fun at le family home.

We arrive at “Le Family Home” just in time for dinner; a communal feast of hearty stew and cornbread laid out on two long banquet tables which, with the tapestries lining the walls above, give the room an ambiance of King Arthur’s Court. The entire hostel is decorated similarly; flags fan out from each of the four turrets, and a knight in armor guards the stairway to our rooms.

Our particular chamber, we are ecstatic to discover, is a loft spanning the top of one of the turrets; its high wooden beams bear flowery patterns matching those of the stained glass windows above. Red velvet cushions line the window seats, birds alight on the neighboring rooftops, and churchbells ring out from the cathedral across the way.

The pink and gold shades of the sunset are creating a warm glow in the room, reflecting colors from the stained glass windows onto the wooden beams. Dee-Dee is nestled on the window seat, looking out across the rooftops. Megan, Chastity, Olivia and I are squeezed onto the top of one bunk, and Bonne is perched across from us on another. We're all in pajamas, faces scrubbed clean of make-up, hair still damp and smelling of flowery shampoo.

We're ready for a girly sleepover, a night of telling stories of first loves and most embarrassing moments, of sharing dreams and aspirations, and bonding in our fairy-tale garret far above the others, on one of our last weekends together in France. Megan starts with a truth or dare posed to Bonne, who is deliberating over which one she wants to pick when we hear someone shuffling up the stairs.

We exchange quizzical looks, but have only a short moment of confusion before the intruding party reveals itself. It's Martha.

"Do you guys mind if I go to bed? I'm really tired," she announces, heading for a lower bunk.

"Right now?!" I can't stop myself from exclaiming. It's not even dark out!

"Yeah. I'm just used to going to bed early."

Slowly, sullenly, we lower ourselves of the top bunks and put on shoes and bras. The injustice of it all is crippling. Why should all six of us have to leave this amazing room just for Martha, when she wasn't invited to be with us in the first place?! Fuming, we stalk down the stairs and into the streets, where we huddle trying to figure out where to go next. We're in pajamas. We look ridiculous. We decide to go to a bar.

The streets of Bayeaux are dark and quiet, and there doesn't seem to be much action going on anywhere. We start to enter one establishment but do an about-face when we realize how well-lit it is.

We are beginning to give up hope and resign ourselves to an evening of Saving Private Ryan when we hear the rumbling bass of rock and roll coming from a bar on the corner.

As we enter, the middle-aged patron approaches us. "This is a private party," he begins, but a smile appears as he takes in the pajamas. "However, I can get you girls a table at the back."

The smell of marijuana engulfs us as we move forward, and looking around, it's like a movie scene out of the sixties coming alive before our eyes. The party guests are long haired, aging hippies dressed in unbuttoned cloth shirts and flowing pants and sandals, jamming on guitars and beating on drums, stamping and dancing and belting out lyrics to the Rolling Stones. There's even a guy who looks like Mick Jagger, a demigod drinking beer and surrounded by women.

As we settle in at our table, a wild-eyed, disheveled man approaches us.

"Avez-vous vu les....." his voice trails off into an indiscernible mumble. Have we seen the.... what? He sways dangerously close to our table then comes full circle and rights himself again.

"Comment, monsieur?" Dee-Dee asks, cupping a hand to her ear dramatically.

But he has abandoned that idea, and is now trying to communicate something else. Beer in one hand, he raises the other arm over his face, leans back slightly, and then peers over it suddenly, eyes wide as an owl. I interpret it as a Batman impression and crack up. He wiggles his eyebrows, pleased that I appreciated the display.

"What is this guy tripping on?" Olivia mutters. Who knows, but he's not the only one elevated to a higher level of consciousness. One woman appears to be in some sort of trance, skipping and stomping around the bar while beating on an imaginary drum.

The patron comes to take our orders. It's juice and soda all around, since Dee-Dee, true to form, slipped a bottle of Vodka into her jacket on the way out. For whatever reason, we decide to pretend it is Olivia's birthday, and inform the man as he returns with our drinks.

"Alors!" He proclaims, and trundles off on a mission. When he returns, he is lugging a microphone.

"Allez," he sets the microphone in front of us, wiping sweat off his brow and grinning proudly, "You sing happy birthday to your friend."

He turns around and motions to the band, who nod and begin to strum out the unmistakable chords to the Beatles hit, and as realization dawns we smile and simultaneously call out, "One, two, three, four," before bursting into song, "You say it's your birthday! Happy birthday to you! You say it's your birthday, happy birthday to you!"

Our drugged up friend is dancing along and alone, swinging round and round, into the corner and out again, huge smile plastered on his face. We're getting into it, leaning across the table so that our chins are over the microphone, belting out the same two lines over and over again.

The ex-hippies love it, and when the song is finished a general cry goes up, "Ahh, les americaines!!! Encore!!"

Before we know it we are being hustled over to the makeshift stage, where tousled and tattooed guitarists grab our arms and arrange us in a line amid the drum sets and amps. These men are long-haired, lean, and rock and roll sexy, and none of us mind being handled by them.

A book of lyrics are being presented before us, mostly Beatles and Rolling Stones. Excellent.

We decide to kick it off with a classic, and as proprieter guy takes the book away he shouts out "Ard Dayez Nite! Un, deux, trois, hit it!"

The band slams on their guitars, we take a deep breath, wait a couple beats, then chime in, our voices warbling into unison, our heads meeting over the book of lyrics. Initially we're self-conscious, but as the hippies woop and yell and begin to dance, we gather courage.

Soon we don't need the book. We're starting to sway in unison and snap our fingers. The energy is even higher for our next hit, "Can't buy me Love", and it keeps mounting with every song.

It's in the middle of the thrumming bass chords of "Get Back" that it hits me. The transcendental. Maybe its the large amounts of marijuana fishbowling around the room in a happy cloud, maybe its the fact that I'm in my pajamas with my five best friends singing Beatles to a bunch of French hippies, maybe it's just the incredible music, but it's an overwhelming feeling of contentment.

We all lean back in unison, bellowing out the lyrics, as the guy who looks like Mick Jagger smokes his joint and nods along, his half-naked harem swaying to the beat, the rest of the hippies singing and stamping and shouting and the bat guy doing his own little dance in the corner. This, I think, looking around, is bliss.