Beyond the Guidebook: Finding Franco-American Soul in Brest
The first glimpse of France’s coastline from our balcony on the ms Rotterdam sent shivers down my spine. Though I’ll admit, the brisk 55-degree April wind might have had something to do with that too. After crossing the vast Atlantic from sunny Florida, this was our moment. The massive ship, our home for the past 9 days, gracefully cut through the steel-gray waters as we approached Brest, Brittany, in France.
Standing at the rail of our balcony that morning, hot tea warming my hands, I watched the French coast slowly materialize through the morning mist. My husband Marcus, ever the history buff, had already enlightened me about Brest’s connection to the USA. We had had the option of visiting the infamous beaches of Normandy, but that would have been a whole day bus tour that we were not willing to endure. The clock was ticking toward 10 a.m., and my mind was already racing with thoughts of the history tour we’d booked – a decision that would prove to be an interesting choice.
The transition from ship to shore was seamless. Brest welcomed us with a thoughtful touch – a free shuttle service that felt less like public transportation and more like a friend giving us a lift into town. The local driver, with his well-worn cap and gentle smile, seemed to embody the warmth of this maritime city, despite the unseasonable chill that had us clutching our light jackets closer. After a couple of hours on our own walking the historic district, we took the courtesy bus back to the ship for lunch, where I savored a bowl of French onion soup at The Lido (when in France, right?), before meeting our afternoon tour guide, Pierre. A passionate French historian, he spoke English with the kind of poetic flair that made every word feel important. Pierre’s eyes lit up as he led us to our first stop, the World War I Naval Monument perched proudly on the city’s ramparts.
“Here,” Pierre said, gesturing broadly at the harbor below, “more than 700,000 American soldiers – we called them ‘Sammies’ – passed through during the Great War.” I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine the scene: young Americans, then probably not much older than my own sons, stepping onto French soil, many for the first time. The thought gave me goosebumps that had nothing to do with the weather.
The Castle of Brest came next, a fortress that seemed to rise from the very rock itself. Inside the National Naval Museum, I found myself drawn to a delicate ship model, its intricate rigging a testament to the craftsman’s patience. Our guide acknowledged my husband’s interest and shared stories of the French Navy that made these artifacts come to life. Each exhibit felt like a chapter in an ongoing story of friendship between our nations, carefully preserved behind glass but somehow still breathing with life.
The journey to Plougastel-Daoulas touched me deeply. The Calvary isn’t just stone and sculpture, it’s a monument to human resilience. Built to mark the end of the bubonic plague in the early 1600s, it later suffered its own trials during World War II. Our guide told us about John Davis Skilton, an American Army officer who couldn’t bear to see this treasure destroyed. The story of how he established the Plougastel Calvary Restoration Fund moved me to tears. Here was a man who, in the midst of war, fought to preserve beauty and history.
The Pink Tower was our final stop. By then, the wind had picked up, whipping my scarf around as we stood before this 1927 tribute to American naval forces. It was destroyed, Pierre explained, but like the friendship between our countries, it rose again in 1958. Looking at the tower against the blue sky, I thought about how some bonds grow stronger through adversity. The tour ended in a charming square where modern Brest pulsated with life around us. Local teenagers laughed over cups of steaming chocolate at a nearby café, while an elderly couple walked arm-in-arm, the woman’s beret perfectly angled against the wind. The cold that had seemed so challenging that morning now felt like part of the experience – a reminder that discomfort often accompanies the most meaningful moments in life.
As we returned to ms Rotterdam, I felt a distinct change. This wasn’t just another port of call, another check mark on our cruise itinerary. In Brest, we had touched history, felt the pulse of international friendship, and understood something profound about human connection. The stories of war and peace, destruction and renewal, had woven themselves into my heart, making this chilly April day in Brittany unforgettable.
Marcus squeezed my hand as we walked up the gangway. “Worth braving the cold?”, he asked with a knowing smile. I nodded, as I recalled Pierre’s passionate narratives, the restored Calvary, and all the layers of history we had peeled back today. Sometimes the most meaningful journeys aren’t about the destinations. They’re about the stories we collect along the way, and how they change us.
Until next month from another interesting location.
— Yours in travel, Ingrid
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