360 Degrees Longitude (6 page)

We decided we needed a P-Day (Preparation Day) to do laundry, write letters, and just do something fun. And no museums or cathedrals allowed
.

Starting out meant getting adjusted to our new surroundings, our new routine, and to being together all the time. Things weren't always as we had imagined—sunshine, smiling faces, and deeply introspective family discussions on just about any topic.

The next morning we got up at 5:00, broke camp, and cycled down to the dock, where we boarded a ferry for a 6:30 sailing across the English Channel.
We were going to get French bread!

June 22–July 8
France

I
've never been to Texas. I hear Texans wear cowboy boots and talk funny. My presumption is that if I ever dared enter the People's Republic of Texas wearing my Birkenstocks I wouldn't get service at restaurants.

I was apprehensive about entering France for the first time, because I'd heard they dressed and talked funny, just like in Texas. I was already aware of France's redeeming qualities, such as Euro Disney and really good croissants, but everyone knows the stereotypical Frenchman is someone who has perfected the art of sneering, and can speak good English, but not to you.

Try as we did, we never found this person.

To a family of four pedaling through the countryside on two tandems, the French were warm and kind, often going far out of their way to help us. Never did September's rusty high school French receive a sneer. However, we found other French quirks to test us. It was in France that I started a mental inventory of the differences between “us” and “them.”

Brittany Ferries dropped us off in Cherbourg, on the Normandy coast of France. After we rolled off of the boat we contemplated our next move. September pointed out, “We only have a couple of apples and ‘English' bread in our panniers. We should ride into town while we're here and buy groceries.”

The Normandy coast had been on my list of places to ride for a long time and I was anxious to get moving. Cycling is somewhat of a religion in France and I had been tortured by stories of the great cycling along the Normandy coast for long enough by otherwise good friends. I had also been fascinated by the D-Day invasion since a reading assignment in a high school history class, and Utah and Omaha Beach were just down the road. “Do we really want to do that?” I replied. “We just had breakfast on the boat and we have a little to tide us over.”

Without panniers, my bike was like a Ferrari—fast and nimble. But when packed for self-contained touring, it was more like a Peterbilt. The thought of cycling a couple of miles into town to scout out a grocery store, only to have to re-pedal those same couple of miles back out was not on my top ten list, especially when the open road beckoned.

“Remember what David and Carolyn told us,” September cautioned.

I recalled them saying, “As much as we love France, you will find your number one irritation will be business hours in the French countryside. 9:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. and then 3:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m., Tuesday through Saturday, closed Sunday and Monday. Forget this fact, and you go hungry.”

“We'll be cycling along a main road,” I pointed out. “Surely some entrepreneurial type will want to feed us.”

September reluctantly agreed and without fanfare we cycled past a column of cars that had recently been disgorged from the ferry, crawling at a snail's pace. We came to a roundabout and cycled right past the exit for the town of Cherbourg, opting for the open road that would take us to Barfleur. The cycling gods smiled upon us immediately. English rain turned to French sunshine, and we could cycle on the correct side of the road without being reminded by a lorry bearing down on us. Suddenly, everything was brand new once again.

The Normandy coast was everything we had hoped it would be. The traffic was well behaved, and with idyllic green pastures on our right, blue surf on our left, and the wind to our backs, who could ask for anything more? When lunchtime came, we found a small market along the main road.

September peeked in the window. “There's not a soul in there.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “I'm sure there'll be plenty more.”

And there were. Every few miles we came to another market or restaurant, all shuttered for the afternoon siesta. “These business hours are highly irritating,” I remarked after striking out three times in a row.

Taking it in stride, September asked, “Who wants an apple sandwich?”

Attempting to rewrite history I replied, “If you would have only listened, we could have picked something up in Cherbourg while we had the chance.”

“Dad can have the apple core,” Katrina suggested.

• • •

The French are dedicated vacationers. We found a campground in virtually every town, no matter how tiny, and the anxiety we'd experienced in England over finding places to camp for the night simply melted away. Yet campgrounds are where we got acquainted with Irritating French Quirk number two: You are expected to carry your own toilet paper and soap into a public restroom. And many public toilets, um, how to put this delicately … do not have seats. You are expected to squat without making physical contact.

September came out of the facilities clearly irked.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“No T.P., no soap, and no toilet seats! Did these people just move out of caves?” I was somewhat taken aback at September's indignation; she is usually much more charitable.

It took us a few days to determine that no soap or T.P. and seatless toilets were a bona fide trend. If we wanted to be hygienic in France, we would have to carry our own supplies, and … well, you don't really want to know. There is such a thing as too much information:

 

TMI; (noun
.) Acronym
Too Much Information. 1. The dissemination of information that is unwanted by the recipient; may be intentional or unintentional. Etymology: originated among groups of people living in close quarters, such as tents, for extended periods. Ex.: “I have a severe rash and an itch right where
…”
“ACK! TMI! I don't want to know where your itch is!”

Two weeks after leaving David and Carolyn's, we were finally working into a routine. Our days started with an hour of math every morning before we hit the road. September and I traded off teaching duties with the duties of breaking camp and packing up. On a good day we were pedaling by 11:00 a.m.

As each day progressed, we were sure to find a local Co-Op (a budget grocery store) before it closed for the afternoon. The utilitarian ham sandwich became our dietary staple since ham doesn't spoil easily. We then spread out our tent footprint in a park or a roundabout and dined on warm ham sandwiches on squished bread that had been fermenting for a day at the bottom of a pannier.

At night we simply reversed the morning procedure; either September or I would set up camp while the other acted as teacher, covering the history of the area we were going through. This usually meant having the kids read a book about the area, and then talking about it. After writing in our journals, it was off to bed.

A few days' cycling from Cherbourg brought us to the D-Day beaches of Normandy. I recalled the first time I had read about the Allied invasion for a high school history class, feeling as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs and struggling to breathe. Since that time I had read many such accounts, and that feeling never changed.

From the commanding heights on top of the cliffs, we had the perspective of the Germans looking out over the water. We had been reading about the 1944 invasion as part of the kids' homework, but there was a difference between holding a book in your hand and walking in and through the bunkers, foxholes and decrepit equipment. Even though more than six decades had passed, somehow there was an echo of the thundering bombs and a whiff of gunpowder that was palpable in the otherwise serene landscape.

Later, as we explored the American Cemetery, I was astounded that even after multiple generations, there were still personal connections powerful enough to have people travel 5,000 miles to lay flowers at the grave of a loved one.
The very existence of a German cemetery came to me as a surprise, since they were the enemy, but there was a beautifully kept cemetery honoring them as well. I was hoping that our experience at the D-Day memorials and battle sites, complete with leftover military equipment and foxholes, would help the kids understand the horrors of war and the human cost of the freedom they enjoyed. However, as is often said, education is wasted on the young.

 

Jordan's Journal, June 27

Today we went to Omaha Beach. It is a D-Day beach. I climbed on some wrecked ships. Then we went to a cemetery. Then we went to a place that has lots of holes in the ground. Katrina and I loved to run into them and then play hide-and-seek from Mom and Dad. Then we went to our campsite. I found a Star Wars light saber in my cereal box!

Home base during our stay in the Normandy invasion area was the city of Bayeux, home of the Bayeux Tapestry. (It's okay, we hadn't heard of it, either.) Before we left the area, we paid the tapestry a visit. The Bayeux Tapestry is a 76-yard-long embroidered cloth that hangs on a wall of a museum. It tells the story of William, Duke of Normandy, kicking English butt in the year 1066. It seemed ironic that both the English and French revere the guy. The French seem to love to remind the world that Billy the C. was French. The English seem all too happy to overlook the simple fact that their first king was from across the Channel. On the other hand, they also seem happy to overlook the simple fact that their current monarch is German.

The Bayeux Tapestry marked the beginning of a long learning curve for us, when we realized that not only could we not see and do everything, but more importantly, we didn't
want
to see and do everything.

“What did you guys learn?” I asked as we left the museum.

Katrina screwed up her face. “The French weren't very nice, and the arrow through that one guy's eye was gory.”

Jordan was more succinct. “There's an amusement park nearby.” Grasped in his stubby little fingers was a brochure for Festyland in Caen, our next destination. I sighed in defeat. The kid had a radar that I was sure some government agency would like to duplicate. He could find any high-adrenaline entertainment within 50 miles.

Cycling out of Bayeux the following day, Jordan heard the word “Caen” used in the same sentence as “next destination.”

“Isn't that where Festyland is?” he asked.

“Yes, Jordan. Festyland is in Caen.” I could immediately feel Jordan's pace quicken, as the pedals on a tandem are linked together.