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.
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