Saint-Malo

« La ville close ouverte au monde » (literally, the closed city open to the world), Saint-Malo, France's first Britain community established in 1308, seems to have leaped from a sea of rocks to secure its place in maritime and world history. While the French professor in me wants to tell you about Chateaubriand, the father of French romanticism, born in Saint-Malo in 1768, the North American in me wants to tell you about Jacques Cartier who sailed from Saint-Malo's coast and eventually down the Saint-Laurent to discover Canada. History aside, there's more I'd like to tell you about my visit.

Eric and I drove to Saint-Malo from Rennes; it took less than an hour and I was very happy with my driving (French drivers make me nervous… but less and less every day now that I made the leap to behind the wheel). We were able to take the car inside the walled city and park! This event came as a surprise to Eric for two reasons: one, Andrew parallel parked the car with only inches to spare and paid homage to the American drivers who are not limited to wide open Mall-of-America spaces, and two, parking was free. No parking in Marseille is free.

Within just a minute or two, we were up on the walls of the city and taking in the best views I've had in France since my arrival. The tide was on its way out and the sun was shining down on us (another surprise for the both of us this time). We made it almost entirely around the city before we eventually descended to street level where the wide open views were replaced by a network of narrow streets, tourist shops, crêperies, and biscuits au beurre salé. Eventually it was too much. Too many little stores and too many little cars reluctantly sharing the little cobblestone streets. I knew very well that Saint-Malo was one of France's cities that suffered a pounding of bombs WWII bombs (the city of Brest was perhaps the worst), but I had the impression that, even during this low season, Saint-Malo suffered the pounding of tourists almost year round.

This all changed with our visit of the Saint-Vincent Cathedral. The only cathedral I have seen where, once you walk in, you step down. In fact, by the time you get to the back of the church, you're a good 15 feet lower that when you started. But while stepping down from the walls of the city brought disorder and disarray, stepping down to the back of the church brought peace, calm, and through that, an appreciation for this cathedral and the entire city. It was one of those moments when clarity hits you like a rock. We walked passed Cartier's tomb, flanked by many others, only a few of which were marked. There were memorials to important figureheads of Saint-Malo, and even relics of a Saint. And then, just before leaving the church, there was a display of photos of the cathedral from before, during, and after the WWII bombings. It hit me. This church has suffered so much yet it rose again, not for any tourist, but for those that came to worship. Like the old man on the other side of the church, sitting quietly by himself.

We stepped out of the church and Eric had to reel me in, bring me back to Earth. I was wrapped in thought. Difficult to explain but there was a weight inside of me that centered me for the first time since I've been here. A weight that gave me reason. A weight that told me that a lost suitcase was nothing compared to a cathedral spire that crumbled to the ground because of hate, and now reaches back to the sky because of faith.

I've never been terribly religious but I do enjoy the spiritual experience when it hits me like a rock. Don't you?