June 14 -Reflections & Orvieto

We had our first poetry workshop last night. I learned most in my cohort have at least one published book. It's OK to have imposter syndrome now, I told myself. Everybody's work is different, and it's fun to hear different writer's voices come through. This is what I'm trying to figure out here. Not only how do I get my poetry to the next level, but how can I use a consistent, recognizable voice? I love the anticipation in music when you hear the opening notes of a song everyone loves. I want to have that kind of style with language. This just takes incredible concentration and focus, and when you're in a new place with interesting people, it's much easier to talk than work.

I shared a three poem sequence blending music and a love relationship, a kind of narrative arc from initial meeting (was it the man or his music?) to the dance of figuring out what the relationship is supposed to be (playing backbeat to his lead, waiting for my solo), to the disappointment in failed hopes (My story is a tired one). When I was deciding what to share at lunch, Kim A. said it was fine to bring something we'd been working on. We didn't have to share new work. I thought, maybe I can figure out which of these three voices works the best. The feedback was fairly positive, and I noticed people's interest didn't wane as I read for almost four minutes.

I could tell I offered too much: overwhelming details and storyline left people trying to comprehend before they could comment and critique. I've been told this before. My thesis advisor challenged me to reduce every poem to 12 lines. "Then you'll have something," he said. Well, I'd have to edit too many good ideas and I'd lose the music of the language and the surprises sprinkled throughout. That excuse has blocked my improvement, I must admit at this point.

I guess I'll just put this sequence aside. Maybe this wasn't the wisest thing to do: start out with oversharing and overwhelming my new poetry gang. I just want these poems to work.

***

End of pity party and on to beautiful Orvieto. Edmund gave us a map, a tourist list, and an orientation on the bus before we left. He mentioned a beautiful Etruscan well with a staircase all the way to the bottom, and I thought I'd like to find that. When we arrived at the bus plaza, our group self-sorted and Cynthia joined me to power walk through town. I'd been sitting too much, so I was excited to wind through the medieval-width streets, which proved to be quite hilly. Each block had a different set of colorful flags, many side streets, plus alleyways of interest. I loved the enamel emblems and the blue and gold flags especially. From the bus stop to the top of the hill, we twisted and turned and heard the vroom of old mufflers.

Today was the Orvieto stop of the Mille Miglia, a classic car "race" that was established in 1927 by two Italian counts. After too many deaths in 1957, the race has been resurrected as a car show. The noise was annoying, but the excitement infectious. About two dozen cars drove by. Every single co-pilot seat was occupied, unfortunately, as I would have been willing to jump in and navigate. It had been a long time since I'd inhaled exhaust not filtered through a catalytic converter. We couldn't avoid them as we headed toward the cathedral, taking note of every gelato store for a stop on the way down. The heat index was starting to rise and the next week would be a hot one in central Italy. So many beautiful cars chugging through Orvieto, with a group of journalists and photographers documenting them in the plaza in front of the cathedral. What a show.

Inside the cathedral, I headed toward Luca Signorelli's famous frescoes in the San Brizio Chapel located on the right side. I found where he had finished Fra Angelico's first frescoes, begun over two hundred years before, at a smaller side chapel. The San Brizio Chapel images were really disturbing, to be honest. Signorelli's imaginative renderings of what would happen to sinners was an unforgettable cautionary tale for human frailty. I wondered what it would be like to attend mass every day, with those devil-figures glaring or gleeing at you from their position above the masses of people in the paintings. Ugh. I'd have nightmares.

The chapel was pretty crowded, so I sat in a pew near the front of the cathedral, waiting for a break when I could take some pictures. Then I saw the side of a marble sculpture with what looked like a ladder sticking up from the back. Curious, I walked around the front and tried to figure out what was going on. The body of Christ was draped over the lap of a woman. Another woman rested her cheek on his hand. But the figure who held the ladder was confusing. I wrote these lines in my journal as I sat in a pew.

        Who is the man with the ladder

        tools of a trade - chisel, wrench -

        that removed the spikes 

        from the dead Christ?

        Did he shrink from the blood

        or embrace the body?

        Did he think about not hurting Jesus

        or callously rip his hands from the nails?

        Who is this man who delivered the body

        to the Madonna?

        Did he wrench the spikes

        from the feet first

        then one hand, rejoining

        separated shoulders

        after the other hand was free?

        Did he carry him down the ladder

        or lower him to another?

        Who is this man wearing

        the craftsman's hat?

        Does he mourn his master?

I tried to imagine what the sculptor thought as he carved this marble. I've never had an art class, so I wasn't sure how to interpret the work. But the inscrutable expression on the man with the ladder stuck with me for days. Later, I learned he was Nicodemus, a member of the powerful Sanhedrin Council. He was one of only two members who had voted against crucifying Jesus. Nicodemus refused to accept Christ as his savior, but he did not condemn him to death. He asked to remove Jesus from the cross after he died, and in this image he's delivering the body to the Madonna. Mary Magdalene holds Jesus's hand. 

The hat of Nicodemus was one of authority, not of a master craftsman. But this single block of marble, carved over a nine-year period, seemed to praise the trades. Another sculpture in the cathedral was a self-portrait of the artist Scalza who, after helping craft the organ, was selected to carve this Pieta. Imagine being an arts administrator for years and finally getting the chance to show your talent. Scalza didn't have many other opportunities. Perhaps some would call La Pieta a one-hit wonder, but I can't forget it. I'd love to know what the sculptor was thinking over those nine years of work.

After spending an hour in the cool cathedral, we went to a restaurant Edmund recommended called Vebo. Inside was a bar, upstairs a night club, and outside of the door a lovely, shaded alley. A woman came by selling African fabrics and crafts and when we said "no thank you" she turned her back to show a tiny baby strapped to her back. She walked up and down the alley, hawking her wares.

Wine for lunch is such an indulgence. We checked our map and decided we had enough time to find the Etruscan well and return to the van on time. The heat from the dark cobblestones was noticeable now, so we tried to stay in the shade. After about 30 minutes and a few wrong turns, we found the entrance. I didn't miss having a phone with GPS, because we couldn't get a signal anyway. The attendant told us a private family owned the well, and we paid our 2 euros to gain access to the stairs. It was pretty interesting, except that instead of water 200 feet down, they had a blue light. And, we couldn't go all the way down to the bottom. As we left through the gift shop, we agreed it was pretty touristy. Their patio was gorgeous, but the restaurant was closed.

I remembered the siestas from 2 - 7:00 p.m. from my time in Recanati two years ago and thought we should find some water if we could. We wouldn't find any in the Etruscan wells. Ironies - I love them in my non-fiction but avoid them in my poetry. Is it a good or bad thing I'm seeing absurdities and strangeness when I'm supposed to be focusing on images and emotions?

About two blocks from the well, at the edge of Orvieto's ramparts, we found a wine store with water bottles. The woman outside the shop pointed us inside and a delightful man was thrilled when I asked him about local wines. I bought three whites for a wine tasting I spontaneously decided to plan. The Trebbiano Spoletino is known for "complexity and finesse, aromas of citrus and floral notes of acacia, chamomile, and honey." Terracruda Incrocio Bruni 54 was created in 1936 by Prof. Bruno Bruni, who crossed Verdicchio and Sauvignon Blanc. I hadn't been able to find any good Verdicchios in California after I discovered them in Recanati, so I had high expectations for this one. Per Edmund's recommendations, I bought an Orvieto Classico Secco, a blend of Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Procainco, and Grechetto grapes unique to Italy. This was supposed to be "dry with a hint of almond." These three wines should be lovely in the evening. When it came time to pay, the shop proprietor said, "Get the boss outside" and his wife came in. Their laughter and enthusiasm for wine and life exemplified "La dolce vita."

About 150 meters from their shop, we found the northern ramparts.  Back at the bus stop, we learned we'd gone to the wrong Etruscan well. But we had found the best perspectives. Views of the vineyards, small  churches, and stately watchtowers inspired a thought: retiring with this view would be pretty sweet.

June 13: Shopping in Terni

Terni, Italy, is our local town. It's in the southern tip of Umbria, right smack dab in the middle of Italy. There's a large steel mill near the road up to La Romita, and a charming old town near the Terni FC (soccer club) stadium where events occur year-round. 

We were dropped off at the town square, which had a giant turnaround for several streets. I expected to be run over by a bus, bike, or car as no directional arrows existed here, but cars did stop for pedestrians. One member of my cohort, Laura, started walking with me and telling me how much she liked this blog. I wish folks could comment. The feature was working in May, but apparently it's not working now. Alas.

We didn't have a lot of time for our visit. I wanted to see the Roman Amphitheater, but our purpose was to buy sundries (my nemesis on this trip) and other necessities. Cynthia joined us and we three went right to an Italian parfumerie and shoe shop. Pretty intense fragrances and decent prices. I noticed as we walked around the town that everything I'd need to live happily in Italy was here: drug store, supermarket, lots of boutiques, a music school with an opera singer practicing alongside a guitar player, (their notes in different tempos wafting down a narrow lane), and lots of restaurants around every piazza. Unlike Recanati two years ago, we wouldn't be heading to the Piazza every night around 8:00. We were isolated on top of the hill and needed a car or to call a taxi to get to town. I liked this. I'd focus on writing, not on shopping or escaping the difficulty of finding an evasive word.

A little boutique with the name L'aura caught our eye. We learned the middle rows were recycled/vintage clothes and the wall racks had the new items. A section of fluttery tops, pants, and dresses caught my eye. I was tired of the coastal grandma look of navy, white, and pink. I wanted a color outside of my capsule wardrobe (sorry, Audrey). A minty aqua sleeveless top was long enough to cover my height, and I found the same color in a maxi skirt. Several items appealed, and we took turns changing behind a curtain. I loved my outfit and the price: 60 euros for a silk ensemble made in Italy. I placed it on the counter and continued to look. With no intention of buying clothes or presents on this trip, I found just the perfect dress for the reading at the end of our workshop. 

After finding the 5th century round Church of San Salvatore, with its 12th-century chapel, closed, we wandered around the other old streets. Much of Terni was destroyed during World War II, but it reemerged as a city manufacturing machinery, textiles, electrochemicals and food. We headed back for our lunch wanting to spend more time exploring the town.

I'm feeling pressure to present something great at our first workshop tonight. I brought a couple of poems that might work, but none of my drafts composed in France or Switzerland feel right. I am writing a fair amount every day, but nothing really worthwhile. The good news: writing is a practice and I'm writing in two different journals, recording sights in this blog, and still meeting new friends and having more fun than anyone is supposed to. If I can't hit my stride while touring Italy, that's OK. I have a lot to look forward to in the coming week. It's so nice to let someone else do all of the planning. 

June 12 Geneva to Rome to Terni and Scopa

My airport hotel was the most nondescript atrium glass architectural mess I'd ever seen, but they served amber beer. So, I didn't care about aesthetics. I took my dinner up to my room and stretched out on the king-sized bed after I found out their free taxi shuttle wouldn't be running in time to take me to the airport. I 'd take a taxi at 4:00 a.m. for my 6:15 flight. What's another 50 CHF?

Check-in was easy on Easy Jet. I waited to be pulled out of line for customs in Rome, but there was no hassle at all. I had a good seat and a relaxed luggage examination. Nobody threw away any of my liquids, nobody stole my phone, and nothing exciting happened. That was exciting. 

I walked off the plane in Terminal 1 past the long lines at customs in Terminal 3 and realized that my intra-Europe flight didn't have the tight security controls of flights from non-EU countries. This is a good thing to note. I found the La Romita Art School meeting point and slowly the gang got together. It's slow traveling with a group, but I was happy to be speaking English and everyone was just as nervous as I. I sensed we all had a bit of imposter syndrome but Luciano, our Italian driver, made everybody feel at ease.  Somehow he stowed everyone's bags and I ended up being the copilot. The fancy Mercedes van/bus leaned on every corner, so I was grateful I wouldn't have to fight car sickness. 

I practiced my Italian with Luciano all the way to Terni. When we finally got to Terni and drove up to the La Romita monastery, there was a bit of an issue about rooms. Mine was on the first floor and tiny, but it had a bed, small closet, a chest of drawers and a mirror. The tile floors were cool to the touch, and the window had double-shutters for the hot days to come. 

We met in the dining room for lunch and were introduced to Alessandro, the eventual heir to the family monastery, and Edmund, the Executive Director. Alessandro lives in the Chicago area, and his daughter came along for his annual month in Italy. They looked very American. Edmund, on the other hand, looked very Italian, with linen pants, shirt, thick black glasses, long hair, and stylish matching shoes. He was elegant, articulate, and I suspected a bit goofy. I was surprised to learn he lives in the US 6 months out of the year, and in Italy 6 months out of the year. I planned to learn more about this. Maybe he had the right lifestyle figured out. Both men were full of enthusiasm and I thanked Alessandro for letting me in off of the waiting list. If the food at lunch was any indication, we are going to eat well. My pants probably wouldn't fit by the time the 12 days were over.

I organized my room, looked at the poems I'd brought (they weren't good enough, I decided), and wandered outside. Two dogs were lounging around, and I remembered hearing they were rescued hunting dogs. They were shy, dirty, and friendly. I was so happy to see some canines. The formal gardens and olive groves were simple and lovely, and I thought, No wonder everyone thinks this place is special. It's perfect.

At 7:00, we met for dinner and Edmund told us about the table wines.  The white wine was "from a grape found only in Abruzzo and Puglia, called Cococciola." He compared it to Sauvignon Blanc. Cantina Frentana made it. The red wine was "Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, from the region of Chieti and Pescara, on the east coast."  Both were outstanding and the carafes disappeared in about an hour. I enjoyed getting to know people from Israel, Boston, New Orleans, New York, New Jersey, Seattle, Portland, LA, and the Bay.

Our teachers, Kim from Oakland, CA, and Flower from NOLA, were very engaging and social. Happy poets are the best kind of people. I was starting to get excited, and that was before I learned the traditional Italian card game "Scopa." We went outside to the cabana and the gang started dealing. Every time someone hit a Scopa, I started singing to the tune of Barry Manilow's Copacabana. Yes, the wine was very good tonight.

June 11 Alpine Adventure

Really not much to say. I woke up at 6:00 a.m., walked to the edge of town, had about 3 seconds of a glimpse of the mountain, took one decent shot, then saw the Gornergrat train descend from its shed. This meant there would be a 7:00 sunrise train, and I was going to be on it. 

I prepared my gear, put on every item of long-sleeved clothing I had for the 29 degree temperature at the top, then hoofed it down along the river down to the train station. Only, I went past the station and all the way to the edge of town. Busy in my own head, happily thinking about the cogwheel train, I only realized my mistake at 6:50. I U-turned and hustled up the main street this time, only to hear the train leave before I arrived. Those damn efficient Swiss. The train left at exactly 7:00 on the dot. I bought a ticket for the 8:00 train with an early-entry sticker so I'd sit on the right side of the train, and walked outside to find a bakery. A chocolate-filled croissant, hot chocolate mixed with coffee, and a banana later, I was first on the train.

The ride to the top was beautiful, but no Matterhorn. The Gornergrat glacier and Hotel were just as cool as in the James Bond movie, but no Matterhorn. 9:00. No Matterhorn. I was freezing. The only food available was a noodle bowl from an Asian take-out at the top. Only hotel guests could eat in the hotel dining room for breakfast. It's sooo cold up here!

People with GPS and weather apps were saying the mountain would appear at 10:30. I couldn't wait that long. My bags were packed back at the hotel, so I'd just have to walk back from the train station, pick them up, then get on the 1:00 train, but that meant I had to take the 10:40 train, at the latest. I started calculating what I'd spent on this little adventure. 99 euros for the TGV train, 160 CHF for the hotel, 40 for the dinner, 125 euros for the cogwheel train, 115 euros for the roundtrip ticket from Geneva to Zermatt. And no Matterhorn.

There was so much snow at the top I couldn't even find the trail to see the Riffelsee Lake. It was covered in snow. The glacier, though. Wow. As clouds moved by and blue sky peaked out then hid, I marveled at the show. The glacier itself was worth the ticket, I tried to convince myself.

I boarded the 10:40 train, filled with my love of the mountains and thought, I'll just have to come back again. As we left the second station from the top, a huge cloud blew off of the Matterhorn and I grabbed my camera. I lowered the window, let the freezing air inside and took several shots. For maybe 20 or 30 seconds, I could see the mysterious mountain. Maybe the mystery was less about the mountain and more about whether or not you'd be able to view it. Who knows? I know the Matterhorn ride was always worth the wait and this mountain? You bet it was worth it.

My ticket wouldn't load on the 1:00 p.m. train to Geneva and the attendant didn't believe I had a return route. I showed him the printout, the reservation code, but he said he didn't have any way to look it up. I had to have it on my phone. I asked him, What are my options?  He said I'd have to buy another ticket, but he'd waive the 20 CHF fee for buying it on the train.  How much? 155 CHF, or about 175 dollars. Gulp.

June 9. Luxembourg Gardens and the Mouffetard

Randy and Jack, neighbors from our time at Serene Lakes, invited me to join their Sunday gathering. How fun to meet at the Pantheon, where I waved to Voltaire as I watched people walk by. The five of us set off to find the Mouffetard district, a street famous for its food. 

Randy has a Facebook group called Paris Cooking Guide and followers publish fabulous pictures of meals and recipes. I wasn’t sure whether we were going to one of the Michelin-starred gems he’s written about or some undiscovered bistro on a back alley. After perusing the little markets and fruit stand near the Mouffetard fountain, we circled back to a restaurant near the center of the area. Randy said, “Don’t get your expectations up, Jenyth, this is just a typical bistro.” 

Jack asked the waiter to open the sliding glass door and we perched in our 6-top table with a clear view of the square. Others had entrees and main courses but I chose the “typical” coq au vin and it was anything but typical.  Fortunately, no baby duck blood, just Bordeaux and slow cooking over a few days. 

Randy and Jack have created a community in their 16 years of living in Paris half-time. Dan and Bill were perfect companions, articulate and literary. Bill retired from years in tech and his Paris retirement dream was only six months old. They shared their impressions of health care, socialized medicine, prices of food and restaurants.

Jack and I sipped an AOC 2016 Cabernet Franc while the others enjoyed a crisp Chablis from the Loire Valley region. About halfway into the bottle, I asked Jack, “Do you think I’d be happy here?”

He was quick. “Jenyth, you seem to be happy anywhere. I’m shocked you sold your cabin. That was your happy place. But Paris? You’d love it, for awhile. Just don’t expect to make Parisian friends.”

The others chimed in with stories of snubs and frustrations, then described the expat community they enjoyed. “Promise me you’ll come back and rent for a month before you make any big moves,” Randy added. “And your French sucks. You’ll have to find a French tutor.”

My share of the bill: 29 euros. Incredible. I needed a nap, so we walked over to the Luxembourg Gardens, took selfies in front of the fountains where children powered little sailboats with radio remote controls, and found some benches under the sycamore trees.

Actors with Charlie Chaplin outfits, a Blue Man, and a character with a silver-painted face strolled by. An older gentleman with a 3-piece suit stopped and played a song on his accordion. We dropped some euros into the cup carabinered onto the accordion’s strap.

The conversation was too lively to slide down the bench and take a nap while being protected by my friends. I left them at 4:30, thinking I’d just spent the happiest day ever in Paris.

An easy commute back to the 11th district, and my friend the Metro gave me no problems at all. As I walked into the Terrace in Paris, I had a moment of resignation. Here was the perfect Paris apartment, with its terrace, washing machine, and comfy queen-sized bed. The neighborhood was not the best, but the Algerians were friendly and the food amazing.  Tomorrow, I’d have an early trip to the train station, then south to Switzerland.

I finished a bottle of the lovely Chablis and the rest of the Camembert as my laundry dried, watching the little bird watch me. Her babies would hatch after I left and I hoped the Sparrow Hawk wouldn’t hear them cry.

June 10 Rapid travel day to the Matterhorn

(Original draft lost during power loss. Rewritten 6/27)

Hard to say good-bye to my terrace in Paris. I felt connected to the mama bird, and wondered what she thought about as she sat on her eggs, waiting and waiting. I was in a different headspace. Moving and moving and trying to run ahead of an anxiety that had been under control for years. I wondered what else would go wrong. Bathroom three floors down? Avalanche on the Matterhorn?  Late Metro and I'd miss my TGV to Geneva? No seat on the train? I was grateful the Pere Lachaise Haunted Tour didn't give me any nightmares. 

I took a few cleansing breaths, then did my stretching and yoga routine with the bird watching. The Wi-Fi was strong this morning and I figured out I could use Uber. A driver clicked on and for 28 euros I bought peace of mind. I booked it for the short ride to Gare Lyon and wouldn't have to worry about the Metro. This was too easy. My ride dropped me off right in front. As I went up the escalator, I saw I was 45 minutes early. My reward? An espresso and pain au chocolat. As I sipped and munched, I saw a couple in their 20's kiss, the woman on her tiptoes as tears streamed down her face. The young man spoke with an American accent and she held his cheeks and spoke some French endearments. It was easy to fill in the blanks.

My ticket pulled up on my phone and saved in my Apple wallet, I had no problem getting on the train and finding my seat in first class. This would be a splurge day: private ride to the station and a very comfortable place in the upstairs seats with a view.  My electronic ticket worked at the turnstile and a nicely uniformed conductor-type said "Bon Voyage." I was not the only woman in first class wearing hiking boots and I tried to have a conversation for awhile with a Swiss woman who spoke German. I was rusty, but we smiled through it all.

As I sped through the countryside of France at 200 m.p.h., the farmland looked like California, especially the sunflower farms. I realized I hadn't talked to any family members for almost two weeks, and I knew I missed my girls more than they missed me. They have happy, busy lives. I blew kisses to the west and hoped Lo would get to do this trip some day. Audrey did the hike a year ago and she had given me a plan.

Now that I have some of the features of a smart phone again, I’ll admit how much easier it is travel with instant access to information. I still don’t have GPS, but that doesn't bother me a bit. My laminated map of Paris is an old friend, even though I looked at it upside down half of the time. Once I realized the bend of the Seine is smiling instead of frowning, I could reorient and find my way. I like to look at maps, plan the day, and see how well my memory serves me. I remembered that I'd have to switch train stations in Geneva, from my pre-trip planning. I had an hour, so I hoped I'd be fine.

Today my TGV Lyria train took around 3 hours to reach Geneva. I expected to be pulled out of the customs line as usual, but nothing happened. My invisible coastal grandma outfit was working. Or maybe my hiking shoes with red laces signalled me as a hiker, not an American.  Who knows? I walked right by the customs agent, looked at the arrivals and departures board, found my next platform, and walked underground to #4.  This is too easy. Yes, the Swiss are organized and they do love their trains. They're very expensive, but spotlessly clean.  I found my SBB train to Visp, knew I had to switch to the Gotthardsbahn Matterhorn train to Zermatt. I should arrive after 4:00 if everything worked.

As we left Geneva and road around the lake, I got a crick in my neck from leaning forward toward the beauty. I did another round of chin tucks and neck stretches, and began to get excited. Finally I am going to see one of the world's most mysterious mountains, the Matterhorn. I indulged in a few happy childhood memories as gushing alpine lakes stained brown from heavy snowmelt plunged through the granite. The train route to Zermatt followed the river canyon and every bend brought another beauty. I remember how the Disney Matterhorn ride changed over the years, with the Abominable Snowman visible, along with the Eiffel Tower-like metal infrastructure. Then they drywalled over that, then the sleds went up a tube with the monster only visible for a second.

What was the inspiration for this famous ride like in person? As I disembarked from the train and started walking up the center street of Zermatt, I was more focused on seeing the mountain than on finding my hotel. I spent an hour wandering up and up, until I saw clouds covering the sky where the Matterhorn should be. Typical. The mountain made its own weather. Around me, beautiful alpine peaks showed their green and granite. Waterfalls were everywhere, and I saw some folks get off of a tram, still wearing their skiing gear. I could ski tomorrow. I just didn't dare. One bad fall and my fragile knees would probably blowout. Damn.

Hotel Zermama was hilarious and beautiful. The branding was all "your mama" and I tried to remember some of those jokes. My tiny single room was efficiently presented and the shower looked great. I had a view of the carpark roof's rocks, but a bargain is a bargain. I asked the hotel clerk where I could find a memorable meal, and he said "Julian's is the best." I walked over the Kirche Bridge and made a reservation for 7:00, leaving me time to explore some more.  Would the Matterhorn show up before dinner? No.

I spoke German to the wait staff and they gave me a German menu. I ordered the lamb, fully confident I knew what I was doing. It was terrific and I had a lot of fun talking to the British couple who arrived a bit after I started eating. But, they had an English menu and asked me what I'd ordered. When I said the lamb, they said, "Oh, it looks like you ordered lamb tongue. Did you like it?" OMG, I'd done it again. This time, the food was still in my stomach and the urge to barf was so great I ran to the bathroom. Nothing happened, but I was still disgusted with myself. First baby ducks, and now this.

As I sait on the Kirche Bridge from 8-9:30, supposedly optimum viewing times during sunset, a few ridges of the Matterhorn appeared and disappeared. The clouds didn't turn pink and the crowds waiting with cameras poised were disappointed. I met a couple from Dallas and we had a great time. They told me to get up for the sunrise and I was sure to see something.  I followed the river back to my hotel and fell right to sleep with the shades open. When the first light appeared, I'd get up and hustle back to the bridge. Surely the Matterhorn wouldn't disappoint me two days in a row.

June 8 Feeling it

 I need a rest day. The sun is sparkling the star jasmine on my little patio and I can see it clearly from the bedroom. It’s not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere this morning. Before I take my first step, I know my knees are unhappy. I should have taken the new prescription anti-inflammatory before I went to bed last night, but I was too happy to remember. What a day! Perfect one-hour commute then the surprise of John McEnroe playing in the Suzanne Lenglen stadium. His knees looked a bit shaky, too, but oh his hands were quick at the volleys. 

I enjoyed watching how he and Michael played cross court rally drills and how the four men deliberately kept the volley rally alive for ten + hits. Quite a show. The Lacoste Grande Boutique had many items, but very few for women.  By the time I returned, I’d walked nearly 6 miles.

So many things I could do today, but my body says Rest! I’m averaging over 12,000 steps a day, well over my 7000 limit back in CA, so I’ll catch up on writing and watch the bird sit on her nest. I’ll take the Haunted Pere Lachaise cemetery tour, for surely there’s a story there.

I arrived at the meeting point at 3:30 to tour with Carlos and two Americans from Florida. Carlos took us on a very standard tour, with not a lot of references to ghosts, but many of the monuments he did show us perfectly demonstrated the grotesque and macabre. The spiritualist whose tomb was surrounded by living flowers, Allen Kardec, provided a tempting superstition. I succumbed to it. By rubbing his left shoulder and making a wish, I committed myself to return to his grave with living flowers within a year to thank him for granting my wish. Based on the number of bouquets and flower pots, which overflowed onto other graves, I’ll start shopping for inexpensive airfares.

I started noticing some emblems on several monuments. Some had an hour glass as the body of an angel, with the angel wings spreading over the doorway. Time ran out? Protection from the Grim Reaper? Others had upside-down torches, for a flame extinguished. These were pretty cool, but when they were combined with bats, I started wondering. What were the bats suggesting or protecting? When I asked Carlos, he hemmed and hawed, so I started taking pictures of them. I think I found six. We saw the grave of Jim Morrison, cordoned off so no Americans could do the wild thing on top of his stone anymore. Oscar Wilde’s monument was also glassed off so nobody could plant red-lipstick kisses on it. Both sites had evidence of folks chipping off parts of the granite. Both men had been left in Paris as no relatives would claim their bodies. But Parisian benefactors paid to bury them and they are now the most visited residents.

The first person buried in Pete Lachaise was a nameless 7-year old. They didn’t mark her grave, but there is an ossuary for other children’s bones. And, if you paid for a 50-year lease on your spot during your life but nobody kept up the payments after it expired, the cemetery managers would exhume your body and throw your bones into the mass ossuary tunnels under the cemetery. Some of the paths sink in places as the tunnels are collapsing. We began to tread lightly after hearing that.

About 5:30, an old man started walking through the cemetery, ringing a bell that sounded a lot like the one in Monty Python when the fellow says, “Bring out your dead” during a plague scene. Very creepy, but they have to close up as many people like to stay behind and do strange things in the cemetery.

When I returned from my haunted jaunt, I decided to look up the bats. Of course there was a legend about them. Apparently 14 graves have bats and if you follow them in the correct order, you’ll end up at a tomb where the remains of Vlad Dracul now rest.  Can’t believe that. I saw them in Romania. In three different places, one an island where the vampire couldn’t escape.  Hmm, there’s a story there!

A little girl whose remains were lost. A group of people who had signs of a vampire wrought in iron. A tomb with the last name “Vallechia,” a derivation of Wallachia, where the real Vlad Dracul’s family of the dragon lived…Two parallel storylines? The plot thickens…

I started seeing strange shadows in the apartment. The bird screeched out of its nest, nearly touching my hair as it flew out. I hobbled into the bathroom, popped the new anti-inflammatory, and prayed I wouldn’t have any nightmares. Within minutes I was dreaming about a movie starring Frances McDormand, a crusty middle school teacher who finally got her dream trip to Paris, only to be dragged into some ancient curse of the bat…

June 7 Red Clay of Roland Garros

 I will do this. I will conquer the Paris Metro at last. 40 years ago, I spent the better part of three days being lost during my first metro experience, wondering why the French didn’t name their stops after famous sites or at least roads. I didn’t realize I needed to know the names of the end stops of each line so that I’d proceed in the right direction. I did know how to return to the station Roquefort Dressing, near the City University where I was sleeping on the roof of the City University of Paris while visiting my college buddy Wat.

Now I know this, know Roquefort Dressing as Denfert Rochereau, and hope I’ll be able to find that spot on Sunday when I meet some Serene Lakes friends in the Luxembourg Gardens for brunch.

Today, I’ll take the olive/rust line 3 to Republique, change to the orange 5 line to Gare d’Austerlitz, then change to the amber 10 line where after 19 stops, I’ll disembark at Porte d’Auteuil and walk to the French Open.

Flaneur - strolling and people-watching - this will be my word for the day.

To quote Voltaire’s Pangloss, today Paris was “the best of all possible worlds.” I predicted my commute would take an hour and waited until 10:00 a.m. to leave, hoping the Metro would not be as crowded with commuters. I had a seat during the entire journey. I did not get lost once on the way there, remembering which direction I needed to take for each leg on each line. Yes, there were many more stairs than I wanted to climb, and I ended the day with over 15,000 steps. But I walked into the Roland Garros stadium right after the 11:00 a.m. matches started.

I was afraid that not having tickets on my non-existent phone would prevent me from entering, but the customer service was outstanding, from the first trouble-shooting young woman to the head of ticketing in a special room. Not only did he reproduce my ticket, he helped me change my account password and gave me an insider’s map of the grounds and a printed schedule of play, since I couldn’t pull it up on my phone.

I stumbled upon a young American playing in the juniors tournament. Katerina Penickova was playing #3 Laura Samson from the Czech Republic in the semi-finals. After being down 1-4 in the second set, she rallied back to win that set and force a third and deciding set. She lost that battle, but it was a very close match, 6-4. I couldn’t believe the power and shotmaking of those two under-18s and I’m sure I’ll be able to say, “I saw them when” in the near future.

According to my printed schedule, John McEnroe was due to play in  the Legends tournament in the second largest stadium, Suzanne Lenglen. For 12 euros, my grounds pass meant I could enter any court except Phillipe Chartier, so I walked in, grabbed a set in the shade, and watched Mac, and another lefty French star, Henri Lacoste, play Michael Chang and Giles Simon, two right-handlers. What a dream come true. Mac threw a racket and a temper tantrum, and everybody loved it.

Outside of the big stadium, several hundred chairs were set up in front of a big screen. I bought a beer and a Mediterranean salad, pulled up a square of grass, sat on my jacket, and watched Carlos Alvarez play Sinner from Italy. Great first two sets, then I decided to explore more Paris public transportation on my way back. I took a fourth line to Trocadero, got off of the Metro, hoping to recreate a picture from 40 years ago when I sat next to the fountain with my feet inside.  

Then I discovered all of the fountains were covered up and a stadium was being constructed for the Olympics. I was able to cross the bridge after taking an Eiffel Tower shot, buy a ticket to the Batobus boat taxi, and enjoy a 45-minute ride down the Seine to the final stop at Quai St. Bernard. There, I remembered the Jardin des Plantes, the first garden I had seen in 1984, and walked around the entry part. From there, a ten minute walk back to Gare d’Austerlitz to join evening commuters. I managed the rides, but never had a chance to sit down. It was as if we were playing “how many humans can fit into one Metro car.” Tempers were boiling, I stuffed my purse down my shirt, and made it to the Rue St. Maur stop without a hitch. Oh, I couldn’t wait to put my feet up and check on my little black and white bird.

My white jeans? Not a smudge!!!

June 6 - Leaving Normandy behind

 40 years ago, I thought my ancestors were German (last name Gearhart seemed to confirm this), Scottish, English, and Swedish. I carried some of the guilt of the Germans, especially during history classes. I learned the language, and assumed a war-like nature was just part of being German. I hated to lose. My great-grandmother was a Gustafson, and her parents immigrated from a town near Gothenburg, Sweden.  Much of the information was murky. That was then.

Now my DNA has 0% Scottish and 1% English, which is disappointing as I love Shakespeare and especially the Scottish play. About 60% of the strands come from Norway and Sweden, and one Norwegian ancestor has the same face, eye, and nose shape of my youngest. Hmm, Viking perhaps?

 I’ve always related to St. Paddy’s Day and wouldn’t you know it but there’s 12% Irish, from the troubled part of the country. Protestants near Belfast, and one ancestor who may have been shipped to a Scotland prison. The rest? More Vikings: Iceland, Faroe Islands, and the beaches of Normandy to Oostende, Belgium. Depending upon the century, the last 14% might be Norman, Belgian, or French. The Pieter Gerhardt who immigrated from Rotterdam in 1754 was not the German one I found in the National Archives but a Belgian or Norman.

All of this is to say, or to ask, how much of our DNA dictates our ethnicity and culture? I do know this: my family is extremely competitive. When my babies were toddlers, dolls and musical instruments were thrown out of the crib in favor of the balls. Ball girls. Nature or nurture?

Before DNA analysis, my genealogical research in the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake City (last century) traced back to Rollo, a Scandinavian and first King of Normandy in the early 900’s. He died there in 930, establishing a permanent stronghold for the Vikings. His legend as a famous warrior survives. My love of athletic competition, plus my lifelong love of the water and boats, makes sense. What would I discover when I visited Rouen? Would I feel I’d found my “home”?

The second largest town in Medieval France, Rouen has the checkered history of any commercial river town near the mouth of a large river delta, in this case, the Seine. Many battles continued after Rollo, especially between the English and the Normans. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake here, contrasting with wonderful engineering feats in the Gros Horlage clock and the construction of the lovely cathedral. Monet loved painting the church during different times of the day and last night the light was incredible on the newly-cleaned facade. The reflection was so bright I squinted behind my sunglasses.

A funeral rite was in progress, complete with flags and pomp. A simple wooden casket emerged from a van, and several mourners followed it into the church. This morning, the facade in shadow, I could better see the lacey scrollwork of the master craftsmen from the past. On the spire, workmen were blasting years of dirt off of the copper as the scaffolding rattled.

When I arrived a few days ago, I didn’t notice the artwork in the train station. When I walked straight up the rue Jeanne d’Arc and into the lobby today, I saw two huge Impressionist paintings on the left. On the right, six realistic paintings of warring peoples: Vikings and ancients, weapons not blurred like Monet’s lilies but sharper and darker.  Here we have it: 150 years of Impressionism juxtaposed with a thousand years of warring. And me in the middle, waiting for the arrivals and departures board to reveal on which platform the train to Paris would pause for ten minutes, unloading and loading unsuspecting commuters and tourists. The soaring ceilings of Gare Rouen Rive-Droite illuminated what has been and what is. 

I loved this town, but I didn’t find the story I’m looking for, a tale that I could twist into an historical fiction. Still, many elements yearn to be dramatized and surely, most certainly, Joan of Arc needs a resurrection in a contemporary work. Shops flourish beneath the wings of the contemporary church erected in her honor. 

It’s embarrassing to admit, but when I arrived three days ago I sat on the very stone where she perished, resting after carrying my bags down a long staircase. When I went looking for her monument this morning before leaving town, I was shocked to learn I’d been there before. 

Isn’t that the feeling we’re supposed to experience when we’ve found our homeland? As much as I wanted to adopt first Bayeux then Rouen, I didn’t feel that deep connection to place I expected/hoped for. And yet, I’m already planning my return. Surely the descendant of a king (boy, is my blue blood diluted!) needs to dig a little deeper. 

Meanwhile, men in replica Army uniforms are descending on a different Normandy today, looking to be a part of the 80th anniversary of D-Day. President Biden and a living King Charles will speechify about the victory of the Allies. Bombs will drop in Ukraine and in the contested ancient holy lands today, and I will turn my back on the opportunity to celebrate the turning point of World War II. I’m looking for something else, a world beyond war, to celebrate. 

May all of the victims of these conflicts rest in peace, and may the rest of us force peace as a priority.

June 5 Giverny- just pictures

 

June 4 Rouen

 By the time I had arrived at the Rouen Rive-Gauche train station, I was pretty mad at myself. I had no cell service, no contact with anyone. I was dragging along too many bags, but everything was necessary. I’d repacked so that the heavier items were in the roller bag, saving my aching shoulder, but I was tired. The roller bag was too heavy, even after doing months of weightlifting. I feared I’d blow out my back or my shoulder and nobody would be around to help me. It was my own fault, my stubborn independence and “I’ll do it myself” attitude I’d had all of my life. Maybe, just maybe, that came from a place of arrogance, not independence. Perhaps I should start asking for help.

The Rouen station is gorgeous, with a tall glass ceiling and pristine floors and walls. It looked recently remodeled. I found out most of the town had undergone a refurbishment, and it glowed. Since I had no map and no GPS, I got lost on purpose. After an hour of happily rumbling over cobblestone streets and exploring, I stopped at a swanky hotel and asked where the Gustave Flaubert hotel was located. She gave me a beautiful tourist map, walked me outside to the corner and pointed to a paved street, and I was off to the old center of town. One person set the tone for my entire visit to Rouen. They like tourists, especially ones who ask for help in French.

A contemporary church had a market under its wings: flower store, fish market, fruits and veggies, just like old time France. I wandered down an alley to find the Litteraire Hotel Gustave Flaubert and walked into a 4-star dream. Pristine, quiet, and friendly, the staff greeted me warmly, helped me with my bags, changed my room to a quieter hall after seeing my exhaustion, and brought me a fresh carafe of water. Accessible meant my shower had no walls, but it was perfect. Peaceful and quiet.

I asked where I could find a restaurant that served authentic Canard Rouennaise (duck), and they said only a few places still make it. You should go to La Couronne, but you’ll need a reservation. The Crown? Sounded great. An old school restaurant just around the corner from my hotel, I practiced my French and asked if they had a table free at 7:00.  They were pleased to have me, and I returned to my hotel to shower and change into a dress.

A young woman seated me in the people-watching corner, with a brocaded velvet drape to my right. To my left, I listened to a family from Texas talk. Actually, the parents talked but the kids were on their phones. The waiter used perfect Texas twang English with them. When he came to me, I asked him where he had studied English and he said he had family in Dallas. He loved watching the show and talking like Larry Hagman. He approved my dinner selections and sent over the Somme for the wine selection.

In the large round table in the middle of the room, two French businessmen were wining and dining two Chinese couples. All were speaking broken English, and it seemed the couples were considering an investment in a new hotel. Drink after drink arrived over the course of the evening, but I didn’t see any handshakes.

The sommelier arrived with a wine list. I didn’t open it, and asked instead, “Could you help me pick one?” He was delighted. I described what I liked, but said I would trust him. (Thank you for demonstrating this, my dear bff.)

He brought a terrific 375ml bottle of a 14-year old Côtes du Rhône. Perfect with the first course, perfect with the duck, and perfect with my pastry of caramel and dark chocolate. I ate as slowly as I could, tasting the tart chicory and mesclun, the buttery puff potatoes, then the savory duck. The sauce was made with local apples, one of the culinary things Normandy is known for, and thickened with something I hadn’t tasted before. I decided I would learn how to make this. Surely somebody had made a YouTube video. I had a demi-tasse of decaf espresso, and listened and watched for awhile. I felt more relaxed than I had in a week of traveling. Rouen felt special already.

The next morning, I learned the sauce was thickened with the blood from the baby duckling that had been suffocated then cooked in its own blood and apple puree.

The beat-up-myself-talk started, but I forgave myself. “Hey, I tried something from the local cuisine. Anybody could have made this mistake. It could have been worse.”

I’m on vacation. Rouen is waiting. Would my DNA start tingling in my cells, since I’m 14% from this area and a descendant of King Rollo, if one can believe Ancestry.com?

I had no plans for this first full day in Rouen, so I consulted my tourist map and made a checklist. One by one I visited the important places. I bought a one-day all access pass and began at the incredible Joan of Arc interactive museum. Held in the archbishop’s palace, the filmography and history were riveting. I heard many more details about Joan’s life, most disturbing of which was the fact three soldiers spent the night inside her cell, while two others guarded from the outside, before she was burned at the stake in the morning.

The exhibit was organized around the first trial and conviction of Joan, heavily influenced by the presence of the English, and the second trial of rehabilitation, conducted solely by the French and witnessed by her mother. The actors and script were great. Perhaps being in the middle of the burning scene was a bit much, but it was very effective.

On to the Gros Horlage and more steps up and down to examine the clock tower. Loved the architectural piece and the amazing engineering of the actual timepiece. Great views up and down the main drag, also called the Gros Horlage. I made friends with a man and his silver pit bull. They rest underneath it every day, collecting spare change. I wonder if he’s an actor or an artist playing the part of an unhoused person? He was so clean every day and had a sparkle to his eye that made me wonder. Maybe he’s actually a security guard? He would be a good character in a novel…

The Museum of Wrought Iron and several others were closed on Tuesday, which nobody had informed me of when I bought the ticket, but I had an enjoyable visit to the cathedral. The facade is perfectly clean ow and workers are about 75% done cleaning the copper steeple tower. The bottom is green and the top is black, so it’s interesting to see how much soot has adhered to its surface over the years. I walked down to the Seine, which isn’t as important to Rouen as to Paris. If only I had cell service I could have rented a bike and toured the river path for miles. None of the rental bikes had a way to unlock except for the use of an app. Alas.

Breakfast at the hotel was filling but predictable. I wouldn’t buy it any more. For dinner, I shopped at monoprix and bought a vegetable tray. I think I’m done with traditional French food, although the cheese dip was delicious.

Tomorrow, a trip to Giverny on a direct train to Vernon. There, I can rent a bike without an app.

June 3 - Travel frustrations

 I had a plan, written the night before in the little living room of my Bayeux attic. Up at 7:30, yoga exercises, shower, eat the yogurt, granola and fruit I’d brought along, pack up the Normandy cheese and butter from those gorgeous brown and white cows with brown sunglasses rings around their eyes, head to the train station at 9:15 to be very early for a 9:58 train to Caen. I still had an unopened bottle of Jordan Chardonnay, and I wrapped it carefully in the shopping bag. In Caen, I would change trains for Lisieux, then change again for a train to Trouville-Deauville, where I would eat lunch at the fish market and walk along the boardwalk just like Gigi did in the movie starring Leslie Caron. It was a good plan.

First, I became lost walking to the train station. No phone, no GPS, but I trusted my sense of direction. Still I asked somebody, and this American from Kentucky sent me in the opposite direction. After making a loop and ending up where I had started, I just followed the birds and found the station. I trotted along with three minutes to spare when I climbed up the ramp to the platform. The train to Caen plugged to a stop, and I lifted my roller bag with the grocery bag falling off, the wine bottle clanging to the platform. Somebody handed it to me and I nearly fell off when I leaned over as my backpack was crammed with reading materials.  Found a seat in second class, and off we went.

Caen looked pretty cool, but I had only 4 minutes to find my platform and board the next train. Neither the Bayeux nor Caen stations had arrival/departure boards, so I depended upon the electronic updates above the platforms. When a train labeled “Lisieux” arrived at the correct time, I boarded it, with more grace than the train from Bayeux. (So many awkward moments in entering and exiting trains. None of these elegant, scrappy pumps descending the stairs by a woman with a perfect outfit, coiffed hair, and not a care in the world images I was constantly counting my bags and hoping I wouldn’t knock anyone over.”

When I arrived in Lisieux, my train just stayed on platform #1. The conductor got off for a smoke. I went inside, for my ticket said the Trouville-Deauville train would leave from platform 1. I asked the lady at the ticket booth about that, and she said it had already left. I showed her my tickets and the connections and she said the schedule had changed. I asked why I wasn’t notified and she shrugged her shoulders. Meanwhile, I saw my previous train was heading back to Caen, and I figured I could go there instead. As I headed back over to the platform, it was already moving. No luck.  I couldn’t take the next train to Trouville as it left Lisieux in three hours and I would miss all of my connections. What to do in Lisieux?

I overheard a woman, in broken English, ask about the same train. She had arrived from a different station and intended to take the same train, but no luck. I couldn’t place her accent as it wasn’t Spanish but Portuguese? A third woman, exquisitely dressed with platinum blonde hair, a Hermes satchel, and size 6 shoes I would given anything to have, started yelling at the agent in French.  Right at this time, I had an idea. Maybe I could get a refund for the Lisieux-Trouville legs of my trip, since I couldn’t go and it was the fault of SNCF. I jumped up to talk to the agent, and she lowered the shade when I arrived. Harumph.

When I turned around, I saw several frustrated women. I walked up to the one who had spoken English, and asked her if she was going to Trouville. She said her train had left, and I said I had the same problem. We chatted for awhile, introduced ourselves, and commiserated. Anna and Vera were from Brazil. We shared pictures of our children, and their grandchildren. We laughed and got along instantly. They were in their early 70’s and asked me, “Are you alone now? We are.” It was a poignant moment. 

I had chosen to be alone at this point in my life, and had chosen to take this trip on my own. I love traveling solo, even though I should be traveling lighter. These women included me in the cadre of widows and divorcees who were still chasing their dreams, and it was wonderful. 

Anna suggested we find an Uber and split the trip three ways to Trouville. I told her I had no phone service but I did have cash and was happy to share the fare. No Uber showed up for 45 minutes. When a taxi with a nice woman arrived, we asked her if she would take us to Trouville. She said she had a fare, but called an associate. He said he’d be there soon to take us. 75 euros. We looked at each other and agreed.

The Parisienne came outside and lit a slim and fragrant cigarette. The Brazilians joined her. I asked her where she was going in my pidgin French, and she said to a baby shower in Trouville, but her train had left. We told her she could share ours, and we tried to have a conversation. She prepaid a taxi and waited with us. I was tempted to bum a cigarette off of her, since I’d never smoked one, but her manners were difficult. Every time somebody said something in English, she said “Speak French. You are in France.” And when we couldn’t understand her rapid fire speech, she said the same thing at the same speed, but twice as loud. She started yelling and we sympathized with her frustration. “You can come with us,” we said.

Her taxi showed up, she shoved the large present in the back, entered on the side of the driver and sped off without looking back.

Two more women of senior age came up, and one started talking to me. Her English was better than my Italian, and soon the five of us agreed to share a taxi to Trouville. The Italians were celebrating their 75th birthdays, and I learned Vera and Anna were sisters. Many laughs, then a serious conversation about war after I told them about my writing project. All had experienced violence and had lost relatives in some squirming or other. We agreed the world needed different leadership. I asked the, “Is it time for the women to take over?” We laughed as tendrils of smoke from bland Italian cigarettes mingled with the spicy Brazilians, and fortunately the wind blew the smoke upward as I was becoming nauseous. 

An hour after our call to the taxi, a beautiful black Mercedes SUV showed up. I checked the timing. I would get to Trouville at 1:00 and my return train left at 1:30. Was it worth it? When the taxi driver said only four could go, I gladly gave up my seat to the others. I could come back to Trouville, and maybe add romantic Honfleur, some day.  Anna was particularly upset and we hugged and kissed cheeks. Soon everybody was hugging and kissing and saying “Peace be with you” in every language. The taxi driver took a picture of us. “Bon journee” I shouted after them.

Back in the train station to wait for my 2:00 train to Caen. In the train station, an American sergeant of about 50 leads his troops in the wrong direction. Nobody contradicts him, but they are chased off of a train and sent in another direction. He is the only one with a cell phone, and he’s trying to figure out which platform to go to when a female private’s eyes and mine meet. I raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. I point to the departure board and she walks over to the steps to the platform, waiting for her commanding officer to realize she’s in the right place. He sees her, tells his troops “I’ve got it,” and pushes by her.

I’m on my train now and see several men wearing the same crossbody purses women seem to like this year. Where are the man bags I enjoyed seeing a few years ago?

On to Rouen, Joan of Arc, and a town with a lot of potential for discoveries. Best of all, I have an accessible room. No stairs. An en suite bathroom. A bar. I’m in.

June 2- A bucket list day

 I had to get up twice in the night to navigate the twisting stairs to use the restroom. I’d bought a a beer and decided to make dinner in my room. Drinking lots of water to rehydrate is usually a good idea, but not in an attic room in Bayeux.

We had an earlier start time for the tour to Mont-Saint-Michel, but the driver was due to pick me up at my place at 8:30 a.m. I wondered how that would work, as the rooms are on a one-way street that is misaligned in many ways. That makes it charming but more suited to pedestrians. Rose the driver showed up, and I joined a couple from New Zealand. Willy and Linda were delightful company. We picked up a nice family from Augusta, Georgia. Both parents were ophthalmologists, and their kids were attending Furman U. They were staying in the 4-star hotel. Their son often got car sick, so we moved him up to the middle but Willy and Linda were squeezed in the front seat. I offered to switch, and once again had the luxury of being in the co-pilot’s seat for a long day.

Rose had the loveliest accented English. I’ve tried to practice her soft consonants and lilting sentences, but to no avail. She took a circuitous route on the way to the island, which afforded us the view of the Hedgerow Hell I’d learned about yesterday. When we were on a country road, with ditches on both sides and dirt stacked up 6 feet, I understood what our soldiers faced when they tried to liberate the French countryside. On top of the dirt mounds, dense shrubbery and tall trees made a nearly impenetrable barrier. Once a soldier made it to the top of one, he had to cross a ditch, be in the wide open, cross another ditch and try to fight to the top of that hedge. It would have been impossible to see the enemy in those conditions. It was very different fighting without tanks, for they would have plowed through. Just 20 or so miles of countryside took over two months for the infantry to conquer. It must have been nearly as bad as the trench warfare of WW1, except that the soldiers had to keep moving.

Once through the hedges, we were back in the land of the Impressionists. Rolling hills, wildflowers, sheep and the beautiful Normande cows grazed and dozed in landscape that had been flattened after war. A few newer hedges had sprung up between properties, but for the most part the views were unobstructed. I really wanted to see Saint-Lo, in honor of my youngest, but there was no time and the town had been completely obliterated by the Allies. It was an important hub for the Nazis, and the “collateral damage” of civilians was terrible, as leaflets dropped by the Allies the day before the bombardment were blown far away from town. Nobody knew what was coming until it hit them. Still, French survivors today said the martyrdom of Saint-Lo was necessary.

After a lively conversation in the van, we were able to see Mont-Saint-Michel in the distance. It was a bit cloudy and misty, something out of a movie. I still haven’t seen the movie version of  “All the Light You Cannot See,” although I loved the book. I wanted to see the location of the final scenes for myself. Now I can’t wait to see how they filmed the winding passages, endless stairs, and beautiful views from the three levels of the abbey.

For most of the day, I was thanking my orthopedic surgeon, who gave me a a long-acting knee injection before his surgery schedule on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend. Over 400 steps to get to the top of the abbey. We arrived right at the opening hour, and by the time we walked down 4 hours later, the village was packed. Having a guide was so much fun, as we went through secret passages and up back-alley stairs, some so narrow my hips touched the sides. At the top, Rose confessed, “I can’t take every group up these stairs, if you know what I mean.” We laughed, but one of the guys had to go up sideways.

It was worth it for the view of the tiny cemetery and the little chapel for the villagers at the top of one of the secret staircases. Not all of the villagers were allowed in the cathedral, and few in the abbey. Now, a new order of religious servants live in the abbey. They are the Order of Jerusalem, and both men and women are in their ranks. When the last Benedictine monks were too old to care for the abbey, this group was ordained in the 1970’s. Now about 40 live there permanently.

When I have time, I’m going to read more about the construction and various architectures of the abbey, but just know over a thousand years’ worth of rock and stone still stand. Spectacular views from many rooms, and still some unfinished walls were covered with glass so nobody would fall out. The base pedestals and columns were over 8’ in diameter and above them, the Cloisters with the pristine lawn. Monks used to grow vegetables there. Above that, the cathedral. Our tour took us from this point down through the various levels, with plenty of time for photos. The light glimmering across the sand, to shimmering on the low tides, to creating a sunlit path across the bay - these images must have been the inspiration for Anthony Doerr’s novel. His blind protagonist couldn’t see these, but she could imagine them.

An aside - I had the opportunity to Zoom with him and 9 others during Covid. He was talking about his new book. What a nice guy. This is my dream: to live abroad and write an historical novel using some particular place. He used Paris, Germany, and Mont-Saint-Michel. Bayeux and Rouen for me? So many people have written about Paris.

I splurged on a lunch at Vielle du Auberge, and despite Rick Steves saying there’s no good food on the Mont, I enjoyed my meal of a classic Salade Nicoise and a glass of chablis from Normandy. Why is the chablis here so tender and exquisite? Ours in California is acidic terrible. The leisurely walk down through the village again made me happy I had a tour guide. The light had changed again, and I took a wonderful panorama video as I walked backwards to the bus stop. By the time our van had left the property and was back on the road, the sun was behind the abbey. Rose pulled over so we could take pictures of the Mont when it was “black,” or completely in shadow.

I wonder what all of the people over the last thousand years have felt when they saw Mont-Saint-Michel for the first time? It was one of the most sacred sites I have ever visited.

June 1 Evening

Spent today on my first guided history tour. Jack from Normandy Tours was great, although I didn’t know what he was talking about (ootaaa) until we arrived at Utah Beach, our first of five stops. The area was crowded with reenactment dudes dressed in brand new replica uniforms. Not all of them were veterans; of course nearly all of the WW II vets are gone. My dad passed in 2017, at age 90. He would not have been happy seeing non-military people wearing uniforms.  

I considered it, and couldn’t judge them. Historical reenactments are fun and educational. Some day I’d like to be in one. I’ve got a Rosie the Riveter bicep. Well, it was clear these guys from the UK and the US and France and Belgium were all acquainted. Not a bad way for a group of guys who want to get together every year to celebrate June 6. Their laughter on top of the noisy motorcycle mufflers and the Just Enough Essential Parts vehicles ( Jeeps) made for a jocular scene. That is, until I saw the size of the craters and heard the story of the soldiers who drowned before they even hit the beach. Difficult currents created sandbars and landing vehicles were stuck. Tanks sank and the whole operation should have failed. But, it didn’t.

On to St. Mere-Eglise and another heroic story of American chutzpah. Here, there was a replica paratrooper stuck on the church’s spire, representing what happened to an American trooper whose parachute blew into the church. He played dead, and survived. That night, many of the paratroopers were far off target and it took a few days for them to regroup. Still, D-Day battles secured the coast in about 9 hours.

We had lunch among hundreds of veterans and current servicemen near this church. American Rangers will be jumping again on June 9. What a fit group of guys. They were excited.

The war museum in St. Mere was terrific and included a real glider from the battle. It looked like a large shipping crate made of plywood, but it could carry a Jeep. Pont du Hoc was a highlight as I’d heard legends about the Rangers shooting grappling hooks and climbing up the cliffs. Unfortunately, while 220 made it to the bottom of the cliff, only 90 made it to the top. They were late and were supposed to launch a red flare when they’d taken out the German gunners. Since that took a lot longer to accomplish, their reinforcements went to Omaha Beach instead. Interesting euphemism by our tour guide: Germans weren’t killed or taken out, but “silenced”. It softened the reality for few seconds, but when I saw how young the German prisoners were (14-15), I was reminded of who pays the costs of war. Their poor mothers. I assume their dads were long gone.

German bunkers are still present at Pont du Hoc, but the Allies blew some of them up so pieces were everywhere. The cliffs are crumbling, so we couldn't’ get too close to the edge. Viewing platforms helped us gain perspective on the physical achievement of the Rangers. 

Once we left this site, we headed to Omaha Beach where event construction created huge traffic jams. Here’s where a knowledgeable guide was really helpful as he went past the full parking spaces and created one right across the street. Walking along the beach, I saw the enormous venue for the heads of state. I wondered why were we celebrating this victory when war is raging in Ukraine and the contested Holy Lands. They had a 75th anniversary. Did we really need an 80th to feel good about our military might? I reminded myself war can be good for the economy, and so can celebrations.

I’ve always supported the Olympics, for I believe sports are a healthy way to exhibit nationalism. But the games are now political as well. Paris is a mess. Sorry about the sidetrack. Omaha Beach used to be called the Beach of the Golden Sands, and it is one of the prettiest beaches I’ve ever seen. As flat as Dunkirk, but the light shines on the water so beautifully. I can see why the Impressionists were enthralled by Normandy. The images of boats like those at Honfleur being used as aid boats after D-Day might have given Monet and Seurat nightmares. American money keeps up this sight, although the guide kept reminding us we were on French soil.

Same scenario at the American cemetery. French soil, but American maintenance. Scaffolds surrounded the part I wanted to see. A thousand seats were already in place, with a red carpet down the middle. Guests will be facing East, with their backs to the marble crosses, which are facing west toward home. After the massacres at D-Day, commanding officers didn’t want the wave of 35,000+ soldiers to be demoralized by dead bodies on the beach, so they moved them up top. No reenact-ors were here, but a company of American army were carrying their berets in hand. Three were allowed to slip under the rope and place a wreath on a grave. A really bad French bagpiper with a soiled white shirt played a hymn I didn’t recognize. 

After, I heard Taps at 5:00 p.m. and learned every body was treated equally in this place. No special markers for generals or privates. Even President Roosevelt’s son Teddy Jr. had the same white marble cross as the men he commanded. After the war, families had the option to bring their boys back for home burial. But many officers remained behind with their men, as their families believed this is what they’d want.

Sounds nobly poetic, but 9387 crosses over 175 acres make quite an impression of young lives lost to defend democracy. What would these poor boys think about our democracies today? 

These and other thoughts kept my mind troubled as we sat in a traffic jam for 90 minutes without moving.

I made it back for one last night, grateful I didn’t have to use a ditch for a toilet. 

June 1 morning

Today I will try to untangle my feelings about war, my military brat status, the D-Day celebrations where Americans and British soldiers will descend upon the Normandy beaches to relive our glorious invasion that changed the course of the war, and what a poet should say about the current US involvement in two overseas conflicts. 

What is an ally? What does it feel like to put my feet in the sands where so many people died trying to restore democracy to an occupied Europe? How high were those cliffs the American Rangers climbed to take out the German gunners before dawn on June 6, 1944? 

It’s time to leave for my tour. 34 steps below my attic airbnb, which is quite cool, I’ll take a pitstop at the potty. That’s right. The listing didn’t say “en suite,” it said “private toilet.” I didn’t know that meant it was two floors below my room…

May 31

 Said good-bye to my bff and listened to Paris wake up along the rue Bosquet this morning.

Trash day is on Friday in this particular neighborhood, which is perfectly situated between the Eiffel Tower and the famous pedestrian shopping street of rue Cler. 

Until she left, I hadn’t really missed my phone- hadn’t missed looking down at a map or asking Siri to answer yet another question. I liked trying my kindergarten French without Google Translate at my fingertips. I didn’t miss untangling cords and figuring out which device needed to be plugged into the adapter for charging. I had my iPad, so could text on it. I didn’t really need a phone.

But, when I woke up a bit later to pack and finish the laundry, there was nobody to talk to. The silence made me admit I would be more comfortable with a phone, a lifeline to be honest. I had time to walk to the Apple Store near the Opera House before my train. As I headed out the door, it began to rain. So, I hailed a taxi and we drove down the most expensive street in town. Security guards stood in front of Dior, St. Laurent, etc. So many roadways blocked off in preparation of the Olympics. The buildings were gorgeous and the boulevard was wide.

If I’ve learned anything about life through traveling, it’s to allow more time than you think to do a simple thing, not that buying a new iPhone is simple. France adds VAT, so the price was astronomical. They sold me a 13, which I later learned was the same phone I had had. Not even an upgrade! 

Two hours later, my photos and music were downloaded from the cloud. I just needed my contacts.  20 minutes before my train was due to leave, I walked out of the store with a walking guide to the train on my phone.

What I didn’t yet realize was I had no cellular service, so once I was out of range of the Apple wi-fi, the map stopped working. I was lost for a few minutes, asked a gendarme for directions, then trotted past Printemps and the Galleries Lafayette to the train station. Imagine a purple roller bag topped with a precarious cloth grocery bag full of expensive wines and chocolates sliding from side to side, a backpack on a limping lady being strangled by her too-long scarf… It gets worse. 

I tried to pull up my ticket on my phone, and no had no wi-fi connection. No ticket to show. 4 minutes before the train was due to leave, I had gate agents blocking my way. I had my intinerary printed, but that folder was deep in my bag. I dug out my iPad showed the agents the email confirmation, and they said “ code.” No QR code in the email to show them.

There was only one thing left to do. Without premeditation, I started crying. An older gate agent came over to see why 4 agents made a senior citizen cry. I think he said something to the effect of let her in, but without a code, the electronic gates didn’t open. Instead, I slid under them, and the men did a fire brigade with my bags.

Just like the movies, I threw my bags on first and the door began to shut before I could get in. Fortunately I crawled over my roller bag and face planted in front of the toilet. One, two, three bags were with me, my new phone stuffed down my bra, and I was safely on the train fro a 2.5 hour ride to Bayeux. Voila!

Joke's on me

 May 30

Did not get a chance to play a joke on my bff. Cancelled that tour and instead walked over 7 miles around Paris. I showed her the famous Shakespeare & Co bookstore on our way to see the Notre Daame. She’s looking great. The shrink wrap is gone and only two cranes remain. I really missed my phone as I had no camera. All day I missed it. I could live without it as my iPad has Wi-fi, but I’m thinking I’ll get one.

The immersive Notre Dame VR tour was amazing. Of course we were so terrified we held hands the whole time and bonked our heads upon exiting the show. The staff were kind in that they did not laugh in our faces.

Lunch at Au Pied de Cochin was amazing. 

More laugh attacks in the evening and no jet lag!

On to Bayeux tomorrow.