Bastille Day July 14

Imagine a group of your friends, say a dozen, who decide to gather for the Independence Day weekend. What can you picture yourselves doing for fun? A backyard picnic, a long dinner replete with conversation that turns political and escalates into loving discord? Sure thing, very American. Then get up Sunday morning to take a 13 mile hike. Yikes. Three day post Brocéliande hike, and I’m feeling old and American. Our leaders have detailed topographical maps that take us across the stretch of beach at low tide, through woodland paths and down country roads. We picnic courtesy of the delivery ladies bringing our leftovers from last nights’ potluck, and stop to rest on the way home at this old well. As we traipse past the bay alive with yachts sliding by on a fresh breeze, I playfully reproach Agnès for having landlubber friends instead of the seafaring variety. She assures me that she has those friends, too. And the pride, in hindsight, of having managed to complete the challenging trek.

This day requires that I face cultural differences that I know on an intellectual level but find challenging nonetheless. These are folks accustomed to a day in the wilderness, so stepping behind a haystack is the order of the day. I opt to avoid the possibility of my knee going down and not coming back up and wait. When the day ends at the beach where the non-hikers meet us with suits, I am faced with the famous changing act on the beach. Yikes. All of this would have been easy if I were not now built like the typical American. Enough said. The water is simply wonderful, healing and invigorating. The families on weekend are a delight to watch, and we do get home to plumbing, eventually.