June 12, 2001

ROUEN, FRANCE (May 31, 2001)

Dear Friends and Subscribers,

Mark and I have always wanted to visit the beaches of Normandy and pay respect to those who fought and died there, but we've never had the time on previous trips to France. So, with an extra day in France, we decided to book an excursion on the D-Day tour. Unfortunately, the Thursday tour was booked, and our hotel clerk was unable to find us a slot anywhere. (I suspect that the concierge at the Intercontinental could have had success, but our little hotel doesn't have much clout.) We asked our friends last night what they would suggest (hoping that they might want to come with us) but they had other plans for the day.

They first suggested we rent a car, but they've been living in France off and on for five years and can speak the language; after our experience trying to find Chez Marie in Brussels, we knew we were more likely to end up at EuroDisney than the beaches if we struck out on our own. What about the train? we asked. "Take the train to Rouen, and rent a car from there," they suggested. "You can walk to the museum from the station, and then drive to the beaches. The traffic won't be as bad as Paris and Brussels." We still weren't keen on driving, but we figured we could get a taxi or a bus to the nearby beaches once we go there. And the museum would be in walking distance. We decided to check the details when we returned to the hotel. But the night clerk didn't know where the maps and tour booklets were, so he promised to leave a message for the morning clerk.

We overslept, waking at 9:35 instead of 8:00, and hurried straight to St. Lazare station for the noon express train to Rouen instead of the 10 am. We would still have 4 or 5 hours in the area before having to return to Paris for dinner with Henri LePage and Phillipe Nataf, so it wasn't a complete disaster. Books in hand, we settled into our comfortable train seats and enjoyed the countryside while reading and dozing.

Arriving in Rouen, we looked around for signs, tours, or any other clues that might tell us how to get to the museum. Even the information booth was no help (we don't speak French, they didn't speak English, and the information seemed to be limited to train schedules) so we headed across the square to a hotel to ask the concierge there for help. There wasn't a concierge, and the desk clerk looked quizzically at us when we asked about the military museum. We both lamented our own provincial arrogance in assuming that everyone in the world would speak English! The clerk very nicely gave us a map of the town and circled the Tourist Information Booth, which seemed to be about a 15-minute walk.

Rouen is a charming town, an eclectic mix of architectural periods, from the twisting cobble-stoned roads, to the Tudor style beamed houses built by the English during the Hundred Years War, to the Renaissance bell tower bridging the entrance to the old town, to the medieval tower where St. Joan was incarcerated, to the 18th century Palace of Justice now gouged with holes blasted by World War II bullets. We grabbed a quick lunch along the way and then found the Tourist Office, where we heard the words that those of you who know France well have been expecting throughout this little article: The military museum is not in Rouen, it is in Caen, 120 miles away! Rouen is famous for Joan of Arc, not World War II! Either our friends had been wrong in telling us where to go, or we had misunderstood their French when we heard "Rouen." And because we overslept and had to rush so much this morning, we didn't take the time to look at a map and see for sure where we were going.

So! So much for our plans. It was definitely too far to go on to the beaches at this point. But Rouen is nice, and worth seeing. We had already used up our day, why spoil it further by being angry at the situation? We signed up for the little 45-minute tour of the town and went outside to look around. In addition to the historical sites associated with Joan of Arc, Rouen is the home of the Cathedral made famous by Claude Monet in his study of color and light. He painted the Cathedral at Rouen perhaps 30 times, in every season and at every time of day. I'm sure you are familiar with it. It was a thrill to stand in front of this Cathedral I have seen impressionistically in museums and art books, and imagine Monet setting up his easel perhaps in that very spot. We had just enough time to take the 45-minute tour of the town and then head back to Paris on the 4:00 train. But just as the open-air tour bus was about to leave, Mark suddenly realized that he didn't have his book with him, an expensive book about Adam Smith he bought in a little shop in London that he had been reading (and writing notes in) for several days. We jumped off the bus as it started to move and began retracing our steps, confident that we would find the book and then take the next tour. Of course, our inability to speak French was a real hindrance. I went into the restaurant where we had eaten and said, very slowly, "We left a book here. Did someone find it? " She looked back at me blankly. I pulled my own book from my bag, pointed to it, and said, again very slowly, "This is a book. We lost a book here." Ah, yes! she nodded enthusiastically and went back to the kitchen to talk to the manager. Mark will be so happy with me, I thought! She came back shaking her head. No, no one saw a book. Her enthusiasm had been for the fact that she understood what I was asking, not for discovering who owned the lost book I supposed they had found.

We continued at every shop and stop we had made along the way, ending up at the train station information booth. Again I held up my book and said, "This is a book. We lost a book here." Ah, yes! she nodded enthusiastically and again our hopes soared. But then she pointed helpfully to the newsstand across the way, where we could buy as many books as we wanted. Finally we learned the location of lost and found, where the clerk showed us many books, but none of them were about our friend, Adam Smith. By now it was 3:50, so we searched for the platform to take the train back to Paris, where we were meeting Henri LePage for dinner at 7:00. "Non, Madam," I was told. "That train does not run on Thursdays."

So we walked back to the center of town, took our little tour of Rouen, saw the exact spot where St. Joan was martyred, and then boarded the 5:15 express train for Paris, chagrined at our ignorance of French geography, saddened by the loss of the book, but glad for the adventure and pleasantly surprised that through it all, we never once got mad at each other. By the time we arrived at St. Lazare station Mark had become philosophical about the book (he can order another one, and make new notes) and the D-Day excursion (we'll just have to try again next time) and being late for dinner (we were meeting Henri at his office, so he would have something to do while waiting for us).

We left a wakeup call for 7 am and ordered a taxi for 8 am to take us to the airport for our 10:45 flight. The wakeup call never came. But fortunately the taxi called early. I felt like the mother in the "Home Alone" movies. We jumped into our clothes, threw everything into our suitcases, dragged Mark's "steamer trunk" down the tiny spiral staircase, hurried into the waiting cab, dashed through traffic tothe airport, bypassed the snaking line of passengers to check in at the line-less business-class counter, and after checking our bags, luxuriated in the wonderful business-class lounge at the airport until the charming young lady came to inform us in perfect English that it was time to board our plane for Delhi, via Frankfurt.

The adventure continues!

-- Jo Ann Skousen

email: jaskousen@mskousen.com

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