"Wee-Woo"

Monday the 26th of July, 2010, was a really long day of travel for us. We began our trip in Rennes, made our way to the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach, followed a circuitous route on our fast vs. slow selection to Deauville, and still had to get dinner. After checking into the second Mercure we were staying at in France, in Deauville, we decided to head to the beach. This was more of an exploratory trip to see if there were places to park a car because I was not all that interested in walking back to the hotel in wet swim trunks. It was also an exploration to see where the best route was to get to the beach.

Since we had not really walked enough for the day, at only 3 to 4 miles, we walked to the beach. According to the front desk of the hotel, the beach was easily accessible from a diagonally stretching road from the center of town, which was just a few blocks down the road from where we were staying. So, we began our trip to see the beach. Besides, since Sarah loves the beach and we did not go into the water at Omaha Beach, she desperately wanted to get her feet wet or at least see the water. When we arrived at the beach, there was plenty of room to park, including an underground garage. That seemed really odd to me to find an underground garage on the beach, but it was there. We walked the boardwalk a short distance, then Sarah left me and headed for the beach. On the beach, there were these objects on poles, umbrellas, and even what appeared to be changing rooms. The large objects on poles were at the beach as markers because the beach was so long between the boardwalk and the water.

Upon Sarah's return, we headed for dinner. Along the way towards the beach we saw all sorts of places to eat in cafes. We settled on an Italian place for dinner. Sarah decided she wanted no appetizer, or Entree as indicated on a menu in France, and only wanted filet of sole "meunere". I ordered some grilled vegetables with pesto and Gorgonzola, a light salad of greens, and Bar, or bass sauteed. When my appetizer arrived, it was delicious. I was able to roll up the grilled veggies of zucchini, eggplant, and roasted red pepper around some Gorgonzola and eat. I gave Sarah a bite, and then she ordered one for herself. The salad was a salad, but the actual meal was fantastic for me and yucky for Sarah. The menuiere is actually a marinade of butter. This tends to make the fish very mushy in this case because it was not properly prepared. It was supposed to be sauteed in butter with a flour coating and served with capers, but there were no capers. Had they served it with capers, I suspect Sarah would have eaten it. When the waiter came back to collect our plates, he noticed that Sarah had not eaten hers. He evidently talked to the manager, and that's when we met "Jon Jon". Jon, the manager, asked in clear English why Sarah did not eat her meal. We were stunned. Sarah explained that the texture was the issue.

We spoke to Jon for a few minutes and found out that he was there from the US for the last 9 years, and was originally born in France but raised in Arizona. That explained the clear English. Jon asked if we wanted dessert, and at first Sarah said no, and then decided on the chocolate mousse. I had an apple tart to which Jon simply said the apple pie. Both were fantastic, and when the waiter came to collect the dessert dishes, he noticed that Sarah's was practically licked clean. He held up the glass and called to Jon, "I guess she didn't like this either!" Of course the variety of patrons around us were laughing. I paid the check, and on our exit, the waiter, a nice looking Italian guy, hugged Sarah, with a peck on each cheek. As we began our stroll away, Sarah blew him a kiss, to which he catches it and holds his hand to his face. The patrons were all in awe of Sarah's clear sign of thanks and affection. It was an amazing meal, and an even better visit.

Since the Hotel has a small refrigerator with things to eat and drink at high prices, we decided to go to a small store, called Casino, to get things to drink and eat. But at 10:15pm, they were closed. So we continued our walk back to the hotel. When we got to the hotel, we noticed what appeared to be steam coming off the side of the hotel. The hotel was not air conditioned, so I couldn't understand where there would be steam. Then it donned on me, the hotel was on fire. But if the hotel was on fire, where's the firemen, the smoke alarms, the crowds of people. None of these were present. So, we decided to stay outside. Our initial sighting was at 10:20pm.

As we watched our hotel continue to billow smoke, a crowd began to form. But the hotel was still filled with patrons. Someone from the crowd went into the hotel to tell the front desk the hotel was on fire, and the clerk initially dismissed it as a prank; there was no fire because the smoke alarms were not ringing. Then at about 10:30p the smoke alarms started squealing. I figured this would create some serious action, but all it seemed to do was annoy the patrons and the clerk. So the front desk clerk finally comes out and notices this now thick smoke coming from the side of the hotel. The hotel is not a single building. In fact, it is a segment of a larger building that looks like a mountain chalet. The clerk runs into the hotel and from what we learned later, calls the police and then calls all the rooms. He calls the police. I didn't know that police is what you call in the event of a fire. Also, during this mode, I notice there is an older lady on a balcony just around the corner from the smoking building on the patio of her room reading some sort of book. I called to her and told her the building was on fire. She looks at me as if I'm some nut case trying to get some attention. I looked at her and told her again and told her to look right next to her. She dons her robe, turns around, and notices the smoke. She again looks at me rather confused; I thought she was going to look for some marshmallows to toast. She goes inside and a few minutes later comes down with her husband.

Then in a distance, at about 10:35p we can hear the "wee-woos", a term affectionately given to the sound that emergency vehicles use by my daughter. The police are on their way. The arrive onto the street and begin a slow trek towards the hotel as if they are looking for the smoke, but cannot see it because of their vantage point. They stop outside of the hotel, and walk into the hotel slowly. About 3 minutes later they come out covered in dark soot and coughing up a storm. I guess they found the fire. They made some calls to the firehouse, and by 10:40p, 20 minutes after we arrived to the smoking hotel, the firemen arrive. Hurray, someone to verify there is a fire! But the fun doesn't stop here. A fire engine, ladder truck, and what appears to be some tactical truck arrive. The firemen get out, look at each other and begin to discuss, as if a committee is needed to determine what to do, what to do first. The first thing they agree is that they need water. So they send out three firemen to find a hydrant. They locate one right next to the ladder truck. While this is happening, 4 more firemen are wondering what to do next; go into the building and evacuate the people or get a ladder and get to the fire.

At that point the Calvary arrive. Four more fire engines and two more tactical trucks show up to the scene. Firemen are trying to figure out how to extend the portable ladders, while someone is on the ladder truck lifting the large ladder to see if it still works. They swing the ladder around in different directions, left then right, then up and down, and begin to get a feel for how it handles. Mean while, the smoke continues to thicken. Eventually, they get a ladder onto the second floor and a fireman climbs up the ladder onto the landing. He asks for an axe and another fireman gets up there with a deflated hose. Still another two firefighters head into the hotel to look for the hotel hose, though I'm still not sure why. They come out with the hose and attach it to another hydrant. It was pandemonium with all these firefighters running round like chickens with there heads cut off; or as I had once heard, a bunch of squirrels.



Then, what appears to be a leading firefighter yells at all of us to go across the street, downwind of the fire and smoke, so that the hotel can take a role call to see who was outside. The last thing they wanted to do was send someone inside if they didn't have to. It's bad enough I don't know French. But when you have someone screaming in French at you, it makes it that much more interesting to figure out what they are trying to tell you. So, Sarah and I simply followed the crowd. We get to where everyone was standing, now dealing with smoke inhalation, and the manager begins to call out names. We realize they are taking the roll call of who is there. We are in room 302, and they begin at 101; this is going to take some time. After 15 minutes they make it to me, and call out for Alter, Steinzen. He couldn't read the paperwork through all the smoke. I told him my name was Stephen Alter, and he said good. So we stood outside, with smoke wafting over us, watching these looney firemen try to put out the fire. As they progress, we begin to see smoke coming out of other windows in the hotel - the hotel is now filled with smoke.



Eventually, the firefighters make it up to the third floor and have to crash in a sliding glass door to get to a part of the fire. That crash was heard throughout the building complex, which had a set of apartments attached. While the firefighters are battling the blaze and smoke, a lady in a gown in the apartment adjacent to the hotel room where the door was smashed, shows up on her balcony. We call to her and especially the firefighters to warn these people. The firefighter looks down at us and sees us pointing. He looks towards where this lady is standing, and looks back at us. Then he points and we all say OUI! He looks over and this lady sees the firefighter and about poops her panties on the spot. She's shocked there's a fire, and we begin to laugh at the idiots talking to one another about what to do. The extend the ladder from the ladder truck to get her down, be she's planning on staying!

By about 11:15pm the fire is out and the fire chief asks us to come back to the hotel front door for another roll call. This seemed really stupid. After the roll call, we are told again in French in a rather hastily way to go to a nearby hotel and wait. During this trek I come across the lady I called to. The husband wanted to thank me for warning his wife about the fire and for getting them out when I did. I told them that I was confused as to why they stayed after the alarms went off. He said they were rather faint and sounded like a car alarm. So they didn't think much of it. We joined this couple and another couple from Belgium at the Hotel Ibis. The Mercure had the Ibis offer us drinks of water, cafe, tea, milk, and for the Germans, beer; typical Germans. By the way, the Aryan race is thriving in Germany.



One of the more interesting things about this entire fiasco is that the French citizens clearly understood what was being said. But all the foreigners, including the couple we met which were from Denmark, Belgium, and Germany all conversed in English. English is a defacto standard language. While at the Ibis, the firemen tell us we have to wait to return back to the hotel, until they can evacuate the smoke from the hotel. Yep, they expected us to go back to this place and sleep. With the confidence the fire department instilled on us from their performance to put out the fire, not too many wanted to go back. But the hotel Mercure was not going to refund anything. So I was stuck. I could have slept in the car, but that was not too comfortable for sleeping. So we waited until 1:45am and then were able to return to the hotel.

The hotel was a bit smoky, gee I wonder why, but seemed safe enough. That was the conclusion of our day. A very long, humbling, and somewhat odd way to end the day, day.

Omaha Beach

Starting with a title like Omaha Beach conjures up movies like the "Longest Day" or "Saving Private Ryan" or even "The Band of Brothers" series that HBO produced with the help of Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks. But there is more to this place than can be described by a movie or an idea. In one sense, it is the location for the rebirth of a nation.

World War II was started by the German government's desire to do what it failed to do in World War I; win the fight against freedom and rule the world. Tyranny swept through Europe during the mid through late 1930's as the National Socialist Party (Nazi's) tried to impose their rule of order on the world. In 1937-1938 they annexed various countries to Germany, to build a strong army, air force, navy, and pride among Germans that was taken from them at the end of World War I. In 1939, they began their reign of terror on the rest of Europe by invading and capturing Poland, France, Luxemburg, Holland, Sweden, Norway, and practically every European country. Switzerland remained neutral, and the attempted invasion of England. In 1941, two days after the bombing of Pearl Harbor by the Japanese, Germany and Italy declared war on the United States, awakening the sleeping giant, and changing the world as we knew it.

My grandfather fought in WWII in the Navy in the South Pacific theater, my dear friend Joe Reed fought in the European theater. Most everyone in the US knows or knew of someone, male or female, that fought in WWII. But the US response to war declaration was not just the invasion at Normandy. It began for America in late 1941, but for Europe, attacks began in early 1942. I'm not clear on dates because it's difficult to find them quickly on the web. However, what is important and a clear distinction for my daughter, the US had been fighting in WWII for more than 2 years before the massive invasion of northern France on June 6th, 1943.

During our trip through Normandy, I was told that I needed to see the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach. I love history, and live in Williamsburg as well as 3 miles from the first permanent English settlement in America, Jamestown. But going to a cemetery on vacation seemed odd and not something I wanted to do. But after plenty of advice from my siblings, my daughter and I sought out the cemetery on Monday, the 26th of July. I'm glad I did, for what I'm about to describe was simply one of the most memorable and moving experiences of our trip to France.

The US and France have shared a unique relationship for nearly 2 and half centuries. King Louis the XVI was responsible for providing money and material support both in an army and navy to help the US gain its independence from England. This venture ends up being one of the contributing factors to the fall of the monarchy in France, but it truly was one of the most noble of efforts. As a side note, the US was the only set of colonies that won their independence from England at the time of the American Revolution; many other English colonies around the world were also rebelling against England at that time. The US was again helped in the war of 1812. Then in return, the US helped liberate France from German control in both WWI and WWII, and France has been very keen on recognizing that fact. They prefer not to remember that the helped the US in its time of need because that was under the guises of a monarchy. So, visiting the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach was also a tribute to the recognition by France for what the US did for France, and France continues to remember humbly with these types of memorials.

Getting to the cemetery was not easy; in fact, it was frustratingly difficult. The GPS in the car did not recognize the site, and the local towns nearby were not in the unit as reference points. So, we headed for Bayeaux. This was the closest city to the cemetery. Rob told me that this would be a good reference point and along the way I should see signs for the cemetery and that would simply guide me to the location. Well, we made it into Bayeaux with a goal of making it to the visitor center, and the stupid GPS unit dumped us in the middle of the city, with no clear location of the visitor center. Not only was I lost, I was now frustrated. So we tried to find a place to park, and this city was a zoo; parking was difficult to find. I finally located some public parking nearby a hospital, and it appeared to be about 300 meters from the visitor center. Wonderful, I have to search an area of 282,000 square meters, about half the size of OSU's campus. I figured I didn't put on enough deodorant for the search and pondered applying a bit more.

We searched for the visitor center by starting where the GPS unit stopped us. It was actually another 30 meters off, and in a direction north of where we were deposited by the GPS unit. By this point I was beginning to think that when you put the unit into English text mode, the accuracy of the unit drops just to piss off foreigners. We walked into the visitor center, found a clerk that thankfully spoke English and told her I was lost. We told her we were looking for the cemetery, and she gave us a map and guide with everything in it. Sarah even had the forethought to ask for an address for the GPS, and the clerk circled it for us. So, we went outside, and then realized in my frustration, I forgot where I parked the car! Damn. So we retraced our steps and eventually made it back to the car. We plugged in the address we were given, and no address found. Instead, we put in another town closer to the cemetery and were able to begin our trek.

As we approached the second, closer city, Sarah noticed these burnt orange signs directing people to Omaha Beach. Initially there was no mention of a cemetery, but we figured it had to be there. As we approached the area, we see another sign for a golf course, a resort area, and at the bottom, the cemetery. Omaha Beach has become a place for recreation. That seemed somewhat sacrilegious; it was rather early given the fact that so many people died in this area less than 60 years ago. Eventually, as we continued to follow these signs, we end up on a one way road, heading towards the English Channel. And then all of a sudden, we enter the cemetery. Parking was a bit full, with nearly 1000 visitors there already. I thought wow, a place that actually gets visited in memory of our brave men and women that died for freedom of the world.



After parking and getting our wits about us, we headed towards the visitor center. There, we had to pass through security to ensure we were not bringing anything prohibited into the visitor center. The visitor center was quite a place with all sorts of statements from Eisenhower, and our soldiers. There was a sign in book at the entrance, and I decided to sign in our names and see who was visiting; most of the visitors were French. We were one of a handful of Americans. We headed downstairs, where the exit was, and found two theaters, one closed and one open. We stood and watched the open one and realized it was the second in a series of movies of what we were about to learn. We eventually viewed the first movie, and while this was playing, I began to cry. I wasn't sobbing, but I was overcome with emotions of just what this place represented. I had tears of loss and tears of pride; America at its finest was resting on this hallowed soil.





Sarah and I both learned a lot from the visitor center. Leading up to the invasion, the location was held secretly, and only disinformation was sent to throw off the Germans. The Germans had actually fortified northern France which is where they wanted, and left the south to the Vichy government; a Nazi based government that supported the Reich. The day before the invasion, 10,000 acts of sabotage were performed by the French underground, a tidbit that continues to allude movies these days. Another unknown fact was that Italy declared war on the US. That really shocked us because we thought only Japan and Germany did this. The invasion ended 4 years of tyrannical rule and oppression. Nearly 100,000 invaded on the 6th of June, 20,000 in paratroopers and another 80,000 by sea. In less than 3 days they regrouped after the initial onslaught to form a 60 mile line of the invasion. That's about the distance from Williamsburg to Richmond in Virginia. On that day however, we lost 9600, or 10%.





To understand how you lose so many, you have to see Omaha Beach. I am showing a picture to illustrate this. The beach itself is long at low tide, and moderately lengthy at high tide. As you get away from the beach area and encounter vegetation, the ground begins to rise, and eventually a rather rapid rise. The peak of this rise is about 600 feet; our men were pinned down easily. In ancient warfare, the army that had the highest ground usually won the battle. So why you would attempt to take the hill is incomprehensible unless there is a driving force. In this case, the driver was supply lines. The easiest and quickest route to Omaha Beach was straight across the English Channel. So the supply lines were a major factor in choosing this particular region. Of course history shows us that the strategy worked, but some might say at a stiff price to the loss of human life.



We toured the cemetery for quite some time. As I walked, I was saddened more at the tremendous loss. But what hit me as most interesting was the locations of all the men that are buried at this American Cemetery; they are from all over the US. Jewish markers can be seen with the star of David, while the rest had crosses. Unlike the battle markers of the American civil war, where each state was specifically mentioned with its own memorial, this memorial represented the entirety of the US. It truly is hallowed ground. It is filled with the men and women that gave their lives to restore freedom in the world, and they did this willingly.



When we first arrived and signed in, there was a place to leave any remarks. Mine was simple, "To honor thy grandfather." I wish I had included my dear friend Joe Reed who I met when I was 12 years old and who taught me everything I know about fishing. Joe was a member of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, Company C, of the 101st Airborne Division. He participated in the invasion of Normandy and Market Garden, the battle of Bastogne and the Battle of the Bulge. He was with the same group that "The Band of Brothers" originated, that regiment was Company E. I walked among his fellow comrades and felt their presence.

Fast vs. Short

Each year since my daughter was four years old, I've been taking her on a vacation. Initially I took her to see her Uncle Rob and Aunt Anjali and cousins in St. Paul Minnesota. After doing that for 3 years, she was seven, and we began taking driving tours. We went to see my cousin Karen and Paul Newman in Philadelphia, my dear friend from college Brad Briggs in Lancaster, Ohio, and my parents to round out the trip. We did this trip for 5 years, sometimes not seeing either Karen and Paul and the girls, or Brad and Jane, but each year we also would spend time seeing other sites around the United States, including Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Ohio, West Virginia, and even parts of Maryland. We did this by taking US routes instead of interstates because the US routes offered us the ability to see more of what these states had to offer.



On these trips we visited Strasburg which has an operational locomotive from the early 1920's, the Jersey Shore, the Baltimore Aquarium, the Cleveland Zoo, and even the underground railroad of the Civil War. These sites are not necessarily available by interstate, but US routes offer easy access. So, when we began our trip from the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach in Normandy, France to Deauville, we had two options on the GPS to use. We could use the fastest time or the shortest route. There is a difference between each, but I was unaware of just how long that difference could be, given the functionality of the GPS we were using.

Most GPS units I have used will provide these different routes. However, in the states, the differences are significant because they seem to take into consideration that the shortest route is on roads with lower speed limits. In France, the GPS unit we were using did not do this, or at most, did not do it accurately. Sarah had requested we take the shortest route so we could see more of the French country and villages along the way to Deauville. Little did I know that the differences were more significant than we expected; lots different. The fastest time would be about an hour and a half. The shortest distance was actually about 4 hours.



As we left the American Cemetery, we saw a sign indicating there was a McDonald's nearby; 15 minute drive. It was 3:30p, and we were ravenous, so McD's seemed like a good quick stop. The last thing we wanted to do was get a typical french sandwich made on baguette because their cold cuts were lousy and the bread terribly crumby when eaten in the car. And I was not in the mood to sweep out this car before I returned it; though I probably could have simply turned it upside down and shaken the crumbs out onto the road for the pigeons to eat. So, we figured a small detour to McD's would be fine. We followed the road that said in 15 minutes we'd be at McDonald's, and we followed it and followed it. We went through a few circles, which I just really enjoy; sorta like organized chaos or reminiscent of driving in Paris. Just wen our hopes of finding a McD's had about run out, there was another sign just telling us a few more minutes to go. At the 4th sign we saw this, I began to think the French were screwing with us; they wanted us to simply visit more remote, and I mean remote, sections of France. Eventually we simply gave up and unfortunately, we were even more hungry, but now being angry helped squelched some of the hunger pains.


So we began following the "shortest" route to Deauville. One thing that struck me was that as we continued to follow the route, we encountered dozens of really small towns along the coastline that abuts the English Channel. We did encounter some very interesting homes and even what looked like some small villas and castles like the one shown in this posting. We also noticed that each town had a cross with Jesus on it as a monument at the beginning and ending of the town. I'm still not sure why these were there, but there were lots of them. And unlike the US where we have speed bumps, France has speed humps. These things come out of nowhere because they are not clearly marked with a different color paint. But if you hit these things at too fast a pace, as I did on the first one I encountered, you actually begin to fly. I could feel the steering become mushy when I hit the first one. It was scary, really scary.


So we were traveling through beach resort towns where dogs were being walked in the middle of the street, surf boards were being ushered across streets, and bathers of all ages simply waddled across the roads without a care for oncoming traffic. And everywhere we went there were cyclists on the road. No helmets, no padding, very little distinguishing characteristics, other than being in the middle of the road traveling 3 to 5 km/hr and annoying. In one incident, there was a mother walking her children home; two boys ages approximately 6 and 10. What startled us was the 6 year old was naked; stark naked. Sarah's interest was piqued, but was then turned off when she realized the boy was not circumcised. But seeing this in public was even more odd, but evidently French don't usually care about such things.



In one little village, the main route was completely torn up at the curbs for some sort of plumbing being done. That made getting through this town so difficult, I felt like a rat caught inside a maze. We went up and down various streets, both forward and backward, until we found a way out. If you ever saw "Groundhog Day" with Bill Murray, that's how I felt; I felt like I was never going to get out of this little village. And the locals were more angry that I was going up and down various streets which was clear when I asked for directions and basically received the "read between the lines" gesture. Gotta love those French.



Eventually we did make it to Deauville, but the day, which started in Rennes with a visit to the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach and a slow ride to the city was not the strangest part nor end of the day. To see what happens next, check out "Wee-Woo". So if you like driving back roads, be prepared for anything in France. At least in the US, there's all sorts of places to relax along US routes. In France, there's no place to poop or pee, and finding a place to eat is not necessarily all that easy. By the way, as we progressed through the small towns to Deauville, we did stumble across a McDonald's. The food was much better, but the staff less knowledgable. I know, how could that be possible? In France, they do not have a quarter pounder. From their perspective, why would you eat that much meat. Instead they do have the Big & Tasty, but it's called the Royal Deluxe and is very good. I simply had hamburgers and fries. Oh yeah, they don't serve French fries; you're in France. They are simply called frites, or fries, a rather confusing interchange with the staff resolved that issue.

"Eggs"

Most Americans enjoy eggs for breakfast. At one point in my life eggs were considered bad for you, then they became good for you. Either way, eggs are a main source of protein in my diet as a diabetic. So you could imagine my joy when we arrived in Paris that the first thing we were offered by my sister-in-law was eggs, over easy. I prefer over easy because the whites are not usually runny, and at worst the yolk is a bit done or even broken. The broken part I'm not all that eggcited about, but eggs in general are a great way to begin the day.

Every weekend, when my siblings arose from the night's sleep, Jeannine would ask Rob, what do you want for breakfast. My brother's famous response is "Eggs". There is no inflection in his voice, the word is simply said in as monotonic voice possible. "Eggs" he continues to say. It struck me as an odd way of saying it until his explanation. At Liberty High School, where my two brothers and I attended for all of our high school education, we were required to take U.S. Government. By the time Rob went through school, eight years after I paved the way, Mr. Brown was teaching. I'm not sure if I remember Mr. Brown, but I do remember having a less than enthusiastic teacher, that was short with curly brown hair. It seemed to match Rob's description, but so much time has passed I'm not entirely sure. Mr. Brown had a way about him in class. In Rob's class, on the first day of school, Mr. Brown was taking roll call to see who was or was not present. Of course, Rob comes up first, or nearly first; I had to deal with Kevin Adkins - a real piece of work - until he dropped out in 10th grade. But shortly past Rob's name came Leslie Benedicts' name. Leslie and Rob were friends, and he tells me a nice girl. When Mr. Brown comes to Leslie's name, he says "Eggs" instead of Leslie's last name. In case some of you are lost, Eggs Benedict is a combination of poached eggs on top of Canadian bacon resting open face on an English muffin with Hollandaise sauce covering it. It's quite tasty, and something I commonly order if it's on a menu, but rarely make it myself. So that's where Rob's reference to "Eggs" originates.

But my eggs story does not stop here. While we were in Rennes, the first French hotel we stayed at was a Mercure. The Mercure was a decent place, clean, but not too big on amenities. It did however, offer breakfast - a full breakfast. Each country seems to have its own customs, and since this was our first encounter with French customs for breakfast in a hotel, I wasn't sure what to expect. As I have said before, we tend to rely on our experiences to define what to do, so I was applying American customs in France; not necessarily the smartest thing to do. On our way to breakfast we encountered a nice guy in the elevator, but I wasn't certain if he spoke any English. He sat at one table without being seated, so we figured we'd follow suit. Catch was, the only two seat table that was clean was next to him. So we sat anyways and were quickly greeted by a waiter offering us coffee or tea. So it seemed we were doing the right thing.

At breakfast, there was an eggs and breakfast meats section, a cereal and baguette/croissant section, a cold cuts section, and a fruit and yogurt section. At our first breakfast, we were a bit late, 30 minutes before it closed, and the scrambled egg, served in a bowl, were gone. The breakfast meats were steaming in water and blanched - not all that appetizing - so we settled on baguettes and croissant, preserves, some fruit, and crepes. The crepes were awesome; they were thin but strong enough to spread some butter and preserves inside to make somewhat of a taco type sandwich that was delicious. I also tried the cold cuts, and they were terrible. The sliced salami had almost no taste but meat and fat without a smoked flavor at all. And the turkey and ham cuts were tasteless. I learned early that the French don't do sandwiches well with cold cuts; besides I never saw a delicatessen to that point in Paris. But I wanted some eggs. I noticed there was a basket of eggs on the counter in the egg station. So, I figured they were hard boiled, but at least I'd have some eggs. I went over to the basket, grabbed two, and brought them to our table. As I began to open one of these eggs, the guy next to me becomes so startled, he says to me, "Sir, stop. You need to cook it!" He was obviously worried that he was in line for an egg bath. He scared me so much I almost instinctively tossed the egg. So, my assumption was wrong, it was raw. Turns out there was a boiler near the eggs that I had not noticed. So, I went back to the boiler, put two in and waited for what I thought was long enough for hard boiled eggs; 10 minutes of boiling. I ended up with soft boiled eggs that were more tasty than what I can find in the US. Interesting side note to me was that all the eggs we ever saw in France were brown and had thick shells, which is very different from the thin white shells in the US.

In a land where you don't speak the language, it can be difficult at times to determine how to prepare breakfast; a lesson I learned quickly. And if you see someone eating what appears to be a sandwich on a baguette, be very careful. The cold cuts they use are nasty.

Mont St-Michel

From lonely planet’s France guide:

According to Celtic mythology, Mont St-Michel was one of the sea tombs to which souls of the dead were sent. Bishop Aubert Avranches is said to have built a devotional chapel at the summit of the island in 708 A.D., following his vision of the archangel Michael, whose gilded figure, perched on the vanquished dragon, crowns the tip of the abbey’s spire. In 966 Richard the First, duke of Normandy, gave Mont St-Michel to the Benedictines, who turned it into a center of learning and, in the 11th century, into something of an ecclesiastical fortress, with a military garrison at the disposal of the abbot and the king.

In the 15th century, during the Hundred Years’ War, the English blockaded and besieged Mont St-Michel three times. The fortified abbey withstood these assaults and was the only place in western and northern France not to fall into English hands. After the Revolution, Mont St-Michel was turned into a prison. In 1966 the abbey was symbolically returned to the Benedictines as part of the celebrations marking its millennium. Mont St-Michel and the bay became a Unesco World Heritage Site in 1979.”

Our ride to the castle/abbey began by searching for the closest city, Pontroson. On the outskirts, we tried to look through the GPS points of interest (POI) and still could not find it. We were using the GPS built into the car and found it not so easy to use. Obviously even a rocket scientist has problems with some things. Then, instead of searching for monuments, historical sites, and parks, we found it under tourist sites; obviously intuitive to the French manufacturers.

Once the GPS was correctly set, our trip continued without issue to the site. As we approached Mont St-Michel, we could see it through the mist as a silhouette; it was huge like a volcano rising out of a flat stretch of land. We parked in a part of the parking lot that does not get submerged by the tides. Yep, you guessed it, there are parking locations around Mont St-Michel that are not always accessible because the tides, which vary by as much as 55 feet from low to high tide, can submerge parts of the parking lots. In fact, there is a warning sign of such, and the day we visited, we were told these spots were available for parking. One thing that was quite interesting during a read of the tides for Mont St-Michel is that when they do rise and come in, they move as fast as a racing horse. The reason for this is that the bay around the island is extremely shallow. So, once the tide rises above the floor of the bay, water simply rushes in and fills the bay; heaven help those that get caught on the bay when this happens. What struck me further was why would they put this in the guide book? Because each year people drown in the bay. They see an open invitation by flat bay floor for miles to other islands and take a hike without thinking about timing or the distance to travel. They get caught and drown; so hiker beware.

We parked approximately a mile from the island and began our trek to it. Upon entering the walls of the fortress we came across a set of cannons used to secure the fort in the 16th and 17th centuries. Before heading to the beginning of our tour of the fortress and abbey, we decided to go to the toilet to take care of business. But that was not so easy, nor cheap. It cost each of us 0.40e or $0.50 to use the facilities, and the facilities were not so clean; it was like a smack in the head. As we began our ascent towards the top, and after passing through various shops and cafes along the main, constantly ascending. Wet. Brick road, only passable by a single small car, we made it to the first palisade. As we ascended the stairs we took pictures of the surrounding buildings and land. We could see various groups of hikers in the plain of the bay and recalled the warning about the tides. This then brought to mind the Darwin Awards – people receive these posthumously for dying doing something really stupid that removes them from the human gene pool.
During our ascent we met a very nice English couple vacationing in northern France. They had gone to Bayeaux to see a tapestry highlighting the Battle of Hastings in 1066, and were moving on to Mont St-Michel. After exchanging some pleasantries we found out they have a daughter in Atlanta, GA that they visit often, and have traveled the Smoky and Blue Ridge mountains to northern Tennessee and then to D.C. After parting ways, we continued our trek towards the abbey and realized that to go any further, we were going to have to pay. We gave it some serious thought and then realized that since my parents were too wimped out to do it, we would show them up and do it ourselves. I’m glad we made that decision, because what unfolds next was simply breathtaking.

The ascent to the abbey was along a very numerous set of stairs. I had to stop a few times as we ascended, but was able to make it to the top without serious issues. Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, we took more pictures. We could see 10’s of miles away and the pictures were amazing. The walls were not too high, so we had to be a bit careful as we approached the edges. Also, as we made our ascent, we encountered a few nuns. The abbey is still an operational abbey, so there were plenty of places we could not visit. But the top of the abbey was high – nose bleeding high – and the views from around the top were phenomenal. As we looked around us, I thought hard about how the English would attempt to attack this place. It’s no wonder they were unable to take the entire fort.

The abbey was not as ornate as Notre-Dame. The stained glass windows were simply glass squares. The pews hard, as expected, and the confessional chambers small and plain. It was a very old church and was fairly accurate to its history is very much controlled by the “Powerful Organization”. As we began our descent through the abbey we encountered various chambers including a dining hall for the abbey and the knight’s chambers. It was cool and somewhat damp, but impressive nonetheless. Another issue that struck me as odd was how in the world would they get supplies to the abbey. Take them up the stairs? It turns out there is an old style elevator in the abbey outskirts. It is powered by walking men in this huge wheel, with a rope around a spool that would lift a sled up a slide attached to the side of the fortress. Rather ingenious and good use of pulleys and manual labor. As we continued our descent, we found a few spiral staircases but overall coming back down was not as difficult as the Arc D’Triomphe. The visit was well worth the time and money spent.

To wrap up our trip, instead of visiting the prison and the knight’s living quarters, we decided to have lunch. While it was slow, the food was tasty and not too pricy for a tourist stop. I enjoyed salad Nicoise and grilled salmon with ratatouille and rice, while Sarah had a Margarita Pizza – a standard pizza. To finish we enjoyed on of my Grandma Sadie’s favorites – Peach Melba, and were they delicious. There are all sorts of places to eat and shop at Mont St-Michel. So to those that would visit, look for something that tickles your fancy.

Bad Meals Are Available

Up until the point we left Paris for Rennes, the meals and snacks we enjoyed were all tasty, well prepared, and just delicious. While I have written about French Cuisine, the meals we have been eating are both a combination of my sibling's and French cafes. Paris is loaded with cafes, and based on my limited travel through northern and north western France, each hamlet has at least one cafe. But just because there is a cafe, does not make it good.

I follow a general principal I learned from my Grandmother Sadie; if the cafe is busy, it's probably a good place to eat. If it is constantly empty, don't bother. What this does is limit you in selection and may not allow you to expose the gems of places to eat. However, if you're on vacation, the last thing you need is to spend time eating at a place that has not been well tested by restaurant patrons. Leave that work to locals.

So when we arrived to Rennes on the 24th, all we knew was the great food we had eaten in Paris and unwisely assumed that France had great meals. The hotel we stayed at was the Mercure in Rennes. The place was clean but not high on amenities; for a better description of the Mercures we stayed at, see "Wee-woo". The Mercure is somewhat like a low end Hampton Inn, though I think Hampton Inns are better. Breakfast is provided and the one in Rennes did have room service at night. But, the room service was offered by a local restaurant. Since I was unaware of the restaurant, and its patronage, we decided to eat at the restaurant instead of ordering room service.

At 8:00pm, we were the first to be seated for the evening. To some that might seem really odd, but in France, this is early for dinner. Dinner usually starts around 8:30pm, and continues until 11:00pm. So I was not too worried yet. Then the maitre d' sat us at a nice table, and as you can see from the picture, the place seemed cozy and warm. Others began filing in, when our waiter came and gave us menus. I asked if there were menus in English, and he said there were, but offered none. So, I had to ask for an English menu to get one. We only received one. By this point, I knew this was going to be interesting.

The menu was chock full of foods (fruits) from the sea, "fruit de mer". There were shrimp scampi, mackerel, winkes and winkles, lobster, scallops, oysters, salmon, and sole. So, the menu seemed decent enough. Since I had never heard of a winke or a winkle, I asked what those were. They were different size snails. Our waiter as it turns out spoke no English and decided to refer us to the manager who spoke English fluently. This meant that I was now at the whim of the manager and her time in the restaurant. I ordered mackerel for an appetizer, a Mediterranean salad, and salmon for dinner. my daughter ordered a plate of shrimp scampi. When you order food that you have had at a multitude of other places, you tend to think that all places prepare them similarly. There are nuances that make them different, but you have a certain expectation.

That's when the whole eating experience in France took a turn. The mackerel came out on a bed of lettuce. It was a tan gray color and was, well, not exactly what I had in mind. It stuck of a strong fish flavor, was very mushy, and was disgusting at best. I damn near spit it across the restaurant after it entered my mouth. It was terrible. So, I swallowed what was in my mouth, had a sip of white wine, and decided to try the lettuce. The lettuce was good enough, and I left the fish in place. We sat at the table for quite some time before the manager returned. She asked if I was done, and I said yes. She asked was there something wrong with the mackerel, and I said it just wasn't what I had in mind, and was not interested. The next course comes out with my daughter's shrimp scampi and my Mediterranean salad. Well, the salad was ok, but the olives were simply black olives and the tomatoes were mushy. The scampi was the biggest kick in the rubber parts. They were completely whole prawns, eyes and all, on a bed of seaweed and a bowl of ice. No garlic. No butter. Only homemade mayonnaise. It was peal and eat shrimp/prawn.

I told Sarah not to worry, that if she didn't like it, she could have mine, as any good parent would do. Well, she hated the prawns. They were cold and not of good taste. So, I ended up eating a dozen prawns. I had to peal the shell which is more like a crayfish, split the body from the tail, remove the mud vein, and then eat the meat. It was a lot of work for little food. I was getting hungrier as I ate. I shouldn't have to expel more energy to eat dinner than what the food provides, otherwise the meal is not work it. The salmon I ordered, according to Sarah, was good. It was salmon filet on a bed of ratatouille and mashed potatoes with a lemon butter sauce. I determined at that point that when I get home, one meal I have will definitely be shrimp with real cocktail sauce and a real salad. Dinner for me was lousy. I ate the salad and asked for the check. At that point I had thought that of all the meals I had had, this was definitely the worst and that this is probably going to be the last bad meal I have in France.

Well, I spoke a bit too soon, because the following night we ate at an outdoor cafe. Although we were near the ocean, and the air was cooler, it was still quite warm and humid in Rennes. Instead of eating room service from that terrible place we ate the night before, I decided to try a walk around the area to see if we could find something better. The cafe we stopped at was really busy, and thought that this is probably a better place to eat. Upon asking for an menu in English, the waiter gladly gave us one and asked if we wanted something to drink while we read the menu. We ordered sparkling water for me and regular water for my daughter. Dinner for me was a "boquet of shrimp and cocktail sauce", a green salad, and tuna covered with sesame seeds, with a soy sauce dip and Basmatti rice flavored with saffron. Sarah decided to get a tomato and mozzarella dish with olive oil and balsamic vinegar in a crepe. The tuna was raw, the shrimp not peeled, and the "cocktail sauce" was mayonnaise with a touch of paprika; yuck. The food was better than the night before, but not much. Needless to say, bad meals are available in France, especially in Rennes.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

To get to Pairs from the United States, we took the A330 which I highlighted in “What’s That Noise”. I spoke about some of the interesting things for subway travel in Paris, but mentioned that it seemed to predominantly by these single car trains that run on tires. Well, on our way to Versailles, I was introduced to the rail lines that provide additional capacity to the subways of Paris.

The rail lines in Paris should be a model for those in the United States. I used to think that the best rail lines in the world were in the US. Boy am I wrong on that one. Thus far, France is a whole lot better. For example, trains here in France are smooth. That might not mean much to some, but when I took the train from Williamsburg, VA to Washington, D. C. I had to wear a relief band. This is one of those devices designed by NASA to help astronauts control motion sickness. It works extremely well for air travel, and like American Express, I do not travel without one. On our trip to D.C. I got really sick from the rocking back and forth motion, the clackity clack sounds, and the general sway of the trains. In Paris the trains do not sway, they clack every now and then, and generally I was able to sleep comfortably on the train and not feel as if I was barreling down the tracks.

This is the land of small cars, and when I mean small, I mean small. The other day I noticed that a Mini Cooper was a large car for this market, and the Smart Car, or tin can with wheels, is the smallest but about average. Most cars here are two doors. Some have 4 and there are a few mini vans. But even the mini vans are not much bigger than the Mini Coopers. Cars are just small. And parking, well, if you’re claustrophobic, this is not the place for you. Cars are literally parked in ways that a bumper is often touching an adjacent car; it’s plain nuts. Signage is also different. There are no signs that say speed limit. The speed limit signs are numbers in kilometers/hour inside a big red ring. Caution signs are a big red “X” inside a red ring, sometimes on blue backgrounds and others not. Tow away zones are marked with figures of a tow truck hauling a car away. But the kicker to all this is the STOP sign; it’s the same as in the states. Go figure. And this word, “STOP” has made it into the French language; chock one up to the Americans!

For part of our trip, we rented a car to view the countryside, and drive out of Paris to Rennes and Deauville. The car we were to rent was a Renault with a GPS added in for good measure. However, when we went to get the car and reminded the clerk of the GPS, he simply there were none. He said he was sorry, but he could not provide one. Thanks’ to my brother’s persistence and intimidation, the clerk began making calls to other Avis dealers to search for a GPS. As he called and found no GPS units, he gave an indication he would only make a few calls to appease my brother. To this my brother holds up a map of Paris with what shows about 40 Avis rental centers. He says to the clerk in perfect French, “There’s a lot of red on this map” implying the red AVIS locations. He then tells the clerk that I am an American, I am here on vacation, and I’m headed to Rennes and Deauville and there was no way I was leaving Paris without a GPS. So the clerk continued his search. During his search, another younger clerk asked what the problem was. We told him that a GPS was reserved and that I was not leaving until one was located. The younger clerk said that a number of the cars that they rent have a GPS unit integrated into the cars. So our clerk began looking at the variety of cars they had and found one. To be sure it would work in English, and that I could fit, we went to see this car.

The car was a Peugeot 307cc; a sports car. The clerk verified that the GPS unit would work and that I should be able to fit. It’s a small car, but truly a well engineered vehicle. We were not charged for the increase in grade nor the GPS because we were so patient. I took the additional insurance to ensure I would not be stuck with a 1000e bill if there was any additional damage to the vehicle. My brother decided to drive us back to the apartment to get our luggage and travel gear, and found that this little car was a powerhouse with some serious stamina for driving. It’s a diesel but drives like a mustang. It has 6-speeds forward and one reverse, a convertible, and plenty of room to the point that I was able to fit with plenty of room. If someone was sitting in the back seat, they’d have to have a mouth guard because it was cramped. But the front was nice.

Traveling in Paris was not as difficult as I had expected, but it’s not easy. Driving the countryside is even more interesting. There are no small towns dotting the countryside, just small hamlets that were rather sparse. What the countryside has is plenty of farms. Every piece of real-estate is used for farming. And the farm houses look like the elegant French villa’s with various plain box with roof barns. They look nothing like the barns in the US. And the fields are covered with hay, straw from wheat, corn, and another plant I have yet to determine.

Things are definitely different. Rest stops occur about every 15 miles. The men’s urinals are in the open and doors to the toilets open to the outdoors and can be used for men or women; nothing like just being out there. Another interesting phenomenon is the roads are toll roads – 26.50e to go 150 miles, or $37. These toll roads have both rest stops and stations to get food and fuel. This is a brilliant concept. And the roads are well maintained. The US should take a tip from this. In fact, we charge little and have lousy roads.

Top speeds here are about the same, but measured in kilometers per hour (km/hr). Signage is almost the same, except along the roads there are almost no advertisements. Only an occasional art work billboard of the towns nearby can be seen. The countryside is far from flat. It is hilly and quite beautiful. I am struck that Cezanne’s paintings actually capture this quite well, giving me a much better understanding of the painter’s work.