It’s been one full year since I started doing these, so I’d like to thank LB again for introducing me to the concept, and also to the dude in the blogosphere who invented it. So, without further ado…

The 12th was Canadian Thanksgiving, which I spent in America. Just to show how cyclic life is, this day strangely mirrors my previous October 12th, when I was also home for a long weekend and about to fly back to school.

Angel recently got a very short haircut, so we affectionately refer to her as a chupacabra or a goat from Darfur. I took this as she was about to do her morning duty. I guess she wanted some privacy.

My last breakfast in New Hampshire for two months had to be something good. I enjoyed the real maple syrup and the view from the dining room.

Since the weekend had been mostly cloudy, I took advantage of the clear morning on the 12th to make my standard walk up to Sunset Heights. I liked the contrast between these lovely yellow-orange trees and the blue sky. This has been an interesting foliage season — the colour arrived a bit earlier than usual, but with a more sporadic geographic distribution. Something with the cold weather and the rain this summer, I guess. Overall, the colours definitely weren’t as good as the previous two years, but still amazing by any standard.

Newfound Lake and Mt. Cardigan from the top of the hill.

I spotted the crescent moon and thought it would make for a nice composition with the red tree.

Nothing like a rainbow of leaves on a fall day in New England…

After packing my things, it was time to say goodbye to Bristol. My dad drove me to the airport in Boston – we left at 3pm for an 8pm flight, assuming that the normally 2 hour drive could be a bit longer due to the holiday traffic.

Nothing could have prepared us for this. I-93 was clogged with leaf peepers returning south; it was bumper-to-bumper traffic between Concord and Manchester. It took us an hour and a half just to go from Concord to the Hooksett tolls.

Concerned that I was going to miss my flight, I called Air Canada to see if I could get on a later one. There weren’t any other flights that night, but there was one the next morning. I asked what the price difference would be: “$975.” “Sorry?” “$975.” “…Okay, thank you then.”

We *had* to make it to the airport on time.

Fortunately, the traffic dispersed south of Manchester and we were able to cruise speedily into Boston (well, as speedily as one ever can in Boston). I snapped this shot on the awesome Zakim Bridge shortly before our arrival at Logan. We got to the airport just around 7pm; the check-in deadline was 7:10. I checked-in and got through security very quickly, so all was well.

The flight was short and enjoyable, especially because Air Canada has little touch-operated TV screens with tons of TV shows and movies you can watch (even during take-off). I watched some French travel show about Paris and an episode of Flight of the Conchords. Still, I was pretty exhausted by the time we landed in Toronto, so I wasn’t too thrilled about going through customs.

I will say that Toronto probably has the coolest, most ultra-modern aiport I’ve ever seen. This is what the baggage claim area looks like — the whole place is very space age. I collected my bag and jumped on the bus to the subway that took me home. It was only after I got back to my room that I opened my luggage and discovered that my toiletteries bag had been accidentally replaced with a woman’s pink toiletteries bag by the security screeners. My brief vacation was over, and it was back to one of the most frustrating and challenging months of my life.

I moved to Toronto 11 days ago to begin my graduate studies at the University of Toronto, and so far I’ve enjoyed my time here quite a bit. We’ve had perfect weather every single day so far — sunny, dry, comfortably warm. I know it won’t last forever, so I took advantage of the beautiful day on the 12th to walk around the city. Toronto is huge and takes a long time to traverse on foot (at least compared to Boston), but everywhere you go there is density and human activity (unlike (Hel)LA)).  I’ve yet to try out the extensive and probably very useful streetcar system, whose wires are intersecting the CN Tower in the photo above. Snapped at the southern edge of U of T’s campus.

My Canadian morning wouldn’t be complete without a stop at Timmy Ho’s for breakfast.

I was very fortunate to arrive in Toronto at the start of the Toronto International Film Festival. I ordered several tickets in advance and my first screening was on the 12th in the historic Elgin Theatre on Yonge Street. The line to get in wrapped around the entire block, but they managed to fit us all in there. I was way up on the balcony.

The movie was “The Informant!” by Steven Soderbergh, a dark comedy based on the true story of the bipolar corporate whistleblower / embezzler, Mark Whitacre — portrayed brilliantly by Matt Damon. When Soderbergh came out on stage, he began his brief speech with: “As Winston Churchill once said about cinema… actually, he never said anything about cinema.” He set the tone for a film that had the audience in stitches with its dry humour and flawlessly natural, awkward delivery. I love seeing comedies in theatres (especially ones with 1500 seats), because the comedic effect is just so amplified.

Side note: as I soon discovered, there is a particular tradition at TIFF screenings when the anti-piracy warning is displayed before the film. The audience is supposed to cry out, “Arrrrrrr!” like pirates. That was quite an interesting surprise.

After “The Informant!”, I headed straight over to Roy Thomson Hall to catch my second film of the festival: “Agora,” with Rachel Weisz, who portrays Hypatia, the 4th century philosopher from Alexandria. This movie was on several “most anticipated” lists, but I left the screening a little disappointed. The role hardly showcased Weisz’s talents and the acting was limited by clunky, “ancient-sounding” dialogue. The film does have a relevant message: it condemns violence and intolerance in the name of religion. But at times, it felt like you were being beaten over the head by the message as if you were too dumb to understand it. This seemed to take away from the artistic quality of the work, IMHO.

On the other hand, it was the North American premiere and a special gala screening, and I managed to get in for half price with a student ticket.

That’s Roy Thomson Hall on the right with St. Andrew’s Church at centre. On the lower left you can see part of Toronto’s “PATH” system, a network of underground pedestrian tunnels in the downtown core. Those should come in handy during the winter.

I stopped at Queen & Spadina to get a photo of the masses of pedestrians, when this gentleman saw my camera and asked, “Do you want to take my picture?” How could I refuse? He was very cheery but decided to don a serious face for the photo. I showed him the picture after I took it, but I don’t think he was completely satisfied with how it came out. Lol.

I continued my journey through the city along Queen Street, entering the infamously eccentric “Queen West” neighbourhood. While I expected the hippies and hipsters on the sidewalk, I didn’t expect for zombies to round the corner. I first had suspicions when I saw people dressed in Umbrella uniforms (see: Resident Evil), but the zombie costumes stole the show. I can only assume they were headed to some kind of zombie walk event, because there were tons of them — they just coming and coming. Ahhhh!!!!

Among the other oddities in Queen West was this adult store with two young ladies dancing suggestively in the store windows, in lieu of mannequins. It was just one of the most intriguingly absurd things I’ve ever seen.

My ultimate destination in Queen West was Trinity Bellwoods Park, which I had read was the best park in Toronto for people-watching. It certainly is (and for dog-watching, too).

From there, I headed north along a residential street in Little Portugal, replete with divinely colourful front gardens like this one. Although Toronto has a wide array of “ethnic neighbourhoods,” they are not nearly as homogenous or segregated as those in most other cities I’ve visited. I’m fairly certain that Toronto is the most diverse and well-integregated city I’ve ever been to.

My own residence (the red side of the building above) is located on a pleasant Victorian residential street somewhere in-between Chinatown, Little Italy, and the University neighbourhood, although they really just blend together. However, my landlords and all the other tenants are Chinese. I’ve still not managed to actually meet my two other “housemates,” although I do hear them from time to time… still waiting for that icebreaker, I guess.

My spacious room occupies the entire front side of the second floor — the one with all the blinds closed. The room is  simultaneously blessed and cursed by the amount of sunlight it lets in… but mostly blessed. I’m sure the sunniness will help fend off the wintertime blues.

A bit late with this one since the 12th coincided with day 10 of my epic cross-country road trip. More on that later.

Devin, Madeline, Brynie, and I woke up early on the 12th at our couchsurfing hosts’ residence in Portland, Oregon to hit the road. By this point in the trip, we had all become accustomed to the necessity of getting up early and sleeping in the car. We headed west from Portland towards the Pacific Coast, and then picked up Highway 101. Our target: Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park in northern California.

The people in Oregon were arguably among the most interesting we encountered on our trip. To put it simply, there are a lot of hippies there. We spotted this car somewhere as we drove from sleepy coastal town to sleepy coastal town. The setting reminded us of Maine (Brynie had to remind herself that we were driving down the coast, not up it), with a bit less charm.

With our luck, we arrived in the Pacific Northwest during the first days of cold, cloudy, and rainy weather they’ve had all summer. Although many of the seaside vistas were shrouded in fog, the coastline still had a mysterious, epic allure. All I could think of was The Goonies.

When I spotted a sign for a viewpoint of the Heceta Head Lighthouse, I had to pull over. Unfortunately, the lighthouse was barely visible through the fog, so we were about to get back onto the road when a couple at the turnoff said to us, “Hey, there are whales over here.” So there were! I can’t say what kind they were, but we enjoyed the fortunate sighting.

You can make out the Heceta Head Lighthouse in the distant left if you squint.

At the very same viewpoint, we turned and faced left to see this popular bathing spot for sea lions.

Further south along the 101, the rugged coastline gave way to an vast swath of undulating sand dunes. We made a stop somewhere in the Oregon Sand Dunes National Recreation Area and walked a short trail to the dunes. It was bizarre to emerge from the dense, lush Northwestern forest onto a landscape that more closely resembles the Sahara. The sand stretched so far that the ocean wasn’t even visible.

Madeline couldn’t resist rolling down one of the dunes. She was cleaning sand off herself for the next few days.

Miraculously, the clouds finally dissipated as we began to approach California. Actually, the sunshine was short-lived, as we continously moved in and out of thick fog, but it was nice while it lasted. I took this shot of the Isaac Lee Patterson Bridge heading into Gold Beach. The Coast Highway in Oregon has a number of stunning bridges from the 1930s. The Art Deco lover in me was ecstatic.

As we turned the bend upon this vista, the car let out a communal gasp. The photo does little justice to the scale and beauty of these behemoths. This is why the Pacific Coast Highway is arguably the most scenic drive in America.

Before entering California, we reached some kind of border checkpoint — Agricultural Inspection. Our apples and bananas were a-ok, so the Golden State let us enter. Once over the state line, we noticed that the drivers suddenly became more aggressive. Hmm. It was getting late at this point, so the evening light shining through patches of clouds made for some interesting lighting.

This wasn’t our first night driving after sundown. We had gotten to our campsites after dark on several occasions due to car trouble, excessive picture taking, traffic, etc. What made this time different is that there was no apparent reason for us to have reached the redwoods so late — we were entirely on schedule. The only possible explanation: Google’s estimated driving time was way off.

We reached the entrance to Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park just as the very last remnants of sunlight were fading away. The drive to our campsite was at once impressive and frightening — the road was lined with massive redwoods, trunks easily 10 feet in diameter, towering a good one or two hundred feet in the air. The trees needed their own reflective markers because they jutted slightly into the narrow road. The posted speed limit of 45 was remarkably unsafe (especially with our terrible headlights) — even at 25, it felt like we were racing across Endor on speeder bikes.

Unfortunately, the darkness meant that I couldn’t get any good pictures of the incredible Redwoods. I just got one shot looking towards the night sky with my tripod at our campsite, but none of the highly visible stars came out. The smell in the air was incredible. We were greeted by a huge dragonfly of Jurassic proportions. The Redwoods turned out to be one of my favorite places on the entire trip, but all of my photos are from the 13th.

Ok, I know this happened like a million years ago (well, about 13 weeks ago), but I need to finish recounting my trans-European adventures.

The big “detour” in my Spring Break was our side-trip to the French Riviera, where we met up with LB, our high school French teacher, and the Newfound kids who were doing the same trip that we had done 5 years prior.

The trains along the coast from Cinque Terre towards France were quite slow and had to make stops at pretty much every station. Fortunately, at some point along the Italian coast, we finally emerged out of the clouds and rain that had dominated the previous two days. We changed trains in Genova, where our brief attempt to see some of the city led us only to a statue of Christopher Columbus.

It was a relief when we got to Ventimiglia and boarded an SNCF train. Madeline was particularly excited to hear French instead of Italian, but we also realized how much nicer French trains are than, well, pretty much any other trains in the world. As the train crossed the border into upscale Menton, the cityscape seemed a sharp contrast to the graffiti-plagued Italian cities we had seen in the past week. Even Monaco’s underground train station was incredibly immaculate. But that’s not really a surprise, considering it’s Monaco.

It was nice to be in Nice again (no pun intended). Our hostel was in the less glamourous area near the train station, but that was fine. It wasn’t a long walk to the beach or the Place Masséna.

Although we had planned to meet up with LB the following day in Nice, we decided to surprise him. We had the address of the hotel in Cannes where the Newfounders were staying, so we hopped on a train to Cannes and began our stake-out. We didn’t know whether they were still inside the hotel, but we figured they had to drop by at some point before dinner. We set up an observation point on a bench in a plaza near the hotel entrance, and Madeline and I took turns making surveillance passes in front of the hotel lobby to see if we could see any Newfounders. We thought we saw Albert, the group’s tour guide (the same tour guide for our trip back in 2004), but we weren’t sure.

Finally, we spotted the entire tour group departing the hotel, presumably heading to dinner. At this point, we were already quite giddy with excitement, but suddenly our adrenaline jumped tenfold. It was a challenge to follow the group without being seen — we had to be careful to keep our distance and blend in with the locals. It was wicked fun. Although the group took a scenic route through Cannes that made our stalking an even longer adventure, they finally entered into a restaurant. Unfortunately, they filled up the entire interior of it.

Madeline and I decided to eat at the single table outside, and wait for an opportune moment to go in and surprise LB. But the waiters were quite busy and the space inside the restaurant was limited, so we decided not to get in their way. We ordered our own meals (which were absolutely delicious, although we had made the mistake of eating lunch rather late) and waited until after we’d finished to go in. Upon seeing us, LB’s reaction was, “Oh my ****ing Lord.” Mission accomplished.

We spent the evening looking (unsuccessfully) for a geocache in Cannes with LB, Mrs. Mills, and the entire Newfound crew. But it was fun nonetheless. We returned to Nice that evening and spent the next morning lounging on the beach.

After a few bad directions given by Albert, we eventually established a rendezvous point with LB and then went out to lunch in the old city along with a chaperone and a student on the trip. I tried the local specialty, daube niçoise, which was very wine-y. After lunch, we got gelato at Finocchio, renowned for its variety of flavours — I got cinnamon and white chocolate. We concluded our time with LB by (successfully) finding a cache in Nice.

That evening, Madeline headed to the train station to return to Paris. I had only completed one half of my spring break, and it already felt like an eternity. I felt so exhausted that I could have gone back to Paris right then and there, but I was committed to my plans to see more of Italy. First, I needed to do laundry.

I left before sunrise the next day to get the train to Ventimiglia. Once in Italy, I had to retrace my route along the painfully slow coastal railway. Even worse — the weather was cold and rainy, and for some reason our train car had no heat or electricity. Since the coastal railway is comprised largely of tunnels, this meant long stretches of pitch blackness. Oh, and there was nearly an hour delay at one station. Announcements were being made about the delay which I couldn’t make out, but even the Italians had no idea what was going on. I was afraid I needed to change trains, but in the end things seemed to work out.

The next stop in my journey was Siena, an attractive Tuscan city near Florence. Still dominated somewhat by tourists, but less crowded than the bigger cities. The Piazza del Campo was nothing short of impressive, and I managed to climb the Torre del Mangia shortly before it closed. The views of the city and the surrounding countryside were amazing in the late afternoon light. When I reached the top of the tower, I was greeted by two French children who said, “Bonjour,” to me, not expecting me to respond in French. They giggled when I told them I was American. I don’t think they believed me.

The kids, their family and I all got a shock when the bells on top of the tower decided to ring deafeningly loud.

It was funny being with a French family on vacation in Italy — they suddenly felt like my compatriots. It was strangely comforting. As much as the French get a bad rap, I felt more uncomfortable interacting with Italians — not because of my language skills, but because it seemed like the Italians were less likely to conceal their “attitude” and often communicated rather bluntly. I hate to make generalizations, because the bad apples are few and far between (just like in any other culture in the world), but overall my personal interactions weren’t quite as “warm” as I expected in Italy.

Anyway, my experience in Siena was sadly limited due to my timeframe. It seemed like it would’ve been a cool place to spend the night (that’s what Rick Steves says, anyway), but at this point in the trip I was pretty tired of super-touristy cities anyway. I enjoyed the train rides through the green Tuscan countryside, however, weaving in and out of forested thickets and fields covered by golden flowers, with the occasional castle or villa around the corner. On the departing train from Siena, I sat near a couple of Belgian girls who kept code-switching between Dutch and French…pretty cool.

After a very long travel day, I had completely retraced my steps back to Florence, where I arrived rather late in the evening. I stayed at a different hostel this time — it seemed good on paper, but the reality was quite different. It was the epitome of a party hostel, almost all the patrons were obnoxious American college students, and the noise level from their collective squawking was deafening. They all seemed to know each other already, which made things more awkward, and I had to politely decline their invitations to go party at some bar because I needed to get up around 5am the following morning. Of course, I was awoken early when they all came back from a night on the town at 4am.

The manager of the hostel had tricked me into paying extra for Internet access and breakfast by making it sound as if they were included in the basic price. Upon realizing this, I thought I would take advantage of these extra features, but the one computer with Internet access was powered down and password-protected (no one was around to give me the code) and breakfast didn’t start until 8 or 9am (well after I had to leave). However, there was a large bowl of cookies on the front desk, so I helped myself to a generous portion of them for breakfast.

My much-needed respite from the big city came in the form of San Gimignano, a small hilltop village adorned with some impressively huge Medieval stone towers — kind of like 12th Century skyscrapers. I left Florence at the crack of dawn and alighted in Poggibonsi, where I almost missed the bus to San Gimignano (in Italy you can’t seem to buy tickets on the bus, you have to go to a newsstand).

In a bizarre flashback to my time on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, my bus was full of loud Italian teenagers being brought to school. So much for a relaxing morning ride through the Tuscan countryside. That said, my first glimpse of San Gimignano was breathtaking, and it was even greater once I got there. It was early, so the Medieval streets were virtually empty and I felt like I had the whole village to myself.

Whilst waiting for the “Big Tower” (Torre Grossa) to open to visitors, I explored some Medieval wells on the edge of the village. Now they have fish swimming in them. When I headed up the tower, I was the only person at the top. It was a glorious moment of solitude, with the wind blowing across the endless green fields and the rolling hills in the distance.

San Gimignano was beautiful, and it made me regret that I had not explored more of the Italian countryside. But there will always be other trips to Italy, right?

I returned to Florence for one final time, bought a cheap Italian travel magazine to keep me occupied on my next train ride, and hopped on a high-speed train for Naples. Despite all the stress and fatigue of my journey, something happened to me during this train ride, and I just felt intensely happy for a brief, fleeting moment. I haven’t felt that way in years.

I think it was the recognition that all my dreams about places on a map were being realized in front of my eyes. I was in Italy, for crying out loud.

After passing by some incredible scenery — towering Apennines, ancient fortified hilltop cities, awesome rock formations — I arrived in the massive ghetto of a city known as Naples, in the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius.

That’s the view of Vesuvius from Sorrento — to get there, I had to take the Naples commuter rail system for what seemed like an eternity. I had to stand for most of the ride, and all the while I was very aware of where my backpack was. The constant reminders about pickpocketers didn’t help my paranoia.

I could tell that the people in Naples were of a different breed. These were the stereotypical Italians that we Americans think of, with the exaggerated hand gestures, Fonzie-esque speech patterns, and generally “gritty” appearance. One particularly outgoing Italian man decided to strike up a conversation with everyone in his general vicinity, even if they didn’t want to talk. He also began to sing.

When I finally got to Sorrento, it was raining pretty hard. I couldn’t find a map, either, so I had no idea where my hostel was. I trekked back and forth down the length of the city’s narrow pedestrian lanes with my heavy backpack on. Despite being totally lost, there was something soothing about being in the evening rain, with the warm lights from all the tourist shops shimmering on the wet cobblestones.

After finding my hostel, I realized I had no cash so I couldn’t check in. I then had to search for an ATM — specifically, one that accepted American Express. I literally spent hours that evening criss-crossing the city. Finding an ATM was hard enough; I came across three of them before finding one that took my card. Boy was I relieved.

My hard work was rewarded. My hostel in Sorrento was one of the least expensive hostels I’ve stayed in, but it was also by far the nicest hostel I’ve ever stayed in. It was called a “deluxe hostel” and looked a lot more like a hotel, with a huge lobby, well-dressed reception workers, magnetic room keys, huge bathrooms, and marble flooring everywhere. To make things even better, I had an entire 6-person room to myself.

I delighted in Sorrento’s incredible values, getting an extremely filling one-person pizza with plenty of toppings for only 4 Euros that night. I slept like a baby.

Photos:

The Riviera

Siena

San Gimignano

My Mom and I spent the weekend camping near Lake Willoughby in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. On the 12th, we woke up early after a mere few hours of sleep — thunderstorms, downpours, noisy neighbors, and uncomfortable sleeping conditions kept us up most of the night. We also discovered that our new tent isn’t exactly waterproof.

The good thing about the overnight storms is that they cleared away the clouds and brought some gorgeous weather. This was the view of Lake Willoughby’s crystal clear water and Mt. Hor in the morning, just across the street from the campground. Lake Willoughby is a beautiful glacial lake framed by mountains — there’s also a nude beach that we accidentally stumbled upon the day before.

Following an itinerary suggested in “Backroads of New England,” we ascended a dirt road east of the lake. The views of farmland and distant hills around the lake were stunning. Here you can see Wheeler Mountain and the northern end of Lake Willoughby.

No Vermont photo album would be complete without a shot of a dairy cow. My Mom liked the eyes on this one.

We continued along our route towards the village of Island Pond in Brighton. This was the site of the first international railroad junction in the United States (it’s less than 15 miles south of the Canadian border). Despite being in the middle of nowhere, the town’s in much nicer shape than a lot of the villages in the Northeast Kingdom — probably a testament to its former economic heydays. The public beach along the pond was closed (we got there too early), but I snapped this shot of the village across the water.

Only a few minutes after spotting a deer near Island Pond, we saw this young moose in the middle of the road. He retreated into the woods, but not before I could get a nice picture.

Our morning drive then brought us to the Burke Mountain toll road. Talk about quintessential Vermont — the office is in a sugar house, and to pay the toll you just drop your cash into the wooden box at the right.

We drove to the top of the mountain and then climbed the fire tower for an amazing panoramic view of the area. The cool breeze and sunshine made for a particularly tranquil experience. This was the view to the northeast, looking across the Great North Woods, with New Hampshire in the distance.

We hadn’t eaten breakfast in the morning, so on our way south we stopped at a diner in St. Johnsbury for brunch. Very tasty and reasonably priced food. I got “The Heritage,” which came with a small ham-and-broccoli omelette, home fries, and two blueberry pancakes. Needless to say, my mom helped me out with it. In the booth behind her were two local old ladies speaking French.

After crossing the border back into New Hampshire, I snapped this shot of Mt. Lafayette on the approach to Franconia Notch.

I spent the afternoon unpacking and unwinding. We ate supper on the deck for the first time this summer. That’s our rain-soaked tent draped over the railing.

I wanted to get to bed early after such a long day, but first I had to try out my brother’s latest gaming purchase, Red Alert 3. The original games were among my favorite PC strategy games back in the day. My video gaming experiences are sadly few and far between these days, so it was nice to finally play again. I’m a little rusty, but it was still a blast.

Back home in NH. It feels good to be home, even on drizzly, cloudy mornings like this one. Angel is pretty old now but she’s still the same little puppy, and I love her more every day.

After the rain cleared and the sun reappeared, I went outside for some fresh air. Although the weather this week has been kind of crappy, I’ve definitely gotten more sun at home than I did in the previous month in Paris. These daisies, one of the most abundant June wildflowers in NH, are growing in our backyard.

Another typical New Hampshire wildflower that blooms in June, these lupines are opening up in my mom’s garden. My camera has a hard time photographing flowers, so I had to fiddle around with the focus, white balance, and exposure for this result.

My desk. I spent the last week cleaning and organizing my room — this is the most well-organized it’s been in 10 years. It’s amazing what treasures you find when you clean out those old drawers. And you can’t miss the homage to my Paris memories.

Since I’ll be moving to Toronto for graduate school in the fall, I have to apply for a Canadian study permit. My favourite question on the application: “In periods of either peace or war, have you ever been involved in the commission of a war crime or crime against humanity, such as: willful killing, torture, attacks upon, enslavement, starvation or other inhumane acts committed against civilians or prisoners of war; or deportation of civilians?”

We had a big family get-together at our house on the 13th, so I did some vacuuming in preparation.

Madeline somehow managed to finagle her way into her second 12 of 12 in a row. She asked me to go with her to the Plymouth Wal-Mart so we could pick out a GPS to replace the one she lost in Europe.

Snapped this shot at the rotary in Plymouth, looking towards Mt. Stinson. Maybe I’ll hike it again this summer.

We ended up not finding an affordable GPS at Wal-Mart, but we did find some baguettes to alleviate our gastronomical nostalgia. They taste like day-old French bread, but after a few minutes in the oven, they’re decent. We also came across two French-Canadian biker women while looking through the bakery.

Before leaving France, I had promised myself that when I returned home I would get a hot fudge sundae with Reese’s peanut butter cup ice cream at the Big Catch. We headed to the Catch after Wal-Mart and made my dream come true. When the girl was scooping the ice cream, I overheard her say, “Oh my God… there’s like an entire Reese’s in here.” Turns out, there were THREE full, intact peanut butter cups in the sundae, covered by ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream. It was amazing.

I didn’t eat dinner that night.

To burn off some of those sundae calories, I walked up to Sunset Heights at sundown. It was pretty, but I think I left before the best part.

Now that Conan’s on at 11:30, I watch him almost every night. It really sucks that he moved out to LA before I got a chance to see his show in New York, but I’m glad that the feel of the show hasn’t changed at all to accommodate a more “mainsteam” audience. There are still a lot of ridiculous bits. I’m just happy that the show has a bigger budget now, so those ridiculous bits are even more elaborate. I love Coco.

Part 2 of my two-week adventure!

We left off in Gimmelwald, that supremely beautiful and tranquil little Swiss village. Madeline and I got up early in the morning, were served a little breakfast by Walter, and then took the tram back down the valley. We returned to Interlaken and then got on the Golden Pass train towards Montreux.

This was the only leg of the trip that I had already done before (back in April 2007), but it was nice to see the beautiful countryside along the route again. I can’t stress how awesome the train rides in Switzerland are; practically every route offers breathtaking views around every corner. Although we failed to obtain window seats on the train into French Switzerland, the view of Lake Geneva and the Dents du Midi on the approach towards Montreux was even more incredible than I’d remembered.

Unfortunately, our descent into Montreux was interrupted when the train stopped abruptly near a road crossing. We were never really sure exactly what happened, but we gathered that maybe a truck had gotten stuck on the tracks and they had to move it. At any rate, we had to wait almost 30 minutes before we got moving again.

Once in Montreux, we walked along the Quai des Fleurs towards our hostel near the Chateau de Chillon. It was warm and sunny, and plenty of people were enjoying the nice day on the promenade. This is still one of my favourite places in Europe.

It was nice to be able to speak French again, even if just for a day! The Swiss have kind of weird accents, though, that sometimes sound a bit Germanicized. One advantage of their accent is that they usually speak more slowly than the French (especially Parisians). We bought some gruyere cheese, Swiss bread and chocolates for supper and ate on the edge of the lake as the sun set.

The next morning, we got on a train headed back into Italy. We passed through more of French Switzerland, entered back into the German part, went through a mountain tunnel and emerged in a verdant Italian Alpine valley, all in a couple of hours. We retraced our path a little bit when we returned to the Milan train station, where I was asked another question by a Spanish tourist:

“Esto es Milano Centrale?”

Fortunately I understood the question, but why does everyone assume I speak Spanish?!

From Milan we continued on towards Florence, passing from the flat, industrialized plain of northern Italy to the gentle, forested hills of Tuscany. I liked the “green” feeling of Florence (emphasized by the architecture), although, like Venice, the atmosphere was distinctly touristy. Not as crowded as Venice, but there was a ridiculous amount of Americans — Madeline even met some friends from her program at our hostel.

We arrived in the late afternoon so we only had a few hours to really see the city, unfortunately. We traced a route between the major sights, including the beautiful Duomo:

We saw the exterior of the Palazzo Vecchio, the Ponte Vecchio, and tried to see the Giardini di Boboli, but got there too late. Instead, we opted for some delicious gelato. Based on word of mouth, it seems like the gelaterias in Florence are uniformly good, whereas other food is very hit-or-miss. We scored a “miss” at a buffet place near our hostel. It was cheap, but the food was re-heated in a microwave and pretty gross. The service wasn’t particularly friendly, either.

We did get the obligatory view of the city from the Piazza Michelangelo, which was nice. We spent the evening just walking around, passing by a group of kids playing soccer with a dog. The dog honestly thought he was on the same level as the human players and even managed to get the ball a couple of times. It was adorable.

I felt bad that we didn’t really have a chance to soak in all the cultural and historical offerings of Florence. We didn’t have time for museums or anything. I suppose I’d like to go back someday, although I was still a little turned off by the touristiness that seems to pervade all the major Italian cities.

The following morning, our string of good weather finally ran out. We headed towards the coast under grey skies and rain. Despite a misunderstanding of our train-changing schedule (and the discovery that Italian train station clocks are not uniformly accurate), we arrived in Riomaggiore that afternoon. We took an unnecessarily roundabout route to get to our hostel, which turned out to be more of a room-letting agency.

We were given a room up one of the little side streets in the village. It was supposed to have been a shared 4-person room, but we ended up getting a 2-person room, with a TV, kitchenette, and en-suite bathroom — for 18 Euros a night per person! Pretty sweet. I think the woman who gave us the room was Italian-American — maybe she just liked us.

In spite of the rain, I spent a little time exploring the village, with its narrow, steep staircases and numerous lemon groves. I was tempted to just reach out and pick a few lemons for myself. I really liked the vibe of Riomaggiore — touristy, certainly, but not too crowded, and still very “authentic” in a lot of ways. Not to mention how awesome the “organic” layout of the town is.

We found a nice little pizzeria for dinner, and ordered our pizza to go. We brought it to the rocks on the edge of the sea and ate while the sun set over the stormy Mediterranean.

That night, we were awoken by the sounds of drunken tourists at a bar on the street beneath our room. They sounded like young people, and presumably Canadian — they were singing “O Canada” at the top of their lungs. They were even singing it in French, although I could tell they weren’t French-Canadian. Oh, drunk Canucks.

Hoping that the weather would improve for our coastal hike, we were a bit disappointed the following morning when the grey skies were still overhead. Well, at least there was blue sky over the sea. We set off anyway, following the via dell’Amore towards Manarola, the second of the five Cinque Terre villages. We got some tasty pastries for breakfast at “un bar.” Although the Italians do make some nice pastries, they really can’t compete with the variety and deliciousness of French pastries.

Despite warnings that the path between Manarola and the next village, Corniglia, was closed due to dangerous weather conditions, we found the gate open so continued anyway. We arrived in Corniglia without incident, although we did have to climb up 382 stairs to get there. Corniglia is the middle of the 5 villages and consequently the most isolated. It has a decidedly less touristy atmosphere, probably because it doesn’t sit directly on the water, either. We found the village and the adjacent trails full of cats. I’m not sure why.

After Corniglia, the coastal trail became much “rougher” and more difficult, resembling a true hike more than an even, groomed path. The trail passed lemon groves, vineyards, and olive groves, giving us a nice look at the local agriculture. It was also good exercise. When we reached the viewpoint overlooking the fourth village, Vernazza, the sun finally peeked its head out momentarily. The view of Vernazza was just splendid.

Descending into the village, we found some tasty pesto foccaccias for lunch and briefly toured the castle area. The weather was rapidly deterioriating, however, and we decided not to continue on to the fifth and final town, Monterosso. We knew that the last section of the trail was the longest and the most difficult, and we were already pretty tired. Besides, I had heard that Monterosso lacked much of the charm of the other villages. As we got to the Vernazza train station to head back to Riomaggiore, we knew we had made the right decision — it started pouring.

Oddly enough, the rain gave way to blue skies when we got back to Riomaggiore. We went to the rocky beach near the village and watched the huge waves crash along the shore. The tranquility was interrupted when a huge group of American college students came to sunbathe and swim in the freezing water. We made fun of them for a while before returning to our room. Feeling rather exhausted, we decided to take a lengthy nap for the remainder of the afternoon. All of our fast-paced travelling had really caught up with us.

We decided to make use of our kitchenette for dinner, cooking some kind of frozen spaghetti and shrimp dish, which didn’t turn out that great. Oh well. We spent the evening just watching TV and reflecting on how much stuff we’d already done in one week. I wasn’t sure that I could keep going for another week.

Photos:

Montreux

Florence

Cinque Terre – Part I

Cinque Terre – Part II

My last 12 of 12 in Paris. Where has the time gone?

Le petit déjeuner. I like Nutella, but only in moderation — I’ve been a eating a little too much lately, and the appeal starts to wear off after a while. It’s also one of the only foods in the house that isn’t organic.

My first class was French 300 (Grammar and Composition). The theme of today’s class was French cuisine — we watched a mouth-watering cooking show by this guy, my professor Anne-Catherine’s best friend. We also gave reports on regional French specialties (I discussed my experiences with Alasacian tarte flambée and Daube niçoise). I snapped this shot of my professor during our 5-minute break, when a few of my hungry classmates went to the boulangerie.

My “Paris Avant-Gardes” course was next. We watched A Bout de Souffle. Well, not exactly — I had only had about 4 hours sleep the night before, so I accidentally slept through much of the film. I really wanted to see it, too, since the last time was in high school. I managed to get this shot at the end of it.

When I got home around 2pm, I re-heated the piece of the tomato quiche left over from the previous night’s dinner for lunch. Pico was interested.

Unfortunately, this moment prompted an event that pretty much ruined my day. You see, my host mother makes delicious quiche. There’s always some left over, so the first time she made it she offered me to re-heat it for lunch the next day. Every time we’ve had quiche since then (maybe 3 or 4 times), I’ve always asked if I could have some of the leftovers for lunch, and my host mother has always obliged.

When we had the tomato quiche (a new recipe) for dinner, I wasn’t particularly hungry so I didn’t eat that much. My host mother was surprised I didn’t eat more and thought I didn’t like it, despite my reassurances. When I saw the leftovers in the fridge (only one piece), I figured my host mother had already eaten lunch and would’ve wanted me to eat the leftovers.

Later in the day, my host mother, visibly upset, confronted me and told me that she had wanted to eat the quiche for lunch. When I said I was sorry, she replied, “I hope you’re sorry.” It was the first time we’ve ever had any tension of the sort, but it made me feel terrible. If she had wanted me to eat more quiche the night before, why was it a problem if I ate it the day after? It cast a shadow on the rest of my day, and has been weighing on my mind ever since.

The thing that bothers me the most, though, is how she’s never expressed any kind of anger towards me until this point, which in all reality was a rather trivial affair. It makes me suspect that she’s kept any frustrations that she has with me pent up inside, because I can never gauge her mood. But how can she expect me to read her mind? Or am I just worrying for nothing?

The quiche wasn’t even that good when I re-heated it.

When the cloudy, drizzly morning gave way to a sunny late afternoon, I decided to go for a walk along the Canal Saint-Martin between the 10th and the 11th. When I got out of the metro at République, I stumbled upon a massive congregation of Sri Lankan Tamils who were sort of camping out everywhere. I soon discovered that they were protesting the alleged genocide of the Tamil people by the Sri Lankan army.

In the bed photographed above (hidden behind the two men sitting), were two men who have been leading a hunger strike for 35 days. Apparently, the protestors were forced to leave this morning, but the hunger strikers came back in wheelchairs. It’s amazing how much stuff going on in the world we just don’t hear about in the West.

This was my first time walking along the canal. Paris has so many cool things.

I suppose the canal isn’t as well known as a lot of other Paris attractions because it’s located in a “popular” (working class) area of the city (which is essentially the entire eastern half). There’s such a hugely different vibe between this area and, say, the 8th or the 16th, but it always feels much more lively (I also find that the more touristy the area is, the ruder the people are). I liked the brightly colored shops in this view, which reminded me a lot of England.

I walked through the Square Villemin, a nice little park that was bustling with people enjoying the (recently rare) nice weather. These old French women caught my eye. Nobody in the world is as well-dressed as French women, especially Parisians.

I got on the metro around rush hour at a busy Gare de l’Est to go back home. Line 5 direction Place d’Italie, changing at Oberkampf for line 9 direction Mairie de Montreuil. Descente à Charonne.

After dinner, I met up with Madeline at Ecole Militaire to visit the Eiffel Tower. It was her second-to-last night in Paris, so we wanted to do something special. It was our first time up the tower since 2004.

I think we had to wait in line for about 45 minutes (long for a Tuesday night, eh?), but it was well worth it. There’s just something magical about taking the elevator through the iron patchwork of the tower and then seeing the city of lights from the top. We’re now experts at pointing out all of Paris’ landmarks — we could even see the Ferris wheel at the Foire du Trone.

We had to wait a long time for the elevator back down, so we didn’t get to the bottom until around midnight, just as the tower began to sparkle. We relived one of our early nights in the city by buying waffles from the stand across from the tower. Fearing that we might miss the last metro, we ate them while walking back to Ecole Militaire. Messy, but delicious.

Now that I have time to begin recounting my spring break adventures, let’s start at the beginning.

Madeline and I headed to the Gare de Bercy to get our night train to Venice. When we arrived at our compartment, we discovered that it was overflowing with an entire extended family, and decided to install ourselves in the next compartment over instead, which was almost empty, save for an American girl. After introducing ourselves, we discovered that the girl was actually from the University of San Diego and taking classes at the ACCENT Center. What? Talk about a small world.

Even more incredibly, we also realized that she and I had both been on the exact same trip to Chartres back in February, and yet neither of us remembered seeing the other. Crazy.

Fortunately, I managed to sleep reasonably well on the train since I hadn’t slept much the night before. When we arrived in Venice, we walked out of the train station and ate breakfast on the front steps, overlooking the Grand Canal.

We didn’t have a map, so we figured we would just try to wander around in the general direction of St. Mark’s. I suppose we underestimated how much of a labyrinth Venice really is. I can’t count how many times we came to a dead-end on the edge of a canal. At any rate, it was a fun way to explore the city. I was amazed at how the canals really do take the place of roads, full of boats making deliveries to businesses and so forth. And of course, the stereotypical gondolas and their goofy-looking drivers.

I thought Venice was beautiful, but I was very turned off by the crowds of tourists and the overall super-touristy atmosphere. Once we got to the Rialto Bridge, it was difficult to walk anywhere because of the crowds. I suppose it being Easter weekend didn’t help things. The “tourist alley” between the Rialto and St. Mark’s was ridiculous. However, the views across the Grand Canal were just breathtaking.

Since we had booked a hotel in Mestre, the modern part of Venice across the lagoon, we had to take a train back in the afternoon to check in and drop off our stuff. Since our morning walk had been tiring, we also took a cat nap before returning to the old city. We returned to St. Mark’s in the late afternoon (we hadn’t been inside earlier), but unfortunately we discovered that it wasn’t open to visitors because it was Good Friday. Instead, we went up the Campanile for awesome views of the city.

While waiting in line for the Campanile, I was approached by a Spanish woman who asked me if she could buy tickets for St. Mark’s Basilica from the Campanile ticket booth – in Spanish. I understood what she said, but I could only manage a “Si” before thinking to tell her that the church was closed. Oops. If I only had a few more seconds, I would’ve said, “La iglesia está cerrada.” At any rate, this event begs the question — why did she assume I spoke Spanish? Do I look Spanish?

That night, we got pizza at a restaurant somewhat near St. Mark’s. It’s hard to tell if it was “authentic” or not (although the well-dressed Italian waiters create the façade of authenticity), but it tasted good enough. I feel like pizza isn’t particularly hard to perfect, though — so you don’t need to go to Italy to get the best. Our dessert, however, was Italian food at its best — gelato! I got tiramisu and coffee flavors, which actually provided a caffeine boost. That’s good stuff.

The next morning we took the train to Milan, then changed to a train towards the lakes. We were a bit annoyed by the supplemental reservation fee for high-speed Italian trains, which was much higher than the supplement for French trains. Anyway, the train ride along Lake Como was lovely. We got off at Varenna to take the ferry to Bellagio.

This was easily one of my favorite places in Italy. Taking the ferry was lots of fun, admiring the towering mountains around the lake and the little Mediterranean villages. Once we got to Bellagio, we walked along the shore towards some kind of massive lakeside park / garden belonging to an old villa. I think we were supposed to pay to get in, but we found an unguarded path around the back that let us get in without paying. But hey, that’s their fault for making it so easy to get in!

There was a Japanese garden with red maple trees, rose bushes, and all sorts of beautiful flowers. There was a gazeebo with a shiny blue dome that I vowed to convert into my house. It was gorgeous.

We returned to Varenna, explored the village a bit and then headed back to the train station to continue our journey. We had a while to wait, so we killed time by playing “This or that?”, a game that would come to occupy much of our free time during the week.

We got on the train and headed north into the Alps. The warm sunshine gave way to some menacing clouds, but fortunately no rain. We arrived in the small town of Tirano near the Swiss border and walked towards our hotel, enjoying the 360-degree view of mountains. Upon arrival at our hotel, however, we discovered that it was closed. What? We didn’t want a repeat of the Bayonne incident.

I decided to call the hotel, and while I wasn’t hopeful, I was overjoyed when a woman answered and said she would come down to open the door for us. It was certainly an odd place — when we got there, the woman’s family was eating dinner at the hotel restaurant. We had to use the back door to get in and out. We found a supermarket in town and bought a little dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches and chocolate cookies.

We ate dinner in our hotel room while watching Italian TV — a very dramatic, very Italian “Deal or No Deal” as well as a benefit concert for the victims of the L’Aquila earthquake.

The following morning, we took the “Bernina Express” train across the Swiss border. We climbed through the Alps, passing by the breathtaking Lago di Poschiavo before hitting snow. The snow-covered forests were beautiful and, before long, we were even above the treeline, crossing a landscape that looked out-of-this-world.

This other-wordly landscape was interrupted by a few cross-country skiers. Looked like they were having lots of fun. For a slightly more in-depth account of the day’s journey, check out my most recent 12 of 12.

After a brief stop in St. Moritz where I used some very minimal German to order lunch, we began descending through the Alps in the direction of Zurich. The train rides were wonderfully scenic — Swiss villages, farmland, castle ruins, churches, towering mountains, lakes, rivers… what more could you ask for? The architecture was definitely distinct from that in the Italian portion of Switzerland, not to mention the people — more subdued, naturally.

From Zurich we continued on to our final destination of Lucerne, a very nice historic town on the edge of a lake. It definitely had a “green” vibe to it, with lots of hookah-smoking loungers, very small cars, and a CoOp supermarket. Oh, and the smell of marijuana. We had a picnic by the lake for dinner, and returned to our hostel for the night. I was awakened when one of our Kiwi roommates began snoring loud enough to break the sound barrier, but he eventually stopped.

All in all, Madeline and I both got a good impression of Lucerne — it seems to epitomize the laid back lifestyle of the Swiss. They are definitely a quirky people, what with their coockoo clocks, extremely kitschy decorating habits, and their ridiculous variety of German (who the heck says “Grüezi”?), but they seem generally easy-going and happy. I only wish I could have communicated more in German and less in English, but the French-to-German phrasebook I picked up at Monoprix before the trip didn’t help that much in the end.

The next day, I captured this shot of Lucerne’s old town before returning to the train station:

Our train ride towards Interlaken brought us through some more idyllic Swiss countryside — cows, green pastures, waterfalls, and some beautifully pristine lakes. The most beautiful of them all was the Brienzersee, just east of Iterlaken. Its incredible blue-green color was just unreal (and unfortunately didn’t come out in my photos). It was weird returning to Interlaken, the first place on our trip I already knew. Although I was there 2 years ago, I remembered every mountaintop.

From Interlaken, we took a train to Lauterbrunnen, windows open and enjoying the fresh air as we climbed into the mountains. The view of the Lauterbrunnen Valley was amazing — huge snow-covered mountains in the distance, giant cliffs on either side riddled with massive waterfalls. It reminded me a bit of Yosemite. We took a bus to Stechelberg and then a skier-filled lift to Gimmelwald. The lift dropped us right off in this little Swiss mountainside village.

Man, what a beautiful place.

The views of the Alps from Gimmelwald were absolutely overwhelming — the mountains virtually occupied our entire field of vision, and it was impossible to look in any direction without seeing massive snow-covered peaks. In fact, even Gimmelwald had some early spring snow left on the ground, although the weather was perfectly sunny and comfortably in the 60s. We checked into our hotel, the very rustic and creaky, wooden Hotel Mittaghorn run by a slow-moving Swiss octogenarian named Walter. We felt bad for the guy, all alone…

We spent the afternoon walking around Gimmelwald, enjoying the beautiful vistas around every corner.

Gimmelwald is a place frozen in time. Tourism has not quite encroached upon its supreme tranquility. We wanted an afternoon snack, but since there are no convenience stores to speak of, we visited “Esther’s Shop,” which was part of “Esther’s Inn.” We expected a room full of food, but when we climbed the stairs leading to the shop, we were met by Esther herself at the top of the stairs. She showed us a small shelf covered with her goods — jam, cookies, things like that. She assured us that she made everything herself.

We bought some sort of shortbread cookies and ate them on Gimmelwald’s swingset — certainly the most picturesque place I’ve ever… swung. We then walked through the village, passing by farmers in traditional Swiss garb, some fellow explorers, and some local cats enjoying the sunshine. We sat down on a bench to admire the view when we noticed a wild mountain goat running up the hill in front of us.

The goat passed literally 10 feet away from us on his way up the mountain.

We returned to our hotel for dinner, which Walter prepared for us. It was a delicious and filling plate of rice, shrimp, and mixed vegetables, followed by a fruit and ice cream combo for dessert. After dinner, Walter joined us in the dining room and began a conversation. The communication was a bit difficult, however, since Walter’s English was not perfect (nor his hearing). It was somewhat awkward, but we felt bad because the guy obviously must be lonely. He’s been working at this hotel for almost 40 years. At any rate, we thanked him for the delicious dinner and retired.

We fell asleep serenaded by the “baa”s of the sheep next to our hotel.

Photos:

Venice

Italian Lakes and Alps

Tirano to St. Moritz

St. Moritz to Lucerne

Lucerne to Gimmelwald

Gimmelwald

A month ago, USCers invaded Normandy.

At the outset, the weather was not in our favour. Thick fog and rain threatened to jeopardize the operation. It was a long journey to the landing beaches, and everyone was tired due to the early departure. We attempted to sleep, but were inhibited by our tour guide Mirek’s hour-long lecture on the history of Normandy.

As awesome as Mirek is, his tour guide “method” can be quite fatiguing. He tends to talk well beyond people’s attention spans.

Anyway, our first stop was the Caen Memorial, probably one of the most interesting museums I’ve ever visited and certainly the best on World War II. The exhibits do a great job of tracing the events that led to the war, the operations during the war itself, and the aftermath. The museum has a rather chilling atmosphere — the section on the Holocaust is particularly poignant and haunting. Unfortunately, we barely had an hour to visit the exhibits, which was not nearly enough.

We then watched two films about the Normandy invasion. The first was a side-by-side comparison of German and Allied footage, showing the preparations for the invasion and the battles themselves. It was incredibly captivating, especially with a dramatic, Williamsesque musical score. The film culminated with the two sides coming together in a flyover shot of Omaha Beach, cutting between the invasion and footage of the beach today.

The second film was a very informative account of the invasion, the strategic movements of each army and the battles. More sweet music too.

Afterwards, we headed to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery for ourselves.

The beach was beautiful and tranquil, and it was impossibly difficult to imagine the death and violence that had taken place there 65 years earlier. Similarly, it was difficult for the painful reality of the endless rows of crosses to really sink in. All in all, a very emotional place.

I made it my mission to find at least one soldier from New Hampshire, which I thought would take forever. As soon as I made this vow, however, the very first cross I saw was for someone from NH. Quelle coincidence.

After our visit, we drove through some lovely Norman countryside on our way into Brittany and Saint-Malo. I was happy to return to this area, as it was (and is) one of my favourite parts of France. A few of us ate dinner at a nice creperie, where I had a “galette complete” for my main course and a delicious crepe with apple cider-flavored ice cream for dessert. Breton food, mmm mmm.

That night, we walked out to the Grand Bé, a small island accessible at low tide that overlooks the city . Although the tide was coming in and the footpath to the island wasn’t far from water’s edge, we ignored the warning signs and enjoyed the view and the darkness on the island. We made sure not to spend too much time there, heading back to our hotel after stopping for a little bit in a nice rustic bar.

The next morning was rainy and grey, making for a somewhat less enjoyable tour of the city walls. I managed to score major brownie points when Mirek asked what the 7 Celtic nations are and I gave them all. I have no life.

I was thrilled about our next stop — Dinan — as it’s one of my favourite little towns in France. The wonderfully preserved architecture, especially on the “Rue du Petit Fort,” my favourite street in France, is so fairy tale-esque. I hyped it by referring to it as “The Beauty and the Beast Street,” and I don’t think my friends were disappointed.

For lunch, we hit up yet another creperie. Whilst eating, the sky finally cleared up and gave to way to some beautiful spring weather. We spent the rest of our time in Dinan visiting a little park / zoo with deer and some colorful but aggressive birds.

The group returned to Saint-Malo for the afternoon, which turned out to be wonderfully relaxing. We spent most of the day on the beach and on the rocks, taking in the sun (and dipping our feet in the frigid water). The Emerald Coast was gorgeous.

Our group dinner that night was amazing. I regretted not ordering the impressive seafood platter for my appetizer, but I did get my first taste of foie gras instead. Pretty good, but maybe a little overrated. That much fat definitely isn’t necessary. My main course, however, was a delicious melange of fish, scallops, and mashed potatoes (both regular and purple!) Made me miss New England food. We also had some good Breton Cola to go with it.

The highlight of dinner, however, was Sylvie’s “bonanza” (or was it “extravaganza”?) dessert. It was a surprise to all of us, but it didn’t disappoint. The dish was essentially a sampler with raspberry sorbet, chocolate mousse, fig ice cream, and creme brulee. Wonderfully delicious.

The following day we headed to Mont Saint-Michel. Sadly, my favourite thing about the place — the impressive view as you approach — was ruined by some heavy morning fog. It was Palm Sunday, so we had to tour the abbey before the hordes of tourists and pilgrims arrived. I would have rather spent more time exploring the village and surrounding areas than the abbey itself, which I find rather underwhelming.

I did end up having some time to eat lunch in a nice little park under the sun. By the time we left, the fog had cleared and we got a great view of the Mont:

All in all, a nice weekend trip and definitely more relaxing than our trip to Provence. I love the Norman and Breton countryside, but I’m hesitant about applying to those regions for my teaching assistantship in 2010-2011; the constant rain and greyness puts me off a bit.

Photos:

Normandy

Saint-Malo

Dinan