Around the World in 80 days or rather "Around the Region of Brittany in 4"

I apologize for the delay and the lack of blogposts this past week and again a HUGE apology for you, Mom, for not calling on Sunday.  I never realized how beautiful and exciting life can be (even though it rains about every other day in Brittany) when "flying by the seat of your pants."

Realizing that we don't exactly have the monetary means at the moment to top our Venise vacation last summer (picture below):

Benoit and I decided to take a roadtrip and explore the coast of Brittany.  With only a map (and no not any electronic GPS, but a real paper map that is absolutely impossible to refold),the signs lining the French round-abouts (there is no such thing as a "left turn" in France), and my wonderful sense of direction to guide us (kidding--I have absolutely no internal sense of orientation).  So Tuesday morning at approximately 9:30am, we were off to our first destination, Cancale, home of the "Oyster Market."

Luckily, the weather was abnormally beautiful when we arrived at Concale.  The restaurants along the shoreline were jammed packed with natives, tourists, and exotic seafood.  By the recommendation of friend to skip the expensive restaurant, Benoit and I made our way to the oyster market where we were able to buy 2 dozen oysters, 2 lemons, and the option of tossing leftover shell on the seaside.  

MMMM! Slimy...

Lesson number 1 while eating oysters:  They are still alive, so you better chew well or else you will have a live oyster living in your stomach for about 2 hours after consumation.  Thanks Benoit for telling me AFTER the fact, therefore explaining why I had such a bad stomach ache.  I had a dozen slimy creatures  swimming around in my body!!

AH! Unexpected guest arriving in 5 minutes and in my pj's... definitely a French "faux pas" to say the least!

To be continued...

"Mastering the Art of French Cooking"

"Madame, I find that very interesting and rather wonderful that you do all of your cooking in high-heels and pearls,"  I commented politely to Madame Roblin Tuesday early morning, as she handed me an apron.  "But of course!  We French women wouldn't have it any other way.  As the saying goes, we must always be prepared in an instant in case an unexpected guest arrives at the door.  We must always look our best, not matter what we are doing," replied Madame Roblin in a surprised tone as if she was indirectly asking me the question; "You mean to tell me that American woman don't do the same?"

This past Tuesday, Benoit's mother invited me to spend the day at her house to teach me SOME of the basics of French cooking.  I emphasize the word SOME because there are about 1,234+ basics to "mastering the art of French cooking," despite what Julia Child may think.  Benoit and I arrived around 10:30am and quickly said our "goodbyes" as he went off to spend the day playing video games with his two younger brothers in the living room and I to the kitchen to join his mother and 18 year old sister for a full day of baking/cooking.  Lucky for me, I was feeling rather "French-like" that morning and decided to put on heels while getting dressed because, believe it or not, both Benoit's mother and sister were both wearing high heels and jewelry we would only think of wearing if we were planning to spend a night out on the town.  

That morning, we succeeded at preparing two fruit tarts: one apple and one orange with homeade whipped creme, a pork and parsley torte, and a lovely salad comprised of arugula lettuce, cherry tomatoes, pine nuts, and DUCK KIDNEYS flambéed in cognac (mmmm!).  The lunch was considered a bit heavy for a summer day, but was enjoyed by all.  Unfortunately, the orangr tart was the first attempt by any of us and as Benoit's father correctly described, it sort of tasted like an luke-warm omlette with oranges.  Everyone found it absolutely disgusting, but as the French saying goes, "il faut finir," so despite our grimaced faces and unhappy taste buds, we were obliged to finish the pie.  

After lunch, it was time to break out the infamous family recipe of "the gash"; a beloved secret never before revealed to an outsider, meaning non-family members, especially those who still struggle to speak the French language.  So given the fact that Madame Roblin was willing to not only give me the recipe and but also teach me step by step how to make it, I was sincerely touched by her generous initiative.  

A gash, to briefly describe it without giving away the family secret and being chased after by the 6th regiment of the French airforce--Benoit's father is now the colonal of this particular group of the French army, is a dense break-like loaf on which one puts LOTS of butter and LOTS of jam.  We baked two loaves that day in addition to 1 kg of homeade peach-pear jam.  I must confess that by the end of the day, I was "pooped" (to say the least).  I swear that French women must take part in some intense high-heel endurance housewife training in order to do that everyday!  I wonder where I can get my license for that...

A few "downs" compared to many "ups"

Now there are a few American comforts that I am certainly starting to miss and wonder if I will ever get used to these drastic changes.

1) Benoit and I still have no washing machine.  I haven't done a load of laundry since I arrived almost a month ago.  (See, Dad, having what may be considered too many clothes actually worked out to my advantage).  The dirty laundry is starting to creep from the bathroom into the entry way.  I try not to be too hard on Benoit about biting the bullet and buying a washing machine because he just bought a new car,

but he needs to understand that A) I am a girl and do not feel comfortable turning my underwear inside out nor drying myself off with a smelly towel and B) even though it is very sweet of Benoit's mother offer me the occasion to do a load of laundry at her house, I somehow feel very uncomfortable washing my "unmentionables" in my boyfriend's mother's washing machine.  

2) Taking a shower with an attached showerhead.  Most showers in France have a handheld, detatchable focet which permits you to manually spray and wash your body.  However, the handle on which you reattach the showerhead is located by your feet.  Logical, right?  Maybe to a european, but I prefer to have my shower water constantly running from head to toe during the total duration of my shower.  I will definitely have to take some time to "warm up" to these strange types of showers (no pun intended).

Him and I are currently not on good terms right now.

Last weekend, my former host family invited me to spend the weekend with them at the beach.  We had absolutely gorgeous weather and it was wonderful to once again spend time with them, in addition to eating the wonderful meals prepared by Madame Gaumain.  Here are some of the pictures I took while I was in Pouliguen, which is located here:

Benoit is leaving this weekend for a family reunion in the south of France, so I promise to post more blogs by the end of this week!

Bienvenue chez Bob

So that afternoon where Benoit Jego and I spent touring different port cities and selling French regional cookies, we thought it would be a perfect idea to have lunch on the beach.  We found ourselves at:

8, rue des Bains (street of the bathtubs)

17420 ST PALAIS SUR MER (the sacred palace on the sea)—nice address, right?

The name of the restaurant you may ask?  Chez Bob.  Yes, Dad, search no longer because you do indeed already have an ocean front bar/restaurant located on the western coast of France.

As we approached Chez Bob, we could see that all of the outside tables were already taken or reserved by everyone else who had the same bright idea of eating “au bord de la mer” (by the seaside).  We asked a server how long we would have to wait to be seated outside and luckily since we arrived near the end of the, around 1:30pm, he told us that the wait would only be about 15 minutes.  So, what did we do in the meantime?  Have an apèrifif of course!  Two glasses of cool, semi-sweet rosé, s’il vous plaît! In no time at all, we were seated at a table for two; and before I knew it, this is what I would look at for the next 2 hours along with a huge bowl of mussels that were caught fresh off the boat that morning and steamed in white wine, onions, and parsley, a healthy serving of fries, and a bottle of chilled white wine.  C’est ça les vacances! (Now that’s vacation for ya!)

Yes, this is indeed the view from my chair

"There goes the baker with his tray like always, the same old bread and rolls to sell."

So while using this photo as a potential prompt and cure for my recent writer's block, I begin to realize the gravety and the intensity of it's image.  Yes, everyone, I confirm that these are same-day slaughtered chickens neatly displayed at a French market (on a random weekday, for that matter) as if they were not dead, but merely sleeping and had forgotton their "winter coats."  If you look closely, or dare to in any case, you can see that their heads, beaks, and feet are still intact as they patiently wait to be sold to old, grumpy, French elders who continue to complain about the inconvenient currency change from the French Franc to the Euro--mind you that this change had taken place over 12 years ago. 

Below, I have posted the several pictures I took "at market" that day in order for you to get a feeling this "this provincial life" does indeed still exist:

Nope, this classy woman taken in the picture is not going to mass or out to dinner.  She is simply going to market!

Sorry Giant Eagle, your cheese selection is pretty good, but I don't know if it can stand up to a variety of 102.

Bonjour Mr. French Fisherman! Sorry to disturb your sales with my abnoxious tourist behavoir and taking pictures of you while you are trying to sell the fish you caught that morning.

Strawberries anyone?

So needless to say, while Benoît Jego (the "other Benoît) was off making cookie sales, I had a wonderful morning walking around the weekday market in a port town called La Rochelle.

--Although I must say that as delightful and endearing as I find most French people, "creepers and weirdos" do exist here, as they are present in almost every country I presume.  For example, while walking through the market, the sausage man whistled to me and offered me a taste of his sausage.  Okay, okay, I know that previous sentence and what I am about to tell you present obvious sexual inuendos, but I find no other way to describe this particular situation lol.  "Venez goûtez mes saucissons, Madameoiselle.  J'ai plusieurs parfum ici car je suis bien le roi des saucissons." (Literal translation: Come and taste my sausages, young girl.  I have many flavors here because I am very well the King of the Sausages.)  Now, as I did indeed sample the small piece of sausage he offered me because the saucisson in France really is rather good, I was happily saved from the Sausage King by Benoît's perfectly timed phone call telling me that he had made his necessary cookie sales and was ready to go.

I am so thankful for my friends in France.  The story of my poor camera bouncing off the stone pavement in front of the church made everyone cringe to the point where Benoît Jego actually gave me his old digital camera that he does not use anymore.  I have to say, I love the French and 2005 Sony Cybershot cameras!  So thanks to Benoît Jego, I was able to capture these beautiful images below of the breathtaking port town of La Rochelle:

Well, today is the day that Benoît gets to pick up his brand new car! I promised him that I would make a few photocopies of the necessary document he needs to present at the dealership, so I will have to explain the rest of my Wednesday outing at the beach in my next blog, which is soon to come!  

Bonne journée ! (Have a good day!)

Love, Laura

So I find that my ability to say "yes" to spontaneity has much improved since my arrival in France.  There is no longer a hesitation in my response nor further reflection about how much this particular outing is going to cost me.  I simply say "yes, why not?" knowing that whatever proposed adventure I just stumbled upon would be exactly what I needed and turn out to be one of the best days of life.

As I had mentioned in my last blogpost, my friend Benoît offered to take me along for the day and accompany him while he made his required sales for his cookie company.  Knowing that any opportunity to get out of the house, speak French, and explore other towns in France would be much better than staying in rainy Nantes by myself waiting for Benoît and the rest of my friends to finish their work day, I immediately agreed to tag along.  On Tuesday morning, we drove through Rennes,

and while Benoît went off to do some sales, I did some shopping and ended up with a new pair of earrings :)  After business was finished in Rennes, we drove another hour to our final destination, Le Mont Saint Michel.  Benoît was nice enought to let me use his Blackberry phone to take some pictures since my broken camera is currently making the long voyage to the United States to be repared.  

Above is a picture taken from the prison itself--not bad of a view for dangerous criminal.

Here, is a picture of one of the prison walls surrounded by the infamous quicksand.  The sea arrived at high-tied around 3:30pm that day, but varies according to the season.  So for all of the tourists (and there were thousands that day) who had wanted to take a walk along the sand, but arrived during high-tied were extremely disappointed.

Mount Saint Michel off in the distance.

After such a wonderful and enriching visit (and it really was, I am not trying to be corny or anything lol), my host sister, Louise-Marie, invited me over for dinner that evening.  Since her parents left for their vacation house right after the wedding festivities on Sunday afternoon and plan to stay there until the end of August (must be nice to be granted 5 weeks of manditory vacation), she was more than willing to invite me and a few of her friends, whom I had already met, to dinner.  It was so nice to see and talk with her again!

--Side note:  I apologized to Benoit for leaving him alone that evening, but he didn't seem to mind and said that he was looking forward to drink a beer or two in the tub and reading, lol.

Wedding continued...

Ok, so where did I leave off?  Oh, yes.  The dessert.  So after the dessert, all of the invitées moved into the dance room in order to watch the couple partake in their first Waltz as a married couple.  After a few moments, other couples started to join in and Benoit and I were encourage to enter the dance floor.  The only problem was that neither of us are even close to being "Waltz dancing masters," so we felt slightly out of place.  After the waltz, the third and final part of the wedding known as the "soirée," or loosly being translated as the "after party."  The champagne was still heavily flowing and we all had a wonderful time dancing what is known as "le rock," a common dance shared by both young and old in France that resembles the movement of swing dancing, only it is done to techno music.  

So here is a VERY ADVANCED example of what the dance looks like, to the time of a very popular French song:

So Benoit and I left the party around 3am and many people, including the bride and groom, where still up and dancing.  Here is a picture of what the property looked like at night:

 Gorgeous, right?  So, I had to cancel my "Skype date" with my parents the next day because I decided to go to bed a bit early that night lol.  Everyone who was seated at the bridal table, along with all the members of the family, were invited to brunch the next day at the church.  What I didn't know and certainly not accustomed to is that this brunch is held with the goal of finishing all of the left over food and drink from the wedding the night before.  Let's just say, I've had my fair share of French champagne for at least...a week lol.

Today, my friend Benoit (we have another friend also named Benoit, which occasionally brings much confusion) sells cookies for a living and has invited me to pick me up and spend the day with him at Mount Saint Michel, a former prison in the north of France where convicts were sent for life sentences.   It was, and still is, entirely surrounded by water and when the tide goes out, the shoreline becomes a dangerous trap of quicksand.  Obviously, they have now opened the prison to tourists and have built a road sturdy enough to hold massive amounts of cars and buses.

Here is a picture of the prison and where is it located on the map of France:

Well, that's all for now!  Love you!