Normandy's fields

While collecting my euros at the local bank, a man who had just returned from the memorials in Normandy turned to me and said that no one could leave without shedding a heart wrenching tear.  His remark came back to me when I stood among the rows and rows of white marble crosses at the American memorial. I felt only overwhelming sorrow. There were 9,387 headstones, 1,557 names of the missing and, most poignantly, 45 sets of brothers. In reality, these men were all someone’s brothers, or fathers, or sons, cousins, nephews, husbands, uncles, sweethearts, the paperboy, the butcher, the tailor, the boy next door. The same held true for the Canadian and British divisions who fought that longest day on Gold, Juno and Sword beaches where 4,963 men perished. And last, there is a German memorial and cemetery nearby, where 21,222 men are buried. Therein lies the true meaning of compassion: to suffer together.

"The soldiers' graves are the greatest preachers of peace" Albert Schweitzer.

The famous WWI poem In Flanders Fields came to mind, and how well its import applied here:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow,

between the crosses row on row,

that mark our place; and in the sky


the larks, still bravely singing, fly


scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago


we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,


loved and were loved, and now we lie


in Flanders fields.

While there is much to be said for the quiet dignity of the memorials, my lasting impression is of the surrounding countryside. During our travels between the beaches, the town of Ste-Mere-Eglise, and ultimately the train station at Bayeux that was to return us to Paris, I was struck by the continuing homage the French pay to the fallen men in service. There is a stained glass window in a local church that depicts the paratroopers sailing down, recalling General Eisenhower's remark: "boys jumped from the planes; men landed on the ground", and another church window “they have come back 6 June 1944”.  Here and there, small marble plaques were embedded in walls, each memorializing a youth who was killed in the war. Fresh flowers filled the vase that graced each plaque. Ambling along the roads, we passed farms, with cows and chickens, and always, a French flag near the house, waving in the breeze and, just as often, there was an American flag waving below it. Occasionally, a Union Jack flew, acknowledging the British commonwealth that, at the time, included Canada and Australia. 

The same held true throughout Paris, even the train station had a war memorial bearing the flags of their various allies. The French  have not forgotten the sacrifices made by the rest of the world on their behalf, nor have they avoided the shame of their own complicity in the deaths of 200,000 French Jews, as shown by the memorial to the Jews in the Montparnasse Cemetery. 

La Vie En Rose

All big cities are alike. Certain ubiquitous icons can always be found: graffiti, golden arches, Mercedes Benz and very pretty girls. The same is true for Paris but what Paris does not have is TV to speak of, which makes it a much more interesting city than Los Angeles or New York. Cafes, merry-go-rounds, puppet shows, stamp fairs (remember Charade), cafes, national monuments and small markets abound. TV has been the downfall of culture in this country, fortunately it has not had the same devastating effects in the rest of the world. While Americans race home each evening to sit mute in front of the TV set to watch “real life” shows, Parisians live their real life by shopping for fresh food or taking their children to the park and talking with other parents while their children ride the merry-go-round. There were well frequented bocca gardens, players and bystanders with equally vocal opinions. Or they could be found sitting in cafes, talking leisurely with their neighbor or simply watching the world go by while waiting for friends and enjoying their fresh fructose free meal.

Each evening the cafe under our apartment was filled with patrons. They talked, they enjoyed the evening sunset, they watched the barges on the Seine. The nearby bridge too was a source of entertainment. A piano player, or a three man combo, or a trumpet player would in turn serenade us with haunting tunes from an era that revered melodies, unlike the one note rap songs of this continent.

A very pretty young tour guide bemoaned the French as lazy, but I disagree. The French work to live, to live their lives while they are living it, not waiting until they retire to start living what is left of their lives. Money is not the driving force so the French enjoy a two hour lunch, spend their time selecting fresh food at the markets for their evening meal, take their children to the puppet show, and stroll the boulevards while enjoying conversation. They walk everywhere and eat normal size portions, so they are not wearing their own airbags. Not once did I see an overweight Parisian.

While certain aspects of the culture were frustrating at times, it was nonetheless amusing to find that half the shops were closed one day because it was a civic holiday and the next day the other half were closed because it was a religious holiday.

And, unlike their stereotype, I did not find them to be rude at all. For the most part, they were kind, patient and helpful. More than once did a taxi driver point out sights and converse about a certain historical event in the section of the town through which we were traveling. Finding myself lost in the quagmire of crooked streets one afternoon I stopped in a shop to ask the keeper for assistance. When she realized that I needed more explicit directions than she could give, she asked the next door shop keeper for guidance. After giving me very detailed instructions, they both stood outside their shops to be certain that I had taken the right turn at the lights, and then waved good-bye as I passed out of their sight.

One other thing: everything in Paris was made in France. I looked and looked for tags that said ‘made in China’ but there were none to be found. Even books in the book stores were written in French.

the Louvre

I was last at the Louvre before I. M. Pei built the pyramid entry. Critics’ remarks aside, it’s spectacular. I arrived at the opening of the doors, in order to have plenty of time to hightail it to see the Mona Lisa, a viewing I had missed the first time I was there because Mona was out for cleaning or having her teeth polished or something along those lines. This time, there she was, although arriving early was not early enough. It took me almost ten minutes to work my way up to seeing her portrait close enough to realize that it wasn’t as small as everyone says; it’s a life size portrait, and while there are huge signs on either side of the wall saying something to the effect of ‘don’t take a flash photo’ everyone must’ve been illiterate because photo cameras were shooting up like the 4th of July. Having accomplished my mission (“hey Mona, looking good”), I moved on to the other wings of the museum.

Everything was in its place: the Boticellis were beautiful, as were the other Italians’ works. You have to hand it to the Italians; their women are pink and round and pretty as the day is long, cavorting happily in the great outdoors. The Flemish, on the other hand, were really a gruesome bunch. Their art didn’t depict joy as much as it depicted cold relationships, unhappy indoor domestic scenes, lurid deaths and diabolically evil destruction, most often in the name of the Lord. That guy sure got a lot of bad press from the Flems. I wondered about the nature of the disconsolate artistry and supposed lousy wine and too little sunshine could have that doleful effect on an artist. The Flems really needed to get out more.

I moved on and found happier frames in different wings and while I admired the works, recalling a few lectures on art history and/or art appreciation, such as Michaelangelo’s midnight forays to the morgue to dissect the dead so that he could draw a more life like resemblance of the human body, I noticed a certain redundancy; a lot of the art had to do with very manly men slaying dragons, evil goblins, other men and/or violating the occasional sacrificial virgin. Likewise, I noticed that while these strapping young men were all outfitted with weaponry of every ilk, leather knife belts, plates of armor, long swords, feathered helmets, gladiator boots, etc., they weren't wearing much in the way of textile fabric underneath their warrior accoutrements. I could only assume that their particular army was not issuing uniforms or mom didn’t check to see that they were appropriately outfitted before they left the house. And then there were the resplendent ladies, who all appeared to be on their way to, at or departing from, a toga party. So much, or so little, filmy gauze covered these fair damsels’ sumptuous frames. After a few more wings of Rubenesque ladies and studmuffin men, I decided that moderation in all things applied; it was time to leave. To amuse myself, as I found my way to the door, I photographed  the works that depicted men copping a feel of young ladies’ breasts. Such is the timelessness of the universe, whether it’s a teenage boy in a modern movie theater or a stalwart gladiator in the sanguinary fields, some things never change.