Vegetarian vacation

Saturday morning in Boulogne-sur-Mer saw me with Rabito and a big cloth shopping bag, following old women with empty baskets as they vaguely made their way toward the town center square. One of the sterling pieces of advice I can unequivocally give to anyone who asks or cares is always, ALWAYS, follow old women with empty baskets on Saturday mornings. Unless the empty baskets are shopping carts and you are on a freeway. Then not such good advice.

Old women know cooking and cooking means markets and markets in France mean everything. I was in absolute and utter heaven. And udder heaven too, as the cheese I tasted there was sublime and ridiculous. The neurons in my brain actually shuddered (uddered?) and I was filled with a strange sense of glee, which led me to buy a large chunk from the cheese makers selling from a folding card table and plastic cooler. "It is good for four days and don't refrigerate!" I was told...ok.

To go with the cheese I bought a French rotisserie chicken for a ridiculous 6 euros, a baguette, three apples, a jar of home-canned gherkins from an old man and a bottle of hard cider, which Normandy is known for. Breakfast was two pain du chocolate and a home canned jar of strawberry jam. Truly bliss. It was a bit sad not to be in a place with a kitchen because there was just so much to buy and try -- whole birds of every shape and size, rabbits, black truffles in a big mound, gorgeous artichokes, cheese, cheese, cheese, meat, sausage like you wouldn't believe, a hill of Coquilles, fish, flowers, bread, cakes and the list goes on.

We drove down the coast, stopping for our amazing picnic, briefly in Deauville, to walk the beach in Honfleur and at the D-Day monuments at Juno and Gold beaches. The architecture in Normandy surprised me - all half-timber houses with scalloped Victorian fanciness. Sort of like towns made of tuberculosis asylums from strange Gothic novels.

We didn't book any hotels ahead of time, so when we had a rough idea of where we wanted to get to, I looked in a guide book and called the one hotel that sounded good (it had a recommended seaside restaurant attached, so we could avoid the experience of the terrine). I nervously dialed the number and asked, "Parlez vous Anglais?" when a woman answered. "Non." was the reply. There are two things to do at this moment: hang up or muddle through. I muddled -- horribly, but adequately and did the biggest happy dance of all time when I hung up the phone. I like to think my slaughter of French pronunciation and vocabulary made her laugh.

Our dinner was excellent and the bed gave me the best night of sleep I'd had in a long time. Day two was fantastic and I really felt rejuvenated and ready for day three.