Postcards from Madame V: Crozon-Morgat

July 27, 2007
"Hello Elizabeth, How are you? My holidays are very good! It's always happyness [sic] to come in Brittany for me. Bon courage a vous, et a bientot. Bises, Viviane."
One of a series of fishing villages on the Crozon peninsula, Morgat is a veritable paradise for artists and nature lovers, hikers and bikers, history buffs and explorers.
Regarded as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, the Ile Vierge offers spectacular sunsets and inspiring studies for photographers and painters. The wonders of the Morgat caves were praised by Gustave Flaubert in 1847, and the Maison des Minereaux offers geological specimens of the region on exhibit.
A UNESCO biosphere reserve, the Parc naturel regional d'Armorique, is home to otters, beavers, and birds of prey. Hike the rugged coastline on the GR34 Trail, but be sure to take a raincoat and hat as intermittent showers are the norm.
The Pointe des Espagnols is the site of a 16th century Spanish fortress, and of a battle that was a turning point in the French Wars of Religion and Anglo-Spanish war, the Siege of El Leon.
Kicking off the vacation season at the beginning of August is the annual Festival du Bout du Monde, or "Lands End" music festival, featuring artists from many different genres.
Of course, fresh fish is the specialty of the region, and who can prepare fish better than a Breton?
With something for everyone, Crozon-Morgat is not to be missed by those suffering from wanderlust. 
                                                                                                                                       

Upon Reflection

Five years ago I embarked upon a dream of a lifetime, to live in Paris, the City of Lights. Her history, her monuments magnificently lit at night, her enigmatic personality beckons one with all the seductive charm of the most formidable femme fatale. And it is with great sorrow that I must leave her as she is now part of me - in my blood, in my heart, and always on my mind. As I prepare for departure I move about the city drinking in the sights and sounds I have begun to take for granted in the normal course of daily living. Often surrealistic, I feel as a phantome, a spectre that passes unnoticed through the hustle bustle of rush hour on the metro. Her parfum penetrates my nostrils, a mélange of humidity, tobacco, frommage, and duck fat. Her song fills my senses, the rythym kept time by the trains on the track, the horn section composed of angry, impatient drivers, the chanteuse gay laughter of young girls flirting with boys. There is no place like Paris and I am the luckiest girl in the world to have lived here. As I reflect I realize just how full my life has been! I participated in my first manifestation, attended an ambulation, and puked in a metro station. I've sat with my sketch pad drawing in le Louvre, and danced the Tango on the Quai St. Bernard on a balmy summer night, the bateux mouches loaded with tourists capturing the romance on film. I've been to London, Switzerland, Belguim, and Italy, paid homage at the Sacred Beaches of Omaha, Gold, and Juno, visited ancient Roman ruins, and fell on my ass in a bar in Amsterdam. I've palled around with Communists, Socialists, Marxists, and Jazz musicians. I've stayed in a suite at the Ritz with a dream date, picknicked on the Pont des Arts under a full moon, and took a young Italian lover who ferried me about on a scooter! I learned to appreciate the pleasures of raw oysters from Bretagne, fois gras, and stinky, unpasteurized cheese, and dined for hours with friends consuming countless bottles of wine. The friendships I have forged will last a lifetime - and what beautiful friends they are! It is they I will miss most of all.

Bonne Fete

Today could quite possibly be the most cheerful, festive day of the year for les française. It's Christmas Eve, and tonight there will be the feast of all feasts, "Le Revillon!" Meaning "to revive" or "to wake", "Le Revillon" is all about three of France's most cherished traditions, Champagne, fois gras, and huitres (oysters), and no hostess would dare forget to offer them! Champagne and chocolates are offered by invited guests - the perfect gift for any fete. The day begins with the hustle and bustle of last minute shopping, but best be finished by 13h or you could be bitterly disappointed. There is a queue of people waiting outside the door of their local boucherie waiting to pick up their freshly dressed dinde, (turkey) the traditional main course, which is served with a chestnut stuffing (marron). Les patissieries are busy as well - of course we must have our baguette du jour, and the cases are full of bouche de noel, or "yule log". Made with a light Genoise (sponge cake) kissed with Grand Marnier and chocolate mocha buttercream, rolled and frosted to resemble a log in the forest, it is the finish to an ultra rich meal - the french literally dare you to rise to their seduction gastronomique! My personal favorite on the menu this evening (other than champagne of course) are raw oysters on the half shell, a pleasure I had not indulged in before moving to Paris. I must admit in my naivité I found them a little scary - but there are certain things in life one must experience at least once, and a freshly harvested #5 huitre from the beds of Bretagne is one of those. Some prefer a splash of lemon as an accompianment, but I like mine with a red wine vinagrette and finely minced shallot - oh la la! I die. It is no wonder that for this day, (only one of two per year) the french smile at their neighbors and wish them a "Bonne Fete!"

Occupy Wall Street

"A manifestation should be a happy event!" declared Madame V, as I marveled at the scene before me. It was my first "manifestation", (demonstration) and I was like a kid in a candy store - all eyes and wanting to taste it all! I grew up a child of the '60's, too young to march against the war in Vietnam, but old enough to know why I wanted to. After the Great Bra Burning of 1972, the trauma of Watergate, and the return of scores of displaced vets, America was ready for disco! All we needed was a steady beat, a gold chain, and a reliable dealer. With few exceptions, America stayed indoors - the season for railing against "The Establishment" turned into a long fall of complacency. Until 2007, when a small but noisy group of citizens sporting teabags stapled to their hats rallied to make their voices heard. They had the spirit - it's a happy event! Aside from the fact that some of these demonstrators were bused in and given handpainted signs by their employer David Koch, (the 4th richest man in the world) and that some of them were carrying loaded firearms to a heated debate, they were exercising their right to assemble, and that is an exciting thing. As the Arab Spring has blossomed throughout Africa, and the Occupy Wall Street movement has taken hold, I am reminded of that glorious afternoon I met Madame V at Place de République to join les française in their National Pastime - striking. I wasn't sure what to expect, perhaps police in riot gear holding back muzzled German shepards, or if tear gas would be involved. I remember Kent State! What I found was akin to a carnival. Vans with oversized balloons touting the logo of France's largest union, "CGT," tethered to loudspeakers blaring hiphop music, were stationed strategically around the rond point. There were cabanas everywhere, with vendors frying sausage, vegetables, and chicken for the most delicious sandwiches. Gyros, and pizza by the slice, and a guy wandering through the crowd selling whistles for proper noisemaking was the irony of the day - for this was capitalism at a Communist sponsored demonstration! The mood was upbeat as the crowd assembled, by law a union sponsored manifestation is a paid afternoon off. Unlike the OWS movement, most of the folks I marched with have a job, they just don't want to have it until the age of 65. They greeted their friends and colleagues with a kiss to each cheek, (there was alot of kissing that day) enjoyed a demitasse, (a teeny, tiny cup of liquid nitrogen) and marched to the Place de Bastille, smiling and chanting and having a day of it. I saw very few police, but I did see a van rolling along with the crowd with it's rear doors open, a portable bar selling beer, wine, and whiskey to thirsty demonstrators! Can you imagine that happening in the U.S.? When it was all over, the crowd dispersed to the cafés that surround the Bastille for one last beer and to discuss politics over a pack of cigarettes. Today I heard that an American veteran of the war in Iraq sustained a fractured skull whilst peacefully demonstrating in Oakland, California. Many have been arrested and detained, but not charged. The government should release of these political prisoners immediately, or give them their day in court. I raise my glass to my fellow Americans dans le rue, and wish you Bonne Courage. Power to the People! Now come with me for a manifestation, French Style....

Manifestation - french style!

Wanderlust Part One: The Early Years

I have had a thirst for travel and adventure since I can remember. My earliest childhood dream vacation was conceptualized at the age of three, my luggage a red hankerchief gathered up by all four corners and tied to a stick, destination: China! How I even knew there was such a place at that young age despite being brought up in a -shall we say - rural community in the 1960's can only be credited to my mother, who made it a point to expand our horizons in every way possible. She also encouraged my already vivid imagination, and thus armed, (a navel orange and 3 cookies packed in my kerchief in case I got hungry along the way) I set off down the country lane of my family ranch. I figured it would take about 3 1/2 hours to get to Hong Kong, due south as the crow flies. I would have to veer of the beaten path and make my way through the California chaparal, keeping my eyes peeled for rattlesnakes, to stay on course. I decided to walk alongside the creek that ran through "The Ranch" from the Ramona Mountains to Highway 395. The weather was fine, a quintessential autumn afternoon in San Diego. I was trying to whistle, with little success. But my imagination picked up where my abilities lagged, and I pretended to whistle just like Huck Finn. Those cookies were sounding pretty good by then, but I decided I had better ration my provisions, on account of there not being enough food to feed all the starving children in China. I began to wonder if one orange and three cookies was adequate for this length of journey. Maybe going all the way to China wasn't such a good idea, maybe I would just go to Hawaii instead. I calculated it would take about an hour on foot, and another 20 minutes to swim the English Channel - just like Florence Chambers! Singing a little song I improvised for the occasion, anticipating all the surprises Hawaii had to offer, I was about 40 minutes into my trip when it happened. The incident that caused me to abort my mission and return home humiliated, without having seen Hawaii or China. I had to pee. Suddenly and quite urgently. Granted, I was in the middle of acres upon acres of wild sage, anise, and mustard, most taller than I was, and there was nobody around except the 30 or so species of serpents, reptiles, and assorted stinkbugs to watch me do the deed. But I was too scared to drop trow, I had to head for home. Thinking it wise to run, the impact of each step increased my discomfort. I made a valiant effort ala Flo Jo, but to my chagrin, for the first and last time in my entire life, I wet my knickers. It felt gross, and I cried all the way home. China would have to wait until tomorrow, and I resolved to pack an extra pair of shorts for future emergencies should they arise. I was greeted upon my arrival home by a wild eyed and rather frantic welcoming commitee, and was informed that under no uncertain terms was I to embark upon any further international travel un-chaperoned. It would take nearly four decades for me to reach the beautiful sands of Hanalei Bay, but that's a story for another time!

Marianne; France's "Lady Liberty"

She's fierce, she's invincible, she's the symbol of the motherland. She's Marianne, France's "Statue of Liberty". She made her debut in 1830, (18 years before the fall of the monarchy) kicking ass in a tableau by Eugene Delacroix entitled, "Liberty Leading the People", stylishly appointed in a Phrygian bonnet - like those worn by freed slaves in Greece, her breast bared, fearless. Inspired by her beauty a simple shoemaker, one Guillaume Lavabre, pens a song that gives a name to this mysterious creature, "Berceau Occitan de la Marianne Republican" , a song of revenge by the servant class upon the nobility. Thus Liberty was baptized with a good Christian name! Shrouded in symbolism from head to toe, she appears in many forms; grasping a revolutionary pike (which held aloft the commander of the Bastille), carrying with her Tables of the Law or the Scales of Justice, (depending upon the situation) occassionally accompanied by her pet lion (a validation of the courage and force of the people). One of her favorite accessories is a length of broken chain, the very essence of her spirit - Liberté! Wildly popular, a force of nature, Marianne has been immortalized on postage stamps, her image married to the most revered of French celebs; Brigitte Bardot, Catherine Deneuve, and Inés de le Fressange are just a few of the A-listers who have posed as Lady Liberty. Exiled and ridiculed during the Occupation, she joined DeGaulle's Free France movement, but of course! I wonder why her cousin, who reigns supreme from her pedestal on Ellis Island, is not known by a name other than "Liberty"? A name popular at the time she was born, such as Abigail for example. Or Gertrude - "Trudy" for short! Or perhaps we should baptize her with a more current moniker, like Britney, or Heather, or Khloe. I think I prefer "Trudy", as it contains the sound "true", Liberty always being true to those under her protective wing!