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.
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.
posted by Kellie Moore at 8:00 AM
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