In a way I feel as if I’ve let you down since you’ve been so kind to keep up with my adventures and exploits. However, I do need a day of rest. I took that today. I’ve been up to reading, napping, texting, and generally preparing for my adventure tomorrow.
I’m heading to the main bus station late morning tomorrow to pick up a rental car. A manual mini. Then I’m going to drive from Mondeville (a suburb of Caen) to Honfleur. It’s about an hour away according to Google maps. I chose a route that is a bit longer but there aren’t any tolls on the road.
I’m going to stay overnight and drive back on Friday morning.
To tell you the truth, I’m a filled with a bit of anxiety about this trip. I haven’t driven in nearly a month. I haven’t driven a stick shift vehicle in longer than that…I think three years or so. I’ve never driven a mini-car before, nor have I driven on French roads. Although I have an idea where I’m going, the actual journey is going to be a wild one simply because I don’t know.
My uncertainty isn’t going to prevent me from going. I mean, if I’d let my trepidation take hold, I’d never have come to a foreign country in the first place. But exploring a town on foot and by bus is a slightly different creature than driving it. I really wish I had a sign to put in the back of my window to let other drivers know I’m new here, cut me some slack!
I’ll have a better story and pictures tomorrow to share. I look forward on taking you with me.
On today’s excursion to the bus stop, I found this church with a distinctive tilt. I noted the street where I found it with the note to self to look it up when I returned to the apartment.
Church of Saint-Jean de Caen
This church was originally built in the seventh century at a crossroads of the lower valley of the Orne. This became the main route between Bayeux and Lisieux which evolved into Exmoisine road, and currently on rue Saint-Jean.
Now why anyone would build a church in a bog, who knows. This church is no stranger to destruction from wars. It has been rebuilt several times. In 1944, although the tilted tower stood, the rebuilding of the sanctuary removed the last remnants of the Roman influence.
In 1969, an artist, Danièle Perré, was asked to replace the windows in l’eglise Saint Jean. The resulting work is simply beautiful. With light touches of abstract design, colorful depictions of faith and love, a new breath was breathed into the revitalized church.
The history of the places I’m seeing is like rooting through an old trunk in the attic. It’s discovering lost treasures that were there all along. I have described it as feeling like history is pulsing in my blood, but I don’t know that it’s exactly like that.
It is more like looking through a dirty pair of glasses. I can see the contemporary buildings because they’re obvious. But if I clean my glasses a bit, I can step further back in time, to when the restoration took place. If I use a cleaner on my eyewear, I can see into the past like a magic mirror exposing architectural secrets to the sharp view now afforded. It’s a new way to observe what is preserved instead of destroyed.
I traveled to Rosel today. I went through the routine of exercises with him. I had to coax him a bit to go for a walk. He finally relented. We walked down the narrow rural road to the corner where there are four horses in a huge field. There is a black one, a dark brown, a light brown, and a white horse. Three males and a female.
We must have caught their attention because after we turned around, the horses came over to the fence to greet us. The black and the white ones were first. They eyeballed us up and down keeping pace with our awkward movement. The other two joined in and walked us down to the corner. It was joyful for me and seemed to brighten my client’s mood as well.
I’m planning a trip to Honfleur for an overnight on Thursday. I’m going to meet and paint with an artist there. I’m also going to drive for the first time in France in a stick shift car (Yes, I know how to drive one. I was taught to drive in one.)
When I was describing the plans to my client’s wonderful wife, she was impressed with how organized I am when it comes to going places. “I know what I want and I make it happen.” She said she wanted to get a painting or a sign of that saying because it was a good life lesson. I don’t suppose I should amend that to say, “If nobody else can help, do it yourself.” Which is the real reason I am going to drive there. I had rides set up twice but one was on the wrong day, the other got cancelled because the driver wanted to spend more time in Caen than he thought.
With all the things that have bowed to the whimsy of Murphy’s Law this trip, I’m just abiding. I sail along whatever waters there are. I don’t have the friend resource here like back home, so I have to make sure I take care of myself, my well being, my safety, and my adventures to the best of my ability. So far, I’ve been enjoying the flow of the days.
This morning, I was sitting in the bathroom. The window to the apartment was open because it gets quite warm up in here. I was doing my thing when I heard a mild racket at the window. I poked my head out the door and there was a pigeon sitting on the windowsill. She was very interested in checking out the place. I greeted her verbally. I finished my task, flushed, and stepped into the main room without approaching her. We stared at each other for a bit. She got a mind to fly away. It was a surprising and pleasant interaction.
Complaint: The Twisto app that I use to find the nearest bus stop doesn’t update in real time so you have to walk about a half block, tap the screen just to find out you’re not going the right direction. I demand perfection! That’s a lie, but it sure would be nice.
I got to my bus stop barely on time. I mean, I found it, looked up, and there was the bus. Given that I went the wrong way and had to jury rig my directions to make it, I felt pretty proud of myself.
Upon arrival to the last stop on the line, I waited for a few minutes while my client’s wife (An absolute gem of a human) was en route to pick me up. It was 84 degrees outside which is pretty warm. Tomorrow, it’s supposed to be about 66 degrees F. I love cooler weather.
I spent the next couple of hours with my client. One of the activities we do it bounce a ball back and forth 130 times. When I first started working for this family 3 years ago, I absolutely dreaded it because he would insist on counting in French. Bless his beautiful heart that he did. I look forward to it because, unlike in the beginning, I can lead the count all the way past 100! I’m very pleased he insisted even though I wasn’t happy in the beginning.
His wife arrived from the grocery trip she went on and she insisted she drop me at the bus stop. I agreed. As we approached the stop, the bus was pulling away. I said it was okay because I can catch the next one. “Nonsense.” She revved up the engine, passed the bus, and dropped me at the next stop. She went rogue on me! I didn’t expect it from her, but man, that woman can drive!
I got off at the Caen Theatre Quai. I searched for a restaurant nearby. I found a couple of burger joints, but honestly, I haven’t had one since I got here. I just don’t want to eat American food when I’m in freaking France! Instead, I found a Vietnamese place.
Boeuf Loc Lac, a creamy cheesecake, a Vietnamese coffee, and a Coke Zero. That’s a softboiled egg (which I asked to not be included) and a crapload of cilantro which tastes like soap to me. I did some picky eating with this dish. The menu as clear as I could get it.
I made it back up the five flights of stairs. Since my client is going to have company starting on Wednesday, I won’t be needed for the rest of the week. What to do, what to do…
HA! The Rome2Rio app has a rideshare option. All I have to do is show up at the scheduled time, ride along in the car, and end up at my destination. I’m going to Honfleur, France to paint in a studio on Thursday. I’m so freaking jazzed!
Although I’ve been reading for fun since I got here (think trashy novels and good sci-fi), I wanted to try something I truly love. I don’t think anything makes me happier than when I have paint on my hands. I’ll let you know how it goes and if I’ll be able to find a ride home (not yet, but I’m hopeful).
Remember when I did the professional photo shoot in Paris? They were supposed to send me the proofs in 7-10 business days so I could select 5 of them. Well, that didn’t happen. What DID happen was that she felt so bad that she dropped the ball, she gave them all to me! All 37! To say I was pleased would be an understatement. I would totally recommend Best Pictures in Paris to any tourist. So, where’s the proofs? I’m going to share a few of my favorites with you.
French ducks sleeping!This wall was SO TALL! I am not. I was on my very, very, very tippy-toes to get this shot. You can’t see the comma, but it says: LOVE, ME
Those are my favorites. I like them because I look like me, not someone posed. I’m so glad I had this experience. I mean, there’s only so many selfies one can take before…bah.
I’m going back to my client’s house tomorrow to exercise with him.
OH! Before I forget. After the calamity of the early morning banging on my door, I’m scared to make any noise at all. I’m living like a monk that’s taken a vow of silence. It’s not as bad as it sounds…ha! See what I did there? Listening isn’t one of my strengths because I love to speak in what I call “layer cakes.” I like for the conversations to be a mix of ideas thrown together, sometimes with frosting, sometimes without. But, this is a practice I’m uneasy with which means I should probably do it and be grateful for the opportunity. Besides, I can speak with my client’s family.
Peace go with you wherever you are. You are loved!
My first night here at the new place. I went to bed but got awakened by a phone call from my dear friend. It was only 8PM her time, 2AM mine. I took the call because I love her. I had to turn on the light so she could see me. We chatted for a bit about stuff and things.
At 2:30AM there was a banging on my door with a man’s voice yelling in French. I understood the word monsieur, but that’s it. It freaked me out and I ended my call. I was confused, uncertain, and afraid. It took me a long time to calm down so I could sleep again. I messaged the host because I didn’t know what else to do. I was not about to confront an angry Frenchman in the middle of the night.
At about 5:30AM (11:30PM in East TN) I was successful. At 11AM there was a light knock on my door. It was the host of the Airbnb checking to see if I was okay. I was, although I explained my confusion. I didn’t realize that anything I do or say here can be heard because the walls are so thin. I didn’t know.
The man who lives across the hall is a musician who was awakened by my conversation. I promise, I wasn’t being loud or anything, just talking. The man immediately next to him was yelling for me to be quiet, but I didn’t hear that. The musician is the one who banged on my door.
I have lived alone for so long now that I take my privacy and space for granted. Being in a communal apartment building for the first time in over a decade has been quite eye opening. I don’t know that I could go back to this again. It makes me grateful for what I have.
Anyway, I fiddled around a bit today, but I was really tired. I went to bed at 7PM with the intention of reading. That didn’t happen. I just woke up. My normal routine starts tomorrow and I’m excited to see my clients.
I am okay. I’m fully chastized. I’m learning and understanding my place. I’m going to share the pictures of the Paris photoshoot (my favorite ones anyway) in my next post. Stay tuned…
Let me start this off by telling you that I once fantasized about building and living in a portable tiny house. I had the plans picked out and the dream was real. I shopped on Tumbleweedhouses.com and fell in love with the Aspen. I really wanted to make it happen.
However, the new place I moved into for the next 20 days is tiny. I mean…
This is smaller than my storage room in my house in Tennessee.
The bathroom is super tiny and I’m rather concerned about how I’m going to manage to shower in such a small space. I’ll figure it out, no doubt, but it’s going to be a challenge.
There is one really nifty feature about this place. It has a composting toilet. Whatever goes in gets ground up after you flush. It’s something I’ve never encountered before so I’m sharing it.
Don’t worry, there’s nothing in the toilet.
Now before you start thinking I don’t like the place, that’s not entirely true. It’s neat, tidy, art on the walls, plants to decorate it, functionally succinct. It doesn’t have a stove, but it has a microwave. There is enough storage that I don’t feel like I’m living out of my suitcase.
Plus side, my butt is going to be amazing after the stay here. It’s on the top floor (aka the 5th floor) with no elevator. Try carrying a 50lb suitcase up those puppies. My arms and my back are reminding me that I’m an idiot. Another plus side is, I only had to carry them up once and don’t have to carry them down for 20 days.
The woman whose daughter owns the place met me this morning. She allowed me early check-in and drove in from the countryside to do so. She was dressed impeccably with a short blonde bob, square thick framed glasses, and a working understanding of English. She was so kind. I enjoyed speaking with her very much. I gave her two Appalachian potholders that were handmade by an artisan from back home. She gave me an assortment of cakes. We chatted for a bit about this and that. She actually carried my grocery buggy and my carryon up all five flights, then came back and carried my overstuffed big suitcase up the last flight. With keys in hand, we bid adieu.
I unpacked quickly. I made a short list of items to get (sharp knife and a bread knife, bath towel that would fit me, and a real coffee mug). I returned to the MonoPrix store which is a couple of blocks away. I was able to find everything I needed to stock my fridge too.
The chair I’m sitting in is a white plastic sling chair with metal legs. I’m telling you this because I farted in it and it amplified it to the point it startled me a bit. Desolee’ (sorry).
There is a small window, I think it’s facing North.
The street sounds filtering in are loud for motorcycles, quieter for cars. It’s currently 60 degrees, nearly midnight and I’m satisfied with my life.
I have spent the last twelve days in an apartment in the middle of Caen. It feels comfortable enough to poop with the door open. Oh, come on! You know that kind of freedom is a luxury! I’m reluctant to begin the packing process, although I won’t have to do it again for another 20 days.
What does home mean to me? I’ve been thinking about this all day since my life has become rather transient since I arrived here. I have walked more here because I can that I ever did back in Tennessee. I’ve done this solo. Although I get to work with my clients regularly, I’m on my own the rest of the time.
In the Captain’s chair (which is what I call where I like to sit in my kitchen), I feel at home. I’m surrounded by my things that I’ve collected. Each item has a story behind it of how I got it, who it came from, where I got it, what the sentimental value is to me. It feels safe.
Home is a haven for me. It’s a place where I can think at my own pace. I can clean or not. I can interact with the world or not. It’s a place where the coffee is always a brew away and the door is open to my friends (family by appointment!). It’s the place where I can be honest with myself about what it is that I actually want to do with my time. It’s a place where I make my own decisions about my life. It’s my space.
Here I am today with a different take on it.
The walls here are without ornamentation. They are plain white with deep red curtains hanging around the three windows that fill the room with natural light during the day and an annoying security light by night. (I just figured out I could pull the curtains last night, OY!). But home? This is where I am. This is where I’m staying, but I’m still me.
I thought home was a place as I’ve described, but it’s transmogrifying in my perception. Home is where I am. Home is the feeling of purpose and belonging. Right now I feel like I belong to the world. The space I take up here, although small by physical standards, is an explosion of my senses. It’s a courage and bravery that I suspected and had periodically reinforced with choices, but dudes, I can’t even speak the language here!
I’m doing it. I’m taking in everything I can see. Each time I ride the bus I see something I hadn’t noticed before. I’m engaging with life in a silent role out of necessity. I don’t have to make small talk. I don’t have to fill silence. I can just be. It’s been the ultimate practice of Dudeism for me.
I got up this morning and went to the laundromat. I washed what needed to be including the towels and pillowcases I’ve used. I didn’t do the sheets though because I’m still going to use them tonight. While I was waiting, the double espresso kicked in. I needed to use the restroom. I asked the location manager where the nearest bathroom was. She directed me to a Tabac/Brassiere down the street. I followed her directions (her pointing), found it but it was closed.
I returned to the laundry. She asked if I went. Non. Closed. She gestured for me to follow her. She brought me into a room behind the dryers that was filled with clothes in various states of neatness. In the corner was a lidless toilet. Merci!
With all that accomplished, laundry warm out of the dryer, I folded what I had and stored it in my rolling buggy. Good stuff, that.
I had a doctor’s appointment at 1PM (7AM in East Tennessee) for a prescription refill. The woman behind the reception desk didn’t speak English but a tiny bit. Like me, mostly numbers. With a little help from my trusty companion, we conversed enough for me to know I was paying a whopping 25 Euros to see the doctor. No kidding.
The doctor was pleasant, spoke English, explained how my prescription was going to be filled (in a box not a bottle) and I have to go back in 30 days to get the other half of the prescription. He also prescribed me lancets because I didn’t bring enough with me. He wasn’t pleased that he could only do 30 days at a time, but I got the prescription so I’m a happy camper.
He had a scale in his office. I asked if I could check my weight. He enthusiastically agreed. As it turns out, walking does wonders for ones weight. I’ve lost nearly six pounds since being here. I’m still eating mostly like an American, but I’m walking everywhere. Grocery store? No problem. Walk. Pharmacie? Close enough to walk. Laundromat? Down the road and around the corner a bit. I’m absolutely enthusiastic about the walkability here.
As I was walking to the bus stop to catch the bus to my job (37 minutes by bus), I passed by the headquarters of Twisto (The public bus company in Caen. They also rent bicycles by the hour, I’m debating). I wanted to know when my month pass expires but I couldn’t figure out how to find that information. A friendly woman tried to help me, but she wasn’t familiar with the app either. Her supervisor wasn’t sure either. Several phone calls later, multiple times hearing my name spelled out in French, and they had an answer. Since the infinite use ticket is good for a month, it goes from the first time you board the bus. Each time it’s validated, it checks against that date. Good to know.
As I waited at the stop, I got thirsty. I went to the MonoPrix store that was not even a block away. I picked up a couple of drinks and some croissants (Buy 3 get one free! WOOT!) I pulled out my handy foldable bag, loaded the goods, and off I went. By the way, dollar bills aren’t a thing here. They have coins. 1 penny, a nickel, a dime, twenty cents, fifty cents, 1 Euro, 2 Euro. I’ve been hesitant to pay with the coins because it gives me a bit of anxiety. Today was different. I counted out the coins with little trouble. Gold star on my forehead!
Back at the stop, I decided to eat a croissant. An ordinary pigeon with two toes on one foot that didn’t appear to be hindering its stroll, walked around in front of me. What the deuce? I tossed a tiny piece to the bird. That was like an alarm siren going off because almost immediately there were about eight of them hunting by my feet.
These are just a few of them. They have such unusual coloring compared to what I’m used to seeing. The bird practically in the middle had a dark green ring of feathers around his neck with a purple (although it looks brown in this picture) ascot. That was a really pretty bird. They all were. I gave them a bit more and watched them battle for crumbs. When I put it like that, it doesn’t sound quite as pleasant as what I experienced.
After getting my prescription filled on my way back from work, I was walking through that bistro area I described before. It was filled with what looked like University students. Every chair was filled with lively conversation, lots of cigarettes, and beer. Off to the side was a trio of men, likely in their mid 20’s.
One of them men was laying down, tucked up against the building with his coat pulled over his head. He was sleeping. The dude on my left, in front of the sleeping man, had long, dirty blonde hair that had braids sporadically placed. He looked like he was pretty high because his eyes were nearly closed, bloodshot from what I could see, and his body swayed as if gravity was coaxing him to do the wave.
The man to my right had quite the collection of sketches splayed out on the ground. As I approached, he was having a conversation with a pretty curly haired blonde girl whose arm was in an immobilizer. Her friend kept looking up the road where all the people were gathered as if silently imploring her friend to leave. When they did, I stepped up to admire his work. I asked how much, but he didn’t understand. A woman dressed in combat fatigues that fit her very well, translated. He said, free choice. I selected the ones you see here, plus one you don’t. I asked his name.
I told him it was important to credit the artist when you like their work. He gave me this.
I have two family members in the hospital right now. One is in rehab gaining strength to go home, the other is in ICU on oxygen after being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. Covid. Their spouse also tests positive so they can’t visit their very sick partner. Say a prayer if you got’em. P.S. My mom is out of the hospital and doing pretty well considering.
I’ve dawdled long enough. Off to pack for my move in the morning. Thank you for reading. You are loved!
I started out with the plan to go to the Caen Memorial. It’s the number 2 bus from nearby that would take me there. But, I was running a bit uncomfortable in the Euros, so I went in search of a bank thinking that it would be a quick stop, change things out, and I could make my plans happen.
While I was trudging along to the bank, I saw a Pharmacie. Since I’ve been carrying the empty bottle of my thyroid medication around with me for three days, I popped in to see how to go about getting it filled. Luckily the Pharmacie tech spoke pretty decent English. I showed her the empty bottle, explained I wasn’t in immediate need, but would be soon.
She looked genuinely sad when she explained that they couldn’t refill it without a French doctor’s prescription. I explained to her that the pharmacy I use back home filled all but this one that I take every day. No can do. Must see a doctor. Okay. Well where do I find one of those when I don’t reside in this country.
She gave me surprisingly accurate directions to a nearby clinic. I thanked her profusely for being so helpful. Off I went to find the doctor’s office.
I should note to you that where I was is a rather large shopping zone. There is everything you’d want or need within a several block radius. I decided I’d better change out my dollars first. I found the bank.
Did you know that many businesses close between the hours of noon and 2pm? Including banks? I didn’t. As it turned out, I’d seen a shop that was open right around the corner. I explored the multitude of colors, scents, and suggested flavors. I picked up a couple of things as souveniers. I still had some time to kill, so I went window shopping.
I didn’t find anything interesting enough to catch my eye so I headed back to the bank which had just opened the doors. The young woman asked me a question in French.
“English?” I asked pointing to myself.
“No, non.” She replied.
I pulled out Google translate and explained I needed to exchange money.
“No, non.” She shook her head. “Wait here, I’ll go find out where you can do that.” Google translated.
She returned about ten minutes later with an address written on a sticky note. Her ones looked like: ^ (that’s a carot if you can’t see it.)
I verified the address, typed it into Google maps and with a smile and a wave, I went exploring again.
Plus side, I got a LOT of walking in today just running errands. I followed the path religiously until I found the shop. As luck would have it, it’s directly across the street from where I’m moving to on Saturday! Woot! Bustling neighborhood too. Walking distance.
I waited in the queue for my turn. Upon entering, I was in a small bathroom sized room with a screen rolling the exchange rate for various countries. Behind a high counter with glass up to the ceiling, a tray was pushed through the wall onto my side. The man spoke to me, I asked for English, he switched easily into our transaction.
With a bit of back and forth, I ended up a bit lighter than I’d expected, but not too bad considering. Au Revoir! Into the sunshine I went with a feeling of getting shit done. Still some things to take care of, I decided to head back towards the open market where there was a carousel for the children in a gaudy pink.
As I followed the walking map, I noted a clinic on the corner where the pharmacie tech had directed me, several in fact. I crossed the road and went in.
One of the three behind the desk spoke English. I showed them my empty bottle and explained what I needed. For clarity, this clinic had both medical AND dentistry in the same building. I further learned that today was a dentistry day. I’d have to return tomorrow to see the doctor. Would I please bring the bottle back with me when I return? Why, yes! Yes I will.
The woman at the computer asked for my name. I gave her the bottle. She smiled and typed from that. She asked for my birthdate. I recited it in French (THANK YOU MY CLIENT). She laughed at my pronunciation but when she repeated it back, it was correct. Then she asked for my phone number. I also recited it in broken French. She nodded approval at that one, read it back to me correctly and now I have an appointment tomorrow at 1PM, 7AM Knoxville TN time.
I’m 12 and this made me laugh so hard…HA! I mean, dude. This is ripe with blue humor…HA!
Everywhere I go, there are flowers planted. On street corners, on sidewalk dividers, on road dividers, in planters, around street lights. Why don’t we have more of this in America? It’s just freaking beautiful.
A pretty pigeon.The companion pigeon.Very pink carousel.
I did not, in fact, make it to the memorial today. My intentions were to do so, but when I finally got done with all of the things I’d accomplished, I was worn out. I walked back to the apartment fighting the urge to hop a bus.
I made it back safely. I fixed tuna with black olives and goat cheese diced in it with a squish of mayo (The French version has dijon mustard in it which is pretty tasty.) I drank the last of my coke zero, gathered clothes for the lavage tomorrow, took a bath after dinner (REALLY!), and now I’m writing for you.
Tomorrow I have to hit the laundry, the doctor, the pharmacie, back to the apartment, catch the bus to Cairon, work, then back home to pack up before I move Saturday. It’s going to be satisfying and busy.
I know what the cow is, but I don’t know what the object in the crook of the tree might be or what purpose it serves. Any ideas?
Yesterday I did so much walking that I got blisters on the bottoms of my foot. I followed what the Mayo Clinic says to do and am keeping it clean, dry, and covered. It’s pretty tender to walk on, not too much, but with the distance I’ve been putting on my hoofs lately, it’s a challenge.
When I went to the museum yesterday, there was a lot to see. There is a video presentation that depicts footage from that time in history. I expected to see bombs. I expected to see guns. I expected to see violence. I mean, it’s a museum about D-Day for heck’s sake.
As a Death Doula, my calling is to make sure that people die on their terms. The setting as ideal as I can create it to be at their request. Each person I’ve helped through the transition from the breathing life has died on their back. Sometimes with loved ones nearby, sometimes a solo flier, but they died peacefully while laying in a bed.
The video I watched progressed pretty much as I’d expected until the part where the American, English, Canadian, and French soldiers marched through a mountain of rubble from destroyed buildings. On the ground, in the forefront of this footage, was a dead body laying face down in the mud.
The soldiers continued past the body as if it were a brick, or a twisted monument of violence. I couldn’t tell by the brief (maybe 5 second view) if the man who died was a soldier, a civilian, or a casualty of mistaken identity. It disturbed me enough that I’ve had to take over 24 hours to process that.
What I also didn’t expect was the immensity of the tanks, guns, transports, and even the bulldozers. I, for whatever reason, thought they were smaller. Maybe because I’ve only ever seen them in films (not documentaries) or in TV shows depicting the era. I stood next to a bulldozer on display and felt like a kid staring up at dad working as I did when I was like nine years old.
Caen was occupied by Nazi’s. On the very streets I’ve been walking and enjoying there were horrors committed against these people’s elders (then young folk). It snapped a sharp picture in my head that the history I’ve been feeling in my veins isn’t just that of William the Conqueror, but that of a city that has fought to survive.
June 6, 1944, D-Day, the Normandy Invasion
320,000 German soldiers became gravestones.
135,000 Americans didn’t watch another sunrise.
65,000 United Kingdom soldiers didn’t return home to waiting families.
18,000 Canadians didn’t get to watch/play hockey again.
12,200 French soldiers didn’t get to eat another baguette.
Over half a million people lost their lives during the Normandy Invasion. That would be like wiping out the entire population of Tuscon, Arizona. (Beautiful city, would recommend a visit). Gone. Extinguished.
The immensity of the loss of life has been downplayed in history classes I’ve taken. It’s just a number, right? It’s like trying to figure out how rich you’d have to be to not worry about what something cost. It’s all speculative numbers. Until you actually consider that those deaths meant more than just a number. They were people like you and me. They had loved ones they wanted to return to. There were birthdays they would never again celebrate. They were humans.
There was grief and mourning that couldn’t take place because D-Day wasn’t just one day. Operation Overlord didn’t complete until the 19th of August 1944 when the Germans retreated back over the river Seine. That’s 74 days of intense fighting.
Tomorrow I’m going to go to the Caen Memorial and pay homage to those souls that fought for the liberation of their way of life. My mom asked me to say a prayer for them. I will honor that request. I feel it’s the least I can do.
Aloha! Welcome! Today was a pretty great day overall. My left foot has two big blisters on it from walking so much, but it was totally worth it. I saw so much that it’s difficult to process. What I’m sitting here debating with myself is whether I want to share the beauty or the horribly necessary violence. Beauty it is!
This is a bit of beauty that I experienced today. To hear the birds sing in “French”, make sure you have your volume adjusted.
I visited here today with my clients. I’m still processing the immense loss of life, the violence committed, the size of the weapons used to destroy everyday life for a cause of justice, liberty, and freedom.
Where I’m staying was occupied by the German forces. There were big campaigns rallied to drive out the oppression but success took a few attempts and an incredible loss of life, destruction of homes, businesses, families.
I have failed to take pictures today. I thought I did, or maybe I thought the pictures in my head, but I didn’t document anything today. You’ll have to deal with my storytelling of which I’m not sorry.
I was up shortly before 9AM (3AM EDT). I sat on my bed deciding what I wanted to do for the day. When I went to the laundromat yesterday, I saw a shop with beautiful things in its window. I visited an organic shop where they actually had oatmilk, on the shelf. Apparently this is common and also why I couldn’t find it at the larger grocery. Shelf-stable milk is a thing here.
I promised my return after work which I’m sure that shopkeeper hears all the time, but dude, seriously, oatmilk. Cow’s milk doesn’t taste the way it did when I was younger. Even my excitement at getting cream on the milk didn’t make it any more palatable. I was excited to get what I’m accustomed to back home.
I rode the bus out to my stop, but almost missed it because I was engaged in a book by the author, Frieda McFadden. I recently read two of her books, The Housemaid and The Housemaid’s Secret which were really good books in that they were entertaining with some plot twists that were satisfying. The book I’m reading now is called, Never Lie. I’m pretty sure I’ve figured this one out already, but I’m going to keep reading to see if I’m right or not.
I walked through the countryside aware of the flowers clinging to brightness, the ones who had passed their prime, the smell of the grass and cow flops, the sound of the cars passing me, the taste of the cool water that I refreshed myself with, the air not moving in my damndably hot pants that look so nifty. The stone that got caught in the bottom of my boot annoyed me enough for me to pry it out of the sole. I didn’t take the way my GPS told me, I took the road that passes the horses instead.
On my way to that road, I happened upon a sign that read: Oefs frais biologiques (Fresh organic eggs). My curiousity got the better of me and I wandered up to the small shed that had an open door. The left wall (nearest the road) was filled with decorative hay bales that had a price marked in chalk on the wall above them. On the back wall there was a locked mailbox that said Peiement (Payment). There was an open slot on the top. In chalk on a board were written the prices for the goods layed out on the shelf farthest from the road. There were dozens of eggs, cartons, and pressed oil made on the farm. Above each item, written on the wooden walls in chalk were the prices that were on the chalkboard.
Knowing that my client was having company for the next several days, I decided to bring them a gift. I selected and packaged a fresh dozen of brown eggs. I dug out my handy folded bag and packaged the purchase. I pondered and decided the oil was a good idea too. I put the Euros in the box as requested and returned to my trek.
As I turned down the road that would become the street they live on, I noted that the sides of the narrow road rose up steeply on one side, but were relatively level on the side I was walking on. The shade from the trees granted me relief from the sun, despite the cooling air.
As I was turning the corner, three houses from theirs, I recieved a message asking if I’d work Tuesday and Wednesday. I replied with “Uh, I’m actually at your gate right now. If you don’t need me, may I please use the restroom before I return to the city.” Instead of replying, she opened the gate and welcomed me with a warm hug.
Last week, I worked Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday because I’d just arrived in Caen and she wanted me to get acclimated to my neighborhood. This week, and each week after, I’m supposed to work the three days, more if required. I conveyed that understanding to her and the lightbulb came on over her head (not literally). Ironed out the wrinkles and we have a schedule and a plan.
They asked me if I’d be willing to go with them to a museum called Le musee de la bataille de Normandie. They want to go while their grandchildren are in school since they show little interest in the history of where they’re currently living. We set a time and I will make sure my client is safe, steady, and comfortable.
What I didn’t expect was the conversation after she asked me if I’d been to the Caen Memorial yet. No, I admitted. I went to the Abbey d’ Homme instead. I told her of the things I learned about William the Conqueror. Her eyes lit up. She asked if I wanted to hear a story. Of course I do!
She told me how William’s wife, Matilda of Flanders, came to be wed to him. It was a great story with rejection, acceptance, and love. Then she asked if I wanted to know why William, in his youth, was called William the Bastard. My eyes got big and I encouraged her to continue. I already knew he was called that, but I wasn’t sure why.
The gossipy version of the story told of a young Duke of Normandie living in the Chateau de Normandie with a bunch of his knights. He was in his late teens at the time. One day he was looking out his window toward the river when a group of village girls showed up to wash clothes in the water. One girl caught his eye in a big way.
So much did this beauty capture his imagination that he sent his knights to discover who she was (A Tanner’s only daughter and only child) and to tell her to come to the castle at his request. The knights set out to do their Lord’s bidding.
When they found her father, they asked him to tell his daughter to come to the castle. He said, “That’s really up to Herleva. You’ll have to see what she wants to do.” So they did.
The peasant girl, Herleva, said the only way she’d visit is if there were certain criteria met. First, no sneaking through back doors, she was to cross the drawbridge like a lady. Second, she was to be provided a horse to ride because she wasn’t going to show up all sweaty to this meeting, and finally, Robert I, the Duke, had to personally invite her to his home. The dubious knights returned to the castle with the requirements for the young woman’s visit.
To their surprise, Robert I readily agreed and offered an official invitation, provided a horse, and lowered the drawbridge. They met and talked for several days. Duke Robert I was smitten, and apparently she was too. Shortly after the visit began, she sent word back to her father that she was going to stay in the castle.
Several months after that, William was born out of wedlock to the Duke and Herleva. He was considered a bastard because it wasn’t possible, because of their different stations in life, for them to marry.
That didn’t stop Duke Robert from taking good care of his son. But the weight of his sin, of having a child out of wedlock, bore heavy on his soul. He went to Herleva and told her that he was seeking redemption from his sin. The only way he could see that happening was if he participated in the Second Crusade. She objected because it was basically a death sentence that many didn’t return from. He reassured her that he would return.
To make sure that his son remained cared for, he enlisted his most trusted friends to insure that William would not only be protected at all costs, but that if anything should happen to the Duke, William, as his only son and rightful heir, would be given the title of Duke. His friends agreed.
Ironically, the Duke Robert I was returning from the crusades when he died. His friends had protected the young William and fulfilled their promise to Robert. It nearly caused a civil war because many didn’t want the bastard to be put in a position of power, while the other camp kept vigilant. History tells us, the friends won the battle and William the bastard became William the Conqueror.
My client’s wife ended her story with a flourish. She was delighted that she could share the knowledge with me. Me too, really. When history is told in stories, making the names in history books come to life, to be human, it really gets it for me. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn the stories that make boring dates and names come to life again? Okay, anyone? Is it just me?
Tomorrow there will be pictures, I promise. Thank you for indulging my fascination with this part of the world by following my adventures. It really means a lot to me to see when people read what I’ve written. It motivates me to continue to share what I’m learning, experiencing, and witnessing.
P.S. My mom is still in the hospital because she can’t eat anything. Liquids seem to be okay, but that’s not good for long term. They’re putting her on high powered antacids in hopes of getting whatever is pissed off and causing her pain when she eats to settle down and behave. She sounds irritated that she’s still incarcerated in the hospital (HA!) but she seems to accept that until they understand why she can’t eat, it’s just how it is.
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Mare Martell 