Deauville Delights

After a generous handful of sunny summer days in the unremarkable invisible month of June, the cloud cover came ominously, sticky and unmoving. In Besançon, the rains came in grey, and we returned begrudgingly to our nippy wet Spring. ‘In Kansas, we don’t have this kind of cool summer’, I repeat on loop to anyone with an opinion on the weather. The dead of July should be suffocatingly warm enough to sleep with only a sheet and a fan, but instead one walks outside to the mild winds of May.

Already a week gone by and the latticed white imprint of sandal straps still highlights the pink-turning-tan of my feet. I now long for that crispy sensation of being cooked by strong sun that I felt with my toes in the sand. Today, packed bags lean against my desk where they rest ready for another six hours on the bus tomorrow morning, Paris-bound again. This week in Besançon I spent squaring affairs and preparing for the pinnacle of our summertime travels, twelve days between the Czech Republic and Germany. France’s generous vacation time makes for active weeks of flurried movement as the country vibrates with trains on tracks and hotel check-ins.

As dutiful Parisians and a predictable part of the hoards hunting beach time, Louigi, his mother, and I threw together a weekend in Deauville only a few weeks in advance. With each reservation made, I see more clearly that vacation planning remains a skill unmastered for even the most experienced travelers. Vacationers more thoughtful than us have already filled all trains heading to the seaside destination from Paris that Saturday morning. Thankfully we find bus tickets for the scenic route. We struggle similarly for lodging, where reserving an Airbnb is suddenly out of the question when we see the prices of rooms already picked over by the early birds. We settle on a pastel hotel only steps from the sand, prioritizing convenience and time over playing it cheap.

With alarms, coffee, and flurried movements of preparation and sack zipping, our intergenerational trio steps quickly to the metro line six, then to the bus terminus Cabourg. Evidently, the bus remains an afterthought to the Deauville types who I now associate with country clubs and the color white, and we have rows to ourselves. Our driver glides us easily into Normandy and the sky grows clear and the fields lushly green. These passing pastures pocked with picturesque villages takes me back to my first few days in France chaperoning a group of students on a tour of Normandy country. We reach the docks of Deauville with time enough to stroll around the city’s miniscule yet bustling center snapping shots of clear skies and smiles.

In a side street jutting off from the central fountained roundabout, we attain a table under parasol cover from which we order decent Italian dishes followed by our habitual afternoon espressos. All three of us have overpacked for our one-night stay, so we slug along the pedestrian-infested district watching chatty vacation gangs dipping in and out of luxury boutiques selling articles of clothing for laughable prices. Instead of paved streets, a seashell pattern has been carefully laid with crisp stones giving the strip the maritime vacation vibe the people pursue.  The manicured lawns and fresh flower beds ensure the spotlessness of this seaside oasis.

Burning time before check-in, we burn our skin to different shades of tan while surveying the state of Deauville beach from the sandy boardwalk stretching seeming miles out along the umbrellas for rent under which we see the leathery elderly and parents entertaining toddlers. Protruding from the paid changing cabins are painted wooden gates boasting Hollywood’s greatest cinematic names. Host of the American Film Festival every summer, Deauville’s Promenade des Planches mimics the original starry walk of fame oceans away.

We see the water lapping up Trouville beach from our top floor house-turned-hotel room. Trouville sits to the North, across the bay filled with recreational ships and booming with seagull shrieks. Oftentimes spoken of as Deauville-Trouville with downtowns close enough for an easy afternoon stroll, the towns retain separate personalities and publics as seen in the streets and dress of their patrons. Finally relieved of our bags and fresh in our bathing suits, our six feet head down to pitch the umbrella and enjoy the late afternoon amid tanning bodies and sandcastles. My partner and I are opposite beachgoers. He wastes no time beelining for the waves riddled with all size children, zagging out of sight from our sand perch further up in the crowd of bright colored beach equipment. His mother and I flip open novels, spines to the sand. Later, to head back to the hotel, we take the boardwalk up along the gorgeous seaside residences decorated with Alsatian woodwork and impressive brick towers.

Trouville’s restaurant strip buzzes alive along the ocean’s inlet looking out to Deauville lights. We find seats at a crêperie claiming Brittany style crêpes, those savory with the sides folded into a center of cheeses, eggs, meats, and more. Across from mother and son I see the sun setting slowly on the bright dusk of the North, reminding me again of my first French days in Caen and the circadian adjustment. The fall of day creeps so slowly that Louigi and I have enough time to get back out to the near empty beach with just the last glimmers of blue-orange reflection falling behind the horizon. We stroll along the wet sand uncovered by the lowering tide already far out beyond us, making sure to avoid the puddles and crabs that litter the dark wet land. Each direction is a photograph of light interacting with the dark – a sky illuminated, an inversed city skyline in lights.

The next morning, we start by crossing back into Deauville’s Southern California setting and hunting a comfortable sandy spot a happy medium between the famous planks and the water’s incoming edge. Like any beach dwelling family, we struggle to pitch the tent, squirm around to share the shade, alternate back and front, and trek to a hotdog stand for a quick lunch. Again, Louigi plays the dolphin by spending long stretches diving under wave after wave. I dip in, then out, going as far as to do a bit of real stroke swimming before retreating to the drying heat of our encampment to pass time in short stories. By late afternoon, the skin on my shoulders pings pain to my brain, although too late to save me from my first annual burn.

We wrap up with freezing rinse showers taken as quickly and awkwardly as possible in front of the audience in line. Redressed and fatigued by the heat and all things beach, we wander back into the posh streets of Deauville’s center until hitting upon a nice dinner spot before out train ride home. We enjoy the winding down of a stunning cloudless day over burgers and fries served on nice plates by friendly vacation-style service. Expensive cars make slow loops around the fountain’s countless jets and the people in all their brands and sunburns seem to follow suit. The sunset glittering in the dock’s waters and window reflections provides the warm feeling of time well spent and an excellent sunsetting to our first family weekend away.   

Next up, our trip to the Czech Republic and Germany!

Emily