Arrival: June 19

           Immediately upon arrival into a foreign country, a humble girl from the über courteous Midwest cannot help but recognize the sudden disappearance of personal space. Accustomed to the awkward 4-way stop scenario, where drivers practically beg their peers to proceed into the intersection before they do so, I did not find the bag carts charging at me particularly welcoming. Though population density of Paris, France does come near that of Dhaka, Bangladesh, I found that a year separated from Bangladeshi culture helped me to appreciate the arms-length of personal space found in America.

High speed train

            That being said, I had previously enjoyed adapting to thick cities teeming with people. In Bangladesh, I gained a rush from aggressively storming by pedestrians without saying excuse me – it almost felt rebellious. I expect France’s country side will not have the same rush of the Charles De-Gaulle Airport, a hub of enthusiastic (or rather dumfounded) tourists and super-charged Parisians.

            Our first stop in France was Le Mans, home of the famous car racing track. The track hosts a very well known 24-hour endurance race in which teams of three drive their cars as quickly as possible to try and cover as much ground as possible without their cars breaking down. Tomorrow we would watch the qualifying race for the 24-hour endurance race which would take place on Saturday, June 22.

            After three hours of loitering in the airport train station, we finally boarded the SNFA rail from Paris to Le Mans. The scenery resembled that of the Minnesota countryside. Once we started approaching more populated areas, the quaint architecture differentiated itself from that found in Midwestern grasslands and farm towns. About two hours later, we knew our stop had approached, as Le Mans was the most populous city in miles. I looked forward to diving into the sea of pale yellow, orange, and crème colored homes.

A view from our hotel room window in Le Mans

            When we hopped in our cab, all we could think was how happy we were to not be driving. The winding cobblestone roads and foreign road signs gave us little ability to navigate the roads. Upon sighting a spectacular cathedral, our cab driver notified us we had arrived at our hotel, just across the street. Nestled in a square at the heart of the “old town,” out hotel screamed quintessential quaint French hotel. We rolled our suitcases across the hotel restaurant terrace and into the retired convent. Because of my step dad’s bum knee, which he discovered briefly before embarking on this trip, we stared dauntingly at the narrow spiral staircase, of which we would have to scale three flights. Communicating with the staff proved challenging, as none of us speak a substantial amount of French (only knowing merci beaucoup and oui).

I earned my keep on this trip by schlepping my generous parents bags up the stairs and into our VERY quaint room, in which we squeezed an extra cot for myself. Luckily the shower ceiling was just high enough for my barely 5’5” self to stand. Unfortunately for my 6’0” father, he did not fit quite as well. While I enthusiastically called our room “The Penthouse Suite,” my parents insisted we had been stuffed into the hotel’s attic. Per our nature, we made the best of our situation and spent 70 percent of our time touring Le Mans.

            Knowing we needed to fight our jet lag, we headed out on the Old Town to do some touring, and our first stop was the Cathédrale St-Julien du Mans. This immense structure began constructionearly in the last millennium, about 1045. Construction continued for about four centuries, as religious strife and age kept the church from standing tall. I found the detailed stained glass the most impressive. I particularly enjoyed the room with the brightly painted walls and ceilings.

My favorite part of Cathédrale St-Julien

The adorable "Penthouse Suite"

            Like any city my mother and I travel to, we have to mosey for a bit to gain our bearings of the city. While my step dad rested his jet lag, my mom and I daydreamed through the picturesque cobblestone streets, admiring the old architecture, smelling the opening kitchens, and peering through boutique windows. To try and keep ourselves awake, we stopped for some tea at a tea shop absorbed the fantastic artwork surrounding us, including vibrant paintings and classic ceramic tea sets. Our Asian-French waitress whose daughter looked like a porcelain doll somehow convinced us to split a “small cookie” with our beverages. I began to realize that refusing food in France would become impossible, and I would need to adopt an attitude like Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love, while she lives in Rome for four months.

The dark cave is the shower.

Because of the proximity to our hotel and casual vibe, we decided to dine at Le Verre Tige, which advertised itself as a wine bar in English. Deciding whether to drink sparkling or tap water, I asked our waiter if the tap water in Le Mans was good. He responded, “I don’t know. I don’t drink water.” And, why would a Frenchman who has access to the finest wines in the world? Over a bottle of rosé, I enjoyed my waiter’s creation (a very fancy very savory open faced grilled cheese sandwich with tomato sauce and greens) and an apple tarte tatin (the French’s version of apple pie, a nonnegotiable at any restaurant). Stuffed to the brim, we went on a short post-dinner walk to awake from our food-induced coma. Without any trouble, I cuddled into my cot, which I had tucked into the inlet surrounding the window, and drifted off into a slumber resembling Van Gough’s “Starry Night.”

I know it's cliché, but this picture so perfectly captures the eloquence of France.