Brest, France. The city of today. There was no story to be told from the crisp clean-shaved buildings that resided on the streets. The city was eradicated in World War II and rebuilt via the combination of German efficiency with American aid. To most, it was not the France they expected. It was city replicated from the midst of a picket-fence paper town. Every street was identical to the next. Only in certain alleyways was there any sign of culture or pride; people came and went, trains passed by on rumbling tracks, the buses kept to their planned schedule, and I was bored.
Having had enough of the late 20th century town, I took a train to Quimper. Located two hours from Brest in the bottom of a valley, the city was crowded with broken closes (a walk way between buildings), canals, iron railings, and crooked rooftops. The gothic tower, instigated in 1240 and finished in the 1800s, rose to a bone chilling height so that the width of a football field was need for it to be seen properly. I spent the day eating macaroons, baguettes with cheese and meat, and fifty cent crepes. The sun shone through the gaps of spring trees and blooming bushes as my friend and I hiked up the side of the valley cliff to watch the shades of orange, red, burgundy, crimson and yellow dance on ice particles and copper fields. The conclusion of a delighted day came calmly as I pressed flowers into books and watching country sides pass as the train slowly raddled along its ordinary path to the perfectly modern Brest; to the temporary dock of my temporary home.