The last seven days have been the longest week of my life, perhaps even giving Wildcat Welcome a run for its money. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve spent most of my time getting settled into my dorm, navigating the streets and trying not to butcher the French language. I’ve had considerable trouble with the latter. But only three days into pseudo-immersion, I was uprooted from the City of Lights to go on a weekend excursion to Normandy, a trip organized by my study abroad program. So we took the trains, boarded the buses and made our way to the best little cities you’ve never heard of. And that’s not a bad thing.
Our first stop was Colleville-sur-Mer, the site of the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. This, of course, is the iconic D-Day memorial where the remains of nearly 10,000 American soldiers are marked by rows and rows of immaculate white crosses. It was an eerie feeling to stand on the very ground where the course of human history was changed forever, overlooking Omaha Beach’s now passive waves. It was also a bit disconcerting to take pictures of such a beautiful dedication to such an ugly day for mankind. But without question, I left the memorial with an immense respect for our troops and veterans.
After a few more stops and a night spent in the quiet city of Caen, we awoke the next morning with our eyes set on Honfleur. Doesn’t sound familiar? If you’ve ever tried to picture quintessential Europe, then you’ve probably done a good job of picturing Honfleur. It’s an idyllic harbor town that helped start the impressionist movement and is home to some great seafood, though one of my friend’s bowels didn’t agree. I strayed from their claim to fame and sampled the typical French fare at a cafe on the water. I watched the sun reach great heights as I sat on the harbor, while the croque-monsieur I ordered just kinda sat in my stomach.
And what better way to end a trip to northern France than by visiting Deauville? It’s a town situated on the Atlantic whose residents are just slightly more than well off. Complete with resorts, beaches, and more Porsches than I could count, Deauville was absolutely beautiful. We just so happened to be there at the same time as the American Film Festival, so many were on hand hoping to catch a glimpse of some of today’s leading thespians, including the paparazzi. The highlight for me, however, was spending an hour and half walking the streets on a quest for ice cream, which ultimately proved successful. Best strawberry sorbet ever. And just like that, it was time to get back on the bus and head home.
Wait, what? Home? My first few days in Paris were anything but home. I was living in a foreign place, sleeping in a foreign bed, and trying to buy a cell phone in a foreign language. Paris didn’t feel like somewhere I knew, nor somewhere I felt comfortable being, but when I heard that the bus was headed home, it just sounded right. Indeed, it is my home for the next three and a half months, and I had to take a trip to Normandy to realize that. With the longest week of my life over, the next 13 will almost surely, and regrettably, be shorter.
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