Friday, August 12, 2005

James and I rose early that morning. As we’d moved farther south, I no longer had to don layers and layers of clothing throughout the night to keep warm, which made packing up our backpacks that much faster. By now, we felt we were really getting the hang of these early morning starts. We would be making our way to La Rochelle’s train station to begin our journey further south still, into Spain.

On our way to the station, we met a Polish man from Warsaw who was on his way to Poitiers. Curious about our travel plans, he loudly and wholeheartedly congratulated us when he discovered we would be leaving France that day. “The French are f***ing bastards,” he exclaimed. “You’d go crazy within the year if you ever lived here.”

Our first train journey of the day took us to Rochefort. No cheese for us, just breakfast at a small yellow roadside café with lace curtains and an hour or so wandering a tiny park in the middle of a busy road. Just before beginning the next leg of our journey, I made a mad dash to the bathrooms, only to find them closing for cleaning. I slipped into one of the stalls before the maintenance people could close up. When I emerged, I discovered that in my haste, I hadn’t bothered to read the sign on the door. I was in the men’s. C'est la vie.

Back on the train a few hours later, this time to Bordeaux, James and I found ourselves squeezed into a bank of four seats with our enormous backpacks and somewhat enormous fellow passengers. The train was crowded, hot and sticky, and smoke from the smoking compartment was slowly leaking into the air around us.

James on the train, somewhere in France, heading south

Tempting as it was to stay in Bordeaux and taste the wine and explore the countryside chateaux, we decided to push on to Spain. Our next journey was to Dax. I was surprised to see pine trees racing past the window of our carriage.


From Dax, we caught a train to Hendaye. We were almost, almost to Spain. It was late afternoon, and we were both exhausted. We were so close to the border we could almost taste the tapas. We approached the ticket window and said we’d like to go to Irun, the first stop into Spain. “Irun?” the woman behind the counter asked. “Irun? Why would you want to go to Irun?” She didn’t add “You stupid idiots” to her question, but you could that’s what she was thinking from the way she stared at us. (A few years later, back in California, I met a woman from Hendaye. She asked if I’d ever been since I seemed to know where it was. I told her I’d only passed through on my way to Irun. “Irun?” she replied. “Irun? Why would you want to go to Irun??”)


Finally, we arrived in Spain.

Hondarribia, Spain

James had been to Irun before, and he remembered a bus to the next town over, Hondarribia. He knew there was a campsite there, so that’s where we decided to go. The campsite was right where he remembered it, and they even had his information in file, albeit incorrectly – their records showed that James was Irish, when he is, in fact, English. No matter. They were booked solid and were turning people away, but our luck held (or maybe we had perfected our pathetic look), and we were told we could pitch our tent on the campsite’s playground after it closed that evening. We stowed our backpacks in the office and made our way to the campsite bar to kill some time. It was a dark room, with strands and strands of colored glass beads covering the windows. I ordered a red wine (vino tinto) and was surprised to find that it was served cold, straight from the cooler. I was even more surprised at how refreshing it was in the heat of the afternoon. Later, when it got dark and we pitched our tent on the playground, James and I made our way into town for a late dinner of burgers and sangria. Too tired to explore, we drifted off to sleep on a playground in the north of Spain, ready to start our Spanish adventures.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

James concocted some truly tasty meals while we were camping. The combination of cooking outdoors on a tiny camping stove and access to fresh ingredients made all the difference. This is a two-part meal of cooked prawns and stuffed bell peppers that James named after our campsite, Camping du Soleil.

“Prawns du Soleil”

Part 1:

prawns (smaller pack of large prawns)
1 tomato (chopped)
6 mushrooms (quartered)
1 clove of garlic (minced)
basil
salt and pepper
olive oil, to cook

Cook garlic and mushrooms a few minutes until softened. Add prawns, then seasonings. Add tomato and cook until tomato is soft.

Part 2:

1 red pepper (halved and de-seeded)
1/4 baguette (ripped up into small pieces)
olive oil
1 clove of garlic (minced)
basil
salt and pepper

Char the pepper halves over a flame or in a pan. Combine bread, garlic, herbs and oil in a bowl. Stuff the mixture into the pepper and serve with the prawns.

James, La Rochelle

C'est magnifique.

Wednesday, August 10 - Thursday, August 11, 2005

One thing that became apparent time and again on our inter-rail journey that summer is that you couldn’t have a firm plan of where you would go and what you would do. James and I weren’t even a week into our trip and already our plans had had to change numerous times. Our goal, after leaving Pontorson and Mont St-Michel, was to make it to Bordeaux, where we would sample the wine in the sunlight that nurtured the grapes, explore the countryside, and maybe even get a glimpse of a chateau or two. (Again, this was the influence of Charlie Brown.)

Instead we made it as far as La Rochelle, which my Lonely Planet book promised to be “a lively and increasingly chic port city.” We decided to give it a try as it was getting later in the day and our chances of making it to Bordeaux and a campsite before dark were looking smaller and smaller. We disembarked the train at La Rochelle-Ville in the late afternoon and made our way to Camping du Soleil, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be full.

We must have looked really pathetic, James and I, wearily trudging along in the heat with our backpacks, because for the second night in a row we were squeezed onto a pitch even though the campsite was already booked solid. On this occasion, we would be sharing a pitch with another couple who had a single tent and no car. It wasn’t ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers.

La Rochelle

One of the main focal points of La Rochelle seemed to be two towers dating from the 14th century that stand at the entrance of the harbor. To guard and protect the city, the people of La Rochelle stretched an enormous chain between the two towers. Sometimes the best solutions really are the most simple. James and I admired the towers from afar, resolving to leave the bulk of our exploring for the following day. Our main priority, having established a place to pitch our tent, was to find something to cook for supper.

The campsite was louder than the last two had been, and the showers smelt of urine. This was also my first encounter with the infamous Asiatic toilets. I was unnerved to discover a lack of toilet seats on the non-Asiatic toilets, and as a result, I “held it” for as long as possible. This only resulted in extra-long wees that made my thigh muscles ache as I hovered above the seat-less toilets. In this, I’m afraid, my American-ness showed through like a neon sign.

James and I were woken up that first night by a steady pitter patter of something hitting our tent, leaves or small pinecones or bugs or even rain. In the light of day, we discovered piles of small stones and rocks at the side of our tent nearest to the other couple’s tent. We were glad when the campsite owners moved us to a newly vacated pitch.

Writing Postcards With a Pint of Jupiler

Thursday in La Rochelle dawned slowly. We ventured out into the already hot morning to explore. We spent the day wandering around the streets of the city, visiting a model museum that housed, among other things, a motorized battle between two ships on the high seas and narrated entirely in French (obviously). We stopped at a sidewalk café that served Jupiler, a beer James had first tried in Belgium when we’d gone a few years previous. We found a market and bought the fixings for that evening’s meal. We tried, in vain, to find a beach where we could swim, but instead found only the rocky sides of the harbor with a dead jellyfish washing to and fro.

La Rochelle

In an effort to avoid the ants that were running rampant throughout the pitch, James had hung our string bag of food items (olive oil, apples, salt and pepper, dried herbs) over the fencepost closest to our tent. Much later that night, after the campsite quieted down and nearly everyone was asleep, we were woken by a strange rustling noise. James stuck his head outside and recognized our angry rock-throwing pitch-mate from the night before walking swiftly away from our food net, perhaps having discovered that there was nothing steal-able inside.


Dawn couldn’t come fast enough for us; we were heading to Spain in the morning.

Tuesday, August 9, 2005

Although I left Bayeux without viewing its famous tapestry, I did manage to see some giant earwigs having a grand old time on the ties of our tent. Bugs creep me out. So imagine my terror when James and I disassembled our tent for the first time. I’m reaching blindly under the top layer to untie it from the poles, and inch-long earwigs are having a party under there. I shudder thinking about it even now.

Terror aside, we managed to take down the tent, pack up our little campsite, hoist our gigundo backpacks high, and make our way to the train station to catch the 7:48 AM train to Pontorson, our next stop.

The Inter-Rail Ticket, Thus Far

Our first task upon arrival was to find our next campsite. After wandering around trying to find the “shop-lined D976” and the Camping Les Portes du Mont St-Michel described in my Lonely Planet book and failing, we came across Camping Haliotis (which we immaturely nicknamed Camping Halitosis). Although it was still early, there were no available pitches for us to rent. Once it was established that we were on foot and had no car, however, someone found a small patch of grass just large enough for a tent. We gratefully accepted the offer and went about setting up.

We bought our bus tickets to Mont St-Michel and ate a lunch of baguettes and grapes in the shade on the roadside, watching the traffic. As we ate our grapes, a group of teenage girls wandered past. We weren’t the only ones to notice; a young man on a motorbike began performing tricks as he sped through the intersection, hoping to attract their attentions. I’m sure he managed to attract more attention than he’d bargained for as the wheelie he was attempting went terribly wrong, the back wheel of his bike flying out from underneath him, throwing him into the road. The bike landed on its side, and after hesitating there for a second or two, began to spin in wild circles in the road. The young man, with more of a bruised ego than body, jumped up and ran to his bike, trying to bring it under control. When he finally managed to shut it off, he looked up to find himself surrounded by shop owners, other drivers, and passersby, all yelling at him and gesturing wildly. The girls stood by in fits of giggles. Obviously, the young man had failed to make the impression he was striving for.

Mont St-Michel, France

What attracted me to visiting Mont St-Michel most was the description of its location – surrounded by sand stretching out into the distance at low tide, and surrounded by water just a few hours later when the tides turned. It sounded really magical, and I had to see it for myself. Unfortunately, it looked like half of Europe had the same burning desire, and we spent the majority of the bus ride stuck in L.A-like traffic.

Abbaye du Mont St-Michel

Once we were on the Mont, James and I made our way through its narrow, twisted and turning streets, hoping to find an area that wasn’t populated entirely by fellow tourists. We didn’t see any cars once we passed through the front gates. The labyrinth of streets all seemed to lead upward to the giant 11th century abbey at the top of the Mont, our destination.

Cloisters

To me, most European churches feel gigantic, but the Abbaye du Mont St-Michel was especially enormous. We were allowed to explore the main cathedral of the abbey, wander through the cloisters, view the crypt, and every time we thought we’d seen everything, we’d discover another door or staircase leading to another part of the abbey.

Abbaye du Mont St-Michel

Instead of stained glass windows forming Biblical images, these windows were simply tinted and arranged in patterns, making the space feel much lighter and less oppressive. The views across the sand toward the mainland of France were amazing. We could see people on the sand, but we were so high up they appeared as tiny as ants.

Prayer Candles

We picked our way down to the middle part of the island and found another, much smaller church. It was dark inside, but filled with hundreds of prayer candles in colored glass votive holders. After exploring a little more, we also found an attached cemetery on multiple tiers.

From Mont St-Michel

Later that evening, James cooked a dinner of Toulouse sausages, onions and mushrooms in red wine, with carrots and green beans on the side on his tiny camping stove. Fresh food cooked outside never seems to taste as good when you try to re-create it indoors at a later date. We sat on the grass outside our tent in the fading light, enjoying the food and local wine, and finished the meal off with a cup of Irish Crème coffee brought with us from Wales and brewed in the small coffee press we’d brought from James’s home. We may have been camping, but we were camping in style.

Monday, August 8, 2005

After a sobering morning at Omaha Beach, one of the D-Day invasion sites, James and I caught the bus back to a small town we’d passed through earlier, Port en Bessin. We may not have been saying much, still digesting what we’d seen and experienced at the American Cemetery, but our stomachs were certainly doing some talking and were ready to do some digesting of their own!

Port en Bessin is a tiny place, set a little ways up a hill overlooking the harbor. There’s a tower-like structure further up the hill to the east, and a drawbridge that allows boats to sail in and out of the marina. We visited a small grocery store on the western side of the bridge and bought the fixings for a feast: baguettes, salami, cheese and nectarines, along with zucchini, mushrooms, tomatoes and pasta to save for dinner.

Port en Bessin, France

James and I waited to cross the waterway with the residents of Port en Bessin, waving at the passing boats. A young girl greeted us with “Bonjour!” There really isn’t anything quite as charming as children greeting you with accents and language foreign to you. During my first few days in England, when I was asking myself what exactly I had done by moving to a country I’d never even visited before, my doubts and questions melted a bit the first time I heard a child’s voice calling “Mummy!” When in self-doubt in a foreign land, listen to the voices of children.

James and I ate our salami and cheese baguettes on the hill overlooking the harbor, saving our nectarines for dessert. It was the most relaxing thing to sit in the sun feeling the warm sea breeze, watching the boats. Sitting on the hillside watching the residents of a tiny seaside town bustle about their daily lives, it began to really sink in that I was traveling.

Port en Bessin, France

We wandered around the streets for a little while, looking at the houses and shops and surrounding hills. The town was very picturesque, and looked exactly the way I’d imagined a French town would look. (Part of me wonders if this has anything to do with watching Snoopy cartoons when I was younger, particularly the ones where Snoopy is the Red Baron and they’re all staying in a chateaux. Those shows certainly influenced me more than they probably should have in other aspects - when I was in high school, I chose to take French instead of Spanish, even though Spanish would have been infinitely more useful to me in southern California.) Finding that a place looks just the way you’d imagined it has been quite a rare experience for me. The more time I spend imagining a place and all of its grandeur, the less it lives up to my expectations. The reality ends up rather, well, ordinary.

St. Andre, Port en Bessin, France

Before we caught the bus verts back to Bayeux and our campsite, we found a church to check out. One of my favorite things about Europe is the amount of churches that can be found, and how accessible they are. In a blur of candles, incense and marble, St. Andre’s stands out in my memories because it was filled with nautical items. Where you’d expect to find saints lining the walls, there were model boats. Holy water was contained in a huge clam shell. Being so close to the sea, it’s only natural that it should obviously have such significance in people’s lives.

Back at Camping Municipal de Bayeux, James and I set up the tiny camping stove we brought and began cooking dinner. (Well, James cooked, the gas canister stove terrified me. I had visions of accidentally starting a fire/explosion if I tried to use it.) Our pasta and vegetables eaten, we decided to explore a little during the last remaining hours of daylight and made our way to the Cathédrale Notre Dame. I took entirely too many pictures of its exterior.

Cathedrale Notre Dame, Bayeux, France

We returned once again to the campsite, ready to settle in for another cold night. This time I was prepared. I laid out extra tank tops, long-sleeved shirts, socks, scarf, sweatshirt and towel in the order I’d be layering them on throughout the night.

We would leave early the next morning, having never seen the famous Bayeux Tapestry.

Monday, August 8, 2005

I awoke tangled in a sleeping bag, travel towel and scarf, and sweating in my many layers of socks and tank tops. It was my first day in Bayeux, and James and I were on a mission.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

We had decided during our planning stages that we would visit the D-Day Beaches of Normandy. It would be an especially meaningful experience for both of us because our grandfathers had each taken part in the D-Day invasion during World War II. James’s grandfather was a tank commander for the British Army. He went ashore on Sword Beach during Operation Neptune in 1944.

My grandfather's flight log

My grandfather was a ball turret gunner on a B17 Flying Fortress called “Pretty Baby,” and flew two missions over the D-Day beaches, which my family discovered only recently. We have his flight log and there are two entries for June 6, 1944, both labeled “Invasion Coast, France.” He was stationed in England for part of World War II, and participated in over 30 missions between May and September of 1944. He flew over mostly France and Germany, but he also flew over Belgium, Czechoslovakia and Denmark a few times.

"Johnny and His 'Ball', 3-44"

My grandfather next to a ball turret on a B-17

Crew of Flying Fortress "Pretty Baby"

My grandfather is in the top row, second from the left

My mom tells me that her father never talked about the war, which I gather is pretty common. James’s grandfather rarely talked about his fighting experiences, only the camaraderie he felt with his fellow veterans.

My grandfather is on the right

James and I caught a bus from the Bayeux train station that took us through the French countryside toward the beaches. After what felt like forever, we took a chance and got off the bus. We wandered down the road and found ourselves at the American Cemetery on the bluffs above Omaha Beach.

American Cemetery, Normandy, France

No photos, movies or books could have prepared me for the sheer scale of white crosses and Stars of David. They went on forever, rows and rows of them. When you see the enormity of the memorials and realize that each white marble marker represents a person who was lost, and that there were many, many more beyond what you can see, it’s hard to not feel emotional. I saw a woman crying in the chapel, and many others with tears in their eyes. I wondered if they were searching for the graves of family members.

American Cemetery, Normandy, France

James and I wandered among the markers, reading some of the names, noticing the flowers left. Some graves had wet sand rubbed across the carved names, locations and dates, pressed into the letters and numbers so they could be read easily. This single cemetery contains the remains of 9,387 people. There are 13 more American World War II cemeteries on foreign soil*. That’s only American cemeteries. From that, just try and imagine how many were lost. It’s unreal.

We took the path down the bluffs and onto the beach itself. It was a beautiful day, with hardly any clouds in the sky. We could see beachgoers farther down the coast, and the wind carried only the faintest sounds of laughter over the surf. James and I were quiet. I think we were both lost in our own thoughts, imagining what it must have been like for other young people, two in particular, in the same place we were standing in 1944.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

*Figure taken from a leaflet prepared by The American Battle Monuments Commission, Normandy American Cemetery

Sunday, August 7, 2005

France from the Window of the Ferry

We arrived in Le Havre on Sunday morning. James and I, having spent a fairly sleepless night in and in the vicinity of our “reclining seats,” tried perking ourselves up with a breakfast and strong coffee. Here we were, at the very outset of our European adventure, tired to the bone already.

The very first glimpse of France in the dawn light did more for our spirits than any coffee could. France, and the whole of Europe, seemed to blossom before us out of nothingness. We had a rough itinerary together, and we were eager to disembark the ferry, catch a train, and disappear into the countryside.

France From the Window of the Ferry

Unfortunately, being a Sunday, train service was rather limited, which neither James nor I had taken into account. Also, as Le Havre is at the tip of a finger of land, there didn’t seem to be a direct train to the west. Our best bet would be to catch a train inland to Paris and change to another train back out to the northwest coast. The earliest train to Paris was in a little under 3 hours.

And so, we waited.

James, our backpacks, and I all sat on the marble floor of the Le Havre train station and waited, our butts growing cold and numb. Aside from the local pigeons, we didn’t see anyone else. I pulled out Europe on a Shoestring and began looking for what our next destination would be. We both decided that Bayeux looked like a good bet, especially since its campground looked cheap.

We caught our train to Paris, arriving at Saint Lazare station to grab a quick lunch of salami in a crusty baguette (a meal I would soon get really tired of), and hopped a train to Caen. We had a few hours to kill before catching another train to our final destination of Bayeux, so we decided to kill a few glasses of wine (“Je voudrais un vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”) while we waited at the tiny bar we could see from the station. I felt oh-so-European, sitting on the sidewalk at a tiny round table, sipping my wine and watching the world pass me by. Of course, I probably looked oh-so-touristy, with my giant backpack’s straps wrapped around my legs, my google-eyed stare darting left to right without ceasing, the unmistakable whiff of overnight ferry and fried breakfast caught in my hair. Ah well, c’est la vie.

Bayeux Station

When we finally pulled into Bayeux and realized we had no idea how to get to the municipal campsite, our fatigue got the best of us. We took a cab from the station, vowing that this was to be the first and only time we’d splurge on a taxi while we were traveling.

Our five minute taxi ride took us straight through town to the campsite, where we eagerly pitched our tent. That first night was one of the coldest, and brought back strong memories of my beach-camping experience. As the night wore on and the sea air got colder and colder, just about every item of clothing I’d brought found its way onto my body: jeans, socks, tank tops, more socks, long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirt, even more socks, scarf, finally even my towel. Unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I started to dread the coming month.

Saturday, August 6, 2005

It was time to go. Somehow my enormous backpack and I managed to get from my flat at Old Street to James’ house in Stoke Newington without taking anybody out. After a few final preparations (Passports? Cameras? Underwear? Check, check and check.) and a final home-cooked meal of chicken kievs and potatoes, we were ready to begin our journey. His parents drove us to London Waterloo station, wished us well and waved goodbye. We boarded our evening train to Portsmouth, and then we were off, my stomach in my throat.

A bookworm by nature, I had limited myself to bringing only 3 books to last me a month: Rite of Passage: Tales of Backpacking ‘Round Europe from Lonely Planet, Deep France: A Writer’s Year in the Bearn by Celia Brayfield, and the Lonely Planet’s Europe on a Shoestring: Big Trips on Small Budgets. (Can we see a trend here?) I pulled out Rite of Passage and began to scare myself silly. With stories of hostels that smelled like vomit and being mugged not once but twice in Saint’s Station, Barcelona, this was probably not the best choice of books to bring with me while experiencing my first backpacking adventure. With some distance and time, I can chuckle and empathize with these writers and fellow travelers, but at the time it just terrified me.

In no time, James and I were in Portsmouth, where we would leave behind Britain and all of its familiarity. As dusk fell around us, we made our way on foot to the harbor, where we had two seats on the overnight ferry to Le Havre waiting for us. Still a beginner at this backpacking thing, I felt like I was walking through neck-high water: exerting all the effort and not getting very far very fast. What a relief it was to find the ferry terminal.

As we pushed off, James and I stood on deck at the railing, watching England slowly slip away from us and be swallowed by the night. “I’m in the middle of the English Channel!” I thought to myself, mentally conjuring up a map of the world with a big X over southern California and an even bigger X in the space between Britain and France (You Are HERE). Just living in London alone had been a huge mind-bender at times (I live HERE?), so embarking on a European adventure was almost beyond belief.

The ferry to France takes longer overnight than it does in the daytime, so we had a long night ahead of us. The reclining seats we’d booked were disappointingly uncomfortable, with cold plastic covers and unmovable arm rests, and in actuality only reclined maybe 12 inches. Apparently our fellow travelers were just as disappointed, because before long, virtually all available floor space was taken over by sleeping bags and bodies. I bedded down in the aisle between the seats, only to be stepped on repeatedly throughout the night. The room we were in felt like a movie theater without a screen, or a conference room with no podium or stage. Just lots of bodies, anticipation brewing like a strong pot of coffee, making sleep impossible.

Late July, 2005

I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up, much less walk. My borrowed purple backpack was a monstrosity, almost as tall as me, and stuffed with tank tops, underwear, a camping stove, and whatever else I thought I’d need for the next month. It was all part of the crazy idea James and I had come up with to backpack around Europe after we graduated from art school. Crazy to me, anyway; I’d never dreamed of doing anything like this, and up until a few months earlier, had always said I hated camping and had no desire to do it. (This claim was based on one night in a tiny tent on the beach with my church youth group when I was 12. My sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough, my socks were damp, and the youth pastor’s kids threw rocks at my tent all night.)

Nevertheless, James and I came up with a plan: after we finished art school at our respective universities, we’d take a month to travel around Europe by train, carrying everything we needed in our backpacks, and find cheap campgrounds to pitch our tent in along the way. By the time we returned to London, my 3 year student visa would have expired, and I’d have to pack up and move home to southern California.

That July was an eventful month. After a rigorous campaign, London won the bid to host the Olympics in 2012. The Red Arrows flew over the city toward Buckingham Palace in celebration. The following morning, London’s underground and bus systems were attacked by suicide bombers. Thankfully, none of our crowd was lost or injured.

My family flew in for our graduations. Degree shows came to a close. James and I had a weekend trip to Wales, where I experienced the joys of peeing outdoors, along with many other firsts. (Lentils being one of them. Also sleeping in a sauna and seeing the Milky Way.)

And then it was time.

I looked at my backpack, innocently sitting on the floor of my room. I somehow contorted backwards, stuck my arms through the straps, and tried to straighten up. And immediately fell backwards onto my bed.