A Mad Dog in Bretagne

Part II
Those Who Cannot Remember The Past Just Weren’t Reading The Guide Book

by Mad Dog


The English Channel doesn’t only exist to look at, sail in, fish in, and swim in, it’s God’s way of keeping the peace.
     Saint-Malo is a small city of about 50,000 people (75,000 metric) which grows to about 200,000 (or 450 degrees Fahrenheit) during the summer months when the French abandon the hot, crowded cities to spend quality time at the hot, crowded beach. It’s on the Côte Emeraude, the Emerald Coast, so named because of the color of the drinking water. Just kidding. The drinking water’s fine, it’s the English Channel that’s a beautiful blue-green.

     The English Channel doesn’t only exist to look at, sail in, fish in, and swim in, it’s God’s way of keeping the peace, otherwise the Hundred Years War would still be going on, mostly because the French and English would be fighting over the name. Or something equally as silly. The French and English, you see, always need something to fight about. They’re like cats and dogs, except they can’t even agree on who are the cats and who are the dogs.

    (NOTE: Do not confuse this English Channel with the English Channel on cable TV in the United States that shows reruns of Monty Python, Benny Hill, C-SPAN [Crazy Silly Parliament And Nobles], and the Westminster Dog Show. It’s easy to tell the difference: the TV network isn’t as clean as the channel between England and France, but such is the nature of English comedy.)



Unlike in the United States, they wisely reused the old stones to rebuild, so the old blends in with the new, much like newcomers to Boca Raton.
     St-Malo was first settled in the 6th century by a Welsh monk. It’s called the Cité Corsaire, or City of Pirates, because they used it for a staging area in the 1700’s. This history lingers today in the form of souvenir vendors who, lucky for me, mostly hibernate during the winter. St-Malo was also the home of Chateaubriand (the writer, not the steak) and Jacques Cartier (who stumbled across Canada in 1534 while looking for Asia).

     As with most European cities, it’s old. In Europe no one pays attention to a chateaux or church that’s newer than, say, the 13th century. In French such upstarts are referred to as nouveau. But St-Malo looks older than it actually is. During World War II—or the War Where We Saved Their Asses—80% of St-Malo was destroyed. Unlike in the United States where we would have taken that opportunity to rebuild it as plywood condos, shopping centers, and parking lots, they wisely reused the old stones to rebuild, so the old blends in with the new, much like newcomers to Boca Raton.



I picture them sitting around drinking a glass of wine and feeling totally inspired: "I bet we can get paid and have hours of amusement watching this American bumble around."
     The apartment I’m renting is downstairs in a 100-year-old Victorian house right on the water. In front of the house is a digue, a concrete promenade which acts as a seawall, a good thing since the tides here are the highest in Europe. Maybe the world. It depends on who you ask. Like the tidbit that they filmed The Vikings with Kirk Douglas at Fort La Latte, this is a fact everyone volunteers. At low tide there must be 100 yards of sandy beach out front; at high tide the waves can break over the digue. The ocean isn’t very subtle here.

     It’s a nice apartment, with a living room, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a tinier bathroom. It’s bigger than a lot of small apartments in San Francisco and half to one-third the price. Well, in the off-season, anyway. During the summer they charge more than my monthly rent each week. The owners are friends of Vincent’s and his mother, so they offered me the cheap rent. I picture them sitting around drinking a glass of wine and feeling totally inspired: "I bet we can get paid and have hours of amusement watching this American bumble around."

     How right they were.

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