We woke up early in the morning, had our last Parisian hotel breakfast of croissants, jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, cheese wedges, baguette slices, and apple yogurt, and boarded the bus for Normandy. Our specific destination was Mt. Saint-Michel, a small island commune in northern France. The town exemplifies the feudal society that constructed it, with the monastery on top (in use since the 8th century), followed by the Great halls, then stores and houses, and finally the fisherman and farmer’s housing outside its walls.
As we left the bustle and bustle of Paris, the scenery en route to the north looked absolutely picturesque. Like something straight out of a Jane Austin novel: wide expanses of rich green, the occasional grazing horse, beautiful, stately old houses scattered about at intervals at the bases of wide rolling hills. All that was missing was a rugged-looking Mr. Darcy trudging through the thick green in the grey mist of dawn. And I realized a strange thought. That if a place like this existed in France, I could never see myself living in Paris.
As we left the bustle and bustle of Paris, the scenery en route to the north looked absolutely picturesque. Like something straight out of a Jane Austin novel: wide expanses of rich green, the occasional grazing horse, beautiful, stately old houses scattered about at intervals at the bases of wide rolling hills. All that was missing was a rugged-looking Mr. Darcy trudging through the thick green in the grey mist of dawn. And I realized a strange thought. That if a place like this existed in France, I could never see myself living in Paris.
We had to take a shuttle bus to get to the town because the quicksand at low tide had necessitated a paved road to be built connecting the mainland to the island. The first thing I thought when I saw the town was how much I wished we could have seen it at night. Don’t get me wrong, it looked majestic during the day. An absolute treasure of this world. But I could just imagine the lights on the small mountain bouncing off of the water at high tide, illuminating this one small speck in a vast expanse of sea. The contrast would have been gorgeous. Up close, the town is a looming fortress capped with the tall spire of the monastery, and narrow streets spiraling downwards from the top. The narrow streets were lined with houses and shops that appeared to lean upon each other, as if “frozen at the moment of collapse”, to use an Orwellian description. Yet my one disappointment that seems to be the constant thread through all of these posts is the extreme amount of overcrowding. Yes the streets were charming, but there were so many tourists streaming in and out of the tourist-y shops that it was difficult to appreciate the atmosphere that the town created for itself. With a population of 22, the island is adorable by default. No need to spoil its serenity.
We learned about the primitive nature of the monks’ lives – how they avoided even heating the spaces they lived in because it was considered an indulgence, a distraction from their lives of holy worship. We were also told that the church is still used for mass today, when a bell sounds to call the believers from among the crowd. On our tour the old elementary school was pointed out, which was closed because only 4 pupils remained, and is now used as a workshop by the monks where they make painted icons to sell for profit.
For dinner I braved the rugged storms of unfamiliar dining and tried some paté, a traditional French appetizer of liver and various meat combinations ground into a paste. Not as bad as it may sound in fact. So since I conquered a storm and climbed a mountain, I think I’ll call it a night.
Bon nuit!
Bon nuit!