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May. 7th, 2002 09:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetIt was a weekend. Studying and stuff. Went to a neighborhood wine tasting party, which was pleasant if not as uproarious as some people's Saturday night activities. Helped J. turn a few square yards of wild soil into more vegetable garden. Tried to write the history-of-scholarship section for my prospectus, notably not finished in its entirety by yesterday as I had hoped, but was stymied by the fact that the list of titles alone that could be covered already uses twice as much space as I have available. That will take some thought and careful arrangement and ruthless culling of the weak.
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atalanta's post today reminded me that I had yet to write up the highlight of my French trip, which comes next chronologically.
Quimper, Saturday, March 30
Breakfast at our hotel in Carnac was a little tense, as we seem to have been a half hour early, just in time to witness some sort of family shouting match concerning broken dishes. They served our baguettes and croissants in polite but sullen silence.
The bus connection from Carnac to Auray, and then the train to Quimper, was more or less non-challenging, especially after the difficulties of the day before. During the bus ride we passed La-Trinité-sur-Mer, a town where some sort of massive boat race seemed to be getting underway. The bus was delayed getting into Auray station because it got stuck behind a garbage truck on a narrow street; I think one woman missed her train. Fortunately for us, our only problem was that the restrooms were closed. We found some in what seemed to be a welcome center next door, but it wasn't very welcoming after all, as the employees glared at us and apparently muttered to themselves about how angry they were that people were using their restrooms (but they did not overtly challenge our presence).
Once at Quimper we walked to the tourist center, weighted down a bit but quite happy we'd left most of our stuff at Becca's apartment in Paris. The walk made us begin to doubt the research quality in our Lonely Planet guide, as the bulk of the restaurants and some of the hotels were located on that otherwise uninteresting stretch between the train station and the tourist center, which had little else to offer the traveler except government buildings and ISP headquarters.
At the tourist center we bought a local map and picked up flyers and brochures -- in short, did the sorts of things one does at such a place, although we at least already knew where we'd be sleeping. We crossed the river into the center of town.
It was pretty spiffy the way that all of the signs were in both French and Breton. That was a symptom of why we had come to Quimper in the first place -- "the heart of Celtic Brittany." We shopped in an outdoor market (I took a picture -- yet to be developed -- of a booth offering alterna-music paraphernalia, mainly because of the tie-dyed Sisters of Mercy t-shirt inexplicably hanging there). As seems to be our usual practice, we made sure to load up on heavy breakable objects in the first hour of our day's activities: a set of Breton cider bowls for J.'s dad's birthday and local honey for her mom. We also boughtchouchen from the woman selling honey, perhaps better known as hydromel, basically akin to mead. (It now sits in our refrigerator awaiting the right moment, although it's better fresher, so perhaps we should drink it.) She proudly displayed newsclippings featuring her son and grandson and their chouchen-making business. When we paid for our stuff, she threw in a large bag of honey pastilles for free, since we had come from so far away. That seemed odd, but maybe they generally get only Brits there.
It was, to our surprise, something of a long hunt to find a decent-looking crêperie that was open, although I guess we were just looking in the wrong place, as we later found a street where there were six of them within a block. Salty buckwheat crêpes were consumed by us, along with a light artisanal hard cider. We looked more carefully now at our maps and brochures, ruled out several interesting-looking things as being closed for the season or not walkable, and then went to check into our hotel, a rather run-down place with an unwashed maid, seemingly operated as an afterthought to the attached bar.
Divested of our heavy purchases and overnight bags, we went out once more into town to look around. And it was on this venture that we discovered Les Halles Saint-François, an indoor market on the order of, say, the Public Market in Portland, ME. It was chock full o' organic (biologique) produce and artisanal cheeses and wines and so forth -- even a bakery where they sold organic breads made from flour they ground themselves from wheat grown on their own farm, which I have to say is pretty fucking hardcore.
And then J. stopped to buy some herbal tea.
Tune in next time, when you'll hear the man from Alsace say, "I can drive you. It will only take two hours total."
atalanta's post today reminded me that I had yet to write up the highlight of my French trip, which comes next chronologically.Quimper, Saturday, March 30
Breakfast at our hotel in Carnac was a little tense, as we seem to have been a half hour early, just in time to witness some sort of family shouting match concerning broken dishes. They served our baguettes and croissants in polite but sullen silence.
The bus connection from Carnac to Auray, and then the train to Quimper, was more or less non-challenging, especially after the difficulties of the day before. During the bus ride we passed La-Trinité-sur-Mer, a town where some sort of massive boat race seemed to be getting underway. The bus was delayed getting into Auray station because it got stuck behind a garbage truck on a narrow street; I think one woman missed her train. Fortunately for us, our only problem was that the restrooms were closed. We found some in what seemed to be a welcome center next door, but it wasn't very welcoming after all, as the employees glared at us and apparently muttered to themselves about how angry they were that people were using their restrooms (but they did not overtly challenge our presence).
Once at Quimper we walked to the tourist center, weighted down a bit but quite happy we'd left most of our stuff at Becca's apartment in Paris. The walk made us begin to doubt the research quality in our Lonely Planet guide, as the bulk of the restaurants and some of the hotels were located on that otherwise uninteresting stretch between the train station and the tourist center, which had little else to offer the traveler except government buildings and ISP headquarters.
At the tourist center we bought a local map and picked up flyers and brochures -- in short, did the sorts of things one does at such a place, although we at least already knew where we'd be sleeping. We crossed the river into the center of town.
It was pretty spiffy the way that all of the signs were in both French and Breton. That was a symptom of why we had come to Quimper in the first place -- "the heart of Celtic Brittany." We shopped in an outdoor market (I took a picture -- yet to be developed -- of a booth offering alterna-music paraphernalia, mainly because of the tie-dyed Sisters of Mercy t-shirt inexplicably hanging there). As seems to be our usual practice, we made sure to load up on heavy breakable objects in the first hour of our day's activities: a set of Breton cider bowls for J.'s dad's birthday and local honey for her mom. We also boughtchouchen from the woman selling honey, perhaps better known as hydromel, basically akin to mead. (It now sits in our refrigerator awaiting the right moment, although it's better fresher, so perhaps we should drink it.) She proudly displayed newsclippings featuring her son and grandson and their chouchen-making business. When we paid for our stuff, she threw in a large bag of honey pastilles for free, since we had come from so far away. That seemed odd, but maybe they generally get only Brits there.
It was, to our surprise, something of a long hunt to find a decent-looking crêperie that was open, although I guess we were just looking in the wrong place, as we later found a street where there were six of them within a block. Salty buckwheat crêpes were consumed by us, along with a light artisanal hard cider. We looked more carefully now at our maps and brochures, ruled out several interesting-looking things as being closed for the season or not walkable, and then went to check into our hotel, a rather run-down place with an unwashed maid, seemingly operated as an afterthought to the attached bar.
Divested of our heavy purchases and overnight bags, we went out once more into town to look around. And it was on this venture that we discovered Les Halles Saint-François, an indoor market on the order of, say, the Public Market in Portland, ME. It was chock full o' organic (biologique) produce and artisanal cheeses and wines and so forth -- even a bakery where they sold organic breads made from flour they ground themselves from wheat grown on their own farm, which I have to say is pretty fucking hardcore.
And then J. stopped to buy some herbal tea.
Tune in next time, when you'll hear the man from Alsace say, "I can drive you. It will only take two hours total."
