Man Against World

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More France posts may be in order, but I won't promise anything. I'm, *sniff*, not the most reliable blogger.

France, Part II

VII.

An easygoing day of shopping and sightseeing, still somewhat marred by the airline snafu. We ate egg crepes provided by the hotel's kitchen, with orange juice, baguette, preserves, and hot chocolate--the perfect breakfast. We then walked to the center of Honfleur, a square harbor with some impressive sailboats surrounded by tall, narrow houses. We toured the Church of St. Catherine, begun in 1464. It was dark inside, huge and barn-like. It creeped me out a little--images of Mary were everywhere, including hanging over the altar. We then spent time at a book shop where I bought Tintin au Congo, a book racist enough that it was never translated into English--but hey, it's a Tintin book. Though Herge was a Belgian Imperialist, all his books are works of art.

We returned to the hotel and prepared to go to a larger town to find some clothes for John. This took us a long time. Finally, we were able to find a good discount store. I bought sneakers and a shirt in the traditional Normandy fisherman pattern (slightly updated). We are little cheese pastries for lunch in Trouville-sur-Mer, and finally returned to Honfleur. We took a leisurely walk to the center of Honfleur, enjoying traditional cider and appetizers at a quaside restaurant before continuing our leisurely walk. We stopped so that John could get gyros, then walked a steep twenty minutes to Cote de Grace, the highest point around, with stunning views of Honfleur, and a massive bridge across the little finger of the Atlantic that separated quaint, medieval Honfleur from massive, industrial Le Havre. There was a chapel, Our Lady of Grace, which unlike St. Catherine's, had its altar centered on Christ. It was a beautiful chapel, set in acres of quiet, ancient forests on the top of Cote de Grace. The bells began, calling believers to Mass. The pale ocean on one side, the forest on the other, the idyllic chapel--one of the oldest in the region--and the tintinnabulation of the bells--all combined in a sweet sensory harmony. For me, it felt like long-awaited peace after a long couple days of travel. We returned to the hotel, watched part of the John Grisham film "A Time to Kill," and went exhaustedly to bed. We will be heading to Brittany tomorrow, taking in the D-Day beaches on the way. What I will take away from Honfleur: the quiet. On the quiet streets during the day, in this hotel, and everywhere at night, Honfleur is a quiet and peaceful city. I can hear nothing right now but the faint buzz of the lights and John's even, quiet breathing. Time to turn in.

VIII.

Honfleur to Dinan, Brittany, via a never-ending procession of roundabouts and wee little towns. We were sad to leave the B&B in Honfleur--it was a truly wonderful place. Today we toured some of Normandy's beaches, including Omaha Beach and Pointe du Hoc, where Grandpa Gray's Ranger Battalion fought on D-Day. We then set our sights on Brittany, our next destination.

The town of Dinan is rather touristy, with circuitously medieval streets. The hotelwas ancient on the outside, but indoors resembled an American motel--in a bad way. The petite British manager was very helpful, if scatter-brained. We wandered through the narrow streets and alleys. Mrs. H. and John bought a handmade leather belt for Mr. Hokanson. Then, at Creperie Ahn, we had the best meal of the trip so far--crepe salad with hot chevre for me, with rose wine for the table and a butter-caramel crepe for dessert. Then, proudly utilizing my French skills, I told the waiter to "bring you the bill, please." I then corrected myself and the smiling waiter shook his head. We then took a dusky walk around medieval Dinan.

France, Part I

We went to France. Here's the story, in short installments.

I.

Numb airport gate agents, almost robotic in their countenance. Unlike robots, these terminal denizens are not emotionless. Instead, they are sunk deep into melancholia. However, there was a curious glimmer—almost joy—in this specimen's eyes as she told us we had missed our flight to Paris.

Charlotte, North Carolina, is no doubt an excellent place. Its leaden skies on this occasion, however, did not invite further exploration. We wanted to be in Paris, immediately. I won't spend time describing the horrible experience of cajoling an airline into getting you on another plane. Somehow, we managed to get tickets to London. There, hopefully, we will transfer to another airport and thusly to Paris—most of a day latter than planned.

John, our erstwhile companion, was booked on a different flight, from Philadelphia. Ironically, he missed his flight as well—the plane was delayed. We will see if tomorrow brings a safe reunion of the four of us at Paris—Charles De Gaulle.

The loudspeakers on planes hardly merit the term. They failed altogether as the stewardess on this flight tried to talk. When they did work, they were hardly more effective. The pilot, however, was finally able to advise us to avoid “conjugating in the aisles.” I could barely resist jumping into the aisle and yelling “Amo! Amas! Amat!” at the top of my lungs.

The head stewardess was also able to tell us about the “flirtation devices,” handily placed under our seats. Seated between two pairs of grandparents, I didn't find this particularly useful. Besides, I have one built in that works perfectly well.

This is an Airbus A330. I only fly Boeing, so I asked the stewardess for a parachute with which to exit the plane, hoping for a soft landing on the pillowy Atlantic. She wouldn't supply me with one! I tell you, airplane travel is going to the dogs.

II.

Eventually, we will get there. Will our baggage be waiting to meet us, however. THAT is the question.

What journey goes smoothly? Few. Life itself is a journey, if you'll pardon the cliched sentimentalism. We cannot avoid its obstacles—and nor can we make every plane. Obstacles are part of the journey of life. But how do we surmount them when encountered? Without sounding like a televangelist, we should rely on God. He is map, compass, and tour guide. When we are saved, the journey of life still has its ups and downs, but the destination has radically changed. I'm going to heaven, via Paris, France. How about you?

I don't really feel like getting my iPod out right now. So I plugged my 'phones into the in-flight entertainment console. Hey, they have Alejandro by, erm, well, you-know-who. Ah, even better, they have a whole station devoted to Radiohead. Bliss.

The whole tragedy of errors that has thus far characterized our journey brings all too readily to mind the excellent comedic sketches of Brian Regan: the arrogance of first-class passengers, the food which adjectives fail to capture, the message of harassed gate agents: “Okay, if I could have passengers in Zones A and B being to approach the gate, please,” which, to many people, sounds like, “Okay, Everybody rush the gate RIGHT now.”

III.

It is indeed strange that during a single seven-hour flight through Earth's atmosphere, we can see the light of two days. We have shortened the night—I will pay for it with tiredness. Dawn begins sooner above the clouds. It is 5:45 AM and bright as day.

IV.

After three different estimates, we now find that weather has lost us 12 hours of France. John was, for some reason, sent to Oslo, Norway. He won't be in Paris till 7.

I have been sitting near the spotless McDonald's in Charles De Gaulle airport for hours now. My designated task seems to be muse, scratching post, internet enabler, and baggage watcher, while my betters troop about this massive airport. Tiresome crises, too tiring to go into, come and pass as we try to get our fractured party together and leave this teeming rabbit warren and strike out into France in our “Renault Espace or similar.”

Charles De Gaulle is massive and convoluted, but astonishingly clean and new, albeit with frequently non-functional escalators. The McDonald's and Pizza Hut are located back to back, as if set defensively against the waves of “foreign food” that threaten to overrun them.

We ate, this morning, at a delicious place called “Costa” at Heathrow Airport. It was like an upmarket, deli-style Panera Bread.

A short plane ride later, Air France delivered us to CDG, where we sit, waiting for John's flight from Oslo.

V.

125 kilometers an hour through the dusky French countryside. It is past 9:30, but the leaden skies still bear enough light to write by. No one really knows where John's luggage is. No one knows when we will get it back. But we do count our blessing that John packed an extra change of clothes into his carry-on. None of us did.

Nor our black Mercedes, aided by a GPS, oozes quietly across the countryside.

VI.

Honfleur is a miniature town—parking even the tiny B-Class was a chore. The houses are ancient—half-timbered and brightly painted. It is dead silent right now in our hotel room with the windows thrown wide open. No downshifting trucks, no 24-7 gas stations—this town at night is much as it has been for centuries. La Cour Saint Catherine is a little jewel of a hotel right from Rick Steve's guidebook. The landlady promised us good weather tomorrow, and having lost a rainy day to the airline, we resolve to start early.

Random Ramblings

Nicolas Sarkozy, the conservative candidate for the French presidency, has won the election with 53% of the vote. He is a pro-America politician, but also pro-man made global warming. His main opponent, Segolene Royale, won 46% of the vote.

This seems to forecast what might happen if the contest for presidency came down to Obama and Clinton, with a Republican in there as well who has apparently no chance. If this happens, Clinton will probably win, because liberal voters can be more sure of her record, but in an ideal situation the democrat vote would be split, giving the Republicans the presidency. This happened in the 1912 election, when, running as an independent, Teddy Roosevelt split the Republican vote with incumbent Howard Taft, giving the democratic candidate, Woodrow Wilson, the presidency.

Next up: the minor candidates from both parties and my endorsement