The last time I ambled along the D-day beaches in Normandy, I was sixteen years old and surrounded by a small group of garrulous students. We toured the memorials, posed for awkward group photos, indulged in traditional French fare and trolled the proverbial souvenir shops for disposable mementos. But my greatest keepsake wasn’t the t-shirt or wall-hanging I’ve since misplaced that sealed the experience but rather the firsthand exposure to French culture. Everywhere from Chartres to Mont St. Michel with a stop in Paris in between held powerful sway over me long after I returned from the trip. So much so that I began to envision an entirely different course for my future. There were gaping holes in my ambition but I wanted life to lead me to France. Four years later, it did.

So when we began to plan a weekend away with another couple, who are far better traveled in France than we are, I was particularly keen on returning to Normandy. For my birthday several years ago, C took me on a day trip to Deauville, Trouville and Honfleur which was hardly enough time to eat the region’s bounty of apples, butter, cream, and salted caramel. Last weekend, we more than…

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