Guilt and Rouen

A funny through-line of my life is that I always seem to be inadvertently interested in Joan of Arc.  She has been the subject of book reports, the impetus for at least one short story, and an easy reference for a certain look Bean gets on her face when she's staring off at invisible entities in the air, the type that only present themselves to lady cat saints.  So, it's fitting that Katie and I, on our brief and frightening tour of Normandy and Brittany, haphazardly chose Saint Joan's city of execution as our first night's stay.

Rouen is the capital of Haute Normandy, or High Normandy, which I think is called this because it's higher up than Low Normandy on the map.  Also, it may have more land features.  It's the biggest city, and a hit on the backpackers' trail because it has a metro and a major train station running through it.  Otherwise remarkable about Rouen is its narrowly-escaped-complete-firebombing-destruction gothic cathedral, and its myriad half-timber homes, many of which now host institutions such as McDonalds and Claire's Boutique on the street level, and many of which create spooky alleys that you can still imagine medieval cardinals scrambling between en route to unanimously deciding to thumbscrew an unfortunate heretic.

The story of Joan of Arc's burning has this part where she asks two of the more sympathetic members of the church to hold a giant cross in the air in front of her so that she can focus on it instead of the pain she will be in.  Now, in the square where all of this happened, there is a giant cross monument, a strange 70s-style chapel and market area, a small stone statue of the penitent saint and a garden and some foundation stones marking out where the original scaffolding sat.  This square was likely the execution spot for scores of persecuted martyrs, as it was, and is, a quick walk from the Palace of Justice (and an equally quick walk from our hotel); but Joan of Arc, being the patron saint of France, and having the nearly unbelievable tale of being called to command an army in her teens, is really the only one who gets any touristic play.  See below.  The entrance to a wax museum dedicated to her life and times.  The choice of material seems somewhat thoughtlessly made.

I mention all of this to you because we decided to have the first official meal of our French vacation in this square at a bistro version of a restaurant started by a Michelin starred chef.  And we did not go small.  White asparagus and a bottle of wine and seared fish and pork cheek and some crazy chocolate egg mousse thing that defintitely, definitely tested our digestive tracks but tasted incredible, like something thou shalt not consume according to some holy book, certainly.

This square, the Place de Vieux Marche, is beautiful and filled with restaurants though, so we weren't so callous as to choose it outright, as in-- "Katie, you know what would be great? If we could have a huge dinner overlooking the site where Joan of Arc was martyred.  Two birds!"  No, that wasn't it.  But though my back was to the scene, I couldn't help but feel, on this, the eve of my 30th birthday, as my subconscious mulled over the idea that a nineteen year old girl could be sentenced to death for wearing men's clothing some six hundred years ago (heck, it probably still happens today and closer to me than I'd care to think), that I better have something to show for my soft little life and soon.