Wonderment at Mont St. Michel, leaky eyes and late night chess

Last night, Alex decided he was not going to make the trek to Mont St. Michel, mainly because he knew his leg would be pained by the 9 total hours on a bus and the endless stairs required to visit. He also had that familiar desire to be home, but in the end, the decision was made due to health reasons. Each time this has happened on the trip, I go through the same emotions. I'm sad that Alex is missing something, anxious about making the right choices for him and me, determined to make the best of our differing needs and wants and then, finally, relieved that I'll be free to take on an adventure at my own pace. That last one is tough for me. It's real, though, and I think it wouldn't matter who my traveling companion was. I can be a selfish traveler, wanting the freedoms to do and feel exactly what I want. Of course, frequently I have turned to share amazement at something with another person, and no one is there. During those times, I picture my mom next to me. She's got the same travel tastes that I do and we don't even need to say anything to each other to understand all the feels of a place. So it was with that very large bag of thoughts swirling that I took the subway to meet the Mont St. Michel tour at 6:30 AM, Alexless and sad/happy/sad about the whole thing.

Travel tip. If you are ever anywhere near northern France, you must go visit Mont St. Michel. Caveat. You'll probably be miserable if you go during the busy tourist season. Maybe pick mid-October! I did and it was perfect. Most folks, like me, take a tour bus to the abbey, usually arriving around lunch time. On my tour there were two choices. One was to take a guided tour that came with a lunch and the other was basically to catch a ride with the tour and venture out alone. I chose the latter when booking. I'm not big on guided tours. I get impatient with the pace (too slow, so fast) and find it irritating instead of informative to have someone talking in my ear all day. For this trip, though, I had a major advantage by choosing to go solo. Instead of eating when all the other tours did, I went straight to the top of the abbey and worked my way down to the crowds. Seriously, I'm sure this move is the reason why I fell so madly in love with this place. It needs to be seen with calm and serenity in order for it to unveil its secrets to you. It speaks when you are still and quiet. You breathe it in.

Here's the literal lay of the land. For reasons unknown to me (remember, no tour guide) this mountain exists in the middle of the marshy costal area in Normandy. Morning and night, the tide comes in, enveloping the mountain with water, receding each day to leave the land around the mountain patterned spectacularly with mud flats. To get to this impossily real place, you must walk or take a shuttle down a raised road, free from the tide. Nature reworks the flats twice a day, every day. On my day, they were resonant, catching the light from the sun through the clouds. Seagulls fly all around the mountain, squabbling with each other and zooming by tourists. At the base of the mountain, one street winds up the mountain, around which a little village exists. It's mostly tourist shops and restaurants now, but that doesn't matter when seeing it from afar. And at the top of the village road sits an abbey that stretches a few hundred feet abound the mountain's summit. Breathtaking.

Here's what I saw during my self-guided tour. There were ramparts near the top of the abbey with a large courtyard that led to the main chapel. From here I could see the marshy mud flats go on for miles, all different shades of grey and blue, mixing in with the grey blue of the cloudy sky. Patches of green dappled the scene, where bits of land defied the daily tides. Gulls circled like a protective army. Pause. Breathe the salty air. See the mossy green of everything exposed to the atmosphere. So many different colors of moss. Green and grey and green.

Then, inside the chapel, a service was taking place. Nuns and monks were singing and the entire chamber echoed with their voices. Hear the sound of their perfect song, vibrating the ancient walls. See the stained glass, repeating all those shades of green. Believe in the impossibility of it all. Question faith and god and the universe. Feel tears on your cheeks. Breathe in and out, sea air coating your insides.

After the chapel, I ventured down into the darker, Medieval part of the abbey. There were several rooms, full of thick air and more green toned glass. Huge columns ended in vaulted ceilings. Dark, meaty tables lined the sides of rooms, all dented and uneven with age. Touch the columns. Feel the cool stone. Peek through the stained glass. See the marsh, tinted green. Run your fingers across the tables. Breathe in the musty ancient air. Notice the green moss creeping its way inside thick stone walls.

After touring the inside of the abbey I was deposited back outside, lower on the mountain. Here I could see trees and vines of all different types, some giving in to the colors of fall and others defiantly green. More moss covered the abbey, outbuildings and trees. And the marsh, in its never ending beauty, showcased details unseen from the top of the mountain. Run your fingers over a moss covered stone. Spot the rooftop covered in perfect circles of moss, like a pox. Hear the schoolchildren laughing and shrieking in the courtyard. Breathe in salty air. 

And like a trance breaking, it was over. I found myself in a gift shop, ready to buy pretty much anything related to this place. Hmmm. Maybe this entire experience was some clever moneymaker's elaborate scheme to make a profit. Didn't matter. I still had a couple of hours before the tour bus was scheduled to leave, so I ate lunch while the tours made their way through the abbey. Several shops piqued my interest, especially the one selling vintage post cards of the Mont (we are on close, personal terms now). And as the time ticked down towards departure time, I decided to walk back to the tour bus instead of tramming.

The walk. Just as the mountain consumed me while I was on it, its landscape sucked me in as a walked away from it. It was is if it was tempting me to stay, pulling at me, making me stop and see its treasures all over again. This all sounds so silly as I write it, and maybe it is, but in this blog we tell the truth. And the truth is that I busted out crying, right in front of a world full of tourists as I turned my back on the mountain. I couldn't stop the tears from rolling, crying for the spectacular world we live in, for the wonders that humans make, for my son holed up in a tiny room in Paris, for me because I experienced a connection with the present that is so hard hold on to, for my mom, who was not here and should have been, and just because of wonderment. Wonderment tears.

I was back in Paris late, and able to see the Eiffel Tower all lit up for the evening. On the hour (I think) she sparkles like crazy for a few minutes. As it happened, we rolled past it at 9:00 and she put on her show. "Now you're just flaunting it," I thought. She's a show off, but if you've got it...

At home, I brought Alex chicken dinner from the supermarket and we stayed up exceptionally late playing our new favorite past time, chess (chest, as I like to call it - see yesterday's post). It was 2 AM when the lights turned off in our little part of Paris.