Normandy, Mont St. Michel and Back to Paris: Why is Everything Here in French?

 We have been busy since arriving in Normandy. Yesterday, we spent the entire day visiting the towns and beaches notable for the D-Day invasion. To walk on Utah and Omaha beaches and see the American Cemetery’s flag ceremony while listening to “Taps,” was very moving, even 80 years later.  Thanks to Gold Beach Company, we had a wonderful tour guide, Victor,  who provided us with a wealth of knowledge about those eventful days. We all agreed that upon our return home, watching “Saving Private Ryan” (for the 10th time) and “Band of Brothers” ( me for the third time, Bob for the 150th time) is a must. 

The next day, we decided to get up early and head to Mont St. Michel, a huge 8th Century abbey on the west coast of Normandy, located about 1 1/2 hours from Bayeaux.  Unlike the day before when we were expertly chauffeured around Normandy by our man, Victor, we were on our own and that meant the bus was coming out of the hotel garage to get us there.  As we were uncertain of the roads, we decided to leave at 7:15 am to make sure we would be on time for a 10:30 entrance time.  

After several minutes of hoisting, shoving and then rearranging in the trunk the near endless number of suitcases we have (it was a two-man job) we were out of the garage and headed on our way.  We decided  (at least for Bob and I) that before we left town, coffee was necessary—no essential—for our morning journey. The problem was two-fold: 1. It was now 7:30 am and still dark outside. Certainly the bus has headlights (it should for what it’s costing us to rent—in fact, it should come with a driver!) but the darkness  led to a question and conversation about “just how far north are we?” If we had internet access, I’m sure Bob would have pulled up a French map on his phone to try to determine its latitude when compared with that of America.  But we were in rural Normandy and once we left our hotel room, the internet appeared not to exist. 

The second problem was that no coffee places seemed to be open.  We were immediately frustrated (probably because of our lack of caffeine.) and our “Ugly American” side was in full force when a few of us said that these bakeries would all be out of business if they were in New York! We were looking for any store that had lights on, but they were few and far between. Ironically, the boulegerie we went to yesterday had just opened. Our next issue was trying to park the bus somewhere on the narrow, Medieval street. Unfortunately, our only option was to park illegally.  When deciding between a possible parking ticket and coffee, we went with the coffee.  My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and I stayed in the car (which took up half the width of the street) while my niece and Bob in the pitch dark, jumped out of the illegally parked van, and ran towards the bakery.  If there were any townspeople up and walking by—which there were not—it might have looked like a drug deal going down or some kind of heist.  Fortunately, we were able to get our coffee, some hot croissants (blue gown be damned again) and head out of town before any French police had gotten out of bed!

From the outset, I do recognize that we are in France. But boy, if you don’t speak the language, it is hard to decipher their signs.  Case-in-point, trying to park the bus at Mont St. Michel was one big frustrating exercise. As the Abbey is on a small island, we needed to park the bus and then take a shuttle over the causeway to begin the visit.  There were about 15 parking lots with directions in French and a lot of red lights at nearly every entrance. Needless to say, the bus experienced a lot of bucking due to our stopping and starting as we attempted to unsuccessfully  translate the signs and/or finding a green light, which we assumed meant, “Come on in and park.” Our first attempt was a big failure and we had to exit the parking area and re-enter.  We finally pulled into a lot with a green sign and we were so happy until we saw that is was for large vehicles, like RVs.  There was no sign saying this, or at least one we could read, but we figured that since there were only campers, we were not exactly in the right place.  We finally decided that a loop around the vast parking lot would not be necessary, as while we could not sleep in our bus, it was longer than several of the RVs.   San Michel was worth it all, except for the ten thousand steps we had to climb in order to see all of its splendor. Those monks of years ago must have been incredibly fit from all that climbing. 

After San Michel, we needed to drive four hours back to Paris to make our 8 pm flight to Florence.  The plan is to enjoy a few days in this beautiful city, before the wedding festivities begin on Friday.  In order to begin this leg of the journey however, we had to get to Charles DeGaulle Airport.  Although the first two hours driving back through the heart of Normandy was lovely, things started slowing down once we were 30 miles outside of Paris.  We experienced New York-worthy congestion and we still had to fill the tank with gas and frankly, time was ticking.  There were a lot of miles/gas calculations going on in the front seat and we realized that while we probably could make it to the airport, it would be close. 

Hallelujah, we passed a gas station and thought our problems had been solved..but they were not.  The bus only took diesel gasoline and while the pump clearly had two types of diesel, no one could figure out how to pay for it!  Three different credit cards were stuck in the various orifices of the payment machine and then hit against the top of the machine hoping against hope that something would happen.  

It did not. A whole new set of gas/miles calculations took place with the hope that the traffic would open up  and we would have enough gas to avoid us all not being stuck on a major Parisian artery in a bus with no gas, but plenty of luggage.  

We did make it to the airport on time (I am writing this blog from seat 7D of the plane!)  but it was not without its problems upon our arrival. The issues included a mix-up with the bus’s license plate and Bob inadvertently putting his checked lighter suitcase on the conveyor belt before his heavier suitcase, which apparently is perceived as a mortal sin at Air France.  A supervisor needed to be called to rectify the problem which had us anxious that we would miss the flight.   In his defense, had the directions been in English, I am certain that the heavier bag would have gone on the belt first. Last, but not least, Bob misplaced his new jacket that he bought to replace the jacket he lost in the Athens Airport in May.  He fortunately found it just minutes before we were to board the plane but honestly, except for the fact that he commandeered us through the ravages of French traffic so that we would could actually make it on the plane, I would have told him to hope for warmer weather in Florence!

And so, our family adventure continues in  Italy!