Beattys Overseas

Monday night, our last night in Arramonches, we went to a supermarket in Bayeaux and grabbed some groceries for a dinner in our B&B room.  We ate the exact same things, but somehow Whitney wound up with a stomach flu that could kick your ass from here to Jupiter.  Violently ill from 11pm until 10am, she was so exhausted that standing up straight was a dizzying task.  John made the executive decision to go into nearby Bayeaux, for a check with the Emergency Room.  She was extremely uncomfortable and obviously very dehydrated, so we figured a fluid IV would help all the pain go away. 

However, the staff at the hospital, which is housed in a historic building in Bayeaux, decided that there was an easier solution to her ailments.  A bottle of Coca Cola.  That's right.  They took her passport, brought her into an examination room, had her get undressed & put on one of those robes and lie on the bed with the wheels, all to serve her a soft drink.  The doctor [who looked to be a 15-year old girl] said that sugary water was the best thing for her to recover, and a few 'bon bons' wouldn't hurt either.  While she sipped on her Coke, John ran across the street to a market and asked the shopkeeper, "Uh, Bon bons?" And the shopkeeper pointed to his aisle of candies.  Alright!  He brought back dozens of packages of gummy bears and jelly beans, and a Twix Bar for himself. 

All in all, it was a 50 minute experience at the hospital.  But, like we said, better safe than sorry.  If this had happened in New York, Whitney would have laid in bed for a day and been fine.  But, while you're abroad, it's tough to gauge how sick you are (or if there are other factors contributing to your symptons that are specific to your location).  Plus, we have Traveller's Insurance, and this is the reason you get it in the first place.   

What an amazing sight to see... You drive off of a highway past about a hundred dairy farms toward the ocean, and then, there it is.  A massive beacon on the horizon. It's a tidal island; several chunks of granite in the middle of a bay that is surrounded by water during certain times of the tide, or enclosed by mud-flats the remainder of the time. Celebrated for its Benedictine abbey, it has a storied history:

Looks like the land of Oz, doesn't it?Before the construction of the first monastic establishment in the 8th century, the archangel Michael  appeared to St. Aubert , bishop of Avranches, in 708 and instructed him to build a church on the rocky islet. According to legend. Aubert repeatedly ignored the angel's instruction, until Michael burned a hole in the bishop's skull with his finger. Ouch.

In 1067, the monastery of Mont Saint-Michel gave its support to duke William of Normandy in his claim to the throne of England. It was rewarded with properties on the English side of the Channel, including a small island located at the west of Cornwall, which was modelled after the Mount.  During the Hundred Years' War, the English made repeated assaults on the island but were unable to seize it partly due to the abbey's improved fortifications. Les Michelettes, two wrought-iron bombards left by the English in their failed 1423–24 siege of Mont Saint-Michel, are still displayed near the outer defense wall.

The wealth and influence of the abbey extended to many outlets in the French religious community. However, its popularity and prestige as a centre of pilgrimage waned with the Reformation , and by the time of the French Revolution there were scarcely any monks in residence. The abbey was closed and converted into a prison , initially to hold clerical opponents of the republican régime. High-profile political prisoners followed, but by 1836 influential figures, including Victor Hugo , had launched a campaign to restore what was seen as a national architectural treasure. The prison was finally closed in 1863 , and the mount was declared a historic monument in 1874 . The Mont Saint Michel and its bay were added to the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites in 1979, as they rank very high on such World Heritage Site criteria as cultural, historical, and architectural significance, as well as human-created and natural beauty.

We stayed only one night, and, due to Whitney's lagging stomach flu, were not able to fully enjoy all that Le Mont has to offer.  In fact, Whitney checked into the inn and went straight to bed, while John did some sightseeing and settled into a cozy brasserie for an evening of Mt. St. Michel people-watching.  It's a glorious place, and a true vision to behold.  I'm glad that I was there, but plan to return to enjoy it a bit more.  Next time, I'll take my Coke and Pepto with me!

- Whitney

Our drive from Mt. St. Michel into Paris was long but easy on Wednesday afternoon.  Finding our hotel in the 10th arrondissement was not so easy.  Once we arrived, it was so disgusting, we soon opted to find another place for Thursday night.  Ah, Paris...  Nothing like I expected, yet everything that I had been warned. 

John's a brave one behind the wheel, and we agreed that we'd drive our bags to our hotel, then drive the car back to the Hertz office to drop it off.  Why not use the car for another hour and save our backs from having to sling our cases on and off the Metro?  Sounded like a grand idea, until we were lost, and lost, and lost again.  Each time we'd ask someone to point us us the general vicinity, it seemed we were sent in a different direction than before, and we were pretty irritated by the time we checked into our filthy 120 Euro per night hotel in the Opera district.  Not only was our room visibly dirty and cramped, but the neighborhood resembled NYC's Port Authority area circa 1978.  Shame on us for booking at the last minute via hotels.com and trusting the 3-star rating. 

Figuring we'd deal with it later, we continued on our path to return the car and do some sightseeing.  Drove down the Champs-Elysees, saw the Arc De Triomphe, and witnessed a dozen motorcycle/moped/scooter near-crashes; it was swell.  We took the Metro from the Hertz place to the Eiffel Tower.  Funny how at huge attractions like that people end up taking such bad photos of themselves, and you either have to witness their incompetence or step in to aid them.  Well, John stepped in with one particular couple, offering to take a photo of them together with the Tower behind them.  These people took advantage of John's courtesy, and had him take about 15 shots of them in varying positions, including laying on the grass (which was surrounded by a wire fence that they had to hop over).  I was laughing so hard; it was like they hired him to take their engagement portraits! 

Meanwhile, I caught sight of a guy taking a photo of the California State flag in front of the Tower, so I approached him and was surprised to hear that he was French. But, he lived in Modesto for a year (presumably on a student exchange plan), and fell in love with California.  So, he was taking a photo of the flag to send back to his friends in Modesto.  He lent me his flag for a photo op, and I was more than inclined.  Cheese!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Following the Tower, we walked down to the Seine, and saw a deal for a one-hour river cruise with commentary leaving in a few minutes.  What a good choice.  It wasn't expensive, it wasn't a huge time commitment, and turned out to be a perfect introduction to Paris for a newcomer.  Even John, who'd been to Paris many times before, grabbed a few new tidbits of data from the tour.  Did you know that Notre Dame was constructed over a period of two hundred years?  Neither did we.   

We crashed at the awful hotel on Wednesday night, fully knowing that we were being ripped off.  By the next morning, we had booked a new place about 15 blocks away and 30 Euro less.  Yay!  The Metro zipped us to Gare de Lyon, where we purchased train tickets for the following day and the next week going to Burgundy and Switzerland.  We took a bus (super efficient!) to the Louvre, which was indescribably overwhelming, as expected.  The Louvre museum is the oldest and most celebrated museum in the world, with more than 8 million visitors each year. 
Mona Lisa, there you are!Our first order of business at the Louvre was Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa (as it is for most visitors).  She's smaller than you'd expect, but she is special when you see her in person.  She glows.  The Louvre has built a crescent-shaped handrail around her, and placed her behind a large sheet of glass.  There is a line of tourists taking her photo, and a buzz of discussion about her in the exhibit room; very exciting.  Also in the 16th century exhibit is the breathtaking Wedding at Cana, by Paolo Veronese, which hung at a full 2.5 metres (8¼ ft) from the floor in the San Giorgio Maggiore monastery for 235 years, until it was plundered by Napoleon in 1797.

Speaking of Napoleon, my favorite stop in the Louvre was the exhibit of Napoleon III's Apartment in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre, which originally housed the apartments and offices of the minister of state. It was a construction project called for by Napoleon shortly after he became emperor in 1852.  An exceptional record of Second Empire decorative art, the state dining room features an amazing array of gilt furniture, rich tapestries and unbelievable murals & chandeliers on the ceilings.  Needless to say, it far surpassed the style and space of our diminutive apartment back home.  My envy was palpable. 

After the Louvre, we wandered the Jardin du Palais Royal, then waited for our bus back to our new hotel.  But, the bus never came, as we noticed some sort of demonstration marching down Rue du Montmarte, so we caught a cab - an absurdly expensive cab.  We shared a lovely dinner together in the lovely residential neighborhood of our new hotel, near the Moulin Rouge and the Sacre Coeur.

All in all, Paris was fine.  It wasn't (for me, at least) overwhelmingly gorgeous, or magical, or even romantic.  It was a cool historical metropolitan city rich in culture, architecture and culinary arts, but so are other European citites.  By Friday morning, at the Gare du Lyon train station, I was ready to leave the big city and get back to the French countryside, which feels so much more inviting and invigorating.  It must be in my blood.  Thanks, Grandmere and Grandpere. 

-Whitney 

We left Paris by train, transferred trains in Dijon, and arrived in quaint, adorable, little Beaune on Friday afternoon. We've been here before; our pal Jonathan celebrates his birthday here every year with his wife Vanessa and we were invited for a big surprise bash in Beaune last year.

Beaune is a popular destination for Burgundy wine tasting and vineyard touring. It's historically known for the Hospices of Beaune, founded in 1442 by Nicolas Rolin, chancellor of the Duke of Burgundy, and his wife. The Hospices are a charity organization, running hospitals and other services for the needy all over the region. But - I'll be honest - this weekend was nothing about charity. It was full of wine & food gluttony with devilishly good company.
The vineyards in Montrachet outside of Beaune

The weekend began on Friday afternoon with a lovely lunch at an exquisite restaurant with loungey drinks afterwards. With an hour and a half to rest, we met up again, with a few additional characters to the group, and shared a gourmet 5-course dinner in a private room of a perfectly aged inn. The next day was spent at a 14-wine tasting & lunch at a winery, following by a brisk walk through the vineyards. The group had a collective 3 hour nap, then met up again for yet another off-the-charts dinner together. By Sunday morning, our internal organs were begging for mercy, so we bid adieus to the birthday boy and our gracious hostess, and hopped on a train for Dijon, where we will be laying low for a few days to rest, regroup and pinch a few pennies, er, euros.

-Whit

We've spent the last few days in Dijon, a mid-sized French city whose charm has crept up on us each day we've spent here. 

We arrived on Sunday afternoon by train, checked into our little business hotel and went out to find food and wifi spot, preferably in the same place.  And, thus, we partook in our first truly American guilty pleasure of the trip: McDonald's.  We're not really fast food people at home (Whitney can't even remember the last time she consumed food from the Golden Arches), but we welcomed the idea of a meal costing under 10 Eruo, and the ability to stay and work online for as long as we wanted with no questions asked. 

Over the next few days, we wandered Dijon and did some errands (dry cleaning, pharmacy supplies, etc.), and began to feel like locals.  It's an easy town to navigate, and offers a quite a bit of culture for those seeking it...  The opera scene is booming in Dijon, and the current production of Faust was advertised all over the place.  We went to the box office to buy tickets and were delighted to discover that Whitney's ticket cost only 10 Euro (compared to John's 38), simply due to her youthful age.  Yahoo!  The opera was a lovely night on Tuesday, and we enjoyed people watching while we sipped champagne before the show started.   I'll admit it, I took an accidental nap during the second and third numbers of the first act, but I truly enjoyed the rest of it.  The voices were amazing, and none of the performers were microphoned, so you know they were really singing if we heard them in the back of the huge theatre.

Pre-performance champagnesThe story concerns the fate of Faust in his quest for the true essence of life. Frustrated with learning and the limits to his knowledge and power, he attracts the attention of Satan, with whom Faust makes a deal to serve him until the moment that Faust attains the zenith of human happiness, at which point Satan may take his soul.  Toward the end, after experience love, war, and taming the forces of nature, Faust experiences a single moment of happiness.  The Devil, trying to grab Faust's soul when he dies, is frustrated as God intervenes – recognizing the value of Faust's unending striving.

After the Opera, we walked around Dijon trying to find a late-night restaurant, and found only one place open.  As we're walking in, John joked that it would be hilarious if Satan was in there hanging with his buddies. Well, a few steps into the place, and it turns out, this bar is THE place for the performers to hang after their show.  The man who played Satan was there, and spoke English and asked our whole story and loved that it was Whitney's first opera.  He was quite genteel and charming (just like a devil would be!).  So, we got a few pics with the main singers, and once they found out we were Americans on a honeymoon (translated to them by the Devil man), they teasingly played the national anthem on the bar's piano.  They all laughed and smiled and giggled, and I frankly wasn't sure if they thought we were cute or if they were laughing at us.

- Whitney

Opera-man plays the US national anthem on piano with lots of French flair 

You must know by now that this guy was none-too-keen on spending four days in a town named after mustard (I hate mustard).  Actually, it is named after a mustard recipe which includes a certain mustard seed, but it doesn’t even have to be made here, and the smell of mustard makes me want to throw up, so anyway who cares.  I was especially peeved since we were planning to go there for some R & R and trip brainstorming; once we figured out that my “Dan Kirk Boots on The Ground” theory of planning each day as it comes wasn’t exactly working out as perfectly as I had hoped it would.  Save the commentary, folks, I admit my mistake, and we collectively move on without the “I/WE told you so’s.”

The town had been visited by our pal Kieran during a 5 hour layover at the train station last weekend, as Whitney learned during a dinner in Beaune. He informed her that Dijon was, in his experience and estimation, a sh** hole. He then asked her, truly uninformed of our plans, “So where are you guys off to next?”  Poor Kieran, he was almost overcome with guilt when she explained our next stop was Dijon and we'd be there for 4 days, and why we were going in the first place. No problems, mi amigo, call ‘em as you see ‘em, I always say.

So any hew, of course our spirits were a little uneasy as we boarded the train from Beaune to Dijon on Sunday afternoon. At least we were in 1st class, baby! We were soon enroute to the imagined Shangri la that I had spent quite some time bragging about in Beaune, because it sounded so French and cool, but to which Jon Ford replied, based on Kieran’s report, that “it’s like going to Washington Heights for rest and relaxation."  Well, gentlemen, no one is happier than me to report that Dijon France has little working against it other than its name and the dirty industrial section that Kieran must have veered off into during his sojourn here a while back.  In fact, it’s a GD pretty little city, and one I was proud to be a temporary resident of, if only for a short time. 

We stayed in a decent Dijon hotel, and by that I mean it’s a business traveler’s hotel. Clean sheets, but no room service and a miniature closet with no drawer space. Remember, we’re on a pension!  But, we’re already doing better than we were in Paris.  Right next to our hotel, which happened to be about 300 meters from the train station, is lovely botanical gardens. I spent a morning or two in here breathing in the scents and taking in this local gem. I attempted to jog around the gardens - as well as a fella with one useful arm can - and just took in the statues and the pond with the ducks and the smell of the trees and fall leaves. It was gorgeous!

We spent hours walking through the village, stopping to admire the touristy mustard shops and beautiful slate roofs on the 15th century buildings that still stand. I also enjoyed waiting a bit extra at McDonalds since I ordered my burgers “sans moutard”. (AND DON'T SAY IT - WE WERE THERE FORE THE FREE WI-FI!!!! The French are killing us with their 20 Euro charges for a few hours of online time!!! It sure wasn't because Whit wanted a McFlurry -- wink wink).  I must say that I loved the look on the kid's face when he asked me incredulously 3 times “Sans Moutard? Sans Moutard? Sans Moutard?” You got it Frenchie, and make sure that order comes 'avec' [with] some freedom fries, too.  Si vous plait, fella.

-John