France

Young Chris, Mike and Loni's awesome son, buzzed our front gate and fetched Wifey and me. We were off to MIA. I noted the circle of life: I clearly remember Chris's grandfather Ed, one of my life's mentors, driving the same two couples to MIA in the Summer of '90 -- on our way to Northern Wisconsin for a summer vacation. Chris looks a LOT like his grandfather...

We ditched the bags (not our wives) and went to the Centurion for a few toasts to the trip. We then got on our AA bird, settled into bus class, and off we flew. Though the tix were expensive, I checked and learned that had we bought them later, they'd have cost triple. Mike wasn't sure that made him feel better. We slept, all of us, most of the way across the Atlantic. The lie flat seats were worth every penny.

We arrived in Paris, fetched our bags, and headed to the Hertz counter.  We were really in France -- everyone spoke French, unlike the Spanish in our native home. The Hertz lady looked at all our luggage and upsold us an Audi SUV. We loaded it up, and headed North -- to Rouen, our first stop, and cool, ancient cathedrals and lunch.  The SUV was a nanny car -- buzzers whenever we exceeded 60 KPH, and a refusal to move without seatbelts. Damn Europeans...

We arrived in Cabourg near nightfall -- close to 10 pm. We checked into the Grand Hotel, and it was, except for the tiny elevator. The town was lovely -- seaside resort, home to Marcel Proust. His room was right across from ours. We walked the streets, and found a cafe. Mike began his gastronomic adventures -- eating a ray wing, which had thick, cartilage bones you were supposed to suck. The rest of the meal did NOT suck.

The next day we stopped at Merville, sight of a British glider invasion during the War. There was an American plane there, along with the German gun ports, and we spent several hours there, including a tour of the plane by a way cool guy who told us a tale of a man whose father was a co pilot during the D Day invasion killed while the tourist was still inside his mother's belly. The man sat in the co pilot seat and finally had connection with the hero Dad he never met. We were all misty eyed...

We checked out Bayeaux, where we would stay the following night, at the Churchill Inn. That day was a highlight -- a full day tour led by Yorkshireman Matt Turner, who introduced himself by saying that Yorkshiremen were thick of head and tight of wallet. We dug him immediately. He led us on a tour of all the main beaches and forts, with thoughtful, deep discussion about the differences between German soldiers and SS evil. When he learned that Wifey was the daughter of Survivors, he worried he had offended her. He hadn't -- my late father in law, Israeli IDF vet, had no problems with rank and file Germans -- he even encouraged me to buy a BMW.  Now Arabs...

Matt's tour company owned a stone house with a restaurant, which was featured on a Time cover during the War. We ate there. The tour ended at the famous cemetery. We were all moved by its sanctity and beauty. Wifey and I put a few stones on some of the Jewish Star marked graves. At 5 pm, everyone gathered as the flag was lowered and taps were played. Standing next to us was Geraldo Rivera. I had met him in the late 70s at a charity basketball game at my high school, where Harry Chapin played. I was going to introduce myself, but thought better of it.

The next day, we headed for Chartres. We had figured it was a worthwhile stop. We were wrong. First, the hotel was a bit Fawlty Tower-like, with a clueless staff who couldn't explain where we were to park. It had rained, and so the elevator was broken. Really. We schlepped our bags to the second floor -- Mike and Loni to the third.

The famous cathedral was lovely, with its signature blue glass, but the rest of the town was neutron bomb-y -- no people anywhere, except some sketchy looking types. I named it the Jacksonville/Akron of France. We were happy to drive away the next morning, on our way to Versailles, and then gay Paris.