Spring Break: Could This City Possibly Have Any More Cathedrals? Part II

I enjoyed Caen very much, but my experience would have been different had I stayed in a hostel instead of doing couch surfing. I believe that interacting with locals is the best thing you can do while traveling. You learn more about the town and the life of someone who is not from your country. In my case, I also learned that I was more capable of communicating in French than I had suspected--sort of.

I stayed with two girls my age in their apartment, which was conveniently located in the center of town. I fell in love with the apartment right away; it was artsy with a bohemian flare. There was always jazz music playing softly in the background. Only one of the girls was an art student, but it was obvious that both had a propensity for art and music. With me in the apartment, it made three. I fell asleep with the cheerful ditties of Django Reinhardt playing in my head.

My last evening in Caen, one of the girls took me to a party at her friend's apartment nearby. Although Lucille spoke very little English and I very little French--both of us understanding more of the foreign language than we could actually speak--we managed to communicate fairly well. I thank Spanish and the one semester of French I took sophomore year of college. The party turned out to be a bit of a concert. Lucille told me that her friend often had bands over to perform. What a lifestyle. For a few moments, I was envious. One of the bands was American. Hearing the American accent among all the French around me was odd; the only American accent I was accustomed to was my own voice inside my head. Nevertheless, despite my general dislike of the American accent, I welcomed it that night. I had been alone, computerless, and phoneless for the last few days. Hearing the familiar flat vowels brought me comfort. All in some grungy artist's flat in Caen.

I was sent off to Paris the next morning after a breakfast of fresh croissants and a chocolate beignet*. Rolling my suitcase down the street populated with people who had come out of Easter hibernation, I thought, I will miss this place.

*donut

Spring Break: Could This City Possibly Have Any More Cathedrals? Part I

Caen, Lower Normandy, France, a city I had never heard of it until I began making my spring break plans. Sometimes it is worth visiting a city that does not make an appearance on the Top Ten Cities You Should Visit Before You Die list. After all, the obscure corners of the world are the ones we remember most. Not that Caen is anywhere near obscure. Walking out of the train station, I was unnaturally happy to see the tram, or any public transportation, for that matter. Two days in Bayeux had made me hungry for city life.


I spent my single full day in Caen walking through the old streets, exploring the castle, and constantly running into cathedrals and churches--not literally. Caen is a purely medieval town, with the occasional H&M or McDonald's. A massive castle wall surrounds the hill that rises slightly above the city. The paths and various levels of the wall provide a slew of beautiful city views. Within the castle walls is a complex of museums and gardens. I visited the Museum of Normandy but largely remained outside, climbing the castle walls and gulping in the city, which, despite the day's gray weather, really was a sight for sore eyes (and a sight for eyes that were eager to see anything but Bayeux).




After my leisurely tour around William the Conqueror's stately castle property, I ventured towards the women's abbey, orientating myself by following the abbey's gothic towers. I found myself traversing narrow, cobblestone streets lined with gray-brown stone buildings with white shutters.

Not to sound boring, but after I got to the women's abbey and took some pictures, I headed to the other side of town to see the Hôtel de Ville and the men's abbey. On the way, I ran into some more cathedrals, resting nonchalantly on huge city blocks. Coming from Spain, I am accustomed to one cathedral and maybe a monastery or two in every small city. Caen is apparently a different story:

Spring Break: D-Day Part IV

Seven and a half hours is a long time, especially when you are alone in a tiny town on Easter Sunday. Stepping out of the van after the D-Day tour, I tried to tell myself that I would somehow find a way to pass the next seven and a half hours before my train to Caen swept me off the Bayeux platform and took me 18 minutes south. As much as I tried, I only managed to make it through four hours, and I combed through every square inch of Bayeux.

Hungry after the tour due to lack of breakfast that morning, I sat down in a café and ordered a café au lait* in my best French accent. Attempting to not look pathetic and lonely, I pulled out of my purse the only reading material I had with me: a booklet on Bayeux tourism. Unfortunately, I had left my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover in my suitcase. After a mere 30 minutes, I had drank all my coffee, eaten the accompanying sugar cubes, and read through the booklet multiple times. Uneagerly, I ventured outside.

I did have an itinerary for the day. I just wasn't sure if it would occupy seven and a half hours. I was headed for the British War Cemetery, which was located next door to the Battle of Normandy Museum that I had visited the previous day. I decided to take my time walking and chose a completely roundabout route that took me around the very borders of Bayeux. On the way, I saw a quaint little plaza,

a random church,

and a park/square, which turned out to be called Place Charles de Gaulle.


Finally, and at the same time too early, I got to the British War Cemetery. In the bright April sunshine, the grass shone a vivid, juicy green. White marble tombstones dotted the field in perfect rows. Like the American cemetery, the British cemetery exuded a feeling of peace and tranquility as well as the unmistakeable hint of sadness.


I made it until about 4pm, at which time I realized that I had absolutely nothing left to see in Bayeux. Collecting my luggage from the hotel, I walked to the train station, where I spent three hours in the waiting room watching movies on my iPod and reading. So much for seeing France.

*coffee with milk

Spring Break: D-Day Part III

As previously mentioned, the reason I came to Normandy was to see the D-Day beaches. I refused to leave Normandy without seeing them and told myself I would do whatever it would take to get to the darned beaches. In general, getting to the northern coast of France, where the five beaches are located, is very simple from Bayeux. However, that pretty little fact applies to people with motor vehicles. Not willing to pay tens of euros for a tour, as comprehensive as they are, I thought I would just take a taxi the six miles to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. At the last minute, while perusing the Bayeux tourism website, I found a D-Day tour for 30E, a sum I was willing to pay. The three and a half hour tour would take me to Pointe du Hoc, Omaha Beach, and the American War Cemetery.

Pointe du Hoc-On a cliff hanging over the English Channel, Pointe du Hoc was a German post during the war. This was the only spot along the coast protected by the Germans. On the morning of June 6, 1944, the allied troops took the unsuspecting Nazi bastards by surprise. Almost sixty six years later, the German bunkers are still there. Dark gray stone, some of it crumbling a little. Dirty stone floors, cold and hard. Artillery holes sparsely scattered throughout the bunker walls. The grassy field leading up to the cliff, once smooth, is now a series of giant bomb and shell craters--a result of the attack. The gray morning and cold April wind cover the cliff in a somber blanket, like the grainy, black and white photographs of Pointe du Hoc in 1944 that our tour guide shows us. Looking at the frothy waves of the English Channel slapping the rocks, I try to imagine the bunkers and fields filled with soldiers, fighting and yelling. Somehow, I can almost see it. History does not leave the cliff.


Omaha Beach-Located on the seaside village of Vierville-sur-Mer and surrounded by bluffs, Omaha Beach was one of the two American beaches during the invasion, the other being Utah Beach. The pale beige sand stretches five miles, the soldiers' footprints long gone. Pieces of floating harbor, makeshift structures built to facilitate the unloading of supplies, peak out of the water. Several bunkers stand eroding on the perimeter of the beach, chunks of stone gouged out with artillery. The tide is fairly low. The vast, empty beach makes me sad. I cannot seem to separate myself from the chilling feeling that I am somewhere else in time, somewhere that is not quite 1944 but not 2010, either. Is this what history does?


American War Cemetery-The cemetery, erected in Colleville-sur-Mer, overlooks Omaha Beach below. The pristine green lawn stretches far into the distance, spotless white gravestones neatly aligned in rows. The beautiful cemetery gives off an unmistakeable feeling of peace, rest, and tranquility. The countless rows of marble gravestones are visual proof of how many men lost their lives during the war, and these are just the Americans.


P.S.-The tour was worth all 30E.

Spring Break: D-Day Part II

Staring at the cloudburst in utter disbelief, I considered my options. I could, a) idly wait an unspecified amount of time for the rain to stop or, b) employ my scarf as a meager head covering and hurry towards the hotel as fast as my short legs could carry me. I chose the latter. As I neared the center, the rain started falling harder and I decided on a whim to go see the Bayeux Tapestry, an activity I had been saving for the following day.

The Bayeux Tapestry is an almost 265-foot tapestry (surprise!) that depicts the story of William the Conqueror and his conquest of Normandy. The tapestry is almost as old as the tale it tells, dating back to the 11th century. The tapestry was mounted behind a glass wall and photographs were prohibited, but the good people of YouTube have provided me with a video panorama :


Apart from a slight drizzle, it had stopped raining when I left the museum and I began to once again enjoy my day, no longer in a hurry to return to the hotel. Sauntering down the puddle stained streets of Bayeux, I admired once again its medieval charm and style. The post-rain gloom added a touch of authenticity, in a way.




I explored some of the busier side streets, observing French shopkeepers and teenagers, before making the executive decision to purchase some food at at the supermarket that was thankfully opened on a Saturday evening before Easter and finally return to the hotel. Intending for my edible loot to last until my arrival in Caen, I bought a bushel of grapes, two apples, Lay's barbecue potato chips (the store did not carry salt and vinegar flavor), and Prince chocolate and white chocolate sandwich cookies, which would end up being my main source of food the next day because I could not afford actual meals.

I expected to enjoy a very long and quiet evening in the hotel room with the television, my assortment of books and movies on my iPod, and the safe knowledge that despite not having a computer, I could still be reached on my cell phone because incoming calls are free. It was not until after my conversation with my parents ended mid-sentence that I realized that the luxury of incoming calls only applied in Spain. I was now officially isolated from the rest of the world, with only D.H. Lawrence, French-dubbed Simpsons, and potato chips to keep me company and fend off my once again impending panic.

Spring Break: D-Day Part I

On the morning of Saturday, April 3, I arrived in Bayeux, Normandy, which is located in the north of France, several miles south of the English Channel. Although I had left behind a cold, rainy Paris, the train pulled into a warm and sunny Bayeux. Thank goodness. Making my way around all the cars in the parking lot, I headed towards the town center, my suitcase rolling jubilantly behind me. I made it to the center without a single issue, using the cathedral as a landmark. Unfortunately, I had some difficulty finding my hotel. Bayeux is not a big town--2.75 square miles--so I embarrassingly circled the same areas three or four times in search of the hotel before finally finding it tucked away on the quiet rue des Bouchers.

The real fun began when I decided to quickly check my e-mail before exploring Bayeux. My computer chose that exact moment to cease working; I was alone in a tiny town and I had very little credit left on my cell phone because all the stores in Spain had been closed the previous couple of days because of the Easter holidays and I had not been able to add money to my account. Panic took absolutely no time at all to instill its unfriendly self in me. Call me materialistic, but this was a bigger problem than going a few days without Facebook. I had quite a bit of work to do and it was all lost somewhere in hardware purgatory. I had also depended on the internet as my main mode of communication since calling from France was rather expensive. If there was ever a time when the word fuck was appropriate, this was it. Despite my calamity, I went to explore Bayeux, consoling myself with the fact that the following night I would be in Caen with my couch surfing hosts and I could use their internet.

Bayeux is a charming little town, medieval and historical. It played an important role in the days of William the Conqueror, almost a millennium ago, and it was the first town in France to be liberated after the June 6, 1944 invasion. The main street is lined with stone buildings--stores, ice cream shops, and restaurants. Due to its proximity to the five D-Day beaches, Bayeux receives quite a lot of tourists. The little town was abuzz with a variety of nationalities the weekend I was there, including some very obvious Americans ("Lisa! LISA! Do you want ketchup on your fries? Lisa!").


I began my sight seeing with the Bayeux cathedral, another Gothic church, yet impressive all the same. I admired the stained glass and the ornate chapels and descended to the catacombs, cool and dark stone lit up by the thin streams of light from upstairs.

After the cathedral, I took a quick lunch break of chicken kebab. Enjoying the warm sun and feeling considerably better about the laptop situation, I then headed towards the Battle of Normandy Museum. I had been waiting eagerly to go to this museum since finding out about its existence. The museum is meticulously filled with quotes, biographies, photos, videos, artifacts, and recreations. A novice World War II junky, I was satisfied. However, my newly found good mood did not last long because during the two hours I was in the museum, the weather had drastically changed. It was pouring rain and I, fooled by the midday sun, had left my umbrella in my hotel room.

Spring Break: Arrivals

Shortly after the crack of dawn on April 1, I groggily rolled out of bed after one hour of REM-less sleep, threw some remaining toiletries into my suitcase, and ran out the door to catch my 7:30am bus to Madrid. Although accustomed to the almost three hour ride, I was happy to immediately fall asleep and not wake up until the bus was rolling through the outskirts of Madrid. As I sleepily stirred in my seat, my Murcia-bound friend Ana said to me, "Good morning." "Buenos días,*" I replied, fluffing my matted hair. We got off the bus, retrieved our luggage from the bus's gaping belly, and sat down for a coffee before heading our separate ways: me to the Salamanca neighborhood and Ana to Pinar Chamartín to catch her train to Murcia.

It being the very beginning of April, good weather was still fairly scarce, so I was thrilled that Madrid was sunny and warm. I spent the day in El Retiro, stopping in Thyssen-Bornemisza for a couple of hours to see the Monet exhibit as well as some Hopper, Kandinsky, and 16th century Flemish art. My night ended early due to my lack of sleep the previous night. Paris tomorrow, I thought excitedly as I fell asleep. My francophone adventure was about to begin.

After a delicious lunch of falafel with a friend in Puerta del Sol the next day, I headed to Barajas Airport, all my thoughts centered on one: that Ryan Air won't make me check my bag for an extra 35E. Upon getting my boarding pass stamped, getting through security while balancing two bins, my shoes, and my suitcase, and walking ten miles to my boarding gate, I decided to attempt to repack my suitcase in hopes of eliminating as many lumps as possible and fitting the suitcase into the carry-on luggage size checker, thus avoiding the possibility of having to check my bag and paying 35E. After several tries, I had the brilliant idea of stuffing as many bulky items as would fit into my coat pockets. My plan succeeded and I basked in my own genius the entire flight to Beauvais, concocting appropriate Facebook stati regarding the matter, my suitcase resting safely in the luggage bin above my head.

Paris Beauvais Airport is tiny. I walked out of the gate practically right into the shuttle bus to Paris, eliminating all my worries about getting lost and not finding the shuttle. Phew. The bus arrived at Port Maillot in Paris a touch before 9pm. Port Maillot is completely on the opposite side of the city from where I needed to be, the Latin Quarter, so I had a good 40 minutes of metro surfing ahead of me. Finally, after almost losing my right arm to the malicious metro doors in Port Maillot, transferring lines, and getting slightly lost upon getting off at Censier-Daubenton (lost enough to have to employ my very best je cherche rue Larrey** with a couple who turned out to not be French), I made it to my mom's friend's apartment, memories of staying there nine years ago rapidly coming back to me. After two metros, a plane, a bus, and two more metros, I was finally in Paris.

*good morning
**I'm looking for Larrey Street

Spring Break, It's (Not Quite, but Sort Of, Kind Of, Almost) Here!

After many an hour spent on Ryan Air, Easy Jet, eDreams, Hostel World, Hostel Bookers, Couch Surfing, and some French train website whose name I still don't remember but I don't really care because it was way easier to use than the Swiss train website I had to deal with in November, I am happy to finally announce my epic spring break plans. Behold!

April 2: After the obligatory 2 hour 45 minute bus ride to Madrid, I will be flying to Paris via Ryan Air, where I will undoubtedly get lost in the airport and miss the overpriced Ryan Air shuttle that will take me to the center. All in the name of cheap flights.

April 3: Fortunately, I know my way around the Paris metro fairly well, so I do not anticipate any problems getting to Gard St. Lazare, the train station which will house the shining beacon of hope that is the train that will finally take me to Bayeux, Normandy. Quite honestly, I had never heard of Bayeux until I started researching World War II museums and memorials in Normandy, but thankfully, Bayeux seems historically dense enough for me to not get bored being there alone for two days.

April 4: In the evening, I will be taking a train to Caen, where I will be couch surfing for two nights. I do not know much about Caen except that there are things to do there. As long as I am in Normandy, I am happy.

April 6: I am quite excited to go to Paris again, although I was just there in November. Fortunately, I did not do all the touristy things in the fall, so I will have plenty to do, as well as see a good friend from Boston University! I am considering going on a bicycle tour of Monet's gardens, which are actually back in Normandy. Still.

April 9: My original plans to go to Italy were unfortunately cancelled, so instead I am going to Brussels, where I will also be couch surfing. I am excited to eat Belgian waffles, chocolate, and fries, which are apparently a Belgian staple. I have a lot to research about Brussels.

April 11: After eight entire days in Francophone countries, I will return to my beloved Spain, hopefully intact, until the next weekend, when I go to London.

Madrid vs. Paris

The Metro

The Madrid metro is clean, punctual, and every single platform has a counter that informs you how soon the next train will arrive. The Paris metro is not so clean, only a few stops have countdowns for the next train, and I saw multiple people hopping over the turnstiles. I've never seen that in Madrid, although it would be considerably easier because the Madrid metro does not have a turnstile and a swinging door at each thruway. Furthermore, while the doors on the Madrid metro do not open until the train has completely stopped, people hop off the Paris metro while it is still moving. I was waiting for the train to stop so I could safely get off, and the Parisians behind me got impatient and a little pushy, like New York drivers at a fresh green light. However, the speed of the Paris metro slows the Madrid metro down to a crawl. The Paris metro literally zooms from stop to stop, taking me through ten stops in fifteen minutes.

Eating Outside

In Madrid, a person eating on the street is seen as an aberration to society, with the exception of ice cream in the summer. In Paris, people galavant down the streets eating sandwiches, crepes, etc. I am so accustomed to never seeing food on the street, that I was legitimately surprised to see people in Paris eating on the street. And then I joined in.

Cold Weather

When the temperature drops below 60 degrees, the madrileños* don their pea coats. When the temperature drops below 50 degrees, the madrileños walk around in down coats and thick scarves. The weather in Paris was in the high 40s/low 50s when I was there. The Parisians did not look like abominable snowmen. They were wearing pea coats and trench coats because they, like me, do not believe that 50 degrees is cold enough to dress as though they are headed to the wintry forests of Siberia. For that same reason, outdoor terraces in cafés were not empty. People were enjoying their coffees outside in the chilly Paris air, coats and scarves included, but outside nonetheless. Terrace seating in Madrid is not even available anymore.

Staying on the Right

On escalators and moving walkways in Madrid, those who want to stand keep to the right so the walkers can walk through on the left. The Parisians spread out all over the place, barring those who wish to walk. In the airport, I witnessed some very confused Spaniards trying to walk down the moving walkway past a group of Parisians--without much success.

Creepy Men

I was a pretty big hit with all the creepy men of Paris, who appeared out of nowhere to tell me that I had nice eyes or some merde** like that. An old man clacked while walking past me. I was even addressed as vous*** by someone older than me. I was standing on a bridge, taking pictures of the Seine, when a man walked up to me and asked, "Comment allez-vous****?" I actually understood him, so it gave me even greater satisfaction to mumble, "Je ne parle pas français.*****" In Madrid, the only compliment available is guapa****** and no one in his right mind would use usted******* in such a situation. Maybe blondes are more rare in Paris than in Madrid and thus merit vouvoyer.********

*people who live in Madrid

**shit

***formal you (French)

****how are you

*****I don't speak French

******pretty

*******formal you (Spanish)

********to address someone using vous

Paris, Je T'aimerai Toujours*

When one thinks of Paris, one thinks of love. Perhaps it is an old Parisian cliché, but it is true. No, I did not meet a dashing Frenchman who swept me off my feet in the three days that I was there. I met Paris itself, and Paris effectively managed to sweep me off my feet and leave me wanting more.

Apart from the very tops of monuments such as the Eiffel Tour and Notre Dame, one of the best views of Paris can be seen simply from the quai** of the Seine. Peaking through the golden foliage of the rustling trees lining the streets, you can see the waters, ruffled by the wind and current. Tour boats dot the Seine and people stroll down the embankment below. European buildings line the river, adding an elderly yet beautiful and elegant feel. The bank stretches for miles, as do the charming buildings, none of them identical.

Turning onto a bridge, any bridge, the city of Paris spreads out in front of you--vast and endless, interrupted only by the snaking Seine. On one side, the Eiffel Tower, pride of the Left Bank, rises above the Parisian immeubles,*** shadowing their grey classic roofs. On the other side, gothic architecture timidly yet prominently peaks out from behind the buildings, marking the Isle de la Cité and Quartier Latin.

The Quartier Latin, my personal favorite arrondissement,**** is a flavorful Parisian mixture of the old and the new, a microcosm of the city itself. Known as the historically intellectual neighborhood of Paris--it houses the Sorbonne--the Quartier Latin is like a little village full of narrow streets, tiny sidewalks, and old buildings that the musketeers probably hung out in. Among the various shades of brown, bright awnings and lit up bistro signs pierce through the monotone color palette. Ceramic flower pots stuffed with pink and red flowers nod to the street crepe vendors, outdoor cafés, and shoppers who traverse the bustling Boulevard of St. Michel. Even the occasional commercial giants--McDonalds and Starbucks--do not take away from the neighborhood's distinct character. Rather, they serve as even more hubs for afternoon rendez-vous.*****

Upon hearing that I would be going to Paris a few weeks ago, someone told me, "Be prepared to fall in love every ten minutes." I did. Parisian streets emit a certain je ne sais quoi,****** a character, an emotion. Paris is unlike any other European city I have ever had the opportunity to visit and it fills me with sadness that I will never have the chance to live there nor speak the language. Admiration, sadness, regret. Sounds like love to me.

*I will love you forever

**bank

***buildings

****district

*****meeting

******I don't know what