Tiptoeing through Amsterdam's Tulips

For once, daylight savings worked in my favor. I managed to sleep most of the seven-hour drive to Amsterdam and it was just starting to get light as we arrived. I headed to the city center to do another Rick Steves podcast walking tour in the nearly-deserted streets.

Train station, designed by the same architect as their national art museum.

Koninklijk Paleis
 (one of the royal palaces that actually started out as a town hall)

Begijnhof, an enclosed courtyard originally built for a Catholic sisterhood that is still occupied by single women. 

One of the famous canals

After waffling on which ward to visit and how to get there, I figured out that the easiest plan would actually be to go like a local: I rented a bike and pedaled there. I arrived with just enough time to change in the bathroom, and they had a headset for English translation already waiting for me. Most of the people sitting in the back section were in my situation, and the chapel was even equipped with a small booth for translators. When it came time to sing the hymns, though, they did something I've never experienced anywhere else: they announced the hymn and gave its page number in the Dutch and English hymnal, and even the Spanish one, and encouraged everyone to sing in their respective language! It actually sounded less chaotic than I would have expected.

The only chapel I've seen with a stork's nest on the spire.

In front of the meetinghouse.

More cars than bikes.

After church I changed and pedaled back to the city center at a more relaxed pace before heading to the main reason I was in the Netherlands: Keukenhof. When I learned about the trip to Paris, the thought of being in Europe in the springtime immediately made me think of going to see tulips in the Netherlands. Keukenhof is ground zero for this: cultivated gardens surrounded by fields that grow the blooms commercially. Upon arrival, I rented another bike to see a bit of the fields before entering the gardens. It was still a little early in the season so most of the fields were actually hyacinths and daffodils; it was still gorgeous. I opted for the shorter loop so I could maximize my time in the garden, and spent the rest of the day wandering the grounds with a smile I couldn't wipe off my face. They carefully cultivated plots with different varieties of flowers in harmonious color palettes that were timed to bloom in stages, grew homogeneous beds at different heights to give the illusion of overlapping stripes of color, and if that weren't enough had indoor pavilions with different floral themes. One had an orchid show with a hippie theme ("flower power"); another was full of cut freesias and table displays; and an education center showed how new varieties are developed, the elusive quest to breed a black tulip, and the "Tulip Mania" speculative bubble that burst in 1637. The biggest pavilion was full of indoor plots of tulips so we could see hundreds of varieties before it was warm enough for them to bloom outdoors.

Daffodils

Hyacinths

Entrance to Keukenhof

Orchid show with a hippie theme

Some of the plantings, displaying a variety of colors and designed to stretch out the blooming times.

Local footwear

Bohemian table setting

I loved the careful planning with the height of the different flowers

During the "Tulip Mania" in the 1630s, the flowers were such status symbols that the wealthy had porcelain vases like this just to show them off. I'm still trying to wrap my head around how much a tulip bulb was worth at the peak of the bubble.

Some of the tulips were so large that I had to get in there for scale.

The tulip pavilion

Windmill at Keukenhof

Strolling the grounds at Keukenhof after most of the crowds had left.

The gardens were large so I had to keep walking in an attempt to see it all, and once I finally made it to my Airbrb that night it wasn't long before I collapsed into bed.

My Tour de France, Day 2

I was eager for another early start to beat the traffic and crowds, but grateful my hostess insisted on waiting until the bakery opened so I could have a fresh croissant with my hot chocolate. Breakfast of French Champions!

My Airbnb was a renovated farmhouse in the traditional long style of the region. 

I attempted to ask her suggestion of where to buy cheap gas and was directed to a nearby place that was easy to find; unfortunately, they were out of fuel. Thankfully I found another place on my way there, and by taking a road slightly less travelled was greeted by my first sight of the Mont appearing to float above a field of flowers. I had seen pictures of Mont-Saint-Michel before, but had never processed how big it could be. Compared to the flat farmland, this was huge and visible for miles.

My first glimpse of the Mont

On the bridge to Mont Saint Michel (at low tide)

The narrow street pilgrims walk up to the abbey at the top

Looking from the Mont back towards mainland France (at high tide, Mont Saint Michel is an island). I think it's Normandy to the left of the river, Brittany to the right.

Looking from the Mont towards the ocean—if you look closely, those dark specks are guided tours of the tidal flats.

In part to maintain that effect, they require parking over a mile away and taking a shuttle to the entrance. I arrived relatively early and had time to wander on the walls of the old town before the shops opened, watching the tour groups go out on the flats to make the most of low tide. The abbey is on top of the rock, and I opted for the free tour in English rather than an audio guide. It meant waiting a little, but I lucked out with a guide who told interesting stories and helped me appreciate what I was seeing. A bishop received a vision to build this place, and if it hadn’t been popular enough for honoring Saint Michael, its resistance of the English during the Norman conquest made it a symbol of France. Anyone and everyone came on pilgrimage, making it wealthy. After all the destruction of WW2 it was amazing to see it intact but there were two major events that affected how we saw it today. The first was the French Revolution, which kicked out the nuns and friars and converted the abbey into a prison, removing all the beautiful tiles, glass, furnishing, etc. in the process. The second was related to WW2. While it was never bombed because it wasn’t near anything strategic, all the historic documents that it used to hold had been moved to Saint Lo for safekeeping; that town was significantly strategic and unfortunately was heavily damaged during the Battle of Normandy, destroying all the documents that could’ve been used for restoration. Rather than falsely represent the past, they chose to leave the concrete bare and the windows plain. By the time the tour ended the entire island was full of tourists, and it was hard to imagine what daily life is like for those who choose to live here. I went down the main street this time, seeing overpriced meals and lots of souvenir shops. 

The entrance to the chapel—the courtyard where I was standing used to be inside the church; after a fire they reduced the length and built this new front. 

The nave of the chapel

This part of the abbey is referred to as "Merveille" (Marvel); rather than have the areas dedicated to body, mind, and spirit adjacent to each other, on this tiny island they built up. 

The cloister of the abbey is on top; they are in the process of restoring a garden in the center.

Detail of the intricate limestone carving in the cloister.

The walls would have been richly painted with colorful stained glass windows.

This frieze depicts the archangel Michael telling the bishop to build this abbey. The legend is that when the bishop ignored the first appearances, the archangel pushed his thumb into the bishop's head so he'd take it seriously.

When the abbey was converted into a prison, this giant wheel was how they brought in supplies. It is attached to a sledge to carry goods up the steep walls. Prisoners wanted to be inside the wheel because they got extra rations.

Before leaving, I took one quick but cautious lap around the island in the mud flats, which was pretty slick at times and infamous for quick tides. I opted to walk back rather than wait in line and enjoy a beautiful day before hopping the car so start the drive. There was no direct route, so I drove most of it on side roads through rolling green hills of cattle and sheep grazing next to ancient homes. I kept wondering where they keep the ugly bits.

Side view of the Mont from the mud flats.

My last stop felt like another cliché: I visited Pierre in his village in the Loire Valley and we ate a baguette and meats from the local charcuterie. I met Pierre when he was based in our office and when he moved back to France to open a dairy farm, joked about an open invite to visit; I decided to take him up on it. The village was small but cute, and in addition to trying the award-winning meat shop, had a walking tour of the beautiful village next door.

Pierre and the sign for the local charcuterie.

Ancient bridge in the neighboring village.

The church near the bridge had medieval murals throughout.

Sampling local delicacies.

There aren’t a lot of job opportunities based in this area (he works at a place with several other remote workers), but I did find out I could actually afford a home here. Again, my time was limited before I had to start the drive back to Paris, but it was worth the brief visit. Thankfully the traffic was light and the protests were non-existent. I was in a bit of a race against the clock to return my car, drop off my big backpack in central Paris, and get to the bus station in another part of town. This all happened but required going in places where I felt mildly unsafe at that late hour and barely making my bus. The overnight bus was not only the cheapest way to Amsterdam, but saved me paying for a hotel for the night.

Normandy

Today I hit the road to see the French countryside and visit some historic sights, and wanting to avoid rush hour I was determined to leave early. The late night before meant it was a little less early than originally intended, but not too bad. I had planned to take an airport bus to the car rental place, and observed what I can only imagine was a French phenomenon: a crowd of passengers built up, a bus arrived, the driver got off the bus (pit stop?) and proceeded to not come out. A bus pulled behind his, and the same thing happened. By this time, the crowd grew larger. So when the third bus pulled up it was a bit of a squeeze trying to get on, especially with my huge backpack, but I was determined and succeeded—mainly because the driver was willing to let me stand in the very front (as long as I rotated a little when my backpack was blocking his view of the road). In this cozy fashion we made our way to Orly and I picked up my rental car. Unfortunately, I can fake many things but driving stick shift isn’t one of them (yet) so I had to pay significantly more for an automatic transmission. It turned out to be a Honda Accord, which compared to the other cars there looked massive. I was a little nervous with the tight curves of the parking garage, but soon found myself on the freeways of Paris and in the gridlock of rush hour traffic. I was south of the city center and was travelling north, but due to a missed exit got to spend a bit more time in stop and go traffic that I would’ve liked. Still, it was helpful to have that time to become comfortable with the car and driving in France generally. They drive on the same side of the road as the US, but the signs are totally different and it’s an unfamiliar place. Thankfully all those years of driving the Autopia cars at Disneyland meant the signs looked familiar, but that didn’t mean I knew what they meant. Driving with the best of intentions and sense I could muster, eventually I got away from Paris and into the countryside.

My first stop was Rouen, whose cathedral was painted several times by Monet. I had entered the cathedral as my driving destination but forgot that medieval churches weren’t built with parking lots or even roads by them, so I ended driving around a bit to find the parking areas in a town that designed their streets a few centuries before cars were a factor. At one point the street was so narrow I thought they wouldn’t permit cars at all, but it did give me more exposure to the city than I would’ve had otherwise. I became charmed by all the medieval architecture that was so different from the spacious and uniform apartments of Paris and ended up wandering around a bit longer than planned on foot. The cathedral’s signs were all in French, but apparently this place had the dubious distinction to be where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. On a lighter note, I later learned the right tower of the cathedral is called “the butter tower” because it was rumored that the funds came from people paying indulgences to avoid giving up butter for Lent. I had to laugh at the idea that enough people were so passionate about their pastries that it could have funded this. Only the French!

Rouen cathedral, with its "butter tower" (right side)

One of the many medieval streets in Rouen

Clock tower in Roeun

Rouen was worth it, but the extra time and the unplanned traffic around Paris meant I had less time in the places I wanted rest of the day and had to skip any extra stops along the way. Still, the rolling green hills and first signs of spring were lovely as I made my way to the beaches of Normandy. I learned after he passed away that one of my great uncles landed at Utah Beach on D-Day, so this entire trip sprung from the idea of seeing it to honor him and the 75th anniversary this year. I first stopped at Omaha Beach, seeing a monument and the remains of some Nazi bunkers adjacent to the American Military Cemetery. The emotional response I had there was stronger than I expected, and it stayed with me as I walked through the cemetery. It is exquisitely maintained, and I’m told that’s by the French people in gratitude for their sacrifice. All of these graves were from the Battle of Normandy, which like Punchbowl in Hawai’i included maps explaining the events. Behind the area with the maps was the “Garden of the Missing”, a wall with the names of those whose bodies were never found. A few have since been identified and have dots next to their names, but again the number is overwhelming.

American cemetery in Normandy

Mosaic ceiling in the chapel depicting soldiers leaving for the beaches, and France cradling a dead soldier (the sides you can't see show battleships)

One of the maps explaining the Battle of Normandy

Monument at Omaha Beach

 Attempting to take all that in, I next drove to Utah Beach. The roads here are small and the villages even more so; I can only imagine what this area is like around June 6th every year. Everywhere I saw the hedge rows this area is known for, which was one of the reasons this area saw such prolonged fighting during the liberation. Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, the area that includes Utah Beach, has made it a point to tell the story of what happened there, and their museum is excellent for its size. I could’ve easily spent another hour or two if there had been time, but as it was soaked in what I could before closing.

Entrance to the D-Day Museum.

This B-26 was painted to recreate one of the bombers that flew over Utah Beach on D-Day, and the hanger was built to resemble the temporary ones the Allies built after the invasion.

Some of the models in the museum were built by locals.

Inside the museum

These dresses were made and worn by French girls after D-Day.

This rubber map had amazing detail—down the individual trees and hedges! This detail mattered in the campaign.

One of the coolest parts of the museum was this area, showing footage from the invasion and campaign on two screens while projecting on the map where the footage was shot.

Thankfully the sun sets a little later up here, so I could wait until the museum closed to visit the beach itself. It appeared the tide was out, as it would’ve been during the first part of the landing, giving a sense of what they had to traverse that day before reaching the steep dunes. Today there are very few original traces of what happened there, and without the monuments it’d be easy to forget.

Dunes at Utah Beach

Low tide at Utah Beach, looking toward the dunes. It makes you appreciate how much beach they had to cross before confronting the dunes.

Before leaving the area, I stopped in the town square of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont to see the church, and discovered they'd placed signs around the square telling the story of events that happened there.

Church in Sainte-Marie-du-Mont; its tower is the tallest thing for miles and made it a strategic location.

Photo of the first mass observed after D-Day.

One of the interpretive signs in the town square.

The town's WW1 monument; the Nazis had taken the statue down, and the Allied troops restored it after the invasion. 

As the sun was setting, I continued to drive through lovely countryside, passing signs for cities that would sound familiar as I learned more about the Battle of Normandy. It was dark by the time I arrived in the village where I’d be staying, but my AirBnB hostess graciously welcomed me. It was a typical stone longhouse of the region and they had converted one side into a rental with all the modern gadgets. Her taste in decor had some simple feminine touches and was lovely. By that point I was weary emotionally from what I’d seen and physically from the early morning and all the driving, but was glad to be so close to my next day’s destination.