It’s 8:00pm, and I’m pressed against the car window transfixed, like a six year old who’s just seen the most enormous ice cream cone. But this is no giant confectionary delight, this is Deauville at night.
Lights capturing perfectly the criss-cross of wood placed on the building walls in quintessential Normandy style architecture, street lights casting golden glows on the cobblestone streets.
The SUV takes a roundabout, and right there in front of me is the most majestic building. I don’t even have to squint to read the ornate lettering across the front door, her name is Marie. Le Marie just stands there, picturesque, gazing right back at me, like she’s used to being gawked at. A few other tourists are taking pictures of her, the flashing lights of their cameras adding to Marie’s allure. “This is probably what heaven must look like”, I muse.
I tear my face away from the glass window long enough to look around the interior of the car, “Am I the only one amazed by this?” I am not. Hadrien also has a huge grin on his face, his blond hair bobbing back and forth as he tries to focus on both his driving and the view on both sides of the road. “Max, this is beautiful, no?” he says in his amicably thick French accent. I can’t speak, my face is back to being pressed against the glass as I take in the brightly lit stores, one in particular displaying the most exquisitely tailored designer clothing, the Hermés Store.
I am taken by surprise, this feeling of awe. Only nature makes me feel this way. I feel an explicable stab of guilt which is immediately overshadowed by a renewed sense of stupefaction as the coast line materializes in the distance. I turn, and there’s the sea. This town has it all, miles upon miles of clear water reflecting Deauville’s nightlights. The shore is lined with dozens of yachts, the insignia of the wealthy inhabitants of heaven on earth.
They say that France is beautiful, her cities, breath-taking. “They” are not wrong. This tiny gem with only roughly 4,000 inhabitants, boasts the most intricately designed houses, clear masterpieces of Art deco. Deauville is like a socialite, always hosting or being a part of several elitist or culturally imbued events. She reigns supreme in the equestrian arts and has been hosting film festivals since 1975. My inner romantic preens at the thought of Michael Douglas meeting Catherine Zeta Jones for the first time at the Deauville American Film Festival in 1999. Just as I think about this, I look up to see a billboard promoting The 44th International Film Festival, this time, in September. I smile, like the town and I are old friends sharing a private joke and Deauville just read my mind.
I think I’m in love. I feel butterflies.
This Exploration.
This Learning.
This Enrichment.
This is why I travel. This is why I am nomadic at heart.
