The Americans Have Landed

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That could refer to the Normandy beaches on June 6th, 1944, or to my parents and brother’s arrival in France on March 3rd, 2008. Either way, the second week of my winter vacation was certainly one to remember. On Sunday morning I caught the metro from Anne’s apartment over to the 7th arrondissment, to meet my beloved family at our hotel just a stone’s throw from the Eiffel tower. I actually arrived with 10 minutes of their cab dropping them off, so everyone was still arranging bags and getting settled in the process of hugging and screaming. Our first stop was lunch at a nearby bistro where the waiter introduced my brother to Pelforth, which he called “The French Guinness”. Mike immediately started to have a deeper appreciation for the French from that moment forward. His other big discovery was French espresso, although he was a little disappointed in the serving size and spent most of the trip drinking doubles.

After lunch, we headed for the Latin Quarter, where we toured Notre Dame and I showed my parents and brother Shakespeare and Co, aka the new love of my life. We also saw the deportation memorial that I’d seen when I was in Versailles in 2005. We thought about climbing to the top of Notre Dame to hang out with the gargoyles and the flying buttresses, but one look at the line waiting for that visit in the windy cold convinced us otherwise. Instead, we headed over to the Luxembourg gardens and the Pantheon with the intention of taking a tour, but of all days, the Pantheon was closing early because of a special exhibition that night. Still, Dad appreciated the perfect symmetry of both the gardens and the building. He loved the fact that they’d built the City Hall for the 5th arrondissment right across from the previously existing law school in order to maintain the symmetry. We went back to the hotel and relaxed a little bit before heading back to the Latin Quarter for dinner.

Since I couldn’t get my family to Corsica on this trip, I’d decided the best I could do was take them to a Corsican restaurant. I’d found a place that was right across the river from Notre Dame, providing a spectacular view. The waiter recommended a great Corsican wine, and we had an absolutely delicious meal of specialties from the “Ile de beaute”. My dad even had wild boar stew, which we all agreed was the best dish of the night. After dinner, we went straight back to the hotel so that my tired relatives could collapse under the weight of their jetlag.

The next day, we went to Les Invalides at 10 in the morning. We left Les Invalides at 1 in the afternoon. Why did it take us 3 hours to tour this former hospital where Napoleon is now buried in a layered series of 7 sarcophagi? Well, there happens to be an enormous accompanying museum with one branch dedicated to the French resistance in WWII, and the other wings dedicated to the military history of the 2 world wars. With my dad and brother being the huge history buffs that they are, we filled the time looking at artifacts from artillery to uniforms to newspapers. Dad and Michael were absolutely in heaven, and then we did stop in to pay our respects to the little Corsican as well. You’ve got to give Napoleon credit for setting up national education and writing the Napoleonic code that France still uses today, not to mention all the work he did to improve Paris. Still, there’s no getting around the fact that the man had a bit of a god complex. All over the city there are murals of him dressed up like a roman emperor.

As we left Les Invalides, the heavens decided it would be a good time to start pouring down snow on our heads. Yes, that’s right. Snow, in Paris, in March…that lasted for all of 20 minutes before it stopped and the sun came out. Thoroughly confused, we headed to Monmartre, Sacre Coeur, and the Place du Tetre. After walking vertically up the back side of Monmartre for about 20 minutes, we finally found the Place du Tetre. Sadly, a lot of the artists had packed up due to the aforementioned inclement weather. Still, we were able to walk around and then take a quick tour of Sacre Coeur before heading back down the hill. Later that night, we walked over to see the Eiffel Tower lit up in all its glory, before trying to head over the Grands Boulevards to have dinner at Bouillon Chartier, a Parisian institution. Well, we found the tower all right (it’s kind of hard to miss), but finding the metro station was another matter. The closest one was closed for repairs, so we ended up having to hoof it several blocks following nearly indistinguishable signs until we found the next one. It worked out for the best though, because it meant that fellow C. Milton Wright graduate Dan Sakamoto could join us for dinner. He’s in Paris through May doing a study abroad program with NYU, and he got out of photography class in the nick of time to meet up with us.

Chartier is about the most traditional, stereotypical French brasserie you can imagine. It’s a beautiful Belle Époque dining room with gilded ceilings and little wooden tables covered in white paper table clothes. The waiters still wear black vests and long white aprons, will yell at you for taking too long to choose, and write down your order on the tablecloth in between running back and forth with trays full of drinks or pushing a cheese cart down crowded aisles. They serve traditional French cuisine…no frills and at good prices, and it’s definitely an experience everyone should have while they’re in Paris. However, it was one we almost didn’t get to have because I hadn’t checked their hours of operation. Turns out they close at 10. Thanks to our metro escapades, we got there at a quarter til, and we were still waiting for Dan to get there. I talked to the Maitre d’, who told me we all had to be there to get seated. Luckily, Dan arrived at 5 til, and after the Maitre d’ joked with me and gave me a hard time by counting heads, he found us a table in the still packed restaurant. They continued to seat people until 10:30. You can just never tell with the French timetable. Our waiter was hilarious and the evening gave me the chance to try my first escargot. They’re actually quite yummy. They taste like about any other shellfish, so as long as you don’t think too much about what you’re eating, you’d never know it wasn’t a clam or something like that. Mom was a huge fan of the Roquefort salad she ordered, saying that it’s much better cheese here than any they can get in the states.

The next morning meant a super early departure with luggage for the Gare St. Lazare where we had to catch our train to Caen, in Normandy. Once we got to Caen, we had to transfer to a smaller train that took us on a 15-minute ride to Bayeux, where we were supposed to pick up our rental car at the train station. Key word there is supposed to, because when we arrived in the tiny gare it was clear that the rental agencies were nowhere nearby. I talked to one of the station workers and found out we’d have to take a taxi to the agency, but the taxi driver, after looking at the address, told us that the Hertz we were looking for was closed for repairs. Funny how nothing on the Hertz website had indicated that, but there was nothing to do but catch the next train BACK to Caen and find the Hertz there.

Only this Hertz wasn’t exactly looking on the open side either, given the rolled down metal door outside the agency. However, we saw people moving inside, so I rang the bell and the drawbridge opened and we were allowed to enter. Technically, they weren’t open, but the guy said it wasn’t a big deal if we had a reservation. Now, they didn’t have the car we’d reserved, per se, but they had a slightly smaller one, and since all our bags fit and the alternative was waiting 2 hours, we took it. Then, we proceeded to get hopelessly lost in Caen before finally finding our way to the war memorial. We saw two films, one called “L’espoir” or “Hope”, which was pretty neat, and another one about the tactics of the actual landings. Mom said the markers to show where all the different allies landed looked like little bankcards. There was also a really neat exhibit featuring the correspondence of 5 individual soldiers. It was both touching and extremely difficult to see such a personal face put on such a global conflict.

After the memorial, we spent some more time being lost on our way to Arromanches, where we were spending the night. We ended up practically at the American Cemetery and the D-day beaches, which would have been great, except we didn’t want to go there until the next day. Finally, we realized that the best way to drive in France is just to ignore your maps and follow the road signs, regardless of what the road is called and whether it even exists according to aforesaid maps. Arrows are your friends, we learned. So once we got to Arromanches, we checked into our hotel, which was right on the beach. Mom and Dad’s room had an amazing view of the remnants of the artificial floating port that had been constructed there. We had dinner that night in the hotel restaurant, where we had to get mussels because, after all, we were in Normandy. Since we were actually in the Calvados department, I also felt compelled to get a glass of Calvados as an after dinner drink, and talked Mike into trying it with me. It’s a very spicy apple flavored brandy that I quite enjoyed. Mom tried a sip but didn’t care for it, judging by her coughing and spluttering.

The next day we retraced our steps to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. We saw the remains of the German bunkers, and saw memorials for all the different nationalities that contributed forces to the Normandy Invasions. Dad and Mike were definitely living the dream, both for themselves and for my two grandfathers, who will be waiting anxiously to hear their impassioned and detailed account, since mine is sorely lacking (along with my knowledge of the nuances of WWII military strategy). The American Cemetery was still as moving on this trip as it was two years ago. After our morning of military solemnities, we got on the road towards Pau, not knowing exactly where we’d stop for the evening. We got off the auto route at Le Mans so that Dad could check out the racetrack. Unfortunately, we got there 10 minutes before the museum closed, so we didn’t get to see it, but since the race drives out onto the main roads of the town, leaving the track, Dad can now say he’s driven at Le Mans, since we traced the actual route the drivers take, minus the chicanes and the Le Mans start, where all the drivers run to their cars and start them instead of starting inside the vehicle.

We ended up stopping for the night in Tours, where we spent the first half hour looking for a hotel and getting lost. After checking out a less than promising option that wanted to charge 6 euros for a half hour of Internet use, we were blessed to find the Hotel Trianon, where the incredibly helpful (and fluent in English) receptionist had two rooms for us, complete with free wifi access. He even recommended a restaurant and gave us directions for how to get back on the auto route. While we didn’t end up taking his recommendation, we found a really great little Italian place where the waitress told dad that he was jinxing her ability to open the wine bottle and made him understand, through pantomime, that he had to face the other direction. When she brought Mike’s dessert and Dad eyed it with interest, she told him (in English), “Don’t be jealous!”

The next morning we got back on the road super early to head for Pau. We were trying to make it there in time for lunch so that Mom, Dad, and Mike could meet Bernadette and Karine, the two adorable women who own the Croc O’ Pain, where I eat lunch most weekdays. First though, we stopped at a cafeteria to reward Mike for all this good behavior over the past few days. See, my little bro was digging most of the French culture, scenery, and cuisine, but he was not a fan of their breakfasts. As he put it “bread is not breakfast. I want eggs. I want bacon. I want food.” So, since the only place you can find something like that in France is at McDo’s or an auto route truckstop, we went with the later, and Mike was overjoyed to have bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and potatoes to start his morning. We continued with our “follow the arrows” policy of the last couple days as far as directions went, and we successfully negotiated our way around Bordeaux, where I pointed out the vineyards in their current states of rest. We made our way through the Dordogne and Landes regions, driving through the towns of Amagnac and Roquefort before we got back into the good old 64, the Pyrenees-Atlantiques department. In France, the last two numbers on every license plate indicate the department number, so where as we would spot an Alaska plate and think “wow, they’re a long way from home”, the French in the south-west would sport the “14” on our rental car and think “wow, they’re a long way from Calvados”. Anyways, once we started seeing 64 on the license plates, I knew we were getting close.

Mom and Dad’s first shock when we got to Pau was the size of the town. Apparently, they’d been envisioning something significantly smaller. Mom said “you WALK around this town every day? Why don’t you learn the bus routes?”. Really though, I don’t think Pau is as big as it first seems, once you learn your way around. I thought it was huge when I first arrived, but now it seems downright tiny. We had a late lunch at the Croc O’, where Karine and Bernadette made an adorable fuss over my family (but in French, so they could only understand bits and pieces of it). After lunch we walked around Place Clemenceau until it started to rain, at which point we went back to the car and then drove to the Canterots house.

As if we needed any further proof that I live with the most amazing family in southern France, the Canterots insisted when they found out my family was coming that they stay at the house so that they could be close to me and wouldn’t have to stay in a hotel. Christine and Patrick said that since it was only for 2 nights, and since they’d still be skiing in the Alps for one of them, it just made more sense, so my family got to see what a real French home stay is like. Mom immediately fell in love with Christine’s kitchen. Great chefs think alike, I guess. Sabine and Phillip were home to greet us, since Sabine doesn’t get time off from school like her sisters and I do (poor thing). Still, I don’t think she was too torn up about it since Phillip was able to come visit from Switzerland. I showed my family my studio, we brought in our luggage, and then I took them to see the schools where I work, although we took the car so they didn’t have to walk the 40 minutes to Jeanne d’Albret..

Later that night, we asked Sabine and Phillip to join us for dinner at the “Jeu de Paume”, which is the restaurant in the ritzy Hotel Beaumont. Someone had told Christine that they served regional specialties, which is what we were looking for, but she’d never been there herself, so none of us knew exactly what to expect. While the food was excellent, and used regional ingredients, it wasn’t your traditional southwest cuisine. Mike took one look at the sea bass he’d ordered and called it “elf food”. We all had a difficult time keeping a straight face when they brought us out an “amuse bouche” or appetizer, consisting of a tiny sliver of monk fish and 3 colorful sauces arranged to look like a piece of modern art on a triangle of black slate. We had a choice of 4 different kids of bread, served with regular butter or with goat cheese butter. The pinnacle of the meal though, was when our waiter served dessert. Phillip and Sabine had ordered a pineapple dessert that had to be prepared for two. When Phillip originally asked the waiter if they could decide later what they wanted for dessert, the waiter told him that they take at least 20 minutes to prepare and so it was better to order it with your main dish. So anyways, after everyone has finished eating, we’re sitting at the table for 20 minutes waiting for the desserts and thinking “good thing we didn’t wait even longer to order them”. Then the waiter brings out the fruit tatins (like caramelized upside down apple pie) that Dad and I had ordered, and wheels out a cart, you heard me, a CART, from which to serve Sabine and Phillips dessert. First, he slices the roasted pineapple. Then, he ladles mango sauce into two bowls and carefully positions the pineapple on top. He sets the bowls on another piece of black stone like what we’d seen earlier, and then places a cup of coconut ice cream dressed with starfruit beside them. He adds a little skewer of coconut dusted cakey-looking things, and sets them in front of Sabine and Phillip. But oh wait, we’re not done yet! He then proceeded to ladle pomegranate seeds and kumquats artistically across the plate before wishing us “bon appetit”. The entire process took a good 10 minutes, and then Phillip turns to my dad and gestures to our plates and says “But don’t worry, that’s nice too!” We all collapsed into a fit of laughter. Joking aside, the meal was really very enjoyable, and my family really enjoyed Sabine and Phillip’s company.

Later, after dinner, Sabine invited Mike and I to go out with she and Phillip and Bastian to a bar. We chose this particular bar because there was a girl there that Bastian was interested in. He knew it was going to work out for the evening, because he wore his lucky “chemise blanche”, or white shirt. My bro and Bastian hit it off right away, although Mike had a hard time remembering his name and first and asked me “What’s your friends name who doesn’t speak English?” Despite the communication difficulties, they had a great time joking with one another, and Bastian happily told me that my brother was nothing like me. In his eyes, this is a huge compliment. He affectionately started calling Mike “my man” for the rest of the night. We biked to the bar, which meant Mike got his own “riding through Pau at night” experience, although we didn’t have to ride as far this time. When we got to the bar, Sabine realized she only knew the combination for one bike lock, so we had to chain all six bikes together, and as Bastian said “Well, no one’s going to steal them now, that’s for sure!” As we were walking into the bar, Phillip turned to Mike and me and asked us the English word for someone who breaks into houses and takes things. We said it was “burglar”, and I told him that to help him remember he should think of the McDonald’s Hamburglar. This apparently worked, because for the rest of the weekend he would randomly look at us, grin, and say “Burglar, like Hamburglar!”

Saturday, Mom and I let Mike and Dad sleep in while we walked around town a bit. I took her to Les Halles and showed her the market, where she lamented the fact that she couldn’t bring French cheese back to the states. Then, I took her to a dish store that I knew she’d love. She ended up falling head over heels for an asparagus plate that drains off the water when you serve from it. When I asked the gentleman at the store to wrap it up for us, and told him that it had to be well packed because it was going to the US, he looked at me in astonishment and said, “They have asparagus in the United States? Is it imported?” He was a very friendly and helpful man, though, as everyone in Pau seems to be. He told me my French was very good, and I said “thank you, I’ve been living in Pau since September”, to which he answered, “You haven’t learned all that since September!” I showed mom my church on Rue Serviez, and then we made a last quick stop by Chez Pallu, a Patisserie, to pick up dessert to share with the Canterots when they returned later that night. We swung back by the house and dropped off the sweets, then coaxed Dad and Michael out the door and walked back to the center of town. That afternoon we walked around the Chateau, but didn’t actually take the tour, so I just entertained (or bored), the family with as many anecdotes of Henri IV as I could remember, and believe me, I’ve got quite a few stored up. We did a little shopping, and then Mom proposed that for our last day together in France we go sit in a café somewhere and have a drink and a cheese plate. We went to the Aragon, which is on the Boulevard des Pyrenees, so we had a spectacular view of the mountain chain as we sat out on the terrace. Dad got some beer that tasted like drinking perfume, Mom had a glass of jurancon, the local white, and Mike went with his usual Pelforth. However, we failed on the cheese plate. I’d even checked the menu before we sat down to make sure they had one, and since the Aragon is a brasserie food is usually served non-stop all day (NOT the case in most French eating establishments). However, it seems that Mom and the French just have too big of a disconnect when it comes to eating cheese. For them, it takes the place of a dessert course, whereas Mom wants it for a mid afternoon or before dinner snack. When I asked the waiter (who was not sending out any warm fuzzy teddy bear vibes, not that you’d expect them from an authentic French brasserie waiter) if we could order a cheese plate, he told me that it was too late because the kitchen was closed and proceeded to show me the 3 or 4 desserts and handful of sandwiches that were available at that time of the day. Why you need a kitchen to make a cheese plate, I don’t really know, but the point is we were out of luck.

When we came back to the house we found Sabine in a slightly elevated state of stress because her parents had called to say they’d be getting in earlier than expected and so, surprise, she and Philip now had to whip up dinner for the whole family. As they left to go to the grocery store and we left to go to dinner, we suddenly noticed that Ruska was nowhere to be found. The little minx had slipped out and run down the block, but thankfully Dad and Phillip managed to catch her. After our last French dinner at the same fondue restaurant Hamilton and Sam and I went to earlier this year, where we sat practically in the kitchen because it was the only available table, we went back to the house to meet the rest of the Canterot family for dessert. So finally, my “French parents and siblings” got to meet my American ones. Despite the language barrier and the fact that everyone was exhausted, we had a really good time. As mom said “If we spoke the same language, I think we’d all be really good friends”.

It was sad to see Mike and my folks leave on Sunday morning, but they had to be off to London, and I had to make up for being a slacker and come up with something to teach my kids. So there you have it, the Grimmwald family vacation, France style. I didn’t take that many pictures over the week, but I’ll add some in when Dad sends me the ones he took. I think our adventures prove that when it comes to foreign cultures, it really is all relative.

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Photos

Arromanches
Dad checking out the floating port

D-day beaches
Mike in front of a German bunker

My parents in France
With the English channel stretching out behind them

Le Mans
Here's an outside shot of the racetrack we didn't see.

Les Invalides
Mike and Me in front of Napoleon's final (but not original) resting place

Monmartre
Looking down on Paris

Normandy
Dad and Mike at Arramanches

Comments

[Kira]

goodness!
sounds like you and your family had a blast. i'm quite jealous. :) keep the updates coming...!