Remembering . . . France

One of the many things I've come to love about being in Europe is the ease and relatively minor expense to travel to other countries.When I lived in America, I used to think it was rather exotic to go to France--but when you live in England, well, it's a hop, skip and a jump away. And you can go by car! Well, I suppose you can travel to another country by car from the US--I did go to Canada that way, and there's also Mexico . . . but having lived on the east coast with hundreds of miles away from either of those foreign borders, there's a little bit of a thrill in whipping out a passport while seated in a short queue after a relatively short journey.

 

Tim and I had talked for months about taking a trip to France this summer--perhaps Mirepoix (yes, there is a place named after my cat . . . ) or the wine country, or, well, just anywhere to get away for a quick cheap break and see a different area of the country. I was pressing the issue because I was holding on to my US passport waiting for the trip before taking any action to change my name or request additional pages from the embassy, and Tim finally got fed up listening to me (LOL) and went online searching for accommodation and booking a slot on the Euro tunnel from Dover to Calais--a weekend away, first to Boulogne for a pit stop (where we'd been before) and then on to Caen and, to commemorate 9/11, to Omaha Beach in the Normandy region.

 

Yes, I know Normandy isn't New York and some people didn't "get" the significance of being in an American cemetery on 9/11 in a foreign country when I mentioned how I'd spend my weekend, but I thought it was a lovely idea and was really chuffed that Tim and I were going. As I said, we'd been to Boulogne before--very early in our relationship, but that was a quick day trip (the ferry from Dover is only 35 minutes and the ride from London to Dover about 90 minutes--not all that different from travelling to Cowes). This time we'd spend overnight in Boulogne before making the three-hour journey by car to Caen.

 

View from our hotel--wonderful architecture!

I must say we lucked out with the weather--it was warm and positively summery on Friday when we arrived, settled our bags at the Metropole, and then took a stroll. The hotel we were staying at is situated along the strip where cheese and wine merchants were selling goods--not hawking, but more subtly watching passersby who gave them a glance of interest and then asking if monsieur or madame would like a taste of Chablis? The aroma of cheese was strong along the narrow sidewalk, and I loved it. We dropped our bags but had to move the car into the hotel's garage, and promised the vendor in the stall just outside the Metropole that we'd come back for a taste, and so we did. He was gracious--speaking in French with Tim that he'd come from Burgundy and pointing out on the map he had on display where his wines were from. We tried two Chablis and a sauvignon blanc, and after a bit of thought purchased the sauvignon because it was my favourite and Tim is not much of a white wine drinker. Our first 6 euros spent!

 

Onward to stroll before dinner. We first walked around the center of town and then decided we'd revisit the restaurant we'd been to when we first went to Boulogne together, called the Welsh Pub. I wanted to sit outside--it was still a bit light out at 8 pm and the air was still warm, and I am a great fan of al fresco dining. Our waiter who said he did not speak English was a bit, well, abrupt, but he still managed to be helpful; Tim's French is more than adequate whereas mine is limited to the standard phrases. We ordered drinks first, then decided to stay for dinner and enjoyed a lovely meal at the foot of the cathedral. It was a glorious night--it may not be Paris, but it was tres romantique. And I had the best seat in the house--looking at the cathedral, under a full moon, across the table from my beau mari.

 

On Saturday we started our drive into the Normandy region, making stops at Juno Beach, site where the Canadians landed on D-Day, and then a few lovely small coastal towns that were simply quaint--little shops, beautiful coastline, wonderful views from bluffs. I really loved Arromanches, with its artificial harbour that protected the World War II landings of some half a million men and a quarter of a million vehicles. Two of the huge concrete structures were built in Britain and then submerged in rivers away from the sight of German aircraft, and towed across the English Channel as the invasion began--brilliant.

 

We were staying in yet another port town--Caen--which had me inwardly laughing about how I seem to find myself by the sea most weekends. The harbour had some lovely sailboats, and around midday we found a little restaurant called L'Universe with outdoor seating and plunked down for food and conversation. I adored the little pichet of rose--when in France, I am compelled to have a glass of rose in the daylight hours. The food was generous--I ordered a salad with chicken and Emmentaler and it was accompanied by a light wine vinegar and olive oil dressing--more of what is known in "French" dressing, unlike the ketchup and vinegar concoction of America. The coffee afterwards was outstanding--I must say in most places we had coffee during the weekend was absolutely delicious, the exception being the adequate machine-made cafe au lait at the hotel in Caen.

 

We wiled away the afternoon hours walking around town and also, of course, shopping for inexpensive Bordeaux at the local Carrefour (which is the French equivalent to a large supermarket) and found lovely bottles between 4 and 6 euros--really. I was happy to see some Lalande-de-Pomerol, and Tim grabbed a few from the region of St Emilion, which has always been a favourite.

 

It was another lovely evening, too, and we found ourselves strolling in town for a place to eat, again hopefully al fresco. We'd been through the central district earlier and had seen the line-up of restaurants that reminded me a bit of the main drag in Miami where the menus are all on display and the occasional hawker comes to lure you in. It was just starting to rain, and nothing really grabbed me; I was looking for some seafood choices but hadn't seen a menu or a place to eat outside that I wanted. We walked beyond the main street and spotted a small place with outdoor tables just a short distance from the crowd--and now that the drizzle had turned to more of a downpour it almost became our destination by default.  But what a find! The service was lovely, the food was delicious, and the atmosphere positively wonderful. We lingered over a pichet of rose, of course, and had some lovely French cheeses (chevre, Camembert--first made in Normandy in the 18th century--and brie). It was dark by now and we took a short stroll before heading back to our hotel for the evening, just a short drive out of the centre of Caen.

 

On the morning of 9/11 we set off to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery--something I'd wanted to see, and also as a commemoration for the day. As with the cemetery near Champagne that Tim and I visited last March, it is a solemn, slightly overwhelming place. You are suddenly caught a bit breathless at the sheer number of identical marble crosses, here spread across the 172-acre landscape, dotted with wide, conically-shaped trees and on a perfectly manicured green lawn. There are statues, and curved walls describing the conflict, and waves of Omaha Beach lap below, beautiful and calm, as the backdrop. American flags were flying at half mast to note the day; the cemetery, even early, was busy with tourists, perhaps relatives, perhaps people like me who felt that they wanted to be somewhere significant on the ten-year anniversary of an appalling, unforgettable event in American history.

 

In front of a flag at half mast.

 I don't know why, but I find myself looking for markers that denote a soldier from New Jersey. There is no geographical grouping in the massive, perfectly ordered rows of crosses and Jewish stars--a New Jerseyan is next to a Texan is next to a Nebraskan. I spent some time looking down at Omaha Beach from the cemetery; the sea, this day, was quiet and grey from the bluff. 9,387 Americans are buried at the cemetery, and walking from cross to cross so many died on D-Day or within weeks of the 6th of June, 1944. Two of President Theodore Roosevelt's sons are buried there--one of them a victim of World War I and the only soldier from that war to be buried there. I was noting how many soldiers died on D-Day--estimates are anywhere from 2,500 to 5,000 on the actual day. What isn't noted in the cemetery, and is probably lost to most people, is that 19,000 civilians in the Normandy region died during World War II. That certainly brings home for me the juxtaposition of D-Day with 9/11: tragedies for civilians beyond anyone's comprehension, and yet, there it is in black and white: war on home soil.

 

As solemn as the end of the journey to France was, it was all wonderful, and I am grateful to have seen the beaches, and had a moment of contemplation for the events. I was sorry to have missed the reading of the names of those who lost their lives in the WTC attack; I did go through the AM and FM channels on the car radio as we were heading back, to no avail. No matter; I have said my silent prayers.

 

Rows of crosses at Omaha beach.

And I contributed a short piece for my department's newsletter about 9/11: while ten years has finally brought the memorial to New York City, it has also brought a piece of the World Trade Center to Britain. Home to 67 of those who perished on 9/11, Britain is the first country in Europe to be given a fragment from the WTC. The sculpture, "After 9/11" by New York artist Miya Ando, is constructed of steel from the fallen towers. It has a temporary home in Battersea Park while a permanent location is yet to be finalised. This month also marked the launch of the 9/11 London Project Foundation, whose aims include teaching schoolchildren about the legacy of the attacks a decade ago.  

 

I found it quite comforting that my adopted home has embraced the tragedy that occurred on different soil; it puts meaning to the term "special relationship" Great Britain and the United States use to describe our political liaison.