This is a spotty picspam of my recent trip to France, mostly courtesy of my sister, who takes good photos. I’ve noted my photos, though I don’t think you need the help, since mine are the ones that are terrible.

First, this sign in the little village where we spent the first couple of nights.

That sign says PICNIC FORBIDDEN. Sure, they know it’s a picturesque meadow beside a river, but if you lay down ONE gingham tablecloth, they will take you OUT. France is not kidding about this. It will TURN THIS MEADOW AROUND RIGHT NOW.

And now, Rouen.

This is what the road to Rouen looks like:

Spindly trees overgrown with mistletoe, a chilly rain either falling or just about to fall, and nothing else for miles. Normandy: most elegant apocalypse ever.

And now, Rouen! A town so badass the clock only needs one hand.

Rouen was a bustling medieval city back in the day, and a lot of those buildings are either still hanging in there from back in 12mumbletymumble or are designed to look like it:

Here, a rare picture I took that actually came out:

The covered well at the center of the courtyard of Aitre St. Maclou, the plague cemetery that’s now an art school. School wasn’t in session the day we went, so it was stone quiet. While I was taking pictures, a tourist family bustled in, looked around, went suddenly quiet, and shuffled quickly out. (It’s a little creepy once you know the place used to be stuffed to the roof with bodies, I guess.)

Photo Interlude! These are pictures my sister takes when she goes to France:

These are the pictures I take when I go to France:

You guys, it’s The Warriors. I JUST MISSED THIS SCREENING.

Non-Photo Interlude: Between the two of us, there’s not one decent picture of the Gros Horloge (from the French: Enormous Astronomical Clock with Only One Hand Because Back Then People Only Needed to Be Vaguely On Time Since You Only Lived to Thirty-Five Anyway, So Why Sweat the Small Stuff). The only picture I managed of it was taken during the Great Norman Earthquake of 2009, so that was a bust. Please know it exists and it is very lovely.

Down the street from the Gros Horloge is a McCafe. Say what you will about the demons of globalization, and there is a lot to say, but that place had free Wi-Fi and it was open past 5pm, so, +2 McCafe.

For the curious, here’s what a cup of coffee or a hot chocolate looks like in a French McCafe:

Not pictured: the tiny chocolates that came on each saucer. (France: not messing around.)

Empty cups:

Clockwise from top left: coffee plus chair makes your hair stand up; cake plus time makes you happy; cake plus a muffin makes you very happy; coffee plus giving someone the Vulcan Nerve Pinch makes you super happy.

On our way out of town we saw a carnival that had been set up on the riverbank. Because I was with my sister, it meant one thing: Ferris wheel.

[Redacted: picture of me looking like an idiot on a Ferris wheel.]

From the Ferris wheel, you had a good view of the city…shrouded in fog as the rain came pouring down, so that’s a no-go. What we did get a view of was this little bugger:

It doesn’t look like much, except that you go down it in little teacup-style cars one at a time, and after the first turn they spin uncontrollably, and squeals of delight turn to genuine screams as the passengers realize they are on a trip of vomitous horror. Yay, Crazy Mouse!

This is not the last you’ll see of this carnival; the pictures from the next day are amazing. (Never fear, this probably will not go day by day, mostly because I can’t keep anything straight more than 72 hours after the fact.)