The Filming of Hallmark’s Moriah’s Lighthouse! An Author’s Journey (Part 4)
April 2 Saturday
Today my jet lag really kicks in and slams me to the ground. Disoriented and exhausted, I nap, eat some cookies that the Airbnb hostess left us, and nap some more. I am grateful that Derek insisted we build a two-day cushion into our schedule before arriving on set.
Later that night, we find a small Greek restaurant nearby. They speak no English and we speak no Greek. They are too busy to go back and forth via our Google Translate phone ap, so we basically point at a numbered menu on the wall and hope for the best. The food is not memorable, but it is filling. Everything feels alien and confusing to me still, and I just want to go back to bed.
April 3 Sunday
It’s Sunday morning and suddenly I’m a new person. We go in search of breakfast. It is a gorgeous day. We find a tiny crepes place on a narrow, steep, street that is run by two sisters. One speaks halting English. We asked if she is the chef, and she says she is a “chef-in-training.”
Since it is Sunday, I had checked ahead of time to see if there was an English-speaking church in the area. I didn’t find any. After breakfast, we walk around the city and accidentally find St. Malo’s church, which is a magnificent cathedral built around 1500. To my surprise, it is open to anyone. We wander in and admire the beautiful stained-glass windows and rest for a while in the folding chairs beneath soaring, vaulted ceilings.
I am impressed with the acoustics in this cathedral. Every little noise is amplified by the stone. Derek encourages me to sing something. No one is there except us, so I do. I did not know he planned to record me, but he did.
Holy, Holy, Holy, is a hymn I learned in the little church where my mother took me as a child. Under the circumstances, it seems appropriate.
Sunday evening, we go in search of food, and end up at a restaurant in the old part of town where the owner is Irish, and we can communicate without relying on Google! He advises us to order the house specialty which turns out to be a giant crepe wrapped around an over-easy egg and a big sausage in the middle. I have trouble eating eggs that aren’t thoroughly cooked, so my son quietly exchanges crepes with me. His egg has gotten broken and accidentally thoroughly cooked.
We are there late, end up being the last ones to leave, and have fun talking with the Irish owner. While we are there, the chef comes out of the back, along with the wife and a neighboring chef. It is obvious that this is a traditional end to their evening, getting together for a few minutes before closing shop.