Parlez vous grrrr?

     St. Malo basically has no "t" when you pronounce it so the sound you hear is seh'-Malo, which was the first stop of our visit.  Home to François-René de Chateaubriand,* he not of the cut of steak people so love, but rather a strong defender of the Catholic faith.  As reprinted in the Paris Review, he wrote:  In a society that is dissolving and recomposing itself, the struggle of two spirits, the clash of past and future, the intermingling of old ways and new, makes for a transitory concoction that leaves no time for boredom.  Passions and characters set at liberty are displayed with an energy unimaginable in a well-regulated city.  The breaches of the law, the freedom from duties, customs, and good manners, even the dangers intensify the appeal of this disorder.  The human race on holiday strolls down the street, rid of its masters and restored for a moment to its natural state; it feels no need of a civic bridle until it shoulders the yoke of the new tyrants, which license breeds. 

The article titled his writing being about society dissolving.  Hmm, sound familiar?  With our political conventions over, it was time to brace for the mud-slinging to come; and it would seem that even in France we could not get away.  But no matter, for we were not staying in St. Malo, instead riding an hour and a half away to the next region outside of Brittany, that of Normandy and the famous abbey at Mont St. Michel (pronounced mon'-sant-Michael, although Michael in French is pronounced Michelle...what?).  Should you wonder, France has 18 of these "regions," and while Normandy may spark visions of D-Day beaches and such, both Omaha and Normandy beach are some 200 miles further north from where we were.

     As with England, this area was once covered with forests but after so many battles, that history (along with the forests) has disappeared.  It may have happened as quickly as the tides, for we happened to be here during the equinox when the tides would come in "at the speed of the horse," said our guide, and rise 13 feet.  We still have quicksand here, she told us, so be careful crossing (there was a walkway so there was really no need to fear.  The abbey is built on a rocky island and takes about 350 steps to fully climb to the top of this pre-Norman conquest.  The Vikings named this Normandy as their nor (north) man (main) dy (land).  But then came the conquest and money to build the Abbey,  and later, William the Conqueror (he, of British fame).  William was apparently so pleased with the support of the Catholics in France that he ordered a smaller but similar "mount" off of Penzance called Mount St. Michael, an equally popular abbey-turned-home and once owned by the Wrigley family (ironically, try finding a pack of gum in England).  

     This French abbey is located just outside the city of Beauvoir, which translates into "nice" and "to see."  We had spotted the "beauvoir" sign with a red diagonal line through it, an indicator that we were leaving the city, a simple way for France to use fewer words on their highways .  But legend has it that a blind woman long ago came out to see the abbey and where she entered this town, she regained her eyesight, thus it was "nice to see" the abbey.  Beau Voir.  Turns out you need a minimum of 12 occupying monks to name something such as this an abbey (what's the story then of Abbey Road?) but a maximum of 17 monks...what?.  But today, only 12 people actually do live in this abbey (with 100 in the village below).  So you get an idea of this spacious place housing few.   But during the Revolution in the 1700s (yes, France had theirs as well during that century), the Abbey became a jail and the entrapped (by water) population of prisoners swelled to 40,000.  With so many crowds packing the site (St, Malo is the 2nd most popular city after Paris), it seemed we were now joining those numbers as the traffic and the lines both swelled with tourists, which included us.  And standing among them, you could hear virtually every language, and why not.  Out guide told us that after Catholicism, the next most popular religion was Islam.  

      After World War II, the country was pretty much destroyed by bombing and needed massive amounts of workers to help it rebuild.  And with so many of its residents killed in the war, those workers primarily came from Algeria and Morocco (the third largest religion in France is Judaism, said our guide).  Those dang Protestants (who were called Huegonauts) somehow left (or got forced out) for the US and for Canada.  There, part of your US religious melting pot history summed up.  And of course, immigration still remains a big sticky point here (think the rise of the Far Right party here, forcing two other parties to join forces just to avoid them winning a majority in the recent election).  Next door, in Brittany (Britain), some residents still claim that it is the French who are there illegally (the Bretagnes there have their own language which is still French to our US ears, but is completely different from usual French language; as one example, the French would say "bonjour" for hello, but the Bretagne of Brittany would say "demat," all of which is similar to being in Wales and hearing Welsh, and one could even argue, Cornwall (where you'll occasionally encounter some people speaking Cornish).  Okay, got all that?  Me neither...our guide went on and on about how Britain and Parliament arrived in France, which soon became Brittany, and how Michelangelo arrived in Paris (and thus the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, with its own history), but while it was interesting, it was so much info that eventually your mind drifted off as if you were again stuck in a classroom.  

     One couldn’t help but wonder what it took to build such a structure, especially in those days of poor tools as compared to what we have today.  But there was plenty of labor, whether forced or not; indeed much of the expansion of the Abbey was built by the prisoners, said our guide (what else re you going to do with 40,000 rebellious men?).  Still, as with so many of these cathedrals and churches and palaces (and abbeys), I had to think about the time and effort and sore backs and broken hands that time had erased, or perhaps buried.  In the end, this had become less an abbey and more a tourist attraction, one of those must-sees that after you've done so you find it interesting but forgettable, another religious monument that took thousands upon thousands of people to construct but which now housed only a dozen.  Praise be.  With its thick walls and many steps it was now a Disneyland-like place to buy gelatos and fake-gold medallions, a place to tell friends that you had visited there years ago, a place you would likely not visit again.  So the Abbey wasn't for me, but from the crowds that were there --some with children, some with dogs, some with strollers, and even some with wheelchairs-- I was obviously in the minority. And indeed, as with so many bucket list items, I was happy to have now crossed this off my list. And yet I could relate to an older essay by Margaret Talbot in The New Yorker: Many of us are wary of being dismissed as dabblers, people who have a little too much leisure, who are a little too cute and privileged in our pastimes...What's the point of starting something new when you'll know never be much good at it?...I learn new facts all the time but new skills seldom.  And I found that I had kept another page from long ago: no author's name, no magazine name, no title page.  And yet I had somehow felt that this page would be worth re-reading at some point in my life AND that I would remember where it came from.  And the author's words did somehow reflect where my head was at: I am no curmudgeon.  I have not been twisted by bitterness to rail against change.  My impressions have altered little since youth...my life and work have been figurative bridges, spanning the passage of two distinct ages...A man my age can easily sink into memories as easily as into a warm bath.  I could take a deep breath, close my eyes, and slip beneath the surface, if I chose.  I choose not to.

    Perhaps this cruise was similar to those thoughts, that unlike our other visits it wasn't the familiarity or the routine, but rather the lack of a schedule.  A cruise was terrific in many ways --unpack only once, wake up to a new country when you awakened, loads of room service and other sorts of lifestyles to indulge in, not to mention the food which seems to be everywhere (I jokingly told others that while I had never been to India, I did feel that I had visited New Belly)-- but with so many people on our ship (and bear in mind that we were on a rather small ship compared to other lines), wasn't this a bit over the top?  Here's a quick sample where the poolside buffet (and not the restaurants) had a Middle Eastern theme: mutable (an eggplant dip), the Turkish cacik (pronounced cha-kheek), the Lebanese mujaddara (delicious), Moroccan Berber salad (roasted vegetables, raisins, and coucous), lamb kofte with harissa sauce, and varieties of hummus that included pomegranate, fava bean, spicy chickpea and more.  On the other side in the "cold" section sat smoked mackerel, endless platters of shrimp and cold cuts, all sorts of salads and condiments such an entire bowl of anchovies which I piled onto my plate, roasted vegetable soup topped with toasted almonds, and the meat carving station with the fish of the day, lamb, and a prime rib... and of course, an entire island dedicated to desserts.  And all that was for lunch!  Good heavens.

    So the Abbey wasn't for me, but from the crowds that were there --some with children, some with dogs, some with strollers, and even some with wheelchairs-- I was obviously in the minority.  And indeed, as with so many bucket list items, I was happy to have now crossed this off of my list.  And admittedly, I spent way more time not only dodging the crowds and bumping into the stone walls, but writing about it and perhaps boring you because after all was said and done, it was basically...an abbey; a simple one mind you, one with no statues or images of saints, not even a speck of stained glass.  This old and quite bare abbey was meant to give its occupants little time for distraction since it only featured praises to Christ and the Virgin Mary.  And while I wasn't there when the abbey was built, I can virtually guarantee you that there was no lunch buffet that displayed any excess.  We were already back onboard and heading back to England and Ireland and Scotland, most of which I'll try to sum up in one post (maybe) because I'm thinking of the article in National Geographic that was titled: Why Do Travel Tales Put Us to Sleep?  Wouldn't a nice meal, some wine, and perhaps a hot toddy get us ready for sleep in a far better way?  It would be another "ordinary" dinner to look forward to, then we'd pass Cornwall and head straight into Waterford...or so we thought.  Because just before dinner, the captain came over the ship's speakers to let everyone know that gale force winds were coming, and we'd likely face 15-foot swells.  Best to put everything away now, he said, those glasses and such in our rooms, and close all the doors.  Waterford had already shut down its port so we'd have to find another one...have an early dinner, he continued, and a good night's sleep.  Hmm, perhaps this was my penance for not enjoying the Abbey...

*The origins of chateaubriand as a cut of meat are many, one saying the Monsieur Chateaubriand had a chef that cooked only this cut of meat, taking the tender center portion of the cut and cooking it between the two other pieces of the loin, then discarding those and serving only the tenderest part (what can we say; he was quite wealthy and this was apparently not thought of as "waste" to someone in his position; maybe he went on to form a cruise line?).  Another folk tale says that the famous chef, Georges Auguste Escoffier, created the sauce to go over the cut of beef and thus the name of the dish and not so much just the cut of meat.  And to add to that confusion, there once was a breed of cattle at that time called: Chateaubriant...get me back on the ship!