Author: rljwander

Arlon, The Ardennes, Belgium
November 17, 2014

It’s foggy in Arlon, Belgium this morning. That’s fitting.

I came to the border of Belgium and Luxembourg for reasons I do not fully understand and cannot properly express. In part, I hoped to trace the steps of an uncle whose name I bear and whose unspoken charge I seem compelled to have followed, as best I could, my entire life. In part, I hoped to learn more of a world of which I am embarrassed to admit I know so little. In part, I hoped I might learn more about myself.

I suppose Yeats had it right in some ways , though his view from the cheap seats as a fifty something year old Irish noncombatant during the First World War perhaps made it easy for him to say:

“Why should we honour those who die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.”

I don’t agree with his preface, and reject the implication that equal measures of courage are required for each, but reckless does seem an apt adjective for either endeavor.

As far as history is concerned, the simple truth is that times change. Look at these pictures near Omaha beach from identical points of view separated by 70 years in time:

 

What better way to capture how time changes our perspective and intervening events cloud our ability to understand the past. It’s as if we were children given a pencil and tracing paper, struggling to capture accurately the picture beneath, unable to lift the paper to confirm we’re getting it right, and trusting that at best . . . at best . . .we can draw only the outline of what really happened. The details we can never see.

________________________________________________________________

Here is what I know . . . or think I know.

On February 22, 1943 at the age of 18 Robert Lear enlisted in the Army.

He, together with many young men from Sangamon County in Illinois were assigned to the 553 AAA AW BN battalion, part of what was to become the Ninth Army. AAA stands for Anti Aircraft Artillery. AW stands for automatic weapons. BN stands for mobile. Their job was to protect ground troops from German aircraft and offer ground support when needed.

On July 1, 1944, three weeks after D Say, Battery B of the 553rd sailed for England from New York on the Queen Mary .

After several weeks in Scotland and England they crossed the channel and came ashore at Utah Beach on August 29, 1944

His unit was likely involved in the Seige of Brest on the west coast of France.

In early October 1944 Battery B passed through Paris and took up position in Arlon, Belgium in preparation for an assault through Luxembourg against the German Ziegfried Line. Initially, the Ninth Army was deployed to the south, but orders were given for the Ninth and First Armies to switch positions and in late October they rapidly repositioned.

Uncle Robert was killed on October 22, 1944 during this rapid repositioning of army corp in Luxembourg, just over the border from Belgium. . It was the day before what was to be his 20th birthday A buddy of his fell from the back of a transport truck into the path of the truck that followed. Robert jumped after him, pushed him aside to safety, but was killed when hit by the truck that followed.

He was awarded posthumously the Soldier’s Medal, a distinction for an act of heroism not involving actual conflict with the enemy. I have that Medal, his dog tags and the telegram from the War Department to my grandparents advising him of his death.

_______________________________________________

The fog is lifting. I’m off on yet another bike ride. The border to Luxembourg is 6 kilometers away.

Arlon, The Ardennes, Belgium
November 17, 2014

 

It’s 9:06 in the morning as my train races for Paris at a pace much faster than I travelled two hours ago. I am already exhausted.

There were a few unforeseen developments this morning. First, when I booked this trip to Belgium it seemed brilliant to work backwards so as to make connections that would deliver me to Arlon at a reasonable hour tonight. So, checking trains, I decided I better leave Bayeux on the 8:39 a.m. train.

One tiny miscalculation. . .

To reach Bayeux by bicyclette at 8:00 would require I leave Ver-sur-Mer at 6:00 and the sun does not come up until 7:45. Brilliant, Rob. Ninety minutes in the dark, in a navy blue Pea Coat, no reflectors,packing this armoire on my back. Je suis un grand doofus.

Second small miscalculation.

Apparently all the street lights which make Paris the City of Lights were stolen from Normandy. Your French countryside, particularly the rue from Ver-sur-Mer to Ryes to Somervieu to Bayeux has no lights. As in NO lights. As in coal mine with no lights

And the cute, but not exactly illuminating , Lady Bug head light and flashing red tail beacon with which Francois outfitted me might have worked on a Schwinn Sting Ray back in the day, but weren’t exactly up to the 20 km stealth ride I was on in backcountry Normandy.

No problem Rob. Quiet road, little traffic. Let your eyes acclimate and stick to the center of the road until a car comes. Don’t stare into oncoming headlights. Listen for traffic to your rear.You got this wired.

Oh, one other thing.

Did I mention it was raining chats et chiens. Pardon my French, but it was a friggin ( that’s French) downpour. Cumfy and as dashing as your Navy peacoat is, water repellent it ain’t.

Okay, I’m tough. What else you got, god. This is it? You call this a test? Hell, I’ve done double centuries that made water boarding seem like the times I taught YMCA campers ( they always gave me your entry level “polliwogs”) how to stick their face in the Russian River. You gotta do better than this big guy!

That must have really pissed him off.

A mile east of Ryes, fortunately a few meters from the only light in rural Normandy, I heard it. . . that pisser of a sound . . . ppppfffffffttttt. A flat!! I may have wakened a few farmers when I screamed “SHITTTTTTTTT.

Well, Rob, you’ve still got an hour. You can make it. You’ve changed your share of tubes. Dump the suitcase, flip the bike over, strip out the old tube, slip in the new, watch for folds, now pump that little excuse of a hand pump Francois put in your pocket until the little sucker is white hot.

Now as any cyclist will tell you, the best PSI you can hope for with a hand pump is about 60 PSI, when a bike like this cruises at 110. So normally, you ride low and slow, praying the damn thing won’t pop again until you can find a gas station and an air compressor.

Funny thing about the back roads of your Normandy countryside. Yeah, yeah, beautiful and green, but not a gas station anywhere. God what I would have given for a Chevron mini mart.

Now things are getting dicey.

I’m cruising along like Dumbo on an under inflated rear tire with a portmanteau on my back and time is running out. It’s 8:20 and Francois is waiting at the shop where I was to meet him.I’m lost in downtown Mayeux where traffic is looney, and the train leaves at 8:39. I corner some poor woman who must have been terrified of the guy soaking wet with a bike tube looped around his neck (in a classic Parisian knot, I might add) and she points me to the train station.

I stagger into the train station with no number to reach Franciois, no wi fi, and too cheap to unleash AT&T’s data roaming monster. The clock says 8:35 . I sit down convinced I’m screwed when around the corner walks Francois with a huge shit eating grin saying in broken English “I know sum-ting go bad. ”

So I boarded the train with one minute to spare, the spare tube draped around my neck, and am off to Belgium

 

Ver-sur-Mer, Lower Normandy, France
November 16, 2014

 

It is a sobering feeling to stand on Omaha Beach. It is as if one does not belong.

Sitting here in this farmhouse, rain beginning to beat against the windows, I’ve been struggling to find the words befitting what I saw today. I don’t want to reach for profound, as any words I might find will fail to capture the quiet dignity of such a hallowed place.

Myeline insisted on a full blown breakfast, though I ate alone. Fresh croissants, home made jam, honey from Provence, apple juice from Normandy (they take pride in their apples), salted and unsalted butter, creme caramel, yogurt, almonds and raisins, and hot tea. I was more than fortified for the ride.

The weather was dry, but cold. I broke out the scarf and, for the first time, gloves and a sweater beneath my coat. I fought a bit of a headwind as I rode south

It was a long bike ride. About 75 kilometers or just shy of 50 miles, which normally would not be much, but on a foreign bike , in long pants, a peacoat, and my man purse naggingly falling to my side, it was s a bit of a struggle.

Several not surprising things strike you when walking the cemetery or the beach below. The cemetery, if such a thing is possible, is a beautiful place. The lawn is immaculate as you would expect it to be and each grave marker appears so brilliantly white it would seem the marble is regularly polished.

There are so many of them. And all so young. Many of the markers have no name at all and simply read ” Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to god” I saw many from the 101st Airborne, a renown division of paratroopers to whom my son Samuel Lear Jackson belonged and saw combat in a much later war. It is the division made famous by Stephen Ambrose’s book and the HBO series “Band of Brothers.”

 
“This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers . . .”

Walking down from the cemetery to the beach, you can’t help notice it was so, so far from the water’s edge to the bluffs with no nowhere to hide. It is extraordinary that anyone made it to the bluffs, let alone climbed to the top.

I happened upon a young French couple and their two small children. They asked me to take their photograph and reciprocated. I asked their little girl to join me in the picture. She was understandably frightened, but on her folks’ insistence she braved it.

Ver-sur-Mer, Lower Normandy, France
November 15, 2014

Even before dawn, the Rue Cler was buzzing with activity as the wholsalers made their deliveries. I weaved my way through them exchanging “Bon matins”, the wheels of my travel bag clacking over the wet cobblestones. It promised to be a magical day.

I took the metro to Saint-Lizaire Gare, found my track, my train, my seat, and, soon after, found myself watching the countryside of Normandy fly by. Normandy is lush green farmland unscarred by development. No billboards. No graffiti. No suburban sprawl. The grass is a brilliant green as far as one can see.

I arrived in Bayeux and, as promised, Francois the proprietor of the local bike shop met me at the station. He was a kind and enthusiastic man, eager to help a fellow cyclist, and whisked me in his truck to his bike shop in an industrial park south of town. it was my first interchange with a non English speaker. I could tell that he was skeptical of my choice of a high end Specialized Tarmac bike, but I managed to convey I had some experience and had completed four “double siecles.” He didn’t seem impressed, but smiled indulgently.

We trimmed the bike to my size together. He loaded me with a tube and pump, lights, a hex wrench, stuffing them in every available pocket in my pea coat.

 

I could tell he was concerned and skeptical of my plan as I wasn’t dressed for cycling 20 kilometers and was riding a little top heavy. But I reassured him I would be fine and set off, a bit wobbly at first, but finding my balance with the suitcase on my back. Francois followed me in his truck down the road a ways to make sure I was all right, shouted he would see me on Monday morning, gave me a thumbs up, and sped ahead.

It was a cold, crisp fall day, a bit of a sharp wind, colors like a Van Gogh painting: trees with black trunks, orange leaves, green grass, and blue skies. The bike, a Specialized like my own, was well tuned and the pavement was smooth. The country roads were narrow, but I soon found French motorists are to cyclists—especially old, panting geezers, in a heavy Pea coat packing a 40 pound suitcase on their back–very courteous and swing wide into the oncoming lane to allow a comfortable space when passing. There were fewer cars passing me than me passing cows.

 

I crested a hill near Arromanches to catch my first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean below and Gold Beach, now so serene, seventy years ago so violent. I enjoyed a long descent to the sea with the wind at my back, not a care in the world (other than the somewhat squishy brakes Francois might want to tighten up when I return to Bayieux on Monday.

Turning north I passed through La Fontaine-St-Come, Asnelles, and arrived at Ver-sur-Mer. I found my way to the B&B where I was to stay. It is everything and more than I imagined; a quaint 19th century farmhouse, a stream flowing outside my window, white shaggy cattle grazing twenty feet away, and a golden retriever lying watch at the door to my room. Mylene, the owner, apologized that I was the only guest this weekend, but invited me to breakfast on Sunday morning.

 

 

 

 

Dumping my load, I set off to explore the coast to the north, had a delicious croissant avec jambon for lunch, rode south to a bluff as the sun set, road back and crashed into bed.

 

 

This is the first quiet place I have stayed on this trip. It is a welcome quiet.

Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 14, 2014

Well, off to Normandy tomorrow morning. The train for Bayeux leaves from Saint-Lazare station at 9:20. My handy dandy Paris Metro app on my phone tells me the fast route takes 12 minutes and the simple route takes . . . huh. . . .12 minutes. So like the French.
Was reading today that le Rue Cler which has been my home for a few days was where Julia Child would start each day. It is lined with butchers, bakers, fresh produce, and the like. Actually discoverd that I have walked by many times where she lived at No. 81 rue de l’universite in the 30s.

 

My thanks to my son in law Matt who stayed here before and recommended it to me. It is a charming little street lined with cafes where, now 12:14 a.m., I can hear many conversations in the street below. I can’t understand any of them, but I can hear them.

Started my walk with a beautiful sunrise over the Seine.

Walked up the Luxembourg gardens and strolled where Hemingway did. A cold wind and rain today, so first time I unfurled the umbrella. Rain didn’t stop the pétanque players.

 

From the park I walked southeast and found the location of the scene in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris where Gil, sitting on the steps of a small church is picked up by Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald and later T.S. Elliot.

Paris in the rain, even a cold one, is beautiful, especially at night. So many lights, old fashioned street lamps, back lit churches.

From there hopped on the Metro and went far to the east edge of the city to see Frank Gehry’s new creation for the Louis Vuitton Foundation. referred to as the flying cloud. Remarkable work . . . not for everyone . . . but I like Gehry and loved this new creation.

 

 

From there it was time for dinner so I went old school. I mean OLD SCHOOL. Le Precope was founded in 1686 and has been in business ever since. In the heart of the Saint Germaine neighborhood . . . my favorite . . .it was the first to serve coffee to non royalty and initiated coffee being served in china cups. Napoleon ate here, apparently leaving his hat, rather than paying his bill and the hat is still proudly on display. Voltaire, Diderot and Rousseau were regulars. I opted to go traditional with delicious onion soup, coq au vin, and of course the creme brule. To die for.

 

Finally walked home with a small detour to catch a shot of the Eiffel Tower at night.

 

Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 14, 2014

 

In less than a week I have been to four of the world’s great art museums, The Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and the Louvre and Musee d’Arcy in Paris, Here is just a taste of what I have seen:

Michaelangelo

Van Gough

Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 14, 2014

 

 

 

A friend of a friend suggested, as did Rick Steve’s, that I should visit a department store on the Reve Gauche, Le Bon Marche. While I’m not one for the mall, according to Rick it is an excellent example of 19th century iron work, and well worth it.

 

 
So I thought, it’s late, it’s getting cold, might be fun to stop in, and pick up a true French echarpe…that’s French for scarf…. Might be a fun souvenere and my LL Bean one doesn’t have the right weight or length or cache.

I found a rack of very nice ones. The helpful attendant, a very suave and kind young man who couldn’t have been nicer showed me the difference between the cashmere ones and the silk/cashmere ones.

It’s probably a little pricey, but what the hell Rob, . . . You know . . . La vie en rose. . . C’est se Bonne, . . .C’est la vie. . . Go for it.

Lets just check the prix… . .let me get my glasses . . . €810? . . .€810????? That’s about. . .$1012.00 for a scarf. Gulp.

You know….LL Bean makes a fine lambwool scarf.

 

Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 14, 2014

 Musee d’Arcy

I had my first encounter with a rude Parisienne today. I suppose it had to happen. Part of the experience.

i was on the fifth floor of the d’Arcy Musee, a beautiful train station converted into an art museum, just an exquisite building in its own right. I was somewhere between Renoir and Monet when a pale young lady, must have been 14, American, and clearly nervous, briefly set her foot onto the clear acrylic bench where I and others were seated to tie her shoe.

An elderly docent who I suspect collaborated with the Nazis emerged from the shadows, first scolded the poor young lady in French, and then when it was clear she didn’t understand the indictment, berated her in English reminding her how expensive the acrylic bench was, and what lack of respect she had shown by placing the dirty sole of her shoe on it.

The poor kid was on the verge of tears, clearly bewildered at what she had done. I could tell she was American, so I turned to her and whispered “Don’t worry, I think it will survive.”

O M D….that’s French for “oh mon dieu”…I suppose she thought I was the poor young lady’s father, because Madame LeFarge lit into me with a Franco bitterness not seen since the Prussians took Alsace-Lorraine. . . “You Ah–mare–ee–cans; you have no respect.” As my French was too weak to respond, and as I thought it might not draw crowd support to use my friend Ian’s summation of the French as “quiche eating surrender monkeys, I instead closed ranks with the . . . Hold it. . . Let me pull up my Google Translate . . No . . .”chienne” is just a female dog . . and resorted to the classic, universally understood, needs no language . . . “stank eye” . . .to convey myself, while the poor young lady’s real parents hustled her away to the cafeteria.

i suppose the poor thing will forever have a bitter taste in her mouth, as may her parents. Such a pity. What should have been an inspiring visit to see some of the great art treasures of the world was likely ruined. . . As adolescent embarrassment can . . by a misunderstanding.

Bark at some dim wit who uses a flash camera in front of a graphic sign depicting no flash cameras; fair game. Chide some doofus who neglects to turn off his cell phone where signs everywhere show graphically a cell phone with a diagonal line. But lay off the girl Madame Trussaud. it’s a plastic bench, not a work of Art, and you’re a bitter old artistic aristocrat who belongs in a Daumier caricature on the first floor.

 

Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 12, 2014

Observation No. 1

 A Nice Place to Start

Back home, we tend to forget World War I. Here in France they don’t.

When I arrived on Monday there was a city wide moment of silence precisely at 11:00 a.m. , that being the infamous eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. We often forget that our Veteran’s Day was originally Armistice Day.

One hundred years ago the French lost 82,000 soldiers in a week at the First Battle of the Marne, not far north of here. Read that again . . . 82,000 men in ONE WEEK. The French lost 1.3 million soldiers all tolled in World War I. One million men were given pensions. 300,000 of whom were disfigured or suffered an amputation. Of those, 42,000 were blind and 15,000 had facial disfigurement. They were referred to “les hommes avec les guelules casses.” (the men with the broken faces) There were 600,000 war widows, referred to as the ‘women in black”, and 986,000 orphans.

Gertrude Stein coined the phrase, when one day speaking to Hemingway, she said “you are a lost generation.” Imagine post war Paris. Virtually all of the young men were gone. Those that returned were maimed or cippled or suffering from terrible post traumatic stress. The birth rate in the country dropped by over 50%. Widows and orphans were everywhere There were few babies anywhere to be seen.

As I began my walk today , I passed by the Eiffel Tower, crossed the Seine, climbed the steps to Trocadero, and came upon the “Monument aux Morts.” It simply reads “To Our Heroes, to Our Dead.”

Monument aux Morts

I walked to the Arc de Triumph and learned what I had forgotten or never known.

A Shameless Selfie

Another One

While built to honor Napoleon, the French chose directly beneath the Arc as the final resting place for their unknown soldier in World War I. The grave is marked with an eternal flame. It was that same flame that inspired Mrs. Kennedy to place an eternal flame at her husband’s gravesite in Arlington.

 Eternal Flame beneath the Arc d’Triumph

If you know a veteran . . . I know one well . . . think of them from time to time.and say a quiet thanks. They don’t ask for it . . . at least the one I know doesn’t . . . but we shouldn’t forget what they have done on our behalf. Thank you, son.

Observation No. 2

I walked 14.2 miles today. I haven’t walked that far on pavement in . . hell . .. . I’ve never walked that far on pavement.

Set out at 8:00; picked up two delicious qua-saunts on the Rue Cler; moseyed (that’s French, I believe) past yer Tour d”Eiffel, up the steps past the le Palais de Chaillot, the length of Avenue Kleiber, circled and climbed the Arc de Triumph, (did you know there is an entire modern Paris with high rises well to the west? . . . I didn’t . . . ) . I walked the entire length of le Champs Elysees, past le Grand Palais, through the Place de la Concorde, the length of le Jardin des Tulleries, gave directions in French to a man who I think mistook me for a local (and I wasn’t even wearing my scarf) to where to find the Musee de l’Orangeree, stopped for a delicious pavlon poulet and a Coca, and then stepped into the Louvre

And that’s when and where the real hike began. The Louve is unbeievable. It is so much more than the Mona Lisa (to which there is no line in November on a Wednesday) or the Venus de Milo. My personal favorite was this one; it resonated with me, not sure why.

Old Man

 

I Get It

Three hours later, I walked out of the Louvre as it grew dark, stopped at the Pont des Arts where lovers lock a padlock to the bridge to show their undying love for a lover, happened to glance down and see this

Pont des Arts

I continued down the Rive Droit, passed through a tunnel where a man played Danny Boy on a flute, crossed the Pont Neuf, circumnavigated the Ile de la Citi, took a breather inside Notre Dame (not what I expected),

Notre Dame

Found my way to Shakespeare & Co (exactly what I expected),

Timed perfectly      (look at couple to my right)

I walked down the length of St. Germaine Blvd., past Le Deux Maggots where the Lost Generation was found, past des Invalides,

And back home before settling down to Bacon Rosotto and of course . . . a creme brule . . . at a neighborhood bistro in my hood.

My feet hurt.

Observation No. 3

Paris is every bit, if not more than, I ever imagined.

Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 11, 2014

 

If he had only known
How the years would fly on by
Such a simple crime, he’s run out of time
So he reaches for the sky.

He sees the stars above
As the floor to heavens light
While the angels taunt, “C’est une nuit blanche”
He’s a Frenchman for the night.

Jimmy Buffet

 

 

I have a coffee table book at home. It is nothing but black and white photographs of Paris. I’ve glanced through that book for years wondering what it might be like when, or more likely if, I were to ever go.
I took these photographs today.

This one was taken from my room on the Rue Cler just a moment ago as I listened to a conversation in the cafe below understanding only bits and pieces.

View from my Room

This one was taken as, earlier today, killing time before my room was ready and working on no sleep for 28 hours, I rounded the corner nearby.

This one was taken as I walked along the Seine.

And this one . . . well . . .

The French have a phrase, “Nuit blanche.” It translates literally as “white night”, but the meaning is more along the lines of “all nighter.” It’s half past midnight in Paris and I may not sleep for reasons other than the disorientation that comes with jet lag.