The South of Vendee

Ruins that don’t “ruin” anything, aren’t really ruins at all. They are beautiful. Timeless, in the most destructive essence, which fatefully choose what buildings, rather what parts of buildings, would remain for us to see. l’Abbaye Maillezais stands before us, intact enough to let us imagine what life was like for benedictine monks in the 989 a.d.

Like with most of our weekend journeys we are following student guides from the university’s tourism program. Mathilde stands in front of us telling the story of days past. She carefully narrates the regions history, but I admit she has the best possible assistance. 

The amazing landscape is the perfect sidekick. It’s the mesmerizing thing about monuments and beautiful landscapes. No matter what your mission is, tourism, photography, or videography, the job is much easier. The real work was done long before when abbey and cathedral were constructed. All we had to do was show up, smile and enjoy.

It only everything were this easy.

Water and green marsh splashes from the stroke of my oar directly until my lap. Sinyi laughs at me, while Yen-Jung yells: “Wrong way! You go the wrong way!”

“No! It’s your side. You’re not rowing hard enough!”

We are in the wonderful wilderness of Venise Verte, which a 38 mile wet marsh stream which is part of the second largest marshland in all of France.  We split into two boats to conduct our adventure, and rowed our ways through green waters. Something about being in this wilderness is therapeutic. Cows graze in a nearby field. A light rain falls upon us, as our boat slowly moves up stream. The only sound is my oar touching down into the waters.

“In the early as the 4th century these monks built many abbeys on the banks and the islands of the Marais. Can you hear me!?” yells Maxime.

“Yes!” Sinyi responds.

“Ok good. Because I am going to quiz you later!”

It was raining by the time we reached the abbey Nieul Sur l’Autize. Thankfully, it was much better preserved than the Maillezais, and we were able to stay inside for the majority of the tour. Maylis explains the abbey’s history while the interactive room lights up the past. 

There are videos, holograms and interactive videos throughout the tour to demonstrate what life was like for the monks of Nieul Sur l’Autize. I imagine their daily lives were much different from ours. Daily monk duties, and the occasional religious war threatening to destroy your home seems a bit stressful, but still, they were people. After a long day, and with a fresh falling rain, there is only one thing to do. Sleep. I like to think they thought the same.

All the small things

A small black dog runs along the boardwalk. He stops to wag his tongue, officially welcoming us to La Chaume and Les Sables d’Olonne. There is an entire Atlantic Ocean stretching further than my eyes can see, but today it seems that only the small things capture my attention. That silly black boardwalk dog, and now the lighthouse which from this distance seems to fit between my fingers. 

 

Even as Laura and Marine, our student tour guides, give us details I notice that it’s the petite bits of information that make their presentation interesting. 

 

“Prieuré Saint-Nicolas was established by the Benedictine monks in the 12th century, but was sacked during the religious wars,” says Marine.

I am captivated until something smaller finds my attention. It is a sign that clearly says to not take photos. 

 

There used to be a small bridge connecting La Chaume and Les Sables, but it was destroyed by a storm. The only way to cross the water is taking the shortest boat ride of my life. It takes less than a two minutes, but is completely worth the view. 

 

Even as we head to the beach I can’t help wondering why they simply don’t rebuild the bridge. They could ultimately save money, time, and fuel. Thankfully, my attention diverts time a more worthy cause. It is a small neon ball. It flies through the air, paddle-to-paddle, as we play beach ping pong.

 

I began to think that my thoughts on small things are a bit obsessive until we reached La Rue D’Enfer. It is literally the narrowest street in the world. I soon found out how small it was when my broad shoulders were too wide to pass through. However, it seems the smallest exchange student of us all has no trouble passing through. It was a sign that my thoughts were meant to be.
 

The walls of l'île Penotte have been a personal canvass for Danièle Arnaud-Aubin since 1997. Some only see small sea shells when walking along the beaches in Les Sables, but she envisions something more. She takes all the small things to make beautiful collages depicting ancient stories and legends. 

 

Our guides stop into a bike shop to rent two rosalie a pedales, which are four-seater bikes. The weather is tranquil, and a nice beachfront bike ride is a perfect way to relax. However, the easy going joyride quickly turns into a race. We whizz pass elderly couples and families laughing hilariously. Everything is going so fast, but in the midst of the chaos something catches my. It is the largest fake ice cream cone I have ever seen. 

 

We stand in front of the shop after the race, reflecting on our trip to Les Sables. There are monuments. Then, there are moments. They can be some of the smallest details that combine to comprise our memories, and ultimately remind us of a wonderful day.

Le Tigre

It is always interesting how sounds can create silence. Atlantic Ocean waves wash smoothly unto the sandy beaches and marsh, as elderly couples and youth admire nature. Sure, we can hear the sound of water, and perhaps even the rustling of tree branches in the breeze, but somehow, quite naturally, there is silence.

We are in Saint-Vincent Sur Jard visiting the house of Georges Clemenceau, who was an important figure in French history and a native of Vendée. He was twice Prime Minister of France, in addition to being a journalist and physician,  and he led in the closing years of World War 1 as one of the key figures who created Treaty of Versailles. 

He spent the last 10 years of his life here because he wanted to though the ocean view was peaceful. I see why he chose this place. On a day like today, I can imagine how tranquil the silence was to him.

“Smileeeee!” says Sinyi. The Taiwanese exchange student has a camera clasped in her tiny fingers and pointed directly at my face. 

“You have to smile in the camera!”

“I don’t like smiling for cameras. It’s pretentious.”

“What? You a bizarre boy!”

A house which once hosted esteemed delegates and foreign ambassadors has been overrun by foreign exchange students, but even with this sudden arrival of modernitym la Maison de Clemenceau commands our attention.

We listen in admiration as the tour guide discusses Clemenceau's life.  He was nicknamed “Le Tigre” for his fierce attitude towards politics and reputation as a hunter. Throughout the house are remnants of his animal nature, but also relics from an astounding life.

We walk into the surrounding gardens ,which happened to be designed by Claude Monet. The historic home, the artistic foliage, and the beautiful weather are too much. In the middle of it all is a large bust of Clemenceau. He is prominent with an unflinching focus on the Atlantic waters. This was his home. It’s as if he never left. 

 I genuinely smile, and turn to Sinyi.

 

“Ok. Now you can take a photo.”

Bradley, Bradlé and Brad Pitt

My mother named me after Bradley Carlton. He was her favorite character from the American soap opera Young and the Restless.

Bradley Carlton from CBS's The Young and the Restless

            I don’t think my life is anywhere near as dramatic as a show filled with romantic plot twists, but having the same name as an 80’s daytime television star has made meeting new people very interesting. 

           As far as I know, "Bradley" is a pretty American name, and I never had a reason to consider it exotic. “Brad-lee” is how I’ve always heard it pronounced, but things have changed since arriving in La Roche-Sur-Yon. I have become a completely different person. No matter how many times I say "Bradley" I am always called Bradlé.
 
            It was bit confusing at first until I realized I was doing the exact same thing to every single French name. Amélie (Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain) stars Audrey Tatou and is one of the most popular french films in the world. Every time I say I am a fan of “Aud-ree” people stare at me and claim they have never heard of her, until someone very kindly corrects me.

   

            “He means “Audray Tattoo.”

“Ah! Voila! C’est Audrey! I like zis film very much!”  

I had just become content with being Bradlé when I met a man who tried to make things easier with one simple question.

   

“Alors, it is Bradlé or Bradley?”

            “Umm...well Bradley is how we say in the States”

            “Ah, umm ok, Bradleeeee...uhhh.”

            The sight of his mouth straining to pronounce my name ‘correctly’ was as depressing as it was humorous. I didn’t want to trouble him, or anyone for that matter, so to make things I told him to call me “Brad”.

            “Bread...Bret?”

            “No, Brad....like Brad Pitt.”

            “Ouais! Brad Pitt! Yes, you are Brad Pitt!”

            “No,no...Ok.Yes...I am Brad Pitt...”

Brad Pitt in Ocean's 11

          On normal days, I am plain ol’ Bradley from Texas. I like to eat apples with a knife and play guitar. In my more recent French days I am Bradlé. I wear a scarf and eat kebab. But every now and then, when all communication and linguistics fail, I am Brad Pitt. I use an actor's fame to meet people.