We have been trying to get back into some sort of motion that resembles swing... of things... Going through the bags was an all day affair. Laundry, so much laundry. And where do we put all the random little things???
And everybody keeps waking up at 5:30am.
And The Girl and I have gotten brutal colds that have left our noses horribly raw and our noggins thick with fog. But I'm trying not to complain -- if we have to be sick -- this is the time. It didn't ruin our trip and hopefully we will be over it before we have family come next week.
The kids don't seem to remember what a multiplication fact is (thank goodness for The Educated Monkey...), or how to play the piano.
One thing that I want to document: when you visit France, travel with a pack of plastic spoons and a pack of paper cups in your bag. This way you can buy large bottles of drinks, and use the cups -- this will save quite a bit of euros, and be better on the environment. The plastic spoons are so you can buy yogurt for snacks. And by yogurt, I mean a specific kind -- the kind that comes in these darling, dish-washer-safe crocks.
The only thing that made doing laundry somewhat tolerable was discovering these little beauties that I had folded in among the clothes. I've got a thing for getting free dishes when you buy food. Slap a French word on there ("dairymaid" I'm told) and it's a slam-dunk.
Something lame about a "job." Whatever. The kids and I were excited to hang out and eat French cereal and go to the pool... Maybe go back to Disneyland (we went last time, but didn't see much of it), since our villa was so close... But The Dad felt like he should go to the airport and see if we could get on one of the flights -- from that other 50% that were still getting out.
And sadly, right after The Boy came in from running around on the back porch in his pajamas making a plastic airplane fly in the air with all the proper sound-effects, I got the call: we could get on a flight that afternoon; we needed to get checked out. Get ready, throw everything back in the suitcases that had mushroomed out all over the kitchen floor because there was a washer and dryer (free laundry!), throw away the cereal, rush, rush, rush... The Dad still wasn't back by the time we had to check out, so we hauled all the bags to the front desk, checked out, and then parked it in the Kids Center.
By the time he came we had an "extra hour," so he wanted to stop by the mall between the villa and the airport to take the kids to an aquarium (to assuage the bitterness that they harbored towards him for getting an earlier flight), while The Sister and I looked around. Note: not the aquarium lovers, nor the teenager who likes to look around, nor the gal who likes to be with the teenager who likes to look around, wanted to do this. We all felt uneasy and just wanted to get to the airport without incident. The Dad was confident, so we all tentatively went our various ways at the mall...
The kids saw baby rays and thought that was cool; The Sister and I found The Educated Monkey (an awesome thing invented in 1916 -- line the monkey's feet up with the numbers you want to multiply and he will give you the answer between his hands!).
The rest is pretty benign -- except the major hold up at the rental car company (there was a dent that had been noted on the first contract, but when we changed our contract the original paperwork got lost, blah, blah) that caused a few chest-tightening moments (as we were really pushing it after the stop at the mall).
After all the usual airport antics we got through to the other side and had a microwaved lunch. For our final Paris sendoff we stopped at the Laduree satellite shop (remember they came in second in the challenge). This time we didn't mess around -- the kids and I picked out a macron the size of a hamburger.
It was a direct flight and the kids dozed and watched movies (The Boy is one of those people who forgets he has earphones on, and so not only talks really loudly, but laughs crazy loud)... I got caught up on what's-on-TV-now and became solidly convinced that our decision to not have a TV is a good one -- we're not missing a thing.
And then we were home. And the trip felt like a dream, like trips do when you come home and the scratch on the door is the same, and the blender is where the blender has always been.
"Why did you just take a picture of that step?"
"Because I want to remember that when we woke up we were the only ones out except the guy with the laundry -- and it was raining."
Our time on Mont Saint-Michel in the morning was brief -- just long enough to get back down all the winding steps and streets -- but perfect. If ever I stay again, I commit that we will stay up past dark, and get up before the sun is fully realized.
We caught our shuttle and drove the million hours (The Dad did -- the rest of us were all at different places on the coma spectrum). In an effort to not be late (like we almost always are), we did not stop for breakfast. We all had a speculoos biscuit that was in the hotel room, and The Sister and The Girl split a croissant that was in the car from the day before, while the boys and I nibbled on some Jaffa cakes.
As we neared Charles De'Gaul The Girl actually said, after asking the time, "Wow. So we aren't late." Yes, that's how often we're late. Unfortunately, she spoke too soon... Because we still had to find a gas station, so as to avoid a $350 fine. And that proved difficult. And so by the time we got to the airport we still had not eaten lunch, my chest was tight, and the plan was for The Dad to deposit us and all the bags in line, with the hope that he would be able to return the car and join us, but if not, at least we would hopefully be able to get all the bags checked -- as you are not allowed to check bags after a certain point on an international flight -- as well as the four of us. Hopefully, they would allow one bag-less man to check in late. These kind of "plans" and shenanigans are exactly why "airport travel" has become synonymous in my mind with "please-medicate-now."
As it turned out, it didn't matter. Our flight was canceled. Once again, the French were striking. Air Traffic Control doesn't like a new sanction -- yeah, it will be safer, yeah, it will be better for the environment, blah, blah, they don't like it. About 50% of the flights were canceled. Ours was one of them.
Okay, a couple of hours at the airport -- the earliest flight out would be Friday morning, yes we could keep the rental car, but first you have to prove that you really want it by standing around for an hour, etc. and so forth. With our rental car we drove to the closest Marriott -- not to check in -- but so The Dad could analyze the situation from every possible angle. We were throwing eating/lodging scenarios at him left and right, but the man was like a stone wall. When it comes to travel plans he will not be rushed. Still no food. At one point I demanded the last euros in his pocket and was able to buy one small can of Pringles from the little cache behind the front desk where you can buy suntan knee-high nylons and aspirin -- we each got five Pringles.
Finally, a decision -- to the Marriott Villas outside of Paris where we stayed for a week last time. We would watch a movie and play a board game and figure out what to do!
We stopped at an Auchon super grocery store and loaded up on all the cereals we had been wondering about, and chocolate, and stuff for a spaghetti dinner...
We got to the villa and ate spaghetti until we couldn't breathe. And watched the second Harry Potter that we rented from the little store, and were excited to point out all the props we had seen... And then we crashed.
It's strange how we could fit ten million adventures into one day, but then on this day the hours were eaten by driving and standing in lines... We must take care to not spend our lives driving and standing in lines...
"If the families were given the chance to have their loved ones returned home, why did so many choose to have them buried here?"
This was a question that came to my mind three years ago when we briefly visited the Normandy American cemetery at Omaha Beach.
This time we went on a tour, and during the tour some clarification came: some families chose so the fallen soldier could be buried next to a "brother" -- sometimes, in thirty cases, a literal brother. Others chose because they understood that this memorial cemetery would be a place that would never be forgotten -- long after mothers or wives passed on, the grave would still be visited, would still be honored. Some felt that the soldiers should be buried where they died -- that they "earned" that piece of land. There are most likely 9,387 different reasons... I can say this: by having so many families choose to make the sacrifice of having their loved one buried far from home, they have helped create one of the most striking reminders of the losses that war brings. To see the quantity of crosses (most Latin crosses, some Stars of David) is... what? I can't think of the right thing to type... Sobering. Heartbreaking. Sad. Horrible. Visually stunning. Strangely beautiful. Sickening. Shocking. Sad. Sad. Sad.
You look over the edge and see the ocean, and behind you are these rows and rows of crosses. Look out at the water: visualize the boats, parachutes, running soldiers... Create a time lapse -- spin on your heel and see the graves.
Our tour guide was French, and I'll say that at first I was that ugly American thinking, "Man, find a tour guide whose accent isn't quite so thick so I don't have to focus so hard." Yes, I suck. Redemption: by the end of the tour I loved her. She told a story of a man coming to visit the cemetery and how she told him that she always mentions the graves of his grandfather and his father on her tours (the father and son are buried next to each other). The man was surprised to hear this and she told us her response: "He was surprised that me, a French girl, not yet alive when the liberating of Normandy happened would care so much. I explained: we here understand the sacrifices that were made. We have grown up knowing. I know that for every grave that is here, there are thousands more -- the families who sacrificed so much. That is why I tell the stories of the individuals."
And tell the stories she did. She took us past one of the crosses where it says: "Known only to God," and she said: "Here is somebody who sacrificed everything -- even his identity."
She told us stories, and showed us pictures of the soldiers and their families as she talked. She showed us a picture of a young couple -- the wife was only 19 when the husband died. The thing was that the wife didn't know for sure that/how he died for over half a century. There was miscommunications with telegrams, a "sighting" in California by some friends, and a misspelling on the records, etc. and so forth. She never remarried, never had children... When she finally found out that her husband was buried in Normandy she started coming out to visit every year around June 6th. Our guide told us how she met her a couple of years ago and asked if she would like to come on her tour. She said that there were some children on the tour who had been kind of fidgety and obnoxious, and yet, when she came to the cross of this widow's husband and showed the wedding picture from sixty-plus years ago it was the children who made the connection between that young 19-year old and the elderly woman who was with them. I guess there were tears and hugs and people telling her, "thank you" for making such a sacrifice. The widow was taken aback and said, "No. It is you who need to be thanked -- visitors who take the time to come and honor those we lost."
The film in the visitor's center also focuses on individuals. Pictures of soldiers, readings of their optimistic I'll-see-you-soon letters, and then a close up of the cross with their name. In essence, it's the exact opposite of the catacombs experience that The Sister and I had. There the quantity and anonymity made it seem like we were trespassing. Here, the quantity wasn't allowed to diminish the individual. Obviously, the comparison shouldn't be made -- there was nothing that could be done about the situation at the catacombs -- just a thought we had on how when you learn about individual stories an emotional bridge is built that takes you away from visceral reaction and into a place where more elevated responses can occur. This is obviously why people in countries/communities where the masses are being controlled are not allowed to share their stories. This speaks to the power of stories, the power or journal keeping, the power of letter writing.
Some interesting things to note: when you see pictures of the crosses and you can read the names well it's because they put sand in the letters so they will stand out in the photo. In reality the stones are totally white -- the sand is blown out after the photo. Also, there is no birthdate on the crosses. The decision was made to keep all equal -- i.e. not "weight" some as more tragic because they were younger. It was a tragedy and a sacrifice for all.
The last time we came the children asked why there were pebbles on some of the graves -- specifically the Stars of David. The Dad explained that it's a tradition for Jewish people to leave stones -- to symbolize the permanence of memory, and the permanence of eternal life. The kids felt sure that more graves should have such reminders, and so they silently slid among the crosses putting little pinecones or pebbles or pods -- whatever wasn't rooted -- discreetly on the crosses/stars. Surely, I thought, the hearts of children can be understood by those who have passed and it could only be seen as something sweet. And so I let it be.
The kids remembered their work last time, and once again, they started collecting little items to place on various crosses. I think that stones are supposed to be stones. In other words, for the Jewish, the tradition is pebbles, and not something organic that can wither and die, for a reason. And yet, when pinecones, or little leaves, or seedpods were parceled out, I let it be. Again I figured that if there is one place where righteous intent and innocence of youth is understood, it is surely here.
Aside from the over 9,000 graves, there is also a wall with over 1,000 names of those that went missing after the D-Day operation. "The Garden of the Missing" -- there are inscriptions engraved: "Here are recorded the names of Americans who gave their lives in the service of their country and who sleep in unknown graves." And: "This is their memorial the whole earth their sepulcher."
And some symbolic art -- this statue is called: "The Spirit of American Youth Rising From the
Waves."
And a small chapel with a mosaic on the ceiling (quote from the archives -- I don't want to pass any of this interpretation off as my own), "Designed and executed by Leon Kroll of New York City, symbolizes America who gives her farewell blessing to her sons as they depart by sea and air to fight for her principles of freedom. Over the altar, a grateful France bestows a laurel wreath upon our Dead who gave their lives to liberate Europe's oppressed peoples. The return of Peace is recalled by the angel, the dove, and the homeward-bound ship."
There are also some sheltered walls that give written and visual details of the operation. At first, this almost seemed incongruent to me, but then I thought: if I had lost somebody in the operation, perhaps a certain measure of peace would come from being reminded of how much thought and insight had gone into the planning and executing.
We took the steps down to the beach. There was a family there holding a shadow box with medals taking pictures.
Before we left we went more thoroughly through the museum portion of the site. We are all impressed and intrigued with all the decoy plans that were in place to help the operation be successful. There was a sign that read: "British Prime Minister Winston Churchill noted that during war, truth is so precious it must be protected by 'a bodyguard of lies.' Only a handful of key staff officers were entrusted with the complete details of the D-Day operations. Allied intelligence agencies launched "Operation Fortitude," an elaborate deception to divert German attention away from Normandy. British intelligence used double agents to feed false plans to German commanders, and Allied code-breakers collected vital military information from intercepted messages."
And next to a picture of a blow-up tank: "Allied planners took extraordinary measures to ensure that the invaders would enjoy the element of surprise. Lieutenant General George Patton pretended to command a phantom army that used dummy vehicles and radio signals to confuse the enemy. German forces were led to believe that the invasion would come at the Pas de Calais, not Normandy."
"Captain Michael Foot of the British Special Air Service developed Operation Titanic, an plan to drop 500 self-destructing dummy parachutists behind enemy lines just before D-Day. Two four-man teams accompanied the "Ruperts" with record players and flare guns, which they used to simulate the sounds of an invasion force. Foot's plan spread confusion among the defenders, many of whom were drawn away from the actual landing sites."
The things that the soldiers carried were indeed fascinating. One thing that caught our eye was a book to help you stay awake. Because you know, when I'm already so scared I feel like crapping my pants, what I really want is a book with twenty horror stories called: Sleep No More. To be serious, I can understand the desire to be distracted. Specifically, what each soldier in the first wave was required to carry equalled almost 75 pounds, including: extra boxes of matches, vomit bags, anti-seasickness pills, 200 francs of invasion currency, a French Language Guide, a Pocket Guide to France, a life belt, fuel tablets for heating rations, a raincoat, insecticide powder, water purification tablets, socks, a waterproof rifle cover, and extra candy bars, razor blades, cigarettes, and chewing gum.
Again, the strength of the museum is that it makes a great effort to explore personal, individual stories. Something that would be hard to do. Who's story to do you choose? There was a poster with the four Niland brothers (the family Saving Private Ryan was loosely based on), and many others.
"Violette Szabo, daughter of a French mother and British father joined the British Special Operations Executive early in the war. She parachuted into France twice, the second time on June 7, 1944, to coordinate the Resistance activity after the invasion. Captured by a German patrol, Szabo was interrogated, tortured and later executed at the Ravensbruck concentration camp. She was awarded a posthumous St. George Cross, Britain's highest civilian decoration."
So much bravery. And fear. And loss.
From the literature: "During the four years of German occupation, 150,000 French men and women were killed. In addition to battling enemy forces, Resistance members operated escape lines throughout Western Europe that rescued an estimated 3,000 Allied airmen. Hundreds of civilians were executed for helping downed aircrews to safety." Out of that 150,000, 18,000 French civilians were killed during the Normandy operations.
It was throughout Normandy that the fighting took place -- not just the beaches. Before we came The Boy was reading a book and learned about Sgt. John Ray (remembered on the poster above) and John Steele, and the events that happened in the village of Sainte-Mere-Eglise.
The night before the attack (June 5) parachuters were being dropped to the west of the village when, because of all the explosions going on, some houses caught on fire. Thus, most of the town -- including most of the German soldiers -- were in the town square forming a bucket brigade when a squadron of parachuters was accidentally dropped right in the middle of the very illuminated village. Most of the paratroopers were killed, being easy targets. John Ray landed right next to the church, but was fatally shot in the stomach. Assumed to be dead, a German soldier turned his back on him to shoot two soldiers's whose straps got caught on the church; John Ray rallied to shoot the German, thus saving his two comrades before he died.
We don't know if that German "should" have been shot, we're not sure what his heart was like, who was at home waiting for him, if he felt like he was doing the right thing... but we do know that France should not have been occupied and the war needed to end, and that night because of a tactical mistake, men in harnesses drifted down over armed enemies in plain sight. And John Ray's last action on this Earth was to help other people in the best way he knew how. The people of the village -- the first village to be liberated -- made a memorial to those men. In fact, the entire church has become the monument -- not only is there a stained glass window displaying paratroopers with Mary, but there is a model of a paratrooper caught on the steeple --permanently.
And so, to "the village with the paratrooper on the church" we went. We really just stopped long enough to see the church, pop into a military store that has some items from the war, and grab lunch.
Our final destination in France, indeed of the trip, was one of our most favorite places -- Mont Saint-Michel. Yes, it was a rather ridiculous drive for just one day, but that was how the cards fell. We knew that we needed to be there by 6pm before the Abbey was closed. We all went on a night-time tour last time -- with live music (an ancient keyboard instrument, a harp, a violin, etc.) being played in different rooms of the abbey. It was so magical, that I didn't mind not going to the abbey again, BUT we NEEDED The Sister to see the Abbey -- and the view from the Abbey. We had been warned that because of the restoration process going on (article about it in the New York Times) we would need to take a shuttle, etc., and so the race was on!
We made it, we got our bags on the shuttle, we checked into our hotel -- all in plenty of time. The Dad went on ahead to make sure that there were tickets and a few minutes later came breathless into the souvenir shop where the kids were carefully accessing what piece of crap made in China to buy, and said that there was a strike on, so the abbey was closed, but he talked them into letting us in with a school tour if we could get there RIGHT now.
Now, 1. We were tired as all get-out, 2. The kids nervously grasped their precious chotskies tighter, knowing full well that the shop would be closed when we got done with the abbey, and 3. There are about two million stairs to reach the Abbey... and more once you get in.
Seeing the panic in the kids' eyes, and feeling my gluteal muscles seize at the thought of sprinting up stairs, I told The Dad to make a run for it with The Sister, and the kids and I would follow as quickly as we could. If they were still there when we arrived we would go, otherwise we would know that they had to go on without us. They took off running, the kids quickly made their decisions (The Girl decided on a pretty box made out of a shell to house her button collection, The Boy decided to put the little model of a sailboat back on the shelf), and we started off at a decent gallop... that fairly quickly reverted to a determined trot... that slowed to a sure walk... that became a cranky shuffle (and I'm talking about myself -- the kids chatted and jogged along ahead of me, looking back once in a while to make sure I hadn't collapsed on the unforgiving stone steps). Needless to say, The Dad and The Sister were nowhere to be seen by the time we reached the top. We meandered along, looked at some shops, since we now had time, and waited.
The Sister loved it. And I think that the school group from Iowa appreciated The Dad. They had been told that the Abbey had closed early, as a form of strike to demonstrate their unhappiness at the shuttle service (the French love to strike). Since The Dad spoke French, he chatted with the docent, and the docent agreed to take the school group (and The Dad's group -- that ended up being him and The Sister) on a tour. Can you imagine coming all the way from Iowa and being told that without posting, or communicating it, there had been a decision to close early?
I'm sorry that tourism is being hurt by the current project going on -- but I think it's brilliant that such an effort is happening to restore the island to its islandness. Also, on a selfish note, the island was so much more embraceable without the crowds. Of course, the crowds naturally thin out when the abbey and shops close, but it was particularly quiet this time -- without the chatter we could hear how many birds swoop around, and without the backpacks and sensible shoes, we could better appreciate the ancientness of the detailing.
We had dinner at La Mere Poulard Cafe, and then climbed up to walk along the wall, explored the cemetery and church, and basically went through whatever nooks and crannies we could find.
It is an enchanted place -- especially in the dusk when the bells toll. I kept asking the kids if they knew how lucky they were... Lucky to be there... While there are a billion factors that could have kept our magical time on Mont Saint-Michel from happening, the war was on my mind. We have no way of knowing what our world would look like had WWII gone differently... My guess is that a middle class American family would not be traipsing around a French medieval island.
All too soon it really was time for bed. It was after 10pm, and we had to be up at 6pm to catch the shuttle off the island, and we were tuckered, and I had some final packing preparations.
That said, I couldn't stop leaning out our window -- that opened like only windows in movies open.
The Dad and The Sister waited until it was properly dark, and then walked down along the road to get some distance, to behold it in all its medieval beauty. It looked like it was conjured by magic, so I'm told. The Dad came back and tapped me to get up to go and go see it, but I was already lost in a thick haze that comes from too little sleep, too much activity, and too much stress about the upcoming flight the next day. Next time. May there always be Scottish, Welsh, English, and French countryside, and may there always be Mont Saint-Michel with trilling orange-tailed birds playing on the roofs in the gloaming.
