Today we see Monique for the last time. I make coffee for her again. It's funny how you can tell when people are good and kind even if you can't understand all they are saying. Monique is petite and attractive and good at her work.
Bernie, however, was very impressed by Marie-Louise's household help. She answered the door one day when we stopped by. She was wearing the traditional French maid outfit: white apron over black dress. Blond hair and a tattoo added to the mystique.
It's cold today. We've arranged to meet Dominique at the Mayor's office in Peray. She wants to show us the very old church next door to the Mairie. Dominique's been very busy since she became mayor. She's also a newspaper reporter. As soon as she sees us, she begins speaking in French to us. After seeing our completely puzzled expressions, she immediately switches to English. I wish I could do that!
Parts of the old church at Peray date to the 11th century. Services are rarely held here, or in any of other village churches in France. A largely Catholic country, France has drifted away from the church since the world wars - indeed, since the French Revolution. Before that, the church was very much a part of the political machinations and closely aligned to the monarchy; hence it stands to reason that the people had little use for the church as an institution when the monarchy was toppled.
The French do, however, have great regard for their history, and nowhere does this appear so prominently as it does with old churches. The central French government funds restoration of many of these churches and the old cemeteries that occupy church grounds.
At Peray, the cemetery is the old style, in other words, with underground burials. New regulations demand that all burials must be above-ground.
Dominique points out some carving on the outside church wall. The inscription seems to mark the burial there of a high-ranking military officer from the 17th century, who died on February 10, 1681.
The roof of the church has begun to leak. Dominique is applying for funds to repair it, but matching funds must be raised in this tiny village, no small feat. Fundraising is a global problem, apparently.
It would be a shame to lose this building. Inside is wonderful decoration, some of it recording the history of the church and parishioners from long ago. Beautiful artifacts remain. Even the last priest's robe still hangs in the closet. An beautiful figure of Christ stands on the altar.
We thank Dominique and let her get back to her work.
Back at the house I take down the sheets I'd hung on the line this morning. We put clean sheets on Joan's bed and move our things upstairs again. They will be home Sunday night.
Bernie books our room for our last night in France - it's a Paris Hilton (Orly). It's modern, we understand, and has no particular character, but they provide shuttle service to the airport.
At dinnertime we decide to try the Chinese restaurant. To compare, we order the shrimp ravioli here, too. The Cambodian version was better.
We sleep in the loft again tonight. It's cozy and we can see the moon through the skylight. bookings to go - Paris Hilton.
I take my walk to Monce. Only a few butterflies, thistle bursting with down, cornstalks turning yellow, straw bales out of the fields and into barns.
School started here today. The local bus service has added additional runs to LeMans. Most of the children go to school there now.
Our time here is growing short. Back at Le Verger, I call Michael Cresswell and Tracey. He's the young man who spent the last few months in Nashville recording an album that's to be released in Europe in the fall. We've been meaning to get together with them, so we'd better try to make arrangements now.
Alas, Michael and Tracey are leaving today on a trip to promote Michael's CD. We're sorry for that. They both have a great sense of humor, and they're interesting and smart. Good company.
Tonight we're trying Sauce Normande. I bought pork cutlets (though they won't be an adequate substitute for the wonderful sausage we had in the fabulous appetizer). We're filling out the menu with green beans (known as haricots verts in this neck of the woods) and salad (made from the contents in our garden), a baguette and butter and the last of the blackberry pie.
Chef Bernard is at the stove, hovering solicitously over a saucepan, a container of cream and a bottle of Calvados nearby. Onions and the Calvados transform a white sauce into a delicious, subtle yet robust sauce that's a perfect accompaniment to pork.
Dinner is perfect. I could go on eating this way for a long time. I'm so glad our arrangements allow us to eat out when we like, but still cook at home.
One of the roads from St. Vincent forks just a few hundred feet out of the village. One fork leads to Commerviel, the other to Monhoudou. We've walked along the road to Commerviel to see the sunflower fields and a beautiful house with an impressive glass entrance.
So today we walk toward Monhoudou. It's a funny name for a town in France. It comes from Latin (Mons) and Greek(helios)- a strange marrying of language. Like many other villages, it has very old roots; archaeological finds indicate it was home to the ancient Gauls (as in Julius Caesar's time).
At the first farm, inquisitive white cattle come to the fence to look us over. Two calves poke their noses through the fence, and gaze unwaveringly at me as I take photos. I think they're posing because, after a minute, they turn to the side, displaying their profiles proudly.
Farther along, a break in the hedge reveals five or six black turkeys. As soon as they see us they begin to gobble. We continue to walk. They follow along inside the fence. At last we come to a corner where an even narrower leads to other farms.
Here is the farm gate, and as we approach it, the rest of the turkeys see us. There must be a hundred of them, all facing us and gobbling. It's as if we are conducting a turkey orchestra. They're lined up several rows deep at the gate.
Down the road we see what looks like small horses in a field. As they turn to look at us, we see the long ears. Not horses- perhaps mules or donkeys. As they come nearer the fence, Bernie recognizes the markings - shoulder crosses - they are donkeys. These markings, and the fact that Jesus rode into Jerasulem on a donkey, or ass (the correct term), has made for great legends.
We stay a respectful distance from the fence. Farm kids know donkeys bite, and we both lived on a farm as kids.
Back at Le Verger, our house in St. Vincent, we work at household chores and manage our own flock of cats until dinner time, when we drive to Mamers.
The Chinese restaurant, our first choice, is closed today, so we walk around the square. It's a chilly day and the Cambodian restaurant looks cheery and inviting. Once inside, we see the decor is Chinese Restaurant Anywhere, with pretty paper lanterns, lamps with silk shades, lacquer ware and paintings and sculpture. The menus are printed in French and English. Bernie orders Seven Perfume Shrimp and I choose Beef with Vegetables. Our appetizer, shrimp ravioli (yeah, I know that's Italian but it's how it's described) comes with a delicious dipping sauce.
Chinese beer, lots of green tea. The food is exceptional. At some point it dawns on us that we are sitting in a Cambodian restaurant in a small town in France and acting as if this is commonplace. I know that in many ways it is, but we still have the sense that the focus on our lens to the world is somehow changed.
Today, as I often do, I walk the three kilometers from St. Vincent to Monce. Though so close, we can't see Monce from St. Vincent. Nor can we see St. Remy, about the same distance in the other direction. I nearly missed St. Pierre, another village with a beautiful old church, between Monce and St. Remy. All are within walking distance of St. Vincent.
On our fist walks in early August, we saw hundreds of butterflies, clusters of ten or more hovering around a wildflower, and bees hummed the eternal background music of summer, often the only sound we'd hear.
In the weeks since the landscape has changed. Fields along the road have been harvested, first the wheat, then the straw. Blackberries have ripened; hundreds of thousands of them line the roads.
Today there are fewer butterflies and only an occasional bee. Many of the wildflowers are gone.
Queen Anne's lace remains.
I'm seldom homesick anymore, no matter where I go. As a child, though, and sometimes even much later, I found comfort when in a strange place by finding things that were familiar. I'd begin with the sun, moon and stars and then look for trees and plants that grew at home.
This habit has stayed with me, and I was pleased to find the lacy white flower of the wild carrot growing along the roadsides in France.
For many years I'd gather the blooms on my daily walk for a bouquet.
That changed in the summer of 2007. As Jacob's life hung in the balance I was unable to find joy. I walked occasionally that summer but when Queen Anne's lace began to bloom I refused to pick it. When Jacob comes home, I told myself, I'll make a bouquet.
I'd not picked Queen Anne's lace since. Then, a couple of weeks into our stay here, I gathered some as I walked, along with a variety of small purple flowers. I put them in a vase on the kitchen counter.
They were pretty, of course. The little thrill of pleasure at seeing them never came, though. After a couple of days, I let them go.
As I walk today, something has changed, something indefinable yet definite. Summer is closing up shop, folding the flowers back into the earth, stripping the fields in preparation for the new season.
I feel a pleasant loneliness. Our time here will soon be over. I've loved every minute of it. I'm not eager to leave; I believe I could stay on, live here.
At the same time, I look forward to being home. I want to be with our family. Juliet will have grown so much. The other grandchildren are back in school. We have plans.
We'd planned to see the Orsay Museum today, but it's closed on Mondays, so we head for Montmartre. Montmartre is bohemian Paris, and home to the dazzling white basilica of SacreCoeur. I was in Paris, at Montmarte, nearly twenty years ago. Then I was too stingy to have a sketch portrait made. I've since thought that was a silly economy. So if I see something I like this time, I'm, taking it home.
There is something almost startling about riding the Paris Metro, packed but silent, then exiting and walking up to street level to see hundreds of people, cafes, shops, all against a lively, colorful background. Coming up into Montmartre has that startle effect times a double espresso.
I stand on a corner, drinking in all the life going on around me, momentarily overwhelmed. A figure emerges from the crowd, an elderly man with a cane, wearing a dark green suit and a beret. He approaches me, tilts his head slightly to one side, and asks, "Are you looking for SacreCouer?"
I tell him I am. He gives me directions, and I thank him profusely.
SacreCouer, atop Paris' highest hill, commands a spectacular view of the city. Before we begin the steep climb, though, we need coffee and hot chocolate.
At the cafe we choose I place our order, and we take a table on the sidewalk. When our order arrives, I realize I didn't communicate well. We have one large (by French standards) cafe aulait. Now, I know I can't drink coffee-it will make me sick. However, I love coffee, and this coffee looks and smells wonderful. Bernie tastes it. "Mmm, it's delicious." I pick up the cup and taste it. It's heavenly. Though we share, I drink most of this perfect cup of coffee. I may pay for it later but now it's worth it. Another testament to the mystery of why we do things we know aren't good for us.
The climb to SacreCouer is steep, and the approach is crowded with shops of all kinds-at least ten beauty shops specializing in elaborate African hair styles, inexpensive clothing in bins that open both on the sidewalk and the inside of the shop, tobacco shops and bars.
Several men are running a shell game in the middle of a narrow street. The amazing thing is that people are falling for it-one of the oldest scams in the world. It's obviously illegal, but the shifty-eyed crooks who've drawn a large crowd seem little concerned about possible arrest. There are no police in sight.
The of city streets opens to a park-like setting. We are just below the basilica on a path with an amazing view of Paris below us.
We've avoided most of the steps to SacreCoeur-there's just one flight left. But here are all the recent-immigrant vendors with their wares on display. This year you can buy crystal Eiffel Towers. We're about to sweep past them when I see little battery-powered dogs trotting along, barking, tails wagging, eyes flashing. I don't know how I'll find room in my bulging suitcase, but I buy one for Elyse and Brookie.
Violin music pours from the top of the steps-a busker plays as tourists drop money in the box nearby.
Rules are posted a the entrance to the church: no hats, no photographs, proper attire, silence. They're enforced, too. Someone is told to remove his hat, another takes a photo and is told to leave. Silence, however, is elusive. It's clear the atmosphere here is not prayerful. Everyone seems to want to talk. We leave.
Instead of walking down all the steps, we take the finicular, then the Metro back to Central Paris.
In the Tuileries we buy ice cream and then enter the Orangerie, the beautiful Impressionist museum that houses Monet's Water Lilies in two oval rooms, displayed as he specified. On the lower level we also see some fine paintings by Utrillo, Renoir, Cezanne, Matisse and Picasso. Renoir does the most amazing things with color.
Late afternoon-we take the train back to Versailles. On the walk back to the hotel, I purchase the last tuna baguette of the day from a cafe.
We return to our peaceful village through lovely countryside this late August evening.
We arrive at Versailles at 10:00. Our plan was to park our car in the lot at the hotel, then check in later, but a room will be ready for us in about half an hour, so we have coffee and tea in the restaurant while we wait for our room. The hotel, Cheval Rouge, was built in 1676 and served as Louis XIV's livery stable.
We'll not see the famous castle today, though. We've chosen to stay in Versailles so we won't have to drive in Paris traffic, but we're just 30 minutes from central Paris via the commuter train. The 2-day pass we buy covers both the commuter train and the Metro system.
There is a man from New Jersey on the train from Versailles to Paris. He's already been to the chateau and is headed back to Paris to meet two friends for lunch.
The Metro and RER system make it easy to get around and it's easy to learn. And by buying a pass instead of purchasing a ticket for every trip, which saves time and money, if you make a mistake you just get off and get another train, but we've not gotten on the wrong train-yet.
We're across the Seine from the Louvre. We can walk across either of two bridges but we choose the PontNeuf. At the Louvre the line under the pyramid moves quickly.
Once we have our tickets I approach a guide. We have a map and I ask her if a part of a certain wing is closed. It's not. Then I say, "I'm about to ask you the question that you're asked a million times a day...." And she finishes "...Where is the Mona Lisa?" We both laugh.
The act of seeing the Mona Lisa is not such a big deal. There are lots of people there, all taking photos, many of them of themselves and their partner in front of the Mona Lisa, proof that you really were here. You can't get close to daVinci's masterpiece, and it's behind bullet proof glass. On August 2, a woman with psychological problems, angry because the French government had not granted her permission to emigrate, threw a coffee cup at the painting, but it was undamaged thanks to the bullet proof glass.
But it would be perversely silly not to see the world's most famous painting once you're in the Louvre.
The other two favorites are the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace. Both live up to their fame (as does Mona) - wonderful sculpture.
Winged Victory gets a lot of my attention-fluid marble, proud and inspiring. It's located at the top of several flights of steps and seeing it from the bottom of the last flight of steps gives a hint of what she must have looked like in the original (sitting on the prow of a ship on a hilltop in Thrace).
No single-day visit to the Louvre will do it justice. Another reason, we tell each other, that we'll have to come back.
That said, we drink in the Grand Hall where great paintings cover the walls (and thickly, I might add) floor to ceiling, immersed in the overwhelming richness of the Louvre and take in as many rooms as possible where vast paintings such as The Wedding at Cana command an entire wall.
I love The Clubfooted Boy by Caravaggio. There are so many paintings I want to spend more time with if we are privileged to return.
Exiting through the glass pyramid, we pause to plot our Metro route to the Arc deTriomphe.
While we certainly want to see the famous Arc where the Champs-Elysee begins, we have a secondary reason for wanting to reach the landmark.
On the day before we left for France we learned that our next-door neighbor had been born in Paris and lived, until her early teens, on one of the 12 boulevards that radiate out from the Arc deTriomple. She'd said that not only could she see the Arc from her family's apartment, but, by leaning out the window, looking to the right, she could also peer at the Eiffel Tower.
So, once at street level, we turn down Avenue deWagram and quickly succumb to the desire for a hamburger at the McDonald's there.
Once our hunger is satisfied we stroll down the street looking at apartment windows, imaging a petite blond girl looking at at two of the world's most famous landmarks
Tomorrow we go to Paris. Marie-Louise will feed Sunshine, Tinkerbell, Tuppence, Diablo and Duchess plus the big guy who belongs to the neighbor who comes here to be fed.
We've learned each cat's personality and quirks. Sunshine does not move. If he's in the courtyard and you want to bring him in, you'd better get out of the car, pick him up and move him. He lives to sleep. But even though he's fourteen he's still able to wallop Tuppence if she goes too far with him. He's on our bed most of the time. Bernie calls him Earl Fisher (Bernie's dad's name) for reasons that escape me.
Tink is a crabby little old lady with a round belly, delicate face, thin legs and small feet. Though she has no Asian features, she reminds me of a Chinese Dowager Empress. She swats her kitten, Tuppence, who, though fully grown is, in my opinion, still her baby and should be treated as such.
Tuppence is full of personality, doesn't know to retract her claws when she plays with people, and is absolutely irresistible. I know each time I poke my finger between the door and jamb, she's going to be faster tan I am and I'm going to get scratched, but I can't stop because her little face looks up at me expectantly with those bright, alert eyes and her ears perked up.
She roars up the stairs, climbs on the old exposed beams, then gallops all around the landing sounding like a herd of cats.
And she's our defender. Joan has been feeding a neighbor's cat because he is not getting fed well at home. Now he wants to be a part of the household but he bullies the two younger cats and makes Tink a psych case (she pees and poops on the floor - aargh!)
So Tuppence guards the cat door in the morning while the other cats are eating, keeping the neighbor cat, who is twice her size, at bay. I just love this spirited little cat.
Diablo and Duchess are twins, a boy and a girl, pure white, and two of the most loving cats I've ever seen.
Trouble is, we never know which cat is which. It's a relief when both of them show up in the kitchen at the same time. Since they both love to stay out all night, and sometimes half the day, we like to know that nothing has happened to either of them. We don't know where they go, but we suspect they rule the big cornfield across the road, where no doubt mice also have field day.
And the neighbor's cat, even though he's a bully, even though I know he comes in at night and during the day when we're not here, and eats all the cat food, he's got me softened up. When I hang up clothes he rubs my legs. When I'm in the courtyard, he wants attention. He even pauses to be petted before he begins eating when I take his food dish across the road to keep him away from our cats.
I'm glad I'm not the one who has to decide what to do about him.
I'm going shopping this afternoon. I'd like to get a pair of pants since it looks as if the next few days might be cooler and I don't like the way my others fit. I swear for the 100th time never to buy anything that doesn't fit perfectly from the first try-on, no gaps in back, too-low rise, blah, blah, blah.
But my real reason for shopping is to buy the nice underwear I saw at the clothing store as gifts for my girls.
At the store I discover they also have very cute underwear for little girls, made smooth and flat for comfort. One great thing about giving underwear as a gift is that it takes up so little space in my maxed-out suitcase.
As for clothing for me, I buy leggings that are too big and a tunic that's too small, as I discover when I'm back at the house. I hope they are amenable to exchanges.
We're visiting Dominique tonight for a short while to take her flowers and to thank her for her kindness.
Flowers are very important in France; every town bigger than a small village has a florist. The arrangements are just a little different than at home, and very beautiful.
Dominique has taken on a lot of responsibility lately, and she is tired. We stay for only a short while, exchange e-mail addresses, and say goodnight. We want to get an early start for Paris in the morning.
We're on our way to the Loire Valley again, this time to Saumur, Chinon, and, we hope, to Chenonceau.
At Saumur's Tourist Information office, though, we learn that the chateau is undergoing renovation and is closed. There seem to be a lot of these projects underway at cathedrals and chateaus. The work is funded by the French government, and we wonder if this is part of a stimulus package.
Our stop here is not wasted, however. The young woman who helped us at the Tourist Information office is can't-stop-staring, put-Hollywood-to-shame beautiful. Natural jet black hair, big expressive eyes, perfect skin. Bernie counts this as a high point in his day.
We drive by the chateau for a glimpse anyway.
Now we're coming up on the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud. It's the largest in Europe. The Huguenots desecrated the Abbey in 1561 (the Catholic Church was very corrupt during that period and reform movements had begun all over Europe - Martin Luther posted his 95 theses on the church door in Wittenburg in1517). In 1804 Napoleon turned it into a prison, and it remained a prison until 1963. During World War II Germans tortured members of the French Resistance here and killed several.
Founded in 1101, the abbey had five buildings housing orders of priests and lay brothers, contemplative nuns, lepers, invalids, and lay sisters. The founder of the abbey ordained that the entire community should be directed by an Abbess, and that she should be chosen from among the widows.
The order quickly became the place for queens who'd been put on the shelf and the females of wealthy aristocratic families to take refuge. The order became wealthy due to generous gifts and endowments from those aristocrats. Many of the Abbesses over the years were from the royal family.
If I were going to a convent, I'd like this one, at least for the setting, among rolling hills planted with crops. One thing I wouldn't like - only the room in which monks copied manuscripts was heated.
Despite the corruption and laxity of religious orders of the time, we remind ourselves that it was places like this, and monks who laboriously copied manuscripts here, that kept Western civilization alive. The Dark Ages were times of illiteracy, ignorance, and a great step backward for Europe. What we think of as the wisdom of the ages, including, very importantly, the Bible, might easily have disappeared had it not been for them. (I know, I know - you got all this in Western Civ, but it seems so much more real here, more urgent.)
Libraries perform that same function today.
So do public schools. There were no public schools in the Middle Ages. Only the few, children of wealthy aristocrats, received any education.
Detractors of public schools would do well to keep in mind the reason that autocratic rulers do not want education for the masses: ignorant people are much easier to manipulate. Education's purpose is to expose students to a wide variety of points of view and to teach them to think for themselves so they can evaluate those points of view.
Education is a powerful thing. For those who hold power, it can often be a very dangerous thing. Thank God.
Abbeys are not as grandly decorated as cathedrals, and only the church here has stained glass, but the architecture is just as impressive.
Henry II of England, his wife, Eleanor of Aquataine, and their son, Richard the Lionheart are buried here.
I can remember - again back to fifth grade - reading about Richard the Lionhearted going on Crusades to the Holy Land. Did I ever think I'd gaze on his tomb? Not a chance.
I know this is so corny but we both love being this close to history.
Driving to Chinon we see more troglodyte houses-they are endlessly fascinating.
The Tourist Information office in Chinon doesn't disappoint Bernie-there is a very cute blonde young woman here.
Before we tackle the castle, we need lunch. We always seem to arrive for lunch just as most of the restaurants have stopped serving it, and the in-between offerings are limited. In most towns, though, at least one place serves all day.
We park at the top of the hill above the entrance to the castle. There is a restaurant across the street. We take a seat and wait, and wait. Apparently we are not only not going to get lunch here, we're not even going to get a nod.
We go down the hill towards the center of town. It's a steep descent, but fortunately there is an elevator.
There are several cafes clustered around the Place de la Charles deGaulle. We find one that's still serving. At the next table is a couple from Dublin with their two girls. I'm always glad to see families traveling with children. We have a pleasant lunch, but we have decided we're going to have to start packing lunches - these leisurely cafe breaks eat up a lot of sightseeing time.
Francois Rabelais, writer satirist (whom I've not read) was born in Chinon in the 1400s. Chinon is best known for it's red wines, and after climbing up to the chateau we see the vineyards on the side of the hill.
All the castles we've visited on our trip have been fortresses rather than the luxury palaces and Chinon is no exception.
Joan of Arc pleaded with Charles VII to take the throne back from the English here, and he gave her permission to raise an army. He'd taken refuge at Chinon during the hundred Years War.
When the English captured Joan, Charles failed to come to her aid, and she was burned at the stake.
Other inhabitants of the castle at Chinon were Richard the Lionhearted, along with his mother and father, Henry II of England and his wife Eleanor of Aquatine, and Richard's brother, John, one of England's less popular kings.
Inside the fortess signs tell us that an English-language tour will begin soon so we hang out, looking over the ramparts. It's a long way down to the town and the river and the views are grand and sweeping.
Our guide arrives, says goodbye to her last group, and we have her all to ourselves. We're very interested in how the castle was built and about Joan of Arc's stay here and she is very knowledgeable about both.
Chinon is being renovated and workmen installing sewer pipes have found chicken bones inthe walls, indicating that another worker somewhere between 1000 and 1400 ate his lunch here and dropped the remains inside the wall.
We climb the tower, where there's a Joan of Arc museum, to the top. The walkway around the outside at the top is narrow, the view commanding and it's windy. I wouldn't have wanted this watch on a winter night.
Our guide tells us the land around the castle provided nearly all the castle's needs, so that the inhabitants couldn't be starved out in a siege. Food crops were grown on the castle grounds and deer and wild boar in the forests provided meat.
There are still wild boar as well as deer in the forests nearby. She says one of the big problems with traveling at dusk is the danger of hitting a wild boar! Surely enough, on the road as we drive home, we see a sign: "Wild Boar Crossing."
We want to take the interstate to get home before dark (incidentally, we're a little farther north than at home and when we first arrived it was light until after 10:00 p.m.).
The directions on the big highways are given in terms of where the highway ends rather than the next city. It's only once you've decided on a direction and are already on your way that you see a sign for the next town. If you know which direction the end city is, you're ok - it's like getting on I71 - you know it will eventually take you to Cleveland eventually, but you can also get to Columbus. If we gget on the road to Lyon, though, we don't know Frane's cities well enough to know which direction that is.
We've made a choice, however, and it's a few kilometers before we realize we're probably going the wrong way. So we find a rest stop and pull in.
In a few seconds we have maps out and are trying to figure it all out, but we're still not sure. We've pulled in beside a tractor-trailer. Bernie bets out , sees that the truck is right-hand drive and approaches the driver.
"Do you speak English?" Bernie asks.
"Quite well," comes the answer in a pleasant British accent.
The driver and Bernie talk for a couple of minutes, then come over to our car and spread a map across the hood.
I'm catching part of the conversation and it sounds as if they are lifelong friends.
We learn a lot about this very nice man in just a few minutes. He's driving this truck from Manchester to Gibralter. He's retired twice but due to the economy and lack of an adequate pension, he's had to go back to work. He's never received any money from the government. His son paid for his father's knee replacement. He's going to call his wife in just a little while.
He tells me to look out for Bernie and I promise to do that.
So many good, kind people in the world. So many lives and stories.
We try to keep the house neat here but some things pile up so today is our work day.
Monique is here. Monique cleans the house for Joan. I'm working hard to improve my French conversation by talking to Monique. She can't just give in and break out in English so we have to keep at it until we understand each other.
We have coffee and tea together. So far we've mostly talked about the weather, but today we talk about our families. She has two grown sons and one grandchild who is 18 months old. I tell her about our family and then remember I've brought pictures, so I get those to show her.
I believe she told me she was a little later than usual this morning because she was cleaning the school. I ask when school starts. It's next week.
She asks me how I like it here in the village. We love it and I tell her so. She lives in the campagne (country) and likes it because it's peaceful. Yes, it is. I don't think I have the capacity to convey what it's like to be here. Perhaps someone who grew up in rural American at least 50 years ago might have some inkling, but that's still not quite it. People here in the country have all modern conveniences, internet, phones, etc. Every village has a recycling center. So it's quite modern.
Yet they often live in houses that are hundreds of years old, and just as we have a wheat field beside the library and a cow pasture behind the house two doors down, the villages and countryside have the imprint of rural life of past centuries. Pigeon cotes and stone farm buildings abound, roadside shrines for travelers appear every ten kilometers. Nearly every village has an old church, one-lane farm roads lead from one tiny village to another.
I would love for everyone to experience this, but I fear it will be swept away before long. I hope not.
Now I'm making the blackberry pie I've been planning. It's a shame I can't share these berries.
For most Americans, Le Mans, France means the 24-hour endurance race that's been held here since 1923.
Our map study has revealed a connection here to those who live in the Dayton, Ohio area. There's a monument here to the Wright Brothers, and a street named Rue Wilbur Wright. We felt it was a little link to home.
For a few days the city is flooded with race fans and press from around the world. For the rest of the year Le Mans is a busy modern city going about its business.
Yet all the while, on a hill overlooking the center of the city, the ancient walled Cite Plantagenet looks down, its impenetrable walls containing stories it cannot tell, of lives lived here for centuries.
We've parked our car in a lot not far from the cathedral. A horse-drawn carriage is loading passengers for a ride around the ancient city. A little girl sits beside the driver while her family settles into the back.
Walking on the old cobblestone streets, I'm glad, for perhaps the hundredth time this trip, that I decided at the last minute to pack my old Ecco sandals. They're not pretty, but they've enabled me to walk all day long on any kind of surface with comfort. They're worth every penny I paid for them probably ten years ago.
Shoes were my biggest wardrobe consideration preparing for this trip After a few weeks I can honestly say that the best travel advice, right after packing light, is to wear comfortable, broken-in shoes.
Lots of steps here - we're on a hill, and the streets wind around the side of it. And this is no museum piece. The old city is fully inhabited. It's a lovely residential area. Residents' cars move past tourists. Lace curtains and window boxes filled with colorful, trailing flowers grace the windows of Renaissance half-timbered houses.
Parts of old city date to Roman times. Three towers, part of the original wall, are third-century Roman, there's a gate along the Quai Louis Blanc that's distinctively Roman, as well as the porch of the cathedral. (If you took Latin, you will remember the opening sentence to The Gallic Wars, "All Gaul is divided into three parts." Gaul was the area now known as France and Belgium.)
The Plantagenets (you remember them - English kings) lived in the palace here between the 9th and 15th centuries.
We descend the 3rd century steps of the Grand Postern and walk along the Rue St. Hilaire. At the corner there's a bride having her wedding pictures taken. Bernie and I sit on a bench and take our own photos of the bride and groom. We must have a thing about wedding photos - we have some of a wedding in London, one at Niagara Falls, and now these, which I think are the best.
We've saved the cathedral for last, and as we enter, we're so glad we're here at this time of day. The late afternoon sun shining through the stained-glass windows casts a pattern of green and lavender light on the walls - a strange play of light blends the red and blue to make light the color of chalcedony. I'll never see pale green and lavender together again without thinking of the cathedral at Le Mans.
We sit quietly. This is such a peaceful place. It's impossible to describe the vaulted ceilings and inspiring architecture and lovely stained glass without being repetitive, but each of the cathedrals we've seen has been awe-inspiring and amazing.
We keep trying to put the picture of life in the middle ages, when these cathedrals were built, up against the marvels of architecture and building of these edifices. The peasants who built them lived in one-room huts. Life was short and hard. But they built magnificent cathedrals.
There is a tour group with a guide here. I take photos but as I try to explain to the guide who's watching me, it's impossible to capture what this place is like.
We walk through the cathedral, peeking into the chapels, each decorated differently. Outside one are candles. I light one for Jacob.
Today is Josh's birthday. Happy Birthday, Josh! A handsome young (yes, still very young) man with beautiful babies and a gorgeous, smart wife.
The thing about living with indoor/outdoor cats is that you never know what you are going to find on the kitchen floor in the morning. Today it's a small dark creature with a pointed nose that I think is a vole. I've checked images on Google and I can't be certain, but I don't know what else it could be.
I know this was a special gift for me because it was carefully laid on the rug in front of the kitchen sink. I don't like to think of what could have happened if I'd come in the middle of the night for a drink of water.
I'm going to walk today! I've established a route. From here to Monce-en-Saosnois is 3 kilometers, so round trip I get 3.6 miles in.
Our home away from home is a busy place this morning, though. A neighbor just stopped by to ask about Joan and Bill. It's hard to explain how we get through these conversations, but we do, and although it's hardly a nuanced understanding, the two parties (us and them) seem to grasp the main ideas.
Bernie is very good with languages. He knows far less French than I do, yet he always seems to get the idea, and faster than I do. I'm wracking my brain for vocabulary and verb forms; he's putting it altogether with bits and pieces.
Now the Eisen man is here (think Schwann's). I'm still barefoot and wearing the hideous yoga pants I brought for walking which both Bernie and I now detest.
While the Eisen man is giving me his spiel the breadman arrives at the courtyard gate. Now, we do not want to miss the bread man. We've been gone two days and our last chunk could be used for a doorstop. A baguette a day is tresnecessaire (can you tell we're falling into step with French living?) I can say that the emphasis on fresh bread every day gives me a new understanding of "Give us this day our daily bread."
So, saying, "Une minute, s'ilvous plait," I take off to the gate. I have forgotten something important, however - I am still barefoot, and I know from stepping outside a few nights ago to look for meteors that our courtyard is paved with ground glass. I have never stepped on anything that hurt my feet so much.
As I step gingerly over the pavement, I know what's going through both these men's minds: Crazy American!
I arrive at the bread van before he leaves (he's been known to honk that European horn as he sails by the house without stopping), only to have him point out to me that I have no shoes. What a faux pas!
The Eisen man gives up on me when I return to the door clutching the baguette. He just hands me his monthly flier and I assure him I'll give it to Joan. Yeah, it looks a lot like the Market Day flyer from our grandkids' school, and probably much like the Schwann man's.
We're taking it easy today. Once I've walked, gotten cleaned up, picked stuff for salad from the garden, we spread our maps and brochures on our "planning table" aka Bill and Joan's coffee table. We're planning tomorrow's excursion to the old medieval city of Le Mans (who knew it was something other than a big ole racetrack?).
On our way to Bayeux where we will spend the night, we pass Falaise. I look it up in the Michelin guide and discover it's the birthplace of William The Conqueror.
We're hungry and see a McDonald's. This is our first stop at a McDonald's in France though we've seen them. By the way, here McDonald's serves beer.
The food is good - good bread, good beef, everything tastes fresh. While we're eating I look at the register receipt. The address of this McDonald's is the William The Conqueror Roundabout. Now honestly I don't know why this strikes me as so funny, but something about the juxtaposition of those two makes me laugh every two or three minutes. I can picture William (who was born The Bastard, son of the king and a beautiful peasant girl) looking around, bewildered.
We pass through Caen, a busy port city and working man's town. There's a ferry here to England.
Driving northeast to the coast, we arrive at Arromanches, a touristy little town now that was the arrival point for British troops on D-Day. We go through a nice World War II museum.
It's not far to Bayeux, and because we know that our hotel is very near the cathedral, we just keep moving closer to the tall spires and find it easily.
This is fun. We drive through the gates in the wall that surround our home for the night into a beautiful garden. Our hostess greets us graciously and shows us to our room. Built in Napoleon's time, the house is furnished with antiques and there is a magnificent spiral staircase leading to the second floor. During WWII, the mayor of Bayeux had his office hereon the second floor after the Germans took over the municipal offices.
Our room is beautiful and we have a door that leads out to the garden where there's a patio with tables and chairs.
It's like having the keys to the chateau!
The building housing the Bayeux Tapestry is just 100 metres away, and after putting our things in the room, we walk around the corner to see it.
I first learned of the Bayeux Tapestry when I was in fifth grade. Pictures of it were in every world history book I had through high school and again in my text for the Study of Western Civilization in college.
I never dreamed I'd see it, but here I am walking alongside the 70 yards of embroidered linen that tells the story, in pictures stitched with wool thread, of the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I know I'm a geek, but this is thrilling. Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Miller, look at me! (She was my teacher in fifth grade.)
We decide on a small restaurant around the corner from our hotel for dinner - nice with white linen tablecloths and napkins. I choose an omelet and salad. Bernie orders one of the three-course plat dujours. My food is very good, but Bernie has an appetizer that is out of this world - andouille sausage wrapped in a crisp crepe on a bed of sauteed onions topped by Normandy sauce with Calvados. He gives me a bite - it's heavenly. He's more generous than I would have been - he gives me two more bites. His entree, bass with steamed vegetables is good, but it pales in comparison to the appetizer.
Dinner is a two-and-one-half hour affair. You are never rushed in a restaurant in France. And there is no annoying music, just the low murmur of conversation around us.
As we leave the restaurant, we stop to take photos of the cathedral. It's beautifully lit at night. We plan to see it tomorrow.
Back to our lovely manor house and a good night's sleep.
August 24, 2009
We slept well and awoke to a beautiful morning. Our room is on the ground floor with a door that opens into the garden. It's walled and takes up most of the block making our place in the middle of this busy city an elegant oasis.
Breakfast is in the formal dining room in our hotel. It's croissants, bread, butter, jam, ham, cheese and fruit. Two British couples who are friends, along with one couple's son, join us. They've just traveled to the Dordogne region of France and are going to see the Bayeux Tapestry.
After breakfast we walk 200 meters to the cathedral. Each time we enter a cathedral, after we've seen the big two - Notre Dame and Chartres - we expect to be a little disappointed, that they can't all be beautiful, that there will be maybe just one gorgeous stained-glass window, but we're awed by the beauty and majesty of each one. Music is playing as we enter, something lovely, but recorded. In a few minutes, though, the organ begins to play. Music is spine-tingling, completely thrilling here.
I light a candle for Jacob and spend some quiet moments.
In the few minutes it takes to drive from Bayeux to Omaha Beach we move forward nearly 1000 years.
A gray sky threatens rain as we stand on the beach at Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, perhaps much like the sky on June 4, 1944. We've seen newsreels from that day and the sea is much calmer today than it was then, and unlikely to turn red with blood as it on D-Day.
Only a few tourists have ventured onto the beach this morning. "Les Braves" stands on the sand. A sculpture erected for the 60th anniversary of D-Day, given only a temporary permit t remain right on the beach, it has been allowed to stand due to many requests not to take it down.
Just a few feet to the east a German gun emplacement remains, a grim reminder of what the Allied forces faced that morning. We see others on the hills surrounding the beach, strategically placed for aiming guns at the beach. We can't imagine anyone brave enough to land here but thousands did, and many died.
Pieces of concrete pier remain, the remains of the Allied effort to create an artificial harbor so supplies could be brought in to keep the troops going once they began the push inland.
We climb a steep road past another gun emplacement to the top of the cliff. It's the first road the Allies built after the invasion. Today there's a campground at the top. The view of the sea is spectacular, of course.
After climbing back down, we drive along the beach road as far as we can. A monument marks the location of the first American cemetery at Omaha Beach. The remains of those buried there have been moved to the new American cemetery on top of the hill.
It's early afternoon when we arrive at the cemetery. We take the time to see the exhibits at the visitors' center and it's well worth it. As we pass through a hallway towards the exit that leads to the cemetery, the names of those known of the 9387 who are buried here are read over a loudspeaker. Four women and 307 unknown soldiers are among that number.
If you've seen the opening scenes of "Saving Private Ryan" you have an idea of what it looks like here today. The sun has come out now and the white marble crosses and Stars of David gleam in the sun. There's a perfect blue sky overhead, and the view of the sea from the cemetery is appropriately heartbreakingly beautiful. I think that this bit of beauty and peace is a small offering of gratitude to those who died here.
The 44 acres here are American property, granted by the French government. Quiet and respect are requested for the truly brave men and women whose remains cover the top of this hill. It's hard not to cry, especially when you've passed several graves marked "Unknown."
We stop at the beautiful memorial and semicircular wall that lists the names of those who died but whose remains have never been found.
Bernie and I believe that everyone should visit Washington, D.C. Now we believe that it's just as important to visit Omaha Beach. Pause for awhile and ponder what freedom truly means, how close the world came to losing it, and that saving it isn't about slick slogans or safe-at-home stick-on flag and Support Our Troops decals.
These men were released to slog through seawater to the shore under German guns; they watched as men beside them died, and they kept on moving, perfect targets, until they at last fell. No surprises - they knew what they would face, and they kept on coming, and they died.
We are back at the car - it's after five. We'd thought we'd finish Omaha Beach and the American cemetery early in the day. But what we've experienced here shouldn't be rushed, and we're glad we had the time to linger.
We'll not see Honfleur or Dieppe today. Another day, perhaps, or another trip.
Today we are planning our trip to the D-day beaches and Bayeaux.
We're using Rick Steve's guide as well as an old Michelin guide. Rick gives lots of practical information and tips, such as where to find a grocery store, and Michelin gives great detail going back to prehistory for geologic details about a place. They make a good combination.
I've booked our hotel online. So much easier than the telephone, though I was able to call our Paris hotel and have a successful conversation.
Communicating with a bit of French when the other person knows about the same amount of English works pretty well, though.
We've heard that the French refuse to speak English. We don't find that's true. I think they are as reticent about using clumsy English as we are about using clumsy French. When you try, using what you know, most people open up and speak a few words of English proudly.
For detailed and precise communications, such as the conversation I'm about to have with Marie-Louise next door, the Google translator works well. I write out what I want to say in English and the translator gives me the French, which I then transcribe to a note for her. Doing this makes certain that my verbs are conjugated correctly and in the right tense. You can get in a lot of trouble with verbs.
As I walk up the drive next door I hear Marie-Louise laughing and talking with someone. It's her family who are in the car about to leave. She greets me and her grandson, whose name I believe is Allen, speaks very politely to me in English. He's a nice-looking blond boy with a shy expression.
She introduces me to the family. all of whom seem to speak English. Allen looks to be somewhere between 10 and 12 and his sister perhaps a year or two older. The son and daughter are a handsome couple.
Marie-Louise will feed our cats on Sunday night and Monday morning.
Bernie has maps and guidebooks all over the bed and he's busy making notes. I read the guidebooks. We want to see the D-Day beaches of course, and the Bayeaux tapestry, but we'd like to see Honfleurs, too, a port city for 1000 years. Champlain sailed from Honfleurs to discover the St. Lawrence River.
There's a movie on about Hitler's bunker. It keeps us up later than we should be, with a hundred commercials toward the end, as usual. But now we're even more eager to see the place where Hitler's evil began to unravel.
The train from Paris brought us to La Ferte Bernard, but we've not had a chance to explore the town. Today is the day. Nicknamed "the Venice of the West," the town is crisscrossed by canals. It's a short drive - 29 kilometers.
The town dates from the 12th century and was originally built on stilts in the middle of the marshes, growing up around the fortified castle.
In 1590 the town was under siege by Henri IVs troops and the food supply was dwindling. The commander of the fort, DragoComnenos, decided to rid himself of some hungry mouths, and expelled a number of women to fend for themselves. They fared badly at the hands of the besiegers. Then Comnenos disguised 200 of his men as women and sent them out of the fort. As the besieging force welcomed this fresh group of "women," the men removed their women's clothing and fought their attackers, who fled. It's a dark chapter in the town's long history.
Today, the sun shines brightly, the weather is perfect, and what we see driving in to town is very inviting. We've seen a number of very pretty towns in France, but we agree this may be the prettiest. Flowers pour out of wide hanging planters on the wrought iron railings of bridges above the canals, half-timbered two-story Renaissance houses line the streets, some with statues looking down on the pedestrians below.
We enter a courtyard by a walkway through a building that houses the library We are alone, surrounded by the soothing sound of water moving through the canals that border two sides of the garden. It's peaceful and beautiful.
Crossing through St. Julien's Gate where the drawbridge over the moat once allowed entry into the fort, we see shops all along the street. It's easy to imagine that we've stepped into the 16th century as the shadows cast by the walls of the fort dim our vision momentarily, and that these are shops selling linen and wool and other trade goods of the time.
Strolling through town past the old buildings, the chateau, the waterways is more than a walk through time. La Ferte Bernard is a busy modern town; though many of the streets look like a Disney movie, behind the walls of the ancient building are computer stores, travel agencies, drugstores and clothing stores. The Tourist Information office is housed in the old salt store. There's nothing contrived here - it's all real and somehow blends seamlessly.
The jewel of the town, and the highlight of our visit is the church, Notre-Dame-des-Marais (Our Lady of the Marshes), built over the period 1500-1596. Beautiful churches are often crowded with tourists in France. Here, though, we are alone for some time before just one other couple silently join us.
Again, I light a candle for Jacob. This time I am able to sit down and meditate in silence for a time.
This is a working church. Pictures of a scout troop and youth on a missions trip are thumbtacked to corkboards resting on easels. There's a sheet for new visitors to sign, brochures for various mission efforts, and, as in all the churches we've seen here, an appeal for more young men to join the priesthood.
The architecture is Flamboyant Gothic, intricate and elegant. Gorgeous stained glass windows tell stories from the Bible. One shows a beautiful Mary Magdalene at Jesus' feet at the meal at Bethany.
At Notre Dame and Chartres we experienced the great glory and grandeur of God; here we find God's peace and comfort.
We emerge into a perfect day - the sky is brilliant, the temperature just right.
Bernie, who's been searching for pizza, has spotted a place for lunch. The French take food seriously and allow time to enjoy it. The staff doesn't hustle you along to provide an empty table for the next diner. Order something and the table's yours for the afternoon.
It's been a long time since we had such a leisurely meal. We're outside, of course.
A family enters the pharmacy across the street - Dad, Mom, four little girls and a baby in a sling resting against Mom. One of the little girls puts the baby's hat on - it's a little bonnet and perches atop her head with the ties hanging around her face. She looks up at her mother for her reaction, smiling impishly. She reminds us a little of Elyse. I think of Elyse with Jacob and Juliet.
When we are finished with our meal and waiting for our bill, I go into the women's clothing store two doors up. I find a pair of capris and a top on sale. The pants have a bit of subtle bling, but it's tasteful. It's hard to get away from style in France. Preppy they're not, my friend Darla will be relieved to hear.
My other purchase for the day is an outfit for Juliet. I've been looking at the baby clothes since I've been here -they're all so cute that I've had a hard time choosing.
One of the great benefits of what we're doing is the having the time to really experience the places you visit, not just hit the high spots and rush on to the next famous sight.
