I have just awoken from a fitful head-bobbing nap on the late train back to Paris. Fortunately, I did not fall into a deep slumber, but instead managed to stay in that catatonic state somewhere between somewhat awake and not quite drowning embarrassingly in a pool of drool. Tis an awful state to be sure, but what did I expect after giving up my window seat for the aisle, just in case I wanted to test my balancing skills in the moving toilettes cars at some point during the 4-hour voyage. My saintly moment of unselfishness has left me instead with a neck kink, making the Eiffel Tower look more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
In addition to my new head tilt, it appears I left the chic version of myself in Paris for the weekend, and one look at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror confirms this. My face is bright red and so dry that scales may form at any minute. There is not even a patch of "soft as baby's butt" skin. How I look like I got trapped under a tanning lamp I do not know, for I have only seen 4 hours of sunshine since I arrived in France one week ago. It must be that all of my blood vessels have risen to the surface of my skin in order to ward off the near frostbite that threatened my exposed epidermis today. Or maybe it was just the result of being outdoors and on a very cold and windy beach nearly all day.
Add to the tomato face a mop of scarecrow hair, a pair of muddy jeans, and Nike tennis shoes, and you've got your All-American backpacker. Not quite the look I was going for, but it found me nonetheless.
Despite my obvious discontentment with my appearance, my inside is quite content, for I have just spent a wonderful weekend on the coast of Brittany. For those of you unfortunate enough to have found yourselves on my email list in November when I came to France, you may well remember this place as the one where "the sun does not rise or set, the sky changing only from varying shades of gray and black." Not much has changed in 2 months...it is, after all, still winter here. Come to think of it, not much as probably changed here in many decades, and this weekend, I found this fact very comforting after the hustle and bustle of Paris. If you are someone who enjoys excitement, loves the big city lights, and going out until 3 am, this place is not for you. But if your heart races at the thought of unspoilt beauty and authentic outdoor adventure with people who surf in February, rock climb year-round and live on a sailboat, this might be a place to call home for a month or two. I personally am thinking about leaving all sensibilities behind and joining the Welsh couple I met last night on their new venture. They sold everything they had and picked up and moved to France with their 6 year old daughter, none of them knowing the language, and perhaps worse, not knowing the enormous amount of bureaucracy that face them as they tried to start their new business. But now, just 9 months later, their adventure vacation business is open, and they are completely sold out for the summer.
If employment with them doesn't work out, perhaps I will just become a crepe maker and travel the world selling this yummy French "pancake." My friend in Brittany did just that, carrying his crepe business on his back throughout Ireland, Australia and New Zealand. He taught me how to make crepes last night, but unfortunately, I was a very poor student and much more interested in eating as many as I could without passing out from pure Nutella gluttony! I doubt I will be able to support my travel addiction by eating my own plans for livelihood, so will have to remain at my current occupation until I learn a bit more self-control.
After such indulgence on Saturday night, a serious day of calorie burning was absolutely imperative. Thus my Sunday began with the shrieking joy of my friend's 3 year old son jumping on my bed. (I would have much preferred a nice cup of coffee and a croissant brought quietly to my bedside as calm whispers beckoned me from the land of dreams, but alas, he is only 3 - jumping on the bed is obviously more fun!) I groggily got dressed in my running gear and hit the pavement straight for the beach where my friend had gone to surf earlier that morning. How she managed to stick her entire body in that frozen body of water is plumb crazy to me. And she wasn't the only one catching the icy waves. Turns out this area of France is a top surfing location, with people coming from around the world to be pummeled by the waves. And I thought the French only knew how to eat, drink and dress well. Silly stereotypes!!
The rest of my Sunday felt sublimely long, unlike most weekends that seem to end before you have even shut off your computer on Friday afternoon. We strolled along the port where I dreamt of buying a little boat and sailing serenely from island to island. My luck though, I'd likely drown at the first sight of a wave... We then stopped at a little pierside restaurant where I ate one of the grossest seafood quiches I have ever had. You would think a restaurant on the ocean could do better... we then took my friend's son to the public pool where it was confirmed that the French man's habit of wearing the attractive Speedo begins at the age of 1 month and ends roughly upon death of said wearer. Perhaps Speedo-wearing was mandated by Napoleon and no one in France realizes that he actually died many years ago, leaving them free to wear normal swim trunks... Anyhow, moving on...
Arriving back to Paris, I managed to catch a cab with the one cabbie who spoke unintelligible French AND did not know how to get to my hotel! I will likely cause a heart attack among some readers with my next comment, so please take an aspirin now if you are prone to such cardiac unrest.
I, Melissa Lyne, told the cab driver exactly where to turn in central Paris and arrived precisely in front of my door. Yes, miracles still occur! Now that I've mastered directions, I am off to refine my crepe-making skills. Look out world - the roving crepe maker is coming!!!