How to eat a mussel

Antonia rose at 4:00 AM to watch the tides sweep in. Darien and I contented ourselves with walking onto the balcony to soak in the moonlight. Even the night gulls were silent. We took Antonia at her word that she actually hiked back up to the monastery. No one else was awake on the island. Even Mont Saint-Michel's ghosts were sleeping.

We rose early to attend Lauds up in the monastery before breakfast. We waited in front of a massive oak door with a half dozen other people. A balding, bearded monk unlocked the door to let us in. He had a decidedly modern watch in his pocket that he eyed carefully, and then precisely as the 7:00 AM bell tolled he took out a large brass key and locked us in. He also used some sort of magnetic device he pressed against the wall to securely lock the door. It was a mixture of ancient and new that made me think of James Bond movies. He escorted us up several flights of stone stairs to the chapel. When we entered, one of the sisters was in the center of the chapel, pulling a rope to ring the giant bell high above in the tower. She was wearing a robe of soft pastel blue. With each pull of the heavy rope, she was lifted eighteen inches off the ground, swaying slightly, before the pendulum of the bell lowered her back gently. She finished the call to bells and donned a white robe over her blue, to match the other nuns who had been waiting. The priest who let us in was the only male attending. He knelt in front of the altar to the left; the eight or so nuns knelt to the right. The service was mostly in French, and mostly sung. I'm glad we didn't miss it, but didn't want to take photos. We were escorted down the same stairs by the priest. The fortress door was shut behind us and locked, returning the community to its isolation.

We finished packing and went down for our petite dejeuner at the hotel. We ported our luggage off the island and met on high ground our same red-shirted bus driver with the round belly. He didn't bother to get off the bus to help us stow our luggage. There were only four passengers, but already crowds were streaming in to visit the rocky island. We stopped in the village for one other rider before continuing.

The bus took us back to the station at Pontorson. I had 45 minutes before the train left, so I dashed off on foot into town to look for an electrical adapter. Most of the shops were not open yet, and the ones that were did not have anything. Finally, a clerk directed me to a computer store, where it was suggested I just replace the plug-in cord to my computer transformer with a European style connector. For six euros I was back in business and jogged back to the station with enough time to chat with some Americans and a New Zealander on the platform. We took the train to Caen and walked over to the bus station right next door. We bought our tickets to our last destination in France, Honfleur. We knew the drill now, and stored our own bags under the bus.

We rode for more than an hour before arriving at the station near one of the several little bays that define Honfleur. The buildings escaped the bombs of World War II, so the architecture is better preserved than in many other French towns. Our inn -- La Cour Ste. Catherine -- was built in the 17th century, as described in a little leaflet I read:

The most of the buildings around the courtyard date of the 17eme century. It built near the old well and the remparts. It was a convent of the Augustines nun's congregation. The old porch and the breakfast room are of this period.
At the 20eme century, the place began a cidery. A press for apple juice and cider were put in the principal building and a coffee grocer's in the office.
In 1975, the first renovation began as part of safeguard area. The rooms have been renovated since to 2002.

Well, I would hate to have had to write that in French.

It was a good fifteen minute walk over cobblestones and largely up hill. Liliane was our proprietress. She also runs the American Cafe in the building, where Christian (large, big girthed, gap toothed, smiling and joking in halting English and unintelligible French) cooks. He made our lunch and we read the movie posters on the walls. Liliane introduced us to her short-tailed cat, Casimir. I took this as a sign of something, I don't know what, since he was not particularly friendly.

The picturesque town was filled with tourists and bad art in the shops, but all very photogenic. Whereas Parisians seem to enjoy parading to display their style and fashion, in Honfleur showing off one's dog seems to be what is important. The church is called Eglise Sainte-Catherine. It is built of timbers and masonry and decorated in a style Antonia referred to as belonging to someone's grandmother. It was not built to support the steeple, so the steeple is on the ground across the street.

The essential parts of the town are quickly covered. It is a warren of alleys and small, twisting streets. We listen for cars approaching so we can squeeze against the walls and let them pass. We see old community laundry facilities, the library, and La Forge, a sort of artist workshop that we would love to tour, but is closed. We wandered into a drug store and met Christian. We didn't recognize him at first, holding a helmet he uses for a small scooter, and laughed some more. We pantomimed what we wanted in the store, and with the help of a couple of boys found that they didn't have what we wanted. Back at our room -- which amazingly enough is on the first floor, a small compensation for being so far up the hill -- we discover the Internet (or "wee-fee" as the French say) is not configured properly. I don't have the courage to explain to Liliane in Frenchy English how to fix it, so our Internet drought continued.

For dinner, Liliane recommended Au Bouillon Normand, near the water but away from some of the more popular places. It is excellent. I start with oysters again, which are even better than what I had in Mt. St.-Michel. Darien and I have fish. The owner speaks very little English, her two boys who serve a little more. They don't understand our jokes, but laugh anyway because they know they are jokes. Our hostess is very warm and helpful. At one point she comes out to show Antonia how to pry open her mussel shells with another shell, and then use the shell as a set of tweezers to eat the meat. She even hand feeds a few to Antonia, who gleefully opens her mouth like a young bird. We end with espresso, which one of the boy waiters recommend we take with shots of calvados, alternating sips of the two. This same sort of apple brandy had probably been made in our inn the previous century. Before we leave, we make reservations for the next evening on the patio. It was just that good.