1 post tagged “france”

The hotel was nice and comfortable enough. Naturally, I was pretty pooped, and still feeling pretty low about leaving my friends back in Austria. I knew I would only be in Strasbourg a day and a half, so I needed to optimize my time there, not to mention their german/french bilingualism, only I just didn't feel up to it. I took a shower (much needed), watched a kids' show in german, then part of a nasty exhibition of bad skateboard and BMX falls, and after the third or so skull cracked, I figured it was time to hit those streets. I still had baguettes to try, pastries to down, cheese to hold my nose at, mushy german to listen to.

So that's just what I did. It was still raining when I went back out, but not hard. I walked back down the back alley residential street I had dragged my luggage up a couple hours before, tried to see things with new eyes. I got back on the tram and road it into the city. The first thing I saw after stepping off the tram was a street market full of artists trying to sell their work. But what really caught my eye was not a canvas full of bright or soft tones, but the angular trees lining the square. I'd seen those trees before but couldn't (still can't) identify them. They reminded me a little of the meticulously manicured trees of the Schönbrunn, only on a much smaller scale and there was a small carnival at the end of the trees.
Then I dove in. Strasbourg came off to me as very old, torn between a couple hundred years of warring cultures, and if not torn, at least confused as to just who to call themselves, how to build their houses, and which language to speak. I saw on certain doors signs reading "hier spricht man deutsch" or "we speak german here." I made a mental note of those.
I made it to the center, where the gigantic sandstone cathedral loomed above and before me. That's where I saw the gypsies, the african men peddling their gold watches. One guy came up to me and shook my hand. He said his name was Daniel from Africa. Said he wanted to give me a gift because I wasn't a racist -- I had looked him in the eye, talked to him and shaken his hand without reluctance. He gave me a gold watch. I knew something was up. He asked me if I was going to Germany and if so if I wanted to ride with him in the car. I said no I was sticking around Strasbourg a while and then going deeper into France. He rambled on about his wife and said I shouldn't tell anyone he had given me the watch, then he gave me another small bag with a gold necklace, and pointed out where it said 14 karat on the latch. He managed to get something else in my hands before I could make him understand I really didn't want any of this stuff. He acted hurt. "Why don't you want my gift? I give it to you to honor you, and if you don't take it, you shame me." He told me I could give it to my mom. He pulled out a wad of euro to prove to me he didn't need money, that someone had been gracious enough to him to help him out and give him some money, and now he was trying to give me something. Then he proceeded to tell me he needed any extra change I had to help out with train fare or some other garbled purpose. When I told him no way, that the wad he just flashed was way more than I had even to my name. When he pressed me, I said he could have the jewelry back; that's when his bright smile vanished and he mumbled "alright" before he snatched back the watch & necklaces.
I headed over to the church and slipped inside. Sunday mass was just starting. The whole sanctuary was lit up like a grotto, the priests and acolytes far in the distance at the back of the church, reciting the holy words in French, and after every measure the laity would respond in a refrain of song.

I left the church and walked around a while, ate my first french meal, which consisted of an "all you can eat" buffet of weird meats and vegetables. Honestly I didn't eat all I could eat, as I wasn't that hungry, nor was all that weird meat very appetizing. By this time, though, the sleepless night I had had previously was catching up with me, so I went back to the hotel to fall asleep and dream of massive slices of pickled meats slobbering over me.
I woke up later that evening and it was dark outside. I knew I had to go out if I was to feel at all satisfied with Strasbourg, so I hopped back into my long johns, donned my cap and scarf, and headed out. The night was much warmer than the day had been. It had stopped raining, but everything wet glistened in the lamp-light. There was a wind but it wasn't uncomfortable, and it almost pushed me merrily along through the neighboring streets back to the tramline. I was feeling much better.

 
Strasbourg at night was something else. It wasn't exactly lively, but there was life there. Indeed, Strasbourg was never very "lively." It's one of those towns you know has weathered the centuries of wars and changes, and has somehow remained intact, surviving even the massive shift in culture, worldview and approach of the last century, and now survives as an active conduit of the synergy of the old and new. I was starving, and it was already late Sunday evening, so I wasn't sure where I was going to find something to eat. I happened upon a crappy-looking kebab stand, collected my handful of french words in my mouth, and let them spill out upon the man's countertop for him to pick up and figure out just what I wanted from him. He was able to decipher just what I wanted, and served me up the best kebab I'd eaten in months, which was surprising given how junky his place looked.

Kebab in hand and chewing, I turned down an alley in search of Exils, a reputably small and smoky night bar with good beer on tap. I walked in expecting to find a set of steppenwolves,considering the bar's name, but found only the hippest of the hip, sipping coctails, playing darts, and spitting game. I had a very expensive Guiness, wrote a while and watched the only two other lonesome folk in the place, doing basically what I was doing, sipping a drink and watching.

I stepped out of Exils and walked a little further down the lane, where I found looming over me the biggest beer keg ever in front of an old german-style house. I marveled a while at the thought of all the beer or cider that would fit in that barrel, and when the church bells began to toll the last hour, I headed back up another alley and took pictures of the long shadows thrown on the building facades.

The next morning there wasn't much time before I had to catch my train to Ste. Menehould (pronounced "Menoo" just to frustrate those of us who don't speak french), but I wanted to make up a little for the previous day's loss, and I hopped the tram again to the city center and found my way to the general hospital, a very old place.

That was all the time I had for Strasbourg, unfortunately. I headed back to the hotel and wrapped myself in fifty extra kilos of luggage, and headed for the train station. I got there a little early, so I had some time to mush it up with some of the locals. (In German) "Does this train go to Ste. Menehould?" "Sischer wir fahren schnellsch und gutsch."

Ste. Menehould

I doubt many tourists travel to Ste. Menehould. I went there because my friend Rebecca was offering me a place to stay and a nice english conversation. Rebecca took this year to do like I did and teach English in a European school. After several train changes, and miraculously making each one, I got off my last train of the evening and found Rebecca waiting for me at the deserted station. Her French friend Vincent was there as well with his car, as he had offered to drive us up the hill to the school where he and Rebecca boarded.

Rebecca spoke of Ste. Menehould as if it were a one street metropolis, and from what I saw that first night I believed her. After getting my luggage situated in Rebecca's apartment, we walked down the hill again and ate at what seemed to be the town's only evening restaurant. We had a fishy pasta, and then coffee. She walked me around the school grounds later, and up the hill a little farther to reach a payphone where she could call her friends in Reims (where I would be going next). The night was damp and very still. Hardly a streetlight shone, and you could see a hundred stars.

The next morning Rebecca had to leave very early to catch a train to Reims for a rendez-vous with a handsome French physician, and I had the whole day to kill before Vincent came by to drive me to Reims. It had worked out this way, as he only works at the school a few days a week, and always goes every Tuesday to Reims, where he has another apartment. So I headed back up the hill where Rebecca had used the payphone the night before to find the pâtisserie she'd told me about. I wanted to finally try my first French baguette, only the shop was closed when I got there. R had warned me that shop hours in France were odd, so I had to head a little disappointed across the parking lot to the local dollar-store variety marche, where I picked up some bottled water and a candy bar. I ended up eating R's store of bread  and butter when I made it back to her apartment. I saw the little complex she lived in for the first time now in daylight. A number of little brick boxes stacked catawampus to one another, across from the school R taught at -- another testament to the aesthetic psychosis of modern architecture.

 

 

 

After a few hours of reading and watching the one german television station (first it was a jerry springer-type show, the topic was 12 year olds and consensual sex, and then the german's People's Court <-- only the highest quality viewing), I decided I needed to see if that one road was all Ste. Menehould really had to offer. I put on my explorer's cap and headed back down the long hill until I reached its base and saw the pasta place we'd eaten at the night previous. I headed past this, past the train station, and followed the one street until I reached the actual city square. It turned out Ste. Menehould was quite a bit bigger than R had described it, and while it was still tiny, I was getting a little better sense of how one might survive in this place. Most everything was closed around that time due to those odd lunch hours, but I nevertheless caught sight of a pizza joint, old movie theater-turned disco, a restaurant selling pigs' feet, a kebab joint and a carnival. The road went on and on, and while it wasn't exactly fancy, I imagined myself sitting one of the many grungy bars lining the street and acquainting myself with the working-class locals. A writer could really flourish in that environment.

By the time I made it down to the square I was starving, and everything was still closed! Everything, that is, but the lone kebab stand. AGAIN I ate it and AGAIN it tasted good, but I was getting a little fed up by now of eating kebab in a country I'd never been in and hadn't even tasted the cultural cuisine yet. I hoofed it back up the hill and waited a while longer in R's apartment before Vincent came to fetch me.

Reims
It was only an hour's drive in the car to Reims with Vicent. He played me some of his band's music, which was just him plucking on the guitar and his friend crooning freakishly into the mic. It sounded very French. By the time we made it to Reims, it was raining, and again I noticed how that wet golden sheen covered the night street as we waited for Rebecca and her friends to come let us into her friend's Sarah's apartment.

Sarah was nice enough to put me up that night in her loft, which overlooked downtown Reims and caught the back of the Reims cathedral beautifully. The plan was to stay there with her that night, catch a train the next morning to Lourdes in the south of France while she kept watch over my luggage, and to come back after a few days to see what I could of Reims before going to Paris. A fine plan, to be sure, only the bomb was dropped after just a few minutes in Reims when Vincent told me a nationwide train strike had begun that very night, and there was no telling how long it would last.
So that complicated things, to say the least. With no idea where I would be staying in twenty-four hours, I had to go online and figure a few things out. Sarah was kind enough to offer me her place as long as I needed it, which I gladly took as I was quickly realizing how thin my pocketbook was growing. I decided instead of trying to finagle my way to the sound of France without a train, I would cancel my plans and simply stay a few days longer in Reims. (This ended up being the only option really, as the train strike lasted well into the next week and beyond, with only the occasional very-packed train to Paris. More on this later.)
The next morning was bright and looked warm outside. The sun was beaming in the windows and it was easy to wake up and see it stretching over the hardwood floors.

To be honest, my days in Reims are beginning to run together by now, especially as I was there several days more than I had planned, and after a few days sites and attractions were beginning to replay themselves. As far as sites and attractions go, the only one that really draws flocks of tourists is the Reims cathedral, massive, beautiful and very statuar-ied. They say this cathedral has more statues than any other in Europe. Of course, once the tourists are there, they find there are several other nice things to see, including several other nice cathedrals, the Museum of Fine Arts, the Planetarium, the old-timer car museum, the Musee du Vieux Reims, and lots and lots of pâtisseries, all or most of which I visited in my time there, or at least tried visiting before realizing just about everything was closed just about all the time. Hence I spent most my days there on the streets or in massive ancient churches. Here are some of the highlights:
Notre Dame de Reims

  

St. Remi Basilica 

After spending a lot of time in both churches (I sat down and wrote a letter in St. Remi's, even), I honestly think St. Remi's left a stronger impression on me. I think part of it was the distinct emphasis the art in the church gave to Church and State and the obvious acceptance that the two were to be intertwined. On one side of the altar you see Bishops, on the other side Kings. This makes sense when you learn the very patron of the church and the city of Reims, St. Remi, had baptized Clovis, the king of the Franks, way back in 496 AD (on Christmas at that). That a mighty king would submit to a bishop of a religion that had only recently found favor in the eyes of the state surely signified that something new and powerful was afoot, and it's easy to see how people gradually came to accept the dual headship of church and state, even if many of us 1500 years later believe this was ultimately a bad turn.
In the time I was there, Reims became something like a temporary home for me. I made actual friends through Rebecca, who gave me a place to stay and people to be with during all those mislaid hours. Truthfully I believe it was God who held me there, as he made plain that there were some people, and one in particular, I needed to get to know and love. Through these interactions I learned a LOT about patience and acceptance, as well as being direct even when it's not easy to say. Of those I made friends with, I should mention of course Sarah from Scotland, Ketsia from Missouri/Haiti, Anne-Katrin and Clemens from Heidelberg, Germany (who gave me a much desired opportunity to speak deutsch!), and Brennan from OC, CA. I actually could write a book on Brennan, and maybe I will yet.

 

 

 

 

Paris
After spending an unplanned week in Reims, I was finally headed for Paris. Brennan, the OC kid, was also on his way home from spending time in Reims at the Lycee. I had already spent three days straight with him, and just as I thought it was time to say goodbye, he got a call from his grandfather suggesting he just travel to Paris with me and find a room, as he was flying back to the US the same day as I, and his grandfather thought it would be a good opportunity for him to spend a little more time in Paris before heading home. I hadn't planned on that -- I had actually hoped to spend my last few days in Europe on my own just to collect my thoughts and maximize my time there -- but by that time I knew God was working things out between me and Brennan, so I agreed to the idea. One of the good things in having him around was his fluency in French. I realized while in France that the people there are just about as ignorant of English as Americans are of French (and most foreign languages). I found that most places I went I was more likely to find a german-speaker than someone who felt confident enough in English to give me information, even at places like the airport and train stations, where you'd think enough tourists pass through to warrant a working knowledge of English. But oh well... Thank God I had Brennan with me.

One downside to having Brennan along was simply that he had already been to Paris several times, and so his curiosity of the city was mostly dulled. He comes from a wealthy family and I think I remember him saying that they make at least one vacation to France a year. Hence, when we did get to the city, Brennan's idea of a good Parisian time was simply to go to the places he had familial ties to, namely the Eiffel Tower. I forgot to mention that in spite of the train strike, a few trains were running a day from Reims to Paris. We took the fast train and got there in about 45 minutes to an hour. The "fast trains" in France are nothing to joke about. They run about 200 mph and sometimes you really have to hang on to your armrest. At the moment I'm reading Merton's Seven Storey Mountain, and can only smile when he recounts how it took him several days to get from one small town in France to another.

My 3+ days in Paris were good, but were probably the worst of the trip as far as site-seeing goes. Due to the train strike, it took a long time to get anywhere, as the subways were running only about one every 15-30 mins., and when one did come, you were very lucky to get on, as they were filled to the crushing point. And I guess because of the train strike, everyone on in Paris was a little more willing to drive their cars. Whatever point the train personnel were trying to get across by going on strike, I think these pictures show they were serious about it.

Our first night in Paris, after a much needed rest from the day's tumultuous getting from Sarah's apartment with all my luggage in tow to the train station, on the right train, then lugging it around up and down stairs in the Paris train depot -- there are no escalators -- and then turning right around and heading back up and down those same stairs after the underground official told us there was no way we were going to fit ourselves and our luggage on those pack-out subways, we finally found a taxi to take us to the hostel I had reserved for myself, and which Brennan was willing to stay at as long as I was around.

That was something very peculiar about Brennan. Here was this 18 year old kid, supposed to be studying for a year's time in France (tho' being sent home about 8 months early), who couldn't stand the thought of being left alone at any moment we were together that entire week. Both in Reims, where he had been living for a couple months, and in Paris, he was terrified of going and doing things on his own, sleeping in a separate room from the one I was in, and absolutely unwilling to stay the night with strangers in the hostels, for that matter. But this didn't stop him from tearing down either of the hostels we stayed at for this or that less-than-satisfactory accommodation. I suppose when you're used to staying in 4-star hotels with your parents' and grandfather's pocketbook at your disposal, you don't really learn to work out things on your own or tolerate anything less than luxury.

As the trains were in no good working order, we spent most of that first night walking down the massive boulevard along the Seine River. We saw the Eiffel Tower from afar first, and took an usual path through a busy tunnel to reach our first destination: the Notre Dame.

And Notre Dame:

After another 2 hour's worth of walking, we finally made it to the Eiffel Tower. Aside from the soles of my aching feet, the walk along the Seine was filled with beautiful evening sites and a lot of good conversation between Brennan and me. As we got closer to the tower, we would stop to take pictures. We stood a while at the foot of the tower, craning our necks to catch as much of the instrument as we could. I'd never realized just how massive the tower really is. I'd only seen duplicates here and there across the US, mostly at King's Island near Cincinnati when I was a kid. And as large as that copy loomed in my child's mind, the real thing broke the sense of it to pieces. The impression it left on me was only illuminated (somewhat literally) as at night the entire tower is lit up with golden lights, and at various points in the night, a complex system of blinking lights sets the tower a'sparkling.

Once we wore our neck muscles out, we walked a short distance to the Champ du Mars, a famous little restaurant with a view of the tower. Brennan called this his favorite place to eat, as it was the place he always came to with his family whenever they were in Paris. I had some delicious French onion soup with some serious artery-clogging cheese all melted and sopping in it, along with a kind of hamburger.

On the second day, frustration set in. I was pretty eager to see some things I knew Brennan had no interest in seeing, including a few museums. We agreed first to go to the cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried. We walked most of the way there in a light rain, and debated some issues like abortion, which, while I thought a healthy debate, didn't exactly set the tone for a relaxing day. The cemetery itself was impressive, and was filled with sculptures of the rich and famous deceased. Morrison's own grave was very small, and I think the cemetery security guards probably have a difficult time understanding why so many people flock to see this little tombstone for an American when there are massive mausoleums of great French historical figures to gaze up at instead.

Brennan was very intent on seeing the Eiffel Tower again this second day, which I conceded to since I hadn't actually seen it in the daylight, or what you could call daylight in that rainy haze.

I had been very intent on going to the Musée d'Orsay after we hung about the tower a while longer (I was very much in love with crépes by now, so I was willing to wait in line and pay about 4 euro for one.), only Brennan had little to no interest in going, yet as above mentioned he had a real problem with self-sufficiency. I began a brisk walk down that massive boulevard once again until we reach a midpoint at which I encouraged B to head back to the hostel on his own as he'd made it abundantly clear he didn't care to go to the museum. I love going to museums but usually I can't stand to go with people. It seems to always to turn out that I move far too slow for the others I go with through the exhibits, so I could only imagine the agony it would've been for both of us had I pushed for Brennan to go with me. So we had stopped at this point so he could walk five minutes to the underground station and ride a few stops to where our hostel was, only Brennan just couldn't make up his mind. He really didn't want to go to the museum, but he really didn't want to be alone in the big city, even with ample mappage in his hands. After we deliberated for about 20 minutes, Brennan finally decided he would go with me, which I knew was a bad idea, but by this point I could see there was no way I was going to get him to go home alone.
Perhaps the one appeal the Musée d'Orsay held for Brennan was the statuary out front, which he remembered taking pictures in front of as a child with his family.

Perhaps the most angry I got with Brennan the entire week I was with him was when finally, after his 20 min. waffle as to where to go -- home alone or with me to the dreaded museum -- we got at last to the museum only to learn that they had stopped allowing entry 20 minutes earlier. Admittedly, I was pretty sour by this point, thinking all there was left to do was walk back to the underground and ride home in silence, as I was pretty clueless what nightlife there was to Paris. We walked 20 minutes back to that point of Brennan's crisis where there was an underground station, and got there in time enough to see them closing the gates to the station, shutting down the line completely due to the strike. What ensued was a long trek to another station, and a very packed train ride home, pictures of which you can see at the top of this section.

Our third and last day started out bright and Brennan had in mind to show me something else nice -- the Sacré Coeur basilica, which offered an amazing view of the entire city of Paris. The building itself is fantastic, and as cheesy as it sounds, reminded me of the "white city" from The Return of the King, both book and film.

Brennan and I went inside and walked with the crowd around the outer perimeter of the sanctuary. Above in the center there's a massive mosaic of the victorious Christ, which I was dying to photograph, only there were rules against photography. I felt I should maximize my time there and escape the merry-go-round of tourists on the outskirts. The middle section was reserved for prayers, and they kept pretty tight watch on what people were doing while they were in the inner ring. Wanting to pray, I went into the ring and sat down. Not wanting to pray, but also afraid to be apart from me, Brennan also came in and sat down, and promptly put his feet on the seat in front of him, and brought out his cell phone to get a little texting done. This brought the ward over pretty quickly and he told him he would have to leave if that's all he intended on doing in the pews. This scared Brennan enough to put away his phone and bring down his feet, only after the man walked off a string of expletives rose from his lips to curse the ward. I honestly felt pretty old at the point when I chided Brennan for disregarding any authentic attempt at keeping the sanctuary from becoming completely swallowed up by the tourism, but he felt he had to pull the "customer" card and said if they want tourists to visit their church they should let them do what they want.
This of course could bring me easily again to my whole struggle with the church in Europe, an entity whose history is inseparably woven into the greater history of Europe, whose influence and wealth enabled it to build magnificent structures that bring one's thoughts up to God by the mere sight of them, yet now as that wealth and influence, and not to mention membership, dwindles, these magnificent structures' primary purpose of prayer, liturgy, and magnification of the Lord has been muffled if not wholly subdued by the constant stream of disengaged tourists walking through.
After lunch in a small, classy cafe, where we ate some not-so-good french onion soup and very tasty french fries, we headed back up that steep stair to the back alleys of the Sacré Coeur complex, which had to be the coolest little area of Paris I was privy to see. Brennan was dead set on finding Le Consulat, a cafe his grandfather has a painting of, and after all the missed tries in the hour or more we searched for it, I was glad we had done so by the end of it.

The sun was getting low in the sky as we came down finally and began our way to what would be our final major Paris attraction: the red-light district, full of nudie-bars and their employees trying to woo us in their direction. Of course we didn't fall for it. We were mostly interested in seeing the Moulin Rouge, at least from the outside, as to get in would've cost at least 200 euro. We also happened upon that famous dark cat, the Chat Noir cafe, which now I realize we should've gone into.

Of course, there's plenty more I could write about my entire time in France, and indeed much more I could write about my time and talks with Brennan, but I won't. I will say that our entire last night was filled with discussion on mostly the theme of teenage heartache and fear. And I mean the entire night, as in we did not sleep at all before the shuttle came to take us to the airport at six o'clock the next morning. We were both cranky for lack of sleep, and our final goodbyes were a little short in light of it, I think. All the same, I was very thankful for my time in France and with Brennan, who not only helped me get around and gave me a near hourly opportunity to resist the temptation to lash out in anger, but also offered me an outlet for a lot of thoughts I was having about my impending return, as well as an inlet into an aspect of american culture I am hardly familiar with, or hardly believed existed before I met Brennan.
As for the flight home, to say I was tired for the 20 odd hours of transit would be an understatement: