Honfleur
One of the perks of studying abroad is all the included excursions. It reminds me of summer camp, except instead of missing your archery, swimming, and canoeing lessons, you're missing classes! The girls and I met Vivienne (nicknamed Aunt Viv by the end of this trip) at the crisp hour of 7:00 on Wednesday morning, equipped with our cameras and k-ways. Aunt Viv insisted we bring k-ways (windbreakers) on our trip because we would be wading through water, mud, and quicksand--yes, quicksand--and bound to get wet and dirty. As you'll eventually see in the pictures, we all ended up buying the same cheap-and-chic k-way from Monoprix, making our group even more stealth. Not only were we the big group of American girls, we were the big group of matching American girls.
But alas, after a three hour drive on the bus, we arrived at Honfleur, a quaint little town in Normandy famous for its picturesque port and of course, its crêpes. Although the town is a bit touristy, I really enjoyed exploring the area. As I found with other towns in Normandy and Brittany, the streets outside the main square of the village are basically empty. Art studios, small shops, and restaurants might line the roads but the quiet is deafening! My friends and I would walk 15 minutes in one direction and not see or hear a single soul. And God forbid we want to pop in a cute store around 1pm in this little town--the French don't sacrifice lunch hour.
If you know anything about me, you know I'm easily distracted by cats...
Especially kittens....
I must confess I spent the first 15 minutes in Honfleur trying to lure this kitten into my arms. The cats were part of this show I think. There was a clown involved...it was a little confusing. So I was worried that if I just walked over and started petting the kitten the clown would charge me five euros or something. So I tried and tried with kisses and meows, but remained unsuccessful. This photo is precious though. Kitten in a bag. At least the clown didn't charge for pictures!
Anne, trying to protect herself from speedy Peugeots on this French-sized sidewalk.
Attempting to take "candids"
Trouville et Deauville
After leaving Honfleur, Aunt Viv told us we had some extra time on our hands, which rarely happened on her trips. So we took the opportunity and headed to Deauville, a beautiful beach town in Normandy. We had been driving along the coast for a while in our stuffy bus, and along the way I had been staring at that ocean, dreaming about what that water must feel like. Of course none of us had our bathing suits. But that didn't stop me. As soon as we got off the bus, I changed into an old pair of shorts and a tank top, ready to hit the beach. OK, so it wasn't that warm out. And I did look like a bit of a hillbilly swimming in basketball shorts. But what other time will I get to swim in the ocean in France? Grabbing that opportunity is enough for me.
Later on when I was telling my host family about my trip, my host mother started laughing and tried to correct what she thought was a ludicrous statement. Making swimming motions with her hands she said, "Tu as nagé? Ça c'est nagé..." But this time, I hadn't made a blunder and misused my French vocabulary. Much to my host mother's surprise, I actually did swim in the ocean in September! Poor woman, she almost chocked on her saucisse de morteau.
As you can see from the pictures, I didn't tiptoe into that water, letting each limb slowly adjust to the chilly temperature. I ran in full force, against the waves, against the cold, and welcomed the shock of the water against my skin as I dove. And, mon dieu, was it worth it.
I should also mention Courtney (aka Coco), the brave redhead beside me in these pictures. I didn't have to do much convincing to get her to join me.
Pyramid picture...I guess sometimes it pays off to be the little one! I got to be on top.
Sorry Allegra, for stepping on you with sandy feet! I was never a cheerleader. I don't know how to gracefully descend a human pyramid.
Shelby, me, Jackie, and Erin
Sand crab...
La Deuxième Guerre Mondiale et Les Plages du Débarquement
The next day was a bit heavier in every sense. The clouds were thick with rain, the air hung heavy, and we were visiting two museums, the first dedicated to World War II, the second to the American soldiers who died on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. Both museums, as you can imagine, were a lot to handle. But what really tugged on my heart strings was the American Cemetery. Facing west towards home (the US), rows upon rows of crosses stood up straight out of the grass. Most crosses bore the name of the soldier and the state he came from. Others only said "Known but to God," because their identities had been lost along the way.
OK, you knew the matching k-ways were coming...
Pictures courtesy of Anne Ulizio
Omaha Beach
La Point du Hoc and Jacques
Just west of Omaha Beach is La Point du Hoc, one location where the Americans attacked German-occupied France during WWII. Thanks to our witty guide Jacques and his stories, this trip was much lighter and happier.
On our way to the point I noticed this berry shrub. I know you aren't really supposed to eat berries you just find on the side of the road somewhere. But this is France. They've got to be good! This time Coco refused to take the plunge with me, but nevertheless, I tried one. And then I couldn't stop. I've never tasted such a sweet blackberry in my life! It tasted like a blackberry should taste. And dissolved in my mouth. Unfortunately I can't say the same about the blueberries. Maybe they needed more time to ripen, but they were a bit crunchy for my taste.
Bomb Crater
Jacques asked if someone could please get inside the crater and jump, so that the group could understand just how deep it was. I volunteered.
When I asked Jacques if I could have a picture with him, he chuckled, grabbed me tight, then yelled out, 'Hey, everybody, look at me and my new chick!' Oh, Jacques...what a jest.
And The Stories...
Jacques kept us entertained on the bus, and then on the tour, by telling us non-stop stories. The first story was about how he almost died. Jacques related to us that when he was four years old, he lived on a farm in Normandy. The Germans were bombing their town non-stop, so his mother kept him and the rest of the family in a trench during the day when it was dangerous, and strictly forbade him to go outside. But being the rambunctious little boy he was, Jacques escaped the trench one day to run around the field and play. The next thing he remembered, he was on the ground with a tremendous pain in his neck. When he looked down, he saw the wound in his neck gushing blood and pouring all down his clothes. He could feel the warmth of his own blood coating his skin. He passed out. When he woke up, he was in the hospital with his mother sleeping by his side. He was later told that the bullet, one of the many raining down from the German planes that morning, had lodged itself one millimeter below a major artery. One millimeter, and Jacques would not have been telling us this story. His moral?
"Always listen to your Mother!"
On the topic of family, Jacques continued. That same year his mother got pregnant again. There was a hospital a few miles away, but when she went into labor there was no time. With the help of a midwife, Jacques mother gave birth to a baby girl. He told us that when people hear of his sister's birth, they often ask his mother how she did it. In the middle of a field (since they lived on a farm), without anesthetics, without a doctor, wasn't it terrible? But Jacques explains that on the contrary, his mother preferred his sister's birth more than the births of her other children, where there were doctors and painkillers at hand. She described her birth as completely natural and surprisingly enough, painless. She insisted that because she had so many other worries at the time, like the bullets or bombs that could fall down on her at any moment, the pain of her giving birth seemed inconsequential. Jacques laughs at this bit.
"So now young ladies, you know where to go if you want to have a completely painless birth. Head to Iraq!"
Next were veteran stories. Jacques had a veteran on his tour once, an old man who had been in Normandy during D-Day. The veteran told Jacques how he was hastily trained in French before leaving on his mission, so as to be able to speak with the people when he arrived. He related how, after reaching the shores and escaping German bullets, he had hidden himself until the night could cover him. Finally when it was dark enough for the veteran to not be spotted, he ran to the nearest house to ask for food and shelter. As soon as he got to the door, he noticed his pants were still soaked from the beach and that he should change before he got sick. A young woman opened the door and the veteran, using his French for the first time said, "I have wet pants for you." It was much later that he realized his faux-pas, and understood why the young woman had shut the door in his face.
Great commentary. Staying tuned.
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