Hi from Rick: Play with Your Perspective
Dear Traveler,
Today I walked — barefoot on the mudflats — leaving France in the direction of England, until the Abbey of Mont St. Michel looked like a toy on the horizon. At low tide, it feels more like a vast desert out here than the seaside – it's a little edgy, too. They say the treacherous tide can return at the speed of a galloping horse, drowning dreamy day-hikers (if the quicksand doesn't get 'em first, as depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry). A teacher carrying a tall staff passes me, herding a gaggle of school children back to the safety of the Abbey. I follow, a wary eye peeled over my shoulder.
On my way, my bare feet in the mud, I look into our TV camera and deliver a quick line about how 8th century hermit-monks sought desert-like solitude (hermit is from an ancient Greek word for desert) and in this part of Europe, an abbey atop a rock surrounded by this vast mudflat was the next best thing. That finished the script, our latest TV production (this one a show about Normandy) was in the can, and we're off to Belgium.
In the last two weeks of filming I've enjoyed completely new experiences in places I know well. In Paris we planted ourselves on a traffic island to be engulfed in a happy flood of five thousand roller-bladers. (Twice a week entire circuits of boulevards are handed over to skaters.) Later, I climbed down the Eiffel Tower. For 20 years I've descended by elevator, always frustrated by the lines and crowds. This time, I had an eye-opening downhill adventure, seeing all the inner workings of the tower, avoiding the crowds, and actually reaching the ground faster. And I have a new Parisian delight: macaroons. They come in pastel flavors: pistachio, peach, and rose petal. Even the extravagant cafes sell them inexpensively to go.
Later, we headed for Normandy. Rouen's famous cathedral is now two-tone: black and white. While most has been water-blasted clean, the precious carvings remain black, awaiting a more expensive laser cleaning. Across the street, we popped into a traditional milliner's shop to be engulfed in a floppy pastel world of ladies eagerly being measured for one-of-a-kind hats. Then, in Honfleur, I entered the house of the Impressionistic composer Eric Satie, and put on a headset. Moments later, I'm in a whimsical world where his music becomes visual — pears with wings struming the wind like a slow-motion stork, accordian trumpets, and old boots that play like a flute.
Outside our hotel the next morning, the previous night's nondescript parking lot has erupted into a raucous farmers market. Wandering among children shopping for rabbits, salesmen threatening me with giant crabs, bonnetted maids pouring rich cream, and piles of the tastiest cantelope in my memory — I'm reminded of how a Saturday market rightfully trumps any museum plans.
Europe rocks...especially when you play with your perspective.
Happy Travels,
Rick Steves