Dates in History

Certain dates in history, just by their very mention, conjure up unforgettable images and dramatic stories. Two of these happen to collide in the town of Bayeux in Normandy, just a couple of hours by train from Paris. We spent last weekend there, immersing ourselves in the following dates, which are separated by almost a thousand years: 1066 and 1944.


Bayeux itself is a charming medieval town with excellent restaurants and hotels, and a stunning Norman-Gothic cathedral that rises, almost protectively, above the town. Dating back to 1077, its flying buttresses, bell turrets, naves, arches and stained glass windows all speak of an era when it seems such churches and cathedrals were springing up all over Europe.

Along with all this Christian grandeur, there are also delightful winding streets, several water wheels, still in operation...






...and small ateliers where this young man has come to learn how to make the beautiful lace, for which Bayeux is also well known.






The biggest attraction, though, is that jewel of Romanesque art, the Bayeux Tapestry, housed today in an 18th century building in the center of town. As every English schoolchild knows from the earliest of ages, this tapestry and its date, 1066, depicts the rise of Duke William of Normandy, and the fall of the Saxon, Harold, at the Battle of Hastings.

As you slowly move past the 58 detailed scenes, embroidered in colored wool on a piece of linen, and displayed in one long horizontal line almost like a cartoon strip, the story unfolds with such amazing clarity and detail that you find yourself gripped by the dramatic course of events:

Of how the King of England, Edward the Confessor, having no children, designated his cousin, William of Normandy, to succeed him to the throne. Of how he sent Harold, much beloved by the Saxon nobles, and with his own aspirations to the throne, to Normandy to deliver the news. Of how Harold took an oath on holy relics and a bible, and swore to William that he would not stand in his way. And then, of course, of how, when Edward died, Harold betrayed his oath and had himself crowned King of England.

William promptly assembled a huge fleet, set sail for England, defeated Harold at the Battle of Hastings, and earned for himself the name, William the Conqueror. It was the last conquest suffered by England, and as if to send a message that the Normans were there for good, William ordered all his boats to be destroyed once they landed in Sussex. There would be no going back!

Along with all the gory details of the battle -- ending when Harold took an arrow in the eye, dying on the battlefield -- the tapestry also provides a vivid picture of 11th century life: the foods people ate, the clothes they wore, their domestic animals, how they built their houses, their boats, fashioned their weapons, rode their horses. All of this can be read and experienced as you make your way past the 203 foot long, 19 inches high linen document.



Flashing forward almost a thousand years, and you find yourself face to face with the other date that resonates in Bayeux: June 6, 1944, D-Day, the beginning of the end of WWII with the landing of American, British and Commonwealth troops on the beaches of Normandy. We signed up for an all-day tour of the American beaches -- Omaha and Utah -- and towns and cemeteries associated with the American effort. This particular Operation Overlord tour began and ended in Bayeux, which, by some miracle, escaped bombardment, and was the first town to be liberated by the Allies.


No more bows and arrows or chain mail. Instead, the Allied soldiers found themselves facing Hitler's famous Atlantic Wall -- a series of concrete bunkers that stretched all the way from northern Norway to the Spanish border. Inside the bunkers, huge "long tom" guns capable of reaching targets up to 15 miles away, pointed out to sea. This surviving one stands above Omaha Beach. Despite its crumbling rusty condition, it still managed to be a chilling reminder.


Part of a small band of 8 participants, all American and every one of us shivering, we braved the unseasonably freezing temperatures to hang on to every word our guide, Stéphane, uttered. (I was very glad I had brought along my 30 year-old Grannie Slater woolly hat!)



A passionate student of military history, Stéphane knew every last detail of the planning and execution of the landings, and every anecdote about all the major and some of the minor characters, on both sides of the conflict. Over the years, he has made an effort to meet many surviving veterans, American, English, Canadian, German, etc. in order to collect their personal stories. His bulky folder held maps, charts, photos, diagrams, letters, newspaper articles. The narrative he wove kept us all spellbound the entire day.




Invasion planning had begun over a year earlier, the Allies learning much from the North African and Italian campaigns. Aerial photography, pinpointed the landing sites in Normandy, although decoy plans were leaked to the enemy, suggesting an invasion in Norway or the Pas de Calais. Military intelligence revealed that although Hitler suspected Normandy would be the site, he was persuaded by his generals that the landings would be at Calais -- a much shorter crossing from England.


Standing on these beaches today -- empty, windswept, tranquil -- it was hard to imagine the chaos and scope of an invasion of this magnitude, even having seen both The Longest Day and Saving Private Ryan. The timing had to be precise -- a full moon, and between low and high tides were vital in order to be able to pinpoint and avoid the barricades the Germans had laid along the beaches. At high tide, they would have been invisible, splintering the landing craft and spilling the troops into the English Channel.

Despite the extraordinarily detailed planning and the accompanying, continual aerial bombardments, so much went wrong that it all came close to being a disaster. At Omaha Beach, for example, the strong ocean currents caused the landing craft to veer way off their target landing spots. Troops struggled to get to their right coordinates and it was only with extra reinforcements and efforts of incredible bravery, that a foothold on the beach was established, at an appalling cost of life.


The Utah Beach landings went more smoothly, if one can use such a word for a deadly military operation. And at Pointe du Hoc, with the German defences poised to strike out on both sides of the point, I was struck by two things in particular. First, this bullet-ridden bunker, incongruously still standing in the parking lot...



...and then a quotation from Franklin Roosevelt, carved along the side of this lookout spot above the beach. It ends with "I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees."





It was below the Pointe du Hoc that Stéphane told, perhaps, his most vivid story, that of the assault of the cliffs by the Rangers. The plan was to shoot up ropes to the top of these cliffs to gain access to the top and destroy the German guns that aerial intelligence had shown to be there. However, during the landing, heavy waves spilled over the landing craft, soaking the ropes and making them too heavy to shoot up. Instead, the Rangers scrambled and clawed their way through a gap, and hand over hand, made it to the top, only to discover that the "guns" were actually telephone poles shrouded with camouflage. The real guns, set up further inland, let loose their cannons.

Meanwhile, behind enemy lines, another major part of the invasion was in full deployment -- thousands of paratroopers of the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions parachuted through the night skies onto French soil.


One poor fellow got his parachute caught up on the side of the church in the town of Sainte-Mère-Église. He hung there, feigning death, as the battle raged beneath him in the streets of this small town, which today hosts an amazing museum dedicated to the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions. Veterans from this elite American group still maintain contact with families here. Today, a mannequin records the drama of that church ordeal!








Again, it is hard to imagine today how this seemingly unimportant, peaceful, pastoral landscape was once the center of some of the fiercest fighting for control of the narrow bridge you see here. Many of the paratroopers missed their mark, due to fog and winds, landing in the dark in the marshes near this bridge, some of them perilously trapped in their chutes, and in danger of drowning. A local farmer and his young daughter bravely went out in the dark and rescued many, allowing the troops to prevail.



A lovely stained glass window in a local church is dedicated to the members of the 82nd & 101st Airborne Divisions.







As fascinated and moved as we were by everything Stéphane told us, nothing prepared us for the impact of walking through the American Cemetery at Colville-St.-Laurent. Here, above the Omaha Beaches, lie 9386 American soldiers, four of them women, a fraction of the total number of lives lost, because American families were given the choice of repatriating their loved ones back to America for burial in military cemeteries throughout the States.

But, nevertheless, here at Colville-St.-Laurent you will find the melting pot that is America.

Row after row of white crosses, interspersed with Stars of David, stretch to the horizon. Alongside familiar American names are Italian names, Jewish names, Polish, Hispanic, Scandinavian, German names...





...and some whose name, as the tomb says, are known only to God.




Each tomb represents its own story, mostly unknown to others. A few narratives have survived: The two brothers, whose death formed the basis of Saving Private Ryan and whose real name is Niland, are buried here. Two other brothers from the 29th Infantry Division, the Hoback brothers, fell on the same day. One of the earliest groups to land on the beaches, the entire division was almost lost in the first ten minutes. Bradford Hoback died outright, his brother Raymond was severely wounded, dying within minutes of Bradford. With the chaos of the landings, and the strong currents, Raymond's body was washed away at sea. His name is recorded here on the wall of the "missing."

As we looked out over the English Channel, we couldn't help thinking that in spite of the span of the 1000 years between the Battle of Hastings and the Normandy Landings, the human tendency to wage war has not diminished one bit; rather, alas, it continues unabated.

And this was just the American Cemetery. There are Canadian and at least 16 British cemeteries in Normandy. It has always been a tradition, and considered an honor, for a British soldier to lie where he fell, giving context to Rupert Brooke's WWI poem The Soldier, written as he was deployed to the front:

If I should die

Think only this of me
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England.

À bientôt!

Neither rain...nor hail...

...nor dearth of Velibs could stay us from an outing today! The skies were threatening, but we set forth anyway. None of our local Velib stations had any bikes -- either nobody came home last night, or the company that is supposed to redistrbute the bikes evenly throughout the city was still celebrating its May Day holiday. Eventually, though, we found two, and headed east toward the Bois de Vincennes.

After 20 minutes of cycling we made our usual stop for some petit dejeuner, this time by the Bastille, before continuing on our way out over the border of the city of Paris and into the Bois de Vincennes. Like the Bois de Boulogne, the land here was once a large fenced hunting forest. Today it's a vast woodland, filled with lakes, and home to a famous zoo, beautiful flower garden and a cycling racecourse. It's also home to a mighty chateau fortress built by Charles V in 1396. And it's a popular recreation spot for all Parisians.


We biked toward the chateau, following a road that runs along the edge of the Bois. Suddenly, the skies opened, and dashing for the shelter of the broad-leafed chestnut trees, we waited it out, along with various other cyclists, joggers and walkers.

The rain cloud passed over, but shortly after we started up again, another, much more violent weather cell bombarded us. Literally. I felt what I thought for a moment was a large bird dropping on my head, only to realize that it was a hailstone! It was back under the chestnut trees again! If you can, play this video. It will illustrate the intensity of the storm better than I can describe it!


Eventually it ended, and, feeling thoroughly damp and disheveled, we picked up our route once more, finally arriving in front of the chateau. Here we found a large crowd milling around, presumably waiting to go in, we thought. However, as we circled around the chateau parking area, looking for a Velib station to return the bikes, we began to notice some interesting vehicles.

First a row of several classic Royal Enfield motorcycles caught Matthew's attention, followed by this radical Suzuki. He was as riveted by this as the little boy in the red jacket!





Then, finally, this sign popped up and we discovered we had, quite by chance, stumbled upon the once-a-month Sunday vintage car and motorcycle gathering. Nothing that's particularly organized. Just a surprisingly large group of people who show up every month in front of the Chateau Vincennes, with their vehicles, park them -- vaguely grouped by type and model -- and then hang out, visiting, and sheltering from the rain showers! Luckily, the skies did clear, so we happily strolled through the throngs of people and vehicles under, suddenly, brilliant sunshine and blue skies.





American cars were pretty well represented. One whole section of the parking area was filled with Mustangs...


...whilst we also spotted several 'Vettes, quite a few Classic Chevrolets and De Sotos with their signature huge fins...


.


..and this old Chrysler, with its beautiful white-walled tires and its enormously long hood. We wondered if it was one of the classic Pninfarina designs.






The Brits were in full force with lots of MGs and Jaguars and this very fancy gold Rolls Royce, almost overshadowing its neighbor, the equally classic Citroën Chapron.





Certainly, this group of enthusiasts spent a long time discussing the RR. We were particularly taken with Monsieur in the bow tie. With his eyebrows, moustache and walking cane, he seemed like a character out of a Jacques Tati movie.



Definitely the most unusual car in the gathering was this 1929 leather-covered car (!), driven by a nice young man, who shouted the make of the car as he was leaving, something that sounded like Rozagarra (?), but we've never heard of it...yet...




However, not surprising to those blog readers who know us well, the cars we most enjoyed were, of course, those built by the André Citroën Company, and here we were not disappointed.




Along with this beautifully restored Station Wagon...




...this gleaming 1932 model, being lovingly polished, or maybe dried after the rain...




.




...we spotted what I consider the "ultimate" Citroën, the classic model "Le Traction Avant". Low slung chassis, sleek long, gleaming body. It speaks to me of a dashing generation of 1930 "flic" thriller films. Cheerfully flying the Tricolor, this car stole the show for me!



For Matthew, of course, THE car was the Citroën Maserati, and there were several of those for him to admire.





But what made his jaw truly drop was the sight of this 1949 Harley Davidson motorbike. The same year and model that he and his friend Walter rode around Baltimore in 1962. But guess who the owner invited to actually sit on it?! Feeling far from your average "biker chick" and more of a "hardly able person", I carefully swung my leg over the seat. In fact, the owner very gently helped me by holding my leg as I swung it, because he did not want anything to touch his gleaming, pristine paint job!



Meanwhile, the owner of the 1929 vintage Citroën parked next door, thinking Matthew might be feeling a bit left out, invited him to sit in his gorgeous vehicle, happily posing alongside. You gotta love the French and their fanatic enthusiasm for cars!


With more rain clouds threatening, we turned our bicycles back toward Paris, stopped for a Croque Monsieur in a café at Place Nation, returned the Velibs somewhere along the Grands Boulevards, strolled through a flea market, and still managed to get home in time for tea!


Yesterday being May 1st -- May Day -- the whole country celebrated with a national holiday. We missed the various parades that honor workers of all stripes and political persuasions, but we did get caught up in the exquisite little sprigs of lily-of-the-valley (both potted and in cut bunches) that were on sale throughout the city. Because May Day is considered a joyous occasion, and because le muguet represents "la bonheur" (happiness and good fortune), the two have, over the years, become inextricably linked to each other.

Many many thousands of these sweet sprigs are cultivated in nurseries before reaching the flower markets and street vendors in time for May 1st. One of our dinner guests brought me this pretty one last night. I had a special reason for being extra delighted with this gift: the lily-of-the-valley was my mother's favorite flower and I always think of her when I see them. So, I spent a lot of time yesterday thinking about my mother, and how another meaning of "bonheur" is the old fashioned word "felicity", and how that word so aptly described my mother!

À bientôt!

April in Paris...

...and also April a bit beyond the city walls...

Since our return from England, we have been blessed with day after day of glorious sunshine, clear skies, and warm temperatures. Spring has finally burst out everywhere you look. And, after so many years of the more temperate Northern Californian climate, what a treat for us to really experience the season of spring in ways that only happen when it follows a particularly hard, cold winter, such as the most recent one. Every new leaf and bloom comes with a special pleasure.

Setting aside the various work projects that we "should" be pursuing, we find ourselves instead strolling the streets of Paris for hours, and spontaneously taking ourselves on small trips, just about an hour outside Paris.


A week ago Sunday, it was the short train ride from Gare Montparnasse to Chartres. My second visit, Matthew's first. We made sure to sit in the upper section of the double-decker train, and on the left hand side. That way, as the train rounds the corner on its approach to Chartres station, the two bell towers of Notre Dame de Chartres come into view, followed quickly by the whole cathedral, reaching up to the heavens, and completely dwarfing all the buildings around it.



Early pagan divinities were first worshipped on this spot, followed in the first century by Gallo Roman gods. Since the 4th century, it has been a sacred Christian centre, although during the following centuries, the town and the cathedral burned to the ground several times, the last occasion being in 1194. When several priests emerged through the smoking ruins from an underground crypt, carrying the church's famous reliquary -- a piece of the Veil of the Virgin Mary -- it was taken as a sign that the cathedral should be rebuilt once again. This is the cathedral you see today, with some modifications and additions.




The well known English scholar and guide, Malcolm Miller, was not giving tours on this Sunday. However, we found ourselves in the hands of a wonderful woman, a very gentle-voiced Madame, who was not only extremely knowledgeable, but whose enthusiasm and beatific smiles led us to wonder if she had at one time been a nun, or thought seriously about taking orders.



For an hour and a half, both inside and outside the cathedral she wove the threads of the big events in the building's history into the smallest details of the statuary -- the angels, the martyrs, the Holy Innocents, the apostles, the patriarchs -- and turned the exquisite stained glass windows into a spellbinding storytime session. At the time of their construction, these light-filled jewels took the role of a catechism lesson for the faithful who came to worship, but who could not read. They learned the stories of the saints and the message of the gospels by following each pane of glass from bottom to top.














After such an overwhelming wealth of artistic beauty, our heads were spinning. Luckily, that same day, the charming old town of Chartres was hosting the 7th annual Marché de la Paulée. In the old market place, wine growers from throughout the Loire Valley had set up tables and, for the purchase of a 5 euro wine glass, we joined a happy crowd wandering through the aisles, sipping and tasting wines, and coming home with a couple of delightful bottles to add to our teeny tiny "cave"!



Moving to this past Saturday, which dawned, again, sunny, clear, warm. Conveniently forgetting my French conversation class until it was too late to go, we headed out to our local Velib station, took out two bikes and set our wheels towards the Bois de Boulogne.

For those not familiar with the brilliant city-run Velib program, it works like this: you take out a subscription and your membership is tied to your Navigo card (metro and bus pass). When you feel like a bike ride, you slap your Navigo card on a round disc by the bicycle -- after first carefully checking that tires are inflated, brakes are good, pedals and wheels operate well. The bicycle is released and you roll it out, at which point the clock starts ticking. You can ride for 30 minutes free, after which you're charged one euro for the next half-hour, and so on.



We rode for 30 minutes, returned the bikes to another Velib station, had breakfast -- a delicious café crême and a tartine -- took out two more bikes, and continued on our way.

A vast 19th century park of 2100 acres lying on the western edge of the city, the Bois de Boulogne is criss-crossed with wide-shaded roads, tracks for pedestrians, horses and bicyclists. Originally a forest for hunting bear, deer, wolves and wild boar, it was also a refuge during the Revolution to those on the run, the destitute and poachers.

Sometime in the mid-19th century, the city planner, Baron Haussmann, took down the walls that had surrounded the forest, and landscaped the whole area with the winding paths, ornamental lakes and ponds, kiosks, restaurants, pavilions, and the famous Longchamps racecourse that you find today.











Being so close to the center of town -- probably no more than 5 miles from our neighborhood -- it provides a popular spot for Parisians wanting to escape the noisy city streets, as well as for the hopeful fisherman, patiently waiting for his first "bite."






Leaving the edge of the Bois, and the sight of apartment buildings in the surrounding neighborhood of Neuilly, we headed toward the center, where we had the leafy trails all to ourselves...



...except, that is, for carpets of these buttercup family flowers growing in abundance...





...flowering stinging nettles, along with another pretty shrub, and endless other bursts of color along the way...







Every now and then, the woodsy path opens up into a veritable greensward where, on Saturday last, we were practically the only people pausing to enjoy the view.




Meanwhile, back at the lake, and under the spreading horse chestnut trees, the little children enjoyed their pony rides...

...focussing on their ride and not appreciating, as much as we, the beautiful white chestnut flowers....



...or the less common rich pink horse chestnut flowers...


...and certainly not appreciating the significance of this sign, which has meaning for only one reader of this blog: my friend Cathy, who now lives in Perth, Western Australia. A very very very long time ago -- well, okay, it was 1961 and we were both extremely young -- we camped in the Bois de Boulogne, attended the Arc de Triomphe Stakes at the Longchamps racecourse, and generally cavorted around Paris for a week. Ah, youth....


Sunday, April 26th. And still the wonderful weather continues. So we headed to the Gare de l'Est and took the train to Meaux, which sits on the River Marne and produces among other things, a delicious mustard!


Before boarding the train, though, we took some minutes to find this treasure: a large painting, mounted above the main departure hall and ignored by almost all the throngs of people who pass beneath it. Titled Le Départ des Poilus and painted by the American artist Albert Herter, it depicts a troop train leaving for the eastern front during WWI. If you want the full, poignant story about this painting, check an audio Postcard from Paris that I made in November 2008. Here's the link:
http://janetrobbinsaudio.com/audio/list?gallerytag=producedaudio
If you scroll down you'll find it: A Postcard from Paris: Armistice Day.

Back to yesterday. Our double-decker train headed east out of Paris, through industrial outposts, banlieu housing, and it seemed quite a while until the landscape opened up to woods, rolling hills and green fields brimming with yellow mustard flowers, before arriving at the quite large town of Meaux.


Like so many French towns, the old section of Meaux is dominated by its cathedral, La Cathédrale Saint Etienne de Meaux, which, though not as grand as Chartres...



...is still an impressive homage to the soaring Gothic arch, and boasts some lovely stained glass...



...and a beautiful restoration of Lambert Chalonneau's sculpture of The Visitation...




...and behind the cathedral, in a secluded and tranquil walled area, sits Le Jardin Boussuet, designed by Le Notre himself!








Unlike Chartres, the town of Meaux is almost entirely closed on a Sunday. We managed to find a small brasserie outside the old city ramparts, where we enjoyed quiche, paté, salad and delicious Belgian beer. And marvelled again at the fact that no matter where you sit yourself down, you are almost always assured of a delightful and tasty meal!



Meanwhile, back in Paris, corner cafés are bursting out onto the sidewalks, as the local residents emerge from their winter cocoons and bask in the luxury of short sleeves, no sleeves, sandals!






In the Parc Monceau, the bluebells are in full bloom...








...and the first bunches of lilacs are being sold outside the Monoprix on the rue de l'Opéra.

Life is definitely good!








À bientôt!

PS A big thank you to Matthew for many of these photos, and apologies for the length of this post. But that's what happens when the weather is so good...you just can't stay indoors and keep up with a blog....