Josh and Rachel Take a Trip

Josh was feeling better today, but we still wanted to take it easy. The B&B was wonderfully relaxing… it was hard to get up and move around. Around noon, we hopped back into our little car and took off for the Mont St. Michel. I didn’t think it was far, and after some minor map malfunction, we figured out it was about 1/5 hours away. It was a pretty day, so we were on our way again.

Josh was doubtful, but I knew Mont St. Michel would be worth it. The story goes that several centuries ago (think the 900’s) a priest had a dream telling him to build a honking huge cathedral on a big rock off the shore of Normandy. The main problem? There wasn’t room for a 70 meter cathedral on the rock — the architectural feats to get the church on the mount is one heck of an accomplishment. There were multiple changes throughout the centuries: entire wings collapsed under their own weight and were rebuilt, the continuous construction projects were adjusted midway throughout completion as the needs of the community changed, the rock’s inhabitants alternated between monks or prisoners.

For much of its existence, however, Mont St. Michel served as a site for Christian pilgrimages. When it comes into view, it’s easy to see why. The mountain is an impossible geographical element in the landscape, a giant rock of an island that juts up out of the water, seemingly miles from shore. In fact, there was once a great stretch of beach between the rock and the mainland. In the Middle Ages, much of the land was aerated for planting crops, but an epic tide still varies 15 meters twice during the year — a variation matched in only one other place in the world. Walking across a mile of more of sand during low tide to reach the mount would have been an enlightening experience, but the trek could be perilous — not only can high tide sweep in dangerously quick, but there is a real danger of quicksand pools pulling people under. You can walk the beach these days if you dare, but you do so at your own risk.

There is a causeway out to the mount, and you really respect the tides when you read this:

The surrounding town is touristy, but the cathedral retains its ancient master craftsmanship and beauty.

It was funny to hear people complaining about the stairs. I don’t know how you could drive toward this place, pay to get in and then not expect to climb. The whole thing is vertical.

We drove back to town around sunset, a pretty thing during autumn in Normandy.

A note about driving: one can’t help but feel rad when the speedometer reads 130. Yes, it’s kilometers per hour; and yes, our little tin can of a car whirred its little heart out making the speed. But it makes you feel reckless and adventurous.

Once back in Carentan, we changed clothes and had a nice dinner out. I had duck for the first time and it was tasty and elegant. It was a nice farewell to Normandy.

Josh was feeling pretty yucky, despite medicine, so we stayed at the B&B until about 2 pm while he slept off his illness. Then we popped into the car and took off for another hair raising adventure.

When the idea of France was becoming a reality as our honeymoon, I decided I’d very much like to see the beaches at Normandy. There are actually 5 miles of them - you can start at one end and work along the coast to all of them. Since we only had two days in Normandy and we only had a few more hours before most of them closed, we went to Omaha Beach.

France is grateful to the contributions of Americans during WWII, and has given this land to the US to use in memorial of those who died to bring about their liberation. The US flag flies here, and the 9,387 buried here face West, toward their homeland. Per Rick Steves: the dead of D-Day were buried temporarily until the 1950s, when they were exhumed and their families decided whether they should stay in Normandy or return home. There is a disproportionate number of officers, since their families believed they would rather be buried alongside those they served and commanded.

There are several beaches, and all have retained their code names from that military landing. Omaha Beach looks calm and peaceful now.

The mosaic ceiling in a chapel at one of the lots in the cemetery that looks out over the beach. After seeing lots of amazing (but ancient) artwork in France, seeing modern elements in such an old medium added gravity to what it represented.

Nothing drove the point home more than all the boys, though.

The bronze statue Spirit of American Youth.

The Garden of the Missing. The names of those men never found are listed here. Inscribed above the 1,557 names reads:

Comrades in arms whose resting place is known only to God. Here are recorded the names of Americans who gave their lives in the service of their country and who sleep in unknown graves. This is their memorial, the whole Earth their sepulcher.

I wish my photos did the place justice. It was immense and so sadly serene. Having seen the exhibit on it at the War Museum in France and the pictures throughout so many history classes; then physically being there… it was a moving experience. What a price to pay.

In retrospect, two bottles of wine the night before you’re supposed to do any extensive traveling is probably not the greatest idea. Ugh.

We were up early, but definitely not bright-eyed or bushy-tailed. We were sleep-deprived, hungry, hung-over and abhorring the idea of taking our heavy luggage on the metro again. We grumbled through it, making our train at St. Lazare Station with plenty of time.

I took Rick Steve’s guide on this trip and it has been the best. I can’t recomment his books enough. I’ve got one for London, too. In the case of traveling by French rail, he very wisely suggested checking to make sure that you are in the right car by simply asking “Cette voiture a Caen?“, meaning “This car is going to Caen?” Sometimes the train splits, and different cars go in different directions. So, I asked the kind old woman in our car if it is indeed going to Caen, and she gasps and says “Oh non, non, ce n’est pas!” So I go into a stealth panic-on-the-inside-chill-on-the-outside mode and we all bust out our tickets to compare. The numbers all line up, and we check the info outside the door — the train does indeed stop at Caen. Whew!

It stops very quickly, in fact. You have maybe three minutes to grab your bags and hop off before it gets going again.

A hangover and riding (nauseatingly) backwards in a train did wonders for distracting my mind from the fear that’s been haunting me for days: DRIVING A CAR.

A month ago, when I was sitting in my comfy computer chair and booking the rental online before work: no problem. We wanted to go to Normandy, and that was how we could get there. Book’em Danno. Done. NEXT. In reality, it’s a smidge more complicated, most obviously because I don’t know what the signs mean.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. I did google “Driving in France” before coming over, but there were limits to its aid. Thank God they drove on the right side of the road.

So thanks, National Car Rental, for being irresponsible enough to allow me to drive a car in your country. I know I have a international driver’s license, but AAA gave it to me through the rigid qualification procedure of… $15. Stepping out of the rental office and climbing into our little lunchbox of a car, I was pretty sure we were either going to die or go to jail. Our future coffin/vessel for lawbreaking was one of these:

So cute! The renter and myself were both looking insecure at my taking the wheel, but I paid for the insurance — my life was in our hands now, woo! There were some… I will say “tense” moments — but we did get out of the town of Caen successfully and onto the highway. We checked into our B&B, La Mare Palu, an hour later.

Damien and Steve run La Mare Palu, and we were their last guests of the season. I can’t say enough about the place. It is beautifully decorated (they refinished the farmhouse themselves, if I’m not mistaken), very clean, the hosts are friendly… and I think Josh and I both cried a little at the stand-up shower. Breakfast was amazing and the whole experience was super relaxing. They allowed us to come and go as we pleased and it was within 1.5 hours of where we wanted to go in the next couple days. Win!

The first night, however, we ventured into the nearby Carentan for two things: food and medicine. First off, we found a Pharmacie since Josh wasn’t feeling well. In France, if you’re not feeling well, you first talk to a pharmacist. They diagnose you and give you medicine - or send you to a doc if you’re out of their league. I can’t describe how entertaining it must have been to watch me mentally fishing for the French I really haven’t accessed since 10th grade: nose, cold, chest… there were alot of hand motions and faces. She got it, however, and gave us a box of what Josh has called his “Lemony Goodness” since - after three days, it did the trick nicely. The second goal was food: because we hadn’t had lunch we were starving and it was only 6 pm so none of the restaurants were open… we ended up getting pizzas and our Orangina*.

We were a little ashamed of getting a cheese pizza in Normandy, but not ashamed enough not to buy and subsequently devour it. Plus, the place had just apparently opened and the little pizza dude was so darn eager to help and adorable, it was really our pleasure. We took our feast back to the B&B and sat on the floor and watched the Sarah Palin stuff we’ve missed. It really was the best, no-frills way to end a very busy day.

*This European vacation brought to you by Orangina, now with pulp!

Our adventures in Normandy actually started the night before. I chose the apartment we stayed in because it had wi-fi and a washing machine. Our trip was two weeks, but we only packed for one, with the intention of washing and reusing. Washing and reusing is a great plan if you can: A) read how to operate the machinery in a foreign language, and B) use context clues and deductive reasoning to execute what you’re able to decipher.

First things first: we had to figure out which machine was the washer and which was the dryer. We had a tense moment where soap almost went into the dryer, but we got ourselves straight just in time. We got our clothes in the right machine, put soap in what we thought was the appropriate drawer and turned the foreign dial on. I know we were doing something wrong because the digital timer read 192. Was that minutes?

It was. Thankfully, it did the job, but with two loads of washing and drying and then packing to do… yoy. The dryer also 2.5 hours to dry each load, so we didn’t sleep much with all the gonk-gonk-gonk of the machine. The night was long.

I can’t complain much about the apartment set-up, though. It gave us little in the way of the support that a concierge at a hotel might offer, but it gave much more in other ways. We were able to dine in a couple times, which was nice. We were able to do our laundry at no cost, even if it was difficult. The bathtub with sprayer, or “shath” as Josh lovingly referred to it, was a challenge but also got the job done. The apartment also allowed us more room than a hotel (in my price range anyway) would. Above all, it was a little home away from home:

We’ll miss it.

Not just the apartment, of course. After getting over our initial terror of the hustle-bustle of the city, Paris really began feeling comfortable. What appears as chaos is actually a smooth running machine. The whole city operates on a system, and once you understand the system, you can flow along with the locals.

I had heard that Parisians are rude - it’s untrue. Things move fast, and as a foreigner you are not a part of the city’s smooth-moving routine. Your lack of knowledge of the system creates an inconvenience and delay. They are rarely rude about it, even if they aren’t overly friendly. We met several people that offered smiles and directions.

Many people did speak English, which was comforting, but there were a couple people that didn’t at all. In a food/retail setting, you can get your point across with basic French. Even fumbling with the language is appreciated, and a polite “Parden me, but do you speak English, I only speak a little French,” went a long way.

I wish I’d had more time to shop, to sight-see, to wander and explore. I wish I’d had more time to eat, to drink, and learn/practice more of my abysmal French. I wish I’d bought shoes.

We’ve already discussed returning to Paris, and we miss the city. Josh said it was beginning to feel like home… but this thang ain’t over yet, kids. Now we’re off to Normandy…

But first, here’s one for you mom:

Yep, she’s a teapot. We found her in our apartment. Ain’t she a beaut?