So after Paris we decided we needed a break and opted for the somewhat chichi beach town of La Baule on the west coast (technically Loire, but everyone there considers it Brittany). There we did very little except, as intended, sit around.
After a couple of days, we shot back across the country to Dijon, where we discovered there is not, in fact, a mustard museum. There is though a creepy, yet mustardless, art museum and a generally charming air.
All our pictures from France are finally on flickr.
I would be willing to bet the remainder of my jar of Nutella that I’m the only person
reading this who’s on a train to Luxembourg. (And even if I’m not, all that’s left in the Nutella jar is the stuff stuck to the sides that I smeared around with my fingers SUCKERS.) I’ve got about an hour and 45 minutes to try to write as much as I can, but I’m still two weeks and three countries behind. I think I’m going to have to accept the fact that once per week is the most I’ll be able to post updates, if I’m lucky. But while I’m rolling through the surprisingly lovely Moselle valley, let me tell you about Paris.
I’ll start with a confession. When the Eurostar pulled into Paris’s Gare du Nord, it marked the first time that I’ve ever been to a country in which the primary language isn’t English. And I’m 35 years old. If I weren’t married I wouldn’t admit that out of fear that I’d never be able to get a date. More… »
I’m sitting on a tiny two-foot-wide balcony over a side street in the resort town of La Baule, France, and if I lean dangerously over the flower box I can just see a bit of the Atlantic through the trees down the lane, past the heads of the stylish French tourists and their even more stylish dogs. It’s beautifully sunny but cool enough that we used the spot I’m sitting in as an open-air fridge last night for a chunk of Petit Breton and €0.67 worth of grocery store paté. But I’m not going to talk about any of that, because due to a mix of being tired and constantly panicked at the fact that no one around me would have any idea what I was saying if I suddenly shouted, “Help! My wife has fallen down a manhole!” I’m now a good two weeks behind on updating this thing. So the next couple of posts are going to be long attempts at getting caught up, starting with our 36 hours in Edinburgh.
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