I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 4)

I See London, I See France... (Pt. 4) "Buck Naked On The Beach"

Dear friends, it is once again time for a self-indulgent, sentimental recounting of Peter's European wanderings, viewed through the rose hued filter of his memory. Yes, there has once again been a rather significant lapse between the last installment ("Lead Me To Leeds"), and the one you currently viewing with trembleing hands and a palpitating heart; okay, so more than likely, you're actually saying, "What? Has Peter still not finished this travel series? Is he too busy getting high to finish it, or something? Uggghhh, I can't believe there's another crappy installment to this thing. Well, I suppose reading the first paragraph wouldn't kill me... although, it just might."

Yes, as you can see, I try to hold no pretentious delusions concerning what my readership may be thinking. Anyway, it has been some time since the last entry, and it has led me to reflect on what this constant stringing out may mean. Am I regretting the fact that this travel-log will ever end? Have I developed a kindred bond with all of you that I fear will be lost once the last segment ends? Have I been spending too much time eating Twinkies instead of writing? The possibilities are endless.

It's time to start the next segment, but before that, I need to address one more issue that is pertinent to this series of loosely connected, rambling anectdotes. It may appear that by titeling this segment "Buck Naked On the Beach", I am conforming to the degraded, commercialized sensibilities of the modern media, and embracing the public's thirst for the spectacle of wanton, lewd behavior, which their pseudo puritanical upbringings make so utterly appealing. In light of this, I feel it to be my personal and public responsibility to issue this clear response:

GUILTY ON ALL ACCOUNTS.

Yes, my friends, as much as I may sometimes seem to be a relic of the age when gentleman kept pairs of finely crafted dueling pistols on their mantels, and fostered torrid love affairs consisting entirely of impassioned stolen glances, I am not oblivious to current cultural trends, and the boost in circulation that the occasional flash of skin can give to a publication. So, let it be known, from this point forward, that there shall be no base desire I refuse to appeal to, no FCC obscenity regulation that I do not interpret liberally, and no lascivious experience which I fail to cull for all of its salacious literary material.

Well, when we left off last time, I was leaving Leeds and about to embark on a train trip to France. The destination was Normandy, which meant that I would be taking a train from Leeds to London, London to Paris, and then Paris to Caen. So, I grabbed one last spot of tea, and jumped onto the train down to London, where I then took the tube to Waterloo Station.

Waterloo Station is one of those really cool, really gigantic train stations that are made for cinematic arrivals, departures, and ultimatums:

"It's either me or Jean-Luc, and don't bloody well think you'll be able to walk back into my life if you leave now."
"Oh, Charles!"
"Oh Edith!"
"Oh Charles!"

Or something like that.

I finally boarded the train and was a bit shocked to find that, well, the Eurostar is a train. I guess I half expected it to be some sort of bullet shaped, glowing, MAGLEV equipped orb, hovering above a launch track ready to take me to Planet Paris. It is fairly normal, except in the fact that it goes under the English Channel, of course. I was also dissapointed that the tunnel section itself was not equipped with pulsating tracked lighting (you know, the type that make you feel like you're travling through a time machine? That would have been cool, but probably would have upset the passengers who were doing everything they could to avoid thinking about the fact that they were under the Channel).

After emerging out of the tunnel into France, I decided to hit the diner car to see if there were any darkly dressed, mysterious, brooding women with whom I could strike up a fatal conversation. Finding none, I decided to get something to eat, and said, "Hello" to the woman at the counter, only to have a polite "Bonjour!" said back to me. Ah ha! The great quandry of when to speak to the Eurostar staff in English, and when in French had been solved! English on the England side, French on the France side; but I still am not sure what's appropriate in the middle of the tunnel.

Strangely enough, on the way back to my seat, I seemed to pass through one car that was made up of francaphones, and another which was made of anglaphones. Curious, eh?

I arrived in Paris and once again got my bearings about where they hide the Metro in relation to "Les Grandes Lignes". Upon finding it, I discovered that no automatic ticket machine would take my credit card, and I would be required to yell at the tellers through one of those windows which, since the age of Napoleon, have been reinforced to withstand cannon fire.

I was about to do this, when I was suddenly approached by a very friendly, and very attractive Parisian woman who gave me a free all-day ticket. I then offered to be her personal gigolo for the evening in exchange for the price of the ticket (About five dollars, which is what I usually pull down when I'm working the street), but she said it wasn't necessary.

So, I got to St. Lazare Station and jumped on a train to Caen.

Caen, for those of you who I haven't yet bludgeoned with France stories, is the city where I spent my study abroad progrom in 2001, and so, carries a lot of sentimental value. When I reached the station, and stepped out onto the street, the memories truly came flooding back.

Let's pause for a moment to observe them all.

Yes, it was all there, the city, the station, the drug users who like to hang out around the station at night... it was all there. After a few minutes, Suja, my host mom from my study abroad days, came to pick me up; and yes, to answer the question that you are all wanting to ask, Suja is the daughter of Karlheinz Stockhausen!

Driving through the city at night was fantastic, seeing the cathedral and town hall all lit up, and spotting the many random places I had been lost on the first two days I had been there back in 2001.

The next day, we went blackberry picking in the hedgerows of Normandy! I put an exclamation point there, beause it seems to be something you would read about in a ninteenth century novel, but it's true my friends, even today, you can randomly drive around on ancient sunken roads through Les Pays d"Auge (Caen's countryside playground), through adorable little villages, and randomly pick blackberries off of the hedges.

I found myself on a hillside next to a country lane, facing an 11th century church, looking out across the patched landscape of hedgerows. What did I think? "Wow, this is so picturesque it's obscene". That's what I thought.

Eventually, we were drawn into a cow pasture by the mother lode of berries the bovines had been guarding. The cows did not seem to care much about my presence, or at least, failed to vary the their moos enough so I could actually tell.

Pleasant conversation was had by all. At one point, Suja asked me if there were certain things you couldn't do in the U.S. after traveling to Europe. I responded that "One cannot give one's breasts to the Red Cross for six months after traveling to Europe." Suja and Cosima (her daughter) errupted in laughter, just like all of you are doing right now; particularly the ones who already know that when I screw up in French, I often tend to screw up in big, and rather vulgar ways.

What I had meant to say was, "On ne peut pas donner de sang (blood) a la croix rouge pour six mois apres avoir voyager en europe." What I actually said was, "On ne peut pas donner de seins (breasts) a la croix rouge pour six mois apres avoir voyager en europe." Alas!

I spent the next few days hanging around Caen, happy to be back in my old digs. That weekend, I had a couple of adventures; first of all, I decided to go hang out at Dakota, our favorite student bar. I was pleased to find that it's pretty much the way we left it; the smoke is still there, the random pictures of airplanes are still there, and most importantly, there's still a garish neon sign advertising Adelscott Beer on the wall.

A short description of Adelscott is in order. Adelscott is the house beer at Dakota, and also happens to contain whisky malt, which translates to mean it messes you up quickly, particularly when you're six foot five, and spend a good half your day walking, as I was fond of doing here in 2001. Peter + walking all the time + no American chili cheese dogs = easy to intoxicate, and it usually only took two glasses of this stuff before I felt slightly tired and dopey.

So, intent on tasting the sweet nectar of Adelscott on my lips once again, I took a seat at the bar. The conversation went something like this:

PETER: Hi, can I have an Adelscott, please.
BARTENDER: We don't have Adelscott anymore.
I looked behind me in confusion at the neon Adelscott sign still affixed to the wall.
PETER: Uh, can I have a cider then.
BARTENDER: We don't have cider.
I sat there in shock for a moment.
PETER: What's the house beer?
BARTENDER: Amstel.
PETER: Oh, I guess I'll have one of those then, please.

The bartender gave me my beer, but then refused to take my money. I was about to launch into a monologue about "my money not being good here anymore!", but realized I had given her pounds instead of Euros. Whoops. So, yes, drink selection has changed a bit at Dakota, but I'm happy to say, it's still full of roudy students.

After beer time, it was KEBAB TIME at Corn d'Or, Caen's legendary kebab stand! This is the place I used to go all the time when the university's cafeteria workers were on strike, or after I had been out making merry at night, and well... whenever I was hungry. As far as I know, Corn d'Or never closes. One night, after having trekked back from Campus B north of the city, I discovered that the place was still open at 3:30 in the morning on a weekday! Yes, my friends, that is Corn d'Or's committement to bringing kebab goodness to famished youth. What was I doing wandering around at 3:30am on a weekday? Probably looking for a brawl, as I often do.

Eventually, Sunday arrived, my last day in Caen, and I had lunch over at the house of the De La Hougue family. They were the family I stayed with for the first week I was in Normandy in 2001. Bernadette, a freind of the family (who I had met before), was going out to the channel with a German exchange student of hers, so Catherine De La Hougue called her to ask if I could go along. While she was on the phone with Bernadette, she called to me, "Petair? Tu aimes te baigner?" (Do you like to swim?). Unfotunately I heard, "Tu aimes les beignets?" (Do you like doughnuts?). So, of course, I promptly responded, "I love doughnuts!" Catherine looked a bit confused, and I eventually realized my mistake.

So, Bernadette and her student arrived, and we went wandering out to Houlgate, a wonderful little seaside Norman town filled with large, English looking brick houses. I had determined from the beginning of my visit that I was going to have swim in the channel, because the chilly green waves called to me... "Peter! Jump on in! It's not too cold! Snicker, snicker, snicker. Yeah, that's right! Jump on in! Tee hee hee!" English Channel waves are sneaky like that.

I was all set to go, but discovered there was no changing room, and I was, unfortunately, the only one who didn't already have my suit on. I asked Bernadette about it:

PETER: Bernadette? Is there a changing room around here?
BERNADETTE: No, but you can just change on the beach. That's what Michel does.
PETER: Uh, right here?
BERNADETTE: Yes, you can just put the towel around you while you do it.
PETER: Uh, really?

Now, as you all know, towels do not generally come in "Peter Size"; in fact, a towel that is "Peter Size", is usually just called a living room rug, and is found in the home furnishings department of your favorite store. The towel I was carrying with me at the beach was definitely not sized for me, and so, I was aware of the possibility that an attempt to change with it wrapped around my waist may simply result in the beach-goers around me getting a little more American than they bargained for that day. Thoughts of the consequences overwhelmed me! I mean, the innocent minds of the world still hadn't recovered from the Janet Jackson incident at the Super Bowl, so what sort of therapy would those poor souls have to endure if Peter Groth showed off a little upper thigh?!

I thought about explaining this to Bernadette, as well as explaining the long-dormant puritanical scruples which are awakened in an American whenever they're about to do something really naughty (like change into their swimsuit with a towel wrapped around them on the beach), but the English Channel looked too inviting; so I threw caution, and my clothes, to the wind, and changed right there on the beach.

Illicit, eh? Cue the cabaret music while you enjoy that mental image, although, be warned, it may be hazerdous to your health.

I departed Normandy the next day, ready to gorge myself on the cultural smorgasboard that is Paris!

Next up "Part 5: Paris: If I Pass Out In Paris, Dunk Me In The Seine"


Tangentally yours,

Peter