Alex's Summer at Sea

I was strolling the streets of Le Havre, checking out the architecture, wandering in and out of the small shops (and yes, a Footlocker, where inexplicably they don’t have a single pair of shorts in the entire store; so much for France being the center of fine fashion), when I came across an impressive hat store. It was a small, very fancy boutique with a window display that probably had enough hats for all of the residents of Le Havre. My dad is into the newsboy style caps, so I thought I would have a look to see if I couldn’t find a hat to bring back for him. I then saw the perfect cap. It was brownish-corduroy, very elegant, so I decided I would pick one up for him. Then I remembered something: the size of his head. For my UCLA friends, my dad wears a size 7 5/8 hat, which in European sizes probably figures to something like ExtraGrandeMaximum.

I walk in the boutique, where a pleasant old lady is minding the postage stamp sized store. We exchange our bonjour’s, and then I get to business. “Parlez-vous l’anglais?” I ask her, probably sounding more Texan than French. She shakes her head no. This should be interesting, I think to myself. Using a combination of mmm’s, ahh’s, and this’s and that’s, I direct her to the hat that I’m interested in. At this point, though, I have to explain to her that I want the biggest possible hat she has, not one for me. I, myself, don’t have a huge head, so she immediately picks out a hat that fits my noggin. I tell her no, and put out my hands as wide as I can, and tell her “like this!” She begins rummaging through the inventory, all the while speaking French, I suppose in the hopes that I either suddenly pick up the romance language, or that she stumbles upon a cognate I might recognize. She comes back with the same style hat just a bit larger. I try it on my own head for size, only to find it still fits me fairly well. “Bigger,” I tell her again, while making an even more exaggerated hand movement. She keeps on speaking French, milling around the back of the store and comes back with two more sizes of the hat, both just slightly larger than the one I tried on. I try them both on, seeing that they are slightly too big for me, but not nearly big enough for my Dad’s head. I give her one more “Like this” – arms wide – but she shakes her head no. I finally shrug my shoulders, give her a heartfelt “Merci,” and walk out the door. I can only imagine what she was thinking. I bet she never had someone walk in the store, try on 1 hat that fit them, 2 more that were too big, and walk out unsatisfied that the size that was too big, wasn’t “too big” enough. Stupid American.
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I spent most of my time in France around Le Havre, but figured that since we were only 2.5 hours away from Paris, I had to spend at least one day there. I was in Paris this past New Year’s, where I found the city to contain perhaps the largest gap between the attractiveness of the city, and the haughtiness of the residents. This time around, I have to say I was much more impressed with the people – I found them to be quite welcoming, and incredibly appreciative when I would attempt the few French words I knew (although, of course, I never let on that I, in fact, know all of the words to Frere jaque).

When I was last in Paris, I went to most all of the must-see sights, except for one: the Arc de Triumph. So, I decided with the day I had in Paris, I would spend it wandering the Champs Elysses, and seeing just how triumphant their arc really is. Right around the Arc is a wonder in and of itself: a 5-lane traffic turnabout with no stoplights. There are only two cops who control the traffic, and somehow, between the tourist busses, small mopeds and Renaults, keep traffic moving – incredible. To access the arc itself, you must walk under the turnabout via an underground tunnel. I reached the arc and decided to pay my 5 Euro to climb to the top. The climb itself is not for the claustrophobic, those scared of heights, those scared of crowds, those scared of heat or humidity, or those scared of being in close proximity to awkwardly dressed tourists. But after a couple hundred steps I finally made it out of the stairwell…and right into the gift shop. I decide to pass on an official Arc de Triumph placemat, and make my way out on top for the view. I have to say, as impressive as the view from the Eiffel Tower is, the view from the Arc is hands-down the best in Paris. From the Tur, you are so high up that the monstrosity that is Paris almost seems like a little pretend city. From the Arc, however, not only are you centrally located, you have magnificent sight lines, looking out towards the Champs Elysses, admiring how it seems to stretch on infinitely (and imagining Lance riding through with his yellow jersey on), and you get the Parisian skyline with the Eiffel. Only from a height like the Arc can you see just how impressive the Eiffel Tower, and the entire city of Paris really is.
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I hope you’ll forgive me for all of the food-talk lately, but seeing as how I am in two of the food capitals of the world – Belgium and France – the culinary sides deserve their due respect here. I love the little Cafes of France, where the menus revolve around Baguettes, salads and coffees. The baguettes – sandwiches – are especially notable for how much taste they get out of such simple ingredients. For 4 Euro, I had a footlong (or should I say 1/3 meterlong) Baguette with chicken, tomato, mozzarella, and aioli. None of the ingredients by themselves were that special – besides of course the amazing bread – but the combination was fantastic. Also, most of you know what a big international Fanta fan I am. France prefers Orangina, and I have to say after 5 days here, I’m pretty hooked on the slightly pulpy wonder, myself. I have a feeling that when I’m home in September, we’ll add Orangina to the BevMo list. Back to the bread for a second; before leaving Le Havre, I walked into port and for 1 Euro, purchased my very own long baguette to bring back to the ship. I proudly carried my carb-loaded trophy like a baton on my walk back; I’m sure quite a few Le Havrans were impressed by this American’s taste in bread
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I spent my final day in France visiting the beaches of Normandy where D-day occurred some 60 years ago. It was quite a sight to see the landscape near the beaches forever changed with gigantic ditches and holes, all the result of bombs. I also visited the American cemetery where about 10,000 Americans are buried. I’ve been to Arlington National, but I found this cemetery to be the most moving, if for no other reasons than the suddenness of the deaths, and the respectful burial site established thousands of miles away from home.
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Unfortunately the internet is way too slow to upload pictures right now. Come back soon for some photos of France.