espresso. However, after we had completed our meal and appropriately lingered, our delightful waiter, complete with the traditional striped Breton sailor shirt, had decided to consciously ignore us. No amount of brow-raised looks brought him over. Finally, after desperation and the horror of being trapped here for the next week, we flagged down another waiter, and I said in my most confident French, "Exscusez-moi Madame, l'addition s'il vous plait." And she was like, oh yeah, sure, what took you so long. Sigh. 

The beauty of the Meneham was that there was a public restroom, a rarity in France. I had a touch of Napoleon's revenge yesterday morning, so I was very aware of the scarcity of public restrooms. I frankly don't know how the French do it. Well, actually I do...there are many a corner and bush in France that have a distinct smell of urine. And at a certain point near the end of yesterday, I did consider briefly that the bush behind the obelisk near the cow field might just be the spot for me; however, my American Puritanical sensibilities took over, and I decided that using a corner near a historic artifact was not an appropriate choice, even though several others thought so. Anyhow, just be aware of this if you ever travel in the European vicinity.

Yesterday, besides a few setbacks such as a village closed due to an open air market, we seldom had to turn around. As long as my mother trusts my judgement and waits for me to give directions we are safe. I even was confident at times to close the map and tuck it within reach near my seat. We made our way from our cottage to the local Casino (a market, not a gambling joint) and purchased some sunscreen (thank you!) all the way to the Western coast that has great granite bouldered beaches and hidden bays and ports. We went in search of dolmens and menhirs many of which turned out to be beneath a 16th century (or earlier) church. Take that pagans! Finally we did find a perfect Asterix and Obelix type menhir, and I made my mom take the tourist shot of me trying to hold it up just like in the comic books. We even found a restaurant to eat dinner at, oysters and all--this one had a "caisse". 

A pretty good day all in all. Hopefully today there will be no return of Napoleon's revenge. Although, I must say, I feel some bronchial congestion forming but was is travel without getting sick? We are heading to an ancient castle, medieval village, and then the Armorique wilderness where the Celts staved off the Roman invaders (at least for a little bit) and that is featured in the Asterix and Obelix comic books. 

Sleep well my friends.

Strawberry and Vanilla Hand

While you all were fast asleep Saturday night, I was living my Sunday. I already know who won the World Cup games today and the sun is beginning to think about setting in the distance (it's somewhere around 9pm), and you, you are just beginning to realize that your Sunday is about half over and lo! it's Father's Day.

My Sunday in Brittany was, thankfully, relaxing; although, we did manage to get lost--twice. And seeing that the second time was on foot, I'd say that is quite a feat. Granted, I was in the right again, because I knew that the road didn't branch back at the recycle bin, but I went back anyway to the "turning point", since I am a good daughter. Actually, I went back to the non-fork in the road simply so I could say, "I told you so!" Ha! The first "lost" happened by car but was quickly remedied by my insistence that we turn around (yes, I am rosily painting my navigating skills here and it is one-sided--so what!?). Sadly, that was just a short trip to the grocer for breakfast basically 2km away from the house. We could've walked...although that probably would have resulted in the same lost-ness.

Eventually, we did get our navigational bearings and headed due North by foot hoping to reach the coastline. I was envisioning an Oregon coast scene with misty shores and an obscured horizon. What I found instead was water equivalent to the Mediterranean and beautiful sandy beaches composed of mostly sanded quartz pebbles. I dipped my toes in the water hoping for that Mediterranean warmth, but nope, it's cold out there in them thar waters. Brr! There were a few reckless French surfers trying to catch these pathetic waves that would make the Oregon coast look like...well, like the Mediterranean.

We returned via a new route and managed to not get lost, returning safely to our cottage. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading and knitting in the Breton sun creating a lovely Neapolitan inspired tan/sunburn on my hands. The red is really strawberry and the white underbelly of my hands and arms are so very vanilla. Ouch. I don't know why I didn't think to bring sunscreen; I guess the sun does shine on the other side of the world too. 

It is indeed a tragic evening what with the sunburn and the terrible fact that we have run out of bread thus ruining the butter to bread ratio. I haven't quite succumbed to eating the butter with a spoon, but I'm telling you this is the whole reason I want my own miniature cow in the backyard. Mmm, real butter...

The sun will be gone soon, and I want to see if I can capture some National Geographic quality shots. 

 I know it's pretty ridiculous to be this connected when I'm 5,000 miles from home, but that's technology for you. Consider yourself part of the virtual journey. 

Roundabouts, Rabbits, and Recharging

Well, it wasn't easy, but we've made it to the coast of Brittany. Here is the current count: 142 roundabouts (plus 3 we had to traverse through AGAIN), 12 roadside rabbits (alive), and about 10% recharged. Please remind me to never, ever, never, ever, never again enter a foreign city after 12+ hours of travel, jet-lagged, with my mother, and rent a car to drive a mere hour...which turned into over 3 simply because one (being myself) cannot navigate with only 3 hours of sleep. Hm, that roughly translates into one hour lost sleep into one hour extra driving time. We did eventually arrive at our first place of rest: charming B&B run by a couple with the surname of Knitter. They also had an adorable daughter and an even more adorable kitten. We slept for a couple of hours before heading out to dinner at a nearby restaurant, Le Vol au Vent. We were the only people in the place, because dinner doesn't really get going until 8pm, and it was only 7:30pm. All in all, it was delicious. Imagine as a first course a plate of pink salmon marinated to perfection in a lime/lemon sauce. Yes, that was heaven, and what followed must have been St. Peter's own dinner.

Today, driving was much more successful. I don't think we had to turn around once...no wait, we did once, but that is only because, ahem, the driver did not wait for the navigator's (me) instructions. We stopped in Beaumesnil to take in some lovely gardens surrounding a chateau, then Fougeres to conquer a caste and learn the history behind the Bretagne Independence, and then finally to repose in our own Breton cottage only a short promenade to the sea. In face, from our bedroom window, I can see the sea setting over the Channel. I am happy as an oyster...the very one that I plan to eat tomorrow. The couple who run this "gites" or place to rent is incredibly friendly seeing that we showed up on their doorstep at 9pm and have set up a restaurant lesson in Breton cooking, plus Jo, the husband, offered to show us how to make crepes. I already know the polisinki way (Polish), but I know nothing of the fancy pants French way. 

It is time to rest my head and recover from jet-lag some more, but I leave you with another count: 2 fox roadkills (you never see that in Oregon, now do you?), 1 church bell tower ringing after mass, 3 near-misses, and 1 cream-soaked lunch.

Estimated Departure Time: 29 hours

About nine years and three months ago, my mother and I took a blurry picture in front of an Amsterdam canal; and in not so many days, we'll be taking a blurry picture somewhere in France. I still have to checkout from school, so that I can be free to truly hop on a plane and take another crazy trip with my mother.

The first time around I was having a quarter-life crisis. I had just quit my job, moved myself out of a cute little house into my old bedroom at my mom's, and was having serious doubts about the current relationship I was in. Plus, two weeks before our plane lifted off, our nation's naivete was crushed along with the Twin Towers. It felt like the perfect time to travel around Europe with my mother for six weeks. Traveling in a foreign country with another individual where you both don't speak the language means that you are basically with that person nonstop and only have that person to converse with, to understand you. While you are out exploring, it can also feel a little isolating and smothering at times. Miraculously, we only fought once. It started on several roundabouts in Arles and stretched into the street of Nimes. I think the cause was navigation--either too much or lack thereof.  I can't quite remember. Besides that tiny incident, I had a memorable, life-changing time. I returned home with a new sense of purpose: went back to school to teach, bought a house, and dumped the boyfriend.

This time around I wouldn't say I was in any type of crisis except for the yet-unfixed leaking faucet in my backyard. I love teaching, I live in a house that I own (although it feels like it owns me too often), and I am joyfully, blissfully affianced. It's been a tough road getting here, so I feel that I can accept and love the peace that I am in (I type this as I look around for the universe ready to strike a blow). I don't know that I will experience any self-discoveries or epiphanies while traveling with my mother this time around, but I do know that I will fully enjoy the experience and discovery of a new territory and a chance to reinvent the mother-daughter trip. Hopefully, this time without any navigational tiffs.

Thank you mom for this experience. I truly appreciate it, and I can't wait to sit down on the plane, buckle my seat belt, and adjust my tray to the upright position.

Scratch that. I hate flying. I can't wait to land on the other side of the Atlantic and taste that first cup of real coffee.

Welcome to the journey...