Yes, another French beach. One you’ve probably seen before, actually—we were in Les Sables early July. Lovely place, great light, tons of boats if you’re into that, a huge stretch of sand but no crystal-clear water, dolphins or whatever it is that makes people add somewhere to their bucket list.
I didn’t need to take one last seaside trip that late in August, on a stormy day.
Mark didn’t need yet another ice cream or a picture of him standing by the seashell Nosferatu—a local quirk; the whole block is covered in creative seashell murals (… the locals are bored in winter?)
We didn’t have to be here.
Yet we went because we could.
I love salt water, sand and waves. I’m a beach bum, but I’ve learned to survive without the sea. In fact, we toyed with the idea of going to Le Mans, where there’s definitely no beach. I can’t remember how we settled on Les Sables. The train schedule, probably, or maybe the weather.
My mum and Mark took the tram to the train station and I walked. We bought our tickets at the antique machine—35 euros for the three of us, round trip. Then we kept an eye on the departure board because as soon as the platform number appears, exactly 20 minutes before departure, it’s a China-like mad rush to the train.
This is the regional TER, after all, the French version of a Central American chicken bus. These trains don’t go that fast or that far. No live chickens or livestock being taken to market, but tons of bikes, day trippers and kids. There’s no assigned seating, hence the mad rush, but we usually all find a seat, at least when we board at the first stop. For a classier journey, there’s always the high-speed TGV—it’s serious business, assigned seats and all.
But I love the TER because it takes us a hundred kilometers or more away from Nantes. Les Sables and Saint Gilles are even in a different region, and yes, the French can tell the difference. I mean, brioche instead of crêpes, isn’t it obvious?
In France and elsewhere, I go places because I can. I take planes, boats, trains, subways and buses. I walk. I ride bikes.
I’m going places while I still can because in Canada, I’m stuck.
My world has become very small in this huge country up north. It’s hard to get anywhere. It’s expensive too. It’s actually funny—there’s a long list of countries I have explored much more extensively than Canada. I know Ontario pretty well because we did a lot of road trips there. I’ve been to Montreal, Quebec City once, Winnipeg as well… and that’s pretty much it.
You can cross the country by train, but it’s crazy expensive, one of those once-in-a-lifetime journeys. Flying to Vancouver can cost the same as flying to Europe (and yes, I know it’s about the same distance). Greyhound buses used to be handy, but Greyhound is no more.
For a very long time, my dream was to go to Nunavut. For a week or two, obviously, because I don’t do blizzards and way-below-zero temperatures very well. See, I worked with the territorial government for years, translating job offers, education policies, cultural events and more, so I’m weirdly knowledgeable about all things Nunavut, from the art of lighting a qulliq to alcohol and cannabis laws. But unless someone buys me a return ticket, I can’t afford a trip to Nunavut. Maybe if I sneak onto the sealift?
I’m not North American enough to enjoy road trips. I know, this is how you’re supposed to explore Canada. Oh well, you’ll find me on a bus somewhere deep in South America instead.
I can’t even get around Ottawa easily. The public transit network is both expensive and unreliable—and yes, I know what I’m talking about, I took buses for years when I was working downtown. There’s no subway, the light rail is better known for its failures than for actually getting commuters around, and it’s not a walkable city.
I stick to our corner of Ottawa these days. I rarely venture far. Yes, it’s boring.
So that’s why I’m publishing yet another series of photos from a French beach trip.
I went there because I could while I still could.
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