Frehel Diaries: What a Difference a Crepe Makes
He drops me off across the street from the hotel with barely a word between us. He brusquely throws an "A bientot" out the window and walk across to the pay phone. I see him watch me to go the pay phone so I wave him off in the "Fucking go already. Haven't you done enough, jackass?" (Because yes, even my hand waving is complex and angry.) I don't know when he's come back, and I don't care. I'm happy to finally have some time alone to figure out how to navigate myself out of this rapidly deep of toxic emotions.

I stand in the phone booth and dig through my bag for my wallet which has, not only credit cards, but an International calling card stashed for just such an occasion. Apparently, in typical French manner, it would only honor French credit cards and calling cards, of which I had none. I went into the hotel room and tried to make a credit card call from my hotel phone. No such luck. I pulled out my Eyewitness Guide and tried to call AirFrance, American Express, and International Assistance. Nope, no such luck.

On pages 269 of The Eyewitness Guide of Brittany, it claims "As elsewhere in France, the internet is widely accessible in Brittany, in internet cafes and in many hotels." Don’t, for a minute, believe it. And that’s when I finally realized where I was. Like Persephone picking flowers, this French fucker had plucked me all unsuspecting and dragged me to a sunny isolated Hell. My mother, who can’t even handle correctly answering questions about what language she speaks, she could have gotten someone on the phone, but I couldn’t.

And it was this overwhelming sense of futility and vulnerability, this is what finally drove me out of my hotel room. If I couldn't control this vacation, or this jackass's fickle affection, then I could, at least, control what I was having for dinner. No more starving in the hotel room waiting. No more following behind. No rushing to catch up. Even if I couldn’t get back to Paris, I was just going to embrace that this was my vacation, MY vacation. From here on out, I wasn't going to do without luxuries . I would see if there were any vacancies at the other hotels, the ones closer to the nicer beaches. One without shared toilets or a spiral staircase. Because while I might have liked him, I didn't need him. And this vacation wasn't about him or about Love, it was about enjoying myself.

Starting now.

And I began by ordering some cider and having myself a decadent crepe at the creperie next door. Fuck dinner. I order an appropriately luscious crepe with vanilla ice cream, pralines, nougat, and cup of hard cider. The table next to me is full of British tourists. I don't even speak to them; it's enough to simply bask in a language I can easily understand. I finish the crepe and the hard cider, and order another.

It’s amazing what some liquor, a whole bunch of butter, and some sugar can do to my attitude. Somewhere in all of this my entire mood shifted. Maybe it was his absence. Maybe it was that I felt in control again. Maybe it was the air from the ocean mixed with feeling of satisfaction, but suddenly I fell in love with the world again.

He shows up half way through my second cup of hard cider with a bouquet of hand picked flowers, Nana in tow. He sits with me and is all silent strangeness. I have no idea what this means. A make up token? A guilty offering? I'm not sure where I stand with him now, but I don't care. It's MY trip now, and if he even wants an honorable mention at this point he's going to have to shape up.

In the car he kisses me, his hands roam a bit. I pull back. While my mood has changed, my attitude towards him hasn't. It can be accurately summed up as :fuck him and fuck Frehel.

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