Amsterdam - It's Not Paris.

I'm wrapping up this trip with a day and a half in the city of bicycles, corner stores that sell hashish, a red light district where it's all legal, hundreds of restaurants with at best mediocre food and tons and tons of black leather and chains weighing down residents and tourists alike. You're thinking, "Don't you like Amsterdam, Marc?" Well, it's not Paris.

Having said that, here's what I like. I like my old-style hotel, the Museumzicht, with its steps (to my fourth floor monastic cell) as steep as a housepainter's ladder. I stayed here two years ago with Carol, and didn't even look for a better hotel this time. Friendly staff, a nice breakfast in a sunny room with big windows, shared toilet and shower - the old-fashioned way. My tiny room with a tiny window (I call it my air hole) on the top floor is just right for me. The toilet is so tiny that it makes me long for the luxurious bifs on the airplane. And the shower is even smaller. (Really. No plus sizes here, please.) But it's all clean, well-managed and, as I noted, friendly.

Breakfasts at the Museumzicht haven’t changed in two years - a boiled egg, dark bread, white bread, honey, jam, a slice of ham, a slice of cheese, a personal pot of coffee, a thimble-sized class of orange juice. Delicate, but oddly satisfying. In addition, the bread basket contained a prepackaged slice of bread labeled “Roggebrood.” As I looked at it, I was certain that it looked chocolate-coated. Certain, as in so sure that I ripped off the wrapping and bit into the treat. What I tasted was not chocolate, but something that might have been carried through the northwoods by voyageurs two hundred years ago. Like pemmican. Or jerky (without the salty taste). But sure to last for months without going bad. I had thought that “brood” must mean bread, but I think the correct translation is “board.” And “rogge?” Well, my guess now is either “particle” or “rugged.”

City rooftops as seen from my air hole at the Hotel Museumzicht.

I like being across the street from the city's two showcase museums, the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum (the Dutch say Van Hhhhock - you sort of growl the h's). The former is full of old masters. The Van Gogh is a gem of a museum, a work of art itself, the building designed so as to display paintings in a way that accentuates their beauty and to allow people to flow freely through the exhibit. It is an homage to Vincent Van Gogh.

I was in line for the Van Gogh Museum twenty-five minutes before its ten o'clock opening. It was a bit of a wait, but at least I was able to count the people in front of me (about thirty) and not the blocks in front of me, like the people who showed up at ten. (I'm not quite sure why I didn't get my ticket online to avoid this. Sloppy planning, I suppose.)

On Saturday, after visiting the Rijksmuseum, as I wandered on Museumplein, I began to feel blue. I know part of the mood was being alone in a strange city after nine days surrounded by people I love. I think also that perhaps it's part of traveling alone; sometimes you just feel, well, lonely. It's like a cold. You get it; it passes.

Bicycling appears to be the preferred mode of transportation in Amsterdam.

The canals invite you to wander all day, which I did.

Sunday was wet, but I didn't mind at all.

I like wandering through the city - the quiet streets of Jordaan neighborhood, where it still feels like the nineteenth century; the busy streets of the Leidseplein with its restaurants, street performers, trams and crowds; the canals, of course, with the allure that any body of water holds; the Vondelpark on a Sunday afternoon, full of families, joggers, cyclists; the flower market.

The flower market. Got bulbs? If not, here they are.

The flower market is a place to be on Sunday afternoon.

Okay. Food. I grant that there may be good cuisine to be found in Amsterdam. It is a major city, after all. Perhaps I was just too cheap to spring for a good meal. But really, you shouldn't have to spend a hundred bucks (or euros or yuan or kroners or pflergs). Paris has its street vendors offering luscious crêpes. Philly has cheesesteaks and hoagies. D.C. has Mama Ayesha's. Even Minneapolis has the tasty "Mini-tin" sandwich at Tin Fish. After two visits here, I still haven't found the good cuisine. What I've found is fuel to get you through the day. Last night I had pasta. It was linguine; of this I'm sure. With pine nuts, I am certain. Parmesan? Perhaps. The pesto? Hmmmm. I suspect I had backpacker's powdered parmesan and pesto. I ate it all. A guy gets hungry.

On the other hand, every waiter, waitress and bus person I encountered here was cheerful and friendly to a fault. You had to be happy in the restaurants, even if the food made you long for an airlines snack pack. My waitress at the pasta place was sooooo happy to see me at last. (Perhaps, now that I think of it, she may have visited an Amsterdam coffee shop before work. Heh. Heh. You know, where they sell pot, man. Weed. Grass.) If she had ever learned to use indoor vs. outdoor voice, her knowledge was not evident this night. The way she repeated “Linguine al pesto” so that the people on the lower floor (and perhaps passersby on the street) knew what I was having made me hope that she never moves on to a job selling personal hygiene products.

On the way back to my hotel, I wandered into Amsterdam’s version of a Seven-Eleven convenience store, where for one euro fifty I scored a Dove Caramel Liaison bar. Oh my! Was it ever so good! Oh! Mmmmmm! Oh! As I savored my last bite, I thought hard about turning around and going back to buy several more. Mmmmm.

At the bottom of the pasta bar's menu was printed the restaurant’s “House Rules.”

Welcome to all ethnics.
No smoking.
Let staff advice you on best quality experience. (Don’t eat ‘til you’re on your plane.)
Tourists: No dope smoking.

Rules to live by, indeed.

Eygelshoven - and Dinner Companions At Last!

I didn't want to say adieu to Paris, but the anticipation of a reunion with Ellen and Ben and 13-month old Wesley more than eased the regret. Fortified with my last croissants, I made my way to Gare du Nord and in a few quick hours found myself in the embrace of my daughter and my grandson outside the train station in Maastricht.

It's very easy to be with Ellen and Ben. I just become part of the household and get into the flow of their daily life, which is a happy one indeed. For the next two days we did lots of normal things together - shopping, walking the dogs, sharing a bottle of wine, changing diapers, talking about our day over dinner (exquisitely prepared by Ellen). All the while, I watched closely as Ellen and Ben dealt with their one-year old wonder. I began to think that maybe I was going to do all right.

Wesley and I hit it off from the beginning. He is such a happy little boy who smiles and laughs a lot. The first time he toddled over to me, not his mama or his da, and put his arms up as he looked at me to pick him up, I was hooked. In my entire time with them, my happiest moments were when he stood at my feet with his arms raised like that.

And then, Saturday morning arrived. Ellen reviewed her thorough notes with me one more time. I noted the Dutch version of 9-1-1 (it's 1-1-2) and was reassured that the operators speak English. Ben showed me how to use the GPS to get to the hospital. And then, they were off of their romantic anniversary weekend in Paris in the Mercedez Benz convertible Ben had rented for the occasion.

For the next four days, Wesley and I (and the grandpuppies - Spud and Bella) were an island to ourselves. Wesley was the sun around which everything orbited. I was his captive, and it was demanding work. And I wouldn't trade those four days for four more days in Paris or four days with anyone. We fell into a routine that satisfied us all (I'm including the dogs). Breakfast. A long walk in the country. A nap (for Wesley) and a quiet cup of coffee and writing or reading for me. An afternoon of hanging out and playing. A short dog walk. Dinner. Bedtime for Wesley. A glass of wine or a beer for me before I collapsed into bed myself. Exciting stuff. Not to be missed, believe me.

Wesley is an enthusiastic diner and a lively dinner companion.

The daily walks in the lovely countryside were a highlight for me.

And for Wesley, too. Lots of exciting things happened.

I love changing diapers. We talk and sing and enjoy the moment together.

By the third day, I could handle a one-year old and his stroller,
two dogs and their leashes,
and my camera, the timer and tripod.

Mister Funtime made it all special.

All the while, I thought of Ellen and Ben having a special time in Paris, a city they came to love during their stay in Europe. It gave me great pleasure to enable them to take this trip.

Paris! A Story in Pictures

Bienvenue à Paris!

Welcome to Paris!

Paris. My favorite city. The second of my three reasons for this trip. This is a long entry, and the gist of the story is told in the photographs. I won't be offended if you skip my sterling text in favor of a quick photo tour.

I arrived on Saturday afternoon, and ninety minutes after checking into the Grand Hotel Leveque on Rue Cler, I was mixing with thousands of Parisiens on the Champs de Mars, enjoying the fine weather in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

Le Grand Hotel Leveque

A lovely day, and everyone was out and about.

Performers were everywhere.

I walked a lot that first afternoon and evening, before finding myself at a crowded and noisy sidewalk café for a late dinner a half block from my hotel. In fact, I walked a lot the next three days I was in Paris. I used the exceptional Paris metro often enough to cover distances when I had to, but just as often I found myself looking at my map and thinking, "I could walk that." As much as anything, walking sums up my time here. I bought a two-day Paris Museum Pass and made the most of it. On Sunday I started at the Rodin Museum (my second favorite museum in this city), then walked to the Musée de Orsay (my favorite museum in this city and, I think, the world). Just getting started, I moved on to the small but spectacular Orangerie.

I have a rule when I visit art museums. No photos of the art. That's what postcards are for. I allow myself photos of the museum itself, and of the people looking at the art. I sometimes break my own rule, if I have a special reason. On this trip, I was looking for close-ups of faces for a project. Maybe the results will be found hanging on a coffee shop wall someday. Or, maybe not.

Having made that proclamation, I gladly break my own rule
for Auguste Rodin's incomparable sculptures.

The clock in the main hall of the Musée d'Orsay

An unhappy guy in l'Orangerie

A prop from the famed shadow theater of the old le Chat Noir cabaret.

Sunday was a lovely early autumn day and, as on Saturday, it seemed as if all of Paris was outdoors taking advantage of the fine weather. The Tuilleries Gardens were packed with residents soaking up the sun.

Sunday in the park, Parisian-style.

Parisians at leisure.

Some eschewed the parks for the tranquility of le Seine.

On Monday, I visited the Louvre and the funky Pompidou Center, not to my liking but also not to be missed if you want to get a complete picture of Paris. At the Louvre, I turned left where thousands turned right in search of Mona Lisa. I found myself in a nearly deserted Richelieu Wing filled with sixteenth century Dutch, French, Flemish, German and other northern European masterpieces. (I even found a Danish painting.)

Not wanting to leave, I wandered through a section of objets d'arts and tapestries. I smiled at a vast tapestry featuring dancing bears holding some VIP's coat of arms.

I decided on a quick visit to the Denon Wing, home of the Mona Lisa. I didn't need to see Mona Lu so much as the crowds that came to see her. Indeed, Leonardo's masterpiece was lost in the crowd. Whereas the empty Richelieu Wing had offered cool serenity, the heat generated by the mobs, and the meandering, oblivious, elbow-to-elbow throngs themselves were all I needed to motivate me to move on to the Pompidou Center.

The Louvre, through the eyes of I.M. Pei

A modern day artist copies a master.

The Louvre reveals its own beauty.

Party girls, immortalized.

Where's Mona?

The Louvre's beauty isn't always hanging on its walls.

From the Louvre to the Pompidou Center is a journey from the sublime to the ridiculous. As the French say, however, a chacun le sien. To each, his own.

On the plaza outside the Pompidou Center

After the Pompidou Center, I found my way to a favorite haunt of Ellen & Ben for a late lunch.

Later in the day, my museum pass took me to the top of the Arc de Triomphe for spectacular views of the entire City of Light.

l'Arc de Triomphe

Three generations at a memorial service for the fallen at l'Arc de Triomphe.

Montmartre, seen from the top of l'Arc de Triomphe.

Near day's end, I returned to my favorite spot in Paris.

And always walking. On Tuesday, my museum pass useless, I wandered all day. I spent hours in the lovely, haunting Père Lachaise Cemetery, a silent refuge in the midst of the busy city.

A visitor can lose himself on the endless winding paths of Père Lachaise.

You can purchase a cemetery map for a euro, but why bother?

Oscar Wilde, popular still. (Click on the photo to read the note.)

Autumn

Amadeo Modigliani and his distraught lover, together forever.

Time passes...

...and has its way.

Then, it was off to the honky-tonk atmosphere of Montmartre, for the sole purpose of getting a photograph of the distant Eiffel Tower framed by the shade trees of Montmartre.

Far below Sacré Coeur, the hucksters thrive.

Mid-day haze can't detract from the beauty of the Eiffel Tower.

Gare du Nord, my departure point for the Netherlands,
possesses its own museum-like beauty.

A few miscellaneous postscripts:

• The Magic Sinks in the men's room at l'Orangerie: I wave my hands under the faucet, water pours over my hands and I wash. Next to me, a man waves his hands and nothing happens. He moves to an adjacent sink - nothing. We look at each other and smile. Then I try to rinse and - nothing. He waves his hand and voilá! Water! Then, nothing. We are completely flummoxed until a third man points to the small disks on the floor. We step on them, and we all rinse, laughing in different languages.

• After walking for hours on Sunday, I decide to try to find Coté de Bergamote, where I have a dinner reservation in the evening. I wander through the streets of Saint Germain without success. Hot and tired, I come upon the Church of Saint Germain des Pres and step inside. The church is filled, not with worshippers, but with people listening to a organ/flute concert. I find a seat in the cool, dark recesses and let the sublime notes flow over me as I rest for the walk home.

• Parisians have fun. So many cafés, bistros, restaurants, brasseries. So many people in them, eating, drinking, talking, having a good time. Armed with my map, I have no trouble finding Bergamote and no trouble enjoying the superb three-course formule.

• Walking home after dinner at Coté de Bergamote in the dark along the quiet streets by the Seine. From across the river, in the darkness near the Louvre, gentle strains of jazz float through the night air. A lone saxophone, somewhere in the city, keeping time.

• On another evening, I seek out Café Breizh, an upscale crêperie recommended by Ellen. The intimate, inviting restaurant is packed, so I make a reservation for the evening of jeudi. I am proud to make the reservation speaking entirely in French with the host. On Tuesday evening, I arrive at eight o'clock, but the restaurant is dark. I am puzzled. As I walk the streets looking for another restaurant to my liking, I search for an explanation. Then it comes to me. It is Tuesday evening. Mardi, not jeudi. I have recited the days of the week thousands of times since I learned them in high school; how could I do this? I sink into a grand funk, completely annoyed at my own stupidity. At the Seine, I stand on the bridge and watch the lingering daylight on the distant horizon behind Notre Dame. Finally, I find a sidewalk café on the banks of the Seine. A friendly waitress, soupe l'oignion, salade niçoise and a carafe of vin blanc restore me to a good mood. (Although dinner was good, the onion soup and salade niçoise that I make at home are much better!) A long conversation with an Australian couple and the next table finishes the job. The waitress hovers, wanting to close up for the night. We say our goodbyes.

Eating Alone Can Be Fun

On a night when a full moon hung over Maastricht, a medieval Dutch city meant for strolling just such nights, I found myself, besotted with French chardonnay, running through the quiet streets. I wore a sport coat with my jeans, pleased that for once I did not look like an American tourist. I began to sweat inside my jacket, the remains of my dinner acting like aerobic weights wrapped around my ankles.

The reason for my sprint was that I had stayed too long at India House, where I had just had a very fine meal. I was having a nice chat with Salam, the owner, on a wide variety of topics ranging from our families to health care around to world and our plans for the future. I had fifteen minutes to get to the train station to catch my train back to Eygelshoven if I wanted to be reasonably close to the agreed upon time for relieving the babysitter who was giving me a welcome break from caring for my lovely grandson.


I set out for Maastricht with the intention of discovering a new restaurant, but memories of a splendid meal at India House last year with Carol and Ellen hovered in the shadows of my mind. Armed with a hand-drawn map given me by Ellen, I ambled past several interesting looking places, not one of which insisted that I enter and partake. So I decided to walk the extra blocks to India House, just to take a look. It was a perfect evening for walking the quiet streets.

India House is not an impressive-looking place. It does not bustle like the row of sidewalk cafés on the town square around the corner. At the door, it was time to decide; and I didn't hesitate. A minute later, I was seated and was being given suggestions by Salam. He explained what Tandoori cooking is (baking the food inside clay pots or a clay oven) and demanded, "What do you like? Chicken or lamb? " No nonsense here. Both, I told him, but I have chicken frequently. "Do you like spinach?" he inquired. I told him yes, and he flipped the menu to the last page and pointed to a dish called Saag Gosh. I told him I'd go with his suggestion. I wondered if the spicy food would overpower wine, and he assured me that the French chardonnay would go perfectly with my dish.


Soon I was taking my first sips of a half liter of chilled wine and eating the complementary light crusty bread, called poppadom, with three dips - mild, medium and hot - as in very very hot. My lamb came, along with my order of naan, an Indian bread that I mused might just be as good as a French baguette. There, I said it. It seems wrong to compare any bread to the breads of France, but you had to be there. You had to tear a piece of this soft, buttery bread and soak up the delicious sauce of the saag gosh with it to understand why I would say such a thing. For a while I just ate and allowed myself to be completely in the moment. I learned to do that on this solo trip. I had wondered before I left home what eating a good dinner alone would be like. Although sharing good meal is one of life's true pleasures, eating alone can be surprisingly satisfying. I chew longer, taste more, take in more of the surroundings. Not the preferred way to dine, perhaps, but not as unpleasant as one might think.

I also learned to read during my solo meals on this trip. I brought along "Best American Travel Writing," which has been perfect reading for a solo trip. Almost without exception, the essays are engaging both for the quality of the writing and for the human stories they tell. More than once I have found myself smiling, laughing and even grunting with pleasure at the good writing that leaps from the page. I did a lot of grunting this evening, alternately experiencing great pleasure from my reading and from my lamb and spinach dish resting in a sauce that required every piece of my nan to soak up.

I told Salam that my daughter had introduced me and Carol to his restaurant last year, and that I was delighted to return. I mentioned that Ellen and Ben have been here for three years and will soon return to the United States and that they had a one-year old baby who I was caring for while they visited Paris one last time. "I know them," he said with excitement in his voice. "They are from Minneapolis! Tell them I say hello!" Indeed I will.

Le Mont Saint Michel - Closer to God

Two years ago, Carol and I made a brief visit - only a few hours - to Mont Saint Michel, the imposing abbey inhabited for centuries by Benedictine monks, that lies on its own island off the Normandy coast. Ever since that visit, I had said that if I ever had the chance, I wanted to return and spend at least twenty-four hours, so that I could take photos in all different lights.

This year, the opportunity presented itself, and I grabbed it. After an uneventful flight to Paris and a series of smooth connections from Charles de Gaulle Airport through Paris and onto the coast, I found myself on the island of Mont Saint Michel a few hours earlier than I had planned.

And a good thing I was early, too. From the moment I had discovered l’Hotel St. Aubert on the internet, I thought it was too good to be true. A hotel right on the island at the base of the abbey for only $75! Never mind the photo of the hotel entrance that looked suspiciously wide open (with parking, no less) for such a tiny, medieval island. The map on the website showed it to be right there. I returned to the website more than once in the weeks before departure to make sure. A map (with photo, no less) trumped a photo of an area whose details I may have forgotten. So I skipped the Tourist Information and humped by bags up the main street in search of the St. Aubert. Ten minutes later, I returned to the TI and was informed that the St. Aubert is indeed on the mainland in the small village bearing the name of Mont St. Michel.
So I took a local bus back to the mainland, spending the two euros I had saved as a person over sixty years on the bus from Rennes. At the St. Aubert, a two-star hotel with poor recommendations (but, heck, on the island for only $75), they told me they were full, but that I had a room waiting at the Hotel la Digue at the end of the causeway (a three-star hotel that was my first choice two months ago, but full when I tried to get a room).

L’Hotel la Digue was very nice; the staff, quite friendly and helpful. And I quickly learned that the 1.8 km walk across the causeway was a plus instead of a minus. I had lots of exercise and lots of photo ops. The best views of Mont St. Michel, I concluded over the next day and a half, are of the entire island and abbey.

So I unpacked, regrouped and set out for le Mont. The day was cloudy, not great for photography. I explored and took photos for a couple hours, and then I hit the wall that one finds after a day of trans-Atlantic travel and a seven-hour time change. I gave up on the idea of dinner on the island, trudged back to the hotel, where I took one of the best showers I ever had and plopped into bed. I roused myself for a mediocre dinner in the hotel dining room and was in bed by nine p.m. All in all, a good start to my travels.

I set my alarm for early the next morning, not wanting to miss the opportunity to be out and ready with my camera at first light. I needn’t have worried. Sunrise comes late in Normandy, and when the sun did rise it was masked by a dense fog for quite a while. On the causeway, I tried to take some photos of the fog-shrouded abbey, but my camera refused to respond when I pressed the shutter button. Fortunately, I had brought my camera manual.) After searching a bit, I learned that the camera does not respond when the subject is not clearly distinguishable. Fog! The solution was simple: I bypassed autofocus in favor of manual focus. Tah-dah! (That night, processing photos in my room, I discovered that my fog photos for the most part didn’t work. I’m not sure why, but I did manage to salvage one or two, but none of the best ones of the abbey.

Early morning.

For the greater glory of God.

View from the ramparts.

In the midst of grand glory, small treasures.

Early morning.

With the sun up and the fog finally dispersed, I began my explorations. After exhausting the best of the morning light taking lots of photos, I found an agreeable café, La Croix Blanche, and sipped a cup of espresso as I watched the hordes of visitors stream past. Then, I paid my 8.5 euros for a ticket to the abbey and splurged by spending another 4.5 euros for an English audioguide (well worth it!). I took my time wandering through the spectacular monument, absorbing its history and photographing a lot of it. I can’t imagine how crowded it must be in August; Hordes of schoolchildren, babbling, laughing, exhuberant, were everywhere. And Japanese! I saw so many Japanese tourists during my stay that I thought surely they must outnumber the French.

Interior Splendor

Cloisters

A Monk's View

The tour was as satisfying as the first tour with Carol in 2007, although I have to admit that I think my best abbey interior photos were from that visit two years ago. This wasn't the case with my exterior photos. With much more time to roam near to and far from the abbey, I accumulated many different views. (All in all, I have thirty photos just of the full abbey!)

A Rare Moment of Solitude on the Ramparts

View from the Ramparts

Closer to God

After the tour, I returned to La Croix Blanche for a bowl of local cider and a rest. I wrote a few postcards and watched a few hundred more visitors trudge past. I liked La Croix Blanche; it did not have the touristy feel of so many of the places. And the staff was friendly. I’d noted grumpy vendors two years ago, and pondered the human psychology that prompted people to be hostile to the visitors who, although vastly annoying, are the lifeblood of the local population.

Le Croix Blanche

It was mid-afternoon by now. I had planned to return to the hotel at this point, rest a bit, and then return as the sun sank in the west for more photographs and then dinner on the island. I stuck to my plan, and that worked out just fine. I walked back to the mainland and my hotel, stopping every few minutes for for a fresh photo or two or three of the abbey.

Between 5:30 and 6:00, I walked back to the island, taking even more photos. I discovered an out-of-the-way passage at the west end of the island that lead past posted warnings of tides and quicksand down to a deserted stretch of beach, where I found a tiny stone chapel perched on a thirty-foot boulder at the water’s edge.

Humble Chapel at the base of Mont Saint Michel

Chapel Detail

At the base of Mont Saint Michel

Then I scouted all the restaurants as I took a leisurely stroll along the ramparts up to the abbey entrance. I compared prices and menus before settling on - big surprise! - La Croix Blanche. I was the only person on le premier étage (2nd floor in France). It was early by European standards. I noted, after settling in at a window table with a view of the tidal flats and the mainland, that there is a third floor that a few customers ascended to and descended from.
I learned here not to be snooty by overlooking the “menu express," which sounds like a quick feed for tourists. For fourteen euros, I received three delicious courses. The entrée consisted of tasty vegetable crudités and plenty baguette slices. I even ate (and enjoyed) the diced beets. For my main plat I had les moules au creme - a regional specialty Oh! So delicious! I washed it all down with a very nice white Muscadet at 3.70 euros a glass. A mistake - I should have gotten a half bottle. The dessert was a tasty apple tart, followed by espresso.

At one point during my meal, I glanced out the window to see a cluster of bread scraps sailing from the side of the restaurant over the rampart wall. A moment later, my waiter walked in the side door. From time to time over the next hour, he exited the restaurant with a bread basket and repeated the routine, fulfilling, it seemed, his own private mission to the gulls.

From time to time, I picked up my Inspector Maigret paperback mystery, but I could never get involved with it. I was happier watching people strolling by the window, trying to discreetly peek at what I had chosen to eat, at the salt flats spreading the the mainland, and the waiter’s ministering to the local wildlife.

A few more people entered the dining room as the sky grew dark over the bay and I worked my way happily through my saucy mussels. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, except for two Japanese girls, whose giggles punctuated the cloister-like calm of the dining room.

It was so quiet in the dining room that when I returned to the street I received a shock. The daytime crowds had vanished. All the shops and tourist cafés had closed. Only the restaurants remained open, and only a few visitors strolled the streets in slow motion. Still, it felt like Times Square when I stepped out of the restaurant onto the street. (It was like returning to the car after a week of canoing in the wilderness.)

I looked forward to the stroll across the causeway in the dark. I had expected to be alone, but found many tourists along the path, most heading in the opposite direction from me.
I stopped often to look back at Mont Saint Michel. Once, I looked up and saw low in the sky the Big Dipper, hanging not too far from where I would expect to see it on a dark night in the Boundary Waters. I smiled in recognition.

Mont Saint Michel is lit up at night like Disneyland. The floodlights painting the abbey made it look cheap, like a Pigalle prostitute, unconfident, needing enhancement to catch the eye and the interest of tourists.

I think that le Mont’s real beauty is on display in the light of day as it rises from the sea. Blue sky and grand swirls of clouds bring out its glory in a way that man-made lights could never achieve. Even overcast skies seem to embellish the abbey's tall spire. The monks thought that to build such a place of worship and contemplation on high land was to be all the closer to God. To look at it from the distant mainland, you almost believe that the abbey is indeed not quite of this earth, that it is somehow a destination to be achieved, a wayside rest on the road to heaven. To enter the abbey, after the long climb through the narrow streets is to enter a different world, one that perhaps is closer to God, if one’s belief is strong enough.

Rising to the Heavens

What would Mother Theresa, or Louis de Montfort or St. Clare, who spent their lives living among the poorest of the poor and ministering to them, have thought of such a majestic temple? Perhaps they would welcome the opportunity to spend time in silent retreat, praying, meditating and fortifying their spirits. But I think they truly found God in the squalid streets where they ministered to people weighed down by poverty, filfth, hunger, disease and violence. They labored, as did the Benedictine monks of the abbey of Mont Saint Michel, to bring themselves closer to God.