Now and Then

I’m heading to Vancouver tomorrow for two weeks, so the blog will be on hold since I still don't have a laptop. Because our train trip to Lyons nearly turned to disaster, let me leave you with a story from our first trip fifty years ago when another train trip was almost disaster.

Remember, it’s 1961 and I am 21 years old. Mary and I were in Metz in northeastern France, trying to go to Munich. Being clever, we had split our important documents so that Mary carried our passports and I carried the tickets. This entry is just as I wrote it then.

Monday December 18, 1961

What a weekend! For the first time since we started on the trip, we got unintentionally separated. We arrived at the station in Metz, about a half-hour before we thought the train was supposed to leave. Just to be sure, we checked with an official who told us we had the time right, but the train would leave from track three, not six. And, up on track three, we asked another man, just to be sure. He got terribly excited, saying “Non, non!”, and pointing over to track six. From his urgency, we got the impression that our train was the one already loading, and raced at top speed to track six, arriving as the train started pulling away.

I knew I couldn't catch it and gave up, but Mary kept running like someone possessed! And she caught it! Mary was heading off somewhere, penniless, with two tickets to Munich, and I was stranded in Metz with money and two passports!

Glancing around, I wondered if the two Frenchmen on the platform had noticed my predicament, but they were engrossed in a discussion which, to judge from their excitement, dealt with Algerians or DeGaulle or BB [Brigitte Bardot].

Gathering all the nonchalance I could muster, I casually asked a guard, “Ce train . . .ou?”

“Zurich.”

“Merci.”

Mary wasn't even going to Munich! It wasn't a simple problem of “see you later”, it was serious! How would she explain at the border about not having a passport? What would she do without any money?

Well, I could either stand on that silly platform forever watching everyone else catch their train, or I could go find help somewhere. I managed a half-hearted smile and started downstairs. The smile helped. It even became a grin, and then a little laugh. Even the gorgoyle at the information desk began to look like Maurice Chevalier.

“Monsieur?” Maybe it was more like Yves Montand.

“Oui?” Definitely Charles Boyer!

“You won't believe this, I know, but my girlfriend is going to Zurich without a passport, and we're both supposed to go to Munich, but in the rush she caught the wrong train, and we couldn't understand the man who told us which track to get on, and she has both of our tickets and what am I going to do?”

He laughed! Louis Jourdain!

But then, “No speak English.”

Good grief! And right then I couldn't think of anything in French!
“Monsieur, mon ami . . . est. . .”

“Oui, mademoiselle?”

“Le train! A Zurich!”

“Oui?. . .” Such patience.

“Mon ami et moi . . . a Munich. But she . . . elle . . . a Zurich! No good! Je ne sais pas! Elle . . . no passport! Moi . . . no ticket. Help!”

Either because of my marvelous accent or my eloquent gestures, he almost understood. Pulling out a huge book of schedules, he pointed out Mary's train. I pointed out the one to Munich. He pointed out Strasbourg on both! Compris! I'd just take the next one there. But how to let Mary know I'm coming? What if she comes back here?

“Monsieur? Mon ami . . . telephone Strasbourg? Moi et elle . . . Strasbourg . . . rendezvous?”

French is a wonderful language! He picked up the phone and, midst great shouting and arm-waving, told the tragic story to Strasbourg and they promised to have someone waiting for Mary when she came in.

Once again on track six, I impatiently awaited the train that would whisk me away toward a joyful reunion in Strasbourg. Ten minutes to go, freezing hands, chattering teeth, cold feet, and a glacial draft lingering around my neck.

This misery was suddenly and unceremoniously interrupted by what sounded like a herd of rioting elephants! Within seconds, the quiet deserted platform was overrun by young men singing, shouting, even dancing. There I was, surrounded. No-one could be miserable for long in such company. They gaily serenaded me with “Hound Dog”, then we all joined in a triumphant “When the Saints go Marching In.”

These songs comprised their entire knowledge of English, so, still rather proud of my success at the information desk, I tried French. Somehow, they deciphered my language and predicament. Like long lost brothers, they swore to deliver me safely to Strasbourg and raze the city, if necessary, to find “mon ami.” If ever there were more gallant knights, they could only have existed in King Arthur's court.

Accompanied by the rousing strains of “La Marseillaise”, we stormed onto our train.

After having found an empty compartment, quite a feat on a European train [the old-fashioned kind like in the Harry Potter movies], eight of us were holding court. I was Queen, being the only one eligible, and had six Kings. “Elvis,” the seventh, was jester. The other boys, our noblemen, were scattered throughout the car and in the corridor. Elvis sang, pantomimed, and did monologues, all marvelously funny. Between acts, everyone together sang each and every song we knew, keeping the whole car and anyone passing through, even the conductor, entertained.

My friends were members of the soccer team from the University of Strasbourg. I gathered, through Elvis' pantomimes, that they had played that day near Metz and lost royally. That didn't seem quite fair, they were so nice.

Martin, a relatively serious thin young man with glasses, was quite an artist. He designed a car for me to have custom-made when I am rich. He, like the others, was studying business. For myself, being a young idealist, I sort of hated to see him go to work in an office when obviously he was so artistic. But why push someone into a penniless profession like art if he doesn't want it? That would be ghastly.

From nowhere appeared cokes and bread and cheese, probably the leftovers from the losers' banquet. It sure tasted good. It was late and I hadn't eaten dinner yet.

As we neared Strasbourg, I began getting a little nervous. Would Mary be there? How would I know? Did they give her the message? Would these guys leave me stranded? Where would I go? “Panicked” would be a fitting description of how I felt. I think the guys sensed this because they outdid themselves trying to take my mind off such problems. Elvis did his funniest routine yet, an imitation of Elvis singing “La Vie en Rose.” Then we saw the lights of the city. Crowding around the window, they showed me the cathedral with its one steeple all lit up, the university, and told me how a river divides the town into two halves, one French and one German.

Too soon we were in the station. Pandemonium reigned. Elvis grabbed me and the leftovers from our banquet, lunged to the corridor window, opened it, and leaning out into the cold wind, started yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mary! Mary! Mary!” All the others joined in till our corridor was filled with university soccer players yelling “Mary!” with all their might.

The station was crowded. Everyone on the platform stared up at our car, probably thinking either the Algerians or the Marines had landed. By the time the train stopped, the guys were really swinging! As we got off, serious Martin rode on Elvis' shoulders, shouting away, while the others stopped every male or female, adult or child, who was in our path and asked if they were Mary. Not satisfied with the denial, they'd drag the person over to be scrutinized by me. I guess it wasn't the most dignified entrance into Strasbourg, but it was the liveliest.

But Mary. Where was Mary? Surely, if she were there she couldn't miss us? And the – good grief! We almost passed her! She was waiting by the stairs with a large jolly-looking man about forty and a German police dog!

“Mary!” I cried! And she practically fainted. She had heard the commotion, but had no idea what it was. Elvis kneeled and kissed her hand while the others bowed in turn. They were marvelous, my kings and court, all nineteen or twenty of them.

Mary managed to tell me, between laughing at the compliments on her “quelle beaute!”, that our train for Munich left in three hours. Four station men had met her train and given her my message. That's celebrity treatment! Can you imagine who the crowd must have thought she was after our noisy arrival?

Gus, the man with the dog, had helped her during her train ride. After the soccer team left, Mary and Gus, me and Gus' dog, went to see the city. First we went to an ancient beer cellar crowded with people, and ate cheese salads with a very special white Alsacienne wine that tasted like sickly sweet perfume. Fritz, the dog, fared well there. Everyone gave him scraps, and the chief cook gave him a huge bone to chew on. It's funny how much more friendly and generous people can be to animals than to people.

Gus was a mixture of French and German, and spoke both languages equally well. I guess the whole region around Strasbourg, called the Alsace, has changed back and forth between Germany and France so often that the people feel almost as German as they are French.

Gus put us back on the train to Munich after showing us around town.

Then, as now, there were always people eager to help us out. It’s one of the great reasons for traveling, to find out anew how basically good people are everywhere.

Aix en Provence

Before I get us to Aix en Provence, some of you will be relieved to know that I have made a map of our journey. From now on, at the end of the blogs there will be a small map to click on and make bigger so you can see where we are.

To get to Aix (pronounced Ex), we had to change trains in Marseilles. The ride there was the smoothest of all the trains so far. Marseilles has a reputation for crime, especially toward tourists, so we expected to see gangs of gypsies or otherwise-looking cutthroats lurking behind the columns in a dark and dingy train station. To our surprise, the Gare was the nicest, brightest, and most cheerful one we’d been in so far. Rather than being haunted by pirates, it seemed to glow with the light of Provence that inspired Cezanne.

We rode the train to Aix with three young modern pirates – those who do graffiti on public places. The conductor caught the boy who sat across the aisle from us apparently doing graffiti, but she didn’t take the wide-nibbed felt pen away. After she walked to the next car, the boy tossed the pen to an older boy who wrote on the wall where he was sitting, hiding the work behind his jacket. His girlfriend smirked as he was doing it, so Mary and I knew what was happening. The conductor didn’t return, and the train was arriving in Aix. As we all stood up, I pointed to the graffiti, and then wagged my finger (index) at the boy and said in my stern substitute teacher voice, “Ce n’est pas bon!” To his credit, he looked a bit, just a bit, embarrassed. Not apologetic, just embarrassed. (The picture is not of the train graffiti, but from elsewhere in France.)

Out on the platform, it looked as if we would have to walk down a lot of stairs, and then up. With our backpacks, we didn’t want to walk stairs, so we found an elevator. Just after we got in, a fellow with a bicycle decided there was room for him to join us. As he was squeezing his bicycle in, Mary was being shoved backwards but her feet were stuck in place.

“Help me!” she cried, holding out her hands as she sank lower and lower, gasping for air. It took the man a few seconds to see what had happened and pull her upright.

Then the elevator opened and we backed out, finding ourselves high up in the air on a catwalk over the tracks. At least all we had to do was walk down the steps and not up.

We got a map from the Office du Tourisme and started walking down Mirabeau street, said to be the most beautiful in the world. Not so! The trees are lovely, the shops are OK, but there are too many noisy cars and motorscooters to make it peaceful. When we turned off it into the old town, though, things improved.

Our route took us by a Patisserie, our favorite place to visit. Out front, looking at the display of delicious-looking cookies, the self-proclaimed “smartest man in the world” explained that some of the cookies, the sables (with accented e making it sa-blay) were of arab origin. We bought a few to share, then I added on a huge macaroon and a lemon tart. It was, after all, my duty to compare lemon tarts across France. This one ranked below Paris and the Amboise one with meringue, but above all the others. The macaroon was exquisite.

We stayed at the low-budget Hotel des Arts and liked it more than the forgettable Hotel Concorde in Nimes. The room was not bigger, nor did it have a better window. In fact, the window folded down like a vent and had no curtain – but I doubt that the people across the way with the flower-filled window would want to peek at a couple of old ladies. The good points were that the wood was all painted and the toilet did not leak. It’s too bad that Americans have practically mandated in-room facilities. Much nicer to walk down the hall and not be bothered with having one in your room with the attendant noises and, yes, smells.

That evening we walked the "Cezanne circuit," following symbols imbedded in the sidewalks and thus seeing most of the great old buildings and churches in the old town. Aix was Cezanne's home town and favorite place.

The next day our train to Lyons was at 2:55, so after shopping for breakfast/lunch at the outdoor market (cheese, bread, fruit), and waiting for Mary to look at everything and finally buy a zipper purse (one big zipper zips up to make a purse), we came back for our backpacks and headed to the Granet museum.

On the way we passed the school where my daughter-in-law spent a year learning French while staying with a local family. L’Hotel Maynier d’Oppede (or close). Learning to speak in France, she has a perfect accent as she teaches at the high school where I sub.

We had to sit on the steps outside for a half hour waiting for the museum to open. A gypsy woman and two or three little children were nearby. Soon I was looking into dark beautiful eyes of a shy young girl who held out her hand in the universal plea for alms. These people are everywhere, calmly sitting on the sidewalks holding out their hands. As you pass without giving, they softly say something nice to you, like (in French) “Have a good day,” or “May the Lord bless you.”

I had no change for her and doubt I would have given her money, but I showed her my just-purchased apple and offered it. She shook her head then ran back to her mother. A discussion went on between them, and soon the little heartbreaker was back saying, “Oui. La pomme.” So I gave it to her, happy in my heart to do so.

Soon I was to find myself saving out change to give to these people, one a day. Big spender.

We had to rush through the museum, but that was possible since the wonderful people selling tickets also took our backpacks to a safe place. Free of them, we were able to see a lot.

If you’re in Aix, go to the Granet! The rooms are laid out by themes, which lets you discover things you ordinarily don’t think about. One room had paintings of children’s games; another was all about Mary Magdalene. In another, various artists had sculpted the same person, so we got to compare noses and eyes, seeing that to one artist, the man had an upturned nose whereas the other thought it was a downward-tending French nose. Since I’ve tried for years, unsuccessfully, to draw real faces, it was heartening to see that good artists mess up also. Which of the several treatments was the most faithful to the model? We’ll never know.

At top speed, we saw a good part of the museum, then trotted off to the Gare where our trip to Lyon almost started in disaster.

Fountains of Nimes

Take a stroll in Nimes eastward on the Quai de la Fontaine. You leave the old city, having stocked up on cheese, bread, fruit and delicacies at the enormous indoor farmer’s market, La Coupole des Halles. Overhanging trees shade the wide stream gurgling down the center of a wide boulevard, under bridges and over little waterfalls. Ducks enjoy the water and the handouts. There is peace in the air.

We’d been told to expect something pretty marvelous at the end of this road, but I, at least, was blown away by the impossibly ambitious Jardins de la Fontaine. An enormous series of pools of water cascade hither and thither over maybe two or three acres, surrounded by statues and an ancient shrine and grottos and porticos and you name it, it was there. Laid out with 18^th century exuberance, the Jardins de la Fontaine are filled with statuary and old trees, chestnuts and elms, lying in the arms of a high mountain. The water is the basis of Nimes’ water supply, and what a spectacular way to take it to town! (Do click on the link to see more!)

Atop the mountain is Tour Magne, Nimes’ oldest Roman ruin, from which you can see the world. It’s reached by hiking up and up beautiful gardened and statue-filled pathways. We didn’t get all the way up because going just part way was tiring enough on a hot day.

However, having started up on the east side, we came down on the west side where the Temple of Diana is! I put an exclamation point there because she deserves it. I mentioned in the last blog that the Maison Carre temple was a lot bigger than I’d expected, so I should not have been so surprised that Diana’s was, also.

Picture the Lincoln monument. And then enlarge it a few times. People become little dolls against the tall columns and walls. All societies have done this to prove how much more powerful gods are than humans. But humans built the temples, not gods. And we did a fantastic job! The temple was set up for a concert later in the day. I was happy to see it being used for a joyful occasion. Sorry the pictures don’t show much, but most of it is covered with vegetation, giving it an authentic antique look. I’d love to see it restored, though, or maybe have a copy of it built in true scale

Crocodile statues lurk in squares, around corners, and near restaurants in Nimes. "Why?" I asked one native. He shrugged and said, "Maybe there used to be crocodiles here." In later research I learned that the Roman legions which founded the town had been stationed in Egypt where there are, indeed, crocs. The Legions subdued Egypt, so brought the symbol back in the form of a crocodile chained to a palm tree. That symbol survives on the official coat of arms of the city, while the unchained crocs roam the streets.

The next day we were going to Aix en Provence. Because it was still a holiday in France we weren’t sure when the trains would be running, so we got to the station super early. That was OK because we had bought a large loaf of superb seedy bread at the Halles, some fruit, and already had goat cheese. We sawed off pieces of bread – lest that sound less than tasty, let me assure you that French bread of any kind always has a tough, chewy crust protecting its inner ambrosial heart. This particular loaf being filled with seeds of all kinds, had a rich, dark flavor, quite different from the normal “baguette”. Our leisurely breakfast in the station was an exquisite way to start the day and leave the Roman ruins of Nimes.