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by a lorry bearing down on us. Suddenly, everything was brand new once again.
    The Normandy coast was everything we had hoped it would be. The traffic was well behaved, and with idyllic green pastures on our right, blue surf on our left, and the wind to our backs, who could ask for anything more? When lunchtime came, we found a small market along the main road.
    September peeked in the window. “There’s not a soul in there.”
    â€œNot to worry,” I said. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty more.”
    And there were. Every few miles we came to another market or restaurant, all shuttered for the afternoon siesta. “These business hours are highly irritating,” I remarked after striking out three times in a row.
    Taking it in stride, September asked, “Who wants an apple sandwich?”
    Attempting to rewrite history I replied, “If you would have only listened, we could have picked something up in Cherbourg while we had the chance.”
    â€œDad can have the apple core,” Katrina suggested.
    â€¢ • •
    The French are dedicated vacationers. We found a campground in virtually every town, no matter how tiny, and the anxiety we’d experienced in England over finding places to camp for the night simply melted away. Yet campgrounds are where we got acquainted with Irritating French Quirk number two: You are expected to carry your own toilet paper and soap into a public restroom. And many public toilets, um, how to put this delicately … do not have seats. You are expected to squat without making physical contact.
    September came out of the facilities clearly irked.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I asked.
    â€œNo T.P., no soap, and no toilet seats! Did these people just move out of caves?” I was somewhat taken aback at September’s indignation; she is usually much more charitable.
    It took us a few days to determine that no soap or T.P. and seatless toilets were a bona fide trend. If we wanted to be hygienic in France, we would have to carry our own supplies, and … well, you don’t really want to know. There is such a thing as too much information:
    Â 
    TMI; (noun .) Acronym Too Much Information. 1. The dissemination of information that is unwanted by the recipient; may be intentional or unintentional. Etymology: originated among groups of people living in close quarters, such as tents, for extended periods. Ex.: “I have a severe rash and an itch right where …” “ACK! TMI! I don’t want to know where your itch is!”
    Two weeks after leaving David and Carolyn’s, we were finally working into a routine. Our days started with an hour of math every morning before we hit the road. September and I traded off teaching duties with the duties of breaking camp and packing up. On a good day we were pedaling by 11:00 a.m.
    As each day progressed, we were sure to find a local Co-Op (a budget grocery store) before it closed for the afternoon. The utilitarian ham sandwich became our dietary staple since ham doesn’t spoil easily. We then spread out our tent footprint in a park or a roundabout and dined on warm ham sandwiches on squished bread that had been fermenting for a day at the bottom of a pannier.
    At night we simply reversed the morning procedure; either September or I would set up camp while the other acted as teacher, covering the history of the area we were going through. This usually meant having the kids read a book about the area, and then talking about it. After writing in our journals, it was off to bed.
    A few days’ cycling from Cherbourg brought us to the D-Day beaches of Normandy. I recalled the first time I had read about the Allied invasion for a high school history class, feeling as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs and struggling to breathe. Since that time I had read many such accounts, and that feeling never changed.
    From the commanding heights on top of the cliffs, we had