Too bad I couldn’t upload this yesterday for Independence Day.

“Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.”

Three hours after leaving Paris behind, we drove in to Bayeux (pronounced bay-ooh) and checked into La Tour Louise Guesthouse, the first of several old (1600-1700) guest homes we would stay in. Is it the age of the building (1700s), the stone steps, the old wooden, double sash windows that gives these old structures the ambience and….scent? Because there is a dampness in the walls that holds the heat or cold or smell from cooking. Nevertheless, it was a nice place, with an epic view of the Bayeux Cathedral from (wait for it) the bathroom window! The host was Wil; he explained that in France a guesthouse requires the owner to live on the premises. He also told us how to pronounce the names of the couple of places we were staying: Samur (sam-wah) and Beaune (bone-nee). Both turned out to be wrong….

That evening we drove to the landing beaches of Normandy, which was a great decision as it stays light until 10:00 and because it rained the next day. So we were able to walk on the eerily peaceful beach, past various memorials, German bunkers, and buoys in different colors that indicated where the battalions landed. Even before the invasion on that cold morning of June 6, 1944, three airborne divisions landed by parachute and glider behind the beaches. At 6:30 AM American, British and Canadian forces began history’s greatest amphibious assault. By the end of the day the Americans had secured a fragile hold on the strategically important beach that became know as Omaha Beach. If you’ve ever seen the movie “Saving Private Ryan,” you’ve seen a faithful and haunting reenactment of the fighting on Omaha Beach.
One thing I especially like about the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial is that the crosses of those who were never identified are mixed in with the other graves. This powerful memorial (172.5 acres) overlooks a D-Day beach and the English Channel. Many more than the 9,387 represented by headstones were once buried here, but 81% of American families chose to bring their loved ones home to a final resting place on US soil. The ones who remain include 41 sets of brothers and 3 Medal of Honor winners. Over 1500 MIAs have a memorial on the grounds of the cemetery where all of their names are listed. Visiting the cemetery evoked the most emotion for me.

We also visited a museum dedicated to the Airborne unit and saw the church where a paratrooper hung for on the steeple for two hours (he had a broken foot) before being taken down. The French have kept an effigy of the paratrooper on the church for many years. There are several museums we didn’t see, but we did enjoy hanging around and soaking up the atmosphere of the villages. It’s clear that the surrounding towns have economies based on the tourists who come to Normandy–souvenir shops, cafes where veterans have signed the walls, and even a British style pub filled with D-Day books and the occasional picture of the town in the 1940s.  But the fish and chips were pretty good….

Cathedral in Bayeux.

At the Louvre, the Venus de Milo

June 30, 2013

I feel like I need to be done with Paris, writing about it anyway, or this travel journal will be so far behind that I’ll forget too much and never capture the feelings and essence of the city of love. Which it isn’t–the city of love, I mean. I think my vision of Paris was the Paris of the early to mid 20th century: rain washed side streets with tiny bistros populated by intense artists sipping endless espressos, beautiful women drinking champagne, and debonair older gentlemen savoring aperitifs and beautiful women. I pictured lovers holding hands, stopping to kiss on the Pont du St. Michel and indulgent Parisians smiling complicity.

In a way all of these things were there. In another, more obvious, way Paris is a large, metropolitan city with little time for romance or tourists. If you were ever the new kid at a high school, you will likely remember the feeling of having no idea where to go, who to ask for help, or how to be. That’s Paris. Signs pointing to museums and other points of interest are scarce, questions about directions are often met with impatience, and the Parisian who is courteous frequently turns out to be from somewhere else. Like the nice Italian man whom we greeted with relief every time we saw him at the front desk of the hotel. In fact, we saved up our questions for him. I feel like I spent so much time trying to figure things out (the maps, the Metro, the trains, the schedules, the menus) that I was almost too exhausted to take in the city and appreciate its magnificence. Still, by Day Three, we had the transportation systems down and were able to visit Notre Dame Cathedral in the morning followed by a couple of hours enjoying the impressionists at the Musee d’Orsay. After that we hit the Latin Quarter for crepes and shopping. Mike and I headed back to the hotel to rest a bit before visiting the Louvre for the evening. Good plan. Unfortunately, we confused the train and Metro schedules and barely made it back by 5:00.

When we arrived at the Louvre we found that most of Paris decided an evening visit would be a good idea. We picked up our audio tour equipment, were stunned to hear complex instructions delivered rapidly in English (thank God) and be sent off to view the masterpieces with large, half GPS, half Nintendo, hand-held devices and unwieldy earphones. And they didn’t work consistently. The four of us wandered around asking each other if we were getting audio and trying to duplicate any success one of us might be having. This proved so irritating that we abandoned both the system and each other, agreeing to meet a few minutes before the museum closed at 9:45. Periodically I would see Mike or Dale or my sister and we would spend a few minutes looking at the Venus de Milo or the Mona Lisa together. Mostly I focused on paintings and sculptures that had audio information accessible by entering a number (I figured that much out). The commentary talked about the artist, told the story of the painting, often described technique, or provided the political backstory of the the work. Fascinating.

Although I have always wanted to see the great works, part of me never believed it would happen. I’m so grateful to have seen the Mona Lisa and other masterpieces. Even more, I feel so lucky to have discovered new treasures and paintings I didn’t know were in Paris. For instance the last time I tried to see The Boating Party by Renoir was at the Phillips Gallery in Washington D.C., it was on loan somewhere. I was surprised and gratified to find it at the d’Orsay along with Van Gogh’s Starry Night. There were portraits and landscapes by Cezanne and Monet that I didn’t know existed, had never seen, even in art books. Such a deep and satisfying experience–really there are no words.

Near the Louvre we found a little Italian bistro and enjoyed a late dinner (pizza) as well as a chance to sit and contemplate and sensually e sensual feast that is Paris.

The next day was different.

Knowing we would be renting a car and driving in Paris, we stayed in the northern part of the city and arranged to rent a car nearby. Because the Europcar site was .9 miles from our hotel no cab would take us to it. So Dale, Mike and I walked to pick up the car. Mike had to go because he was the principal driver; Dale had to go so he could be signed up as a secondary driver, and I had to go because I allegedly speak a little French or because I’m a bad person who deserves to be punished. You decide. While we were gone, Noni would buy water, baguettes, cheese, fruit, and macarones (cookies)  so we could picnic on out way to Normandy. Because we would be back so soon, she would rush through these purchases….

The three stooges–I mean Mike, Dale and I–started walking to the car rental place. Before long we were lost or rather one of us was sure we were lost and decided to hail a cab. The cab driver kicked us out of the cab and pointed us in the right direction; I’m pretty sure there were a few expletives involved. As always we were told the destination was 5 minutes away. This means 5-35 minutes but we knew that so it was no surprise to arrive at Euopcar about 11:30 (50 minutes after leaving the hotel). I’m not exaggerating when I say that renting the car involved 40 minutes of the salesperson typing information into a computer. She was very nice, spoke a little English so we muddled though the process. Finally we were to get our car, which was 2 blocks away in a parking garage but, not to worry, because ” here’s the security card which you will use to get into the building, operate the elevator and exit the parking garage.”. Got that? Neither did we, but off we went and eventually drove a manual transmission Passat out of the garage and into hell.

There are lots of one way streets in Paris so we knew that we would have to use an alternate route back to the hotel. First though, Mike had to drive around the Charles DeGaulle rotary, which surrounds the Arc de Triomphe, and is apparently the ninth circle of the Inferno. I don’t know if I can describe what it’s like to have 20 cars come at you when you’re trying to read street signs and find the one exit that will take you to the street you need. There are no lanes and there are no rules. Close your eyes, step on the gas and lay on your horn. There are hundreds of vehicles including buses, scooters, and motorcycles (not sure what the average life span of a cyclist is–can’t be long).

Eventually we made it back–about 1:00. We stuffed everything and everyone into the car and headed north–one more time through the Charles DeGaulle rotary–to Bayeux and the Normandy coast.

Macarones!

June 30, 2013
On June 24th, we arrived in Paris on the Eurostar train, which went through the Chunnel, a tunnel under the English Channel (yikes!). At the taxi stand I asked about the fare (this is the advice of every travel book–don’t get into the taxi without negotiating a fare) and was told in French, ” There’s a meter!” The subtext was ” you stupid idiot.” So we took the taxi (24 Euros) to Hotel Niel and dragged our duffles into a tiny but well appointed room. We found out from the person at the desk (concierge? Receptionist? Person who hates Americans?) that everything was closed, that lunch is from 12 – 2 and dinner from 7 – 10 and that Barbarians who want to eat now (4:30) can find food at the Hippopotamus. Okay, not sure if we were supposed to take that personally, although we did have a nice late lunch there and the waitress was very pleasant.

In order to get a feeling for the area we walked a couple of miles down local streets and the Champs Élysées where we stopped for cafe au lait and profiteroles (17 Euros and lots of snotty attitude). Before I start to come off as anti-French, let me say that every French person I met or spoke with prior to the trip assured me that “once you get out of Paris everyone is nice.” We found this to be accurate.

The Champs Élysées was not what I expected. It’s a busy metropolitan area with beaucoup expensive shops and cafes, which are not called cafes. Cafe is a drink (coffee) and don’t you forget it-at least not while you’re in Paris. Car dealerships next to restaurants next to pharmacies, next to high end retail (think Cartier). After that little foray, we returned to the hotel and got ready to walk to the Eiffel Tower to wait for nightfall and see the fireworks that were scheduled to celebrate the start of summer.

Summer. A word that leads one to expect sunshine and clear skies, if not warmth. I’m not sure if the weather pattern in Europe has been unusual this year (we’ve been told that), but the appearance of the sun has been rare. In London we bought an umbrella and I wore jeans throughout our stay there. To prepare for the 2.5 mile trek, I donned all my warm clothes: jeans, a shirt, the black sweater that will have to be tossed when I get home and my jean jacket. It was not enough.

We stood by the beautiful Seine for two hours, watching the crowd, declining to buy models of the landmark, taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower as the sky darkened, refusing opportunities to buy (cold) wine or key chains, taking pictures for other tourists, and, finally, after midnight figuring out there would be no fireworks. We have a couple of theories about this. On the hour the tower lights up with special, sparkling lights, in addition to the regular lights. Could those be metaphorical sparklers? Or did we interpret “at midnight” too literally? A lot of the crowd left at midnight but maybe they were tourists also. I’ve since learned that time and distance are merely estimated. For example, virtually every destination can be reached in 5 to 20 minutes while wearing gorgeous and expensive high heels. Not so.

The next day we enjoyed our first continental breakfast ala France. Each place was set with a cup, napkin and silverware along with a basket holding a huge croissant. A long table set buffet style held the rest of the food (baguettes, sliced bread, raisin pastries, small chocolate croissants, little donut things, cereal, and boiled eggs). Closer inspection revealed a small refrigerator with cheese packages and yogurt. Coffee was served on a hot ring alongside hot milk. I’ve become fond of drinking coffee this way as it tends to be very strong, almost espresso; the milk makes it delicious and keeps it warm.

When Mike and I were traveling through Spain a few years back, we stayed in a large hotel in Granada which featured a huge breakfast buffet that catered to international,tastes. We noticed that the Spanish ate cold meats and cheeses, Germans chose eggs and sausages, the British stuck to kippers, eggs and toast with beans on top, and the Americans favored fruit, cereal, and eggs. The French tended to choose a baguette with a little cheese, a roll, a croissant, another roll, a pastry and a roll.

Right before I left home I received the results of a recent blood test. Cholesterol down (yeah!); triglycerides up. I wasn’t sure what that meant, so my doctor told me to cut down on carbs and sugar. “But I’m going to France,” I told him. A pause. “Well, cut down when you get back.”

On our second day in Paris, Mike and I explored the city, especially enjoying the Latin Quarter, while Noni and Dale headed to Versailles. Our third day would be packed with sightseeing so we decided to sleep in, absorb the ambiance of the city and continue carb loading… That night, on the recommendation of the gentleman at the desk we went to a local brasserie for dinner. While we waited to be seated I was sent to look at the menu posted on the wall. I got a quick glance at it, noticing that haricot vert, green beans, were 16 euros ($20). Perhaps this was a special main dish? Non. As the person in our group who took French in high school, I got to deliver the bad news. At this very casual restaurant, with sidewalk seating and nothing that warned the customer, a dinner for four was going to cost us about $500–600. Everything was ala carte. The most expensive main course was a seafood platter (119 €–you do the math); the least expensive was 65 € for duck leg tendon or something equally appealing. We left.

Later we wondered why the man from Hotel Niel, a modest establishment, would recommend this brasserie. I had asked him to suggest a cafe and he’d informed me that cafe was a drink. He had mimed drinking coffee in case I was too stupide to get it.
Since leaving Paris, people have used the word cafe to mean small place to eat and the word is on actually on restaurant signs. Just saying.

Next…our last full day in Paris, one cathedral, two museums, and many foot miles.

Eiffel Tower at midnight

Only available in Scotland. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

June 20, 2013

This morning I dropped off our laundry-it was washed, folded and returned this afternoon. I could get used to this. I mentioned that we were getting a late start today and Hanni offered a breakfast in bed option. The service is so high level here that it shocks me to see no one leaving tips at the breakfast tables. Perhaps one tips at the end of the stay?

Between having walked miles yesterday and saturated our senses with the many sites of Bath and knowing that we are leaving tomorrow for London, we deliberately slowed the pace down a bit. During a mid-morning break for tea in the Abbey square we listened to a soprano with a lovely voice, who hit all the high notes without strain. It’s a pet peeve of mine when someone with a weak upper register sings “The Heart Must Go On” because it mustn’t, not if you can’t sing it. Later we strolled through town and spent some time enjoying the city parks and bridges over the Avon River–not to be confused with the river further north of Stratford-Upon-Avon Shakespearean fame. By the way, you are welcome the spell the Bard’s name as Shakespeare or Shakespear as he spelled it both ways. Many of us would appreciate the flexibility of spelling in Elizabethan times. Perhaps that’s texting’s contribution to the future of language. LMAO. Perhaps not.

This afternoon we had a “proper tea” in a local restaurant, opting to wait for the high tea experience in London–maybe. Besides two, thin crustless sandwiches, we were supposed to ingest 2 scones and 4 desserts: lemon tart, strawberry cream tartlet, chocolate decadence cake, and something like fruit cake only with pumpkin seeds on top (and unlike fruit cake in my experience, it was good). It’s a lowering reflection to realize that everyone has better pastries than we (Americans) do. I can attest to the truth of this in Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Scotland, and now England. And I haven’t even gotten to France yet. Before you start defending pastry in the US, I have one thing to say to you: donuts. And don’t mention beignets or croissants because they aren’t ours–they’re French!

I’ve been avoiding this discussion, but after nearly a week in the UK it’s time to acknowledge the obvious: pounds are not dollars. This is easy to forget when a cup of tea might cost 3.95 GBP (Great Britain Pounds). So $4.00, not so bad, right? Well, it’s not $4; it’s 4 GBP! Today that’s $6.08 in dollars–$6.08 for water and a bag (okay sometimes it’s loose tea in a cute pot but still). Food, in general, is more expensive here; in fact I haven’t found anything that struck me as a less expensive than the US. I wonder if people from Europe and the UK think the US is a bargain. Probably not. None of this has stopped me from shopping of course. Besides, I couldn’t buy an authentic, made in Scotland, pink version of the Royal Stewart plaid, child’s size kilt in the US at any price, could I? And don’t mention that I could’ve bought it online. What’s the fun in that?