In which Normandy stuns with stones and skies. Part I.

 

France? Check. Ocean? Check. Time to slow down, open up, let loose, take a break, make a splash, carpe some dium, and all that adventurous jazz.
Ready, set, release the shutterbug.

After drinking in the view from above, it was high enough time to check out the view from below. The car skidded to a halt at the first beach located and we all ran splashing into the waves. As sometimes happens with oceans, the waves turned out to be much colder and more powerful than anticipated. O, the refreshment!

The sun, also seeking refreshment after a hard day's burn, started streaking toward the water and we figured we should probably find a place to set up camp. After many a bend in the road, we came across some prime real estate on the edge of a small town with a grassy hill on one side and a more than ample waterfront view on the other. There was a smattering of RVs that had already stuck their flags in the field, their occupants situated around folding tables, enjoying their dinners/booze in the golden light. We made our way to one friendly-looking family and I inquired about the situation and if it would be acceptable to put up our tent there. The Kind Patriarch, stumbling a bit with his French, said something along the lines of, "Sure, whatever! We didn't see any signs against it. Besides, the campground down the road is so expensive and look at this view! Go ahead and hide your tent behind the RV if you want." So we did. Sort of. I went to fetch my things from our vehicle and upon returning, found our new neighbors conversing with the Fellow Roadtrippers auf deutsch. Turns out they were Dutch. Our cooking smells soon mingled with theirs and deliciousness ensued.

 

Nicely cooled off after its dip, the sun woke me early the next morning after a sleep that was just a little too slanted. Upon stumbling out of the tent, I was astonished to find that all our neighbors had mysteriously transformed in the night.

 

 

The Photogenic Bovines got bored with me pretty quickly after learning that my camera was for snapping and not for munching, so I wandered down to the beach instead. It was a pretty standard beach of gray and red stones, flanked on either side by more classy white cliffs. Not a soul was in sight, and there weren't many waves to speak of either. I slowly made my way from one side to the other, where I learned that this beach in Sainte-Marguerite-sur-Mer had been a landing point for the Allies in WWII. Looking over the green lawn, well-tended walkways, and cute little WCs, I tried to imagine what this scene had looked like 70 years before. The thought was sobering.

Silence. Waking. Stretching. Driving. The daily baguettes were fetched (as well as a few tasty pastries -- pas de question) from the first bakery located and we proceeded to squeeze our way down tiny little half-lane roads through fields in the general direction of the coast until we had found ourselves a breakfast beach. The GDR Gas Cooker came along and magicked up some espresso and tea in no time. This was a splendid beach for whimsical discoveries. The stones had been rubbed into all sorts of funky shapes and ample amounts of chalk were also readily available for playing. It was accidentally discovered that some stones were hollow and had perfectly round pebbles inside. Much time was then invested into searching out more of these little bells and consequently cracking them in half. My favorite find was a flat, white rock shaped like a bird in flight. Don't tell anyone, but somehow made its way north and is now cruising the air currents of my bedside table, bringing me joy.

Carcasses, too, were in great supply. Crabs, rays, all kinds juicy critters. Love me some low tide.

Eventually dark clouds joined the flocks of squawking gulls chasing the little fishing boats across the waves, putting an end to picnic time. We packed up, packed ourselves back into the car, and headed south and west. More fields. More cute little towns with pop-up Gothic churches. Shortcuts over long bridges.

 

 

I was thrilled that we had decided to go for the low roads rather than the highway. Every turn brought something new into view, be it landscapes, ponies, or colorful, old, half-timbered houses. That was one kind of architecture that caught me off guard, as I was under the impression that it was more of a German/Scandinavian thing. However, these houses looked like they'd been there for a while, and they were everywhere. Fine by me. The more I saw of la Normandie, the more giddy I became. Carsick, too, but certainly giddy. (Life is a series of trade offs, n'est-ce pas?)

 

A spontaneous side adventure was spurred by a homemade sign advertising cidre and calvados at a side road. We were certainly in the right area for such fine bottled goods, so we turned down the lane and made our way up, up, up into the hills on a road shaded by leafy tunnels and marked every now and again by more signs, assuring us that we were not yet lost.

 

What was discovered at the end of the rainbow: an adorable bed & breakfast blanketed in flowers, friendly French women in the midst of sealing their latest brew (permission to be photographed granted), a great view, and, oh, a puppy. (A PUPPY!) Worth the trek? Absolutely. Absolutely.

 

 

 

 

Driving along on the main drag later (needed to make some miles before nightfall), the thought was voiced, "Do you know where Omaha Beach is? It should be around here somewhere". Thirty seconds later came the big exit sign toward Omaha Beach. Might as well. Winding, well-paved roads twisted across countryside and through more little towns from the highway to the coast, clearly marked for tourists. Once we'd reached l'AVENUE DE LA LIBÉRATION, we figured it was time to park.

 

And there it was. A big, beautiful, soft, sandy beach. Ample room for tour buses. Children building sand castles. Couples splashing in the waves. People enjoying the sun. Just like every other beach in the world. Except that this one was in France and there were a whole lot of American flags and zee eengleesh and the image of this place swarming with thousands of terrified people trying to kill one another got under my skin.

 

 

The most recent addition to the list of memorials was this giant sculpture, Les Braves, commissioned by the French government to mark the 60th anniversary of the landings. Its three components are called "The Wings of Hope", "The Rise of Freedom", and "The Wings of Fraternity". Much more fitting than the traditional guy on a horse monument, or in this case, guys on a boat. We sat there for  a good chunk of time, taking it all in.

 

Afterward we decided to have a look at the American cemetery in the area, as we were there anyway and I for one find graveyards fascinating. This plan was foiled by it being closed for the day. From what we could see, it was very spiffy, very shiny, and very full of surveillance cameras.

 

This was probably for the better, however, as we still had not reached our projected sleeping location on the west coast. Back in the car. More fields. Forests. 10th century castles. I almost jumped out the window so many times. It's a good thing I didn't, however, because then I would have completely missed what happened at the end of the pavement that day. And that would have been a shame.

 

In which we swap sun for snow & other softness.

December. Headed to work at quarter to nine as the night starts to lift. It smells like wet wintery coldness and I can feel the wind tickling its way through the gaps in the scarf wrapped around my neck. Morning pump-up tunes trickle through freezing headphones and I bounce all the way to the S-Bahn.

My favorite local grocer -- radiant rainbow produce no matter the season. Walking past on the day of the first big snow, I chuckled to see all the green pinky mangoes awash in crystally fluff. It's a cozy, welcoming place and the owner knows by now to start packaging up a homemade stuffed pepper whenever I come in -- loaded with rice and spice and everything nice and roasted to flavorful perfection punch. The best dinner solution when the time or energy to cook is lacking.

 

When the sun does come out, it doesn't just meander its way across the sky, nonchalantly shining on this or that. Oh, no. It throws out all the stops, blinding you with loud rays of "I'M HERE!". But then it gets tired, or bored, or hungover, or chooses some other lame excuse to peace out of its own party by 15:30ish. We're talking December.

 

 

 

 

 

But mostly December looks like this, give or take the white stuff. The gray of November darkens behind streetlights, muffling footsteps, slowing time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Admiring old limbs veining their way through the sky in a web of river beds -- from a distance, mind -- always a excuse for a stroll in the park.

 

Sun is great and important and all, but my favorite time/weather happening is late dusk with fresh snow, when everything is dyed blue, again, and again, and again until the blue loses its hue to the night. It's an unnatural color that only appears under these circumstances, and cannot be adequately captured by any camera. Not without the air. Not without the quiet.