A Day of Remembrance

Monday, August 10, 2009

Part 1: Driving au Le Mans

Bernie and I are very excited. We’ve been invited to a World War II commemoration. We don’t know what to expect - perhaps a short ceremony this morning., and since we’ve been invited to lunch, we think that we may finish by early afternoon.

We’re concerned that we may miss it since we’ve got to pick up our car in Le Mans this morning - there’s a hefty penalty for not getting the car at the time we’ve booked it - 10:00 a.m.

Dominique arrives promptly at 8:30. We’ve been hoping she will stick around once we’re at the car rental office and lead us back through city traffic. Bless her heart, she’s going to do more than that - she’ll go in to the office with us to help us over the language hurdle.

It’s a good thing, too, because the rental office personnel do not speak English. Dominique has a wonderful way of taking charge competently but gently, with a soft voice and a smile. She inspires confidence - we’re sure that’s why she’s been elected mayor of her village.

In a few minutes, sans one of Bernie’s arms and one of my legs, plus an additional 30 Euros to add me as a driver, we’re handed the keys to a Renault Clio, a good car, Dominique tells us.

But wait. We’ll need to pass through a gate, go through a narrow alley, and pop out into traffic to get behind Dominique’s car. Never mind - she asks the rental agent if she can drive the car around for us. All of us know that this is against the rental company’s rules, but swept up in Dominique’s matter-of-fact competence, the woman says that will be fine.

And soon, we’re off! Smooth, too. Bernie’s familiarized himself with the signs and street markings that denote who has the right of way (mostly it’s whoever’s on your left, but sometimes……) and has no trouble following Dominique to the village of Marolles. Just before we get there, a deer, sleek and lovely, darts across the road in front of Dominique’s car, in one great leap.


Part II - Mort a la France

On this day in 1944 American soldiers walked the streets of villages all around us. Pictures show townspeople lining the sidewalks, greeting and cheering them. The towns of Marolles and Meziers, the first towns to be liberated by the combined Free French and American forces under General Patton, are today celebrating the 65th anniversary of liberation from Nazi Germany.

We’ve missed the church service - the surviving soldiers and many officials from the region are just coming outside to stand on the steps. Four old soldiers, chests full of medals, stand together for photographs. On each side men in WWII uniforms hold aloft French and American flags.

In the street, more uniforms as well as cars and Jeeps from the era create a scene from 1944.

Dominique must leave, and she introduces us to Phillipe, who will take care of us today. Phillipe speaks English well. He worked on a farm in Massachusetts as a young man as part of an exchange program. He and Bernie are the same age.

Phillipe assigns a Jeep and two “soldiers” to us. They will take us to each venue today.

Another American family has been invited to be part of the commemoration. Sheri and Ed and their 14-year-old son, Ben have come to visit Phillipe. They are in France for their 20th wedding anniversary, and Sheri wanted to see her old friend, Phillipe. She worked on his farm the summer after 10th grade. It was one of the best times of her life

One of the old soldiers approaches Ben and asks if Ben will help him place the wreath at the monument for American soldiers later that day - very touching and a great honor. Ben’s a very nice young man.

From the church in Marolles we drive to Meziers where a Sherman tank has been placed. Two sons of General Le Clerc, the Free French commander, are among the honored guests. The speaker for today is an eloquent man who tells the story of each of the local men who lost their lives in the fighting there of the struggle against the evil that had spread across Europe. (We do not understand enough French to get all the details, but we understand this much.)

The band plays the Marseilles, then we return to our Jeep for the trip to the cemetery, Here the dead soldiers’ surviving comrades place wreaths on their graves.

Next we move to a hall in town which has been set up with drinks and cookies. It’s obvious to us that today’s events are not perfunctory. The French really do know how to do these things well. I stop after one cookie and a glass of orange juice.

Back in the Jeep - we’re going back to Marolles. The conversations inside our Jeep are interesting. Neither our driver nor his companion speak English. They have managed to communicate that they want me take the front passenger seat (in the interest of both safety and modesty, I’m sure) since I’m wearing a dress and there are no doors on these Jeeps.

Even with the language barrier Bernie and the older man in the back seat with him have somehow begun joking and taking friendly jabs at one another based on a common military background. He shows us photos of his family. I don’t have my pictures with me (I have brought several of our family to show to people we meet here) and I’m sorry I’ve left them in the bag in the car.

It’s a good thing I didn’t stuff myself with cookies. We’re taken to the community center, a very nice facility, where white-covered tables are set with china and stemware. What follows is a six-course banquet including foie gras and filet mignon, three wines and calvados. Lunch lasts three hours.

After this gorgeous feast we drive again on the roads American soldiers walked 65 years ago, halting at the American soldiers’ monument. Here 16 Americans died in the Battle of Marolles.

The old soldiers gather round. One reads the name of each American, and the crowd responds after each name, as they did at the graves of the French soldiers, “mort a la France” (died for France). Ben and the soldier whose asked him to come forward carry the wreath solemnly and place it at the base of the monument.

The band plays Taps, then The Star Spangled Banner. There are just the few of us singing, but I’ve rarely sung our national anthem so proudly.

The mayor of Marolles asks the Americans to come stand by her. I’ve been able to control my tightening throat and damp eyes up to this point, but as I stand beside her and she holds my hand, my composure begins to slip. She continues to hold my hand during her remarks. Then she embraces me and kisses my cheeks.

In the field across the road, tents have been erected and drinks and cookies are offered once again.

We can’t communicate well with the old soldiers, but they come up to us with tears n their eyes, thanking us for what our country has done.

The author of an authoritative book about the liberation of the area tells us, “Please let America know that we will never forget.”

This has been a day we could never have imagined, but one we’ll not forget.

Home Alone

Wednesday, August5 through Sunday, August 9, 2009

Bill and Joan are probably in Caen boarding the ferry to England by the time Bernie and I awake on Wednesday.

Now we get to know our cats. Sunshine, a ginger cat (like Hermione’s in Harry Potter) is fourteen and does not move unnecessarily, except to our laps - a sweet, gentle kitty. Tinks is mostly white with some grey, and she is a grumpy little old lady, hissing and fussing, even with her offspring, Tuppence. Tuppence, gray with faint stripes, is full of life and full of mischief, pouncing, roaring up the stairs, standing on my chest in the morning and patting my face with his paw. Diablo and Duchess are brother and sister and we can’t tell which is which at first (unless we turn them upside down). We finally decide Diablo, the boy, is a little sleeker. One of them often does not show up regularly for meals, we’ve been told.

They are easygoing cats, going in and out the cat door as they wish, sunning themselves in the courtyard, popping up in the garden when we check the raspberries or tomatoes or hang laundry on the line.

We also have a neighbor cat who comes to be fed. Though Joan, and later I try to keep him separated from “our” cats because he chases Duchess, he wanders in through the cat door on occasion.

Joan asked me to hang a load of laundry on the line, and we have our own clothes to wash. Folks here use the dishwasher and the washer at night, after 10:30, when electricity rates are lower. The dishwasher timer is set; whenever you want to run it just put the detergent in and push ON. It starts in the middle of the night, and voila, clean dishes when you wake up. The washer allows you to choose how many hours’ delay you want before it comes on.

Bernie is alarmed when he sees I’m sweeping and cleaning counters. “You’re not going to spend your time here cleaning, are you?” he says. I assure him I’m not. Putting things in order is just my way of settling in.

We move from the upstairs bedroom to the first floor, as Joan suggested. We look closely at the garden, plan a meal. and take a walk around the village.

The library is just up the street, beside a wheat field. An American company has a plant here, S.A.M.E.X - something to do with extruding plastic, I think. I hope they employ the villagers.

We have a church, but services are rarely held here. We’re on a circuit, and there are several villages involved.

Thursday we walk to the sunflower field just around the corner of the main street and down the road, but today is overcast and the sunflowers, instead of lifting their perky little heads up, are drooping - no pictures of sunflowers today.

Rennie, an elderly man who helps Joan and Bill with gardening, meets me in the street. He has his dog with him and the dog, by way of greeting, does a wonderful trick I’ve never seen before. He jumps straight up in the air, like a Harrier jet, not once but twice. I’m amazed and duly impressed. Rennie shakes my hand and asks me in French if everything is going well here. I tell him it is and he and his dog walk toward their house.

Bill told us about Rennie. Rennie’s French is so colloquial that Bill cannot understand him. He likes doing the gardening because it gives him something to do. I like him, and I like his dog.

The baker is supposed to stop by with bread, but we don’t see him or hear his horn. Later I’ll figure this out, but by Friday we are down to a few inches of baguette.

Bernie’s already been out on Bill’s bicycle, a mountain bike. I try Joan’s, an English bike, but she is much taller than I and I no sooner boost myself up and try to pedal than I fall off. Bernie lowers the seat for me and off I go toward Monce-en-Saosnois, 2 kilometers away. Now I need air in the tires, however, and though I hold steady as two cars pass me - and believe me that takes steady nerves because so many French drivers seem to be playing an eternal game of chicken - I pull off into the first farm lane I see, launch my front brake instead of my back one but still manage to get off the bike without that middle bar breaking my pelvis.

I walk the bike out into the road and after two tries (this thing is still very high for me) I’m rolling again. I’m sooo thankful we don’t get too much traffic.

As I near the house I see Bernie on the bike riding toward me. I’m thinking that he’s been for a long ride, since I didn’t see him when I came out of the house to try the bike after he’d lowered the seat. Wrong.
Just as he finished working on my bike, Marie-Louise, our very nice next-door neighbor came into the courtyard saying “tomber, tomber, tomber.: Her husband, we know, had a stroke and is unable to move one side of his body. He has fallen out of his wheelchair, and Marie-Louise needs help. Bernie and Marie-Louise rush back to her house, where her husband, all 250-plus pounds of him, is lying on the kitchen floor.

A cabinet door, torn off by the wheelchair, is beside him.

Her husband worked for an international airline and traveled frequently. Before he became ill he spoke fluent English. Now, as he lays helplessly on his side on the tiles, he looks up at Bernie, and in perfect English says, “Good morning.”

Bernie cannot lift him into his wheelchair alone, so Marie-Louise calls another neighbor and the two of them get the poor man into the chair.

While all this is going on, Bernie tells me, Marie-Louise is continually heaping a lot of very angry French on her husband.

The cause of the spill is apparent to Bernie - the foot rests and stops on the bottom are missing. Marie-Louise gets them and Bernie attaches them.

Later I check with Marie-Louise about his condition. Apparently he’s fine.

On Saturday we accomplish two things. On a walk to St. Remy des Monts, 1-½ kilometers in the opposite direction from Monce-Saosnois we arrive at the bakery before it closes and buy bread. Bernie also eats the best chocolate éclair he’s ever had.

Back at the house I get online and book a car for us to pick up Monday in Le Mans. We love walking to the nearby villages and don’t intend to give it up, but if we’re going to see Chartres, or the Normandy beaches, or the Chateaux in the Loire Valley, we need a car. As Bernie tells Mary later, it only cost one of his arms and one of my legs.

Sunday we prepare for the trip to Le Mans. One bus goes there every weekday, stopping in St. Vincent at 7:12 a.m, . We’ll walk from the bus station in Le Mans to the train station where the rental office is located. Driving in the city that first time may be tricky, but we’ll take our time and work it out.

With a plan in place, we walk to Monce-Saosnois and back. There’s a note on our door when we return. Dominique has been here, and wants us to call. The mayor of Marolles has invited us to the luncheon tomorrow, the day of the liberation commemoration We need to reply before the end of the day.

We call, and Dominique tells us the program will begin at 9:30 and she will pick us up to be there then, or if we prefer to go later, she’ll come anytime. We explain that we’re taking the bus into Le Mans to pick up our rental car.

She won’t hear of us taking the bus. She’ll be here at 8:30 Monday morning to take us to Le Mans.

Mill, Mayor, Shandies

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Mill, Mayor, Shandies

Joan is packing today and we’ve told both of them to ignore us so they can get last-minute things done. But Joan has one visit planned for us this afternoon.

She’s been working since early morning, though, and when it’s time for us to leave, she’s too tired to accompany us. Joan takes cancer medication - she’s a breast cancer survivor, and her lymph nodes have been removed. She was sick two weeks ago, and I’m hoping she won’t get sick on this trip to the UK.

We leave Joan napping, and Bill drives us to Peray, a village a few kilometers away.

There we meet Dominique, who has just been elected mayor of the village. She asks us if we would like to attend the upcoming commemoration of the liberation of this part of France by Patton’s’ army of combined American and Free French troops. Ceremonies will honor the Americans who liberated the towns of Morolles and Meziers.

Would we? Would we!! We can’t get yes out of our mouths fast enough. Hand us a page out of history and put us in the picture!

Dominique’s English is very good. She was an exchange student in the U.S. in 1964. She was there when John Kennedy was assassinated. She and Bernie talked about that. She’s also a journalist for a newspaper. She spent time in Afghanistan working in a hospital there teaching medical technicians how to use imaging equipment. She says the people are warm and gentle; she fell in love with them.

Her home is an old mill. A mill has been here for 500 years. Outside a large willow tree stands beside the mill race. Inside, in her dining room and rising to the second story is a huge mill wheel. It’s just a century or so old, but when her mother bought the house in the 1950’s she wanted it to remain as part of the house.

A footbridge crosses the millrace and a path leads to the barn, where four ponies and a horse stop munching and come to greet us. They are gentle creatures, and the horse nuzzles me. I have come to love horses and this is as close as I’ve been to one. I think of Jakie patting Major’s nose.

We return to Dominique’s patio and she brings out refreshments. This time it’s beer, lemonade (as in 7-Up), and ah, yes - more cookies. As I take some lemonade, she suggests a drink whose name in French I cannot remember. Bill explains that it’s a shandy, lemonade and beer.

To the uninitiated, this may sound unappetizing. However, I was introduced to this drink a couple of years ago by a very proper English lady, and I loved it.

It was hot, the lemonade was too sweet, so I have one, with just a little beer. My allergies have lessened since I began taking medicine, so I think I can risk it.

It’s yummy, I’m thirsty. Soon it’s gone. I have another. I could learn to like this.

English Hospitality in the French Countryside

Monday, August 3, 2009

Joan has a few errands to run in Mamers, 7 kilometers away, and we will get groceries at the Super U.

In the town parking lot, the weekly market is in full swing when we arrive. Colorful vegetables and fruits, cheeses and meats, bread and pastries are on display as well as rack after rack of men‘s, women‘s, and children‘s clothing. . Many of the clothing vendors are Pakistani, Joan explains. They travel from town to town for each’s market day.

At the supermarket we have lunch in the café, and Bernie and I purchase what we think we’ll need for the next few days: milk, cheese, meat, and a frozen lasagna casserole for a quick meal.

We also check for cars to rent. Bill had asked about their car rentals before we arrived and their prices were very good. Alas! All their cars are out. It’s August, when the French go on vacation. Our little 399-Euros-a-month rental is probably sitting at a campsite along the Mediterranean. Oh, well, ca va, as the French say.

Joan and Bill are distressed by this news, but we figure they have enough to do to get ready to leave Wednesday morning and we tell them well figure something out.

Back at the house just long enough to put groceries away, then we’re off to Cheri ad Keith’s. In their former life in the UK they owned a pub. They came here because of Keith’s health (we assume he has lung cancer based on the conversation) and Sheri intended to continue working. Each time she came here she hated to go back, though. So they sold the pub, settled here permanently, and have no regrets. They love the way of life here.

They decided on this house, another old farmhouse, because it’s located on land with a large pond, in a beautiful setting. They’re still modernizing the house and have run into delays.

We are offered tea, and I decline, thinking I‘m being polite. I can tell, though, when Joan accepts with hearty thanks, that I have made a misstep.

In a few minutes Sheri carries in a tray with tea, wine, and chocolate-covered biscuits (read cookies). As I munch away at the biscuits and sip tea, I make a mental note not to turn down refreshments again.

Amid the blizzard of conversation (giving lie to the idea that the English are reserved) Keith and Sheri invite us to a quiz. As a pub owner, Keith held quizzes once a month in the bar. Here in France he offered to hold one for some of their friends. It was a hit, and this next quiz will be his twelfth for the group.

As we depart, Keith and Sheri offer any assistance we might need., and tell us they’ll ring us about the quiz.

At our next stop, at Sheena’s, I say I’d love tea when it’s offered, and this time, too, the lovely little plate of cookies comes with it.

We sit outside and survey Sheena’s farm. She’s also from the UK. When she inherited some money from her grandmother a few years earlier, she bought this old dairy farm in France. On the day of our visit, she and a friend who is helping her get the place in shape, had removed roof tiles over a second story chicken coop to get at some rotten timbers. She plans to replace timber and tiles (saved in a pile in the yard) and put chickens up there again.

Sheena’s putting all her energy and money into repairs to the exterior, she says. “My living quarters have not improved.” Since the inheritance was enough only to buy the house, she needed to qualify to work in France and get a job to complete work on the farm.

In France, in order to get work, you must speak French. Sheena took classes, became qualified and now teaches English in Le Mans.

Work on the farm takes longer, though, because Sheena is away at work all day. But she has sheep in a pen in the back, and a large garden, though it doesn’t take up much of the available space - she has quite a lot of land.

Some of the outbuildings are of wattle-and-daub construction, quite old. Boards are simply slices of trees nailed to the side of the buildings.

Sheena’s enthusiasm for the huge task ahead of her hasn’t waned. We don’t envy her the work or the length of time it will take to complete it.

We leave amid more offers of help should we need it.

Back at Joan and Bill’s we eat scrambled eggs and toast. I wonder if I’ll be able to fall asleep after all that tea.. No need to worry - I’m asleep within five minutes. When I open my eyes next morning, it’s ten o’clock. Jet lag finally caught up with us.

Notre Dame Cathedral

Sunday, August 2, 2009

I know I’m way behind here. I’ll try to catch up today because there are no “nothings happening” days. So, on to. . . Sunday in Paris.

After storing our bags and checking out of the hotel, be buy hot chocolate and croissants and walk to the tour bus, stopping at a park bench along the avenue to eat our breakfast.

In contrast to yesterday, we’re off the bus at the first stop, Notre Dame. Once inside I light a candle for our precious Jacob and spend a few moments in silent prayer.

The service is just beginning. We find seats and an usher gives us a bulletin, I recognize the Lord’s Prayer and see that the Scriptures are translated into English: Exodus, Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, and John.

The sermon is in French, of course, but we have the Scriptures to ponder. The female soloist’s voice fills the cathedral, pure, clear and beautiful. The organ swells, and its as if we are all lifted up; we raise our eyes toward heaven.

At the end of the service we walk through the 700-year-old cathedral, watching the sun pour through the rose windows, hearing history’s whispers. Though we cannot grasp eternity, it’s as if we have almost touched the edge of its garment.

Outside, we walk to the back of the cathedral for a closer look at the flying buttresses, but we are running out of time, so its back on the tour bus. At our stop we hail a taxi to our hotel, load our bags in and head to Montparnasse station.

We’re leaving Paris for now, passing Versailles, then Chartres.

We marvel at the comfort and ease of our journey. We need trains like this in the U.S.

Joan and Bill are on the platform at La Ferte Bernard. They recognize us from our photos. We’ve exchanged so much information in our e-mails that Joan and I already feel as if we are friends and we fall into easy conversation.

Soon we are driving down increasingly narrow roads through picture-book villages of stone cottages and tiled roofs, and flowers everywhere.

St. Vincent Des Pres is a tiny village of about 600 people. We pull into the courtyard of Joan and Bill’s 150-year-old farmhouse. The stone walls have been covered with creamy pale yellow stucco. Pots of flowers line the entire length of the house. In the back is the garden, filled now with raspberries, tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, parsnips and one large garlic plant.

Inside, skylights fill the house with light., while the two-foot thick walls keep the heat out. The beam in the living room holding the house up is an entire tree. To transform the second floor from granary to bedrooms and bath, the builder had to smooth and level the beam and rafters to lay the floor. The custom-built staircase is suspended, as it could not be fastened to the uneven wall that curves at the front of the house.

I especially like the kitchen, bright and filled with light.

The cats troop in for food and I try to remember their names.

Tomorrow we’ll go to Mamers. Monday is market day, and the stalls will be set up in the square. We’ll also meet some of Joan and Bills friends, English expats who’ve come here for the slower pace, and often for medical care under the excellent French system.

Tonight, though, we sleep, in a comfortable bed in the absolute quiet of the French countryside.

Saturday Night: The Seine and the Eiffel Tower

Our open-air bus tour takes us to many of the city’s sights, but we stay on the bus to get familiar with the locations before we decide what to visit. Good grief- we just passed up the Louvre! There are four bus routes; this is the green line. There’s not enough time to see all there is to see here. We agree this is a good reason to return.

Off the bus and on to a table at a sidewalk café for dinner. Sidewalk cafes are just that - they can take up the entire sidewalk, so pedestrians brush your table or walk in the street. No sooner are we seated than a basket of bread appears on the table, followed by two more equally full baskets before the end of the meal.

We time our arrival at the boat dock near the Champs du Mars and the Eiffel Tower to make our cruise after dark. We want to see the lights of Paris at night.

In the ticket line we realize we are in the midst of a large contingent of Polish manufacturing representatives attending a convention in Paris. They’re all wearing name tags.

No need to worry about standing out as tourists. Once we’re all on board, dozens of cameras come out, all pointed at the Eiffel Tower, clicking away. Everyone wants to capture the famous symbol of Paris, and I picture them all e-mailing home saying, “Look - I was there!” Mmm, wonder how many images of the Eiffel Tower are floating through cyberspace at any given moment?

We float along the Seine as night falls. All along its banks people sit and stroll. A café with a dance floor is filled with couples. We pass several other cruise boats; some are dinner cruises, and one has been rented by a wedding party - there’s the bride and groom and guests dressed in wedding finery.

The guide points out the residences of writers and artists, the French National Assembly, historical buildings. We pass under brightly lit bridges with magnificent statues at each end.

All too soon we are at the Ile de Cite, and Notre Dame is on our left. Again, everyone stands up and begins clicking away. The thousand-year-old cathedral is magnificent and we have a great view of the famous flying buttresses from the river.

On our return trip, the crowds along the Seine have grown. We’re beginning to feel the pulse of Paris at night.

Then we see it - the Eiffel Tower at night - swathed in thousands of lights. The daytime view is nothing compared with this. As our boat approaches the dock the lights on the tower begin twinkling - a merry little bit of Parisian sauciness.

We disembark and move under the tower. As we enter, Bernie calls my name. I stop. He takes my arm. I did not see the soldier with the machine gun that I was about to bump into. I turn to him now, less than a foot away, both hands on the machine gun.

There are hundreds of people here, with long lines at all four elevators waiting to go up. We’re too tired and it’s too late, though. If we’d not had such a long day ….

On the walk back to our hotel, I decide I’m in the mood for ice cream. All the cafes have stopped serving food, however - drinks only. The groceries on Rue Cler are closed, too. But there is another tiny grocery store just around the corner. We buy cheese, crackers, wine, and Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream (yeah, I know - it wouldn’t cost as much in Ohio, but who knew they shipped it in from Vermont?) along with some plastic spoons.

On the elevator in the hotel is a new sign - no eating in the rooms, it reminds us (darn, how could they read our minds?). Again, we ask about this. No problem, the night clerk tells us. That’s just for people who carry pizzas and all kinds of stuff up to their rooms and make messes.

You can be sure all signs of our food are neatly tied up in a plastic bag But I did have to eat the entire pint of Ben and Jerry‘s..

Paris, Saturday Morning

Our hotel is almost hidden, a single doorway on Rue Cler, this lovely market street. Inside, there are five floors of rooms, a tiny elevator, and the proprietors who speak English - a welcome sight to visitors just off the plane.

Quite a few Americans are here, including a group of 20 people from Maine who are heading to a three-week Buddhist retreat near Le Mans, which must be close to where we’ll be.

Rue Cler is a market street, filled with color and sound and smells. Across the street is a produce market with a huge selection of fruits and vegetables. Next door is a cheese shop - imagine, if you can, and entire store filed with all kinds of cheeses. They are beautifully displayed., more like a department store. Then there’s the wine shop, and the fish market, the butcher, and yes, the baker. There are also at least five cafes, a shoe store with nice summer sandals, and what seems to be the equivalent of Dollar General, as well as two grocery stores.

I order hot chocolate at the café across from the bakery. The French make the best hot chocolate. We ask f we can get something from the bakery to have with the hot chocolate. It’s ok as long as we’re not bringing the same kinds of foods they sell at the café. At the bakery eight or ten steps away, we order a croissant for Bernie and a raspberry tart for me.

Wiping away the last buttery crumbs, we walk the short distance to Les Invalides, which houses both the Army Museum and a hospital for veterans. Several elderly men in wheelchairs accompanied by a nurse sit in the sun, looking out at the breathtaking gardens.

Inside we purchase museum passes and begin our tour. This one is for Bernie. I love history, but my interest is in everyday people and their daily lives. Bernie is a military history fan. He’s read a lot about Napoleon and has spent nearly all of the last year studying World War I.

He’s excited at seeing an early Gatlin gun. I hum the Army song (Jakie, you know that one, don’t you?) as he points out a caisson. Uniforms and insignia fascinate Bernie.

I’m surprised, though, at how touched I am at the homage the French pay to the United States, especially in the WWI and WWII sections. The French have been our friend since the American Revolution. Lafayette fought alongside Washington.

And during World War II, General Pershing made a point of visiting Lafayette’s grave. It was there that Pershing’s aid declared, “Lafayette, we are here.”

Forget all that silly nonsense about the French not liking us. It isn’t true. More about that later.

Next: The Seine and the Eiffel Tower at night.