Mont St-Michel and St-Malo

I don’t vacation very often; I generally don’t like it. I don’t love living out of a suitcase. I don’t like deciding what’s essential from my bathroom cupboards before leaving, only to realize that the one thing I forgot is the one I really want. I like sleeping in my own bed, and, strangely enough, I like working several hours a day, none of which really goes hand-in-hand with “vacation.” I get to London a few times a year to see the English One and Emese, and that’s generally enough for me.

But this summer has been filled with vacation, and while I’ve been horrid about getting all of my thoughts and pictures down on the blog, I’ve been diligent in keeping my pictures to the side, waiting for the moment where I have the time and energy to get my thoughts together to tell you about what I’ve been up to, before I settle back into the regular grind.

With the few vacations I do take, it’s strange how frequently I manage to find myself in the exact same place more than once. Scotty and my Future Amazing Race Partner from Cannes may be shocked to recognize the above B&B in rural Brittany, where we stayed for several days in the summer of 2007, and where I suffered my second of two extremely terrifying anaphylactic allergic reactions to buckwheat, before realizing that it was buckwheat I was allergic to.

Well never fear… this time I suffered nothing… possibly because the Sous-Chef and I opted for pizza and beer instead…

… as well as fresh blackberries picked on the side of the road as we wandered.

To say it was strange to be back in a place that I had not only been so long ago, but where I had suffered such a frightening experience was strange to say the least, but I can’t say it was altogether unpleasant. Why? Because there were other things — people, to be more precise — that I hadn’t seen for a long time and that I was quite happy to see again.

It’s been awhile since I mentioned Manouche #1, over 2 years, as a matter of fact, but I’ll mention him again today. Why? Because for the first time in over two years, I saw him, in Brittany. I met Manouche #1 through the Parisian, so when he and I parted ways, it seemed only natural that the Manouche and I would stop speaking as well. However, while I’m not in contact with most of the Parisian’s friends, Manouche #1 has always stayed in touch, and when he learned that the Sous-Chef and I would be stopping in Brittany, not only did he offer to drive us to Mont St-Michel, but he also appointed himself our Breton tour guide for the day.

First, we drove out to a windmill, which was beautiful in and of itself and offered even more spectacular views of the château we were driving towards.

Along the way to the château — and for the rest of the day — Manouche #1 humored us by playing along with our city girl “cow spotting” game, whereby every time we saw a cow, we had to scream out, “Cow!” This was especially fun when others were sleeping.

Aside from that, we caught up, and I marveled at his new acquisition of English, after having spent nearly a year in Australia and the States. He’s one of the first people I’ve known to feel as much of an affinity for another culture and language as I have, and it was interesting to see it from the other point of view; as someone who abandoned an anglo way of life for a French one, I liked seeing a Frenchman looking to leave France for Australia.

Within the walled city of Mont St-Michel, I was immediately overcome by claustophobia. Worse, even, than Carcassonne, Mont St-Michel is teeming with people, and it seems impossible to even move forward.

We settled for a wander about the ramparts, and then quickly escaped to the beach behind the château to wander in the sand.

It wasn’t long before we were ready to move on in search of food. Luckily, Manouche #1 knew where to go, and off we went, to St-Malo, in search of mussels and fries. I had only ever been to the hospital at St-Malo (aforementioned anaphylaxis), so I was pleasantly surprised to find a beautiful old town with lots of streets to wander and get lost down.

When we’d eaten, we did another tour of ramparts, this time around the medieval city of St-Malo, overlooking another beach that we quickly clambered to.

We finished the day with a climb on the rocky jetties jutting out from the beach, snapping pictures and striking poses.

I’m not sure how much longer Manouche #1 will be in France before he feels the pull of wanderlust again; God knows it’s tough to keep me anywhere but France. But it was nice to see him again, and I was happy to hear him speaking English, especially as we remembered our half-hatched and mostly sarcastic plan once to marry for our international papers: him to move to America, me to move here. I’ve found my way without our mariage blanc… I hope he finds his way back to the country he loves as well.