Postcard from France

Gravel crunches beneath my feet: slick, granite pebbles that are modest versions of the tremendous boulders which dot the coastline.  The sea is grey-blue this morning, a color which reminds me of my grandmother's eyes and faded hydrangeas.  A group of aerobic swimmers wearing santa hats gesticulate in the frigid water, and as they move from a line to a circular formation they laugh and wave and bob with the rhythm of the tide.

It is December, which is unusual because I am only ever in the coastal town of Trégastel, France in the summer.  The weather is a touch cooler and the sky darkens earlier, but aside from this I notice only a page turn difference in the seasons.  Christmas lights are strung messily around windows and doors, and advertisements for yule log cakes are posted around our hotel.  Daniel and Sylvie, the proprietors of l'Hôtel Beausejour, are old friends of my mother.  She is the godmother to their children, and was a regular at the hotel bar in the summers of the seventies.  

For breakfast we devour an array of fresh breads baked by Sylvie with local jams and sweet fruits served on traditional Bretagne painted plates.  The coffee is frothy and strong and steams in mugs that look like bowls, and tangy, crisp orange juice squeezed by Sylvie just moments earlier is poured in front of us.  

We spend our day exploring the coast and running errands with my ninety-five year old grandmother who has swollen feet but giggles when merde slips from her lips.  She  cannot put her finger on why she has lived so long, for she was always the sickly one in the family.  My parents and I, though, see an intensity in her that is only lessened by her poor hearing.  She shuffles around her nursing home cracking jokes about the other old people and the undercooked food.  

When we leave Trégastel the day after Christmas my Mami Georgette squeezes us firmly.  It will be six months before we see her again.  

We have an evening in Paris and dine at a local restaurant which has become one of our favorites.  You must step through a heavy red curtain into the intimate place which is illuminated on all sides by dirty mirrors and brass lights.  I drink too much red wine and eat cheap steak-frîtes with thyme that burns on the plate.  After the meal, our taxi driver lets us out on the Champs-Elysées so we can admire Paris's Christmas decor.  The city of lights shines before us, proud and strong and beautiful in the black night.  The stars are in the city, not the sky.