We ended up in Caan. Ya know, where the rich and famous go to watch movies of themselves. Deb  and I were actually headed to Caen on the channel coast, the opposite side of the country.  Oops!  Tip: Always verify when being helped by an Italian.   We made for Caen from Caan on the night train, routing first through Paris. Then with a train change, on to Caen and Omaha beach the next mourning. Ending up in Caan was a serendipitous event. It meant we had to take a night train to Paris as the first leg of our journey to Caen. Ya know  Caen,, during WWII “Monty” (the head British General in WWII) flattened 80% of the city to take it from the Germans. But they still love us in spite of the damage. (Their attitude toward the British is a bit strained).

Long story short: The night train adventure turned out to be the most delightful episode in our trip across France. Deb and I spent much of the night visiting with our birth companions. The casting was subtle and brilliant in this little vignette. We had a dowdy middle age teacher and a beautiful young French couple sharing our  sleeper.   It was a delightful night. And the dawn was met as the “beautiful couple”  I and compared notes on our respective countries and whiled away the miles with neat little  farm cottages slipping past our window.

Contrary to popular belief, the French loved us. And we loved them.    As a matter of fact, while we were on the channel coast we were treated like  family. The sense of gratitude  that prevailed in the hedgerow country was incense in the air..

Well, it seems that night train travel is in jeopardy. Just Klikdapik and all will be revealed.



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