Legends of the shores

Brittany runs in our family given part of hubby's origins. This explains why, when we lived in France, we went there often to visit relatives. They have since then disappeared, their houses sold or passed on to younger generations in the family, but whatever we say and however we put it, Brittany is still part of our identity and pretty much on our destiny's route.

With the beautiful days and the light spring breezes reaching the capital came the urge to move west and explore new shores in those regions where we had been so often in the past. It is not easy to break the usual patterns and explore the village next door or the bay some fifty kilometers down the coast; family members and obligations as well as sentimental ties will try to pull you back into the safety zone of the well-known places...

But if you are strong enough and will tolerate a few tears and the feeling of guilt creeping in, you are in for wonderful and uplifiting discoveries and surprises along the colorful shores of the Golfe du Morbihan. The trick is to take the smallest roads possible and follow the slow rhythm of the local legends: dragons, princesses and witches will happily gather around the steamy cauldron to unveil the beauties of the emerald sea and the tree tops of strong pines that bend their head under the effect of the strong Atlantic winds. Count the sails of white boats competing in one of the regattas and plan to eagerly eat plump "galettes" in the little harbor of Port Navalo. In the small village of Sainte Barbe, the old stones and houses whisper more legends still if you only take the time to stop and listen while gazing out in the distances where the Atlantic hits the windy shore.

Le château en photos

Lové dans l'une des courbes du tracé de la vieille ville de Cracovie, à quelques minutes de la célèbre place du marché, le château de Wavel est un imposant ensemble qui surplombe ce bijou historique et architectural bien caché. Sa visite se mérite vu les horaires d'ouvertures limités et la montée pavée qui mène à l'accès principal.

Visite en images par une belle journée de printemps sous le soleil et le regard vif et bienveillant des oiseaux chanteurs du parc avoisinant :

La mémoire

"Que ce lieu où les nazis on assassiné un million et demi d'hommes, de femmes et d'enfants, en majorité des juifs de divers pays d'Europe, soit à jamais pour l'humanité un cri de désespoir et un avertissement."

Auschwitz-Birkenau

1940-1945

First impressions

Chopin's presence is truly felt everywhere: notes come out from the speakers of the LOT plane ready to take off while piano music lifts our spirit in the city center small streets encouraged by Chopin's profile on chocolate packaging in every "delicatessen" store we see in the city.

Dark grey anonymous buildings do not even try to reach the sky: they humbly show about for to six floors, rarely more. Their sad little entrances seem to hide an infinite number of apartments where plain white curtains hide everyday tools from the view of the passersby. In the corresponding parking lot, BMWs, Mercedes and Mazda cars, all brand new, quitely wait for their owners next to red Lada that have almost turned to a rusty pile of communist dust.

Brand new malls, huge IKEA, Auchan and Leroy Merlin stores stand proud and alight along the new highways: their colorful banners are visible from far away and make up for the new landscape all devoted to capitalism and its symbols (and uniformity), together with woods, small farms and crumbling or abandoned houses. Prostitutes in bright shorts and high heels wait for the occasional customer, standing under the sun while hurried drivers zoom past.

Wooden roofs and doors, all carved and with different hues for a happy and precious chromatic and texture effect. Like a new form of crafted lace they are home to families living up in the mountains where the cold air whips our faces in the spring. The sound of the hoofs on the tarmac announces the simple carriage and its strong local horses, big, solid and honest animals ready for the curious (and tired) tourists who are eager to reach the feet of the slopes and the ski jump where international competitions are held in the winter.

Credits: TheDaydreamer (via iPhone)

A l'est rien de nouveau...

Rien n'est moins sûr. Alors que nous arpentons les rues de Varsovie, les cris d'étonnement face au changement des 20 dernières années fusent et c'est là que je regrette de ne pas être venue plus tôt en Pologne, en d'autres temps afin d'avoir la possibilité à présent de comparer, d'établir une sorte de tableau avant / après...

Qu'à cela ne tienne, il suffit de se promener dans les rues qui mènent au vieux centre (en réalité la plupart du temps reconstitué après la guerre) pour constater à quel point tout est semblable à ce que nous connaissons si bien : c'est une suite de boutiques aux enseignes bien connues de tout habitant d'Europe de l'ouest qui nous accueille. Finalement... Rien de nouveau pour nous, touristes rués à l'abondance occidentale, mais à l'en croire mes compagnons de voyage, cet étalage est relativement "nouveau" pour les locaux. Les étals vides et les queues devant les magasins sont un souvenir du passé tandis que les nombreux passants se pressent dans les rues et les boutiques des grandes rues dégagées.

Il est vrai que nous sommes dans la capitale, vitrine incontournable du progrès où se concentrent tous les extrêmes propulsés à la vitesse supérieure : la tour Dell fait face aux bâtiments gris et décatis de l'ère communiste. Les contrastes à l'aune de l'Histoire ont trouvé ici un terrain plus que propice.

Nous nous apprêtons à prendre la route pour un périple au fil plus lent et contemplatif des nationales où très probablement un autre spectacle nous attend... A bientôt !

Photo: drapeau de la ville de Varsovie

A l'ouest rien de nouveau

Déployer les ailes

Tout y est : la musique de fond, les grands espaces et cette présence magique et envoûtante du cheval - animal noble, compagnon de l'homme dans ses conquêtes et défaites au fil des siècles, farouche et amical, doux et fougueux. Tout y est. Il ne reste plus qu'à déployer nos ailes pour galoper au fil de l'eau en sa précieuse compagnie.

Vidéo : campagne publicitaire Hermès

Earth Day wishes

HAPPY EARTH DAY TO ALL OF YOU!

A very happy Earth Day to all of you, wherever you may be! With little efforts here and there, I hope that we can all contribute to giving the earth a break every now and then. This way, we may be able to enjoy its riches and resources better and with a real sense of responsibility. So, next time we go for a picnic (yes, it is time for picnics again, happy me), let's look twice to make sure no empty bottles are left behind on the lusciously green grass. Do I sound patronizing? Yes, well, maybe I am. But I will start patronizing myself first, promise!

Credits: Mrs. L.H. / Picture of a Heliconia plant.

La "Man Flu" : le salut des femmes

Par M., Londres

Qu'est la "Man Flu" ? Un terme typiquement britannique que je vénère depuis que mon cher mari a la fâcheuse tendance à attraper tout microbe lié au rhume à chaque fois que ce dernier fait un petit passage par chez nous. Bien sûr, comme vous le savez toutes (le féminin a ici son importance), le mâle viril de notre époque ne se contente pas de subir les affres d'un simple rhume mais selon ses propres termes, il est la funeste victime d'une grippe mortelle. Le rhume banal se transforme donc en un grand danger viral appelé la grippe qui n'a pas besoin de se montrer porcine pour déjà laisser les hommes forts de notre temps agoniser dans leur lit pour au moins 5 jours...

Cette coutume a un terme en Angleterre : la "man flu". Elle a même fait l'objet d'une étude très sérieuse dans le but de comprendre pourquoi les hommes se plaignent plus facilement que les femmes de ce fléau et expliquer aux épouses et aux petites-amies fort agacées de ce comportement que les pauvres choux, ils n'y peuvent rien. Eh oui, les conclusions sont mortifiantes : l'homme de notre époque ne triche pas, il n'a jamais un rhume mais bien la grippe car en choisissant un style de vie aventureux (par aventureux, il faut entendre la compétition constante des hommes entre eux, la concurrence au sein de leur travail, les rapports sexuels multiples et plus nombreux que ceux des femmes), il n'a pas eu le temps de développer son système immunitaire. Ce n'est donc pas un mythe, l'homme n'a pas un métabolisme qui lui permet de braver les assauts d'un rhume contrairement aux femmes. Et lorsqu'il se sent mieux, il est fort probable que ce ne soit que passager. Donc, voilà mesdames la réponse à toutes nos lamentations et soyez rassurées, c'est un état à vie et répétitif.

Alors, comment vous sentez-vous ?

Betty Boop's eyes

It is ironic for me to notice that since I moved back into the city from my almost remote country side town along the Dutch canals, all I do is end up in places that are green and possibly full of animals in one way or the other.

Well, one could argue that the subway is one such place: green with sticky dirt and certainly full of various species of animals. I won't take that road though... The target is too easy.

Instead, I took the subway to go to the agricultural fair in Paris. This is a major social event for the beasts as well as their keepers and the city dwellers (and business, obviously). The media go nuts over the little lambs and the hen's eggs and pictures of cows cover the city walls an hit the headlines for the whole week. All of a sudden, we remember the country side and farmers' reality and give ourselves good conscience in doing so. For 20 years, I basically ignored this highlight of the fair season (you can imagine the state of my conscience). It is always the same thing: when you have something right under your nose, you put your nose up and despise it.

After 10 years of life abroad, here I am, ready to walk head up high into the big hall of the fair! The city girl goes to market, so to speak. And I did feel like an ignorant suburban being every time I jumped with excitement in front of those bicolored piglets or started my very own conversation with the rooster nearby. Luckily, most visitors were like me: children in awe (and adults with modern time issues).

The particular smell is what welcomes you first: pungent hay, flesh, manure and grass all mixed to create an atmosphere of outdoor air even though we were indoor. The heat comes second: all those bodies, all those lights...they must have made one iceberg melt at least. At the same time, the combination of the two feels like a warm embrace. And in the third position come the colors, especially in the hall dedicated to the French regions: the stalls are laden with food and produce from every region - a good way to remind you that France also has oversea territories that bring in their culture and gastronomy. The impression is that of an incredible mosaic of cultures into one.

While tasting a big, tasty sandwich with ham from the Basque Country (the piglets did not get much older, oops), we went around admiring the variety of species and the wealth of the country in terms of agriculture. We paid shorts visits to the lambs, the donkeys and the sheep (even from Texel island!); we paid a loooong visit to the cows that were very well represented - frankly amazing in terms of color, morphology and most of the time imposing (half a ton for a female, not bad, hun?). One of them got my full attention when lifting her big, friendly eyes up: she had Betty Boop's eyes!

Bette Davis's Eyes would have been such and unfortunate choice, don't you think? Well, let's hope Betty Boop survived the stressful week and had a safe journey home.

I am reading...

This is a strange book, a strange world: I am used to reading Banana Yoshimoto's books and to embracing her inner thoughts, feelings and visualizing every thought, idea and detail she so delicately writes about. This time was different though: maybe because the main character is a pregnant woman with an unconventional life - according to Japanese standards, that is - but I did not feel as touched as usual by the ethereal universe of Delfini (I read it in Italian)... It would be more correct to say that I felt touched at times only, here and there... which made those paragraphs even more precious, like keepsakes I should hold on to dearly.

The dream-like episodes did capture my imagination and I did feel carried into a dimension where reality meets the unreal, but for the rest the scenes were too culturally oriented so too far away from my imagination and feelings. I felt in the middle of the sea, with no lighthouse on the horizon as it were... Or maybe it was the fact that describing her pregnancy, the main character entered a sphere where I cannot follow her - only experience could possibly give some meaning or leading thread and I lack that experience. The story then becomes so personal that it verges on the intimate and somehow encloses the characters in their own world where the reader cannot reach them - and possibly should not even try to follow them as they enter a very private property.

Owen: the king of the beach

Lady Hawk

Au cœur de la forêt de Rambouillet, impossible de trouver les sangliers : les yeux rivés au sol, le regard aiguisé à en faire mal, rien n'y fait : leurs traces restent discrètes, indécelables en réalité. Je tends l'oreille à l'affût du moindre bruissement des dernières feuilles automnales ou du moindre cri sauvage qui me laisserait espérer une rencontre. Partagée entre envie et peur - ne le sommes-nous pas tous à un moment ou à un autre ? - j'avance prudemment mais résolument aussi.

Ce qu'il me faudrait, c'est l'aide de l'un de ces puissants oiseaux sortis des cieux, fendant les airs et les nuages pour se jeter habilement sur leur proie - les rapaces dont les cris s'élèvent d'un peu plus loin dans le parc. La rencontre avec ces machines de chasse légères et précises se fera telle une évidence : elles évoluent au-dessus des têtes, se jouant de notre émerveillement enfantin. Majestueux, les rapaces frôlent un instant mon existence d'un battement d'aile puissant. La beauté à l'état pur, qui remet toute chose ci-bas à sa modeste place.

Photo: TheDaydreamer

I am watching...

Hitchcock would have liked this movie, or so I would like to believe! The writer writes the book, puts a signature on its cover and reaps the cheers of the readers - if all goes well, that is. But then, imagine a non-writer, a ghost-writer, looming over the book, over someone else's work, in silence and in shadow. There you have it, the main character of the Ghost-Writer, Roman Polanski's latest movie.

Here the ghost-writer does all the dirty job of making a biography more attractive and, like his counterpart in Frantic, he will soon embark on an intricate and thrilling adventure where secret services, politics, business and power unsurprisingly come together to take the lead and use him at their will, like a ridiculous puppet. The destiny of a "regular" human being is all of a sudden intertwined with major decisions made by the mighty ones - not a good equation for the main character, but most certainly a gripping one for the audience.

The movie starts slowly as if a delicate touch was needed to spin the dangerous web of the intrigue... The movie is long, but the result is brilliantly efficient: all the pieces of the puzzle come together to give the viewers a good old thriller that is also enriched with references typical of Polanski's work (the house by the sea is like a trap, water is everywhere to diffuse a sense of threat) as well as of traditional ingredients that cannot fail: murder, sex, manipulation... The ghost-writer meets good and evil, for better or for worse.