Ty les fous

La Bretagne: that beautiful region in the the northwestern region of France, whose simple name inspires images of mini-Stonehenges (menhirs), bottomless bolées de cidre, and stoic men with weathered visages and horizontally striped sweaters.

At least those were the romanticized, provincial daydreams I was nurturing last Friday afternoon as I bid my colleagues an obscenely cheery, "Salut, bon week-end !" and dashed off to the train station, bound for the point de rencontre at Gare St. Lazare. Within a few fantasy-filled minutes, I'd met up with the Jeebsters, Kat and Thomas, and we crammed into their bagnole, giddy with Celtic anticipation as we careened past les Grands Boulevards, la Madeleine, and the staid apartments in the 7ème, until we were winging along the périf at breakneck speed, racing to beat the maison de campagne exodus.

We'd been invited to spend the weekend at the country home of Loïck, in the quaint village of Rostrenen. It had been weeks since we'd all gathered at somebody's maison de campagne (these résidences secondaires are proving indispensable - we are constantly devising plans to enjoy them together, over the respective region's liquor of choice, bien sur). When I shared my weekend plans with a co-worker, her face lit up and she rattled off myriad must-see historical sites, gastronomical specialties, and, with a positively wistful air, described the apparently celebrated character of those stubborn, proud Bretons. The charm was contagious - I imagined immediate kinship with long-lost Celtic stock, overwhelming sensations of "coming home" while roaming through the enchanted forests, and cider-induced epiphanies...






...well, we did drink a bit of cider, among other appelation d'origine contrôlée libations. We also spent inordinate amounts of time shrieking Uno! and fighting over what constitutes "intempestif" behavior, eating copious amounts of meat and potatoes (it ain't galattes sarrasines, but it does have an Irish ring to it, so...), and practicing archery, karting, bowling, and tree-top destruction. We also sat around on our tuchases a lot.

I personally feel very culturally superior for having immersed myself in the true passe-temps quotidiens of the proud people of Rostrenen. Without the influence of a bonafide Breton like Loïck, it would never have occurred to me to mix archery with a couple of rouge limé in Paris - or anywhere else, for that matter.

Come visit!