News: July 2000

July 31, 2000—Bayeux/Caen, France
Bayeux is a neat little town. The first city in France to be liberated by the Allies in 1944, Bayeux was appointed the territorial capital of the provisional French Republic by General de Gaulle who obviously had little choice at the time if he wanted to pick a city in France. In World War II terms, it's now home to the British Military Cemetery and yet another D-Day Museum. We walked through the former and skipped the latter, having had enough dioramas to last a lifetime.

The British Military Cemetery is a little smaller than the American one at Omaha Beach, but the grave markers contain more personalized information, making the sacrifice seem much more real. I like this approach better, though I would say that the American Cemetery is far more impressive.

Bayeux is probably best known as either home of the most strikingly beautiful cathedral in France or as the storehouse of the Bayeux Tapestry, an embroidered history lesson on the Norman conquest of England.

Having now viewed the Notre Dame Cathedral of Bayeux, I'm happy to be first in line to say it's the finest church exterior I've ever seen. It's a Norman gothic with lots of Romanesque bits and it dates from the 11th century. If they turn out, I'll post a picture of it in the Photo Gallery, because it's really not to be missed.

The Bayeux Tapestry is also well-worth the price of admission. An 11th century masterpiece of another kind, the Tapestry tells the story of William the Conqueror's 1066 AD victory at the Battle of Hastings (not a skirmish over the rights to a Jello Pudding as some might believe).

The abbreviated story of the Tapestry is this: Having no immediate heirs, King Edward of England sends his distant relation Harold to see his more immediate cousin William, Duke of Normandy. Harold is supposed to convey the King's message, which is more or less, "William, when I die, you da man!" The unfortunate Harold sees his boat get blown off course and into the hands of an enemy. The enemy holds Harold for ransom, a common practice in those days, which William pays, making this sort of like the world's first ever long-distance collect call.

Eventually William and Harold set off to battle a pesky renegade duke in Brittany, and after kicking some royal butt, William knights Harold on the battlefield. William makes Harold swear an oath on some holy relics to support William's claim to the English throne when Edward dies. Harold returns to England, tells King Edward everything that's transpired, and a few days later, on January 5, 1066, Edward kicks the bucket.

Simultaneously seizing opportunity by the throat and breaking his holy promise, Harold immediately crowns himself king of England. This understandably does not sit well with William, who seems to have believed that a sacred oath made under duress should be as valid as any other. William immediately begins building a navy so he can launch an invasion.

Meanwhile, new King Harold is putting down revolts here and there throughout England. By the time William's army sets foot in England, Harold's troops are battle weary. Harold, who can hardly be considered a military genius as a result, orders a forced march of almost two weeks for his troops exhausting them further.

By the time William and Harold's troops clash, the Normans have the advantage not only of calvary but also of being relatively well-rested. Harold's Saxons hold off three attacks of the Normans but finally relent to a combination of arrow attack and calvary charge. Depending on which version of history you believe, Harold took an arrow in the eye or was hacked to bits by several Norman knights. Either way seems unfortunate for Harold, and you hope, minimally, that his life insurance was paid up.

The Battle of Hastings lasted 14 hours and was the last successful invasion of Britain to date. Outside of this, William the Conqueror's most important contributions were probably building various Norman castles around England and the establishment of the Domesday Book, a written administrative listing of various properties through the country.

The Bayeux Tapestry was probably commissioned by William's half-brother, Odo, and was likely stitched by a group of English nuns with nothing better to do. It's impressive in its antiquity, and give the sisters their props for length, but for sheer artistry, it looks to me like a 7th grader got loose with some Crayolas on the world's biggest piece of white construction paper.

Hey, I call'em as I see'em. That doesn't mean it isn't worth visit or that I didn't enjoy myself.

July 30, 2000—Honfleur/Caen, France
Who can believe it's been 6 years of marriage for Erin and me? And to the same person, too.

Six years is longer than I was in high school, a claim I could've made last year but didn't since I couldn't remember if it were true or not.

Six years is longer than World War I, but with fewer gruesome, troop-killing diseases. This may change if I start cooking more.

Six years is longer than either Erin or I have worked at any one job, and definitely longer than I've ever wanted to. Six years is also several times the life expectancy of my business, and rightly so unless I get those stinkin' business cards printed.

Six years is longer than a lot of things, but with the right person, it's not such a long time.

They say that in traveling with a person you really get to know them. This France trip being the first extended vacation for us since our outstanding honeymoon to the San Juan Islands, I'm think we're moving through the days all right. My inability to communicate with the natives—with limited exceptions—has been annoying to me, but less so for Erin who seems to greet every opportunity to speak French as another reason to smile.

Admittedly, it's great French practice for her, and her Parisian accent sounds brilliant. (My own French sounds like a mix of Spanish, English, and random guttural noises, the result usually being indistinguishable from the vocal track of a Led Zeppelin song played backwards.)

I'm sorry to say that I'd probably put today's journey to Honfleur into the "blah" category and label it with the broad, condemning brush of "coastal tourist town." Lest anyone weep tears that we should spend our anniversary at such a town, let me remind my gentle readers that we spent last year at Umatilla, Oregon and compared to that travesty of civilization, Honfleur is a virtual Paris. (Erin and I also tend to just be happy to spend our anniversaries together; where we are isn't terribly important to us.)

The questionable value of Honfleur aside, the bus ride from Caen offered up spectacular ocean views. and some of the estates between Honfleur and Deauville were magnificent beyond my ability to describe.

So believe me when I say it's now six years and one good day.

July 29, 2000—Arromanches/Caen, France
Up early, we hopped the Bus Verts to Arromanches and on down the D-Day coastline. In the cliffs above Arromanches one can still look down on the remains of the artificial harbor (code-named "Mulberry") which the Allies dragged across the English Channel and planted as part of the invasion. To the layman, this engineering feat might seem a touch uninteresting compared to all the fighting and dying that was going on, but it was actually an essential part of the ultimate Allied victory in Europe.

After his capture of France in 1940 and subsequent inability to similarly invade England, Hitler set about making it impossible for the Allies to open a second front as he turned his armies toward the Soviet Union. To this end, the Germans constructed a line of fortifications (known as the "Atlantic Wall") along the coast. By heavily armoring the port cities and surrounding areas, the Germans believed that an invasion would prove impossible since Allied ships would be unable to anchor and unload sufficient material in the frequently rough seas.

Originally conceived by Winston Churchill, the solution to this problem was as brilliant as it was simple: Create an artificial harbor. It was at Arromanches that the Royal Engineers succeeded in this task. By D-Day +9, material was streaming to the Allied armies, still seeking to breakthrough the 10 Panzer divisions Hitler had defending France, were fully supplied.

Then a very interesting thing happened. The English Channel weather kicked up to gale-force winds in the largest storm in 40 years. It was unfortunate timing for the Allies, as it wiped out Mulberry A harbor (a little further to the west) and severely damaged Mulberry B at Arromanches. This threatened to halt the Allied offensive in its tracks, but the Royal Engineers rebuilt the harbor, and soon supplies were piling up around the unloading areas.

The Invasion Museum at Arromanches covers all this and more, and though it's quite a bit smaller than the Caen Memorial Museum, it definitely offers a valuable experience for the money.

That's not something that can be said for the 360 Cinema which promises "18 minutes of total excitement!" After shuffling into a circular room with screens on every side, you get a D-Day footage (real stuff, at least) interspliced with hit-or-miss present-day images shot by a 360 degree camera rig.

My complaints are numerous: First, the 360 nature of the presentation made it impossible for the content to have any emotional impact whatsoever. You can't be moved emotionally when you're struggling to look in all directions at multiple screens. (French "artistic" video tends to heavily reliant on this multiple screen/split screen technique, and I really dislike it.) Second, I've probably lost my hearing given the decibel level of the presentation. Third, crass commercialization sucks in any culture, and it didn't escape my attention that the theatre exit opened right into the gift shop. Visitors can forgo this "360" experience without missing much of anything.

After Arromanches, we stepped ever so briefly back on US soil, visiting the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach. Here, 9300 white tombstones line the grounds in row after row. It's a somber, humbling experience.

Finally, we stopped Pointe du Hoc, where the American Rangers scaled the cliffs to attack one of the strongpoints of the German fortifications in the area. (This attack was necessary since the German guns here could have fired on the Omaha Beach landing area.) The ground is still cratered from the Allied bombardment prior to the assault (much bigger craters than those in the World War I areas we've visited). Of all the invasion beaches attacked on June 6, 1944, only the Pointe du Hoc landing area was still undergoing heavy fighting 48 hours later. Of the 250 Rangers under Colonel Rudder's command, only 90 lived to tell the tale of the assault on Pointe du Hoc.

July 28, 2000—Caen, France
We've enjoyed this last week at the Courtieux. Both their hospitality and getting to know the Forbes family from the UK has proved marvelous fun. Hopefully the change by the end of today won't be too shocking for Gerard and Anne: France has left for vacation, Erin and I continue our journeys and leave for Caen, and Lavinia and Rob return to the UK. (By the way, happy birthday, Rob. Don't know if computer-based chess and ancient arcade games were how you envisioned ringing in your 16th, but too late, there it is.) By the end of the day Chloe, who will be studying at the Sorbonne for at least the next 9 weeks and perhaps the next 9 months, will be the only remaining visitor.

Our talks with the Brits have been enlightening. I didn't realize—though when you think about it, it's obvious—that UK citizens were still technically subjects of the Crown. I'm not sure that in this age that sits very well with the people.

Of course all the real political power rests with the Parliament and the Prime Minister, something which must occasionally seem just as absurd as having the power in the hands of unelected nobility. Case in point: Labor Leader Tony Blair recently attacked the lack of morality and the frequent drunkenness of UK youth. A few weeks later his own 15-year-old son was found face-down ("Completely paralytic," says Rob) by police after an alcohol-fueled celebration of the completion of his school exams. Then he handed police a fake ID and gave them a false name. Living at 10 Downing Street must be a pain.

We traveled to Caen today, enjoying the countryside as I peeled off layers of itching sunburned skin. Not sure if that's the prescribed treatment, but I also didn't care too much.

Once in Caen, we located a bus service that runs a shuttle to the D-Day beaches and instantly determined to take advantage of it tomorrow. Given our afternoon arrival, we decided to drop our stuff at the hotel (the wonderful St. Ètienne, perhaps the best commercial accommodations we've enjoyed so far) and head to the Caen Memorial Museum.

The building itself, with flags whipping in the wind out front, is striking. Inside, visitors receive an excellent overview of World World II, with most exhibits and displays in English, French, and German. For those visiting France and interested in D-Day or World War II, I would highly recommend this museum.

Though I've studied the war a fair amount, I was surprised to learn several things. First was the extent of the French collaboration with the Nazis after the German occupation of France. Second, was a bit from Eisenhower about how if the V2 rocket technology had been available to the Germans 6 months earlier and the Nazis had aimed the rockets at the docks in the south of England, the D-Day invasion probably could not have taken place.

The Museum tour concludes with the Nobel Peace Prizewinners' Gallery, an area located beneath the museum itself in what was during the war a German command post for the Normandy sector. The shocking inclusion of Teddy Roosevelt and Henry Kissinger along with the unbelievably exclusion of Gandhi surely taints the list, but better to conclude a World War II museum with this than "Hall of Murders" or something similarly grim.

Erin and I walked over to the American Memorial Gardens to briefly take in the flowers, waterfall, and landscaping. Etched into the stone walkway leading into the area was an inscription from the United States to the people of France:

From the heart of our land flows the blood of our youth
Given to you in the name of freedom.

These gardens are only one small part of Caen, but a similar beauty and character seem to run throughout the city, and Erin and I like it very much.

July 27, 2000—Paris, France
We decided to delay our departure a day so that all the scheduling (train, hotel, etc.) worked out a little better. We'll back back in Paris at the Courtieux on August 12. Guaranteed, actually, since that's the last possible day we can use our train pass.

The plan now is to leave for Caen tomorrow, drop off our stuff there, head to Bayeux for a day, and return to Caen that night. We'll putz around Normandy's D-Day sites for a few days and visit the Bayeux Tapestry before heading south to Perpignan on August 1. Nice, Monaco, and the surrounding area being packed, we decided that Perpignan would offer us beach time plus a relatively uncrowded locale. We'll be in Perpignan for a few days before taking an overnight train via Paris to Quimper in Brittany. There, we'll meet up again with the Ramsayers, and spend a bit enjoying the new region. On August 8 or 9, we'll leave Quimper for Valence in the Ardeche with the Courtieux. Back to Paris after that on August 11 or 12.

Happy Birthday wishes to my father from half a world away. Sorry not to be there, Dad. Miss you.

July 26, 2000—Paris, France
We'll be leaving on our next tour of the country tomorrow, visiting the French Riviera, Caen (Normandy D-Day stuff), Brittany around Quimper with the Ramsayers, Masif Central in the Ardesh with the Courtieux, and then returning to Paris on around August 12. Highly likelihood of neither web updates nor email until that time.

Yesterday's crash of a Concorde at Charles De Gaulle Airport was the big news of last night. The Courtieux' oldest daughter, Alice, works for Air France in logistics, and there were many thoughts of thankfulness that the Concorde isn't a plane she works with. (Alice has overall control of everything about the plane prior to takeoff to the extent that she has the authority to stop a flight from leaving.)

Anne took us to a local Château today where we walked the gardens led by Maxwell, their black lab. Delightful.

July 25, 2000—Paris, France
I was loaned the first two of the Harry Potter books by the UK family, and I must confess to finding them rather engrossing. Granted they're children's novels, but it's readily apparent why these books would be wildly popular in the UK. I'm certain it's every British boarding schoolboy's dream to be a wizard capable of casting magic spells and such.

On another level though, there is something of an ongoing critique and commentary, if you will, about British society hidden in the subtext. I'm sure I'm missing the more obscure references, but many are plain even to my American eyes. There's a lot of good stuff that applies on a humanistic level as well, which is always appealing.

You definitely have to like the swords and sorcery bit, though. If you're not a science fiction fan, you'll find these a dreadful read, I'm afraid. As an ex-Advanced Dungeons & Dragons player, this presented little barrier to me, and I completed the books in short order.

Delightful dinners continue at the Courtieux, and it seems the more people the merrier. French and English language comparisons are a hot topic of conversation, a subtopic being differences in American and British English. It's quite entertaining, really, though I could see how to some on the outside it might seem rather daft.

Personally, I just love listening to the British English accent. Person could be talking absolute rubbish as they say—it doesn't matter. Sell me a used car. Go ahead. I don't care. It simply sounds elegant and enchanting.

Apparently, to the British ear, English spoken with a French accent sounds utterly romantic, a quality that I'm not sure it has for Americans. Perhaps I've just seen too many Pink Panther movies, though. Certainly French itself sounds beautiful enough.

Linguistics aside, we've had some fascinating political conversations as well. Socialists and capitalists comparing notes, so to speak, and in many ways probably finding the other side wanting. I dare say that socialism is so far outside the American political mainstream nowadays that we probably wouldn't know what to do with a socialist if we found one. Probably keep them in a zoo exhibit under a glass jar. (Hehe)

Another hot topic has been the European Union. The governmental body (housed in Strasbourg, by the way) has a lot of authority, and decisions by the EU supersede laws of individual countries (sort of like Federal law supersedes state law). With currency standardization on the Euro (except for the UK which will retain use of the pound), and travel and work requirement relaxation, EU becomes economically much more like the US. There are still traditions and language barriers to overcome, but I would think the EU a huge economic step forward eventually.

July 24, 2000—Paris, France
More hanging at the Courtieux house. Big news is probably that I solved the email sending puzzle (a misconfiguration on my part, not a hardware problem). That said, because I heretofore couldn't send out any email, I didn't write a lot of it. Sorry if you're not on the receiving end as a result. That too is my fault and not my computer's. (Hehe.)

After an awesome thunder and lightening storm last night (which was the longest and loudest I've ever experienced), the grey overcast on-and-off nature of the today was rather unexciting by comparison. Erin and I read a bit. (Erin working on a French novel, me starting and finishing Judith Guest's excellent Ordinary People.) We also started a 3000 piece jigsaw puzzle based on one of Sisley's works.

In the evening, a family from the U.K. (Lavinia, Chloe, and Rob) came and we spent much of the evening speaking of political and cultural differences. (I confess to being something of a closet Anglophile.) The daughter in the family, Chloe, is here for the summer to study at the Sorbonne. The son, Robert, is here on holiday.

July 23, 2000—Paris, France
A day of rest and recovery at the Courtieux for the most part. True, we watched American Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France here in Paris, but only on TV as our recent travels (and my lousy sunburn) prevented us from doing a lot of moving around. Personally, I'm exhausted.

Tomorrow will likely be more of the same in that we'll be simply hanging out, though Tuesday we may visit some local castles. I'll worry about this later, when I'm less tired.

July 22, 2000—Dieppe/Paris, France
Since we'd decided to return to France today, we opted to make the most of our all-day rail ticket and head up to the coastal city of Dieppe. Seeing the ocean waves and laying on the beach was a welcome change from the city touring, and the fresh, salty air off the Atlantic was rejuvenating.

Unfortunately, in a move I'm attributing to temporary insanity caused by all the topless women, I stayed in the sun too long and turned my normally pale skin into a shade of red. Not having had a sunburn this severe in more than a dozen years, I can tell you that it's every bit as painful as I remembered and that I can't actually believe I fell asleep on a beach with rocks rather than sand beneath me.

We're back in Paris for the next few days. I'll be convalescing.

July 21, 2000—Rouen, France
This morning before all the tourists were out of bed we ventured to the Joan of Arc Museum located just off the plaza where she was burned to a crisp (well, all except her heart and internal organs according to legend) back on 30 May 1431. Given some distance from the event, this appears to have been tragic for Joan but a big plus for Rouen's tourist trade.

The museum was a fair value for the US$3.50 it cost each of us. As far as I can tell, we came away with three things: (1) a relatively good understanding of Joan's life story (which Erin already had); (2) an amazement that any institution would have a desire to collect any Joan of Arc material no matter how inauthentic; and (3) an inability to stomach even one more diorama.

Interestingly, the museum more or less left out the last part of St. Joan's story where the Church, in what's become something of a tradition, ex post facto claimed "our bad," decided they made a mistake, and, in this case, followed up a few centuries later with canonization and sainthood. (All's well that ends well, right Joan?)

Around midday we took in the marvelous St. Ouen Abbey, a beautiful gothic church from the 8th century. More open and well-lit than others we've seen, St. Ouen also seemed the most spacious. As a bonus, it had a gorgeous little fountain and park on the far side of the building where Erin and I spent a few minutes sitting and chatting.

July 20, 2000—Rouen, France
We left Hôtel Le Lutetia in Longuyon this morning, bidding adieu to the best little home away from home we've had (in hotel/motel terms). Unbelievably, it's a one-star, though perhaps it will be given a higher rating after the remodel is completed.

This morning's somewhat lengthy train travels took us from Longuyon through Sedan to Charleville-Méziéres and from there through Reims to Paris. After a little Metro riding to switch train stations, we left Paris for Rouen. On that trip we had the unfortunate luck of having our train car's climate control go out, almost forcing us to move from our otherwise comfortable cabin to the row seating in the car behind us.

That inconvenience aside, we've enjoyed riding First Class. Without a doubt, we've liked it better than, luggage in hand, scrambling through the hordes in Second Class. The France Saver pass we're riding on was only $45 more for three First Class days of travel, and additional days (up to six) were $30 each regardless of class. So we splurged and loaded up on First Class. I've not regretted it and would recommend it to others.

For those who are wondering, given the options, "why Rouen?" let me just say that we haven't much in the way of answers. We were ready to leave the Alsace-Lorraine region, Normandy beckoned, and neither of us had been to Rouen. Those aren't great reasons, but they're better than none at all.

After a march to the Office of Tourism, we obtained a list of "sites to see" and started a-walkin'.

We began with the Notre Dame Cathedral of Rouen. Bombed during World War II—they didn't say by which side, making me suspect it was the Allies—the church is really only missing a lot of stained glass windows. Otherwise you'd never know there had been a problem. Three claims to fame: First, this was the Normandy church of William the Conqueror (though in a somewhat different condition since it was remodeled in 1247). Second, visitors get to see the tomb of Richard the Lionhearted. Third, the spire is the tallest in France and a suitably impressive site.

In the second church, St. Maclou, we were treated to a bit of an organ recital which was highly enjoyable given both the power of the organ to push sound through the church and the fact that all the music we've heard on our trip has come from MP3s played through Trinity's 1" stereo speakers. There's a noticeable difference.

We rounded out the day at a St. Maclou square which held the dual distinctions of offering a modern day art exhibit and of being a graveyard for the 1348 wave of the Black Plague. Given that the Plague wiped out a third of the population of Europe, you've got to say that was the worst of the two calamities, but having seen the exhibit, I assure you it's a close call.

July 19, 2000—Longuyon, France
Pretty much a day of rest and recovery here in Longuyon at what has proved fortuitously to be the best hotel of our tour. It's under some degree of renovation downstairs so prices are cheap, which led us to splurge for the best available room. The in-room shower is no great addition; however, the bed is the best we've had in France and with the shutters blocking all outside light, our sleep has been wonderfully sound. Of course after yesterday's 16 km hike, I doubt that would've been a problem anyway.

We walked through the town's regular and military cemeteries today, before spending an afternoon watching the Tour de France and sleeping. We'll be up relatively early tomorrow as we move on to Rouen.

July 18, 2000—Longuyon, France
We left Verdun in the pre-dawn hours as a thick fog enveloped the town, lending a somber air to an area that needs no help in that regard.

After a few changes of train, we arrived in Longuyon, the jumping off point for a tour of the Maginot Line, in the early morning. After a quick walk of the city we visited the Office of Tourism and found a hotel. Thirty minutes of rest was insufficient given our 4:30 AM wake-up, but Fort Fermont's 2 PM to 4:30 PM hours left little choice if we wanted to visit today.

Since no taxi or bus service was available, we hiked the 8 kilometers out of town to Fort Fermont. Other than a slight sunburn, we enjoyed the exercise, and let's face it: The French countryside landscape is the stuff of dreams for a reason. (Indeed, we passed the small town of Revemont on our way which loosely translated means "Dream Mountain.")

Hidden away among wheat fields and cattle pastures, Fort Fermont withstood all German attacks during World War II until France surrendered in June 1940. During the tour we were transported deep underground and moved by train about a kilometer so that we could see one of the gun emplacements.

The difference between Fort Fermont and the World War I forts was dramatic. Whereas Fort Douaumont was a hellhole in and of itself, Fermont was comparatively luxurious. I'd almost liken it to a large submarine stuck in the ground. It was spartan, to be sure but definitely livable.

Unfortunately, as all students of history know, the Maginot Line of forts was the solution to a military problem that was rendered unimportant with the advent of the German Blitzkrieg ("lightning war"). While the Maginot Line remained a valid defensive stronghold, Hitler's troops simply went around it and forced France to capitulate.

The walk home was difficult given our exhaustion, but we made it and plan to pretty much mosey through Longuyon tomorrow. Or maybe we'll lay in bed all day and catch up on the Tour de France coverage we've been missing. (Go Armstrong!)

Speaking of TV, we've caught every episode so far of a game show called Treasure Hunt. Each episode features a different region of France, and the two contestants race around the area attempting to solve a series of riddles which relate to the region's history or industry. Usually they fly about in helicopters and then land to commandeer automobiles or boats. It's not that great of a contest really, but it's highly educational. (I also wouldn't be surprised if it were sponsored by the France Office of Tourism.)

July 17, 2000—Verdun, France
Walking the city again today for the final time on this trip, we headed to the Underground Fortress, yet another subterranean citadel but this time located within Verdun proper. Relatively outside harm's way, it acted as a staging area for WWI troops before they were deployed to the front lines. In WWII, the Gestapo used it as a deportation holding area, a brief stop for prisoners on the way to the concentration camps.

The renovation along the Meuse River waterfront has given the downtown something of a touristy feel, an unfortunate addition in my opinion given the area's place in history.

Early tomorrow morning—since that's when the only train of the day runs—we'll be moving about 50 km north to Longuyon for a tour of the Maginot Line, France's everlasting proof that their military learned the wrong lessons from World War I.

July 16, 2000—Verdun, France
We visited the killing fields today, seeing Fort de Douaumont, the Ossuaire de Douaumont, the Verdun Museum, and Fort de Vaux by guided bus tour with stops at each location. I'll describe only the first two in detail since they were the most interesting and poignant. The Verdun Museum, while it held a good sized collection of War-related objects and papers was probably unnecessary for a proper appreciation of the battle. Fort Vaux was, especially compared to Fort Douaumont, anticlimactic, though it was the site of several days of underground hand-to-hand fighting (which was described as being every bit as awful as you'd imagine) when the Germans invaded the fort.

Fort Douaumont, the largest of the 38 forts which France built to protect its borders after its defeat in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, took 28 years to build and was completed in 1913. It is almost entirely underground and has several kilometers of tunnels.

In the 1916 Battle of Verdun, Douaumont was hit daily by 800 to 1400 German shells, but only the more powerful 400mm "Big Bertha"-type cannons could pierce the walls. Most of the men inside the fort went deaf from the continual barrage, and given the demonstration our tour guide provided, it's not hard to understand why. She dropped a 50 kg weight onto the now-cement floor (after warning the group, of course) and the sound blasted through the tunnels like an explosion in an echo chamber. She then said that the shells landing on the fort were typically 100 kg and made noise 20 times louder.

During the war, the fort was captured by the Germans then recaptured by the French. As Douaumont is the highest point in the area, it provided a good support position for armies, even if the fort itself was of limited defensive or attacking usefulness. Since both the Germans and French had cannons which could penetrate the fort, there are memorials now to the soldiers who died inside when shells came. The largest of these is German, where on May 8, 1916 an explosion occurred in the grenade depot setting afire a nearby depot containing flame-throwers. Of the 800 to 900 who died, 679 were buried underground behind a wall in the fort.

The living conditions of the fort were awful. The temperature was 50 degrees Fahrenheit inside, water dripped from the ceiling and walls, and the floors were mud. Lighting, which was provided by candles and oil lamps, had the tendency to go out due to lack of oxygen. The fort was ventilated by hand-operated machines. There were no lavatories in the fort in 1916, so you can imagine the stench. Soldiers slept on wooden boards without blankets, mattresses or pillows.

Unable to change their uniforms for days on end, soldiers had a problem with lice and fleas. The fort had a special disinfectant room where the clothes were disinfected by steam and lime, but as the brochure on the fort helpfully points out "this was insufficient to kill all the eggs, and they continued to breed."

In conclusion, it would have made a poor summer home.

The grounds around the all the sites we visited are pockmarked where shells hit, and the earth rolls in small mounds where blasts transformed the terrain into what many observers at the time claimed looked like a lunar landscape.

Coming toward the giant Ossuaire de Douaumont, it's hard to say whether the most striking thing is the Ossuary itself or the 15,000 crosses down the bank from the monument. Thousands died at the Battle of Verdun and this area is a quiet testament to their sacrifice. The Ossuary, which holds the unidentifiable remains of 130,000 soldiers, is shaped like the giant hilt of a sword where the blade has been forced into the ground, the idea being that after the Great War, never again would the sword of war be drawn.

So many died in World War I (1.3 million French; 1.9 million German) and in such senseless, meaningless ways that the horror of what the soldiers experienced is beyond today's imagination. The Battle of Verdun, where the Germans and French launched wave after wave of men in an impossible effort to break the opposing lines, has imbued some monuments with a perverse sense of military pride, particularly when generalship was no more creative than sending soldiers time and again in direct frontal assaults on fortitified enemy positions.

The French pride in victory, particularly of the "They Shall Not Pass" variety would be utterly obscene if it were not for one thing: The German military, in both thought and action, may have been the vilest sons-of-bitches of the 20th century. (A tradition which was to 20 years later propel them into a systemized genecide known as the Holocaust.)

Belgium's foremost poet of the era, Emile Verhaeren, published a book in 1915 about the invasion of his country by Germany. His book's dedication read:

He who writes this book in which hate is not hidden was formerly a pacifist....For him no disillusionment was ever greater or more sudden. It struck him with such violence that he thought himself no longer the same man. And yet, as it seems to him that in this state of hatred his conscience becomes diminished, he dedicates these pages, with emotion, to the man he used to be.

Verhaeren's enormous change of attitude was, in microcosm, the same transformation undergone by the world at-large as the Old World hopes of humanity's greater progress and ideals were crushed under the Prussian military boot. The wide-spread disillusionment that followed the war (and frankly continues today) was wrought by a pattern of thought and behavior repugnant to the civilized mind.

For Germans—particularly of a military bent—war was, as Thomas Mann wrote, "a purification, a liberation, an enormous hope." This idea of war an ennobling was not, of course, a purely German one, but no society embodied it like Germany, and in their theory of war, terrorism was justified as a means of population control. That's the most benign way possible of saying that the capture, holding, and killing of civilian hostages was practiced systematically, the idea being that the populace could be cowed into submission through fear. Repeatedly, entire towns were burned to the ground and its citizens killed.

That such incidents led less to fear and more to overwhelming hatred truly perplexed the German military command who believed that once a country was beaten militarily, the proper role for its citizenry was to act as obedient slaves. Given a choice between injustice and disorder, Goethe said, the German will always choose injustice.

Barbara Tuchman wrote in her exceptional, Pulitzer Prize-winning The Guns of August about the German soldier:

Schooled in a state in which the relation of the subject to the sovereign has no basis other than obedience, he is unable to understand a state organized upon any other foundation, and when he enters one is inspired by an intense uneasiness. Comfortable only in the presence of authority, he regards the civilian sniper as something particularly sinister (355).

This sniper "threat"—both real and much more often imagined—would be claimed time and again by the German military as the basis for killing populations and burning cities to ashes. In the example that first shocked the world, the city of Louvain was subject to six days of rape and pillage before it and and its medieval library were burned to the ground, all on the basis of a never substantiated (and by most accounts false) claim of civilian snipers. It seems hard to believe, but the German military protested loudly and repeatedly in cases such as these that theirs was a perfectly legal and rational response. (Indeed, the Germans seem as shocked at the world's response as the world was in the first place.)

Only in the face of such evil can I say that French pride in their success at Verdun was not based on an inappropriate nationalism. For had the French position at Verdun collapsed (as it did to the north), the Germans would have won the Great War in short order, bringing with them reign of evil that would have held captive Europe and perhaps ultimately the world.

Despite German wartime behavior, monuments, plaques, and the like in France are remarkably free of bitterness and rancor. Given the cost to their country, this seems either an incredible show of forgiveness or, more cynically, of commercial reality. (Unless I find definitive proof otherwise, I'll choose to believe the former.)

I don't know whether freewill and its consequences are a result of a fall from grace or were originally intended as part of a divine plan, but clearly God permits man's folly. While not diminishing the evil of the German military, at Verdun—as in any battle or war—ultimately man's folly is all there is. My sense is that the French—lovers of life and beauty if ever a people were—may understand this better than most.

July 15, 2000—Verdun, France
Passing first through the Metz train station where World War II French Resistance leader Jean Moulin was captured by the Gestapo in 1943 (he would be brutally murdered in captivity shortly thereafter), we came today to Verdun. A part of France since 1648 and the Treaty of Westphalia, Verdun (latin for "true fortress") was in ancient times a fortified and moated city which guarded the Meuse river. The guard tower/moat house of the city, still standing, was built in 1380.

That history aside, Verdun will forever be etched into history as the place where soldiers of the French and German armies clashed in a hideous example of World War I trench warfare. France considers Verdun something of a testament to French military fortitude—the phrase On Ne Passe Pas ("They shall not pass") was coined here. While it's true that ultimately the German 5th Army was repulsed, both sides suffered huge casualties and when all was said and done, hundreds of thousands of men were dead.

Having spent a few days now in the Alsace-Lorraine region, I'm reminded of Oregon's Willamette Valley, all the rain being only part of it. True, the Alsace has more of a hilly, rolling terrain with none of the mountainous regions of Oregon—the Alps being further south—but the lush green countryside and extensive farmland are just like home.

July 14, 2000—Bastille Day; Strasbourg, France
Architecturally, Strasbourg is the French/German mix one might expect. The ironically named area of La Petite France (Little France) features almost exclusively German-style buildings and cobblestone roads. The city is quieter and has noticeably fewer tourists than Paris.

Today we returned to Strasbourg's Notre Dame Cathedral to see a 15th century astronomical clock work its magic. Regardless of whether or not mechanical clocks are your cup of tea, you have admire the engineering and artistic skill required to construct something like this.

Amid a sunbreak in the day's rainstorms, we walked along the Ill River which was a beautiful stroll around the center part of the city. Afterward, we followed the crowds to a bridge where, after waiting about an hour, we were treated to a Bastille Day fireworks display.

While the event was slightly marred by rain and cold, it was nonetheless highly enjoyable. Much more artistic than the standard Sousa march-based affairs of the US, the show opened with the aria from Mozart's The Magic Flute, one of my all-time favorites. Strasbourg's fireworks also had the virtue of being right overhead—I don't think I've ever been so close to a large-scale fireworks display—which only heightened the visual and auditory spectacle.

We leave tomorrow for Verdun, and the start of our journey through World War I and World War II sites. (Strasbourg doesn't really count in that regard, even if it is part of the once disputed Alsace-Lorraine area.)

July 13, 2000—Strasbourg, France
After a rather nifty four hour train ride from Paris, we arrived in Strasbourg and checked in to the Hotel Le Grillon, a relatively inexpensive two-star not far from the train station. At 230ff (approximately $32) a night for a double, it's a decent bargain. We're on the fourth floor (room 406) which entails climbing some 77 stairs, but the bathroom and shower facilities are topnotch, so it's worth hoofing it up a few flights.

We walked the streets a bit, toured the gigantic city cathedral, took an afternoon nap, then ventured out for a Bastille Day-inspired military review in the city square. The rain probably reduced attendance at what was otherwise 200 armed soldiers, 12 motorcyclists, a couple dozen flag bearers, and one brass band alternately moving from an "at ease" position to "attention" as various military commanders walked by, saluted, and attempted to look important. Notable: An old crusty drunk Frenchman next to us kept yelling "Attention!" to the soldiers at inappropriate times to the amusement of some in the audience.

Given French military history in the last 130 years, it's in many ways remarkable that Strasbourg is part of France. Claimed by Germany as spoils of war after their victory in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, it remained part of Germany until the end of World War I when it returned to French control. The area again moved under German control during World War II during the Nazi occupation but reverted to France as the Allies drove the Germans out. (In Strasbourg's Notre Dame Cathedral, the church we visited this afternoon, there's a plaque dedicated to the American soldiers of 1944-45 who gave their lives in this effort.)

July 12, 2000—Paris, France
Well, it took frickin' forever, but I think we've got the Internet stuff figured out on at least a limited basis. The French ISP I was trying, Wanadoo, must just have wanky modems. The Frenchman at the Apple service shop we visited this afternoon was adamant that there was no hardware incompatibility between US and European modems, so after tonight's success with Magos (my third French ISP), I guess I'll have to believe him. I'm still having trouble sending email, but receiving is fine, so feel free to load us up. Sorry it's only working one direction for now.

We'll be venturing to Strasbourg tomorrow, taking our leave of the Courtieux family for now. Gerard, Anne, and France have been incredibly hospitable.

July 11, 2000—Paris, France
We went to a big wholesale marketplace with Alice today. Manufacturers and growers from all over Europe truck their goods there, then retail distributors come and buy up what they want to sell. Alice's friend Anna, herself a retailer to a certain degree, came with us since she had the card necessary for making purchases.

Neither Erin nor I ended up buying anything, but Alice and Anna bought a lot of soaps, perfumes, and candles.

In the evening, Erin and I watched Hitchcock's Rebecca, a movie we'd both seen before but didn't mind seeing again. Reasonably good movie for its era, though a little slow in terms of plot twists and turns by today's standards.

Internet access still a bear. May have it figured out; may not. Either way, site updates and email will be intermittent. Sorry.

July 10, 2000—Paris, France
Off to the Pompidou Center, home of numerous Matisse, Picasso, and Miró works among others. The museum covers about 1900 to present, and frankly, there was virtually nothing in the last 50 years of art that was remotely engaging on anything other than a completely abstract level. Even Cubism and Surrealism, both of which deconstructed reality to a certain degree found their basis in human experience. So much of the art lacked meaning, that Yves Klein's comments regarding his solid blue canvas in Quest for Space seemed to sum up a lot of what we saw: "First there is nothing, then a deep nothingness...."

Happily, much of the furniture and architecture of the last 100 years, whether Bauhaus or Art Deco or whatever, was engaging. My favorite exhibit, however, was a 1998 addition by design Johathan Ive: A blueberry iMac from Apple Computer.

In our last meeting, I had Sebastien clue me in on the Pompidou Center architecture so that I could better understand it this time around. He described it as a building without a skin, where all the normally internal components are exposed to the outside. The jarring contrast both as a building and with the surrounding city are intentional since this is a museum of modern art.

After today's trip, I'm willing to concede that the building fulfills its function as originally conceived and I'm even able to appreciate the views of Paris afforded by the Habitrail-like escalators. I still think it looks like hell, though.

In the evening, Erin and I watched The Night of the Hunter, a circa 1954 black-and-white film that plays as a thriller, an archetypal dream world, a religious commentary, and a fairy tale. The special effects are wanting given today's technology but the story, cinematography, and music are excellent.

July 9, 2000—Paris, France
I laid low and tried to figure Trin's modem problems while Erin did Mass at a local nunnery and made a return trip to the Louvre to see some of the paintings that, god forgive me, I couldn't care less about. I'm not convinced that she's all that interested either, but she's planning on doing reports about various French painters for her classes next year, so she figured she should be able to present a complete overview.

We'll visit the Modern Art Museum tomorrow, hang out with Alice on Tuesday, do something but I don't know what on Wednesday, and leave for Strasbourg on Thursday. Maybe I'll be able to connect to the net from there. Who knows?

Whilst laying low I finished my fourth Ludlum novel of this trip, The Matarese Countdown. Not brilliant or particularly inspired, I'm sorry to say. In many respects merely a rehash of previous novels. Oh, it's a page-turner like all of his are, but I'd recommend any of his works from earlier in his career over this one. Of the ones I've read recently, I'd pick The Icarus Agenda as the best.

July 8, 2000—Paris, France
We decided to more or less take today off. We're writing postcards and reading books. I'm updating the web site. We'll head out later today to make our reservations for the train ride next week to Strasbourg.

Congratulations to France Courtieux on her successful BAC exam.

Latest on the Internet access is that I'm having a dreadful time getting connected. There may be no updates or email unless I can figure out what the problem is. Trinity's modem checks out fine and there's no problem connecting via the Courtieux' PC, but Trin gets to "Starting Network Protocols" and then the connection drops. This may mean no email and no web updates until our return, which is a major bummer. (Heck, I don't even know if you'll read these words until I get back.)

July 7, 2000—Paris, France
Erin and I visited the Musée d'Orsay today, a museum covering art from approximately 1840 until 1915. (In this way it sort of takes up where the Louvre leaves off.) Better sized than the Louvre—meaning it's small enough to be managed in a day—the Musée d'Orsay is the repository for the famous works of numerous great artists, particularly the impressionists and neoimpressionists painters.

To name drop just a bit, we're talking artists like Van Gogh, Cézanne, Rodin, Ingres, Corot, Degas, Monet, Renoir, Pissarro and Manet. Of these, my favorite was Van Gogh, though I enjoyed Monet quite a bit as well. Like the Louvre, this was a great educational and artistically inspirational experience.

July 6, 2000—Paris, France
Today's stop was Sacre Cœur, a touristy hilltop region of Paris atop which sits a beautiful Catholic church. We took a few pictures of the city, so hopefully at least one of them will capture the beautiful view.

The church itself is undergoing interior renovation and cleaning, so much of what we saw was immense scaffolding—not exactly the most awe-inspiring site in the world.

The winding streets around the church were more interesting. There's an open square where painters sit and paint and try to convince tourists to buy. Among the crowds are dozens of quick-sketch artists who accost uninterested travelers. Nonetheless, the cafés and narrow, winding cobblestone streets were enchanting, and a stark and welcome change from the automobile-packed roads of downtown Paris.

One item I've not mentioned, but surely deserves some words is the gastronomic delights we've encountered. It's easy enough to say that the local Boulangeries have great pastries and breads, but more than that, the dinners we've been privileged to eat with both the Courtieux and Ramsayer families have been magnificent. I've tried a variety of desserts, cheeses, meats, and so on which I've never had before, and with very few exceptions (specifically fermented fruits), I've enjoyed them all.

This evening, we viewed Sebastien's apartment and another which he also designed. Brilliant use of space—and there had to be because there's not a lot of it—making the apartments feel much larger than they actually are. Sebastien also gave us a copy of his band, Patchwork, calling it "French pop." Very enjoyable no matter how it's classified.

After the tour, we went out to dinner for the first time in Paris with Annette, Sebastien, and Chloe. I had duck (the waiter delivering it: "Your Donald Duck, Monsieur") and Erin had couscous with vegetables. Both were good, but mine came with french fries(!) so I think I win. (Duck with french fries? I know. It sounds weird to me too. Good fries though.)

The dinner ran a little long since we got caught in a Paris downpour which lasted a few hours and none of us brought rain gear. We said au revoir to Sebastien who leaves seen on an architectural tour of the US. Chloe we may see again in a few weeks, if her work schedule permits. (She works for Jamin Puech, a handbag design and manufacturing company. The handbags are apparently available in the States in Nordstrom's, Sak's and other high-end stores.)

July 5, 2000—Paris, France
We spent the day at the Louvre, overwhelmed by their collection. There is simply way too much for one to ever see during a day and still come away with the sort of appreciation of the art and talent that is appropriate.

Erin took extensive notes on the French painters, and the slower pace this required of me was actually quite beneficial. That's not to say that I was all that interested in French painters, but there are some great ones, and there was no sense in passing up the opportunity to see genius hanging on the wall.

We briefly peeked in on the Mona Lisa and she gave her curious smile. I'm not quite sure what it is that people find compelling about that particular painting, but it had the largest crowd of anything at the Louvre. Of course a lot of people think Whoopi Goldberg is funny, too, so obviously popularity means nothing.

Speaking of which, the place was really full this morning, but had definitely thinned out by the afternoon. We stayed until 7:30 PM, figuring that since our legs were starting to give out it was probably time to call it a day. If we want to go back again (and I think Erin may go solo on Sunday), the 45f (approximately $6.50) entrance fee is more than reasonable. Half price after 3 PM or on Sundays, too.

Finished The Apocalypse Watch, Robert Ludlum's overly long (750+ pages) novel. It reads well, but there are slow bits which should have been edited down and the ending is ridiculous and trite. Too bad, especially after so many pages.

July 4, 2000—American Independence Day; Paris, France
After another thrilling thunder and lightening storm this morning, we walked to the American Embassy to see if there might be any sort of celebration going on, but nope, the place had closed up shop and all the employees were apparently given the day off. Seems fair enough when you think about it.

Through wind and rain, we walked through various winding city streets. Though the exhibits were closed today, we walked through the Louvre to escape the rain and happened upon a World Press photography contest exhibit. We walked to the Pompidou Modern Art Museum next and discussed how it really looks like the Habitrail cage I used to have for my hamster. Architecturally speaking, I'm not sure that's a plus.

I've determined a couple of interesting things about setting up a PowerBook on the Internet over here. First is, obviously, that you need a power adapter. The plugs they use (not to mention the voltage) is different. Second, the phone line has a reversed polarity compared to the States. That may or may not cause random disconnects; I've been okay from the suburbs, but thus far downtown Paris is a no-go. Third, the dial tone is different; make sure "Ignore dial tone" is selected in the appropriate checkbox of the Modem control panel. Finally, find an Internet service provider that works in France. (Note that CompuServe and AOL have a proprietary PPP configuration that requires special software installation.)

July 3, 2000—Paris, France
Rain storms hit Paris this morning, reminding me that 10 years ago I saw the heaviest rains I've ever seen—and remember I grew up in Oregon—here in a Paris train station. Today showers, also heavy and full of thunder and lightening, didn't compare to those, but it was enough to help Erin and I decide to stay indoors for the morning and write postcards (and update my web site).

In the afternoon, we toured Hôtel des Invalides. I found the extensive rifle, cannon, sword, and armor collection of the Armory interesting but ultimately tiring. There's some brilliant craftsmanship here, to be sure, but I'm much more engaged by items of historical significance. (That is to say historical significance greater than something like, say, "This was Henry II's ceremonial dagger.")

The War Museum had the strangest layout ever, but the information and artifacts from World War I and World War II were fascinating.

We concluded our trip to Hôtel des Invalides by visiting Napolean's Tomb. That little man is entombed in one great big dome, let me tell you, and it's a gorgeous, majestic dome at that.

On our way out, we had the happy luck to be able to do some translating between three Spanish tourists and one of the French-speaking guards. The guard was trying to tell them that the place closed in 15 minutes, but the tourists weren't understanding. Erin spoke to the guard, translated the French to English for me and I gave the appreciative tourists the scoop in Spanish. All involved were amused by this brief game of telephone.

July 2, 2000—Paris, France
The Ramsayers home is located near the Bastille, and Erin and I took a few peeks at the monument there this morning as we followed Annette to an open air farmers market in the adjoining park blocks.

During lunch we met with the Ramsayer's daughter, Chloe, and helped her celebrate her birthday.

In the afternoon, we took advantage of a free museum day (first Sunday of every month) to visit the Picasso Museum. For me it was an enlightening experience. I came away with a much better understanding of his work, and an appreciation for his artistic endeavors. Although stylistically I've never been a huge Picasso fan, one can hardly ignore Picasso's contributions, particularly in creating and defining cubism. The museum's displays were somewhat uneven (since many of his more famous pieces are elsewhere), but it was, taken as a whole, an excellent retrospective of his life and career.

We met the Ramsayers' guest, Ruth, who will leave France soon to take a teaching position in University of California system as an instructor of modern dance. It was from Ruth that I learned that jet lag normally takes about a day of recovery for every hour of time difference. That made me feel a lot better, since I'm still totally lagged out. Given the nine hour difference between the West Coast and France, Erin and I have another few days to go before we achieve full recovery.

In the evening we watched, with high anxiety, the European Cup 2000 soccer final with the Ramsayers and Ruth. My initially impression was that the game was well-played and very exciting, but the truth is that I couldn't really judge the quality of the play dispassionately since we're in the heart of Paris. I'm hoping Bret can give me his impressions of the game when I return, or that I can watch the game again on tape to see if it was as good as I thought.

After France's miraculous 2-1 overtime victory over Italy, Erin and I hopped the Metro to the Champs-Élysées where we sang victory songs, marched in the streets, watched the fireworks, and absorbed the general craziness. I swear half of Paris was there, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't the sober half. After we had marched around for awhile, we saw a fight break out and figured it was about time to head for home. The Metro was packed, but we made it back to the stop at the Bastille in one piece and enjoyed the fans celebrating there (and climbing the monument) as well.

July 1, 2000—Paris, France
With Gerard's help, I solved my Internet problem. Of course, later today Erin and I will be headed to stay with another family, the Ramsayers, so I'll probably be without access for another week. Regardless, I should have continuing updates from France online as time and access permit.

Update: Seems like I've got full Internet access except for the ability to send email. I can receive it fine ([email protected]), but sending gets me a DNS error. So don't be offended if you send us something and don't hear from us. We're not ignoring you (like we normally do—hehe), we're baffled by the French Internet connectivity.

Update 2: We met the Ramsayers this evening, and what a pleasant couple they are! Jean-Claude, a teacher of modern dance, has a sly wit and his wife Annette is most gracious. Their son Sebastien came for dinner, and I was happy to have the opportunity to meet him. Sebastien is an architect and Erin and I, new homeowners that we are, enjoyed discussing architecture and remodeling with him. Sebastien will be leaving on July 11 on a tour of the US to see various architectural examples (the trip is funded through an arts grant), and I'm sorry to say that he'll pass through Oregon while we're still in France. We've offered him the option of staying over at our place even though we'll be gone, but he wasn't certain if he'd be able to since he's meeting a friend in Eugene.

Latest update on July 31, 2000
Feedback: [email protected]