Jardin de l'Eveché

We were at Porte Maillot at 06H50 and could see the bus for the Paris-Beauvais airport across the street. They weren't supposed to leave for another 30 minutes so we walked a block, in the opposite direction, and had a cup of coffee. By the time we got back the bus had left and we were stranded in the lot with a confused Irish woman and cab drivers coming at us from all directions.

The bus is gone, they all said. A flight was cancelled and they are not running any more shuttles until noon! I will take you for 105 Euros. Come! Come!! Yes!!

Noon was sometimes nine-thirty or ten, depending on who you spoke to, and 105 was sometimes 120 or 130 or Whatever the meter says. But there is no traffic this morning. It will be fast. Okay, you'll come!!

At the far end of the lot was a weathered trailer-office. Two men milled around inside but kept the windows firmly shut and avoided all eye contact with anyone who came near. On the window sill someone had taped a piece of paper that simply read : We have nothing to do the with the Paris-Beauvais airport shuttle.

After waiting 30-40 minutes, during which I haggled various cab drivers over prices, and they then argued amongst themselves, we agreed to split a car with the woman from Dublin where she paid the lion's share of the fare. We had only to pick up a car from the rental agency at the airport and, anyway, I had been doing all the talking. Me screaming at the driver that whether his meter was on or not we weren't paying more than 105 Euros, as we raced past La Defense, must surely be worth some small compensation.

Eventually, we made it to the airport and after some lesser drama involving the money owed the driver — I know for a fact that we paid our share after which all I cared about was getting out of the cab — we all went our separate, sullen and exasperated ways.

At which point we discovered the car rental place was officially closed on Sundays.

We were told by the nice man at the big American competitor's office, next door, that if we had a reservation for 10H00 then they wouldn't show up any earlier. Assuming, nudge nudge wink wink, they arrived at all. Another couple had been left stranded only just yesterday. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

After we considered the available options (of which the worst seemed to be returning to Paris only because it involved the threat of dealing with the shuttle bus not once but twice more) we hunkered down in the airport's cafeteria and waited. In every respect, the airport at Paris-Beauvais makes the airport in Oakland look and feel like an exercise in civility and decorum. Enough said.

The story gets better once the guy from the car rental agency shows up.

We stopped in Rouen to catch our breath and sort out the rest of the day. While we were wandering around looking for a coffee shop (Why go there when we can keep walking?) in and amongst all the cathedrals we came upon a bakery where I bought a pain Normand and some pastries and asked whether there were any cheese stores nearby and open on a Sunday.

The woman behind the counter said no but another customer, in line, perked up and said there was a big open-air market, just down the street! It was perfect. Though smaller in size it reminded me of the Jean Talon market, in Montreal; something that happened a lot while we were in Rouen. We wandered the aisles and bought fresh fruit and cheese (the guy in front of us ordered a frais du jour and a bottle of home-made apple juice so we did too) and a medley of sausages for a friend and had to struggle not buy more.

Originally, we had this crazy idea that we would shoot across Normandy in the morning all the way to Mont St. Michel, spend the night in Fougeres, and then meander our way back North the following day. Once we determined that the myth of time and distance on French highways is just that — it really only takes about 15 minutes to get anywhere and, unlike California, people drive fast but safely and use the passing lane for, well, passing — we stopped at a gas station and picked up a proper map (no comment) just in time to prevent a wild goose chase in search of the N13.

Somewhere around Caen, we headed South with no particular destination other than to pass through Camembert and to get to the hotel, in Burgundy, before nightfall. We took red (regional), yellow (small) and white (back-country) roads more or less at whim depending on what lay ahead of us and how quickly we wanted to get there. Eventually, we decided to stop in Lisieux and have lunch.

We ambled around town with a rough eye to finding a park bench near the Cathédrale St. Pierre, in the town's center. When we couldn't find a spot for the car, we doubled back and passed the Jardin de l'Eveché. We sat under the tall trees and ate cheese as a young boy pretended to be France's greatest tball player, his older sister kicked his ass and his grandmother gave us nervous, sideways glances.

Dejeuner sur la plage

The trick to Mont St. Michel has five parts : Do not go on the weekend; Be there before 09H00; Don't bother going after 10H00; Leave by noon; Finally, do not stop for d or coffee anyplace where the abbey is still visible to the naked eye.

Rather than get on the highway to Rouen, afterwards, we opted for poking about the road running alongside the bay. The tide had been going out all morning and we stopped in a completely forgettable town where I bought a baguette from a woman who seemed genuinely annoyed with the number of different breads she sold.

It had been raining off and on all morning but when we came around the bend into Dragey and saw the sign for the beach we quickly followed it down a gravel road to the water. We walked past the seaside cafe with the smell of a melon that had spent the previous night in the trunk of the car nipping at our heels.

We hadn't bothered with breakfast at the hotel hoping instead to pick up a quick bite on our way to Mont St. Michel. The best we could do was tiny bar/restaurant, at the water's edge, full of edgy locals chain-smoking and doing shots at eight in morning with a single croissant left to share between us. Whether it was the hunger or the lingering memory of never being more one room ahead of a pack of yammering German high school kids, we were a little frazzled by the time we flopped down on the sand.

We'd been sitting for ten or fifteen minutes, without seeing a single person, when Michele spotted something racing up the beach towards us. As it got closer we could see that it was a big black stallion and eventually we could make out a rider. He flashed us a big toothy grin and waved hello, as he galloped past, before disappearing into the distance.