Dol-de-Bretagne

It’s been awhile since we discussed food, which I realize, as the writer of a food blog, is strange, so let’s remedy that straight away: the last stop on the Sous-Chef’s and my adventure before getting back to Paris for a much-needed load of laundry was Dol-de-Bretagne, the hometown of Manouche #1 and the town we wandered around for a day, as one does when checkout is at 10 and train departure is at 5.

First stop was breakfast at this adorable tearoom on the main street. We each ordered a cup of tea, and upon suggestion from the owner, a pastry each.

I went for the classic Far Breton. The Sous-Chef, who has gotten into the habit of ordering la même chose — the same — started to follow in suit, but I warned her about the inclusion of prunes, which, while simply viewed as a delicious dried fruit in France, have connotations of geriatrics in America, of which she was not a fan. She opted instead for an apple clafoutis.

We ate and sat for a few moments, looking at the tiny town and its one main street straight through the center, which reminded me, oddly enough of Westhampton, on Long Island.

Maybe it’s the proximity of the ocean, though we don’t see it, not today. Maybe it’s the vague smell of salt in the air or the way the sun hits things. My brother has a way of saying things that makes you think; he says that he doesn’t feel right when he’s not near the water, even if it’s not something you see every day. As much as I love Toronto and Paris, I get that. I like Bretagne, because it reminds me of home.

That being said, Dol is not home, and as the Sous-Chef and I finish up and start wandering to escape the wasps that have quickly become interested in our breakfast, I’m struck by all the differences, maybe because of the one similarity I’ve drawn.

We are, after all, in the country.

We wander every twist and turn of every street, pausing to take pictures as we feel inclined. In a place so small, with so much time before us, we have the luxury.

I’m particularly smitten when I find a small monument to Victor Hugo, one of the main writers who makes up the corpus of my Masters thesis, as well as the man who, at least in part, brought me my love of France: it was the musical version of Les Misérables that had me interested in the French Revolutions in the first place.

With regards to Dol, he has this to say:

“… Dol, a Spanish city belonging to France in Brittany, or so say the cartularies, is not a city, it’s a street. A big old Gothic street, bordered on the right and on the left with pillared houses, never aligned, that make peaks and bends in the road, which is quite wide.”

The end is poorly translated, but it’s the beginning I like best anyway: a Spanish city, belonging to France and in Brittany. A mix of everything that makes it nothing, indescribable. I like that.

We find a park to write in, but I do more looking than writing, at first.

It’s beautiful and serene, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not struck with the desire, the need to do something. Perhaps most of all this trip has reminded me how to relax, to veer off the course of searching for the productive value in every choice: money, health, opportunity.. as of late, I’m having a hard time just enjoying something for what it is. But this day, I lay on a park bench in the sun, just to feel the rays on my face. I contemplate — a change from constant planning and brainstorming. And then I pull out my notebook, the one that my Childhood Best Friend got me for my 24th birthday, and I write.

In the afternoon, we explore the rest of the town and the church.

We stop for lunch, a picnic of baguette, salami and rillettes.

My trusty knife comes in handy once again.

For dessert, it’s kouign amann, a dessert from the region that involves mass quantities of butter and sugar. Sort of like what would happen if salted caramel, a cinnamon roll (without the cinnamon) and brioche put their heads together. It was divine.

Right before jumping on the train, we stop at a pub, and I have my last regional cider before heading back to Ile-de-France. I stare down the main street and contemplate what it would be to have a home here… but I don’t plan, just let the feeling wash over me.

It’s nice.