The Normandy Chronicles: Day Two: Octopussy

Well, that blog post title ought to bring me some traffic.
After our lovely visit to Chateau Miromesnil, I got excited by the prospect of seeing the sea again and maybe eating some fresh fish at a beachside restaurant.
OK, who am I kidding? I had no idea where we were going because I never ask Galadriel. I just wait for her to deliver me unto the next amazing and delicious place, sitting slack-jawed in the passenger seat of our miniature rental car while she drives with eight guide books in her lap and tries to strike a balance balance between doing her job and showing me something that will make me go, "Jumpin' Jehovah's witness! Ah never done seen nothin' lahk that in mah whole doggone lahf." Or something like that.
And that's almost what I said when she took me to Le Tréport and Mers-les-Bains, two seaside villages that are very pretty but the most unfriendly place in France, je pense. Even if they do have very pretty, gingerbready, San Franciscoish, Mexican-colored houses.
We walked along the boardwalk, looking for a nice place to sit and look at the sea and eat some fresh seafood. Good luck with that. Especially when it's after 2pm and all of France refuses to serve you food. Even though Octopussy lured us in with its suggestive sign, all they would serve us were the local gallettes, or savory crepes filled with ham or cheese or both.
I hate to compare America to France, because America generally loses, but in this case, I thought about any coastal town in America, right coast or left coast, and if there are humanoids walking along the beach, restaurants will be serving their full menu. It seemed incredible to me that at 3pm we couldn't sit somewhere, stare out at the sea and have a drink and eat some fish. At least in this case, the score must be Dirty Capitalists 1, Dirty Socialists 0.
At one point, we saw an outdoor seating area, with people having drinks, and walked across the street to the entrance of the restaurant attached to it. Blocking the door, in cop stance (meaty arms folded across ample chest, bulky legs seemingly rooted into the carpet, head tilted up and back, eyes glaring), was the restaurant owner. "Can we get some seafood and drinks and sit outside and eat?" "No." That was it. No. We could have drinks, but no food. We said thanks (God knows why) and that we'd look for another place and continued down to the other end of the boardwalk.
At the very last restaurant, which was directly on the beach, we walked in and asked if we could have drinks and food. The girls behind the counter looked at us in disgust. How ignorant could we be? They didn't say, "Oh we're so sorry, but the chef is gone." They just said no and looked at us like we were very wrong in the head.
Hungry and sad (kind of like these doggies in the posters that were ALL along the boardwalk - rough translation: "Dog Poop: It's not up to them to collect it." - those little signs they're carrying are the total of poops they're guilty of dropping), we started back towards the car. As we passed Monsieur Méchant (translation: Mister Evil - from the title of a French horror movie), he was standing in his beach-side cafe, gloating. "I told you that you wouldn't find any food." I don't know what Galadriel said to him, but I know it was good. Most likely mean, but ever so polite.
As we drove away, we felt like we had been in a horror movie ourselves. Like we had accidentally stepped into The Twilight Zone.
In retrospect, it's apparent that the people of Le Tréport and Mers-les-Bains are much more concerned about the poop scooping, feeding and watering of their dogs (as seen in the photo to the left, where they even have a name for their dog-watering bar), than they are about any outsiders who enter....The Twilight Zone. In your mind's ear, hear the voice of Rod Serling as he says: There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.
Don't worry, though. We escaped back to the real world where we stumbled upon a medieval castle that was closing, so we couldn't visit (and I was disappointed because I was so sure Rapunzel draped her flaxen braids from this very same castle's windows), but whose gatekeeper restored our faith in mankind (with the help of a certain local alcoholic beverage) and Galadriel got her dress all wet. And then, we found what became, at least for this first B&B inspection trip (we're currently on our third), was the best place we stayed. So, stay tuned for the next segment in our continuing series of The Normandy Chronicles.