We had left Mont St. Michel a few hours earlier after stopping for lunch. I was happy to leave the overcrowded, noisy site and relax as the Norman countryside drifted by outside the window of the bus. The pink wave of apple blossoms on the hills and the sense of vitality in this fertile part of northwestern France seemed comforting. After a time we turned west, off the main autoroute, and began to follow a slower two-lane highway. The forests became deeper and a gauzy look to the distant sky made me realize we had turned toward the sea.

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I had misplaced my itinerary so I didn't know what lay ahead, but it didn't matter -- I always prefer unexpected experiences.

It was July, mid-afternoon. The sky was a delicate blue, and the breeze carried a spicy fragrance of fir and pine. My nose pinched and I stifled a sneeze as we stepped off the bus.

"This is the only piece of land in France that is owned and maintained by the United States," Rosine said in her heavy accent as we collected cameras and sunglasses. Some people wandered into the Visitors Centre. I read the formal, black lettering on the glass doors: The American Cemetery and Memorial at Normandy.

No formal tours were offered, Rosine said, so we were free to visit the site on our own. Some travelers drifted off singly, some moved forward in pairs, and others became engrossed in the small guidebooks they'd bought at the Centre and carried with them as they headed out of sight behind a high row of hedges.

"Want to go inside?" I asked my mother.

"No. We can walk around a bit. It's such a beautiful day."

We followed the others along the hedges and turned. "Oh my God!" I gasped.

Rows of stark white crosses swept up and across the low hills in every direction as far as we could see, arranged in perfect lines on the bright green lawns.

I had seen photos of this sight, but even knowing what I was about to see had in no way prepared me for the emotional intensity of the place.

I clutched my mother's hand; she was shaking.

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