seen at the vide grenier...

with bazouges la perouse as the center point of a 10 mile and very bike-able diameter, there are several a rolling and sometimes steeply inclining road leading to the surrounding 5 villages. of these: st-remy-du-plain, rimou, noyal-sous-bazouges, marcille-raoul, and tremblay; I recently visited a sunday vide grenier of the last, where the anticipated use of my camera replaced my wallet for a pursued value of people and their things. here I found the plaza and 2 streets of still another small town filled that day with barbie dolls in karate stances, halloween heads and costumes to match, porcelain cows grazing amongst plastic flowers, birds sold with cages, carnival games, and an oversized pikachu. then, mixed within all of this western equated garble is a plethora of plow equipment, butter churns and boots, dried flower arrangements interwoven with rusty farm tools, tractor wheels, french texts, and the people who may have read them.... and the people! the people of bretagne: those that spend their youth participating in garage sales for a parent's living, and those that have aged as many years as the rusty wheels that surround them; those that bring an eclecticism to the day's display of french culture, and those who stick to their roots while wanting just as badly to make a buck. perhaps to their dismay I hear few other tourists this morning, though maybe the occasional british family making a visit to their summerhome. still, they all want stuff... don't they? whose day (hour) (minute) will be made by an impulse buy? I linger to watch them shuffle along these blankets of the out-grown, over-used, or simply undesired, and children running for new piles of toys weave in between or around them. I see signs reading 1 euro a piece beside a collection of copper pots, but take more notice to the smile that surmises an exchange; for if I could collect all of those moments of fleeting satisfaction, I could give another a very fulfilling lifetime.
on the tight, winding street leading out of the town, I'm looking again at strange bugs and the small secrets of the architectures' alley ways. in quaint admiration, I linger on a makeshift table of vegetable crates and scrap plywood, adorned with a lace-like doily and the remnants of that days lunch: some leftover bread crumbs, a few scattered pieces of fruit, an emptied glass of cider and the bottle to match... returning home, I smile to another helpful helping of candid moments and these simple observations.

in these daily gray washes

pushing a remembrance of florida, and then for NY, and perhaps now a slight pity for such; it's august 12th and the weather's a chilly fifty-nine degrees. fifty-nine degrees!... but there are these clouds to go with it, and the grayness is only accentuated by the daily drizzle of rain. still, while weekend travel plans become checked for another; I'm feeling a preference to this non-sweaty dampness as I take my trail-based walks and street-side bike rides. then also it is true that there's such an odd thrill to be traveling along in these winter clothes in the midst of summer. collar popped and scarf wrapped tight, I tread a brisk ground, and the cornfields sound the wind's working.

the fate of a chicken

while I've frequented a visually lavish publix or two, and whole foods certainly provides a treat to taste, these nor even the occasional farmer's market can compare to the sensations of les marches and vide grenier visited over the past couple of weekends. and while this certainly must seem a trip for the tame, particularly amongst weekdays of painting and an otherwise very domestic play, I've nevertheless come to find much joy in these pastoral pleasures... particularly when touched by a french authenticity.

to aux lices:

hopping on the surprisingly crowded 8a.m. train to rennes, I spent the majority of my 7,20 euro ride crammed between cars of backpackers and locals, young and old alike. not even having enough room to check my watch from the front pocket of my bag (I'm thinking of my subway rides in NY again), I am eventually offered a seat by a very considerate gronmair, mair, and her two curly-headed daughters.
score another point for france.
sitting now but arriving only minutes later, I am soon submerged in the already forgotten expanse of the rennes station. through this passing overwhelm, or a mere shaking from the restful calm of bazouges, I then give brief thought to those upcoming and more massive destinations of barcelona, florence, rome...

for in the placid french setting surrounding my home, my mind becomes complacent to a meandering of smaller details; strange bugs (one that looked like a hummingbird), oddly shaped seed pods and berries, varied piles of rusting tools, or small wooden carved signs marking overgrown trails off the side of the road.
now, instead, my eyes dart back and forth across looming screens of arrivals and departures found just above these moving faceless faces through which I filter in order to find the right gate. still, I'm pleased to make the shift and welcome the challenge of change, but also realize the potential cause for the enamor in what I will soon behold.

once outside these teeming confines, the crowds of the station give way to sheer abandon. empty paths, street lights for no one, and still dark store fronts provide little signs of life aside from the disquieting persistence of the occasional beggar. I'm looking for distractions and finding a promising source upon hearing a gradual increase of bustle marked by a blur of french dialect and mixed with the general commotion of opening shops. a turn of a corner around an old medieval gate and I am cast upon the saturated hues of produce under even brighter umbrellas. accentuated by a dappling of home-grown bouquets and equally colorful people standing behind their tables, I wander along the cobblestone plaza passing into the various market subsections; one for fruits and vegetables, two for those of the sea, a warehouse full of butchers, and another of cheese, breads, and nuts. next, a section specifically for floras (and still as many old ladies) serves as a welcome balance to a quick glimpse of the chopping of a chicken's head... it was only later that I read that this "coucou de rennes" is an ancient breed of poultry that has an entire association devoted to the conservation of its supposedly exceptional eggs and meat. it's a cause to savor the flavor, I suppose. keeping to their carnivorous enjoyment, I find the "galette saucisse" to be an equally popular feature of yet another street of vendors who despite their assembly-line efforts still can't seem to prepare enough for the maze of customers. walking by and to contrast my own preferences, it's first a couple of delicious white nectarines, a small bouquet of garden flowers from an irresistible old lady, and a gift of a fruit-caked chevre and a dried sausage (leon's favorite) for the jallus back home.

still, before I begin the return, I decide to make a few stops at a couple of the towns' churches (yes, there are at least 9 to choose from, each located by a little green illustration on my now appreciated map). at st. peters, my first of 3, I begin with another setting of purely visual impact, becoming typical now from entering well over a dozen of these massively rotund and sometimes more ornate structures. yet, while staring at some of the paintings in its dark and heavy apse, I am approached by the janitor who begins speaking to me in an english I can't understand. here perhaps in the sheer foreignness of sound accentuated by the emptiness of space, these watchful eyes, and a dangling golden cross, I'll say there was a certain stirring... and the heavy wooden door closes behind me.

but much of the toilet paper is pink...

a honeymoon over and a crisis of cake, there are but a few minor french matters that still require some adjustment; and while perhaps the underlying feeling has colored the tone of the past couple writings, I only have to remind myself of this entry's title...

there is but one internet provider here in brittany, and it took 3 weeks to get the necessary assistance from their anti-customer customer service. though now that it's up (and much to the relief of my admittedly dependent state), I find it still to sometimes run at only an escargot pace. also, the local grocery store closes for lunch, sundays, mondays, and holidays; and the majority of businesses shut down while the owners take their summer-long vacations. in a small town like bazouges, the bartender is often the florist, and may also own the only dry-cleaner for miles; meaning their vacation can leave you sober and smelly, and without a daisy to brighten your day. and worse still, even your train or bus may be effected during these sluggish months, though I've personally been fortunate enough to avoid any extent of this trouble. nevertheless, it's the dark side to a consumer's end of a socialist spectrum, and I wonder to myself if it's something to ever get used to...
one year later, sandy's still saying no.

yet, there is still this outside these windows:


...and an experience of a different sort as this past saturday night, I accompanied sandy, yann, and leon to a seemingly random local party held in bazouges's center. here, spirits were high to the tune of some surprisingly recognizable music, played along with an even shocking amount of R&B and rap... more amusingly still, you'll find none of that familiar censuring as few people understand the words.
tonight and under the sounds of p.diddy, rough and tumble kids play running games in the street, while beer and kir are poured and those glasses clink amongst a buzzing laughter. for this small bretagne town, I hear surprisingly many english accents throughout these pitched tents of mismatched pattern, and the string of lights hanging within shines on faces of a variety of age (though most are fairly young or at least equally as old). there's a farmer type to the left of me with a grizzly beard and the lack of one eye, and to my right is a younger man smiling and so showing a set of those typecast british teeth. I am told stories of husbands whose wives left them to take care of their 5+ kids and questions of if you've gone in on your pig for the september slaughter. still, to top it all, the night ends not only with my watching the garbage fill with heaping piles of mussel shells, but also an impromptu raffle involving prizes of giant sausages and potted plants. finishing my beer, I still revel in the night while passing the now quiet moonlit streets of this quaint french town.

on sunday rides; from car to train

with the majority of my weekday hours being overtaken by some much needed work, I now only savor my fin de semaine travels all the more. with but a brief overview of some of these recent sunday excursions, I soon return to my studio duties.

july.30.2006
vitre: of nuance and nuisances

breaking from these several straight days of under-painting people, boats, water, sky, and mountains; this sunday will be a daylong journey to the town of vitre, where I will be dropped off come 10a.m. and picked up some vague time past 8. under these hours, I am thankful to find this to be a larger small town, with decent portion contained within the walls of the old section, and a fair extension of newer development for more extensive travels beyond. beginning at the office of tourism, I ask "avez-vous une carte ou un plane de vitre? aussi, est-ce que vous avez des renseignments en anglais?". with a grimace towards my pronunciation, I am silently handed several pamphlets on guided tours and main attractions. here I read: "this is the best preserved 'old world' town in brittany; its fortified castle, its ramparts and its small streets have remained just as they were 400 or 500 years ago... come enjoy our exceptional architectural heritage, savor the delicious food offered in our restaurants and creperies, and make the most of the leisure activities available in the gently rolling countryside." traveller by trade, tourist in nature; I suppose I should be sold for the day.
yet, putting these scheduled walks and historic tours aside, the lingering presence of half a century is felt as I begin my own uncharted path around the outer wall. towards the back of these ramparts, just beyond the looming shadow of a most massive chateau, I find a dim passage of abandoned structures and overgrown foliage bearing into the rear of the town. stepping in to have a closer look, dark depths are reveled through broken glass and tight clearings in the vines, and shivers shoot down my spine as I quicken to a pace away. the overcast and chilly day (a mere 21ºC) has me colored now by an unearthly mood, and then what better place to spend my morning than in vitre's cemetery. here the immense stretch of graves laid out amongst the hilltop edge is broken by panoramic view of farmland plots and a smattering of houses. it's a sight that provides an eerie serenity to match the lacking bustle of the town's narrow and aging streets as the persistent 2-story architecture of bare, heavy timber weighs in over these desolate cobblestone paths. here was once scene of leatherworkers and weavers; a thriving manufacture for the trade of cloth and other goods. yet, now the streets are nearly silent aside from the occasional drum of a passing car or the wandering of some fellow tourists.
come 5p.m., after purchasing some baked goods at a soon closing creperie, I decide to find where a walk down one of the outer side roads will take me. from this 2 hour meandering, not only did I come across a very welcomed change of a jardin du parc, but also a not-so-welcome encounter with one of those 'aggressively persistent' european men that I was warned about just before my departure. being more of an annoyance that a genuine threat, it was nevertheless source of a final distaste to a somewhat wavering vexation of the day. all things considered, I am only left to say that 8 hours was more than ample time for a back alley exploration of this weathered town.


august.6.2006
saint malo: "merde! la mer manger mon chemise!"

looking for a more upbeat pace, the travel to saint malo is a quick 25 minutes via the local TER train, though now perhaps even shorter (if any distance at all), as I am unable to validate my purple purchased ticket in the little orange machine found off to the side of the track. wondering if anything will be said for an assumed misunderstanding, I decide to board despite this potential risk... (what a thrill seeker I am)... and I am sitting now, and the door closes, and the train begins to move, and yet I am approached by no one.
the smooth and rapid clip along the metal and rock is also a surprisingly quiet one, broken only by the sound of the hushed voices coming from the couple sitting a few seats before me. besides a single old lady further back and to the left, they are the sole other occupants of this car. as one looks up to the sound of my taking a picture, I look to my right to watch the passing countryside of cows and corn and rolls of wheat... I've spoken of all these before.


at last, the train attendant pushes the button to enter our car, and the door skates open, and my heart races. will he let me go on with my travels? will he kick me off with a big black boot while the train's still moving? what will he say and will I possibly understand? will I have to pay the supposed fine for my non-validated stub?
instead, he gives me a quick 'bonjour', an even quicker glance at the ticket in question, stamps it, says 'merci', and moves onto the next car.
a moment's weight passing, I am safe and I remember my breath.
arriving at the saint malo station, I fumble with the calendar bound street map that yann gave me just before I left. the streets look much bigger than anticipated and are surrounded by port-like sights of generic industrial buildings atop expansive concrete slabs that are laden with flats of fright and a near equal number of corresponding lifts. distracted by it all, I characteristically take a few wrong turns before I find the right path- for of course I wouldn't opt to follow the mass of people hauling backpacks and beach chairs departing from my very same train. I spot them now several lengths down the street before me and I suppose to myself that it may be wise to actually keep with the crowd come these future occasions.
nevertheless, the walk is long and filled with sights similar to those seen just beyond the station. finding little more interesting to look upon, I catch myself lingering on various bugs and other small details along the way, and continuing in the same manner as I reach saint malo's surrounding bay. spotting minnows and jellyfish floating alongside tires and various other bits of trash aesthetic, the water is still clear enough for me to see the bottom.
looking up, I am now at the foot of saint malo's boat-lined ramparts. there's a line of people to my right pouring into the main entry and passing carousels and ice cream stands, tents full of street art and various other tourist-ready junk. getting a heaping dose of that 'oh-shit-this-is-disney' feeling, I decide to cut down one of the nearly empty side roads found close to the gate and I put away my map. in a full out wandering, I make my way through these delightful streets of residential sound that only occasionally meet up with the still heavily weighted tourist caravan. yet, with only 5 minutes of mooing and baaing along with the rest of them, I am shortly back onto those more personal confines. here I pass a couple cafes and a few surprisingly urban boutiques, then looking past the telltale mass of backpacks of some nearby fellow travelers, I now spot my window of blue.
my heart beats that I've found the ocean and I quicken to a pace set for the sea.
passing through the thick rampart wall, I am suddenly breathless and teary-eyed and writing poetry in my head over the sight I see before me; and I even consider for a moment to jot down some of the unavoidable cheese. yet, instead (and in sparing both you and myself), I simply walk on, attempting my breath, and hoping that the expression on my face is not as emotional as I feel... though it probably is, and do I really care?... for now I press on in a dream world of my own through boulder-carved paths and stepping stones on crystal-blue waters towards island castles and their sailboat neighbors. yes, I am dreaming and I'm wishing for others in my life to do the same. yet, as the case has only been, I fear that all I can give is an injustice of pictures and these equally failing words.

*sigh*

coming out of this moment and my swim in the clouds, I find place on the beach to begin writing it down, but instead I'm more interested in enjoying the simple warmth on my skin as these mid-day hours at saint malo pass.
marked by this time, I'm beginning to burn so I reach for my shirt but am surprised to not find it within that predictable distance from my head. sitting up now, but still seeing it nowhere in sight, I check my bag, and beneath my towel, and back to my bag, but only to assume that its gone forever... and so I am left without. what more can I do but laugh out loud as the ocean's tide is in and I'm sure that my shirt is floating somewhere amongst it. ah, la mer! your mischief changes the day!
now, with only a partially clothed self, I step back into the city to be amused by staring eyes, and making bold entry into one of the tres-chic boutiques that I had passed by before, I'm faced with looks and smirks all the same. quickly picking up a decently priced tank (and thankfully so, as the sun blazes down), I try to explain to the young girl at the counter that the sea ate my clothes, and would she mind if I wore this out? laughing either at my story or my attempted translation, I was nevertheless pleased to find her so gracious. still, I giggle at the thought of a semi-dressed return on the train.

returning to my shoreline spot, and so as not to be defeated in desire, I once again am thwarted now by the most bizarre of atmospheric conditions. from across my seaward view I see a low hanging fog rolling in across the flat blue ocean bearing sea crafts and jagged land forms. this dark gray cloud quickly consumes the boats in the distance, then the island chateau that I had just trodden upon mere hours before, and now both myself, and the beach, as well as the city behind me. looking through this thick mass to check for any expressions of equal bewilderment, I find none and so I go on with my writing.

packing back into the city, the fog remains thick and the once hot and sunny air is now replaced by a cool dampness. as that afternoon heat passes into an evening gray, this timely weather draws a now ready end to my sunday phantasmagoria at saint malo. now walking and watching still once again back to the station, I look forward to a reflective train ride home to an awaiting combourg closure.