Here, in the Old Marketplace of Rouen, Le Vieux Marche;
Today living and thriving, full of flowers and fountains,
Children laughing, dogs barking, tables stacked with regional specialties (that’s pressed duck in blood sauce and sheep’s knuckles to you),
Just a few steps from the old pagan clock, a fat medieval masterpiece,
Clicking its way through hours, weeks, moons, to the tune of purse vendors, glass hawkers, gold sellers,
Under leaning, creeping houses of sherbet colors, on a narrow street of wide cobblestones,
By the crumbling cathedral bombed by the Germans (or was it the Allies?)
It impressed old Claude anyway,
More moving for me, the Plague Cemetery,
With carvings deep in dark wood for “eternity,”
Of skulls, bones, shovels, coffins, and such,
The dance of the macabre (black cats would agree)
Yes, this was the best of Rouen for me; the Death,
For
Here in Le Vieux Marche, in 1431,
A young girl was burned and not by the sun,
But by the Church she believed in, she fought for and bled for,
She kicked out the English and united a France,
But she spoke straight to God and wore men’s pants!
So this warrior woman, just 19 years old,
Was auto-da-fe where tomatoes were sold.
Joan of Arc, you have my heart;
Your voices were your truth,
Coming from deep inside of you,
Your actions were true, and your death was a lie,
You’re a hero to France, and for you,
Rouen sighs.
Rouen is one of the best preserved medieval towns in Normandy, sitting on the banks of the Seine river just a couple of hours north of Paris by rail or car. The half-timber buildings overhanging the narrow streets create a village feel straight from the Middle Ages, and you find yourself looking around for peasants pulling carts and yelling “Bring out yer dead!” The Plague Cemetery is a thrilling example of a medieval ossuary, and the Astronomical Clock on the main street in Rouen has not stopped moving since 1389. The Cathedral of Rouen was studied by Claude Monet who painted the church at different times of day in order to capture the effect of light on perspective, long before the building was bombed out in the Allied invasion of Normandy during World War II. Joan of Arc, along with many other innocent human beings, was burned alive at the stake (auto-da-fe) in the middle of the Old Marketplace.
You can still see the remains of the rock wall which sheltered the market stall from the flames.
into island Shilo (like island Barbie but much smarter) about twenty minutes after I got here: no makeup, no jewelry, and no shoes; time and schedules mean nothing, I haven’t brushed my hair since I arrived, I shower only to wash off the salty South Pacific, and wear just a swimsuit and a sarong. I have been camping on the western beaches and spending my days exploring every inch of the volcanic isle by means of le truck, the local transportation. It is a flatbed pick-up truck which functionsas a bus but with no real stops; you just flag it down when you want to hop on and yell when you are ready to get off.
fish. Moorea is composed of jagged black volcanic peaks, like a shark got punched in the mouth, jutting up between two bays, one being Cook’s Bay where the Captain landed. The whole island is covered with dripping green vegetation, coconut and mango trees, and giant flowers in every color of the rainbow and then some. The soft beaches are whiter than my blindingly pale Anglo skin, streams undoubtedly lead to jungle-hidden waterfalls, and I hike through clouds to reach insane vistas of an 
exotic world. It is surreal; a place this beautiful can’t really exist, right? I would think I had slipped into some sort of alternate universe if it wasn’t for Eminem blasting out of the speakers in this café, jolting me back to “the real world”. Ha!
speak English and I have rarely heard the native dialect spoken, just a twice in the marketplace. The street signs, gendarmes, post boxes, radio stations (N-R-J!), cars, and grocery store brands (Leaderprice) are exactly the same as the ones in France. Along the waterfront in Papeete are sidewalk cafes with names like Les Trois Brasseurs with dark green plastic wicker chairs and tiny round tables that Paris would be proud to boast, serving a wide selection of French wines and excellent espresso.The result is a perfect little slice of French culture set in a background of sunny skies, bizarre tropical flowers, and seashell-covered beaches. I think I’m in love!
alone I find almost everyone here to be helpful; the men sometimes too much so. The women however offer me plenty of genuine advice and comfort with an interesting mixture of pity and envy. I am getting along just fine, staying safe, and relishing every moment.
Fahrenheit with 100 percent humidity, I have dozens and dozens of mosquito bites on my legs, and there are families of wild chickens and gangs of scratch-happy dogs EVERYWHERE which sounds really cool until they simultaneously start going berserk at 2 AM. But if I ever drop off the face of the earth and can’t be found- you know where to look!
Keep traveling and slay those dragons,
