France (cont)

The Mount is full of little courtyards and gardens, and I spent quite a bit of time exploring them all. I also took time to walk around the mudflats around the Mount. I don't use this language very often, and I am not entirely sure what exactly I mean by it, but I felt truly blessed during my visit to Mt St Michel. Standing in the shadow of Mt St Michel, humility is unavoidable--and so is gratitude. Gratitude for the people who designed and created this wonder, and gratitude for the remarkable fortune that brought me here to witness it. In my twenty years I have seen and done quite a lot; I've had such incredible opportunities. So I marveled at my own existence while ambling around the wonders of Mt St Michel.

I left the Mount around 7:00PM to head back to Bayeux for the night (not before having my fill of Normandy's famous buckwheat crepes and fresh brewed cider, though). My train got to Bayeux around 9:30, and during my walk from the train station to the hostel I was truly anxious for the first time all weekend. As I said, I never really got the layout of Bayeux down, so I knew which direction I was going but not exactly how to get there. I'll readily admit that walking by myself then made me a bit nervous, but I didn't encounter a single person between the station and the hostel, so it was unfounded. Once back to my room I showered, briefly scribbled in my journal, and directly fell asleep.

The next morning, Saturday, I again woke up really early to catch a train--this time for Caen. I bid good-bye to my first hostel and got onto my train. Once in Caen, I was going to visit the Caen Memorial Museum, which is supposed to be among the best WWII (and specifically D-Day) museums, and I was doing a tour of the D-Day beaches from there. The tour was at 1:00, so I planned to spend the morning in the museum, take the 4 hour long(ish) tour, and then catch a bus to the town of Ouistreham (where my Sunday morning ferry back to the UK was leaving from).

As usual, I'd planned on walking from the Caen train station to the Caen Memorial. It had seemed reasonable on Google Maps. But it was not reasonable. I walked, following signs for the Memorial, for about 40 minutes before I ran into a highway. Deciding it would probably not be prudent to wander alongside a French highway, I backtracked into town and inspected the public transportation options. Via a combination of tram and bus, I made it to the Memorial in about 20 minutes with little difficulty. Should have done that in the first place, but I did make it there eventually.

[I should add here that they drive on the right in France, like in the US. However, I spent the entire weekend looking the wrong way while crossing the street because I expected the cars to be driving on the left. It came as a shock to me that I had become acclimated to UK culture that thoroughly; I kept thinking, "They're driving on the wrong side of the road!" When they were in fact driving on the "right" side.]

I got to the museum around 10:30 or so. I had enough time to see both the excellent WWII exhibit and the Cold War exhibit, but in truth I could easily have spent a couple more hours there. It was definitely a great museum. They really made an effort to portray the personal effects of the war; nearly every section had at least a few letters from soldiers on display, with representation from every Allied country. I now feel thoroughly enlightened about the French occupation and resistance. The Cold War exhibit was quite good as well, although it was odd to see it from a non-American perspective (one of the informational placards on a display case mentioned "American Hedonism," and I instantly got defensive...against the placard, which did no good). The Cold War part had one display where they showed an American propaganda film about nuclear safety (you know, your typical 1950s idealized white middle class family talking about what a great job the government was doing keeping them safe). I felt vaguely embarrassed. This is not to say the exhibit was one-sided, as it also showcased Soviet propaganda, but I was more fascinated by the presentation of the American stuff.

When 1:00 came around, I was the only one there for the English tour slot, so I essentially got a private tour of the beaches, which was pretty cool. Visiting the D-Day beaches has been a goal of mine for years, so I was thrilled to finally do it.

The first stop was at a beach called Point d'Hoc. Here, 225 US Army Rangers scaled a 100-ft cliff, into German fire, on the morning of June 6th, 1944. They managed to secure the position and control the area for two days before their reinforcements finally arrived. When the reinforcements showed up, only 90 Rangers were left alive. Where we were standing, on top of the bluffs, there were remnants of about half a dozen German gun emplacements, as well as a German bunker and the exploded wreckage of an artillery storage structure. But the massive and numerous bomb craters are the most stunning feature of the landscape. The ground is all uneven and hilly and studded still with barbed wire, slabs of concrete, and twisted iron. I'd never heard this story about the US Rangers at Point d'Hoc, and was duly impressed and proud of it.

Next we went to Omaha Beach. Ironically, it is a calm and peaceful beach, with a wide, flat stretch of sand between the road and the water. On the other side of the road from the beach are the bluffs that the Germans held as Allied forces landed. From the base of those bluffs to the water its 300 m, and I imagine each meter felt like a mile to the American soldiers who fought their way across it that morning. After explaining the mechanics and geography of the landing there to me, my guide gave me some time to walk around the beach by myself, which I appreciated.

I'd gotten lucky with the weather--the bright sun was warm, the blue sky was studded with fluffy white clouds, and the breeze was gentle. All of this made it utterly impossible for me to picture this beach as it was on D-Day. I couldn't get my head around the volume of American blood that soaked this sand that morning. Standing at the water's edge, looking towards the bluffs, I don't understand how anyone could have crossed that distance while navigating not only vicious gunfire but also navigating the various obstacles and mines that littered the beach. In the first wave of the landing, 90% of the soldiers were killed. It's unfathomable. I picked up a handful of sand and wondered whether this was pilgrimage; it felt like a sacred place to me.

We left Omaha Beach and went to the American cemetery. You enter the cemetery through the memorial Wall of the Missing, which has the names of all the US soldiers who were MIA during the Battle of Normandy. Just past that memorial is the cemetery itself, and the first thing I noticed wasn't the rows of white marble crosses but the two flagpoles that were flying the American flag. America owns that land; it was purchased for one symbolic franc from the French government. It was good to see the US flag flying; it didn't really hit me until then that I'd missed the sight.

It's a beautifully well-tended cemetery. My tour guide led me past a few specific markers that had interesting stories behind them; Teddy Roosevelt Jr is buried there, and he was awarded the Medal of Honor for his conduct on D-Day. I didn't even know he fought in WWII. Again I was given some time to myself there. I took some pictures, though I had mixed feelings about taking pictures in a veterans' cemetery. But I think I was sufficiently respectful. It's a very peaceful place, that cemetery, for which I was thankful. Very green and quiet, with the sea visible in the background.

After the cemetery we went to visit a remarkably well-preserved German gun emplacement and observation post near the Gold Beach (where the British troops landed). It was actually in the middle of farm fields, which was jarring. My guide explained that there were bomb craters here too but they have been filled in and leveled out so that the land can be worked. It was odd to look at the huge concrete-reinforced gun with gorgeous beaches and quiet farmland in the background.

The last stop was near the village of Arromanches, where the remnants of the artificial harbor built by the British forces are still visible. The harbor was quite a technological achievement, and a crucial objective of the D-Day landings, but I had never heard of it before. Its construction involved towing giant, hollow concrete blocks across the Channel, then sinking the blocks by opening valves that filled them with water. The Allies would never have been able to take Normandy without the use of that harbor.

By the time we got back to the museum, it was 5:30. I thanked my guide for the excellent tour and began making my way back to the city center. I knew what bus stop I needed to go to get the bus to Ouistreham, but on my first attempt I failed to get there. I thought that the bus that left the museum stopped there, but did not realize while reading the map that it only stopped there in one direction--and not in the direction I was travelling. So I had to go to the end of the line, then ride it back about halfway. I'm sure the driver thought I was an idiot.

Nonetheless I made it there in time to get the bus to Ouistreham. I was surprised by how cheap and comfortable that bus was--Ouistreham's about 20 km from Caen, and the bus was less than 2 euros. You can't go a mile for under 2 pounds in London. the only downside was that, although technically I knew where I was going (the stop was Ouistreham port), I had no idea what to look for (and it was already dark) and the stops weren't announced at all; furthermore, you had to request a stop in order to get off. I had to guess, and I was quite proud of myself for guessing right.

From the bus stop I made my way to the hotel I'd booked for the night; Ouistreham didn't have any hostels. Since my ferry was at 8:00AM on a Sunday, it wouldn't have been possible for me to stay in Caen for the night--no buses that early on a Sunday, and I thought a taxi would have been both expensive and difficult to get. So I sprung for a hotel room--a cheap one, but still much more than a hostel would have been. I was pleased to see that it was quite literally next door to the ferry terminal, though, so the convenience/peace of mind was worth the extra money. My room was small but clean and cozy, and the en suite bathroom seemed like an extravagant luxury after two nights in a hostel. I had not had dinner, but I decided I was far more tired than hungry. I simply didn't have the energy to walk into Ouistreham and try to find a restaurant. Exhausted, I feel asleep directly after showering.

I checked out shortly after seven the next morning and checked in for the ferry. I treated myself to French espresso one last time there in the ferry terminal. The ferry over was OK; I was a bit bored because I finished the novel I'd brought with me by 10:00 (Lady Chatterly's Lover by DH Lawrence; I don't particularly recommend it, though it had its moments). I did some homework and wandered around the ship to kill time. I got a cup of tea and felt quite British, because it wasn't very good tea and that bothered me as much as the bad coffee in London bothers me. The worst part of the ferry, though, was right after we docked. The foot passengers had to wait to disembark after the garage had been emptied, so I was just standing around with my backpack for about a half-hour. The not moving and not knowing why I wasn't moving made me quite anxious and frustrated, and I wished briefly that there was someone with me to assuage my anxiety. I finally got into the ferry terminal at about 1:30--plenty of time before my 2:05 coach back to London, which thankfully was leaving right from the terminal.

It felt odd arriving in London--I was going "home" to a foreign country that just happened to be less foreign than the one I'd left. Weird to be comforted by the familiarity of the Underground signs and British accents. Of course, once I got into the Underground to go home I found out that the line which would take me directly from Victoria to Ealing was suspended due to a signal failure, so my commute was longer and more involved than it should have been. But at least I knew right where I was, and there is something to be said for that.

Thursday I leave for Ireland! My itinerary includes Dublin, Carlow, Kilkenny, Cashel, Galway, Sligo, and Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland. I'm flying from Belfast to London on Sunday March 8.

On a more sober note, my grandfather has been diagnosed with lung cancer and will be going in for surgery this Thursday. So far the outlook is quite optimistic, as they have caught it early, it's localized, and he does not have symptoms; the doctors are confident that surgery alone should take care of it and they expect him to recover relatively easily. Nonetheless I'm worried and wish I was able to be there with my grandparents this weekend. Please keep him in your thoughts and/or prayers.