France Part 4: Tour de France

Buckle up folks, it's time to hit the road. And we do mean buckle up. On the whole France may be content to languidly stroll from cafe to cafe, but put a steering wheel and a gear stick in their hands and it's game on. In hindsight, choosing to exit Paris in morning rush hour in a brand new car probably doesn't rank up there with the theory of relativity or the 5th symphony as far as inspired ideas go.

But lo and behold miracles do happen. After coming within half a baguette's length of wiping out in the middle of the Champs-Élysées of all places, the maniacal drivers and bright lights of Paris finally fade into the distance.

This is more like it. Peace. Quiet. Lush fields scattered with tiny villages and not a car in sight. You run more risk of bumping into your friendly local bovine than some lunatic Frenchmen behind the wheel of a screeching Citroen.

First stop is the quaint village of Giverny. This isn't just any village mind you, this is the site of perhaps the most famous garden in the world: Monet's country retreat. You might not have seen photos of it before, but you've certainly seen pictures. Water lilies? The Japanese bridge? Not ringing a bell? Ok, here's a hint - there once was a time long ago when artistic expression involved more than 140 characters.



It's a bit hard to keep up the poor struggling artist charade when you've got digs like this. Nice to see the rare case of an artist enjoying the fruits of his labor whilst not dead, missing a body part, or interred in a mad house.

Lose the glasses dude, how can you translate the vibrant colors to canvas when you're preening around like a mademoiselle. Actually, probably better not to lose Mei's glasses, the guillotines in Musee d'Orsay are still a little too close for comfort.

Mei demonstrates how it's actually done. The pose, not the guillotining. She's saving that in case Rock dares to scratch the car.

Where's that Impressionism Photoshop filter when I need it?

I don't think Monet was much of a people person, judging by his portfolio. Best get out of the way.

It may not be the legendary bridge, but it's still not a bad spot for a quick sketch.

Impressionism gives way to pointillism.

The kind of spot that makes you want to set up an easel and start putting brush to canvas. Until the smell of turps starts wafting this way...


Seems it's not quite water lily season yet. Lucky we can just wander down to the Met any time we want to see them.

On the most famous bridge of them all. Now even more famous after getting a coveted spot on J00ster.

Well, the color is fast, but that's about it. Then again, even a Ferrari would handle like a sloth with Rock at the wheel.

Next pit stop, the historic city of Caen. Or more importantly, the historic keep of Caen.

Fortunately someone had the good sense to mount the canon on an angle. Blasting down your local chapel probably isn't the greatest way to claim the righteous high ground.

Draw bows!

No way! I didn't know the Heisman was doing a world tour. Somehow I think Mark Ingram versus Thierry Henry is a no contest in these parts. Ingram has a long way to go before he masters the writhe on the ground in agony technique.

The old city of Caen. Actually there's so many old cities in this country, perhaps it's easier just to identify the new cities.

Quick, raise the drawbridge. I'm not sharing my patisserie with the convoy from the East. Unless they come bearing fried rice to barter.

The good thing about French towns is the old streets are invariably closed to cars. This is a particularly good thing when Rock is in the country. Unless you want to sip your Bordeaux off what's left of his bumper.


But let's face it, while impressionist gardens and old castles are cool, there's really only one goal that matters for the day. Make that one goal that matters for the whole trip. And no, it's not testing every patisserie between Paris and the sea.

Watching the mystical fortress of Mont Saint-Michel float out of the evening mist, silhouetted against the dying rays of the sun as it slips away to a watery grave deep in the Atlantic, is one of the world's great travel experiences.

There's something eerie about the calm that surrounds the ancient ramparts as dusk merges imperceptibly into night.

It's almost too quiet. Just the whispering lap of the receding tide and the echo of a gull somewhere far above the glistening quicksand and tidal estuaries that stretch out to the foot of the fortress.

It's easy to imagine a thousand years slipping by as easily as the tide slides out with the setting sun.

We might as well be in a different world. Outside the rough hewn walls of this stone cocoon the boundary between land and sea gradually blends into the encroaching blackness.

Time to break the spell. Here come the tourists.

You wonder if the archers got a bit bored. When you're surrounded by a mile of quicksand in all directions, the best target practice you get is taking pot shots at passing fish.

Epic.

We ride for Minas Tirith! It's not hard to see where Peter Jackson's inspiration came from. Now if we can avoid the flaming dude as he runs by and hurls himself off the ledge we should be in good shape.


The boundary between man and nature has blurred over the eons. The spires of the abbey seem to morph out of the very rock itself.

Cozy inns and hearty taverns line the narrow path that hugs the base of the island and then slowly spirals up to the keep.

Magnifique!



The downside of falling under the spell of the island is that when you suddenly realize it's 10 o'clock every restaurant within 20 km has shut down. Fortunately a kindly waiter takes pity and dishes out a leftover loaf. Bread never tasted so good.

Last one out pull up the drawbridge.

The light of the moon is all there is to guide those who choose to linger in the ancient alleyways as they merge into the shadows of the towering ramparts.

Words and photos are inadequate media to express the magnificent loneliness of a city almost suspended in space. Just go there.