Chuck Dreams of Love while in Honfleur

Honfleur - the loveliest of port cities with the old buildings in the foreground

 

                  I admit that I can’t and never will be able to read Chuck’s mind. Why he wants to come to Honfleur, this very popular tourist attraction in France, I can’t say.  I know why I want to be here.  

Honfleur is one of those unique places where you feel you’ve stepped back in time. Yes, the shops are modern.  You can see cars, etc.  That’s not what I mean.  In Honfleur, the essence of the place hasn’t changed.  The place that Monet came to paint over a hundred years ago is still here, waiting to be captured by the eye or the brush. 

Located near the Seine River, in northwestern France, Honfleur is the lovliest of port towns with a rich historic importance. What attracts me is the role the town played in the arts. Honfleur has been called the birthplace of Impressionism.  Monet came to this enchanted place to paint, and by doing so, he started the movement--encouraging artists to get out of their studios and into the light. 

Why this city is called the birthplace of Impressionism

As Chuck and I stand near the port, we are struck by the world we see: the lovely old brown buildings which contrast with the brightly painted timber framed architecture that is also so prevalent in this town . . . the ancient carousel . . . the bright red and yellow cloth awnings on the buildings . . . the gray wood of the stairways . . . the glistening blue water in the port . . . the white skinny boats . . . the cobblestone streets and walkways . . . the plaid blankets . . . the blue skies with the white clouds . . . the Church of St. Catherine built with a roof that looks like a boat. 

An ancient - turn of the century carousel

Timber frame house

Historic hotel

This town, thankfully was never bombed during World War II.  

A typical lunch is a crepe and a glass of cider, either dry or sweet.  After all, this is Calvados country, that lovely liquor made from French apples.

Where Chuck and I had our lunch

Tourists take in the sights.  They shop.  They eat.  Chuck relaxes beside me as I enjoy my crepe.  The sun is out full force.  It bounces off the water.  

Suddenly, I know why Chuck wanted to come to Honfleur.  He wanted some time to relax and dream.  I have this plaid blanket that he’d laying on, all comfy.  Eyes are closed.  No one is bothering with him.  Everyone must assume he’s a French cat.  

Monsieur Charles de Honfleur dreams of sailing on a skinny French boat with a lovely French cat while eating caviar and French fries.  

Oh yeah.   

Chuck Plots to Meet French Girls

         The jaunt to see Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower didn’t work out, and by the time Chuck was back in our hotel room, we should have known he would already be plotting his next move, but as he was resting peacefully on the bottom of our bed, we didn’t give it a second thought.   

         The next morning we had plans to travel to Deauville, a charming seaside resort town two hours from Paris--very picturesque--and we decided it would be a good way to end our trip to France, as Chuck’s nerve were shot after the Eiffel Tower debacle.  

        Or so we thought.

        That evening as we were getting ready for dinner, we noticed that Chuck was acting strange.

        “Where is he?” I asked Bob.

        “Gazing out the window.”

        “What?”

        Chuck was no sightseer, and if he had his nose pressed up against the panes--looking outside-it was for one reason only--he was either gazing at food or pretty girls.

        Sure enough--our room happened to be on the second floor, overlooking a small restaurant.  Couples were sitting outside at quaint tables, drinking wine and eating from what appeared to be silver buckets filled with some kind of black shell fish.  

        But Chuck wasn’t looking at the couples.

        One table was occupied with girls gathered around a number of these silver buckets.  

        “Chuck, what are you looking at?”

        Of course, Chuck never answers direct questions.  

        “I see,” I said, but of course I didn’t.

        Was he looking at the girls or the buckets?  Or both?  What was this rascally cat up to?

        Bob sauntered over.  “So what will it be?”

        We got one of the last tables, and by pure chance landed a waiter who spoke one word of English.

       “Mussels,” the garcon said by way of explanation.  

        We ordered a bucket of steamed mussels, and I have to admit that when they arrived, they smelled delicious.  There was only one problem.   

       “We need some kind of knife to open these mussels with,” I said to Bob.

       “Do you speak French?” Bob said, hoping to make a small point. 

        Just as I was about to say something smart back, Chuck sprang into action.  He hopped onto the table and scooped a mussel out of the bucket and somehow managed to crack it open using pure brute strength.  Then he took the shell from the broken mussel and using it as a tool, pried open the second mussel.

       “Wow,” I said.   “How did you learn to do that?”

       Chuck pointed.

       Sure enough, most of the smarter French people around us were doing the exact same thing, even the very chic French women.

       Then one of the girls at the table near us saw Chuck, and yeah, you guessed it, it took exactly two seconds for Chuck to hop over there and perform the same cat trick to their girlish amazement.  

       Chuck became the instant hero.

       “I just don’t know how he does it.”  

       “Yeah, it’s humiliating,” Bob said, “when you know you’re not even smarter than a cat.”