France France France-y France.
It was 3am when we left for the airport. Sleepy but excited I checked my ticket: we were flying into Brest. Snigger. As we wound through the dark streets of Marrakech we passed dozens of men in white robes heading out to pray. How do they do that every morning?! Too early!
But Morocco wasn’t finished with me yet. As time went by my stomach became more and more rebellious until, as the passengers lined up to board, I ended up running to the nearest bin and vomiting in front of all my plane buddies. Class. I had hoped to escape without a second tummy bug, but I wasn’t so lucky.
Two and a half hours later we landed in Brittany, the land of the Bretons, the stomping ground of Astérix and Obelix. The street signs are all written in both French and Breton which is pretty cool and all the animals (mostly cows and horses) are crazy big! Nothing was mentioned as my entry was stamped a day before my visa date. So I’m just going to assume I’m not illegal.
There’s an old French saying that potatoes are for the pigs and scraps are for the Bretons, they have a rather unrefined, backwater stigma which is actually pretty awesome. Except when you’re given bread and butter with so much salt you can hardly finish. But so much cheese. Mmmh…
I’m staying in a tiny town near a cute little beach where every hour the local church bells ring the time, and even toll once on the half hour. We eat mussels and Breton crêpes and stare hopefully out the window, praying that it wont rain.
My French is slowly improving but even here people are quick to speak English once they hear my accent. It’s funny because in the stores they’ll ask their co-worker how to say something in English and I’m standing there like “I understand what you’re saying, just speak in French!”
Here are some pictures of the local beach:
the little squid 