Airports, countryside, and so on.

I could write about the countryside of Northwest France, the green fields and expansive oceans of Normandy, the charming small town of Honfleur in Calvados, the small restaurants and hotels run by friendly, talkative people.

I could, and I will.

But first let me tell you about Charles de Gaulle airport. You will think that I am exaggerating, but I tell you that this is all absolute truth. Do not doubt my word. Here’s the thing: finding Charles de Gaulle airport is only mildly less difficult than locating the lost city of Atlantis. The only thing that prevents it reaching that calibre is the fact that, being on land, one does not need diving equipment. That’s it. It exists in a sub-universe that is absolutely, categorically, impossible to reach from outside of Paris. Or inside of Paris. It simply cannot be done. The A4? Nope. The A1? Nope. Maybe the A3? No. None of these go to the airport. None of them. Despite what the maps may tell you.

Now, some of you who are reading this have been to France. You have flown into and out of Charles de Gaulle, and you are convinced that it is not actually that difficult. I’ll tell you why you had this different experience: It’s because you departed for the airport from a hotel, am I right? Yes, you see, that’s the magic of Charles de Gaulle airport. It supports France’s economy by becoming unreachable from anywhere but a hotel—and, specifically, a hotel that you have spent the night in.

Aye, there’s the rub! My father and I erroneously believed that we could get to the airport from anywhere. After all, we had a rented car. Surely some highway would take us there! We searched the Paris area desperately for several hours on Saturday night, consulting our map regularly, pulling over to ask directions several times, and getting stuck in a good amount of Saturday-night-in-Paris traffic. It would not be hyperbolic to say that we spent about three and a half hours in search of an airport that was likely never more than 45 minutes away. I, of course, found this hilarious. I played music on my laptop (until the battery died) and then flipped through radio stations. I marvelled at the uselessness of our reasonably detailed map. I was impressed at how lost we really were. That’s me. My dad was significantly less amused, having the responsibility of actually making the decisions (considering he was driving). I tried to help, I did! But when it got to the point where it was clear we were not getting anywhere with the map, I surrendered my post. And then I just laughed. Alone.

That night we stayed in a hotel, a Holiday Inn Express that we nearly killed ourselves and the rental car getting to (crossing four lanes of busy Paris traffic? Well done, dear Father!). When we departed in the morning, it took us twenty-five minutes to get to the airport. That was it.

As I’m sure you’re all tired of hearing about the airport, I will spare you the details of what it is actually like to get around within Charles de Gaulle. Suffice to say that it took us, again, multiple hours to figure out where to go. Our passports suggest that we have entered and exited this country several times. And that is all I will say.

Ok, so after we left Paris on Tuesday, we drove through the northwest part of France, primarily exploring Normandy. Our route was primarily determined by an intense, heart-stopping fear of the péage. If you have not met this particular horror, let me explain. A péage is a tollbooth found the French freeway. They are frequent, and largely inescapable. We tried, though—oh man, we tried. We went over the same kilometre-long bridge three times in a row, hoping there was a way around the péage. There wasn’t. You probably think I’m being overly dramatic, and muttering to yourself about the value of a theatre education, but these little buggers were expensive! Going through a péage could set you back up to €5, but always cost at least €2.30. And one could go through two or three in an hour. They were not to be trifled with. So we left the freeways, and wound through small villages for the rest of our travels. It was a far preferable way to travel, not least of all because I was tempted to sing songs from Beauty and the Beast every time we stopped. (Don’t worry, I refrained.)

So, now that I have set the scene—

Day One—The Drive:

We were enroute to the part of Normandy famous for D-Day. It was a long, beautiful drive. My favourite place that we stopped was Honfleur, a small town that was just exceedingly… cute. It had narrow streets with narrow houses cuddled up together. The shops were petite and were perfectly situated for some quality window shopping. There was a small harbour that was full of brightly coloured sailboats. I tell you, this place was charming. Dad and I considered buying property there, but decided it against it. Now that I think about it, I don’t know why!

Day One was really just a lot of driving, but the scenery must be commented on. We drove through beautiful farmlands that were lush and green from all of these winter rains. It seems every building we came across was either thick stone (which I have decided is the most attractive building material) or wood beam (you know, like the house Shakespeare was born in). People pedalled bicycles along at a leisurely pace, or strolled with their small dogs dressed in smart coats. I was overwhelmed with a sudden desire to be French.

Day Two—Normandy Beaches, WWII, and the American Cemetery:

Still wanted to be French, but now for an additional reason: Everyone is so friendly! My father, who speaks French much better than he lead me to believe, has been having long and boisterous conversations with almost everyone we meet. People smile and talk quickly, completely willing to be spending these moments of their lives giving us directions, explaining their town, sharing stories of their lives. As we drive away, my dad translates bits and pieces, “He used to be an accountant, but now he owns this restaurant… Oh, she says it’s very simple, we just turn left…He wants to live in an English speaking country someday…” I am, of course, left out of these conversations, because my French vocabulary is limited to an extreme degree—hello, goodbye, thank you, left, right, dog, wine, bread, and—weirdly—gift and bicycle. Oh, and “tollbooth.” Of course.

Anyway, this was the day when we visited the part of Normandy now famous for the D-Day invasion. It was a powerful experience. I’ve studied WWII, of course, and read about D-Day, but seeing the thousands of graves in the American cemetery, reading letters soldiers sent home, hearing stories of individual braveries, and realising what people sacrificed for something they believed in. It was not like the war we are in now, where the moral lines are blurred and what, exactly, we are fighting for is a question. These young people were fighting to protect those they loved and support what they believed. That, to me, is an incredible, moving commitment. It was a surreal experience to see the coastline of Omaha Beach and visualise the thousands of American GIs splashing ashore into enemy fire, bent on a purpose. The 9,000 white marble crosses and Stars of David in the graveyard are only a small percentage of the people who died in that war, but they still seem to stretch forever.

That afternoon we drove through Saint Mere Eglise, and saw the church where a man had been caught when he parachuted into the town. He had to just hang there and play dead for the duration of the battle below him. What a terrifying, bizarre experience that must have been. Today they have a sort of memorial to him—a soldier mannequin suspended from a parachute caught on the church’s roof. I think that’s vaguely peculiar, but it was still interesting to see.

Day Three—Mont Saint-Michel:

This was the day for Mont Saint-Michel. This is an ancient abbey built on a piece of land that is sometimes an island, depending on the tides. It is compact and steep, and I do have a picture of it, but I’m having difficulty uploading pictures these days, so we’ll see if I can make it work. It’s all made out of the same brownish stone, and looks like a fairytale castle, to some degree—the exact kind of castle that a fairy would wish to live in. We went on a wander through it, and it was truly incredible. The cloister was particularly beautiful—a small grassy area enclosed by a walkway lined with pillars, and a view out to the sea. I can see how monks would meditate there. There was also, on the top level, an enormous wheel. This was used to raise supplies that prisoners would need for work: that was all well and good and reasonable, but the most remarkable part about it? You walk in it to operate it. It’s like a hamster wheel, for people. I was incredibly amused, and kind of wanted to try. Not an opportunity open to tourists, though.

The whole village surrounding the abbey was also delightful. There were steep, narrow walkways up to the abbey, and these trails were lined with shops and cafés. I found one shop that sold an array of swords, shields, maces, battle-axes and so on. I thought of the five-year-old I nanny for as soon as I saw it! I took a picture, but decided that his parents may, you know, hate and fire me if I supplied him with anything from that particular shop. (Reasonably, I might add.)

Day Four—Chartres:

This day was spent in Chartres, a small town a couple of hours from Paris. It’s famous for it’s gothic cathedral, one of the oldest and best preserved in the world. It has two different spires from different centuries, both of them beautiful. I must admit I’m partial to the later one, which is more ornate. Inside are 176 stained class windows depicting 12,000 different scenes, most of them from the Bible. The colours and detail are phenomenal. I have always loved stained class, but these past almost-four months in Europe have really increased that love. I’m still not particularly discriminating (pretty much, if it’s coloured glass I like it), but I enjoy it all more than ever. These particular windows were largely from the 12th-13th centuries. Isn’t that unbelievable? (If there’s one thing I’m more impressed by than stained glass, it’s Really Old Stuff. Clearly, Europe has been good for me.)

Day Five—Chateau at Fontainebleau
This was our last adventure of our road trip in the northern part of France. We stopped by a beautiful Chateau at Fontainebleau, which was, in my humble opinion, even lovelier than Versailles. This was probably helped by the lack of inflatable lobsters. The rooms were beautifully preserved, and there was an audioguide that told us all sorts of interesting information relating to each room. Did you know that there was a time when French monarchs had to give birth with an audience, in order to prove the legitimacy of the child? I feel like that would have been a somewhat uncomfortable experience.

And then, last night (Sunday) we arrived in Denmark, which is where we are now! This post has gotten ridiculously long, so I'm going to call it good for now. Take care, and please have a very wonderful holiday season!