Redon, France

The van house had made its way from Paris to Redon in a few hours. We stopped on the way and ate at a park. Please follow this stereotype because it is a good and wholesome one: the Spanish always set their tables with knives and spoons on proper sides of the plate, their food is never cold, and the wine glasses sit there just next the water. It was, as it is every meal, a stereotypical Spanish lunch. I poured a glass of water and relaxed. That moment of pouring water was by far the greastest and simplest moment for literary expansion, but now, I digress.

People had always said the French are a peculiar people. In whatever way that statement has been implied I found myself loving the culture, cuisine, and people. France was alright with me. We finished lunch, washed the dishes and resumed the journey, arriving to Redon, later that night.

The next morning I woke up before everyone else and decided to walk. I walked up a steep hill, pretending it was San Franciso. I turned right and circled a cathedral, looked it up and down, and then headed right again. I walked down the hill to Le Poste and mailed post cards, I walked some more, and then, I walked some more. Walking through the cobblestone and narrow street, row houses, old ones, with flower beds on every flat, flowers growing where weeds should be and the river running, cutting it all perfectly in half, I pitied the others. I kept walking and seeing and walking some more. Walking had made me resolute, the act itself, that when I arrive to the States, I will come to my solitary walk as the homesick go home. And when I walk, I will dispose the superfluous and see things as they are, grand and beautiful. I met Thoreau and shook his words, right there and just then.

In the hollow of town behind the grocery hidden on the opposite of a stone wall, I came upon a market and meeting place. Fishes with eyes and open mouths, meat still wet, exposed and unwrapped - the littles bunnies red from no fur, fruits of 7 types of red, 7 types of purple, green, orange, yellow, so fresh the leaflets had not died, vegetables, and dried fruit, bottomless terra cotta pots of licorise and jellybeans, smarties and bowls of olives. I looked from place to place avoiding the meat and chicken and let the memory set in. I walked until I came to the river with house boats parked on the banks. The Norweigen flag was flying from the highest point of the biggest boat.

By the banks of the river there was a rainbow colored kiosk. Children were standing in a file peaking over the shoulders of the one in front and fanning out like a peacok feathers. They waited patiently until a smiling man with a butcher knife raised it to his face and let it drop quickly and sharply. The children flenched and giggled, then ran off with long strands of taffy swinging from their hands and mouths.

The others would soon be ready to go and board the boat for a week or so. I turned around and began to walk back, through the fattening and delicious smell of fresh bread, looking at my shoes touch the smooth stones, I wondered how many miles this was from Sandy Creek - where I had swam and laughed as a child.