La Belle France

I just got back from my holiday in the Normandy region of France, and it was pretty awesome.

Last Wednesday (the 18th [Elizabeth's 21st!]), CAPA hosted a cream tea. So of course my European Gov't and Politics professor decided we should end class an hour and a half early so we could go. It was good fun, and there were tasty pastries along with solid tea. One of my classmates told me this was her first time drinking tea in Britain; I was stunned, since I have now got up to an average of about three cups a day. Anyway.

I left directly from the cream tea for Victoria Coach station (coach is what the Brits call long-distance buses). My coach left for Poole, on the southern coast of England, at 6:00PM. It was nearly a three-hour trip, and I got to Poole shortly before 9:00PM. My initial plan had been to walk from the bus stop to the ferry terminal--I had Google mapped it, and it was a bit over a mile. From the directions I had, I had guessed at a half hour's walk. My ferry didn't leave until 11:00, so I had plenty of time, even if I got a bit lost.

But...it was well after dark, and I was in a strange city. And it looked like a fairly sketchy city. I sort of replayed in my head all of the various discussions I'd had with my friends from Pitt about travelling alone--I'd spent a lot of time insisting that I was cautious and intelligent about things. I could almost hear Christina lecturing me about walking alone at night; she would tell me I was being stupid if she were here. So I got a taxi instead, and decided that the 4 pounds was worth the safety. Of course, it meant I had an hour and a half to kill inside the decidedly dull ferry terminal, but there are worse things.

As far as methods of travel go, the ferry wasn't bad at all. If it weren't so slow, it would be preferable to flying. I actually managed to sleep most of the way, and I can never sleep on airplanes. The ferry was also the beginning of listening to French; everything was naturally said in both English and French. I could pick out a few words of the French, not many. We arrived in Cherbourg at just a little past 7:00AM local time, Thursday morning. Well-rested would be a stretch, but I'd gotten enough sleep to function.

The sun wasn't up yet as I made my way from the ferry terminal to the train station. The way was well-marked, but it was about a 40 minute walk. I'd expected this, having looked it up beforehand, but my backpack was quite heavy by the time the train station was in sight. I'd bought my ticket in advance and tried to print it from the automated ticket machines, but they did not like my debit card for some reason. So I gathered my courage and my old broken French and approached the ticket counter. It went quite smoothly, although my accent was terrible; the woman behind the counter and I could communicate OK. She printed my ticket for Bayeux and my set of tickets to Pontorson as well. My train to Bayeux didn't leave for another hour, so I went into Cherbourg to explore--i.e., to find an ATM and some food.

Not much was open in Cherbourg, but I did find an ATM. I also found, by literally following my nose, an open patissiere where I obtained an excellent pastry. Breakfast of champions. While wandering I found a fruit stall also and bought an orange to supplement my sugary carbohydrates (and yes, I know that fruit is also just sugar, but it made me feel a bit better than just eating a pastry).

The train from Cherbourg to Bayeux was great. It was more comfortable than the British trains, and the countryside was gorgeous. It was an overcast, foggy morning, but the rolling fields of Normandy were beautiful covered in fog. Being out of the city was fantastic. I got to Bayeux around 11:00AM, and had a ten minute walk to the town centre from the train station.

Bayeux is a little dot of a town amidst the countryside. It's been around for centuries, and its medieval history is quite evident just by looking at it. All of the streets are very narrow and winding. There's a stunning old cathedral and several half-timbered houses. In addition to its medieval history, Bayeux has a lot of WWII history as well--it was a town of some significance during the Battle of Normandy, and it's quite close to the beaches. In fact Bayeux smells like the sea.

When I got there it was too early to check into my hostel, so I went to go look at the famous Bayeux Tapestry. This tapestry is nearly 1000 years old. It is a 70 m (about 230 ft or 76 yards) strip of cloth with wool embroidery, and it tells the story--in detail--of William the Conqueror's victory at the 1066 Battle of Hastings. Its condition is quite remarkable; it's been impressively well-preserved. I appreciated its significance, and its great condition, but I didn't find it all that thrilling. Still, one can't go to Bayeux and not visit the Tapestry.

By this point my backpack was definitely uncomfortable, and I set out for the hostel. Although there were several signs directing me to the hostel, I still had a hard time finding it. Truthfully I found Bayeux quite hard to navigate. Normally my sense of direction is decent, but I never quite got Bayeux figured out. Anyway, I did eventually find it. I greeted the man at the desk in French, and he responded with, "English?"
"American."
"I'm British, so let's go on to English then." And we carried on in English. On the one hand it is probably good that he spoke English, because I definitely would not have caught all of the information he gave me if he gave it in French. But it was a bit disappointing, on my trip out of England, to run into a Brit first thing (not that I don't adore the British!). The hostel was quite cool--it was housed in a 15th century building, and my room was located up a winding stone staircase and behind a heavy wooden door. It was a double room (a room with two twin beds), but there was no one else there. I was right next to the showers. I thought it was cozy, and I felt secure leaving my backpack there as I went out to explore the rest of Bayeux unburdened.

I wanted to go into the cathedral, but it was closed to visitors for rennovations, so I contented myself with taking lots of pictures of the exterior. I had an uneventful but pleasant afternoon. Bayeux is a gorgeous town and I really enjoyed walking around, taking pictures, and enjoying its peaceful atmosphere. After eating lunch I got the best espresso I'd had since leaving the States. Whatever the British may say about the French, the French have at least mastered coffee, something the Brits have yet to do.

Around sunset I went back to the hostel and inquired about dinner. From what I could see in the town there wasn't much open late, certainly not much I could afford. But the hostel served dinner for 10 euros, so I asked for a spot. Still a bit expensive, but better than any prices in town, and I was too exhausted to think about cooking for myself (there was a kitchen the guests could use). I was quite glad I chose to have dinner there; the food was amazing and there was more of it than anyone could reasonably eat (there were something like four or five courses served). Also, it was served in a big common dining room--there were probably about thirty people there, most of them rambunctious French teenagers. They were quite friendly to me. During the course of dinner, one of the staff members came up to me and asked me my room number and told me he had put another girl in my room. It took me several minutes to process this, because he said it all in French and the dining room was incredibly loud. But I got the gist eventually. When I went back up to my room, I was sort of accosted by a couple of French girls, who began speaking to me in rapid French. I responded rather haltingly, and they immediately switched to English, anxious to tell me all about how they thought this hostel was like a horror movie because the building was so old. I wondered whether one of them was my new roommate, but it wasn't so. When I got into my room, the new girl was in there and introduced herself in French--her name was Richelle. I reciprocated in French, and she said immediately, "English?"
"American."
"Great, I'm Canadian." Apparently my accent was really, really bad--not surprising, considering it hadn't been much good even when I was actively studying the language three years ago. Richelle was quite friendly; she was from Vancouver, in her third year at uni, and was spending the year studying in Lyon. She was just in Normandy for the weekend. She was a lit and French major.

I was in bed by 10:00, mostly because I was exhausted, but also because I had an early train Friday morning. Friday morning I went to Pontorson, to go to Mt St Michel. This involved an hour and a half train ride followed by a twenty-minute bus ride from the train station out to Mt St Michel. But the travel went smoothly. En route I befriended a middle aged Australian woman, who wanted my opinion on President Obama, among other things.

Mt St Michel is difficult to describe for several reasons. First, it is kind of geographically/structurally difficult to explain. Second, it is just too gorgeous for words. So I refer you to my pictures. I spent all day there. Visiting the abbey itself was astounding; I mean, I have now seen my share of neat old churches, but this was literally fantastic. Nothing inside there was built on a human scale; everything is huge, dramatic, awe-inspiring. [Sidenote: As the abbey and the Mt as a whole humbled me, I was reminded of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead--the scene where Roark gets lambasted for building a temple to the human spirit, on a human scale.]

to be continued...