Nancy, France

In December, 1961, Mary and I were tired of hitchhiking in the cold so we found jobs at a newly-reopened U.S. Air Force base at Chambley, France. It wasn’t easy. We searched from Paris to Frankfurt, listening to rumors, following hunches, filling out paperwork, until finally this job opened up for us. I was hired as the Service Club Director and Mary was my half-time assistant and half-time French helper. I got the lead job because of having been a counselor at numerous YMCA day camps.

One of our jobs was organizing field trips to interesting places. Chambley is a tiny town in the northeast Alsace-Lorraine section of France with Metz being the nearest big town. To the south, but still in Alsace-Lorraine, is Nancy. It has an opera house, and since I like opera, I arranged a trip to see an opera there. That’s all I remember. I hope that the guys who went on the trip were impressed by Nancy, because when Mary and I returned in April this year, we found it absolutely glorious!

We arrived at the train station, having gotten up early enough at Lydia’s to catch the 6:30 train from Colmar. The map to our hotel looked like an easy hike down just one long street, no turns, no chances to get lost. Sometimes, I admit, that backpack made me feel like a little old lady, and Mary, with bad feet, felt the same. Valiant, we plodded onward and onward and yet a bit farther onward. The map showed our hotel to be just past Place Stanislas, so every time we’d come to a little park where four streets met, I asked someone if that was Place Stanislas. The answer was always an amused smile and “Non. Tout droit.” Meaning keep going straight ahead.

There is no mistaking Place Stanislas. An enormous open space gently rises to the center where stands a magnificent statue of Stanislas, the last King of Poland, on his majestic horse. Regency style (?) buildings flank the square, and the ubiquitous outdoor dining tables and umbrellas flutter around the edges like lacy doilies. Ornate gates of real gold painted wrought iron are at each corner and the two places where the main street enters and exits. Fountains on the north side corners are spectacular in their exuberant display of water! water! everywhere. Each is composed of statues caught by the sculptor at the peak of energetic action. They guard the entrance gates to the large grand park.

Place Stanislas is a glorious, happy, rich space where commoners and kings can meander or sit and enjoy the sunshine or an aperitif. Mr. Stanislas is the one who made it all possible. He became the Duc de Lorraine after his daughter married the future King of France. Blessed with lots of money, he had grandiose plans for turning Nancy into a showplace to rival Paris or any other large city, and he succeeded, at least during the times he lived.

Residents are rightly proud of Nancy. They keep it spotless, which was refreshing. The morning after our arrival I was up early, as usual, and walking. The hotel was only a block from Place Stanislas, so that’s where I headed, passing the opera house on the way. It was about 7 a.m. and the paving stones, laid out in patterns, were being scrubbed clean by a street sweeping machine.

The weather was cool, so I headed into the grand park and sat in the sun by the rose garden to warm up. So peaceful. Then back to the hotel to pick up Mary and start our day.

We definitely wanted to see the Musée des Beaux Arts, one of the buildings on Place Stanislas. But first we had to find a boulangerie for our morning apple turnover and an apricot non-fried donut sort of yummy thing.

The Beaux Arts is laid out beautifully and intelligently, by themes, except for lighting that in some areas bounces off paintings, making it difficult to see the entire work all at once. The main focus is on artists from Lorraine or artists who worked in Lorraine. These lesser-known artists were, in our opinion, equal to or better than many of the more famous ones.

The use of color in the impressionists and pointillists is so intriguing! Spots of cools and warms mold the shape. Mary taught that technique in her middle school with the same results I had when I tried it – mud. But not these artists. They achieved crispness and definition.

The sculpture of the woman’s head is one of the most beautiful things ever seen, partly because of the light shining from above onto her upturned face. Imagine, from the photo, how it looks and forgive the two-dimensional picture for not conveying the full effect of the three-dimensional graceful miracle of marble.

After the Beaux Arts, we visited the Ducal Palace museum which shows how trees became furniture in the old days, and iron became artistic curves and points. Early photographs of many Lorraine villages were proof that life used to be hard work and dirt. In the adjoining church are tombs of dukes and others. I gloss over this museum only because I was getting tired of looking at things. It’s truly educational in the best way – enjoyable.

The day was cold, so we found an outdoor café and sat in the sun eating a pave of apple, nuts and caramel, warming ourselves up. Then there was another long walk, exploring here and there and finally the big park where we saw peacocks strutting about. It was then 7:30 p.m.. We were tired and hungry, but didn’t want to take the time or energy to find a restaurant so chose, instead, the snack stand by the entrance to the park. It was a great choice, because my chicken and raclette cheese Panini eaten outdoors on the park bench was heaven-sent. A good price, too, not like the onion soup and chevre chaud salad the night before which cost me around 20 Euros ($24?).

That night, I bundled up with extra blankets and a bedspread until sometime in the middle of the night when I finally warmed up. That was the coldest I’d been since we got to France.

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.