So after
feeling like I was disgusting my hostel mates with my snot/cough/sneeze/wheeze,
I decided to leave Paris and recuperate somewhere nice but not too exciting.
With loads of help from my outstanding mother, I (really mom) booked an
inexpensive hotel in Le Havre, Normandy. Trying to make the most of my last
night in Paris I went exploring after dark. I watched the Eiffel tour sparkle
on the hour, and without much foresight, besides not wanting to climb more
stairs, I decided to do a carnival ride that would bring me high up above the
city the get a view of everything. It had to long arms that spun up and over
the city. But it also had cages on the ends of those arms that spun in
spontaneous directions. Fast. Well it wasn't very expensive and I did get an
amazing view, but I didn't really factor in my already queasy stomach, and the
effects of an adrenaline rush on a low grade fever. The ride lasted forever. I
saw the Eiffel Tower upside down more than I ever have cared to, and my stomach
was doing somersaults in the opposite direction than the ride was flinging me.
My shoes were also threatening to fly off and I was not looking forward to a
metro ride barefoot. Beside the cold sweat and frequent expulsion of stomach
bile the ride was totally worth it.
Paris
wasn’t what I’d hope it would be. Or maybe I didn’t know what I’d hoped it
would be. But I was sick and lonely and afraid to talk to anyone. Le Havre was
a balm for my ailments. It was a quite place. I found a little park in
the middle of town. The garden was lively and the outdoor art exhibit was all
the excuse I needed to revel in the sunshine and the sea air. I don’t
mind hostels. They are cheap and a good way for me attempt to be social. But
having my own space to recover was such a luxury. I stayed 4 days. Downloading
movies, eating ice cream from a nice woman determined to teach me French, and
learning how to arrange the stones just right to make the beach
comfortable.
I had
arranged to do a workaway at a English family’s horse farm in the French
countryside. I was supposed to meet my host family at the Avranches train
station. Two nights before I was to arrive I sent Sal an email. Next day, no
response. I sent another getting on the train. No response. Through Rene. No
response. I was getting further and further from the world of hostels, walkable
distances and English speaking people. I had little battery on my phone and
little idea what to do when I showed up at the train station with no sign of
anyone to meet me. I charged my phone and waited on the metal bench as it got
later and later. Google failed me. No results for close hotels. I asked to girl
in the ticket booth but she spoke very little English. Translator app saves the
day. I typed out what I needed and she gave me a list of places to stay. Time
to start walking. I had to figure out what I was to do next now that I didn’t
have the workaway week. I found a beautiful garden with a panoramic view of
Mount St. Michel. Next door was the restaurant with rooms available upstairs. The
owner/bartender/hotelman was very kind but very insistent on my speaking
French. It was like having my teeth pulled out by a toddler giant. Painful.
Absurd. Slightly horrific. I ordered a beer then headed back out to the garden to read
and watch the sunset. I would have missed it if the plan had worked out.
Another reason not to plan. The sun on the water, the silhouette of the
Disney-castle-looking Mount Saint Michel, the full flowers and serenity.
(I stole that photo b/c I never got a good one: http://gde-fon.com/download/mont-saint-michel_le-mont-st.-michel_basse/482724/2048x1367)
Sal
called. Some mix up with the 4:00pm train vs 14:00 train. The next morning I
met her, her husband, and son at the center of town. It was awkward. But Sal
kept the chatter going. Apparently the route they normally took home was
closed because there was a non-detonated explosive from WWII that was recently
found in the street. We drove down hilly roads that ran through cornfields to
the farm. The house and barn were a hodgepodge of elegant beauty and piled
filth. There was another workaway-er there from Russia who showed me all of the
animals. Two horses, two ponies, a donkey named William, geese, turkeys,
chickens, Labradors, fish, cats, and puppies. We arranged hay bails and cleaned
junk from the pasture. The house was a physical representation of the
dysfunctional family. Sal was the boss. Quick temper, quick humor. Hoarder.
Flies swarming everything. Puppy puddles and piles. Three sons, one tiny bunk bed.
Top bunk covered with trash-bags of stuff. Rotten food covered kitchen. But an immaculate
room for workaway-ers. I spent my time working the horses, playing with the
puppies and reading. I missed being around horses. I grew up riding and have
worked as a stable-hand. Spirit was my favorite horse. She was impossible to
catch and wouldn’t stand for anyone to mount. She was full of personality and
wouldn’t take any crap. To catch her started off as a two-hour process. It was
a game of “no, you don’t have to let me catch you but you can’t stand still and
eat grass if you don’t” of “I’m more patient and stubborn than you are” of “I
promise nothing bad will happen when you’re with me”. By the end of the week I
could catch her in 10 minutes. I also worked with her on standing still. Lots
of praise and love later she went from a quick trout to stock-still when I said
“stand” and wouldn’t even shift when I or Sal got on, when before she would
shoot out from under you. She was a very
smart horse who just needed someone she could trust to work with her. Sal and I went on trail rides most
days. Down dirt roads, through cornfields, forests, by a creek, and to a look out
over the water and Mount Saint Michel. Sal took me to a ranch where she decided
to take a Western lesson, so I joined. The irony of me being from Texas and
taking my first western lesson from an Englishwoman was not lost on me. The
horses were beautifully trained and put up with my clumsiness. On my last day a couple, their dog and 5-year-old daughter showed up in a camper van to do the next week of workaway.
I showed the girl all of the animals and helped her ride William, the donkey.
But the state of the house and barn sent them packing. I tried to clean up the
pile of rubbish out front but quit when I found a partially decomposed chicken
carcass trapped in junk. It was an interesting experience over all.
It seems like all trains run to Paris. So unable to get a train to Spain that night I spent another night at my 1000 stair hostel. Determined to do it right this time, I chatted with the employees at the hostel, I even used a bit of French (no idea how accurately). I explored the city at night without worrying about getting lost. The next day I had a picnic in the sun at the base of the Eiffel tower. Bucket list perfection.
