Rasmenia

Not long after I moved to France, I had French friends & relatives telling me about Mont Saint Michel.

“Have you been?”

“Um… no, not yet,” I’d say.

“Oh, it is so beautiful – you really must go.”

After I had been in France for about a year, Olivier & I returned from a trip to Normandy.

“So, did you visit Mont Saint Michel?”

“Er, uh… well, no… not yet.”

“Next time!  Next time, you must go.”

People kept talking about it.  Everyone that had been there agreed on one thing: this place was fucking awesome & had to be seen.  I started to feel like such lame-ass for not having seen it yet.

Eventually, upon making another visit to Normandy, I got the chance.

Proof that I've seen it. Stop asking.

Now, on the wee tiny island of Mont Saint Michel, as you can see behind these two stunning tourists, is a tiny, uh… mountain.  (Sorry, I’m from Colorado.  My people tend to be snobs when it comes to what constitutes an actual mountain.)  At the top of the mountain is a monastery where the tourists can run amok, which is of course, what we did.

Like most places that are teeming with tourists, the lower level of Mont Saint Michel is loaded with restaurants, gift shops, bars, cafés & museums.  If you want to get to any of the cool historical shit, you must first be herded through the area where all of the money is being spent.

Many a bovine have fallen victim to the "cash gauntlet".

After we made our way through the crowd of outstretched hands exchanging money & merchandise, we had something very important to take care of: audio guides.

You’ve seen these – the little phone thingys that you listen to while you stroll along, enjoying a guided tour at your own pace.  Most importantly, they make you look really, really smart.

Really.

Audio guides & brochures in hand, we were free to roam about the monastery.

Now, a quick bit of history of the monastery.  If you haven’t already figured it out, the name Mont Saint Michel translates to “Mount Saint Michael” in English.  I’m sure you’ve heard of Saint Michael, sometimes referred to as the Archangel Michael.

I am no Christian or religious person of any kind.  However, I do seriously dig theology & mythology.  I can tell you, there is no greater badass in Christianity than Michael.

Just look at that angelic weaponry.

So, anyway… history.  The story is that Michael showed up on the Mount in 708 A.D. & instructed St. Aubert, bishop of Avranches to build a church.  Aubert refused & despite Michael’s hounding, he insisted on being a stubborn shit.  So Michael finally burned a hole through his skull with his finger.

His fucking finger.

As you can imagine, that did the trick & Aubert didn’t need to be told again once all of the obstinance had leaked out through the hole in his head.  Later, the mount was used for strategic purposes in 933 A.D. by William I, Duke of Normandy.  The island endured several assaults during the Hundred Years War, but had such killer fortifications that it withstood them all.

As time went on, the abbey eventually closed & was converted into a prison, which closed in 1863… because why have a prison when you could have a nice little historical monument instead?

With my audio guide pressed firmly to the side of my head, we ambled along, through the various corridors & chambers of the abbey until we emerged outdoors, finding ourselves in the cloister.

We continued on, alternating between being in enormous rooms made of stone & being out in the rain.  As to be expected, at the end of the trip, we found ourselves in yet another gift shop crawling with slow-moving cattle.

Naturally, we panicked & decided to flee.

We made our way back down, past the little cemetery & the tiny village.  Soon enough, we found ourselves back among the throng of slow-moving tourists.  We ducked into one of the many bars along the way for a quick espresso before venturing back out into the rain.

Just before we left, we passed by the famous Mére Poulard restaurant, where the chefs were busy, rocking out with their eggs.

Like every other place in France, there is a specialty.  In the tiny medieval city of Mont Saint Michel, it’s omelettes.  I could sit here trying to explain to you how cool it is, the way that the omelette chefs beat the eggs in big copper bowls in such a way that it’s a bit musical, or I could just show you:

Honestly, anything that I tell you about Mont Saint Michel won’t do it justice – you really must go.  Besides, you probably won’t encounter a pissed-off, muscle bound archangel ready to burn a hole through your skull.

Probably.

“… at least in prison and at least in death, you know, I wouldn’t be in fuckin’ Bruges. But then, like a flash, it came to me. And I realized, fuck man, maybe that’s what hell is: the entire rest of eternity spent in fuckin’ Bruges. And I really really hoped I wouldn’t die. I really really hoped I wouldn’t die.”  – Ray, In Bruges

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After Olivier & I had molded Play-Doh into poop, it was time to go with our friends to Bruges.  I had been to Belgium before – briefly.  A couple of years ago, we made a quick run there to eat some fries, buy some chocolate & grab a case of assorted Belgian beers.  You know, important stuff.  Why else would anyone go to Belgium?

Oh… right.  Sightseeing & other touristy shit.  We hadn’t done that, so it was time to go to the wild, loose, medieval city of Bruges.

When we arrived, we found an enormous parking garage.  Inside, people were walking this way & that, attempting to orientate themselves… old people, fat people, over-dressed & half-dressed people… sunburned, confused & loud talking people.  They were bumping into one another, staring directly at oncoming cars.  Boring & annoying people.  They all looked the same & somehow familiar, as though I had seen them all somewhere before.

Right… because they were fucking tourists.  I had seen them before.  Now we would get to join their ranks.

Once we got outside, we grabbed a city map & Olivier did his best to blend in with the herd.

We found a Spanish restaurant with big posters of bullfighters on the walls.  Yeah, we did notice that Spanish food is not regional cuisine.  So what.  The beer was Belgian & we decided to skip the Chinese restaurant due to their wacky Belgian spelling.

What?  That’s as good a reason as any.

After that, it was time to simply join the herd & cattle ourselves around the city, pointing at shit & taking pictures of it.  One thing that is amusing in a touristy city like Bruges is to just sit & observe how gullible the average tourist is.  We had such an opportunity when Olivier & I happened upon an apartment complex where someone had accidentally left the main gate open.  Olivier spotted the open gate & just walked in… because, um… he’s what one might refer to as a “weirdo”.

“Hey,” I said.  “What are we doing?  This is someone’s yard… you know, for the people living in these apartments.”

“I’m just looking,” Olivier said.

“But, dude… there’s nothing to see here,” I said.  I looked over my shoulder & saw 5 or 6 tourists wearing sun visors & brightly-colored shorts.  They had followed us in, assuming that we were entering to see some interesting historical shit.  They snapped pictures of the shrubbery, squinting their eyes & bobbing their bovine heads in an attempt to find some bit of information that would tell them what was so fucking interesting.

“Look at that,” I whispered.  “Those fucking cattle just followed us in here looking for historical shit.”

“Yeah,” Olivier said.  “That’s funny, right?”

It was right then that we ran away.

Now, really… while some of that historical shit is interesting – the actual historical shit, not the courtyards of random apartment buildings – there are really only 3 reasons to go to Belgium & I’ve already mentioned them.  One is the wide selection of delicious Belgian beers.

Another is the chocolate.  Belgians know how to do chocolate right.

But, the main reason… the most important reason: the fries.  Now, let’s just have quick word about French fries.  French fries aren’t French at all – they’re Belgian.  I’ve heard of people on vacation in Paris being disappointed in the fries, assuming that French fries would taste better in France.  Well, if this is you, punch yourself in the face because you’re an idiot.  The term “French” is used due to the method of cooking, as opposed to the country of origin.

Now… if you’re one of those France-hating, “Freedom Fries” sort of people, then you can be sure that there are millions of French people who are laughing at you.  Probably a few Belgians, too.  Oh… & you probably shouldn’t be here… move along, now.

Here’s the beauty about getting pommes frites at the source: they are served to you in a giant paper cone.  It’s impossible to eat them with the fingers because they are covered in a delicious sauce – there are several to choose from, but there isn’t any goddamn ketchup, so don’t ask.  It would just ruin your fries, anyway.  I recommend the spicy “Samurai Sauce”.  You know that with a name like that, it will be delicious & may possibly hurt you.

With a pint of delicious white Belgian beer, it’ll make you forget all about being part of the slow-moving cattle herd.

Something else very cool about Bruges… one of the best movies ever was filmed there, so after you’ve read this post & have watched this movie, it’s just like the real thing… minus the fries, of course.

“Huh?  You two are weird.”  – Ray, In Bruges

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Technocrati Tags: Bruges, Belgium, France, travel, beer, chocolate, food, fries, pommes frites, Belgian, movie, humor, tourist, cattle, historical, medieval, city, vacation, Europe

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