May 2009, I spent two weeks on Larmor-Plage in Lorient, France. I was alone for the weekend and had no idea how to navigate the area…I don’t think I’ve found a less documented place than Lorient, but damn those beaches were rad. Here are some rambles.
I love how the French say â€œbeach.â€ Like â€œbitch.â€ â€œDo you want to go to the bitch?â€ â€œI love the bitch!â€
I have researched the hell out of Lorient, and have found nothing. Iâ€™d kill to go to Belle-Ile-En-Mer, but all the information is in French, and there are no English websites. Do you know how frustrating it is to be in Brittany, on a free trip, and not be able to do ANYTHING? The Loire Valley is midway between me and Paris. I donâ€™t have a phone, I donâ€™t know French, and I am essentially alone.
I became so desperate last night that I Googled â€œHow can I make friends in Lorient?â€
I didnâ€™t find any. So I depleted my wine and beer stock, and got absolutely hammered. Alone. In my apartment. I wandered out onto my balcony and mooned the beach. I stumbled around my kitchen and ate the last of my lemon pies. And then I passed out, at 3 a.m. It would have been the perfect evening to sit on the beach with a bottle of wine and a lover, and instead I staggered around my apartment and sang loudly to MFM Pop radio.
To top it all off, my washer has become possessed by Satan.
I ventured to the beach yesterday, however. The French have no insecurities: I saw more saggy boobs and exposed ass than I ever want to see again in my life. Everybody was out with their friends and families, lounging around, soaking up the sun. I dipped my toes in the ocean, snapped some pictures, and laid in the sun for two hours. It was uncomfortably hot, and I didnâ€™t bring a hat or water. Even my boobs were sweating. I tanned and read some trashy John Grisham until I felt nauseous and had to leave.