Brittany and Normandy, Under the Fog

Saint-Malo

            For this weekend’s excursion, we headed north to Brittany and Normandy, stopping at Saint-Malo and then at Mont-Saint-Michel. Bombed numerous times by numerous nations in World War II, Saint-Malo is a walled city that, on Saturday, was enveloped in fog. Looking out towards the sea, the view from the top of the wall was of 300 meters of rock, sand and water and beyond, nothingness.  The city itself is not without its virtues, however. It is known for (not necessarily in this order) its ice cream, socks, crepes, and seafood. Therefore the best part of this stop was not the view, but a lovely Crêpe Tatin, which is a crêpe, folded over applesauce, topped with rich vanilla ice cream and caramelized apples flambéed in Calvados.

            Back on the bus (as we felt slightly sick after copious amounts of sugary, starchy food), the Director of CIDEF treated our group to a running commentary on our surroundings. This included whistles, trills, the occasional dry English translation (“leeks,” for example), and many other sound effects. At one point, we passed through the town of Fougeres, formerly known for its crystal, which was pointed out with a melodious “ting” that lasted for several minutes (I assume they must have made very pure crystal).

Mont Saint Michel

             The approach to Mont Saint Michel is rather bleak -- long stretches of coastal farmland, and then the road jutting out into the sea. In the past, water would have flooded the pathway with the tides, but today, dikes allow vehicles to pass and park at all hours. Above dozens of cars and tour buses, the ancient abbey and its surrounding community make soaring steps skyward, until the Archangel Michael on the highest steeple is almost invisible through the fog. With construction beginning in the 700s, I expect Mont Saint Michel will be one of the oldest structures I will see in France.

The abbey church
~Every stone a different color,
each and all in tones of water

            Throughout the centuries, Mont Saint Michel has functioned as an abbey, fortress and a prison. Now, as souvenir shops and hot dog vendors encroach on its foundations, it has become a tourist hot spot. Glad as I am to have seen it, I’m also a little embarrassed to have photographed and gawked my way through such an old religious site. Still, there is some unshakeable silence there, something that comes from being far away from shore and high above the water. Each room in the abbey is designed for prayer and contemplation. The abbey church has a lofty interior, with graceful arches and high windows, which light the hundreds of subtle shades of blue in the stone. The cloister was one of my other favorite spaces, with arched walkways blooming with stone flowers and foliage, and views of their small garden and the sea. 

The cloister

            Passing back through the gate at the base of Mont Saint Michel, the mist had released its hold on the abbey, and everything seemed a bit closer to the earth. It wasn’t hard to imagine that people would make pilgrimages and brave the tides to visit this place, an island and a fortress, for contemplation, silence, and the wonder of it all.

Three Chateaus, One Day

Chenonceau

             Leaving at 8:00 in the morning and returning at 8:00 at night, our group of international students spent Saturday touring three chateaus – Azay-le-Rideau,  Chenonceau, and Chambord. In three tour buses, we threaded through narrow streets of country towns, and past at least another half dozen chateaus we didn’t stop at, although a guide informed us of their presence over a bad speaker system. Our route took us by many examples of Anjou troglodytique dwellings – houses built in, or sometimes emerging from freestone rock faces. Beyond resort hotels, I hadn’t realized that this was a practiced mode of living, but many of the houses I saw seemed well maintained and occupied.

            Our first stop was Azay-le-Rideau, a small chateau built in the 1500s (as were Chenonceau and Chambord), and complete with all the intricate engravings of dragons, cherubs, and gargoyles that are required of a proper castle. Although different rooms are furnished in different period styles, I didn’t grasp how old it was until I walked up a spiral staircase and could feel the dip under my feet where centuries of shoes had worn away the rock. I also didn’t realize at the time that, in terms of size and trimmings, Azay-le-Rideau is only a modest chateau.

The Caryatids

            Chenonceau, in contrast, is a sprawling creation, introduced by a long, tree-lined drive. Numerous trails sprout off of this lane, one of which leads to a labyrinth (commissioned by Catherine de Médicis) and the caryatids, a group of mysterious pillar-figures whose expressions and appendages have crumbled with time. The chateau itself extends out into the river Cher in a series of arches, and the building’s underbelly offers a glimpse into a medieval kitchen (in which one apparently did a lot of cleaving, if the contents of the racks on the walls are anything to go by). Much of the furnishings in the three chateaus seem to run toward a similar taste (opulence), with reds and golds, tapestries and heavy drapes (the exception being the bedroom of Louise de Lorraine in Chenonceau, which has walls and ceiling painted a gloomy black).

            Chambord, although its interior is barer, does not fail to express a clear message of wealth. It is a behemoth. Crowned with hundreds of chimneys and towers, the feeling I had upon seeing this last chateau was probably exactly what its past owners had in mind – awe and inferiority. It is located in a hunting reserve the size of Paris proper, and has gaping, drafty halls. Ascending the central spiral staircase, the roof looks and feels as if it is its own miniature city. Columns, domes, and crosses abound, and sculptures, many of them in varying degrees of anguish, peer down at the crowds below.

The Roof of Chambord

            The bus ride home was a long one, but I had a lot of food for thought. What would it be like to be able to get up in the morning and decide on a whim that your roof needs another tower, or two, or fifty?

Etre Cidéfien, c'est la belle vie

            I’m now into my second week at the Centre International d’Etudes Françaises (CIDEF), at the lovely Université Catholique de l’Ouest (UCO). It is truly an international program – although the majority of the student population at CIDEF is Asian, the current group of 452 students represents 33 countries from all over the world. It’s not uncommon to see nuns (some in full habit) throughout your daily studies, because they come to learn French as the language of their motherhouse. In addition to diverse cultural backgrounds, students arrive with varying levels of proficiency in French, some with only a handful of words, and others in their 4^th or 5^th year of language. Using a fairly bewildering system, CIDEF accommodates us all.

            The main entry to the UCO is banked by trees, from which you can hear birdsong whether the temperature is below zero (Celsius), or it’s a balmy spring afternoon. The site itself was first home to a University in the 1300s, although the current buildings date back to (I believe) 1875.  Much of the interior was recently renovated, and we now have walls and floors in greens, purples, and oranges. Once you get past the black ice on the drive, it’s quite a pleasant place to study.

Word of the Day

Truc: (pronounced trook) meaning whatchamacallit, doodad, whats-his/her-name, trick, knack, or just “thing” in general.

Ex: If you saw a poster advertising la varappe, and you wanted to know what varappe was, you might ask your friend “qu’est-ce que c’est, ce truc-la?”

(La varappe is rock climbing, by the way)

In my French classes, we always learned “chose” as the French equivalent of “thing.” Truc is much more popular, although less formal.

Some scenes from the Chateau d'Angers. More on this coming soon!

A First Glimpse

            After 17 hours and 22 minutes of flying, I have reached France. The first clear sign that I’m in another country is the escalator to Immigration, which doesn’t unfurl in regular steps, but in a series of smooth, rolling hills. As you drift along, you are not-so-subtly acclimatized to Paris (or maybe only a popular conception of Paris) by strains of La Vie En Rose by Edith Piaf, and ads for Parisian fashion featuring women with miniature Eiffel towers strapped to their heads.

            However, I don’t have a chance to see Paris today, and after negotiating the airport shuttle and the Charles de Gaulle train station, I am on my way to Angers. Unlike the American trains I have experienced, the French train almost tempts you to go to sleep, gliding along as if the tracks were greased with butter. The warmth inside is deceiving, however, and my arrival in Angers is accompanied by below-freezing temperatures and snow.

            Although Angers is not included (or given only a few words) in most guidebooks for France, my first impression is of a thriving city with much to explore, whether you’re interested in art, history, Cointreau (a type of orange liquor), or shopping. In between modern storefronts, you can catch a glimpse of the restoration of a 16^th Century hotel, and the spires of the Romanesque and Gothic Cathedral are visible above the rooftops in much of downtown.