from Honfleur, Normandy: walks

A morning stroll into town. A look at the quiet bay. At the fishermen on the trawler, repairing the large net.









Time to explore a little more.


WALK No. 1

There is a hill behind our bed and breakfast. I ask if it is climable.
Biensur! There is a path even…

We climb. And you get the views. Of Honfleur, of the green fields of Normandy.









At the top, there is a lovely little church – chapel really – with a nautical theme. Paintings and models of ships are scattered in its small interior. We pause for a bit and listen to the bells do a melodic little spin at each quarter hour.

One last look over the mouth of the Seine, the new bridge linking upper Normandy with Le Havre (largest cable something or other in the world!)...





...and we head down for lunch. At an old cider press. Where one man is whipping out crepes and galattes for the entire roomful of people.





Classic Normandy: the (Brittany influenced!) buckwheat pancake, the cheese, the cider.


WALK No. 2

But the first walk only whets my appetite. I set out along the coast on a second run. Here is a case where the photo is better than the reality.





It could be that someone would be enchanted with what is an artificial stretch of beach along the river Seine. Me, I’m spoiled by Brittany. Le Havre on the other side doesn’t compete with pristine sands and hidden coves. I return to the road. That’s a mistake. Me and all those cars. No path to help me along. I turn back.

And even though I find a quieter road for the retreat, I am now hearing three very low flying, very loud helicopters.

After a few minutes of hovering, I’m thinking – hmmm, they’re not keeping an eye out on things, they’re chasing someone. Someone dangerous. They haven’t a clue where this person is! They’re searching from above! We are all doomed! (I admit that last sentence doesn’t quite follow, but when you are standing under the loud spin of the helicopter blade, you cease being entirely rational.)





I find out that there is a TV filming of a game show where contestants are madly trying to find clues. I encounter the contestants scurrying around in the quiet interior of St. Catherine’s Church.

Do the people of Honfleur care that the their town has been taken over by a TV crew? Sure.



looking up at the chopper




taking photos of the choppers



Me, I’m looking for a quiet spot. In the Boudin Museum, I find it. Here, I am reminded that Normandy was a 19th century heaven for painters. One book tells it bluntly: without Normandy, there would be no Impressionism. A little bragging, but not a ridiculous statement. I mean, Monet painted St. Catherine’s church – the one with the buzz of the TV crew just a few minutes back! And later, Dufy, the wonderful playful colorful Dufy painted fields of blé – buckwheat! Crepe material!






WALK No. 3

And now it is late afternoon and the clouds of the morning are retreating (for the moment) and I am antsy to wipe out the image of my unsuccessful earlier walk. I set out along a small road (and a hiking trail, at last!) away from the coast, into the deep country.

And only I would be thrilled with this – pastoral scenes, smells of meadowland, cows. Lovely, beautiful, happy, friendly cows.

















I am reminded of something Ed once said – he saw cows kissing and from then on he thought it would be difficult to enjoy their meat on a plate.

Now, here in Normandy, I watch two cows licking ach other’s faces which I suppose is a real French cow kiss.





I cannot say that I reject all meat henceforth on principle, but it was a lovely scene. And I continue along this empty narrow lane of a road until I see that it is almost 6 and every step I take away from Honfleur has to be retraced on the return. And still, I can't get myself to stop moving forward.













It's very late before I am back in the town again.


My patient friends are waiting. We walk to the old port for an evening meal by the bay.





I am lusting for seafood and there is enough of it in this town so that I am satisfied. And for dessert? Tart Tatin. About time!

from Honfleur, Normandy: postcards

You’ll see a lot of timbered houses on Ocean in the week ahead. I can’t help it. I’m in a place that has written the definitive book on timbered houses.





I’ve not been to Normandy much before this trip. Oh, sure. I’ve been here. Indeed, my very first trip, my defining voyage – to the States, as a kid – was from Cherbourg, which very much is in Normandy. I remember it as a countryside with white horses. I remember an old Normand telling me: lick your thumb, touch your palm with it, then slam the palm with your fist every time you see a white horse and you’ll have luck forever.

I’ve done that all my life and I’ve had great luck and so I highly recommend it. I say it from Normandy, so my words are quite authentic.

I took the train to Hornfleur with my two friends. Actually several trains and a taxi. The buses were taking a Sunday break. Honfleur has it all, but it does not have a train station.

It does have a very charming b&b, and the owner has given me a room in a small (yes, timbered) house by myself, so that I can do my work. The view is out onto the courtyard. Out the door, I see this:





Okay, then there’s the historic town – right there at the mouth of the River Seine, on the western bank, opposite the huge port city, Le Havre. You don’t actually see Le Havre from here, but you know it’s there. So, Le Havre to the east, Deauville and the Normandy beaches to the west, and lots of pasture land and apple orchards to the south.

And here’s the thing. I think the port is great. I do. Here, take a look:









But I know there are happy cows just south of us and (historically significant) beaches and cliffs in all directions so it could well be that time spent here will be supplemented with time spent meandering this way and that.

In the meantime, I offer you this Sunday walk through town. Get a feel for Honfleur! Meet the men, the artists (the concentration of studios here is intense), study her foods. Though, I have to remind you that the sister province of Brittany lays claim to the galette – the buckwheat pancake; they say that Normandy’s is inauthentic. Fine – I’m not getting involved in interstate food battles of France. Let’s all agree though that Normandy is the place of the tarte tatin (apple cake), Camembert and Pont l’Eveque (cheese). And the cap Normand – see below.



young men of Honfleur




...their caps




older men of Honfleur




artists of Honfleur




galette with cheese and potatoes




cat and rooster




dog and hard cider




evening

from Paris: when one jumps out, the other jumps in (again)

A week ago, Ed left and an hour later, my daughter emerged at the Paris airport. This time, she’s returning home (sob!) and within minutes, I’ll be heading north for a week with two friends from law school days.

We walked, she and I, to the RER station very early this Sunday morning, past shuttered houses and closed cafes, past the locked gates of the Luxembourg Gardens.



I let her go, in the way that one must let one's children go. To the station, through the turnstile, down to the tracks. A final wave and a forced smile as I watch her settle in to wait for the 6:54 a.m. to l'aeroport CDG.

from Paris: intermission

A day here with my daughter. I have been an okay blogger, right? Reliable even when, in Marrakech, I never could log on from my room. And still, I found a way to post.

In Paris, I stay at a little hotel next to the Luxembourg Gardens. The Internet connection is infallible and has been thus for years.

And yet, it’s my last day with my daughter. So I’m going to ask for a day’s blogging pause. Even though it’s Paris.

Here’s a summary: we ate, we walked a lot, we shopped and we ended the day with eating very well.

It was a fine Saturday.

Three photos to tide you over. Ones that shout "Paris!"

from Marrakech: reconsidered

Marrakech. Can’t get it out of my mind. I’m on the train now, speeding back (well, with long pauses) to Casa, where a flight will take us back to Paris. But I’m still in Marrakech. I’m still tossing and turning over it.

A commenter wrote that not everyone is so consumed by the Marrakech chaos that I write about so constantly here in my posts. I suppose you can leave it behind for a while. We did: early in the day, we turned our backs on it -- walking away from the intersection so close to our riad (now, imagine trying to get to the other side!)…





...heading (at least at first) toward the Majorelle Gardens – created by Jacques Majorelle, restored by Yves Saint Laurent, now open to the public. They are intimate, worldly (plants from every continent) and colorful (with an emphasis on incorporating into the design a deep blue, that has come to be nicknamed majorelle blue). And did I mention that they are breathtakingly beautiful?








majorelle et moi



































Is there any chaos here, in the gardens? No. Like the rooftop of our riad, their noise is the noise of birds at play. Am I really in the same Marrakech that I described here yesterday?

Yes and no. One foot in each place. Outside the Gardens, the new Marrakech has the new eateries, but the colors are the same. Pink. And the donkeys are still pulling wagons.






At the same time, you can wander to a place like this:










…and enjoy a fantastic lunch of Moroccan “tapas” (hummus, eggplant, Moroccan samosas), and plug in your computer. No, not me. No computer in my bag. But then, I don’t live here. I live in the Medina, the old town. The Medina, remember? Yes, with the souks, the square, the mosques and their periodic wailing song, heard over the din of scooters, the Medina, where everyone watches and no one wants to be seen.





Back we go, to our beloved riad, to the rose petals, the art, the rooftop. The sun is low but oh so sweet and warm.


But in the evening, we are again in chaos. The food stalls, monkeys on leashes, snake charmers, story tellers – they’re all back at the square, entertaining the crowds that come each night. To listen and watch. To eat. To drink mint tea.






For the price of a drink (water for us), you can climb to the roof of a café and see it all en masse. To the left, in front, to the right, stretching beyond the range of my camera – chaos. Delicious, mesmerizing, unbelievable chaos. The type that you’ll remember always. The type worth traveling for.











For out last dinner, we return to Le Topsil – the place just down the alley from our riad. No escort needed. They know us, we know them. The routine is comfortably familiar. One price and you eat and drink all that is presented. Dishes of vegetables, tajine pots, couscous of course, peaches, cakes – it’s all there.





Soothing. Even Marrakech can be soothing. Lovingly caring.







At six in the morning, someone knocks and brings a tray of hot pastries, fresh orange juice and coffee. At our riad, breakfast is served anytime. At 6 in the evening if that is your wish, at 6 in the morning if you have a train to catch.

And now, I look out the window at this rugged hilly land – the olive trees, the herds of sheep, goats, even the occasional camel...













...and I think back to the Medina... rugged as well, in her unique way. Compelling. Beautiful.

And I know that the calm is there too, upstairs maybe, or just outside, in the garden.