We arrived in Nantes, unpacked, handed out unlikely gifts to my mum (who doesn’t like Hello Kitty hair accessories?), had coffee, split the dirty laundry between the laundromat and my mum’s washing machine, had more coffee, bit into familiar yet suddenly exotic food and textures, tried to sleep and eventually dozed off at weird hours.
I created a 中国 folder on my phone and hibernated Baidu, Zhifubao and Dianping.
Feng checked his Gmail account for the first time in a month—he’s doing China hardcore, without a VPN.
As for Mark, he probably rediscovered Snapchat and the Grade 8 group because he always seems to be sitting on the couch, a baguette sandwich in one hand, phone in the other, earbuds in, a knowing smile on his lips.
It’s exciting to arrive somewhere. Tiring, but exciting. Admittedly, China was a hell of a lot more exciting than France, but France is way more comfortable for me than Canada.
And now what?
Mark and I slipped back into our French life while Feng resumed the version of French life he knows. I picked up Mark’s brand-new French passport while Feng indulged in French delicacies—that would be his beloved kebab restaurant a block away, not a platter of cheese in a bistro. The guys had coffee; I went to buy some fish for dinner. We spent the first 48 hours coming and going without really going anywhere in particular.
Then we planned a beach trip because we can’t stay put.
La Baule, I decided. It was the closest seaside town, and Feng was leaving the following day. He had never been, so I briefed him.
“Mark used to call it ‘check this car out’ because the main avenue is lined with fancy rides. Also, bring your own drinks, it’s crazy expensive. And you’ll get stared at with much less kindness than I did in Shenyang because they don’t want us here.”
“They?”
“The rich people with fancy houses. This isn’t communist China—we’re white, we have social classes, remember? Don’t mind them, it’s a public beach.”
But I briefed him for nothing. The following morning, I went to the dentist for my twice-yearly checkup. He was also taking the 1:09 p.m. train to La Baule because he lives there, so he was remarkably efficient. We were on time at the station, but the train wasn’t. Some mysterious delay was affecting all the trains to La Baule.
“What else do we have around 1 p.m.?” I asked, reading the departure board as if it were a menu and the restaurant had run out of my favourite dessert. “Oh, 1:04 p.m. to Saint-Gilles. Perfect.”
We had dressed for La Baule’s posh atmosphere—of course, we had packed a thermos of coffee—and here we were instead, heading for the no-fuss sardine capital of Vendée, where anything goes.
Frankly, I like Saint-Gilles a lot more than La Baule.
It felt like the end of summer. Temperatures were noticeably lower than during the various heatwaves, but still perfectly normal for France in August. The main difference was the general mood. The July carelessness was mostly gone, and I’m willing to bet most beachgoers were physically on the sand but mentally projecting themselves into September—back to school, back to work, back to real life.
The steps felt heavier, the smiles on sun-tired faces less happy, and an unusual number of people were just sitting quietly facing the sea, as if saying goodbye.
It felt like the bittersweet atmosphere of summer winding down by the sea.
And the sea was going too, receding lower and lower, leaving the sand glossy and mirror-like, reflecting the sky and all of us walking around.
I hate to see it end—all of it. Scratch that, I hate endings.
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