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Published: October 12th 2008
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Parisians are funny people. One the one hand, they are extremely pushy, i.e. see my entry on the metro rush hour craziness. On the other, they are extremely considerate. For example, whenever a woman is pushing her child in a stroller in the metro, a man always stops to help her carry it up or down the stairs. Always. If no one notices, she can easily flag someone down who graciously grabs the bottom and exchanges a pleasant word with her as they climb the steps. It is a surprising moment of kindness in the sea of black clothed, somber faced people that is the Parisian metro. Young people or able-bodied people often can furthermore be seen offering their seat to an older woman or someone with an injury. Also, there is no problem with PDA here. As in Public Displays of Affection, not Personal Data Assistant. I don’t know about those, the French might secretly harbor a deep hate for those little machines but I have not yet discovered it. Anyway, PDAs. What it amounts to is a great number of couples making out, nuzzling, cuddling, etc. on crowded or even nearly empty metro cars, while walking down the sidewalk,
Sunset On the Wrong Side
Asnelles Beach (Juno Beach) anywhere. This isn’t just a brief peck or a harmless smooch either. This is full-on…well, you get the point. It is kind of weird to see a stereotype come true. You know, Paris: the city of love. No one even bats an eyelash. I find myself staring at the floor or out the window trying to swallow my stiff, clearly fuddy-duddy American sensibilities.
On Friday, I went with some people from my school to Normandy. For those of you who have not been forced to study a map of France every year since eighth grade, Normandy is in the north and slightly west part of France. It is the portion of France across from England by way of the English Channel. The French refuse to call it that, by the way. It is La Manche, and will forever be. The point of this trip was to learn about D-Day and World War II through the museums, memorials, and of course the relevant beaches in that part of France. It was a really great trip. We got up super early to take the three hour bus ride up there and we ended up arriving at the first museum by about
American Military Cemetery
The cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach 10:30 a.m. This was the museum dedicated to World War II, with a small portion on the cold war and even a bit on 9/11. It was a very well-organized place: there was a timeline of events starting in the late 1920s in Germany, Japan, and Italy and then the rest of the world as they became involved. It spiraled inward until you reached a dome-like room, echoing with gunfire and flickering lights. On the wall directly in front of you was projected a photograph of Winston Churchill addressing the world on the eve of a key battle. Then it went into the resistance fighters, the Battle of Britain, the concentration camps, and a couple rooms devoted completely to D-Day. We kept trying to make it a film about D-Day but we missed it twice and then finally got to it on time after lunch. During one of the delays, we looked at the 9/11 exhibit. I had never seen an actual display until that day. I was actually kind of surprised how strongly I reacted. Looking at the pieces of seatbelt from the crashed planes, crumpled exit signs, and video reliving the day made me nauseous. I remember that day and the sickening images of people jumping out of windows to their death in some vague hope of survival. It hit home in a way the World War II stuff couldn’t.
From the museum we headed to our hostel. We were really excited because the hostel was right on the beach in a little town called Asnelles. The beach was Juno Beach during D-Day and you could see some pieces of the artificial docks still out in the water. We spent a couple hours wandering the beach, went in for dinner, and then wandered the silent town. The weirdest part of the night was the fact that the sun didn’t set over the water. For you West-Coasters, you know what I’m talking about. It was so weird because the sun was setting in the west, but the sea was to the north. Anyway, we got up in the morning and headed to the museum at Arromanches. This was where the artificial harbor was built after D-Day. Inside, there were big cases displaying how it looked and big picture windows to see where everything used to be. There are about 15 remaining of the 150 original blocks that broke the waves for the harbor. One even has its radar equipment still on top. The town is a cute little place that is now pretty touristy, but there are murals and paintings everywhere of French-looking cartoon people offering wine and thanking British or American-looking cartoon people for rescuing them. There was another film of D-Day here. The most shocking things were the before and after pictures of many towns in France. In history class we always hear about the Marshall plan and all the rebuilding required in Europe after the war, but it just punched me in the stomach to see lovely old pre-war photos of ornate old towns with cobble-stoned roads and winding flower-strewn gardens turn into ghost towns of rubble. The only thing that would remain would be half of the spire of the town church. As we drove through these tiny villages, some of the architecture was clearly no more than 60 years old. It was so sad. On the way back to the hostel for lunch, we stopped and had raw oysters at a roadside seafood place. After lunch we headed to Omaha Beach and the American Military Cemetery. This was one of the most emotional parts of the trip. Over 9,000 American soldiers are buried near the sea. A chapel, memorial, and small explanatory center accompany the vast grounds of the cemetery. In thanks and memory of the sacrifice of America’s children, France gave this portion of its territory to the United States. The plain white marble crosses, and occasional star of David, have the name, home state, and death date of each fallen soldier. The birth dates are not engraved there because so many of them lied about their age to enlist early. Many of the crosses don’t even have names. These are the saddest. All that is written is: Here lies a fallen soldier, his name known only to God. Near the entrance is a huge sculpture in a giant memorial. It looks like a modern interpretation of Christ, but the way his body is positioned looks like he has just been shot. His arms are thrown up and his head is thrown back in a tragic stance. Omaha Beach spreads out below the cemetery. I found it hard to believe that such a beautiful, calm place was the site of such violence. This was our last stop, so we piled back into the bus to head back to Paris.
We were briefly delayed as the bus experienced some technical difficulties. The boys were recruited to push it a few feet to jump start the engine or something. It worked, but the air conditioning was out. This made the trip home bunches of fun. It was a busy, but wonderful trip. Next weekend, I am headed to Giverny with school to see Monet’s garden and house.
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