Life slowly returns to the norm. After a weekend glued to the news feed and radio and what’s not, Monday was yet another day at work and we went about our days as usual. There are raids taking place all over the country and just this morning, a pretty massive operation took place just north of Paris which took out a few more persons who had intended to cause more harm if they had been able to. Some undoubtedly feel unsafe to wander the streets at the moment, others less so, because we don’t want to live our lives dictated by fear.
The French tricolours are on display everywhere. There’s something oddly soothing in seeing these symbolic colours at public spaces, a reminder of solidarity and that we are going to weather this turbulent time together, emerging with resilient spirits. These past few days have seen the motto of Paris – “Fluctuat nec mergitur”, tossed by the waves but does not sink – being evoked time and time again. How apt.
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Shades of crimson and golden and the hues in between… they are exquisitely beautiful and yet, I am not photographing enough of Paris in its autumn colours. I could think of many spots which I should go but I am paralysed by an inertia anchored by a strange lethargy that I couldn’t quite put my fingers on. With some encouragement from F, we went out for a stroll, breathing in the crisp, chilled air of a November evening.
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I never knew Musée de l’Homme in its past incarnation. For as long as I can remember – well, six years apparently – it has been closed for renovation. Unbeknownst to me, I have actually seen a good portion of its (former) collection of Asian, African, American and Oceanian ethnography appropriated to fill the legacy project of a certain Monsieur Chirac. How lucky for Musée du Quai Branly and what uncertain time it left Musée de l’Homme, as its European ethnographic collection was also packed away to Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée (MuCEM) in Marseille.
From emptying corridors came opportunity to change its mission. Musée de l’Homme evolved and is making a come back with fresh look and a restart. Housed within Palais de Chaillot, I need not have to emphasise what great view it has of the Eiffel Tower, do I? Thanks to my friend Céline, F and I got a sneak peak of it today before the museum opens its door to the public on Saturday, 17 October, and for the first three days, entry to the museum will be free.
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I prowled around the passages couverts from time to time but clearly I haven’t explored enough of them. In the 2ème, between rue de Palestro and rue Dussoubs, lies two passages briefly-separated by rue Saint-Denis: Passage Bourg l’Abbé and Passage du Grand Cerf. Built just three years apart in early 19th century, they have been well-preserved and a delight to visit.
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I had not thought, when we left for our weekend in Brittany, that we would ended up in Morlaix, even if just for a couple of hours. It is one of those small French town that I’ve heard of but never really curious enough to Google, never mind planning a visit. Still, since we have to go through the area on our way back to Brest from Saint Samson anyway, why not take a look, right?
This medieval town certainly looks the part. Cobblestone streets, winding alleys, steep stairs, brightly-painted half-timbered houses, old churches and a viaduct all come together to form a picturesque historic centre amidst the often grey Breton skies. I also learned that its port was once of great importance, given the pirates were busy raiding from here, not to mention there were bustling linen and tobacco trades going. There are some rather distinguished buildings lining the port area.
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It is a given that I cannot head to Brittany without my runners or hiking boots in the bag. F and his buddy C are always looking for trails they can walk, and there are certainly plenty of them around Brest and its environs. Admittedly, I quite like these picturesque chemins côtiers too, it’s just that I’m often trailing behind them because (1) I stop all the time to take photos, and (2) the boys have longer steps that my short legs can’t quite catch up with.
The trail from the Fort du Dellec to the Pointe du Petit Minou (how cute are the names?) is a relatively short one compared to most that we do. It take about two hours to do a return trip, and C often even jogs here. If there is such a lovely jogging space nearer to our place, perhaps I could be motivated to run more often too. Or not. :p
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F and I were up at an ungodly hour – or what felt like it, since I got home near 1am after a week of work trip away – yesterday morning to kick start our long weekend trip in Brittany. The train from Gare Montparnasse took us to Dol-de-Bretagne in just under 3 hours, and a time-coordinated bus was waiting outside the train station (slightly to the right) to take us to Mont St Michel in 30 minutes.
On arrival, we headed to the visitors’ information centre, where free lockers are available for safe-guarding our main luggage for the trip and relieved us from having to drag it everywhere with us. A 1-euro coin will do the trick in locking up the door, which you can retrieve when you return the key later on. Time to make our way to the famous abbey-and-fortress-on-a-large-rock, and we opted for a walk instead of queuing up for the free shuttle; anyone feeling fancy could take a horse-powered carriage!
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As a mausoleum goes, the Panthéon is a gorgeous one. Recently, four heroes and heroines of the Resistance were newly interred by the President of the Republic – although two of them were symbolic interments – and as part of the celebration, the Panthéon was free to visit over a few days. We took advantage of it to visit the building itself, rather than jostling through the long queues at the crypt.
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Despite my propensity to peek into churches, big or small, as I come across them, for some reason, I have never stepped into the Saint Étienne du Mont. Semi-hidden in the shadow of the Panthéon, the church, or rather its steps, is becoming pretty well-known after Gil set off in vintage car for his adventures in Midnight in Paris. Shall we pop over for a quick visit?
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It’s late April. Bar the blooming magnolias, cherry blossoms and daffodils, there hasn’t been quite as much splashes of colour as I’d come to expect at this time of the year. Even many trees are still fairly bare despite the relatively mild weather. It seems the longer I live in Europe, the harder time I have in deciphering the changing season. Or is my memory too kind to the past?
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