Chapter Seven: The Hoosier Strikes Back

Perhaps my foot slipped somewhere in the middle of the Gavotte (a traditional Breton dance). Perhaps one day the delectable Flûte Gana (the king of French baguettes) was just a bit burnt. Or, perhaps the long season of welcoming visitors and spending weeks blazing paths of adventure only to say goodbye too soon at Terminal 2E of the Roissy airport finally caught up to me.

At any rate, just as Seth the Breton had begun to drown his opponent in magical myths and tales of adventure, Seth the Hoosier rose with his endless stalks of corn to strike the former with threatening blows—blows which came in the shape of a long line of experiences which were undeniably Hoosier in nature right in Brittany, beginning with some good old-fashioned pig skin.

The Bowl

“Allez, Pey-tuhn Mah-nee-guh!” the French sportscaster exclaimed, cheering on the famed quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts. In the state known as the Crossroads of America, Hoosier pride was burning bright as the Colts challenged the ominous Bears in the annual Super Bowl. Naturally, it would indeed have to be the year during which I was away from Indiana that my state would succeed not only in sending its team to the grand finale but also in taking the national title in American football. Nevertheless, I was not about to allow this to deter my ability to cheer on the Colts live during the game.

Thus, I can honestly say that I organized that which would become the largest, most exciting of all Super Bowl parties in Lannion in 2007. Well, then again I am certain mine was the only party; but, still it was the best. Yes, the beer was replaced with Tetley tea. Yes, the pizza was replaced by sliced baguette with melted chèvre cheese on top. And, yes, instead of a room full of roaring Hoosiers it was merely a Welsh assistant named Kate and myself who cheered and jeered at the television from midnight until 4 A.M. But, nevertheless, for a moment I had been transported back to Indiana.

One corn stalk blow had hit Seth the Breton squarely in the gut.


The Parents

Next on the agenda: meet the parents. No, I was not becoming acquainted with the parents of a female companion; rather, my parents were the ones who were about to meet my new love—my love which was not a woman, but rather Breizh—la Bretagne.

One week after the Colts’ victory, I found myself sitting once again in the Charles de Gaulle/Roissy airport of Paris waiting for the arrival of visitors. Anticipation was mounting. A few confused butterflies began to flit about in my stomach. I had not seen my parents for five months, and we were about to spend two weeks traveling together in Paris, Normandy and Brittany. As this was to be their first European adventure, I wanted everything to be perfect.

An hour after their jet was posted as having arrived, I began to wonder what could be taking them so long to cross security. After an hour and a half, I became rather anxious. After two hours, I assumed there had been a hitch.

And, naturally, there was.

Tired of scanning the crowds to be sure I had not missed them, I lowered my head. “Where could they be?” I questioned. Surely any moment they would burst from security, run up to me with open arms and say how much they’d missed me.

Lazily, I lifted my head again, and then I saw her: my mother was a scant six feet from me.

“You’re here!” I exclaimed, rising quickly to my feet (preparing for the I’ve-missed-you-so-much hug, of course).

“Yeah,” she muttered, a ball cap barely shading the weariness in her eyes. “Yeah, I am. And I hate this country already.”

End of the happy reunion idea.

“What’s wrong?” I queried.

“They lost your dad’s suitcase. And I barely got permission to come get you.”

To be fair, I have only met one or two friendly workers at the Roissy airport in all of my frequent visits to it, yet my parents seemed to stumble upon one of the least friendly of all as they were trying to communicate sentences like the following: find my suitcase.

Fortunately, the suitcase was recovered, but not until after Dad had been living on two outfits for several days. Better he than Mom, though.

Even if the reunion had not gone as planned, however, I had prepared such a thrilling itinerary for my parents that I knew I would win them over to all of the richness of life I have found in France, beginning with the very first night.

After napping to shake off a bit of the travel fatigue, my parents and I left the resort for their first view of Paris. We wandered around for a bit near Ile de la Cité, the double-island center of Paris wherein one can find Notre Dame, the Conciergerie and many other famed landmarks. Then, dusk began to settle upon the city. As it was their first night, I wanted to introduce them to many of the Parisian monuments, cathedrals, and more in style. Thus, we began to march toward the dock at which one can board for a cruise down the legendary river Seine.

After nearly forty-five minutes of following the Seine, at last we arrived just in time to jump onto the boat before it set sail. Night had completely chased away the golden sun from the sky, and Paris had begun to prove why it is known as la Ville Lumière—the City of Light—with all of the ancient structures beaming as they were bathed in luminescence.

Just before the boat began to drift down the river, the Eiffel Tower itself began its hourly glimmering, and then we were off. Soon the giant obelisk marking the spot at which Louis (XVI) Capet, Marie-Antoinette and others lost their heads during the Revolution came into view, followed by Notre Dame in all of her gothic glory, each individual buttress illuminated by lights below.

From the harrowing spires of the Conciergerie reaching toward the black sky to the more subtle beauty of the Parisian twin of the Statue of Liberty, every structure, every bit of architecture found new life in the lights of the Parisian night.

“Wow,” I said audibly. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

When I didn’t receive a response, I turned to my side. Mom apparently was enjoying it so much that she had to close her eyes in delight—close her eyes and begin to breathe quite deeply, that is.

Landmarks of history and architectural wonders, it seemed, could not compete with the temptation of the Sandman.

In spite of the disappointments of Day One, however, my parents did come to appreciate the charm of Paris—from the twisted streets to the panoramic view from the bell tower of Notre Dame, from the savory scent of melted cheese in a panini to the thick custard delight of the one and only mille-feuilles.

And, then along came Brittany.


The Beauty

After a few days of solid Parisian tourism, we traded the city skyline for the more unspoilt beauty which thrives in Breizh. We climbed the mountains made of rock. We hiked the rugged coast. We chased the ocean. We listened to her roar. We stood proudly facing the salty gusts of wind.

And, then we looked down to see the tide rushing inward and panicked. Yes, once again the Ocean Chaser had allowed his desire to touch the sapphire water to get the better of him. At first, we picked our way carefully back toward the shore. Then, we became careless. When Dad looked at a large rock and remarked one could actually watch the tide rising up the side of it, Mom lost patience and ran across the forming rivers, completely soaking her shoes, socks, pants and nearly everything else.

The rush of the sea, the rise of adrenalin: it was grand.

The adventure then continued with a tour of two ancient cities I had not yet seen.

Concarneau, the third most important fishing port in France, at first did not appear to be much different from many other Breton cities. However, when we were encroaching upon the port proper, I saw what I had been looking for: a tiny pedestrian bridge leading onto a walled medieval island. Eager to explore the ancient artistry, we bounded across the bridge and walked among the ramparts which were completed in the seventeenth century. I tried to imagine the cultures which had dwelt upon the island, as it had in fact been inhabited for at least a thousand years prior to the completion of the wall.

After strolling along the ramparts and watching men preparing boats to sail, I told my parents it was café time. While my father knows the value of “Pepsi breaks” and my mother may also be known to enjoy her free time, neither of them were prepared for the laid-back pace I tried to set. Soon, however, it became apparent that they perhaps needed the slow style even more than I.

One day, for example, we had spent the afternoon hiking the wild coast of western Brittany. Dad and I enjoyed veering from the set trail in order to blaze our own paths—descending the rock faces of cliffs in order to get closer to the sea—while Mom filmed us from above. All of us, however, walked quite a bit. At the close of the day, we found ourselves in a chic French restaurant feeling—and, I’m afraid, looking—quite shabby: Mom in her baseball cap, Dad with his coat zipped up to hide the fact he was wearing only a plain white tee shirt, and me in dirty jeans.

While waiting on our meal, Dad stood to go to the restroom, not realizing he was hooked to the tablecloth, and therefore almost pulled it from the table, which would have broken the glass jar of water and sent the silverware flying. Thankfully, he did stop it from sliding in time.

Mom laughed at him as he left. She then turned to me and said she was going to the bathroom, too. She stood up slowly and pushed her chair back. “And I won’t take the tablecloth with me,” she stated proudly. She turned and began to walk to the bathroom—in a manner which is best described in my father’s words as “like Grandpa Aeschliman.” Honestly, I think both of my grandmothers could have easily overtaken her with their canes and walkers. (“You’re pushing me hard,” she later said in an attempt to justify her slowing speed. “And, we’re getting old.”)

In her pride of leaving the tablecloth unscathed, however, she had forgotten to push her chair in, thus leaving it at least three feet from the table prepared to trip the waitress who would come flying around the corner...but, I naturally saved the day.

At any rate, it was apparent that my parents could use some Breton relaxation, and the many cafés spread across the peninsula were quite content to oblige.

We also stopped in the City of Painters: Pont-Aven. Known most widely for the presence of Paul Gauguin who graced the land with his artistry in the 1880s, it is a village which emanates charm. A rushing river runs not only through the town, but under it. Indeed, the water streams under buildings which have raised foundations, and directly up to the next of others. There is no wide river walkway to separate the city from the water. The water is rather an actual part of the town’s character, coursing beneath the men making crêpes and providing an ever-present soundtrack to the Bretons and tourists wandering the streets.

Pont-Aven is also home to le Bois d’Amour (the Wood of Love), a twisted network of shaded paths which begin next to the river and lead to wooded gardens. This wood is said to have been the site of inspiration for many visiting painters, poets and musicians. However, for this Hoosier it inspired the desire to jump in the mud. When my parents gingerly picked their way across a soggy stretch of the path, I decided to show the ingenuity of my youth. I ascended the steep bank on the side of the path in order to avoid the mud, and, for a few feet, all was going well. Then, I grabbed onto a tree to leap across a patch of mud, but slipped and found myself trying to do the splits and sinking into the black sludge.

It wasn’t, I dare say, my proudest moment as a Breton-Hoosier.

Discussions of Indiana, including that of my growing niece, during our adventures gave Seth the Hoosier another opportunity to strike his Breton opponent with a corn stalk. However, wondering at and wandering in these new sites of history and legend gave Seth the Breton the force he needed once again to pick up his staff and provide the Hoosier with a grand wallop.

Current tally:

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 1


The Wonder

Another highlight of my parents’ visit was a road trip to the beaches of Normandy, much of which I had already seen during my stay in Paris in 2005. The first stop, however, was the infamous Le Mont Saint Michel, the sometimes island which is at the very frontier of Normandy and Brittany and has therefore long been a bone of contention between these two lands. By definition, it is Norman, as the Couesnon river, the actual border, runs to the West of the Mount.

As the famous Breton dictum states:

‘Et le Couesnon en sa folie, / And Couesnon, in its insanity
A mis le Mont en Normandie. / Placed the Mount in Normandy.’

When the tide is far out to sea, a large swath of land and beach connects the Mount to the mainland. However, when the tide returns, it becomes an island—almost. It used to, but currently there is an auto bridge allowing for the swell of tourists who come with more force than the tide. There is a plan, however, to remove this bridge and replace it with a tram in order to return the Mount to its former glory and remind visitors why it is called the Merveille (“wonder”).

This land was once called “the Mount in Peril from the Sea,” as many pilgrims were drowned or sucked under by quicksand while attempting to traverse the bay in days of old. In the eighth century, however, an abbey was constructed and the Archangel Michael became the vigorous protecter of the Mount. Indeed, the Mont Saint Michel is the one piece of northern France which was never captured during its long history—not even during the twenty-seven years from 1423 to 1450 when the able-bodied English had a permanent fort on nearby Tombelaine island.

Leave it to the French, however, to destroy the beautiful splendor and spiritual paradise of their own Mount. During the bloody Revolution, the monastery was closed, the island was converted into a prison and some crazed Frenchman must have missed his course in Irony 101 because he named it “Free Mount.”

In 1969, however, a small group of Benedictine monks returned to the abbey and today continue to perpetuate a monastic existence in spite of touristic turmoil.

The pretzel-like twists of slender streets, formidable façades and rising ramparts, however, are best described in the words of writer Guy de Maupassant:

I reached the huge pile of rocks which bears the little city dominated by the great church. Climbing the steep narrow street, I entered the most wonderful Gothic building ever made for God on this earth, a building as vast as a town, full of low rooms under oppressive ceilings and lofty galleries supported by frail pillars. I entered that gigantic granite jewel, which is as delicate as a piece of lacework, thronged with towers and slender belfries which thrust into the blue sky of day and the black sky of night their strange heads bristling with chimeras, devils, fantastic beasts and monstrous flowers, and which are linked together by carved arches of intricate design.
(Le Horla, Guy de Maupassant)

After marveling at the Merveille, we slipped into a restaurant, and I entreated my parents to taste the ever traditional dish of mussels and fries. When the delicacy was placed before me, though, my mother’s eyes rolled upward.

“I can’t eat that.”

“Come on. Just a taste.”

“I’ll vomit,” she stated, her tone matter-of-fact.

Dad, nevertheless, reached for one, and Mom slowly followed suit. She gave me a sick look as if her stomach were somersaulting down the steps we’d climbed to ascend the Mount, then gingerly reached for a mussel and placed it on her tongue.

Suddenly, they couldn’t shovel them into their mouths fast enough. Hey, Mikey the Archangel: they loved it.

Beautiful scenery and authentic cuisine: Seth the Breton was gaining power as he sent the Hoosier looking for more ammunition.

It was tied:

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 2


The Beach

The beaches of Normandy were as poignant as ever.

Once again, I walked among the gleaming crosses of white. Once again, I tried to imagine leaving behind everything I had to fight on a foreign land knowing I may never see my own again. Once again, I found myself in awe.

We gazed at the Pointe du Hoc, the jagged cliff atop which the first US sergeant had ascended only five minutes after the landing of D Day.

We were haunted by the massive batterie de Longues-sur-mer, four concrete Nazi pillboxes complete with massive gun barrels which continue to point across the Channel—still waiting.

We stood in craters made by the Allied assault.

We walked in history—again.

This topic was heavily covered in the final chapter of A Hoosier in Paris (“Sunrise, Sunset”), however, and I thus feel persuaded to leave it at that.

In light of this solemn tour, both Seth the Hoosier and the Breton dropped their weapons to salute the Allies.


The Forest

The final adventure of my parents visit was one I had been anticipating since first setting my foot upon Breton soil: an exploration of the Forest of Brocéliande.

Brocéliande is a wooded land which perpetuates the wonder of the vanished, mythical Argoat, the grand primeval forest of Brittany. Secrets of legends and whispers of adventure lurk deep within this wood which is believed to have been the home to characters of Arthurian lore. Chief among these characters is Merlin. The great wizard is not only rumored to have made his home in the Breton forest of Brocéliande; it is said that this is where he remains to this very day—in a stone into which he was locked by the enchantress Viviane.

In the early Middle Ages, Chrétien de Troyes sang of this stone (“Merlin’s stone”) and of the fountain next to it—the Fontaine de Barenton, which is also the site at which Merlin first set his eyes upon Viviane (not to be confused with the Fountain of Eternal Youth, which is hidden somewhere near Barenton but only accessible to the pure in heart)—with the following:

You will see the spring which bubbles
Though its water is colder than marble.
It is shaded by the most beautiful tree
That Nature ever made,
For its foliage is evergreen
And a basin of iron hangs from it,
By a chain long enough
To reach the spring;
And beside the spring you will find
A slab of stone which you will recognize -
I cannot describe it
For I have never seen one like it.

According to legend, if one drinks from the spring and then splashes water on to the stone slab, a mighty storm is summoned, together with roaring lions and a horseman in black armor.

Naturally, I could not resist.

As soon as we neared the fabled land, I felt a sudden change in the ambiance. The few natives I saw along the roads gave us suspicious stares, as if to question our worthiness of walking the hallowed soil. Cool, I thought. There must be something worth protecting in this forest.

But, Viviane must have known I was coming, for she cursed the land with slippery mud. Against my mother’s pleadings, Dad nevertheless turned the rental car off of the paved road onto the paths of mud leading deeper into the wood. The natives’ looks of suspicion turned to disbelief. What fools would attempt such off-roading in a non four-wheel drive car? That would be the Hoosiers.

After nearly becoming stuck, Mom insisted the adventure continue by foot—with her remaining in the car. And so, armed with a book of Brittany as my treasure map, with my father as my co-treasure seeker, I left the car and my mother behind to enter the paths shaded by a cathedral of trees.

“Is this a footpath?”

“Is that an animal trail?”

“Have we gone two hundred meters, yet?”

“Do you hear a spring?”

These were the questions which Dad and I fired back and forth as we searched for Merlin’s stone. The forks in the road provided too many options. The footpaths were too unclear. And, we were sinking too deeply into the mire.

The minutes ticked by. The mud climbed up our jeans. And, my mother continued to sit alone in the car.

Finally, after nearly two hours of exploration, I forced myself to retreat from the adventure. We returned to the car, and in doing so noted that it looked as if we had gone mudding with the vehicle. As if I weren’t discouraged enough, now I had to finish the fruitless adventure by giving the car a bath. Dad and I grabbed water bottles, filled them in a stream and washed the Ford with our hands. Mom, for her part, did an excellent job of surveying.

Yes, I was disappointed. The elements had prevented me from exploring all of the adventure of Brocéliande, from finding Merlin. But, this was only attempt number one. I have added the stone of Merlin to the list of things I must see in my lifetime. Thus, I will return, and I will succeed. It is merely a question of when.

On the return journey to Lannion, we stopped at a small farm to purchase a case of homemade cider. The name: Cidre Fermier du Pays de Brocéliande (Farm Fresh Cider from the Land of Brocéliande). This cider has been the best I have tasted in all of my Breton days. Thus, I may not have found Merlin, but the supreme quality of this cider more than made up for my loss.

The Breton was pulling ahead:

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 3


The Mission

Phone lines lit up on both sides of the Atlantic. Computer keys were clacking their way across the vast world wide web. It was an international fight against the clock—a fight to perform a mission which seemed not only inconceivable but truly impossible.

It began with a phone call bearing an ominous message: “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get the Bertsch girls to Paris before 7:00 AM Saturday morning.”

Although the message did not self-destruct, after hours of research, pleading and pulling the hair from our heads, we were ready to do so.

One week prior to this, my parents’ adventure had drawn to a close. After washing the rental car, we spent one last evening together in Lannion before returning to Paris where I bid them farewell at Terminal 2E. A few days later, though, I was already preparing for the visit of two more Hoosiers: Steffanie and Rebekah Bertsch, two close cousins of mine.

Tickets had been purchased, hotels reserved. Then, on the eve of the grand adventure I received a phone call with the message above.

Inclement weather had apparently settled above the Midwest, which brought with it fear that the girls’ Thursday evening flight from Fort Wayne, Indiana to Detroit could be delayed. However, in the end this was no matter—no matter at all, because instead of a delay, the flight was indeed cancelled due to mechanical issues.

It took a while for all of us to process the situation, but the circumstances were such that the girls were not going to be able to fly to Detroit Thursday, meaning they would not make their connection in Detroit, which of course meant they were not coming to Paris—at least not Thursday evening.

But couldn’t they easily jump onto another flight?

The entire operation was balanced upon the hingepin of train tickets I had purchased to leave Saturday morning at 9:00 AM to travel to Normandy. If the girls arrived a mere minute later than 6:30 AM Saturday, I knew our odds of making it to the train station on time were slim. And, these were a rare breed of non-refundable train tickets.

The airline company checked, double-checked and cross-referenced all flight options, but it appeared the girls were not going to be able to arrive before 9:00 AM.

Then, they issued us a challenge: find a flight plan which would work, and they’d secure the tickets. We jumped onto our computers, surfing every website of amalgamated ticket agencies and those of the airline companies themselves.

The hours ticked by.

“Have you checked Delta?”

“What about going into Newark?”

“Could they fly into Frankfurt, Germany and get a train?”

“Maybe if they make a connection in Rome.”

“We could go into London and take the Channel Tunnel.”

The mission seemed utterly impossible. When the clock read 4:00 AM France time, Seth the Breton and Seth the Hoosier laid down their weapons, too tired to fight. In two hours, I would be boarding a train to travel to Paris just in time to meet my cousins—my cousins who were no longer going to be there.

“How about Pakistani Air?”

My eyes were crossing, my fingers numb from the web surfing. In Indiana, however, the midnight oil was burning bright.

Finally: “I think we’ve got it,” I heard Steffanie say. “Just give me a minute.”

Silence.

“Yes, we’ve got it.”

Applause resounded across the globe. Team Hoosier had found a potential flight plan which hinged upon a connection in Cleveland but would theoretically arrive just in time Saturday. In this knowledge, I retreated for an hour and a half to the land of Breton dreams and Celtic things.


The Infatuation

“Welcome to Tréguier,” I stated with pride.

Steffanie, Rebekah and I descended from the bus and stood before the imposing façade of the Lycée Savina. They had indeed arrived on time in Paris, but not before another monkey wrench had leapt into the system after I fell asleep. The Cleveland flight had been completely booked, sending the remaining members of Team Hoosier back to the drawing board. Indeed, when I saw their faces just after 6:00 AM Saturday morning at the Roissy airport, I almost could not believe my eyes. In the end, Boston’s airport had provided the essential connection flight to Paris.

God bless the Bostonians.

Following their arrival, we spent Day One touring a bit of Normandy: Omaha Beach and Bayeux. As the latter was the first city to be liberated following Operation Overlord in 1944, it briefly became the capital of Free France. Today, it remains a town of character which provided the Bertsch sisters with many opportunities to begin to dabble in the exquisite delights of French cuisine: from baguette sandwiches to strawberry mille-feuilles, from the girls’ first legal drink of alcohol (kir) to a peach-shaped confection with potent, alcoholized raisins inside.

Soon enough, however, we were wandering the streets of Paris and then on our way to my homeland of Breizh.

“Welcome to Tréguier.”

Monday morning after stepping off of the bus, I took my curious cousins on a bit of a tour of the medieval village, then entered the courtyard leading up to the Lycée Savina. Walking past a group of young male students of mine, I noticed they all turned to look my way—rather, our way.

“Bonjour,” I said. They nodded in return.

Merely one hour later, I walked into a classroom with Steffanie and Rebekah to meet the teacher with whom I’d be working that morning. Steff and Bec were to stay with me in order not only to see a bit of the French school system but also to provide students with the opportunity to practice their English with other Anglophones.

“These are my two cousins,” I said to the teacher.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve heard about them already.” I raised an eyebrow. “The boys are buzzing about the two young girls they saw you with,” she explained.

A smile spread across my lips. I knew I’d have the students’ attention that day.

Indeed, my students had never been so attentive, so desiring to communicate as they were that day. Perhaps they were inspired by the color of my shirt, or maybe it was the passion in my voice. But, I dare say I think it had more to do with the presence of two other individuals—two young females who emanated foreign adventure and American exoticism.

In fact, two young males sprung for extra credit by driving to Lannion one evening to sit back and chat with us in my favorite pub, L’Atmosphère.

Motivation, indeed.

The sight of my own students yearning to form sentences and communicate woke Seth the Breton from his slumber. Another smack to the Hoosier’s face, and the Breton began to secure his lead.

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 4


The Train

The visit of the Bertsches to the land of Brittany was packed with the requisite coastal hiking and crêpe-devouring; however, soon we were on our way back to the City of Light.

“Do you smell that?” I queried.

“Do I?” Rebekah responded, her eyes wide with disgust.

We three looked at each other, silent for a moment. Then, we all grabbed madly for something to hold over our noses. We had settled into our seats on the train which would bear us back to Paris; thus, we were to have four long hours together in the glassed-in portion of the car which allowed for approximately sixteen travelers. To our dismay, however, one of our fellow passengers had chosen that day to go on strike from taking showers and was quickly filling the car with his lovely scent.

Sleep, for me, was not an option as the pungent odor actively sought passage into my nasal cavity. Steffanie and Rebekah fashioned nose plugs out of Kleenex, but even those would not stop the imperial force of the man’s putrid stench. Unfortunately, we knew we would simply have to wait for our brains to stop attending to the noxious fumes. Indeed, even in riding the Metro in the middle of July next to men and women who refuse to use antiperspirant have I not met body odor with such rancid vigor.

Whenever someone exited or reentered the room, fresh air would blow in from the rest of the car—a bittersweet blessing. For a moment, we’d find refreshment. Then, soon our senses which had just previously dulled to the stench would once again pick it up as if for the first time and we’d wait—again.

Rebekah, however, found peace in the arms of the Sandman, who, I’m sure, smelled much lovlier. Steffanie and I, not tired, diverted our attention by raising discussions of philosophical, cultural or theological matters. Brittany faded from view and the lights of Paris loomed on the horizon as we debated the good and the bad of both American and European culture, politics. Eventually, we lost ourselves in the discussion and did not even notice when Monsieur Stinky Man left the train: a blessing indeed.

Disgusted by the French penchant for not using antiperspirant reinvigorated the Hoosier within who found the strength to smack the Breton’s nose with a corn stalk.

Seth the Hoosier: 3

Seth the Breton: 4


The Farewell

Snapshots of memories flashed a slideshow of reminiscence in my mind. The Saturday after returning with the girls to Paris, I found myself once again alone in my studio in Lannion. I pulled out a DVD the Bertsch girls had brought with them to France. When delivering it to me, they had restated the commands of their mother, my Aunt Kim: “This is not to be viewed until after we’ve left and you’re feeling a little lonely.”

Indeed, loneliness seemed to be the emotion the most easy to isolate filling my mind. A long season of visitors from the land of corn had finally drawn to a close when I bid farewell to Steffanie and Rebekah at Terminal 2E earlier that day.

The days prior to their departure had provided the culmination of their adventure in the City of Light: the most Parisian of views and French cuisine at its finest—or, perhaps most interesting.

The view was provided by a trek to the summit of the Eiffel Tower. From this vantage point, they were able to recognize the soaring buttresses of Notre Dame, the gilded statues atop the Opéra Garnier, the controversial pyramid of the Louvre, the Dome church in which Napoleon’s tomb can be found and many other structures of Parisian pride—all viewed under the canopy of the night sky.

The cuisine, however, was provided in a small restaurant settled within the Latin Quarter of the city. If the main courses, veal and beef, lacked any exotic zing, this was more than made up for in the chosen entrées: mussels and Burgundy snails.

If I had found it difficult to coax my mother into tasting a mussel, I had seen nothing. Compared to Rebekah, Mom had jumped at the chance. Steffanie and I encouraged, coaxed and practically begged Bec to place the tiny treat on her tongue.

“No way.”

Eventually, she did give in, but not after putting up a grand resistance. Afterward, of course, she said, “Not bad.”

Due to her difficulty with the mussel, however, I never dreamed I’d succeed in encouraging her to taste a snail. Steffanie gladly reached for one and placed it in her mouth. She smiled and said, “Love the sauce.” Rebekah, however, looked at us as if we were insane.

Nevertheless, my younger cousin proved her fortitude. Not wanting to be left out, she reached for a snail—and her face said it all.

However, in the end, she ate not one but two snails. Furthermore, she decided that she liked them more than the mussels.

Unfortunately, however, the adventure could not last forever, and soon I found myself walking once again down the corridor leading to Terminal 2E. Months before, I had there bidden farewell to my sister. Days before, my parents were the ones to leave. Now, I was hugging my cousins and thanking them for their voyage.

After smiling, waving and watching them advance through security as long as I could, I turned and told myself I had been given my fill of Terminal 2E. It was time to leave and not return—at least for some time.

That evening, I placed the DVD the girls had given me into my computer. Faces of family and friends dear to me flashed onto the screen. There were individuals who have been present during all of my life, such as my nuclear family, my Aunt Kim and my uncle Dave. There were cousins and friends with whom I have grown up. And, there were little ones who’ve been growing up in my absence over the past six months.

Indeed, Seth the Breton had saved his most potent blow for the end—and what a wallop it was. With it, he secured the following:

Seth the Hoosier: 4

Seth the Breton: 4

The game is tied. The culture I’ve been growing to appreciate has succeeded in seeping into my being, my very existence. But, the people at home to whom I’m tired of bidding farewell at Terminal 2E give me once again the sudden desire to run from all I’ve done here and seek sanctuary in the cornfields of Indiana.

Who will win? Can there ever be an end to this battle?

I have two months left. Let the games continue.

Chapter Six: Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Christmas, Noël, Nedeleg: no matter how it is said (the latter language of which being Breton), there is one thing that seems never to get lost in translation, and that is the need to be with family and friends at Christmastime. Indeed, in late December of any year, one can be certain that there are men and women across the globe booking tickets, renting cars, hailing taxis and going to any length necessary to secure their voyages back home.

But this Hoosier plouc? Well, I, too, was crazily grasping for any mode of transportation possible to take me to my destinations. However, my goal was not Ossian, Indiana.

Instead of leaving my European home of mystery and adventure, I welcomed another Hoosier to join me during the 2006 holiday season: Ashley, my sister. And, although we were not trying to get home, we did indeed take planes, trains and automobiles to cross the French countryside, to traverse the Alps, to wind our way through Irish country roads. It was a journey which would take us from Brittany, France to Pisa, Florence and Rome in Italy; to Dublin and Galway in Ireland; and back to Paris to celebrate the New Year at the base of the Eiffel Tower.

From historic sights to run-down hostels and wet feet, it was indeed an unforgettable adventure.


Destination #1: Plougrescant

The name alone should reveal that this tiny village is located in Brittany (note the "plou"). In fact, Plougrescant is the picturesque stretch of coastline found just north of Tréguier to which I had journeyed with the proviseur of my school upon arrival last September. A rolling land stacked with boulders and torn by cliffs, it was certainly a must-see for my Hoosier visitor.

However, Brittany is well-known for its weak public transportation, and thus we had to turn to the most primitive form of travel man has ever known: his feet.

"How far is Plougrescant?" I asked a faculty member at the Lycée Savina.

"Oh, perhaps 6 kilometers."

6 kilometers = 3.8 miles = a round trip of about 7.6 miles. This was doable.

"How far is Plougrescant?" I asked a man working in a pharmacy, just for clarification.

"Oh, perhaps 8 kilometers."

8 kilometers = 5 miles = a round trip of about 10 miles. This, also, we thought would be doable.

"How far is Plougrescant?" I asked a friendly construction man working beside the road leading out of Tréguier?

"Oh, at least 12 or 14 kilometers!"

12 kilometers = 7.5 miles = a round trip of about 15 miles.
14 kilometers = 8.7 miles = a round trip of about 17.4 miles.

This was sounding a bit daunting.

"You’re going by foot?" the construction man queried, raising his eyebrow in surprise. That eyebrow should have been our first clue.

"Yes," I replied, turning back to my sister. "The view is well worth it." Thus, we shrugged our shoulders, stretched our legs and began to walk.

There were, of course, many delightful sites along the way, such as the leaning steeple of Brittany, a sprawling manor, and a time-tested cathedral. But, the goal never left our minds.

"You know," I began proudly, assuming my tour guide role, "Plougrescant is where A Very Long Engagement was filmed."

"Oh?" Ashley responded. "Interesting." Then, after a pause: "What’s A Very Long Engagement?"

We trudged onward across deserted country roads with nothing but the bursting artichokes to keep us company. Nervous that we might have taken a wrong turn and be lost to forever wander the dusty gwenojenn (more or less Breton for country roads) of northern Brittany, we paused when we saw two men working on a car at a garage.

"This is the road to Plougrescant, right?" I asked, my voice somewhat less chipper than before.

"Oh, yes. You’re almost there, in fact. Another two or three kilometers."

Renewed with the notion of nearing our destination, a spring once again filled our step.

After a few minutes, I stopped abruptly. "Do you smell that?"

"What?" Ashley replied.

"The ocean. The air is different. I can feel it. We’re almost there!"

Indeed, we did eventually reach Plougrescant, and Ashley was able to enjoy it in all of its splendor. We scaled the larger-than-mammoth-sized boulders; we frolicked across the moorland; we ate baguette sandwiches and pain au chocolat while gazing upon the sea: just another day in Brittany.

However, it was the return journey that was rather less enjoyable.

"I recognize that," I said. "We’re almost there, right?" Wrong.

"This is the halfway point, right?" Wrong again.

The same lovely sights were there, but somehow they seemed less intriguing, less worthy of a side-trip visit than before. Indeed, we walked, and we walked, and we walked. The wall of Jericho wasn’t falling, but by the end, we certainly were ready to.

When finally the image of Tréguier appeared like a lone oasis of hope on the distant horizon, we cried with joy—and our feet cried in pain. In fact, in spite of my robust age of twenty-three, I suddenly felt quite decrepit. My toes were not the only body parts protesting my decision to trek across the land. My sides were sore. My calves felt as if they had indeed been battered by a real calf. My gluteus was feeling something maximus, but it wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

Nevertheless, we plodded onward, settled our worn-out frames into a cozy café and ordered rounds of hot chocolate and Breizh-Cola. The latter is Brittany’s brand of cola which has a most clever slogan: Le Cola du Phare Ouest—The Cola of the Western Lighthouse. The clever part is the play on words "Phare Ouest" which, when read, sounds like "Far West." Brittany is, in actuality, the "Far West" of France, and although we had remained in my own region of Côtes d’Armor in northern Brittany, we suddenly felt as if we had hiked to the far west and back.


Destination #2: Trégastel & Ploumanac’h

"Stick it in his nose," I directed.

"Okay," Ashley replied. She grabbed the needle, held it back for just a moment and then jabbed it into the snout of the unsuspecting saint standing before her. "Done!" she shouted.

I turned around and considered the waves lapping at the sand and rocks. Was the tide still retreating or was it already returning? At any rate, the needle had to remain or the spell would be broken.

"My turn." I strode up to the small man, pulled the pin from my shirt sleeve and looked Saint Guirec directly in his weathered face. Years of salty water lapping at his skin, sand blowing around his frame and rain pouring down upon his little shrine had taken its toll on the saint. Indeed, this small statue had no nose but rather a shallow hole reminiscent of the nasal cavity seen in a naked human skull. Sure enough, there were several needles already sticking into the porous surface of rock just inside the saint’s olfactory organ. I took a deep breath, nodded almost as if in apology to Saint Guirec and shoved my needle into his nose to join the others.

I then leapt down from the statue, rejoining my sister. "Whoever’s needle remains until the next high tide," I reminded her, "will be married within the year."

We both took a moment to gaze at the small statue. We had apparently not been the only ones to visit this stretch of beach overseen by Saint Guirec that rainy morning in Breizh. In fact, there were needles not only in his nose but also scattered around the base of Guirec’s feet and on the nearby sand. Were our needles destined to have the same fate, to merely fall prematurely and thereby break the spell? Only time would tell.

We took one last look at the little saint before turning back to the sea.

The morning was spent exploring La Côte de Granit Rose—admiring the unique rock formations, wishing we could find the hidden key to enter the lighthouse rising proudly before us, breathing in the salty sea air, dreaming of adventures of chasing the ocean far from the coast and sticking our needles in the nose of the legendary Saint Guirec.

Eventually, we became quite famished and looked for a place to settle down for our picnic. The intermittent spits of rain, however, prevented us from finding a high rock with a gorgeous view upon which to dine. Thus, we ran to the one place that looked like decent shelter: an independent shack of public restrooms next to the coast. We sat down just beneath the overhang of the small structure outside the doors leading to the individual restrooms and pulled out the meal that was becoming our regular: baguette sandwiches, pain au chocolat and Coke.

Twenty minutes or so later, we were refreshed and ready to continue the adventure. Placing the trash in a nearby bin, however, I received a better view of the spot in which Ashley had chosen to sit to eat her meal. The floor was merely that of wooden planks placed with small gaps in between each other. There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than a mere floor—nothing, that is, except for the showerhead six feet up from where she was sitting.

"You ate your lunch in a shower!" I exclaimed.

Ashley must have been tired because she merely shrugged it off.

What won’t one put up with in order to experience the best that Breizh has to offer?


Destination #3: London

I suppose it is safe to say one finally bears the title of "World Traveler" when a destination such as the celebrated London is merely an inconvenient "stopover." Truly, this is what The Big Smoke was for Ashley and I when we boarded our first plane to leave behind Breizh, la belle.

Watching the Breton coastline fade from view, my mind drifted to the Christmas celebration shared among the assistant population in Lannion just days before. While Happy Town had not been blessed by a dusting of snow to enliven our spirits, my Breton home had in fact turned out a charming display of colored lights—bearing messages in both Breton and French—along with horse drawn carriage rides across the cobblestone streets, bagpipe parades, and much more to commemorate the special season.

In no ways, however, were the holidays more cheerfully accented than by the Christmas Market. Each Thursday, the streets of Lannion are full of farmers, butchers, antique collectors and other such vendors peddling their wares. However, on December 17th a unique market was held for craftsmen, jewelry makers and other such artists. From necklaces decked with bits of colored glass washed up by the sea to soap scented with rose petals, these were creations by bona fide artistes. And, there was, of course, vin chaud (hot red wine laced with cinnamon, sugar and spiced by lemon) offered at nearly every corner.

Indeed, when Céline and Aurore, two first-year French teachers living in Lannion, arrived at our Christmas dinner with a friend sporting reindeer antlers and caroling us with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" (with a most charming French accent), the celebration was nearly complete.

Suddenly, a man a few rows ahead of me in the plane shouted a line of expletives. I awoke with a start, realizing I had drifted off to sleep in my reverie of the holidays in Lannion. The airplane was touching down in London and had begun to fishtail slightly. Silence filled the cabin as all passengers seemed to hold their breath. Yes, Ashley and I had once again elected to use the famously inexpensive RyanAir as our airline of choice: RyanAir, the company which had unfortunately stranded us for five hours in a ghetto airport outside of Paris in 2005 during the only blizzard to ever strike the city; RyanAir, the company which only offers insurance as an add-on during ticket purchases.

Thankfully, the pilot never lost control and the bird eventually came to a stop, eliciting a round of applause from the passengers—myself included. The exits opened, and we soon found ourselves running for a bus to take us from the Stansted airport into the heart of the city.

As I noted, London was for us merely a stopover. I had already visited the city two times prior to this voyage, and the desired goal we both had in mind was that of Italy. However, the only option with RyanAir was to take a flight from Brittany to London, spend a night in London and then fly the next morning to Pisa.

Thus, we watched dusk fall and blackness replace the light as the bus bore into the city, an ominous setting which appropriately mirrored the hostel we were about to enter.

After seeking directions from several Londoners, we finally arrived at the hostel which would provide little more to pass the night than clean sheets—which was itself a bit questionable. We had, in fact, barely entered the building, barely taken a look around the common area, the scum-infested kitchen and the loud, crowded television room when a young Australian strolled in rolling something in his fingers. "Who wants some?" he asked, generously offering his treasure.

"Oh, illegal drugs," some girl exclaimed. She and her friend rose to follow the Australian.

"This is why we stay in hostels," the second girl added.

I turned to Ashley. "Remind me why we stay in hostels."

Needing some air and alimentary refreshment, we descended the many staircases leading to the main floor. Each landing opened up to a small hallway lined with several doors. When at last we reached the bottom, we looked around trying to remember from which entrance we had come. I tried the first door: locked. Ashley tried another: locked as well. I tried yet another: locked again. And another: locked.

Every door was locked—no exit.

"We have descended into hell."

"You can say that again," Ashley replied.

Such was our night in London.


Destination #4: Pisa, Italia

Following a most luxurious night of beauty sleep, the next morning found us red-eyed and bushy-haired; nonetheless, we grabbed our bags and ran to catch another plane—a plane bound for Italia.

En route to Pisa, we looked downward and allowed our eyes to linger on the snow-capped crests and ripples which belonged to the legendary Alps. Once again, I watched distant memories begin to replay upon the theater of my mind—memories of spilled kitty litter, running throughout the streets of Paris to catch my train bound for Risoul and soaring down the sides of the Alps skiing and singing "The Sound of Music" at the top of my lungs.

"Just think: I actually skied on those mountains two years ago," I said aloud. Ashley nodded and grabbed her camera to capture the view.

Soon enough, however, we were stepping off of our second jet in two days and entering a land marked by the Renaissance, sustained by rich gelato and exquisite pizza and dotted with such architectural feats as the celebrated anomaly which is the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Our visit to the city of Pisa was, nevertheless, short lived. In fact, we jumped on a train immediately after joining the throng of tourists snapping pictures of the infamous tower, which, like Big Ben of London, was smaller in reality than I expected it to be. It is no myth, however, that the structure appears ready to crash to the ground at any moment.

It was in buying tickets for our next train, though, that the real fun began—the fun of trying to communicate.

"English?"

"No," the man at the counter replied curtly.

"Français?"

"No." He just looked at me, waiting for me to spout off another option. Sadly, however, I was down to one last choice: Franglian—my own special mix of English, French and Italian.

"Due billets go à Firenze," I said—proud of the fact that I knew at least one word in Italian.

He, however, wasn’t impressed and merely pointed to a woman working several stations down. "English," he grunted.

We nodded, muttered "Grazie" and shuffled down to the woman who was able to secure tickets for us on the next train.

I, however, was ashamed of myself. I had finally morphed into the true American tourist who enters a country in near complete ignorance of the national tongue and customs. "Before I leave," I told myself, "I will be able to communicate with the Italians." I had only three and a half days, however, to complete this task.


Destination #5: Firenze, Italia

"They could be taking us somewhere to mug us, or worse, kill us," a little voice whispered in my head. Alarms were going off in my mind—alarms warning me that we were traversing the line of good sense and entering a world of unnecessary danger, placing too much trust in someone we had met only moments before. But, lacking alternatives, Ashley and I continued to trudge after the tall, dark Italian man leading us throughout the heart of Firenze, or, as it is known in its anglicized form, Florence.

Moments before, we had entered hostel number two of our grand EuroTour, and it appeared much cleaner, much classier and in all other ways more legitimate than that of its diabolic counterpart in London. Nevertheless, we did not see any other guests after ascending the four or so flights of stairs to arrive at the welcome desk. In spite of the lack of other visitors, however, the hostess pointed to the tall Italian guy next to her and said, "So, I think he’s going to take you to our other hostel a few minutes away where you’ll be more comfortable and you two can stay together in your own room."

"You mean we’re not staying here?" I queried.

"No. It’s fine. We have another place. You’ll follow him there."

"Yeah, right. We’ll follow him to a dark alley where his mafia friends are waiting to club us, steal our passports and run away with all of our dough," I said to myself. "Am I wearing a ‘Stupid American Tourist’ sign on my forehead or something?"

Apparently, I was because a few minutes later I found myself following this man in a long dark trenchcoat out of the hostel. Ashley and I exchanged knowing glances. We knew what was on each others’ minds, but we didn’t know what else to do. We had already paid for the night’s stay, we couldn’t communicate with most of the natives and feared that all other establishments would be full as it was nearing Christmas day.

I was, therefore, pleasantly surprised when he stopped at a large wooden doorway not far from downtown Firenze. However, when we entered and began walking toward the stairs, he turned to me. I was carrying a laptop case slung over my shoulder and dragging a small suitcase. He said, "Let me have that," pointing to my laptop bag. I hesitated, then nodded and handed it to him. He then began to walk up the stairs—much faster than I could follow with the suitcase.

In my mind, I imagined him pawing through my bag after disappearing from view. "Stay on him!" I said to Ashley. She nodded and we both hurried after Mr. Dark Mysterious Italian Man.

Eventually, he stopped at a landing and opened a door leading into what appeared to be a large apartment. "This is David," he said, pointing to the short, thick twenty-something who appeared from a side room. "He’ll help you with whatever you need."

"Yeah, and he’ll help himself to whatever he needs from our stuff, too," I said to myself.

In the end, of course, nothing was stolen and David was a kind enough host. However, even though there was a lock on the door leading up to our room, we had the general impression that we were staying at David’s house. We were not the only guests; thus, it apparently is a legitimate hostel, but it did seem a bit bizzarro.

The rest of Firenze, however, was not odd. It was astounding. Magnifico! Molto bello!

Ashley and I had been given suggestions of what to see, where to eat, etc by Jonah and Sara Beer, two of my most culturally savvy cousins who are not only working in the cheese and wine industries on the western coast of the States but also have their own brand of pinot noir: Aardvark ("It’s the first name in pinot!")

Thus, we entered the Galleria dell’Accademia to gaze upon the masterpiece that is Michelangelo’s famed David. Unlike Big Ben and the Leaning Tower, David was much larger than I expected him to be. One feels dwarfed not only by his sheer size but also in the shadow of the grace, the beauty Michelangelo infused into every lock of hair, every gentle curve made by the sinews just beneath David’s flesh. Indeed, this chef d’oeuvre has become more or less the symbol of Firenze, and therefore not only can small statuettes be found in the souvenir shops but full-size representations are also located on various squares throughout the city.

Leaving Michelangelo aside for just a moment, however, the highlight of the Galleria degli Uffizi was an exhibit upon none other than the legendary Leonardo da Vinci. Various sketches, notes and novel ideas of this true Renaissance man were on display. What struck me most was the following quote of his: Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination when awake?

This, I believe, is fascinating coming from the man who no doubt had one of the most vivid imaginations ever to grace the race of man. I can only imagine what fantastical dreams must have entered his mind at night.

The celebrated Duomo, the fourth largest church in the world, was next on our list. Built between the late thirteenth and mid-fifteenth centuries, it is a stunning cathedral which ends in a majestic dome, lording over the city. Such is the awesome presence of the Duomo that from nearly every square in Firenze it seemed to be nearly close enough to touch even if it were still a ten minute walk away. Outside, the decor was ornate. Inside, it was lush. And, from the peak of the dome itself, the view was one of the more amazing sights I have seen in all of my globetrotting adventures: the gleaming whites and reds of Florentine architecture set against the green of the gentle mountains hugging the city.

"Magnifico," I heard myself stating in awe.

And, of course there were gourmet delights to follow up these touristic escapades. After one lick of my nocciola-caramello gelato, I was floating away to paradise. Gelato, in my opinion, cannot merely be translated into English as "ice cream" because it is, indeed, far more than just that. Whereas ice cream can be a tad gritty, gelato is suave perfection. Whereas ice cream can be refreshing on a hot day, gelato is so utterly exqusite that it can be (and was, by us) enjoyed even outside while walking on a bridge above cold waters in late December. Frozen custard? Doesn’t begin to compare. Ice cream? Give me a break.

Then we dined on authentic Italian pizza pie, which was followed by a visit to Le Volpi e l’Uva, the wine bar highly suggested by my cousin Jonah. And, I was quite impressed with myself when I succeeded in ordering in impeccable Italian.

"Due Chardonnay," I said. "Grazie."

Okay, so perhaps these were the same two words I had also known the day before when I failed at the ticket counter. Nevertheless, it was a beginning.

Destination #6: Roma, Italia

"How do you eat spaghetti with a spoon?" Ashley asked.

"First," I instructed, "you remove the hair."

She gave me a disgusted look. "Tomorrow, we skip the free pasta."

Hostel number three was, unfortunately, a regression. We had been attracted by the low price, the promise of free pasta every night. However, the reality was cheap spaghetti served in whatever containers were to be found in the kitchen—Ashley and I were both given large pieces of Tupperware and handed spoons—cheap wine which tasted like it had been mixed half-and-half with water and a room so crowded with young globetrotters—globetrotters who had journeyed long miles only to prefer the views inside local nightclubs than that of the ancient historical ruins and landscapes waiting at every turn—that only the lucky few could sit on a couch while the rest of us stood shoulder to shoulder trying to eat our meal.

The human hair clinging to the spaghetti I was trying to shovel into my mouth with my spoon, therefore, was indeed the final straw.

"Beggars can be choosers," I told myself. "They can choose there is more to life than saving a few euros to eat and drink this filth."

We were in Roma (known as Rome to the Anglophones). This was not a time for scrimping funds. There was a city to be seen—an eternal city.

Indeed, there is no better description I can find for Roma than that of its nickname: la Città Eterna—the Eternal City.

In the center are the famed ruins of the ancient city: the Forum, the Colosseum, Palatine Hill—Roma of years, eras gone by. And, just next to it is the bustling life of Roma today. The ancient and the contemporary are indeed so close that they touch and one almost feels lost in the timelessness of it all.

It is undeniably la Città Eterna.

Interestingly, there is something non-ruined, about the Roman ruins. Pillars have fallen to the earth below, yet it appears no one has touched them since first they crumbled. The wooden floor of the Colosseum upon which gladiators waged battle and men and women were martyred has collapsed, revealing the sturdy foundation which continues to stand proudly beneath. No one has come to remove the scattered bits of brick and rock flung carelessly about the ground; neither has anyone attempted to collect it all and reform the ruins to create tacky representations of the ancient civilization which once was (with the exception of the floor of the Colosseum, of which a small portion has been re-created).

The result is a land which seems frozen outside of time. Entering the Colosseum, one can almost hear the pounding of feet, the shouts and cries of crowds eager for the shedding of blood; the crash of sword against shield, of spear against helmet; the roar of the lions. One can almost see blood seeping into the dust and sand, the lifeless bodies being dragged away, the audience rising slowly and retreating to another spectacle.

These may be activities which remain only in our imaginations of the past, and yet at the very same time we can stroll throughout these ruins and pick clementines off of trees which may be offspring of the trees which produced fruit for the ancient Romans. We can almost enter their world, almost walk the paths they did so long ago.

Almost. It is the Eternal City. It is timeless. Entering ancient Roma, one leaves behind the contemporary and attempts to grasp the past. It is a task not easily done, but one which is fulfilling, engaging.

Yet, perhaps it is this stark amalgamation of a world ruined and a present bustling metropolis which made Ashley and I long for the subtle beauty of Firenze while strolling throughout the squares of Roma. The sheer weight of history in the latter is utterly undeniable, yet the streets, architecture and overall culture of the rest of the city feel intensely cheap when set against this backdrop. While staring at the ruins, I did feel as if I had stepped out of time. However, when I returned to the twenty-first century Roma, I found myself disappointed, feeling cheated out of something which was supposed to be far grander.

Firenze, in comparison, left no such disappointment. The architecture, the cuisine, the locals seemed to be more genuine. Whereas ancient Roma has been lovingly placed to rest in the monument of the ruins, Firenze seems almost to still be living in the rich culture which was the Renaissance.

What did not disappoint, however, were the beauties of the Vatican just across the river Tiber.

St. Peter’s, the replacement of a basilica constructed during the era of Constantine, is not only a marvelous piece of architectural achievement; it is also the home to a bronze statue of St. Peter fashioned in the thirteenth century by Arnolfo di Cambio, Michelangelo’s sculpture Pietà formed when he was merely twenty-four years old, and much more. It is also from the summit of St. Peter’s dome where one can overlook the entire territory which forms the Vatican, much of which is surrounded by high walls

And, it was beneath the gilded plafond of la Cappella Sistina (the Sistine Chapel) that I marveled aloud, "Ashley, we are standing beneath one of the most magnificent works of art ever to be produced by the hand of man. Ever." Indeed, words fail to capture the sheer grace, beauty and intrigue of Michelangelo’s genius. It is what it is—and that is something to be seen.

Gazing upon this masterpiece was in fact a longtime goal of mine. However, this was not the only goal I would achieve in Roma. One night, I realized I had lost the power adapter to my laptop computer, which meant I would be unable to unload pictures from my digital camera onto my laptop. Thus, Ashley and I set out in search of an electronic store.

"Buono sera," I said timidly entering a telephone store.

"Prego," the man replied.

"Dove magazzino ‘electronica?’" I had picked up the dove (where) and magazzino (store), but the electronica was entirely a production of my own attempt to italiano-cize an English word.

What preceded was a wild goose chase in which we finally happened upon a kind merchant outside of a grocery stand. After attempting to rattle off my childlike Italian, he told me to slow down and took a long, deep breath, encouraging me to do likewise.

"I can do that, but it’s not going to help my Italian," I thought to myself.

Nevertheless, it was indeed this merchant who gave us the correct directions, and in the end I was able to strut up to the counter in the electronic store, ask for an adapter and query "Quanto è..." ("how much"). My Italian was worse than broken, but I was nonetheless enthused. Simply by listening to conversations, reading signs and practicing I had begun to learn Italian. I do therefore think that if I were given the time to live in Italy I would be able to one day speak it as freely as I do French.


Destination #7: Dublin, Ireland

A thick, juicy steak sizzling on my plate; lovely, big golden chips spiced by a dash of vinegar; a full pint of dark stout topped by a creamy head: finally, we were in Ireland.

Dann’s Pub near Dublin provided not only authentic Irish cuisine but also a cozy atmosphere of worn down tables, a crackling fire, dusty books waiting to be taken down one more time from the shelf. I raised my Guinness. "This, my friend," I said to Ashley, "is a pint—a beautiful pint." She raised her mug of Irish coffee, which is not your grandmother’s coffee—it’s deliciously laced with whiskey, of course—and we drank to the beauty of the Emerald Isle.

While Dublin was not the end goal we had in mind for the Irish leg of our European adventure, our options were extremely limited with RyanAir flights out of Pisa, which therefore required us to pass a couple of nights in the home of Guinness brew.

Dublin is of course a large city, meaning that any hopes we had of seeing unspoilt countryside could only be met by jumping on yet another train system—the DART—nevertheless, there were other views to be pursued in the capital of Ireland, such as the many cathedrals which dot the city and live entertainment on stage in many of the local pubs.

In addition, a visit to the Dublin Writer’s Museum presented us with the opportunity to explore the celebrated Irish literary tradition, which boasts four Nobel Prize winners. Viewing manuscripts, first edition printings and more from the likes of George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Beckett, William Butler Yeats, James Joyce and Bram Stoker was indeed intriguing. The highlight, however, was a gallery in which various characters from Beckett’s twisted tales were portrayed as caricatures of famous or noteworthy individuals, such as Beckett himself in a scene from Endgame.

The morning in which we hustled to the train station to cross the island in pursuit of more natural Irish landscapes, however, was when I truly began to hear the call of adventure ringing in my ears. Rolling green hills and crumbling stone ruins flew by the window, and I dreamed of the journeys to come.


Destination #8: Galway, Ireland & the West Coast

Terror pounded in my mind. Mobs of people roamed the sidewalks, often stepping carelessly into the street. Cars flew by me, disdain mingled with the smoke pouring from their mufflers. Lights flashed, engines roared and I was on my way.

"I can’t do this!" I shouted, looking horrified in every direction. "Which way do I go? How will I ever get back to the store where I left my sister?"

It was a nightmare on Galway street.

I had not driven at all since leaving my Hoosier homeland three months before. However, when Ashley and I had been informed that there would not be a single bus available during Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the day afterward, we saw our grand adventure on the west coast fading to a boring celebration of mediocrity inside the four walls of our hotel room. Thus, we made the only decision which seemed logical: we marched into the local Budget store and rented a car.

Not only had I not driven for three months, but it was in fact just during the Summer prior to my year in Brittany that I had successfully learned to drive a stick shift. Yes, I had been taught how to do such by my father in his beaten up Ford when I was in my pre-teen years, but somehow I had never gotten the feel of it. When my Sunfire took a break in the Summer of ‘06, however, I was given no choice but to truly learn how to use my mother’s mechanical Mitsubishi Eclipse. And, I was successful in doing such; yet, I still only drove the vehicle for a space of about two or three weeks.

Now, I was driving again. For the first time in three months. In a stick shift car. In Christmastime traffic. In a foreign country. On the left hand side of the road!

When at last I came upon a parking lot just outside the main Galway square, I pulled into a spot, turned off the engine and proclaimed, "I may never drive again." I remember driving for the first time after living in Paris for a semester. That alone had taken an adjustment. I nearly flinched every time I flew through an intersection for the first week or so back in Indiana, sure that a careless Parisian was just waiting to come soaring through the red light and smash into my car. On my first night driving in Galway, I experienced this again to the ten thousandth power.

I opened the door, locked the car and went by foot back to Budget Rental where Ashley was waiting. My over-the-top melodrama became clear when I saw her standing outside and proclaimed, "I thought I’d never find you again."

She shrugged casually and said, "I figured it was just best to wait here."

Yes, she could relax. She was not the one who had signed her name and vowed to drive around the Irish coast and countryside for the next three days.

What a drive it was. Ireland is a country full of twisted, tiny roads which make the streets of Montmartre, Paris appear to be sweeping boulevards. Several times Ashley would say, "Are you sure this isn’t a one-way?" Indeed, many of the roads were crowded by earthen walls and looked as if they had been made for one lane of traffic only. Yet, without fail, another vehicle would defy the laws of physics to come sailing from the other direction and pass us by.

Then there were the roads next to the coast. While these were not crowded with the walls of stone and sod, they did venture dangerously close to sharp cliffs. Just one little slip of the wheel could send one tumbling to instant death on the rocks below.

The speed limit even on the cramped roads and those next to the cliffs was often one hundred kilometers per hour (sixty-two miles per hour). The other drivers held to and often pushed these speeds. I, however, drove at about twenty kilometers per hour, like an old grandmother—the little old lady from Plouc-adena.

As I was driving on the left hand side of the road, the driver’s seat in the car was naturally on the right—that which is the passenger seat in America, France, Italy and most other nations. Nearly every morning when we would stumble out to the car, Ashley and I found ourselves going out of habit to the wrong side. Additionally, because of this swap everything is backwards. Not only was I shifting with my left hand, but I often forgot that I needed to look to my left last, rather than my right, before turning onto a street. And, of course, every roundabout, of which there is no shortage in Ireland, is to be entered going left rather than right.

One time I turned onto a street and carefully maneuvered the car into the left lane. Ashley gasped. "Why are those cars up ahead coming at us in our lane?"

"I don’t know," I replied, "but this time I’m sure I’m right because I’m driving on the left. Maybe they are confused tourists."

"No, Seth, pull off. It’s a one-way and we’re going the wrong way!"

Naturally, however, the fears began to fade after the first night and day. On our second full day of having the car, I began to become rather attached. What had begun as a terror-filled night of nearly running over Christmas shoppers, finding myself confused by one-ways and struggling to remember the fine details of how to drive a mechanical shift had turned into a beautiful journey of Irish sights thanks to the help of our trusty Nissan Almera.

In fact, I became so comfortable driving the stick shift that her engine died on me less and less in the middle of roundabouts—a good thing—and I learned how to drop it into reverse and rev the engine in order not to crash into a stone wall when parked on a steep incline—leaving the air perfumed with a marvelous hint of burnt rubber, of course. Indeed, I became so comfortable with the car itself that I found myself a couple of times soaring down the Irish country roads to hear Ashley shout, "Seth, you’re on the right hand side of the road again! Get over!"

I suppose I was comfortable with the car, not necessarily with the left-hand side system yet. But, we survived, and it was thanks to this that we were able to see the astounding natural landscapes of the western Irish coast.

Christmas Eve found us finally standing upon the jagged coastline which forms the eminent Cliffs of Moher. I had seen many pictures prior to our arrival at the cliffs; yet none of these had been able to truly capture the immensity and height thereof. A path had been made for tourists leading near to the cliffs, but a sign had naturally been posted pleading us not to go near the edge. We, however, merely laughed and walked on by. Hoosiers do not leave the cornfields behind merely to gaze at beauty from afar.

The sea was relentlessly beating upon the base of the cliffs, licking at the rock with its foam and forming walls of water to leap upward; yet it could not even begin to ascend the cliffs which at their peak rise to an alarming seven hundred two feet to dwarf the watery world below.

The alternating shale and sandstone provided a dark backdrop for the emerald grass. While the sea would never reach the summits, the wind succeeded and did so with quite a vengeance, whipping at anything and everything which dared near the edge. In fact, just one month before our visit, a thirty-five year old Polish woman had been admiring the view with a friend when the angry wind had swept her from the edge and sent her flailing downward to the sea. Sadly, she was rescued only to die in the Galway Regional Hospital a short time later.

The Cliffs of Moher are called Aillte an Mhothair ("Cliffs of Ruin") in traditional Gaelic; yet, perhaps they are even more famous for their brief stint as the "Cliffs of Insanity" in The Princess Bride.

The sheer joy of being in Ireland was simply the ability to drive across the dusty country roads and stumble upon breath-taking views. An afternoon drive through The Burren, for example, provided not only rolling foothills but also abandoned manors, castles and abbeys. Indeed, much of the landscape and crumbling ruins reminded me of my new homeland which had become Brittany.

The region of Connemara just north of Galway also provided us with the opportunity to gaze upon the small mountain range of the Twelve Bens, which we viewed from charming Clifden, a coastal town of County Galway.

And, of course we experienced the requisite traffic jam in the middle of nowhere, by which I mean a herd of cattle lazily waltzing across the street. I smiled and slowed to stop, watching an old man jump out of a van and begin smacking the cattle, sending them running in all directions. When at last they appeared to be gone, I swerved to pass the old man’s van. Suddenly, however, not one but two cows peeked out from the other side of the van, being chased by the old man. Once again, I slammed on my brakes.

In the midst of joy and adventure, however, there was one disappointment: Christmas dinner. Ashley and I were offered a flowing feast at the Hotel Ibis in which we were staying; however, such a meal came at a price of thirty euros per person. We therefore naturally opted out and instead stocked our room with goodies.

It was thus that we had our own makeshift Christmas celebration in Galway, Ireland together. We began with presents in the morning: we had hung two of our own white socks on the desk and stuffed it with candy given to us for free by a kind Irish merchant, and we had both purchased one actual gift for each other. This was followed by a drive and a nonchalant hike along the coast. Then, we returned home for our feast. Before arriving at the hotel, however, we both began to bemoan the fact that we had no meat for our dinner.

The night before, Christmas Eve, we had been returning to the hotel, which was located a mile and a half or so outside of Galway, by foot following a night of Guinness and music when the same frustration had struck us. We both had felt a sudden, intense desire for meat. But, we trudged on. Just hours prior, on our trip into town, we had been skipping and singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs to passerby. Now, however, we had felt stripped of the Christmas spirit in the light of our meat-less dinner and incredible distance from the rest of our family. It was Christmas Eve night. Every store had closed down, thereby leaving us to our meager rations stowed in the hotel room.

And then, on the horizon we saw a beacon of hope. Like a faraway lighthouse shining promise and security in the midst of a dark storm, there was a gas station with its lights on.

We both froze in shock. Could it really be?

"They must be open!" I proclaimed.

"They might have sandwiches with meat," Ashley said.

We ran—as fast as we could. And, to our great pleasure, the gas station was indeed open and bearing gifts of chicken sandwiches.

On Christmas Day, therefore, we once again felt this sudden euphoria when another gas station on the way home was open, allowing us to purchase cheddar cheese and chicken sandwiches.

Thus, we returned to the Ibis hotel, walked past the crowds tearing into freshly-cooked turkey and scooping fluffy mashed potatoes from the buffet and returned to our room where our own dinner was waiting.

We began with appetizers of popcorn and plums. We licked our fingers before continuing with the entrée of ripe apples fresh from the supermarket. Then, we dined on the main course of chicken sandwiches and bit into the stale deliciousness of hotdog-style buns which served as our rolls. In all honesty, our dessert was the best of it all—a luscious albeit store-prepared apple crumble. We finished with chocolate chips and a Coca-Cola knock off.

Indeed, it was a Christmas in Ireland which will not quickly be forgotten.

Destination #9: Paris

"Happy New Year!"

Lights flashed, fireworks exploded, champagne flowed—and my toes froze. We were nearing the end of our sweeping, international escapade, and my feet were crying out in glee. Soon I would return to Brittany and be able to purchase new shoes—waterproof shoes.

The shoes I had been sporting throughout all of our travels, from the coast of Brittany to the peak of the Duomo in Florence and the summit of the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, were a cheap fifteen euro pair I had purchased nearly one month prior during a short visit to Paris. Before jumping onto the first plane destined to take us to London, however, the shoes had already begun to fall apart. The soles were separating from the rest of the shoes and the glue holding the inserts in place inside had completely given up its task. Thus, I had purchased a tube of all-purpose SuperGlue. This worked well enough to give me confidence to take this glue and this pair of shoes alone on the two week journey through Europe.

Soon enough, however, the SuperGlue lost its potence. The shoes were irreparable. I could glue them at night, but the next morning after walking for a couple of hours they would begin to fall apart. This, nevertheless, would not have been unbearable in warm, dry weather.

It was December, though. The weather was the exact opposite: cold and wet.

For long hours I walked in the soaked, flimsy shoes from sight to sight. My feet were not merely damp; in fact, I felt as if I had sat with my shoes in a pool of water for hours before setting out for the day’s journey. Fortunately, if we walked fast enough, the heat from my feet would warm the water and prevent blocks of ice from forming in-between my toes.

At Dann’s Pub in Ireland, while waiting for our flight to Paris, at night in the hotels, before the movie began in a theater: no matter where we were, I would often try to sneak away to a bathroom, praying they would have a hot-air hand-drying machine. When they did, I would wait until the room was clear, then yank off my shoes, peel off the drenched socks, press the button and blow-dry them as well as I could. It was tedious. It was rancid.

One time there was a steady stream of men entering the restroom, but I couldn’t stand it. I simply had to dry my shoes and socks. Needless to say, I received quite a variety of curious, interested looks as I stood barefoot holding my socks up to the hot air.

On the day we had chosen to tour the palace and stroll the gardens of Versailles, the wind and rain was so strong that my shoes were not only fully drenched, but Ashley’s umbrella had buckled and broken as well. That night, alone in our hotel room, I wrung out my socks. Cold, black water filled the sink.

All of this, however, had merely been a prologue to the frigid, sodden delight that was to be the main event on the night of New Year’s Eve. Indeed, my cheap shoes would never fully dry and recover from this night of festivities until I laid them to rest.

It was with great anticipation that Ashley, Kristen (another American assistant living in Lannion who joined us in Paris) and I approached the Eiffel Tower during the last couple of hours of 2006. We walked among the crowd of boisterous men and women preparing to ring in the New Year à la Parisienne, watching rounds of amateur fireworks and avoiding the throng of policemen converging on the scene.

As the sun had long since retreated from the sky, a wintry chill filled the air which was already damp with intermittent showers. We bought hot chocolate from a small stand, and I had the sudden desire to pour it on my feet rather than sip it down slowly.

Finally, we chose a spot on the side of the river Seine directly opposite the Eiffel Tower and passed the hours discussing the highlights of 2006 and our hopes for the next year, taking pictures of the immense throng forming behind us, cheering when the beautiful tower would glimmer for the first ten minutes of every hour, etc.

The one problem: afraid of losing our positions, we were standing still. No walking meant no friction to warm the water in my shoes. Needless to say, I was becoming rather chilled.

At long last, the New Year was approaching. We were down to one minute. I looked at my cell phone, my watch.

"10 seconds left?" I queried.

The crowd was not counting down together. Everyone seemed to simply be watching the Eiffel Tower, waiting for some sign.

Suddenly, the tower began to blink and shimmer as it always does on the hour.

"Is that it? It’s the New Year now?" Unsure, we looked around. In every direction, champagne bottles were popping, the crowd was cheering, and fireworks were exploding in the air.

Ashley, Kristen and I turned back to each other, shrugged, and shouted, "Happy New Year! Bonne année!"

More pictures were taken and videos were filmed, but as soon as we were able, we scooted out of our positions and headed directly for our hotel. A forty-five minute walk was all that lay between me and the ability to remove my sopping shoes.


Destination #10: Home

Clothes were stuffed once again into our bags and memories were packed away into the pictures on my computer and the notes in my journal. Our time together had drawn to a close.

We spoke of the memories we had made during Ashley’s three-week visit: memories we would cherish—such as Brittany’s rugged beauty, Italia’s historical wonders, Ireland’s unspoilt charm—as well as memories we would never be able to forget even if we wanted to, such as dirty hostels, a meager Christmas dinner and frozen feet.

It had been an adventure of soaring across the sky in planes, rushing to catch trains and praying for our lives in one crazy Irish automobile. It’s funny, but I do believe the latter was my favorite.

Hugs were shared, and then Ashley was off.

I jumped onto the métro and made the short trip to the train station where Kristen was waiting. Thoughts of Breton music, almond croissants and more filled my mind.

Bag in hand, I turned to Kristen. "Let’s go home."