Travels in France: November 2011

After spending all week teaching about Thanksgiving, I spent my Turkey Thursday the way I do every week, working and then going to music class. My feasting would come later.
Friday evening I hitched a ride with Thérèse, one of the women from my traditional music workshop, to a town near Dinan called la Hisse. We headed to Le Shetland, a restaurant/bar that had agreed to let us host a monthly traditional jam session there. I had no part in the organization of the jam, but was delighted to come along. Most jam sessions in little towns like this one are inaccessible to anyone without a car because the buses stop running early in the evening. Going to a jam session therefore usually means figuring out how to stay the night.
I was impressed at the number of people who showed up to this first jam session, though like folk musicians in the US, they all seemed to know each other some how or other. Groups from different parts of the region played pieces from their repertoire, and in the end everyone joined in to play together. Those who weren't playing danced. In Brittany, many of the traditional dances take the form of a circle, with the dances holding hands (or pinkies!) and stepping in time. This makes them easy to join, as you just connect to the end of the line and then try to copy the steps of the people next to you, although a few of the dances are quite complicated.
It was had a blast. I felt quite at home with these people who so warmly welcomed me into their midst simply because I share the same love of music, dance, and tradition as they do. Much like the folk music scene at home, come to think of it. I got home quite late that night (or early, depending on your perspective), still humming Breton tunes.
The next morning, I slept in and then wandered over to the apartment of the other teaching assistants to start cooking a late Thanksgiving lunch. We chose to have it there because they have an oven, a larger fridge, and the right amount of silverware. Kiara and I had already made pies a couple of days before, so all we had left to do was cook our root vegetables, stuff our chicken, and toss a salad. We left out the cranberries, as they are hard to find in France.
The meal turned out wonderfully. I have to say, I much prefer chicken to turkey. It just has so much more flavor. No one had tried pumpkin pie before. Even though it's texture was a bit lumpy (we used a potato masher instead of a blender), the flavor was right and everyone seemed to enjoy it. We were 8 total: myself, Kiara and Zac (the Australians), two young French teachers, two Germans, and my Polish neighbor, Carolina. It was a very international Thanksgiving! I was very grateful to have such great friends to celebrate the holiday with. As per tradition, we all ate too much and then ambled over to see Enzo Enzo in concert. She's best known for her rendition of "Juste quelqu'un de bien," but has written a lot of her own music as well.
Sunday, Zac and Kiara and I took the train to Combourg, a small town known for it's castle. Combourg turned out to be even more deserted than Dinan is on a Sunday and the castle was closed, but we had a nice walk before returning home. You can see the photos below.

Combourg from afar

The castle peeking over the rooftops

There it is!

Church in Combourg

Poisonous mushroom

Brittany looks a lot like Oregon sometimes

Sending warm thoughts your way!

After scouring maps and bus and train schedules, I concluded that it was impossible to go anywhere on a Sunday in France without expecting to stay overnight. Buses stop running, stores close, and trains cut their schedules in half at least. I set my travel books aside with a sigh and stared out the window; I had to do something. I had a free day in France and felt it was my duty to use it wisely. Outside, the sky was a solid grey and it was windy, but no rain.
I called up Kiara, the Australian teaching assistant. She had come to the same conclusion. "Do you want to go for a walk?" I said. At 12:30 we met up at the top of Rue Jerzuel, the steep, windy, and very picturesque street that leads down from Dinan's high ramparts to the port below, and then headed north along the river. The road soon turned into a park-like path hugging the banks. Every few minutes, signs would appear pointing towards villages and sights west of the river, a few of which we explored before returning to our path. By 2:30 we reached the La Vicomté-sur-Rance, a lovely port town with a damn keeping the southern part of the river full of water while the northern side empties out at low tide.
It was a strange sight. The muddy contours of the river bottom were exposed to view, filling the air with the smell of wet clay. By the banks, fishing nets hung high and dry, waiting for the water and fish to return. We crossed the bridge over the damn and stopped for hot chocolate in a café next to the port. Warm and rested, we figured we should start heading back; the cold air was great for walking, but with such thick clouds nighttime was sure to come early.
We were not, however, in any hurry. Feeling adventurous, we naively decided to find a different route back. There was no quiet path on the eastern side of the river because of high rocky cliffs, but a map in town showed a couple of main roads heading south. We inevitably got lost. After wandering past little communities with amusing names (La Ville des Petits-pois, or "pea town") and reading street signs with no mention of Dinan, we decided it was time to either ask for directions or retrace our steps. As it was Sunday, not many people were out and about, but I spied and old man coming out of his house with a little white dog in one arm. He was understandably surprised to hear that we had come so far by foot, but explained that he was headed to the forest to feed his cat and would be happy to drop us off on the main road to Dinan afterwards. He seemed harmless, so we hopped into his car. It turns out he is a retired school-teacher. He bought a piece of land in the Forêt de Coëtquen and built a cottage for himself as a getaway from the hustle and bustle of his village. His cat was a big old thing who is apparently too independent to live in the city, but unhealthy enough that Monsieur felt obliged to come and feed him every day. Monsieur was clearly worried for the old cat's health. He set out at least a dozen bowls full of warm milk, several different kinds of wet food, dry food, water, medecine, etc. and waited around until he was satisfied that the cat had sufficiently eaten. The whole process took about an hour.
When the cat was fed we hopped back into the car, eager to be on our way. It was getting late and the weather felt colder now that we had stopped walking. Monsieur turned the key in the transmission. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. He had accidentally left the heat on for the little white dog in the front seat, thus draining the battery. Monsieur was embarrassed and at a loss for what to do, but we cheerfully offered to get out and push, which we did, up and down the driveway without success. Just when Kiara and I thought we had better start walking, Monsieur said, "You know what, I've got another battery we can try." Battery #2 was bigger than the first. We barely managed to jam it in there and reattach the cables, but when he turned the key in the transmission the car rumbled to life.
It was 5pm by the time he dropped us off at the cross-roads he had mentioned. It was a busy road without sidewalks that lead into Lanvallay, the city immediately across the river from Dinan. It took us at least 2 more hours to walk back to Dinan. We were tired and hungry, and the twinkling lights of our city seemed so far. Night had fallen by the time I stumbled up the steps to my apartment. There was dinner to make and classes to prepare for. To my delight, the heat had been turned on in the apartment complex. I never slept so well.