After a disappointing week in Paris, Mrs. Sloucho and I took the train to Mont Saint Michel, where we had reservations at the Saint-Auberge Hotel for the night of March 21, our anniversary. The omens were all very negative, but our timing could not have been any better.

According to our guidebook, the best way to get to Mont Saint Michel (hereafter MSM) was to take the train to Pontorson. But I'm not sure how reliable our guidebook was, since it listed the train fare at 235 francs. Unfortunately, that low price is only available for one-way fares, the kind of fares paid by men who intend to join the monastery at Mont Saint Michel. Since Mrs. Sloucho and I were going to the island to celebrate our anniversary (and not to make a commitment to monastic life), the price we paid was more than quadruple that listed in the guidebook. We not only had to purchase return tickets, but were obliged to pay for a TGV upgrade since the only train headed for Pontorson that day was a TGV. (In other words, my advice is to look into train schedules well in advance--unless you think $250 is a fair price for a three-hour train ride.)

When we took our seats on the train, I was in no mood to hear what the Englishman across the aisle from Mrs. Sloucho and me had to say about Mont Saint Michel.

"It's crap," he announced, pointing at the cover of the guidebook we were reading.

"What's that?" I asked, hoping that he was talking about the guidebook that had only so recently led me astray--and not about our destination.

"You folks are going to Mont Saint Michel?"

"Yes."

"You could have saved yourselves the trip. It's crap."

"Really?"

"Total crap. One huge monument to the cupidity and the frivoloity of the French aristocracy."

I hate it when people use big words to tell me something that I don't want to hear. Somehow it makes them seem as if they know what they're talking about. "Huh," I said, thinking back to the work-related deaths at Versailles, "whaddya know about that!"

"It's just an amazing, galling celebration of the exploitation of the French peasantry: a gigantic turd sitting out in the ocean on a rock that must have been clean once. Of course," he added somewhat obligatorily, "you might think differently. Different people, different tastes."

"Yes. Different tastes. I hope so," I said. "This train ride has cost me enough."

MSM did not in the least disappoint me. From the moment I saw it through the window of the cab that we took from the Pontorson Station, I was impressed. It bore no resemblance, so far as I could tell, to a turd.

Mrs. Sloucho and I were checked into our hotel by 6:30. Because we had come during the off-season, we were paying less than seventy dollars for three beds, a double bathroom, and a view of the sea. I was extremely impressed with everything about our room in the Hotel Saint-Auberge. Short of the guest room at the abbey, I don't doubt that it was the best room on the island.

Nestled into the coastal crevice between Brittany and Normandy, MSM is connected to mainland France until the tide comes in. And when it comes in and cuts you off from the rest of the world, well that's just a pretty darn cuddly sensation. Do not settle for a daytrip to MSM. If you wait for the tide to go out so that you can visit the abbey and then skedaddle before the tide comes back in, you are missing the entire point. Watching the tide come in from the mainland is probably interesting; watching it come in from the island itself is nothing less than breathtaking. It comes in far more quickly than one expects; although the island is tiny, you can easily miss the swamping of the shore if you wander from one vantage point to another. We watched, slackjawed, as we were embraced by the ocean and shortly thereafter felt as if we had the entire island to ourselves.

The mass departure from the island as it became too dark to see the sea left the two of us alone on the ramparts. I do not mean that we were 'practically' or 'virtually' or 'for-all-intents-and-purposes' alone. I mean we were entirely alone. The only people left on the island were the monks and the workers at hotels and restaurants--and they were all competing for our patronage. As the only tourists, we were the only game in town. The weather on MSM must usually be awful in late March, but we had a beautiful evening and a beautiful night walking up and down the main street of MSM, listening to the water lapping against our island fortress.

At 9, after inspecting as much of the island as was accessible to us after nightfall, we decided to eat at the Saint-Auberge restaurant because of the pleading look in the eyes of our concierge. The chef's special menu, the only six-course meal we had in France, cost us $50 each. We had kir normande, champagne, red wine, a toast hors d'oeuvre, smoked salmon, lobster, lamb chops, salad with goat cheese, and dessert (chocolate mousse and a caramel custard). With the exception of the salmon, the meal was excellent, but that review belongs in another place.

We rose from our table at 11 and strolled around the island for I have no idea how long. It wasn't just strolling, though; it was foreplay. I can't say why, exactly, but there is definitely something romantic about being the only visitors on an island fortress off the coast of France on your anniversary.

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The next morning, we both took long, leisurely baths. We went downstairs just in time for our continental breakfasts. Then we hiked up to the abbey to attend a mass in the Chapel of the Thirty Candles. The singing was interesting even though it was in French. The rest was just French.

After the mass, we split up. Mrs. Sloucho made her way back to the shops near our hotel and bought souvenirs for the folks back home as I walked every single pathway that I could find. I wanted to see the abbey and the sea from every possible angle. I thought the place was magical--for a turd at least.

We ate lunch at our hotel because Mrs. Sloucho--having found a French restaurant that she actually enjoyed--couldn't help clinging to it with all of the ferocity she could muster. Then we grabbed our bags and headed to Pontorson on the 4 o'clock bus. We caught our train for Paris and were back at the Gare Montparnasse just after 8.

The City of Lights had been a disappointment to us before our trip to MSM; but now it was positively oppressive. Paris, I think, is a city for single people. That must be its charm. When you go to Paris as a single person looking for romance, it must be easy to persuade yourself that you are doing something new even though you are only doing the same old thing with a different vocabulary. MSM, on the other hand, is for couples. It is the most magical place for couples that I know.



Recommended: Yes

Best Time to Travel Here: Mar - May