Sunday, September 22, 2024

Treasure Island

Ile de Ré is essentially the French Martha's Vineyard.  There are a handful of charming villages with classic central places (a café, a bakery, a few small shops).  Much of the land remains agricultural, mostly given over to grapes.  The coast is at once both beautiful and fierce -- the long sandy beaches are punctuated by limestone cliffs and various rocky layers of seabed that emerge at low tide, and the winds and currents can generate formidable square wave patterns.  

A smallish year-round population of retirees, local business owners, and laborers includes many families with deep island roots, still selling oysters and harvesting sea salt.  There are $5 million second homes down the street from family campgrounds with ball courts; there are luxury boutiques with grotesquely expensive purses close to deteriorating Nazi lookout bunkers.  During summer everywhere is at max capacity, with roughly 200,000 tourists that cannot get enough of the artisanal ice cream and/or riding bikes incredibly slowly down the middle of the road.

It is a low-lying, windswept, and (despite the tourists) rather quiet place.  In addition to the abundant shellfish, an early attraction was the natural predisposition for salt harvesting.  There are great swaths of tidal marsh where shallow pools gradually evaporate at low tide.  While today it's merely tasty and full of minerals, salt in the Middle Ages was scarce and in high demand, and with a bit of engineering, humans maximized the yield.  Thus did La Rochelle become France's biggest port, and its citizens leveraged significant political and religious autonomy.  Salt from the island is still a coveted commodity, sold across France for about 20 times the usual price.

There is a scenic bike path that winds through the salt marshes near Loix, in the farthest corner of the island.  The cool autumn evenings and waning daylight have tinged the leaves.  We cycled past yellowing vineyards, entered the muted gray silt and sere-blond grasses of the marsh, dotted with white seagulls and the occasional balletic egret.  Rich, red-purple glasswort(?) bearded the pond-grid.  And "flowers" of salt imperceptibly crystallized, molecule by molecule, drawn from the sea by the sun and wind. 


salt marsh


The berms of clay-soil divide the water, and gravity carries it into increasingly salty solution 


A lot of the bunker graffiti promotes "Save the Big Fat Whales"


crazy guy, crazy sunset


low tide sunset is rough on the toes but easy on the eyes




Sunday, September 15, 2024

Rochelle, Rochelle

One of our conversation starters the first day of school last week was, "When did you arrive in La Rochelle?"  The eight Ukrainians that make up half the class all arrived in 2022; the three American undergrads all arrived a week ago; two Afghan nurses have been here a semester already; the nice Brazilian guy got here in summer.  Even though I technically arrived in March, it is only very recently that I've stayed for two consecutive weeks.  Jean-François and I have taken a grand total of one long walk in the city.  So in many ways, I still feel like a new arrival.

I am piecing the place together with my bicycle commute: 8 miles traversing two cute villages, a longish bridge almost invariably howling with wind, the industrial exurbs of the commercial harbor and airport, and finally the charming and tourist-choked 17th-century cobblestone streets of the city center and old harbor, the far side on which the university sits.  Sweaty and bedraggled, I eat some cheese, stare at sailboats for a few minutes, and try to remember what one of my favorite-sounding words -- presque -- means.  ("Almost.")

The core of the old city is actually pretty compact, but the several basins and channels it clusters around imbue a sense of expansiveness, extending the amount of "coastline" and open space.  It's difficult to believe only about 75,000 people live here; there are countless festivals and cultural events, a big aquarium, Jacques Cousteau's old boat, and seemingly more bakeries than I could ever visit.  At least right now while the weather is nice, the sidewalk and quayside bars and restaurants are vibrant, the medieval towers guarding the harbor entrance tranquilly sun themselves, and a contented student awaits her companion for an aperitif as the sun fades toward the equinox.


Clairey's first day of school


my lunch spot


the prettiest part of the commute


downtown