Saturday, April 9, 2011

Déjeuner sur l'herbe

Pond-side in Rennes is exactly like this painting


Today Lucie announced that we were going picnicking at a lake on the outskirts of Rennes. We took our bicycles to get there and I discovered the famous main-drag canal which has been eluding me lo these many months. We biked along through the greenery and the violent yellow mustard fields past the soccer stadium and out of town. Because I don't speak French very well, my littlest host brother thinks I am about two and takes care of me. He told me each time we started up a hill that I would need to pedal harder and then when we stopped he taught me how to lock up my bike. When I was safely installed on my beach towel, he went to join his brother in the water. With regards to the water,
"she is good," and "she does not have cold." She did smell pretty rank, but I said nothing. They submerged themselves alongside a puppy whose owner was asked by a lady on shore if she gave her dog swimming lessons or if it had learned itself...
The family on the blanket next to us was having a bit of a commotion. One girl had forgotten her bathing suit and decided to swim in her bra. However, her mother was afraid she would get burned and made her wear a shirt with it. This seemed decidedly unfair to the girl in question because as I noticed when I opened my eyes after my nap, every other woman in the group was sitting around casually topless eating lunch in the manner that Americans stereotype the French. I heard that was demoded, but apparently not. The girl protested loudly, but was forced into a shirt. Her boyfriend was there eating lunch with the family and I wonder if she was embarrassed. He faced the lake away from the scene and he and shirt girl hurried away to bury each other in the sand and play soccer. The family remained and after four hours they were all the color of lobsters. How could you eat triple cream cheese and chips naked and in public? They weren't the only ones. I was probably wearing the most clothes on the beach aside from the Turkish ladies who had the tastiest looking picnic ever: kabobs in a huge round bowl and three baguettes crammed into a baby carriage.
After I got tired of laying around and being stared at for wearing clothes, I decided to walk around the pound and find out where the bagpipe noises were coming from. A long ways away, a lone man in a kilt was practicing in the shade of a tree. Everyone walking by was giving him the eye. I'll give him credit for actually being pretty good. I suspect that the guy who plays bagpipes each Saturday at the market has been clandestinely hired to improve pedestrian circulation; he is tortuously out of tune. Our pond piper was spot on. Just around the bend from all this were the model boat guys. This is only an occupation for middle aged men. I am not sure why. They stand on shore in wading boots, tensed and concentrated; their boats sail in formation and their pot bellies are surprisingly coordinated too. A little ways off two other "modelistes" sat aloof. They were outfitted in matching British khaki, boots and smart caps. I worried that when I walked by I disrupted their radio transmission. I hope that their fancy matching outfits were specially intended for afternoons with the model yacht. How bizarre.
After the unsupervised teenaged boys with rouge soccer balls, ciggerettes, hooka and foul mouths got to be too much on the beach, I left on a bike ride in the land of cows outside of Rennes. Super green and lots of manure. It is funny how there are petite villages scattered around the city which seem to be in the middle of nowhere, but have bus service to Rennes and are really only about 5 miles out. It is like being in a different world.

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