EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 5, 1998
Cherbourg
Waking in France
It is a bouncy but not choppy crossing. A smooth ride doesn’t stop
the Irish Ferries from strewing seasickness bags throughout the ship. There are piles on
every flat surface and tucked on shelves and in pockets.
Rich manages to lurch Alfi forward and not into the Renault behind us
after spending the night parked nose-up on the steep part of the car deck. We drive into
Cherbourg just in time to find more accommodation (Ferry schedule-hotel conspiracy).
French time is one hour ahead of U.K. time and therefore we gain one hour of sunlight in
the evening. At six o’clock it is just light enough for us to find a hotel and park
Alfi in the alley behind.
France has a reliable rating system. Their hotels, restaurants, gites,
wines, roads, rest-stops and everything else one might want to experience are all expertly
and consistently rated and classified. The hotels, for example, are on a star system, from
no stars to four stars with prices and amenities offered the same for each classification
throughout the country. L’Hotel Angleterre is a two-star family-run city hotel
and our room costs 240FF (about $60). The room is sweetly decorated, with a large salle
de bain (5 extra francs for a big bathtub), a phone and a colour television. You can
have une petit dejeuner for an extra 25FF.
This hotel features a five-month old black Labrador Retriever named
Owen. Owen has the face of an old man and keeps his jumping and licking to a minimum.
High-pitched guest-screams result in strict disciplinary action.
It’s warm. It’s mild and misty while we walk through the
streets. Rich has wobbly boat legs. I’m bursting with anticipation. We’re in the
land of tubs. I’m ready to make the transition from standing on drains to deep
submersion.
I’m remembering the day we arrived here in 1995. It was early.
Before dawn. We drove from the Stena Sealink after crossing all night from Portsmouth. I
fell asleep, and when I awoke, we were at Cap de Famanville, on the western side of the
peninsula, a perfect Norman Beach, grey and serene, waking up in France. Dawn crashed with
pebbly sand and Atlantic spit. "Look where I’ve brought you!" He gave me
his enthusiasm as I rubbed my eyes and stretched.
We sat quietly, adjusting to France. To the greyness, and the blue.
After several weeks in England, we felt we were at the beginning of our solitude,
together. There was nothing but us and the maps and our desires.
