Bayeux.

It was a dark and stormy night, and our travelers could tell by the ropes of rain thumping their window that the weather had turned. Thankfully by morning it was merely overcast so Logic Bob made an executive decision and declared, "Today: Bayeux!"

So off they shuffled to the Gare SCNF to buy a ticket aller-retour to Bayeux, the one Normandy city that was miraculously not bombed into a pile of rubble during the debarquement aux plages when the Allied forces decided it was time to get a toe hold in France and push the Germans back to their homeland. The station agent, having heard Bob's French took the extra step of writing the train's terminus city of Coutonce on Bob's ticket to help him find his way to the track. Feeling a bit like he was labeled "If found please send towards Coutonce"—Bob ambled off for le train.

A quick 15 minutes later they disembarked at the charming town of Bayeux. Low clouds gathered with a vicious wind out of the west as our heroes walked to the Tourist Office for a plan du ville. While inside, the first of many storms blew in. Angry wind and lashing rain spewed its contempt and a decision was made: the day would be best spent inside the Museum de la Bataille de Normandie.

Making their way to the museum, Foo and Bobbers whiled away the hours learning about the monumental effort and sacrifice that was D-Day (Jour-J, in France). The exhibits were stunning and it was everything Bob could do to keep Foo off the artillery. Steeped in history, they learned about the landing as the Allies made their fitful way off the beaches and into northern France. They learned about the massive logistics involved in moving over 1 million men and material to launch and sustain the push. In a word: phenomenal.

Did you know that an oil pipe was strung across the channel once Cherbourg had been taken to supply fuel to the tank battalions? Well neither did Foo.

After the museum things took a turn for the somber as Bob and Foo crossed over to the British Cemetery. Yet another storm blew in while they were walking the rows; many markers simply read, "A Soldier of the Second World War—Known Unto God." It was hard to tell if it was rain or tears that dripped from their faces as they stood there, taking it all in.

Tummies rumbled, so they trudged their soggy selves to town for a crepe complete, with another one of those sketchily cooked eggs that Foo deplores. A tour of the Catherdral Notre Dame followed, then an amble along the River Aure.

But the rain was relentless and they decided it was best that they head back to Caen to dry themselves off. Already thinking of a dinner of Indian food.