Monday, July 12, 2010

Sleeping with the monks

It was still raining when we woke up, and neither the bakery nor the market were open. We were scheduled to leave Paris and thought about taking a taxi to the train station, but the expense and Pascal Un convinced us otherwise. We fell back on our Metro standby. The first car we were on was hot, crowded, and suddenly stopped moving. The minutes ticked away, chipping away at our hopes for making the station on time. The Metro started -- and stopped again. We finally got to our transfer point, and hopped on the car that took us to the station. We thought we had reserved enough time to catch the train, but it was seeming more and more improbable, particularly as the walk from the Metro to the train station was a good hike. In the station, we saw some of the choristers in line to change money for their trip back to the States, but we hurried past, hoping against hope we would make it on time. While we did get to the ticket booth before the train left, we hadn't the foresight to make reservations the night before. Fortunately, there was another train leaving the next hour. We resorted to our typical response in time of crisis and found a place to eat.

I experienced my first pay toilet in the station. Clerks at the counter accepted the coins, and one could even pay to bathe. Male and female areas were divided, but there was no wall shielding the clients from the open reception area near the clerk. One knew very well what those men standing facing the wall were doing.

We settled on the train at last and had a very smooth trip to Rennes. I was beginning to love the French intercity rail system -- clean, efficient, and fast, even if you do have to pay to use the facilities. We grabbed baguette sandwiches smeared with butter in Rennes and changed trains for the trip to Dol de Bretagne. When we arrived, and in my rush to leave the train, I unplugged my laptop but forgot to remove the plug adapter. Things began to look bleak for continued Internet access.

We spent a lot of time in the train station figuring out how we were going to leave the next day, but Antonia eventually figured it out -- one more train ride, this time to Pontorson. We then boarded a bus for our night's lodging in Mont Saint-Michel. The portly driver was quite friendly, but evidently handling luggage is not in his job description. He did deign to open the bin on the side of the bus for us, but we had the task of stowing our gear and locking the door ourselves.

It was only a fifteen minute ride to the abbey. The driver told us where he would meet us the next morning (on high ground to avoid the rapid rise in tides) and we dragged our luggage through the main gates of the monastery. It was a steep ascent over rough cobblestones. The narrow street was filled with tourists, and the shops carried all manner of gewgaws and kitsch. We found our hotel's reception desk, then were escorted even higher up the tiny island, largely above the crowds, to our room. We had a balcony with a lovely view of the bay and causeway to the mainland. There are plans to turn the causeway into a bridge to let the water flow freely around Mont Saint-Michel again, with the idea of removing the silt that has built up over the years. If we turned around on our balcony and looked up, we could see the spires of the monastery looming dramatically above us.

We went back down to the market area and ate inferior crepes and coffee at our hotel's restaurant. We feared this would be a portent of food on Mont St.-Michel. After the refreshment, we walked along the ramparts, up steep stone stairs, through narrow alleys, past moss-encrusted walls of oranges, umbers, and greens. We tried to attend evening service in the monastery, but evidently Mondays are the monks' night off. As the tide began to come in, the gendarmes started to clear people off the beaches. The rapid change in tides and quicksands are a constant danger.

We decided against the 30 euro omelet made "in the traditional French style," but watching the men beat the eggs in large copper bowls while tapping out a rhythm with their whisks was very entertaining. We were getting hungry again and took the advice of one of the tour books and hunted out Chez Mado. We were pleasantly surprised at how good it was. I ventured the oysters for my appetizer, which were excellent. I had to help Antonia finish her very large bowl of mussels.

I had the foresight to ask at my hotel desk for an adapter, but didn't realize until later that it was the wrong type. I used the remaining power in the computer to re-charge my camera. We were beginning to starve for Internet.

We paid eight euro each to tour the monastery. It was a combination of the melodramatic (one room had a mist machine and billowing blue sheets to emulate the sea) and the starkly beautiful. Some rooms had solo musicians playing -- a harpist, a flutist, a cellist, a harpsichordist. We explored a garden court, old prison cells, and stunning views of the bay from the upper plaza.

The tourists had fled with the last buses off the island and the rising tide. The streets were near deserted and dusk turned to dark. The gulls still cried out, circling the towers, and a cat ran before us down a stairway. As we made our way back to our room and beds, we could almost hear the voices of monks, chanting their evening prayers, in the monastery built into the rocks of Mont Saint-Michel.

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