Bayeux

Bayeux is the place we wanted to be. Madame Google took us right to our hotel. This is actually the view from the rear, in the garden. It was a delightful little place. Our rooms were in a separate building on the left, the view of which is blocked by the trees.

I thought parking might be an issue; it wasn't I found a place on the street about 30 yards (Yards are like meters but a few inches shorter--which is strange, because meters don't have any inches. Of course, I'm referring to meters as units of distance measurement, not as in parking meters, or gas meters, which also measure things, but not in meters...which is strange, since they're called meters.) up the street from the hotel. We walked back to the hotel to discover, as had been promised on the website, that there was parking within the gates. I moved the car.

Our hostess was an interesting lady with shoulder length reddish hair, and large glasses. She spoke pretty rapidly, equally comfortable in French or English. Of course, I opted for French, so that my wife would be impressed with me; I don't think she was. Our hostess gave us a little map and circled restaurants and various sites of interest. One of those restaurants was, if I remember correctly, Le Petit Normand. We chose it for two important reasons: She recommended it, and it was nearby.

After we put our backpacks in our room, and figured out how to get our room door--which opened directly to the gravel courtyard/parking area--to lock and unlock, which was much more difficult than I had anticipated (requiring the precise and well-timed turning of the key while holding the door and knob just so), we walked to the restaurant. This edifice reposed across the street from the dining establishment:

Initially, we decided to eat at the tables outside the restaurant door by the street. We had just sat down when a car drove past. I didn't want that as part of my dining experience. I apologized for our change of heart, and asked for a table inside. I'm not so sure about the older lady behind the counter, but the young lady who served us was very pleasant. She seemed interested in everything that we did, even watching me from behind as I pulled apart the camembert nuggets in my salad. My wife thought maybe the young lady wanted to come back to the U.S. with me. Wisely, I didn't make that inquiry. I had the duck with black currant sauce. It was delicious. We also had some bread and more camembert. The server laughed when, after she asked if I was going to share it with my wife, I said, "Peut etre." She also acted amused when I protested as she gave my wife a spoon with which to share in my dessert. My wife's order didn't include the cheese, or the dessert--thus my mock protest. As for the dessert: Small cream puffs swam in a cool pool of chocolate sauce. We chased them with our spoons, dismembering, and devouring them with glee. That dinner, and the breakfast the next morning (I already related that experience here) were the two best meals, outside of the home-cooked meal at the Joly's (as told here), that we had during our visit. Our worst meal was yet to come.

I've already related the rest of the Normandy experience, including the stunning but somber American Memorial at Coleville-sur mer, at the link above. But here's a picture of a Norman warrior from the era of William the Conqueror as encounted at the Bayeux Tapestry Museum:

 It was no easy task getting him to pose in the sunshine right in the museum like that. Incidentally, I recently finished a book, The Norman Conquest: The battle of Hastings and the fall of Anglo-Saxon England. I gave it 5 stars for being highly informative, extremely interesting, and somewhat exciting.

After we left the memorial, where my wife shot these school kids,

we drove back toward Paris.

My wife got this picture of an interesting house in Normandy.

And, you can double those loyalty points on Tuesdays.

Next time (maybe), the adventure that is returning a rental car at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Hallowed Ground

Although this isn't the post I promised about the SF airport experience, and its placement here is a departure from the chronological presentation of the trip, some things merit a move to the front. If any part of the trip to France merits a move to the front for Memorial Day, it is a discussion of the American Memorial at Coleville-sur-Mer--Omaha Beach. Those crosses in that vast expanse of white and green mark the graves of the Americans who found themselves moved to the front, the front of the war, the front of the battle for Normandy.

Our trip had been utterly delightful to this point. We spent the night in Bayeux, about five miles from the coast. We enjoyed one of the best breakfasts that it has ever been my privilege to eat. It was no struggle at all for me to consume two freshly baked croissants (nearly the size of footballs) with two cups of rich hot chocolate, along with fruit and cheese, and nearly a liter of cold apple cider along with the bacon and eggs that the young Cuban cook, who spoke English better than French, insisted on preparing for us. Following the delicious repast, that petit-dejeuner which was anything but petit, we walked in the garden of our hotel Le Maison Bayeux, while we waited for the Bayeux Tapestry Museum to open. I had selected the hotel for its proximity to the museum, and its serene garden.

Oh, how I wished that we had had more time to spend in Normandy! My heart weeps just thinking about it. If I have any regrets about this trip, it is that it was altogether too short.

I had kept my expectations for the tapestry museum quite low. How much excitement can you expect to generate from one long remnant of old cloth? The answer to that is: Plenty! To say that the tour of the tapestry was awesome undersells the experience. I would gladly do that again. We got so excited that we even bought some things from the gift shop, including  manly shirts for my son, son-in-law, and myself. We really would have liked to have obtained a replica or two of scenes from the tapestry. We did not, however, want to open up a home equity line of credit to obtain the them.

We chased the excitement of the Bayeux Tapestry with a thrilling drive to the American Memorial at Coleville-sur-Mer. I'll have to expound on the adrenaline rush that comes with getting behind the wheel of a small car on French roads at another time. My wife eschews the term "adrenaline rush," favoring instead phrases like, "dodging the Grim Reaper," "flirting with disaster," or "Let me out, now!" She's quite the comedienne.

The first thing that I noticed about the memorial was the parking. I know that seems trivial, but after having driven around a town the previous day for at least a half hour looking for a parking place, I appreciated the big American-style parking lot at the memorial. There was a short line to enter into the building. When we got near the door, a French couple in front of us was attempting to get the door to stay open. They moved the small pylon which stood behind the open door to the front of the door...it didn't hold. They tried a variety of things...all ineffective. I finally stepped up and pushed the bolt down at the bottom of the door, and wedged a 20 centime piece in a crack in the concrete, letting the bolt rest against the coin, holding the door open. The coupled seemed pretty pleased with my solution. I was congratulating myself on a fine display of American ingenuity. Then one of the attendants stepped out and said the door wasn't supposed to stay open. It had to close. I pocketed my coin while the attendant put everything else back how he wanted it.

As with every other place that we went, bags had to be searched, and we had to pass through a metal detector. My wife passed through fine. I set the machine off. After I had removed all of the metal from myself that I could think of, I tried again...it still went off. Altogether I think I tried about 4 times. The attendant then asked me the question that nearly got me banned from the memorial. It wasn't the question itself, but my potential response that could have led to the ban. I'm not that old. Although the old-fat-and-bald train has welcomed me aboard, it hasn't left the station. So when the attendant said, "Have you had a hip replacement?" if I hadn't suppressed my instinct to hook a thumb in his eye and deliver a series of gut punches in response, I think I might have been banned from the memorial. Fortunately, I'm not overly sensitive about such things.

Eventually, I got in. The memorial is a somber place. I cannot think about it now without a surge of emotion. Within the building are many bits of written information about the men, the campaign, the materials that they carried, etc; films relate the stories of individual soldiers; some were killed on the beach; others survived that cauldron of fire to succumb later during the campaign amid the hedgerows and towns of Normandy. There is a hallway, which I believe was called the Hallway of Sacrifice; it passes into a room that highlights some of the personal stories of those buried at the cemetery. As you pass through the hallway, the names of those buried are read aloud. To experience the memorial is to appreciate their sacrifice, to be touched by their struggles, to resolve that they shall never be forgotten.

The cemetery overlooks Omaha Beach. While the memorial evokes an emotional response, the cemetery invites contemplation. Looking from the endless rows of white markers upon the green sward to the beach below inspires a reverence for this ground hallowed by the blood of common men engaged in an uncommon effort.

On the western side of the garden is a half-moon colonnade with a sculpture in the center, American Youth Rising from the Waves. The rear of the colonnade contains a quote from Eisenhower honoring those who fell in the war: TO THESE WE OWE THE HIGH RESOLVE THAT THE CAUSE FOR WHICH THEY DIED SHALL LIVE.

My wife and I got through all this without crying out loud. But when we talked with an older gentleman who asked my wife what she thought of it, her voice broke as she answered. Her father had participated in the attack at Omaha Beach. He had survived the war, and had told her about many of his experiences.

A bunch of French school kids carrying flowers through the cemetery provided an interesting sight. The legacy, the memory, lives on. As we were leaving, my wife spoke with them. She acquired a habit of speaking with strangers whenever I would go to the restroom. We met some nice people that way, including Jeff and Elizee from the United States. Jeff said that he had been to the memorial three times over the years. I can see why he returns.