flu/sick/migraine/horrible/sad

I haven't slept for an entire night in three days. My tonsils are all inflamed and throbbing, and drinking water has become an excruciating experience. I decided this morning that I would go to the doctor, and then wasted two hours calling and calling with no answer. On a wild goose chase, I called another two doctors -- tried and failed. So I decided to go to a pharmacy, was turned away, and terrified when the woman said to me that a poorly treated throat infection can lead to cardiac problems. Go to the doctor's office just down the street and see if they'll see you; if not, we'll call the SAMU (15, the French equivalent of 911) for the name of the doctor on-call in M.

That's not scary.

So I walked home in my hurting shoes and called, talked to a gruff woman doctor who didn't want to take me, and then cried.

I got an appointment 25 minutes later, slunk my way two streets over, and shoved myself in the far corner of the waiting room that seemed too classy and luminous to be legit. The quick ritual was over rapidly, and I left with a small rectangle of scrawled prescriptions.

As I waited for the pharmacist to fill them, I felt a sudden blast of heat crawling up from my toes, like a swarm of bees trying to swallow me up. I realized what was coming just as it came, and woke up completely disconnected laying on the pharmacy floor. The first words I spoke were English, and then I remembered; they don't understand you. This is not the right code.

They brought me water and concerned middle-age women stared at me, commenting on the lack of color, the level of blood pressure, then asked me who could come get me, who they could call for help. I realized that there was no one; S was at the farm, and the only people whose numbers I had were out of the city at the time. My house was full of semi-strangers, not yet friends enough to have exchanged coordinates, and I was laying flat-out on a dirty floor.

A woman walked me the two blocks home and I decided not to cry until I was back in my bed.

The kindness of strangers can be so overwhelming, the sadness of my profound and lasting sense of loneliness equally so.

Volcanic hike, bike ride, banks-a-go-go, nacho cheese doritos.

Friday. A day with no work, no classes, no grading, no lessons, not even a single exam to facilitate.

A 9-euro ticket and a thirty-minute train ride, an hour in a parking lot, reading in the shade of a twisty French tree, a picnic on a park bench alongside the Loire river, and an afternoon of leisurely pedaling along on a men's white mountain bike with dysfunctional gear shifter and extremely uncomfortable seat.

Home. A lasagna dinner (prepared the day before, simply requiring an hour of baking to make the layers of cheese and vegetables delectably malleable and melty) with all of our house, a big salad and French "apératif", and then an incredible home-made caramel apple pie with an enormous scoop of French vanilla ice cream for dessert.

A night of beautiful dreams and restful sleep. A trip down memory lane, a return to my first French home, the picturesque Puy-en-Velay. A volcanic hike on Sunday, a visit with my host family and a tour around the ancient fortress that watches over the sleepy city.

Long Weekend Numéro Deux: on a Dairy Farm

I didn't understand until [Monday] as I was driving and listening to the radio as S slept like a pretzel in the passenger seat, his head precariously resting on the seatbelt strap, the actual reason why we had the day off of work.

But now I know, and I will tell you why.

In 2003, there was a major heat stroke in Europe that caused the death of lots of elderly people; in 2004, France decided to create "The Day of Solidarity" which is essentially a forced vacation day during which your normal salary goes into a fund for "actions in favor of elderly people" (an explanation of that, I cannot give). Thus, we were all on vacation yesterday, "working" for the elderly, but really doing whatever we wanted.

In my case, I was learning to make St. Nectaire cheese and running around a dairy farm in the Cantal. Sunday morning, S and I headed south to meet up with Dottie and a few of her friends from Bretagne for a picnic and a hike up the Puy de Sancy mountain. When we got there, we were surprised to see that "a few friends" actually meant fifteen.

Once we finished the ritual "bisous" on the cheeks, saying our names and barely registering those of the people smudged up against our faces, we chowed down on sandwiches and then started our ascent of the mountain via a precariously tilting cable car. We hiked the remaining 3 km to the very top, and delighted in a glorious view of Auvergne and its range of magnificent dormant volcanoes.

On our way down (we decided to walk, which was convenient since the cable cars had already stopped running) we crossed a massive herd of sheep who were grazing on the grassy ski slopes, herded by three dogs and a worldly-looking shepherd who lives in an aluminum trailer during the summer. We had to hurry because it was time to milk the cows.

We followed a rented van, and a car packed full of people, up twisty, tortured mountain roads, until we came to an intersection so acute it was physically impossible to make the left turn without driving past it, backing up to the right, and then proceeding left. Once the maneuver was complete, we found ourselves smack in the middle of a tiny village of six or seven houses, and a big cow farm, complete with a bunch of dogs, chickens, geese, and a cheese factory.

Before it got dark, we decided to pitch our tent along with the others -- inside of the hay barn. Practical for many reasons (no need for stakes, warmer than sleeping outside, lots of hay to use for making a cushion underneath the tent), this proved to be -- by far -- the most innovative sleeping situation in which I had ever found myself.

Once the base camp was established, I set off for the next adventure: a shower. Totally happy to find hot running water, I turned it up full blast -- and quickly discovered that I had unknowingly developed a very bad sunburn. A glance in the mirror confirmed: my nose and legs were burnt to a crisp, and the part on the left side of my head was closer to purple than red.

S was in worse shape than I was, having refused every offer of "crème solaire" all day long, and our two glowing noses led the way to a fantastic restaurant buried at the base of the mountains. We ate the specialties of the region, a delicious fondue and a delicious potato bake just covered with cheese! Despite the dust in the hay barn, I fell asleep quickly thanks to my last, precious Benadryl and didn't wake up until the rooster started trumpeting away.

I thought that roosters crowed once, to announce the rise of the sun -- but I was wrong. Or at least, I was wrong about this particular rooster. He crooned on and on, repeating his little three-note pattern a dozen times and then waiting a half hour or so before beginning all over again. By 8 am I completely gave up on sleep and left the hay barn behind.

On my way out, I ran into Dottie, who asked if I wanted to go with her to see the end of the morning cow milking. Beh... OUI! I hadn't visited the fields and was surprised to see how big (and how mountainous) Fred's farm actually was. By the time we arrived, the last cows were already in the process of being milked so we had to kind of imagine how it worked, along with his explanations. His cows were beautiful and I love the mystical tinkling sound of their various bells combined. He explained that the bells are meticulously chosen based on the size of the cows' necks; some cows are good for producing milk, he told us, and some cows are good for wearing bells.

We had a quick breakfast (I discovered that France has its own version of Fignewtons, which are called Fig-olus and are AMAZING) and then followed Fred to his little factory to learn how to make St. Nectaire cheese.

Here is the process, as I understand:

After the cows are milked, and their white gold is collected in a giant onion-shaped metal container, the milk is heated and then poured into a giant metallic cauldron. Two plates with vertical metal wires are used to reduce the cheese curd into corn-sized pieces. Once the pieces are the right size, the plates are replaced with one giant paddle which pushes all of the cheese together into one massive block.

The liquid is poured out of the giant vat, and then the cheese is put into squat cylindrical containers which are perforated with holes to both form the cheese wheel, and allow the excess liquid to escape. With a high-tech machine, the cheese is compressed into the forms and then it is the man power that comes into play. (For this part, I don't have any photos since I was busy working and covered in cheese!)

First, cheese cloth is laid across an empty cylindrical container, and the farm's personal label is applied. The compressed block of cheese is taken out of one container, completely covered on one side with salt, and then laid into the container covered with the cheese cloth. The other side of the cheese is then also covered with salt before being entirely wrapped up with the cloth. A metal ring is placed on the interior of the container, and the cheese inside the cloth is pulled up to the same level as the metal ring. The cheese is placed on a rack with metal plates in between, which compress the cheese, remove extra liquid, and make them all the perfect shape.

They are put into the cooling room, and then sold at the market, or directly from the farm.

I noticed that while we were busily working away, seemingly the entire population of the village -- dogs included --(and perhaps, even the surrounding villages) came by to say, "Bonjour!" and check on the cheese. It is nice to know that this essential part of French culture is impeccably cared for and preserved.

Bretagne!

The ability to say "No" tactfully and inoffensively is a gift -- or perhaps a skill -- which would have radically changed the course of our long weekend last week.

However, neither S nor I possess this gift in the language of Moliere, and we found ourselves at 8h30 on Wednesday night, packed in a car with half of our roommate Flouf's stuff, and all of his infinite wisdom, a seven hour drive a head of us, and a packed schedule (of which we were, at that time, entirely oblivious).

Our friend Flouf has recently (ish) gotten out of a long (ish) relationship with a girl, a story which I do not know much about at all, except that for a month or so he has been miserable and mopey, irritated when we don't hang out with him, and very easily agitated.

In the week leading up to France's four-day weekend, S and I had tentative, malleable plans to visit Bretagne, but were kind of both waiting to see how things would go. In the meantime, Flouf began putting on the pressure with each of us, individually, to spend an OFFICIAL weekend en Bretange (one of the places I have long wanted to visit in France, but never had the occasion). Between his sad faces, and the logical reasoning of driving together rather than separately, we agreed, thinking we would stay the night in Lorient and then continue westward, picking him up on the way back home.

Thus, the voyage began, with S in the driver's seat, Flouf stuffed in the back, packed in between half of his personal possessions, and me, comfortably in the navigator's seat, watching the countryside pass by until the sun sank out of sight. I took my turn driving around 11 pm and lasted until 1, when Flouf took over and drove the rest of the way to Lorient.

We arrived at his parents' house at 3 am, an hour which I have not seen in a long time, and at which my French usually degrades into barely comprehensible bits of sentences, conjugations non-existent, and agreements between anything entirely rare. But at 9 am the following morning, I was up and irritating S with the sound of the hair dryer, marking the beginning of our official vacation.

A delicious leisurely breakfast under a sunny sky was cut short by an intense surprise attack by M. LeFlouf, the extreme travel planner and Bretagne connoisseur, who vividly shouted out names of places and sights, adding emphasis by throwing his hands in the air and wildly unfolding his stacks of maps, frantically highlighting sights, roads, and intersections like a mad man, rattling out rapid-fire explanations and suggestions, informing us of Our Weekend Plans, S and me, and the entire LeFlouf crew.

At first we were overwhelmed by this energy! What passion! What intensity! And then, we just never found ourselves able to say "no."

And so it was. We were off, two rusty bicycles pedaling towards the sea amidst Flouf, Monsieur and Madame Flouf, and Petite Floufette, his sister of 14 years. In a short but rapid journey, we found ourselves facing the Atlantic Ocean from a side I had never before seen! As they hurried us down onto the rocks that reminded me of Monterrey Bay, and the sun-bathing sea lions, the LeFloufs uncovered crabs and starfish, crayfish and mussels, displaying an impressive knowledge of the secrets of the sea. We pedaled around the touristy town, took photos of waves lapping against pebbled beaches, and reapplied sunscreen to our pasty skin.

We ate lunch on the deck of their backyard, the weather uncharacteristically incredible. Bretagne is known to be constantly grey and rainy, thus making it a rare and beautiful luxury for us to discover it under the reassuring rays of the constant sun.

Once the digestion process had set in, we all piled into the LeFlouf family van and head off for visits of nearby towns that I had neither the time to process, nor the access to the information necessary to associate meaning with the names. At rapid speed, we piled in, parked the car, piled out, ran around, and repeated the processes again.

S and I were constantly holding the group back, taking pictures at the walled-in city of Concarneau, watching the rehearsal of a random play group under a group of trees, browsing souvenir shops and mulling over the stocked harbor, endless white sails flapping in the breeze, just above impeccable blue-green waves that lapped up against the shore. At some point in the day, we visited the village of Pont-Aven which is where Paul Gaugin founded his artist colony. There was talk of ice cream, at one point, but evidently not enough time, and the LeFlouf van did not even stop to let the prized Flouf son find a bathroom. However, we did stop for fresh strawberries and onions, which were necessary for the evening meal.

Exhausted, sun-kissed, and smelling of salt and sunscreen, the LeFlouf family van returned to home base around 7 pm and it was time to clean up. Dinner was a delicious series of crayfish (I think) which required de-heading, and then were recommended with a dab of home-made mayonnaise, on fresh French bread (superb!) followed by fresh fish in a delicious cream sauce, and strawberries with cream for dessert.

We hadn't planned on staying with them on Friday, but again found ourselves lacking the gall to say "no" to the passionate and persistent LeFlouf family during breakfast. Soon, we found ourselves following the family van, loaded up with picnic supplies, beach towels, bathing suits and a celtic music CD that Monsieur LeFLouf told us to listen to on the way.

After visiting the harbor and fish market in Lorient, we headed off to the Point du Millier, a wonderfully secluded look-out point with private beach access depending upon the tide, and an adventurous descent which dissuades many tourists from flocking there. We had lunch and the brave LeFloufs went swimming in the frigid water. For me, after a very brief toe-test, I decided I would just admire it from afar.

We made the tour of the bottom-most peninsula of Bretagne with the LeFloufs, ending the day at the extremely well-known site of la Pointe du Raz. After all of the hype surrounding this famous place, we found ourselves a bit disappointed by its incredibly touristic nature (souvenir shops and snack bars a-go-go) but unable to leave unaffected by the incredible views of the rocky coastal cliffs and the powerful ocean below.

Having said goodbye to the LeFlouf crew, we headed off to a bed & breakfast which was found and reserved for us by the one and only Monsieur LeFlouf, located in the tiny town of Le Faou (pronounced like "le fou" which means "the crazy.") Tired and happy for a hot shower, we made ourselves presentable and headed into town for dinner. The recommended "crêperie" being full for the night, we settled on a "brasserie" across the way and delighted in the MOST delicious warm goat-cheese salad and pizza for dinner, with a superb chocolate mousse for dessert.

Saturday morning began with a trip across the brand new Térénez Bridge, a completely curved cable bridge that spans across the Aulne river. It was finished in April of 2011 and is glaringly new and modern and hip. Juxtaposed in the background, you can still see the old suspension bridge, a sad and faded forest green color, built in 1951 and no longer useful for any obvious purpose.

We went in search of the "boat cemetery" and were surprised to find that while this "Historic Site" was indicated on tourist maps, as well as street signs, there were no actual markings once you arrived at the site. And the three surfaced boats are so well-hidden by the trees lining the road, you can easily drive past it without ever even noticing. The only place from which the boats are visible on the road is clearly marked with "No Parking" signs, which is a further conundrum to the average tourist...

In any case, we abandoned the car and went on an exploratory hike which proved to be the first of the weekend to be relaxing and without a ticking clock. Having seen no boats, but one painter and the outside of an ancient abbey we didn't pay to visit, we headed back to the car and parked illegally for a view of the life-changing marine vessel resting place.

Then we were off to the two main cities on the Presqu'île de Crozon, Crozon and Camaret-sur-Mer. Armed with our Monsieur-LeFlouf-highlighted maps, we set off at our own pace to explore a few more scenic views and discover more Breton cities.

The day was filled with places and names, Pointe de Dinan and the Pointe de Pen Hir, spectacular views of cliffs and ocean, and we even observed a wedding procession which took place in an old mariner's church located smack in the middle of the harbor. We had a lovely dinner at a very busy restaurant in Morgat which took us three hours to finish, and which got us the bottle of wine for free, as a "thank you" for our extensive patience. "A votre service, bien sûr."

Sunday morning happened underneath rain clouds, which gave us a taste for what it is usually like in Bretagne. Having lost our patience with the crazy signs for the "Cap de la Chèvre" the day before (and having convinced ourselves that we had seen it all), S and I had abandoned our plans of visiting that scenic point. But the Parisian couple at breakfast raved about it, and so we decided to try again, finding it relatively easily thanks to the deserted Sunday town, but also finding it relatively uninteresting and definitely not worth all of that work.

Our last stop on the way back to Lorient was the highest point in Bretagne, and we made a quick detour to climb to the very top, watch a man fly a model airplane, and say "good bye" to Bretagne.

We arrived at the LeFlouf residence around 2:45 and were met with hot coffee, tea, and some of the regional specialities -- far breton, which is a delicious eggy cake with prunes, and gâteau breton which is like super-buttery shortbread, with raspberry jam in the middle.

We rolled out of Lorient at 3:25, with me in the driver's seat, and arrived home to M at 1:00 am. I have never seen traffic jams like what I saw on this very Sunday. For four days we marveled at a sea of salt, waves, and magical creatures lying beneath the surface; our last 9.5 hours were spent fuming over a painfully slowly moving sea of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Vive les vacances!