Boissons de Paris

Cidre de Bretagne

chocolat chaud

Belgian beer and white wine

vin chaud

The Realm of Death

A bundled-up man with a trumpet was playing a beautiful rendition of “White Christmas” as I walked through my neighborhood amongst crowds of shoppers pushing past each other on the narrow sidewalks of Rue de Passy. Immaculately-strewn Christmas lights liven the streets almost as much as the stoked faces of the kids admiring the twenty gigantic Lego models by the Passy market – an almost-life-size Storm Trooper guarding the mall entrance with his gun; a pink Lego city, complete with Polly Pocket dolls playing harmoniously with their Lego people counterparts; models of the Eiffel Tower and Sacré Coeur, accurate, albeit with strange curves from the limitations of rectangular blocks. I avoid going inside the mall, where the other displays are, at all costs. My normally spacious mall has turned into a holiday tourist attraction that reminds me of trying to maneuver my way through the metro on a Friday night. My trips to Monoprix for groceries have been nearly cut in half the last few weeks.

The Christmas displays in the mall don’t compare to the world-renowned ones we saw at Les Galeries Lafayette, though. Fuzzy colorful puppets bigger than my little sister dance in circles around wrapped Christmas presents, reminding me of creepy Youtube videos made specifically for teenagers tripping on acid, and dolls with yarn hair float through the air around golden stars to piano music. Kids press their snotty noses and mittens to the glass and are bombarded by the marketing industry capitalizing on Christmas. Men push grocery carts topped with a metal plate filled with roasted marron nuts – I swear there were always at least four of these guys set up in my line of site at one time by Les Galeries Lafayette and Printemps. The smell sunk into my jacket like bonfire smoke; it almost smells the same.

Right around the corner from Les Galeries Lafayette is L’Opera de Paris – The Opera. I received one of the loveliest birthday gifts of my life from Gael and Laetitia this December – two tickets to see the ballet at The Opera with Laetitia! She found out that I did ballet for 8 years, and she also did ballet (for even longer, I’m pretty sure), and we had spoken briefly one time about how we both loved going to see the ballet. I thought it was so thoughtful that she remembered. Plus, holy cow. The Paris Opera at the Palaias Garnier! Before, seeing something there had been a dream I didn’t think I’d be able to afford for years.

That being said, I also can’t exactly afford fancy clothes, but the night of the show I put on my nicest outfit and met Laetitia on the steps of the entrance. Any of [very slight] apprehension I had about my appearance was replaced by the glorious appearance of the building when I arrived. The enormous staircase, the statues, the pillars, the whole style of the architecture and the inside all reminded me of Italy, especially a particular square in Verona we visited. The building was built in the late 1600s. It always strikes me how the older the building, the more intricate and mind-blowingly beautiful it is. Technology seems to have had the opposite effect of “progress” when it comes to aesthetics in architecture.

Le Grand Foyer is lined with dwarfing, magnificent chandeliers hung from tall ceilings painted in the Italian style. The stairs leading to the auditorium reminded me of the famous staircase in Titanic. You know the one I’m talking about.

People murmured quietly as we found our seats – dead center on the ground floor, from where I could admire the gold balconies and the painted red curtain. I settled into my red velvet seat, and when the curtain rose I witnessed the most magical ballet I’ve ever seen. We saw La Source, a mystical ballet written in the late 1800s. I’d never heard of it. The setting is the Orient, and the costumes were designed by a famous French fashion designer, apparently. They were impressive, to say the least, and ranged from charming to sensual to ethereal. The set was simple but original, two adjectives that, when put together, have a soft spot in my heart. It was just thick ropes hung at different lengths from the ceiling. A hundred thick ropes were tied together to form a few “pillars,” but the others just suspended in space, moving up and down so slowly that the movement was barely perceptible, as though the set were breathing. Green and blue nymphs sat in the ropes, and my eyes were dazzled by all the sparkles in the performance – definitely the glitteriest ballet I’ve ever seen, and certainly the most captivating. By intermission, my skin hurt from getting goose bumps so much.

Laetitia showed me around a bit more during intermission and bought me macarons at the table where people were buying glasses of champagne and little chicken sandwiches. I don’t know that I’ve ever been to a more “refined” event, but I wasn’t uncomfortable like I would’ve thought I’d be a year ago. It was all breathtaking, and I couldn’t have dreamed of a better birthday present.

I did receive some other lovely gifts, though. Ben bought me a Simone de Beauvoir novel that I’ve wanted, “The Mandarins,” from the Shakespeare Bookstore, and a French press, and Liz sent me the most thoughtful package of novels she thought I’d like, complete with little notes on the inside of each one, as well as leaves from home pressed into every hundred pages or so. Matthieu brought Ben and I out for a night on the town at Oberkampf and paid for all of our drinks; Ben and I missed the metro before it stopped for the night and ended up crashing at Matt’s. It was a memorable night, to put it lightly. I’ll just say there were a few drunk firsts between us. And by “us” I mean Benjamin. (You’re welcome for the lack of details, love.)

The week after my birthday Ben and I woke up early so we could go to Catacombes de Paris before I had to work à seize heure. The line stretched around the corner, but we weren’t waiting for more than 45 minutes, which flew by as we talked and talked, probably about capitalism or how much we hate cops or something.

The Catacombs are ossuaries holding the remains of six million people 65 feet under the streets in the heart of Paris. Needless to say, Ben and my heated anarchist discussions turned to revered silence as the energy quickly transformed while we descended lower and lower down the narrow, winding steps.

“Arrête, c’est ici l’empire de le mort” (Halt, this is the Realm of Death). That’s what the engraved stone reads before you enter.

We followed what felt like miles of tunnel on a path wide enough for a single person, surrounded on all sides by limestone and silence. Occasionally, we passed other people, also wandering around the realm in silence. Somehow Ben and I failed to take into account that we both have claustrophobic tendencies, so the first ten minutes before we reached the actual catacombs was interesting as we exchanged short, strained words of encouragement and deep breaths. I kept feeling my arms start to go numb like they do when I’m about to hyperventilate from being in small spaces, but I willed myself to keep my fists from clenching and I breathed through it. When we reached the gate, the space opened up considerably; the claustrophobia dissipated when we found ourselves surrounded by human skulls.

Walls of brown bones arranged meticulously, artfully in rows. Bones, bones, skulls, bones, bones, skulls. The air was wet, and the lights cast an orange glow as we walked as slowly as a bride toward the altar. Of course, signs screamed not to touch, but I couldn’t help feeling the skulls under my fingers. In Anthropology Club when I lived in California I got to hold human skulls in my hands, and also in the tombs in the anthropology building in Plattsburgh, but it never fails to be an insane experience. I kept stopping at random people’s dead head bones and wondering what their lover had looked like who had kissed the place where I was placing my fingers. It’s a weird experience for the human mind to encounter its fragility and biology in such a naked way.

The walk took about 45 minutes, and even though the bones all look exactly the same the whole way (another weird thing to grasp, I think), we were engrossed the entire time. I don’t think the finest art museums in Paris could have so aptly garnered our undivided attention for that long.

Ascending the limestone stairs again into daylight was like waking up from a dream. Outside, it was sunny. One of the only nice, sunny days of Ben’s visit (Paris’s autumn/winter is rainy and chilly), and of course we had decided to spend it underground in a dark tomb.

On the walk to the metro we stumbled upon a medieval attire shop that sold hand-crafted leather boots, bags, and belts, as well as swords, armor and other random medieval stuff. Ben was like a little boy again as he admired daggers and swords and those metal glove things. I forget what they’re called. I found a cute little leather belt with pouches stuffed with corked glass viles. That was the coolest thing I saw. I totally would’ve been a medicine woman in medieval times and had that strapped around my waist, the viles filled with all my favorite healing herbs. Or I could just use it now for different iggy mixes. (Liz, if you’re reading this, know I totally thought of you when I saw it, too, and if I were rich and had sixty euro to blow I totally would’ve bought it for you for your iggies.)

That night, Tuesday, Maia took a train from Lille just to have a night out the four of us. Matt, Maia, Ben, and I headed to Le Caveau des Oubliettes, the bar we went to the first night we all went out together in Paris. It’s one of the best bars in the city for live music, especially if you like blues. A band played blues, and the guitarist blew my mind on his electric. I was totally sober, but the way he was playing literally made me tear up. He shredded. He beyond shredded. He pulled out all the stops. And his stage presence was awesome.

A group of teenagers sat together chatting noisily, some of them turned away from the music, very obviously not enjoying or even listening because they were caught up in getting drunk and gossiping together. They didn’t didn’t clap at the end of songs or shut up when the singer talked between songs. We could all tell the singer/guitarist (his name is Khaled, as I later found out Matt works with him through his company and is helping him put out his c.d.), did not appreciate this, which made total sense, because the guy was wicked talented and deserved at least the respect of his riffs not being yelled over.

Instead of letting it get to him, though, Khaled started calling the kids out specifically, making them sing after him, and finally he sat down at their table and played right there in front of them until their thick heads were drawn out from their inner drama and engaged in the awesomeness that was his music.

At another point a guy randomly showed up with a sax, and Khaled noticed and beckoned the guy to come up. It was just what I like when I want live music – lively, interactive, bluesy and full of surprises and good vibes, people coming together.

Speaking of music, Benjamin and I visited Jim Morrison’s grave the other day – the third cemetery we experienced together in Paris. I keep laughing in my head imagining Ben going home and people asking, “So what did you do in Paris?!” and him responding, “Walked around graveyards.” I just have a love for cemeteries, especially European ones.

 There were a bunch of other Americans there paying respects to Jim. The coolest thing about it was this weird piece of “art” seemingly created randomly by Morrison’s mourners – a little fence that looks like these bamboo placemats my mom used to have is wrapped around a very average tree and then plastered with people’s used gum. People have such strange ways of expressing their fandom. Somehow it made me hungry.

It was a dark, cold, rainy day that would have been perfect for raclette, a famous French dish I’ve now tasted twice and crave any time I’m cold and hungry. It’s a melted cheese that you eat with cold cuts and potatoes. (It’s not the same as fondue.) Ben and I ate it at M&M’s house, and then Gael and Laetitia made it for my birthday dinner; it’s a winter dish because it’s so heavy. I won’t post the post-food baby pictures Maia and I took, but here's a photo of the Eiffel Tower the night of my birthday.

November and December

Rain in Paris isn’t quite so romantic or lovely on the verge of winter. Every day this week I wake up to gray skies and misty rain; I’m currently wearing two pairs of socks and leg warmers with the heater in my apartment blasting. It’s only dipped down into the 30s once, and stays around the mid-40s on average – it was 7 degrees last Friday in Plattsburgh. I’ve turned into such a baby. People were warning me in the beginning of Autumn when I bought my relatively light, suede kilo shop jacket that I’d be cold in the winter. “Nah, I’m from Vermont. You don’t know cold here.” Now it’s not even below freezing and I find myself lusting after furry sweaters and puffy jackets in shop windows whenever I venture outside.

I’m currently reading A Moveable Feast, sketches of Ernest Hemingway’s life in Paris in the twenties, (Liz sent me a diligently duct-taped box of books to read this winter for Christmas because she’s the best friend and loveliest human in the world and knows me so well). He describes Paris this time of year: “All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops …” It’s rather bleak, but in a beautifully melancholy way that I strangely revel in, anyway. Plus, more Christmas lights appear along every rue each day.

It’s normal for a travel blog to taper off eventually, especially as the writer becomes accustomed to a life in a new place; I have little adventures all the time, but at this point my life I Paris is so normal to me that keeping an online, public blog is more like keeping a journal of my daily life for everyone to read, and I guess that’s a bit strange for me and doesn’t seem like it’d be interesting for anyone to read. I’ve had a few people ask me to write a new post, though, so I can write about some of my mini adventures in the city, since I am still discovering Paris anew all the time.

Ben arrived in Paris October 30 – I left my apartment at dawn the day after arriving home from Germany the night before.

He’s seen a lot of Paris at this point, of course. He's always up for little adventures, which is why I love him. We have yet to go to Versailles or inside the Loubve, but he’s seen all the other main attractions of Paris and then some; we even ventured inside the Notre Dame on a Sunday when a service was happening. Men in white robes chanted in Latin beneath stained glass windows, and Ben drew 666 on my forehead with holy water. Such a sacred experience.

Le Petit Ceinture

One Saturday we walked along Le Petit Ceinture, an abandoned railroad that runs through the heart of Paris. Graffiti decorated the stone walls along the train tracks overrun with plants and decomposing yellow and orange leaves. I stepped along the tracks instead of the pavement most of the way, taking those awkward steps you have to take when you’re walking down stairs that are a weird width or on stepping stones that seem like they were placed by dwarf people.The Little Belt was seeing the variety of wild herbs growing along the walls – yarrow, mullein, comfrey, plantain … it was a wild apothecary, and all I could think about was all the tinctures  I could make if only I had jars and bottles.

I slid on piles of melted candle wax left over from Nuit Blanche when the tracks were lined with candles for the night as part of an art exhibition. The best part of

We ended up wandering to an enormous pavilion market dedicated solely to music. Tables were piled with cardboard boxes of records, cds, cassette tapes, posters of Bob Dylan, Miles Davis, Kiss. Books about music history and vintage headphones sat unceremoniously on plastic fold-up tables. One table was filled with old movies on dvd. I found It’s a Wonderful Life in French. I really wanted it, but it wasn’t close enough to Christmas time yet to justify such a festive purchase. Plus, imagining George Bailey dubbed with a French man’s voice ruined the prospect. Sixty three percent of why I even watch that movie is for James Stewart’s voice.

We could see all of Paris from the top

A week before Thanksgiving, holiday festivities became acceptable, though. Ben, Sara, Vera and I walked the Christmas Walk at Champs-Elysees. Christmas music played on speakers as we made our way past stands selling potential, rather generic Christmas gifts for loved ones – pine cone wreaths, pottery, exotic teas, candy, hats, jewelry, soaps. I sipped hot wine, which I ended up having to chug when we got to the ferris wheel because the drunk carnies wouldn’t let me take it up with me.

At the top we could see all of Paris – the Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, the Grand Palais … I didn’t buy any Christmas gifts there. Ben and I did holiday shopping at Montmartre instead.

One of my favorite places Ben and I have explored thus far is Le Cimetiere de Montmartre. It’s weird to walk through a cemetery in a city. It’s different from cemeteries back home – many graves aren’t marked by a simple tombstone, but by what resembles a tool shed big enough for a couple shovels, usually with one or two stained glass windows inscribed with a scripture. Some of these “tomb sheds” are more intricate than others – a few resembled miniature Temples of Delphi; one woman’s loved ones had a majestic statue erected in her likeness, a young version of herself, standing like a queen with rays of light shining from behind her in gold on onyx pillars. I felt as though I were standing before an Italian goddess. She was obviously very loved.

Cats – hundreds of cats – silently crept around tombs, guarding us closely and keeping a safe distance. Black, gray, calico, striped, many of them pregnant. Someone had built small wooden coops stuffed with hay, probably for them to give birth in and sleep in. Crows cawed loudly overhead as we slowly meandered along the cobblestone path examining statues, strange French names, notes written in sharpie on miniature guitars and ballet slippers as offerings to loved ones who had passed on.

Ben strummed his guitar as we walked, and I thought about how long it must have been since the place had heard music; I imagined that if there were ghosts or spirits they were probably dancing and happy. Dusk was falling when we decided to make our way out to walk home through the Red Light District.

Ben approached a fluffy orange cat who was eyeing us, and I knelt to take a photo. The little guy bounced over to me directly and rubbed his purring body against my black pants lovingly. I pet him, even though I’m incredibly allergic to cats. How could I not? Petting a fat orange cat is worth risking an asthma attack if the cat seems lonely enough. He followed us 20 feet or so, then sat down and watched us walk away.

Mom and Bill are going halfsies with me on a plane ticket to the States so I can be with my family for Christmas. I am beyond ecstatic. My flight is to Montreal, so I’ll probably take a bus down to Plattsburgh and get picked up there. It’s going to be so strange being back in Plattsburgh after being in Paris, especially knowing that I’m going home to Paris in hardly any time.

Pictures from Black Forest, Germany

Tea time on the terrace

Maia's grandmother lives in the same neighborhood as I do; Maia, Matt and I met there, and I was finally able to meet this stunning, lovely woman. We sat on her terrace overlooking all of Paris while we drank tea and ate cakes, and she told us all kinds of stories about growing up in Italy, coming to Paris and meeting the man she would later marry, about living in India for two decades and her spiritual master there, and, of course, we got plenty of adorable stories about little Maia.

Home

I don't ever want to have to leave this apartment

The Eiffel Tower and I soaking in the sun

Paris does fireworks better than 'Merica

Goofballs

Every day this week I've come home from work with pictures on my phone that make me laugh myself to sleep - pictures of a certain two little faces that I'm growing to love more and more every day. This morning, when I woke up at 7 a.m. to go to work (they have vacation the next two weeks, so I'm with them 8:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. every day), I realized I was actually looking forward to going to work and seeing them. I genuinely have fun with them. So far this week we've painted mini pumpkins; had bubble blowing contests with random kids at the park; ridden their new scooters up and down their street four times in a row with a total of only four crashes, one of them being me as I fell flat on the sidewalk rescuing Josephine from hitting a dumpster; made American-style banana pancakes together (which was a little bit of a mistake because now Josy wants to help me cook every meal, and a 2-year-old's version of "helping" is anything but...). I get exercise, fresh air, and I have to no choice but to be playful and practice patience all day long. I genuinely love this job. Obviously it's just an in-between kind of job before I start my real career, (I've started looking around for some writing opportunities), but I'm so lucky to have an "in-between" job that I actually like.

I admit by 6 p.m. I'm reallyyy tired of hearing my name (Pel-ee-see-ya! PEL-EE-SEE-YA! PELEESEEYA?!), but I'm still happy to see their faces in the morning and when I pick them up at school and they literally jump into my arms. How could you not smile at faces like this...?

Modeling his prized collection of hillbilly teeth

"Monsieur Potat"

"Feleeseeyaaa! I put gel in my hair."
"Wow, Gabi! It looks...tres beau...!"
(Thank God this was right before bath time)

Appreciation Post! (with plenty of exclamation points, which I usually hate!)

I’ve met at least 20 other au pairs at this point, and heard at least half as many horror stories about theirs and other au pairs’ experiences with their host families. Each story makes me more and more grateful for mine.

Out of all the situations I’ve heard of thus far, I definitely have it the best with my host family. I couldn’t ask for any better! As I said in my last post, the kids have been getting sick rather often the last couple weeks, which means more work for me, but I haven’t minded at all because I really love them and it’s not a big deal to get them at school and give them medicine or whatever. Even so, though, Laetitia came home early Friday night and handed me a little Sephora bag saying she felt bad for me the last couple weeks, so she bought me a gift – it was Chanel nail polish! In a color I’ve been looking for since I came here! (She got Chanel because, she said, it’s very French.) I thought that was the most thoughtful thing. I’m seriously the luckiest in the world.

Spoon and Flea

On Wednesday one of my oldest friends, Max Suhner, hit me up on Facebook; he’s been studying in Germany since last winter and is leaving to go back to the U.S. in a few weeks, but we wanted to meet up in Europe before he went back. The only weekend I really had before he left was the coming weekend, so I threw that out there, even though it was super last minute and unlikely he’d be free. He bought the train ticket the next day, and Friday night I went to the station right after work to pick him up.

It was surreal finally seeing him in Europe! I thought about how when we met, more than four years ago when we were both little pothead freshmen in Wilson Hall, we never would’ve guessed we’d be chilling in Paris together in a few years. Last winter, before Max left, I was going to his apartment all the time and hanging out with him, Elliot and Nate, just drinking beers and playing hockey video games and maybe making it to Monopole if it wasn’t below 0 degrees Fahrenheit, and we would talk about how we were going to meet up when we were both over here; but it didn’t feel real until the moment we were hugging at the train station.

Unfortunately, I was starting to feel sick all day Friday. The kids have been taking turns getting sick for weeks, first with fever and cough, then with a stomach bug, and everyone in Paris seems to have this same horrible cough I feel like my immune system was worn out from fighting to not get sick. I was just exhausted, and it got progressively worse, but I didn’t let it ruin our weekend.

As we were catching up on the metro, Max kept accidentally saying little things in German instead of English, and it was so funny because I don’t know any German. It’s true, though, that when you’ve been in another country for a bit and you’re used to always being around another language, you start to talk in that language first out of habit, mostly with little words. It’s not like you say a whole sentence in another language and then you’re like, oh damn. It’s more like “yes,” “thank you,” “sorry,” etc. For example, even when I’m speaking English lately I accidentally say “oui” instead of “yes” half the time without thinking about it.

When we got off the metro at my station we were in the middle of talking about one thing or another non-chalantly when Max suddenly stopped and said, “Wait, whoa. Paris,” and took a good look around at the buildings before nodding his head in typical Max-like satisfaction. He got to see the top of the Tower all lit up, of course, on the walk to my apartment. We dropped off his bag and walked to Trocadero, and he got his first crepe  after asking, “Wait, what’s a crepe again?”  and we walked under the Tower. A man sauntered up to me and stuck a rose in my hand before I had time to think, and he told Max, “Good work.” It was a total newbie move for me to not throw the rose back at him, because OF COURSE they’re not free, but I was so distracted that I wasn’t even thinking. As we continued walking and I made a sarcastic comment about how I am, of course, a prize to be won, being an object, of course, the man pulled Max aside and put on a show of discretely making him give him coins. Max was adamant that he only had 2 euros, though. So I got a 2 euro rose.

I was back on my “local”game, though, when we got closer to the Tower and other people tried putting random stuff in my hands.

The next day Max and I walked all over the city so I could show him as much as possible in one day, since it was supposed to rain Sunday. By night, I felt like I was dying. I had a fever and a wet cough. My skin was scalding and my cotton shirt felt painful against it, yet I was freezing cold. But, I pulled myself together enough for us to go to a bar.

^ Max in front of Notre Dame

We sat outside watching the extremely drunk party of friends in costumes ranging from sexy panda to Superman as they danced. They waved merrily at a passing fire trucks with sirens ablaze; the firemen waved back and smiled. At one point a black, old-fashioned Chevrolet pick-up truck made a loud entrance by backing up onto the sidewalk directly behind me. There was a yellow honeybee painted on each door of the truck. Max and I sat back and watched as the drunk party ran up and greeted the two guys in the truck like they were all old friends. A man stepped out of the driver’s side – he was wearing all black, not at all uncommon in Paris; however, on his head he wore a bee-keeper’s hat, net and all.

He went to the bed of the truck and proceeded to uncover it and pull out one of those tin cans that beekeepers use to create smoke that they blow into the hives to put the bees in a calm, dazed state before doing hive work. Max and I had absolutely no idea what was going on.

The guy started blowing the smoke from the tin canister into the bed of the truck, as though there were beehives there, and then he started running through all of us spraying the smoke everywhere. Then he ran inside the bar, where they were blasting metal music, and sprayed all in there, until we all smelled like a campfire. (It was just dandy for my sick lungs.) It was incredibly confusing, but Max and I couldn’t help cracking up the whole time, especially since the drunk people seemed to know exactly what was going on. They were climbing all over the beehive truck and taking photos of themselves doing very weird things to each other. Way better than tv.

Finally, we figured out what the hell was going on when a girl came up to us and handed us each sunglasses with bees on them and a little bee pin and then gave each of us a free shot of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey Whiskey. Duh.

Sunday was a rainy day that perfectly matched how I was feeling – like a cloud being drained of life force. It hurt to walk. Somehow, though, I made it to the mosque, and we had mint tea. We walked back home through the rain and watched Young Frankenstein, in the spirit of October. There wasn’t much else to do, since everything is closed on Sunday, so we ended up going to the cinema. We wanted to see Sin City, but it was sold out, so we saw the new Dracula (in English with French subtitles).

Even though I was ridiculously sick the whole weekend, it was amazingly beautiful to finally meet up with Max in Europe and just kick it like we always have.

Notre Weekend en Bretagne

After visiting Bretagne, I can’t decide if the South of France or the North is more enthralling.

Maia, Matthieu and I took a train from Paris and arrived hardly before midnight, after passing the two hours singing Disney movie songs simultaneously in French and English – we create friends wherever we go. Matthieu’s parents, who live in Bretagne, greeted us outside. When his dad approached me he gave me the kisses on the cheeks and said, “Hello, Fly!” The best way to start a hilarious weekend.

His mother, a tiny, gorgeous woman from whom Matthieu gets his Argentinean looks, greeted me, as well, but in French, since she speaks no English.

We piled into their car and drove only twenty minutes to the family vacation home. When I stepped out of the car, the air was so fresh I felt dizzy for a moment. I’ve never spent so much time in a city before, and I’d been in Paris about two months without leaving. I never thought I’d say this, but being outside of Paris felt amazing. Breathing clean air for the first time in months is a feeling I’ll never forget, nor will I forget the stars – I don’t remember ever seeing so many in the sky. Splotches of spilled milk everywhere – that’s how many stars I could see when I looked up. To my left the ocean waved at me, surrounded by cliffs and sparkling under a white moon.

I couldn’t see much, but I was immediately enchanted by the house. Matthieu’s great-great-grandfather built it by hand, before anyone built homes along the coast. Surrounded by a stone wall, it’s also built of stone, with two large, round windows of colorful stained glass – one facing the ocean, the other the garden, which is also outlined by a stone wall, complete with a magical arch and rose bushes.

 

Inside felt like I’d walked into a fairytale. There’s a fireplace, French doors looking out over the ocean, old furniture, and a wooden staircase. There are three floors, and to get to the third floor you get to walk up a narrow, winding staircase – the kind I’ve always dreamed of having in my future home.

Matthieu has a beautiful relationship with his parents; his dad is hilarious and playful and has the best, most contagious and characteristic laugh you’ve ever heard, and his mother has a very calming, sweet presence. She’s always smiling lovingly at her family and is so welcoming. Matthieu was hungry because he refused to eat dinner until he was back in Bretagne so he could eat good food, so although it was midnight, the whole family gathered in the quaint kitchen and made the famous Bretagne crepes (called gallettes) with ham, cheese and an egg on top. We ate those along with a bottle of Bretagne’s other staple – cider, or “cidre.”

We were all exhausted, so directly after dinner Matthieu’s dad brewed all of us Sleepy Time tea in the kitchen. We all gathered there to retrieve our cups of tea and then made our way upstairs – it was the sweetest thing, walking up the stairs together with our night time tea, all cozy, and saying goodnight before going to our separate rooms. It felt like Christmas Eve night.

Matt with his parents

Maia and Matt made sure I had the best room – the one with the balcony facing the ocean on the third floor. I almost gave myself an asthma attack from trying to breathe in so much of the clean, salty air. As I listened to the constant sound of waves breaking on the shore, I fell into one of the deepest sleeps I’d experienced in weeks.

I woke up at 11 a.m. the next morning. When I stepped out onto the balcony, I let the fairytale feeling fill my soul. The view was even more magical in color.

The left view from the balcony

Downstairs, Matthieu and Maia were eating crepes and drinking coffee from cups that I thought were bowls. Maia and I took our coffee bowls to sit by the ocean. Instead of climbing down to the water, we sat atop the grassy cliff. Honeybees buzzed all around us, and Maia and I spontaneously copied them by letting out a long, glorious “Ommmmmmm.”

Later, we took Matt’s parents’ car out so Matt could give Maia a lesson in driving a manual car. She got her license when we were in California with Q, the car we did all the travelling with along the California coast during Spring Break 2013, and Q was automatic. But now, Matt was an excellent teacher and Maia an impressive driver. I stuck my head out the window the whole time and took in the picturesque seaside houses. The goal was to make it to a seafood place to buy mussels. Like in Italy when all Maia talked about was mozzarella, in Bretagne all she could think about was mussels. Everything in that town closes very early, though, because there are so few people, so we didn’t get her seafood that night.

We did have a glorious lunch outside in the garden, though, with an appetizer of shrimps in some kind of heavenly sauce, then fish, then cheese and salad, of course. Afterward, we sprawled out in the sunshine and took siestas while enjoying our coffee.

When we’d recovered from the meal, it was time for Matt’s dad to go swimming. He’d been asking me if I was going to swim since I’d arrived, but I laughed it off each time thinking he was joking. In fact, I continued to think that, until he came out of the house wearing swim trunks and clear gel sandals, smiling from ear to ear and holding a towel.

We walked across the street and the rest of us laughed while watching him walk out into the waves like a madman. I jumped into freezing cold ocean water once – with Ben in Kennebunk, Maine, a few years ago in May, and I have no desire to do it again.

While he swam, Maia and I collected shells. Matt’s mom and I walked up ahead and talked in French about lots of random things. It was a fun challenge holding a conversation with someone who doesn’t speak any English. It’s amazing what a strong connection you can have with someone even when you can’t communicate verbally 100%, although I hardly struggled at all when talking to her, which was so encouraging for me.

Matt, his mom, and whimsical hot air balloons

The rest of our time was spent much the same as this – delicious meals, walks on the beach, reclining in gardens and by the ocean, Matthieu and his dad jamming on their electric guitars, Matt’s dad teaching us all how to do the tango and the waltz, his mom teaching me tai chi after dinner … So many magical moments.

Friendship shells

An enchanted path on a cliff along the coast

On Sunday we went to St. Malo, the city our train arrived at. It’s a walled port city on the English Channel. We walked the walls and watched the sun fall slowly behind the water. Everyone was dressed very casual, another nice break from life in Paris. Don’t get me wrong – I’m absolutely in love with Paris. But it’s always nice to get away to where it’s more relaxed and closer to nature.

Matt’s parents treated us to a late night dinner at a dimly-lit restaurant where, we all agreed, the music was prime – 1920’s jazz. We toasted with our wine and then enjoyed the most amazing seafood dinner I’ve ever had – mussels. Maia was very happy.

The walls of St. Malo

Sunset - there's England across the Channel!

 Since my classes started two weeks ago and I’m settled into daily life in Paris now, keeping up with my blog is a little more difficult; capturing all the details and finding time to write about them is always difficult, but especially so now, but I’ll try to at least post pictures every week or so.

I’m sending you all my love. <3