Onward
we rode through forested mountains where there were no farms on which to camp. We started our descent through small French
villages and finally around 6:30 we neared Poligny, a fortified village that was dominated
by cliffs. I found a small cathedral. (This may have been the 15th century
Church of Saint-Hippolyte or the Church du Mouthier-Viellard – but I was too tired
and somewhat dispirited by my encounter there to check for the name). A woman who spoke no English knew from my gestures
that I hoped to camp there.
"No,
no.....la mayor...," she said.
See the Mayor? I had no idea of what she was saying. I smiled and thanked her for her consideration as I
left. Though she was kind, I took this as a
rejection, making a poor association of it with the refusal of a campsite that I had
received at the church in Leclercville, Québec.
Just
beyond Poligny, I found a small farm with cattle near the road. I pulled slowly up the gravel driveway. I was suddenly charged and greeted enthusiastically
by three young boys who gawked and laughed at Melawend and her humungous load. I tried to explain my need for a campsite but they
did not speak any English. Besides, they were
too preoccupied with Melawend. By the house, I
saw a dark-haired man about my age and so drove up the lane to him. The boys followed, marvelling at Melawend her big
orange-covered load.
I
showed the man my papers and explained that I was looking for a place to camp.
"Twelve
kilometer," he said, pointing up the road.
I
said I had no money. I remembered that the
word for "here" in French was ici.
"Camping
ici?" I said.
He
nodded and pointed to the narrow strip of lawn immediately beside the house just a few
feet beyond a row of flowers. I was a little
embarrassed because I had meant a spot near the road, well away from their house. I set up just forty feet from their front door.
They
had just mown the lawn. The father said
something to the boys and they happily began raking out a spot for my tent. The father opened the double garage and showed me
where to park Melawend. Inside was the usual
crowded trove of garage-stored treasures. Melawend
was given a cleared place of honor next to their shiny yellow Citroen.
This
was at the farm of Jean Mazo and his family. I
had felt guilty saying I had no money for camping when I had obviously been able to bring
to France a deluxe motorscooter and a large cache of supplies. But they had taken me at my word, so to speak. Jean went inside while the boys watched me set up
camp.
Two
girls joined us so that the children were between eight and eleven years old. One of the boys helped me set up. Another got out a soccer ball and we all kicked and
laughed until it got dark. The girls left and
the boys and I sat around the tent. We would
point to things – the tent, the fruit trees, the house – and exchange
translations. Jean came out and joined us and
then so did his lovely dark-featured wife Odile. John
gave me a bottle of warm milk, fresh from their cows.
We sat around trading English for French and vice versa. John gave me four apples and one of the boys
fetched three peaches for me.
We
went inside and I sat with Jean and Odile in their kitchen and shared red and white wines
and coffee with them. I was treated to a
sauce-filled cake that Odile had made. It was
brown and crisp and topped with an applesauce filling – delicious! Then I was given a big piece of almond cake. Jean got out a school book of one of his boys
– a book of artwork pictures captioned with English sentences along the lines of
"See Henry ride his new bicycle." We
looked at an atlas to see where I had come from and where I was going. We had a great time teaching each other our
languages. They would grab things – cups,
chairs, books, food – and we would trade translations.
We talked and ate and drank and laughed.
I
thought, Would I trade this for a campground?
I
met Jean the next morning as he headed off to tend the cattle. Odile invited me in for breakfast with the boys
– toast and a bowl of coffee. The
previous evening, Jean had given me two bottles of Kronenbourg beer. Now, Odile gave me a box of homemade cookies and
more homegrown fruit for the road. When we
finished breakfast, I excused myself and went down to pack.
Odile came down with the boys to drove them to school. I took photos, thanked my hosts and they were off. I felt flushed with hope: a trusted stranger that
was left alone at someone's home. In this
hopeful spirit, I packed up and headed off for my next destination: Paris.
In
Dijon – a city bristling with bell towers, the home of Gustave Eiffel, architect of
the (you know what) – I nearly drowned. All
morning, the sky had been threatening and in Dijon, the skies burst upon me. Melawend and I slogged through rain all the
remaining 180 or so miles (290 km) to Paris.
I
had imagined some grand entrance into Paris – Melawend and me rolling stately into
the city of haute couture and haute cuisine, the city where Hemingway had made a
true writer of himself – but I cowered inside my banana and marshmallow suit. I got lost. Somehow,
I had entered the sprawling metropolis from the southwest.
I came to a busy anonymous intersection and suddenly beheld one of the
greatest travel wonders of the world, that great soaring edifice of magnificent metalwork,
that splendid… what the hell – it was the Eiffel Tower! It was "Paris". I had arrived.
I could not help myself. Though
it was dark, bleak and rainy I took a photograph of it.
And I didn't care what the hell I looked like.
I
knew a girl in Paris. Her name was Jocelyne. Yes, she was another penfriend. But now I had to pull up onto a sidewalk – I
had seen many motorcycles parked on sidewalks in Paris.
Standing there in my glistening yellow and white suit, to the grim curiosity
of passers by, I had to undo the whole load from the platform in the drizzle just to find
the map of Paris that Jocelyne had sent to me. Really,
I had planned to do this long before reaching Paris but as you know, rain can force you to
postpone your plans. An old man sitting in a
parked van showed me on my map that I was quite close to rue de Cherche Midi, the street
where Jocelyne lived.
I
repacked the load on Melawend and inched my way around the Left Bank until I found the
narrow street, just off Montparnasse. I
arrived around 6:00 p.m. Jocelyne was not
expecting me for several days. I found the
apartments where she lived with her parents. The
office of the building manager was on the ground floor right next to the narrow sidewalk. I parked Melawend in front of the office window. A woman in the office shook her finger at me. She came to the gate and I explained myself. She was Spanish and understood only that I was
there to see Jocelyne Hericher. She let me
come inside and wait.
She
would call up from time to time. There was no
one home. After waiting in the office for half
an hour, the woman kicked me out. I waited in
the street, just outside the electric entrance. A
half an hour later, Jocelyne's sister Frances came by and the Spanish woman warmed up. She gave us orange drinks and cupcakes. Frances and I talked in the office – about her
job as a secretary, my trip and about Jocelyne. Their
father, who had driven into the underground garage, came and opened the garage so I could
park Melawend inside.
In
an elevator that was lined with quarter-cut oak panelling, we rode up to the parents'
flat. (If you think I might have been feeling
awkward and nervous, you're right.) Here, I
finally met Jocelyne. She had straight dark
shoulder-length hair, pretty blue eyes, a lovely warm smile and soft rounded features. She
was every bit as soft-spoken and reserved as her letters had suggested. She introduced me to her rather regal-looking,
fair-haired mother, Francoise.
Language
would be a bit of a problem. Frances, who had
her own apartment, spoke English well. Jocelyne's
English was fair. Mr. Hericher spoke none, and
Francoise's English was also fair, but she had not spoken in English since the Second
World War when she had worked with Americans at a hospital.
Their
flat was subtly elegant, tastefully decorated with delicate period furniture and
accessories. I had expected this because
Jocyelne had told me in her letters that her parents were successful interior designers of
homes, apartments and offices. In fact, they
were presently working on a display for an exposition at the Grand Palais, the Art
Nouveau-style venue that had held some of Paris’ most important exhibitions,
dedicated to periods, or countries, or to artists including Monet, Matisse, Chagall and
Picasso. In a few days, it was to begin an
exhibition devoted to Boucher.
I
felt terrible. Truly I was willing to find a
campground somewhere within reach of Paris but I had wanted to touch base with Jocelyne. Still, I struggled with the hope that I might be
invited to stay at her place. But just showing
up like I did, I had put them on the spot. Jocelyne
was concerned where I might stay and offered to call the local police station that I might
be allowed to stay there. The Hericher’s
were worried about me. Paris was under siege
by terrorists. Instead, Joceylne’s family
welcomed me and I was given my own room that had its own adjoining bathroom. Within an hour of arriving, they took me to dinner
at the Brassier Lutetia. I perused the menu as
if I understood what was written, but Mr. Hericher made a suggestion that helped me save
face.
(He said the
name of the dinner as it appeared in French on the menu.
He said that it was a chicken dish. I
was too embarrassed to ask the English name then, or later when I could have written it
down in English and French.)
The
prices for almost any dinner would have fed me for a month on the road – they spent
100 francs on my dinner alone. I felt so damn
lucky but also very intrusive.
As I mentioned back in Dartmouth, Hemingway was my literary
companion and mentor, and I had come to the city where he had matured as a writer. In his time, the place for writers and artists to
be was Paris. He and Hadley (his first wife)
had moved into 74, rue du Cardinal Lemoine, a plebian street, in January of 1922. They entered their flat up steep, dark, narrow
steps. A heavily guilded mahogany bed
dominated their living room / bedroom. The
bathroom was a bowl and a pitcher inside a small closet.
They heard the droning of the music from the Bal Musette below, a workmen's
dance hall that was crowded with drunks and thick with smells. Sometimes in the afternoons, Hem (that’s what
I called him) would walk the graveled paths of the Luxembourg Gardens.
That was the young Hemingway, the emerging writer that Paris
would come to know as a poor man, a military man, and as a rich man. He had passed through in 1918 on his way to the
Italian front. He moved here a married man in
1921 and it was home until 1928 (with just brief times away). He was a voracious and discriminating reader of the
books he borrowed from the Shakespeare and Company shop or bought from stalls on the
quays. In Paris, he wrote most of The Sun Also Rises and began A Farewell to Arms.
He returned to Paris many
times, notably as a participant in the Allied liberation in 1944. In 1949, he wrote most of the first draft of Across the River and into the Trees, and, after
discovering his early manuscripts in the cellar of the Ritz, where they had been stored
and forgotten, he conceived A Moveable Feast,
which was an evocative memoir of Paris literary life.
(Places like the Ritz take on historical
significance. At the Ritz, this included
Hemingway with his forgotten pages and his involvement with the liberation of Paris, and
much more recently – in 1997 - with haunting hotel video images of the departure of
Princess Diana just minutes before she was killed in a car accident.)
I
did not know much about Hemingway’s haunts in Paris, and I really did not care to
look for them. I believed Hemingway himself
might have been distraught if he saw them – it was perhaps best left to literature
and documentaries and picture books. (I also
did not have much time.) The Bal Musette, for
instance, on the ground floor of Hemingway's first Paris home on the rue du Cardinal
Lemoine, was turned into a pornographic movie house and, more recently, into an
avant-garde theater.
The
attic room rented at 39, rue Descartes was being renovated – the skylight facing the
Pantheon was gone and there were plans to connect the room to the apartment beneath the
spiral staircase. This room was the place of
Hem’s true literary beginnings in Paris, where he slaved over his writing. He had resolved to begin fresh with new standards
of truth and simplicity.
“All you have to do is write one true
sentence,” he had told himself. “…a true simple declarative sentence:
without scrollwork or ornamental language of any sort.” He wrote this in A Movable Feast.
He
would stop writing when he knew what was going to happen next:
"That way I could be sure of going on the next day."
(from: A Moveable Feast – page 12) He continued: "I would read so that I
would not think about my work and make myself impotent to do it."
The
budding writer in his garret. From the
Hericher’s windows, I would look out over the rooftops of Paris and imagine that
there were many writers and artists still out there, struggling in their drafty rooms. A part of me longed to be one of them.
"It
was in that room that I learned not to think about anything that I was writing from the
time I stopped writing until I started again the next day.
That way my subconscious would be working on it and at the same time I would
be listening to other people and noticing everything, I hoped; learning, I hoped; and I
would read so that I would not think about my work and make myself impotent to do
it."
All
that remained of Hemingway’s sawmill apartment at 113, rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs were
the cobblestones of the courtyard. Surviving
was the Hôtel Jacob, which was now Hôtel d'Angleterre, still run by the same family. Shakespeare and Company, which still held part of
Sylvia Beach’s original collection, was under new management and in a new location
near the quays. The Dingo Bar on rue Delambre,
where Hemingway and Fitzgerald first met, was now the Auberge du Centre, but you could
still drink fine a l'eau at the original bar. Among
the other survivors, there was the Ritz and the Crillon, the Dôme, the Rotonde, the
Select, the Deux Magots, the Flore, Lipp's, Prunier's, Harry's, and the Hole in the Wall
Bar.
I
was definitely in the vicinity of Hem's old haunts: "In those days many people went
to the cafés at the corner of Boulevard Montparnasse and the Boulevard Raspail to be seen
publicly and in a way such places anticipated the columnists as the daily substitutes for
immortality." (A Moveable Feast, page 81)
But
I was not a writer in the truest sense, Not yet,
I thought, and I did not want to violate Hemingway's memory by merely dogging his immortal
footsteps. I wanted first to earn the right to
be where he had been, and to make footsteps of my own, for my presence in Paris to have
meaning beyond idol-worship.
I was still a young man
when I came to Paris. (I still consider myself a young man!) A personal reason I had included Paris in my
intermarry, aside from having a good friend in Jocelyne, was because of Hemingway’s
growth experiences and his obvious love for the city.
"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young
man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a
moveable feast."
Though I knew my sojourn would be all too brief, I
felt profoundly lucky to be here and to have a place to stay.
(And yes,
Hem, Paris remains a movable feast, even if all you had was a tiny morsel.)
(Paris would
also provide a most unusual connection regarding two carpets I would buy in Egypt…)
The
next afternoon, I rode Melawend to the embassy. I
got onto and Champs Élysées and
entered a motorist's nightmare: drivers ducking in and out, no marked lanes on the wide
boulevard, and the honking – it was all worse than New York. On Avenue de Montainge, a fashionable street with
shops that included Gucci and Dior, I found the embassy.
Here, I met Denise Primrose.
(That is not
her real name and the person you are about to meet is composite of a few haughty people I
have met.)
She
was petite and tanned and had a clear complexion. She
had short dark brown hair and small green eyes. She
was polite but officious. There was an air of
snobbishness in the way she talked about the elegance of Paris and of attending formal
events. She said she would call to make an
appointment for me with a city official. She
let me call my editor in Fort Erie, but soon gave me the neck-slicing gesture to inform me
my call was taking too long.
I
rode Melawend back to Jocelyne's place. Because
all the Hericher's would be out the next day and the apartment would be locked, I would
have to find a place to write during the day, a library perhaps. Jocelyne offered to take me to one nearby so I
could check it out. It was 5:28 p.m. We were having a snack before leaving when we heard
a muffled thud. The apartment shook. I saw fright in Jocelyne's eyes. We left the apartment and walked swiftly. Sirens echoed nearby.
As we crossed the rue de Rennes we looked up the street and saw that it was
being cordoned off. Beyond the police
barricade, we saw many flashing lights. We
reached the crowded library, shaken and a little unnerved.
The book browsers seemed oblivious to what had just happened.
I would not
fully appreciate what had happened until we heard the news later that evening. A bomb had gone off just two blocks from where the
Herichers lived. This was a Wednesday; a day
when Parisian mothers took their children shopping for school clothes. It was seconds before the blast that two
mustachioed men sped by in a black BMW and tossed a bomb onto a sidewalk. The blast devastated a discount clothing store
called Tati and showered the street with glass and debris.
A three-year-old boy was found siting alone and stunned; the lower part of
one of his legs was gone. Five people were
killed and 60 were injured. This was the fifth
and most lethal terrorist bombing in Paris in last 10 days.
Police would suspect the group responsible for reign of terror was the
Committee for Solidarity with Arab and Middle Eastern Political Prisoners (CSPPA), which
was Lebanese in origin. While Jocelyne and I
were walking to the library, people at the Tati store were dealing with the horrors of
carnage.
We
were back at Jocelyne's place by 6:30, in time for me to get a call from Denise. She said I had an appointment with a city official
at the Hotel de Ville the next morning.
Meals
with the Herichers we long and fairly formal affairs.
The parents would arrive home around 8:00 p.m.
We would sit down to dinner by 9:00 and have four-course dinners. This is an example: spaghetti noodles with Guyer
cheese melted over it, vegetable soup with meat, a chilled tuna and rice salad, lettuce
salad, four or five cheeses, followed by a huge apple pastry pie. Their napkins were rolled into silver bands bearing
their names. They would apologize that these
were just simple foods. The Herichers would
converse mainly in French, talking about the events of the day. We would retire after dinner, around 10:30. This particular evening, the Herichers were somber.
I walked toward the Hôtel de Ville then next morning and saw
cafés where chairs and tables were being set outside for the day and deliveries of milk
and wines were being made. Things seemed
normal. But when I reached Notre Dame
Cathedral, I thought even old Quasimodo would be cringing up in his tower as he looked
down to the fleet of dark gray police busses and armoured vehicles and the heavily armed
police that surrounded the magnificent gothic structure that was his sanctuary. It seemed you saw everywhere machine-gun-toting
soldiers wearing dark blue uniforms and bullet-proof vests.
As I stood in the Parvis (Square)
of Notre-Dame, I heard the airy sound of traffic mixed with the sound of sirens.
I
made my way to the extremely ornate white city hall and passed the ground floor post
office. It was boarded up. There was an altar filled with flowers outside. On September 8, a bomb had gone off there, killing
one person and injuring 18. This had begun the
terrorist siege of Parisian peace in what would be called by TIME magazine, "The
Bombs of September". Four days later, an explosion destroyed a suburban cafeteria,
injuring 41. On September 14, a bomb went off
at a restaurant on the Champs Élysées,
leaving one person dead. The following day,
after Chirac announced his new antiterrorist campaign, terrorists ridiculed him by
planting a bomb in the city's central police headquarters.
That blast killed one person and injured 51.
Two days before the Tati store bombing, the CSPPA issued a statement from
Beirut challenging the government’s ability to stop its violence.
"Let
Chirac know that we are stronger than all his departments," the group declared. "We are capable of dealing one blow after
another."
New
visa requirements were invoked.
In
this tense atmosphere, I approached the Hôtel de Ville, the official residence of the
mayor.
The
present neo-Renaissance building dated from 1871 when it was set on fire – when the
Commune was overthrown – and was subsequently fully restored. It was almost obscenely ornate. But this plethora of decoration also made it
impressive, like a gaudy Renaissance palace.
At
a back entrance, three grim-faced police officers and three detectives confronted me. A phone call was made. A tall lean man in a trench coat frisked me while
another looked at my published articles. A
uniformed officer searched my daypack, which bulged with my cameras, mini-tripod and so
on. Everyone going into city hall was being
searched. A phone call was received. Then the look of the man who frisked me softened.
"We
must be very careful." he said.
I
was received by Alain Belais in his 4th floor office. He was dignified man, about 40, a trim and
impeccably groomed fair-haired man attired in a dark three-piece suit. In comparison, I felt like a hobo in my rather odd
Odyssey Jacket and faded jeans, carrying my bulky daypack and flimsy brown valise that had
a large worn Canadian flag sticker on the outside. Alain
was friendly and most receptive of the spirit of my journey.
"Paris
could really use something like this now," he said.
He
made a phone call and handed the receiver to me. I
spoke with a woman who had a gentle, almost child-like voice. She was the manager of parks and historical sites
in Paris. She invited me to come to her office
and discuss my sojourn in Paris. It was too
far to walk to her office. Alain wrote out
directions in French that I could present to an attendant on the Metro.
I
had incredible misgivings about my even being in Paris.
Without the hospitality of Jocelyne and her family, I could not afford to be
here. Though he was immaculate, Alain had not
seemed at all uncomfortable with me. Still, I
became self-conscious about my vagrant appearance, particularly in a city that was world
famous for elegance and haute couture (stylish
clothes). To my lasting regret, I would stop
later at a phone booth near the Louvre and call the manager to decline her offer of a
meeting. I knew that I would have to impose
myself on the city's hospitality and I felt that I did not deserve any that might be
forthcoming.
(However
politely I said it and gracefully she accepted it, I was a profound fool to decline –
I should have taken a chance.)
Before
I left Alain's office, I decided to see Paris on my own.
I wanted to be anonymous.
Alain began to escort me out of the building but was called away
temporarily. A dapper, bald man wearing a
white cravat was sitting in a nearby office. He
noticed my colourful Odyssey Jacket and asked about my travels.
I asked him about the bombings.
"How
do we fight ghosts?" he said.
Alian
posed for me in the city hall courtyard and said, "Bon voyage, Thomas."
It
was sunny and mild mid-September day. I walked
from the Hôtel de Ville and made my way toward the Arc de Triomphe. I made that phone call and then passed the Louvre,
thinking: What a huge ugly building. Yet its plain, blocky bulk seemed the perfect
contrast to highlight the exquisite art that you knew was inside. I would not know it truly because I could not
afford the admission.
When
I thought of art and Paris, I thought of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and the Greek sculpture from the
Parthenon in Athens – Venus de Milo –
they were in there, but I had no time or money to look into this cavernous Mecca to art
lovers. I knew I could have spent a couple of
days there.
I
also related art and Paris to the plundering by the Germans during World War II. According to a secret official German report,
137 freight cars loaded with 4,174 cases of art works comprising 21,903 objects (including
10,890 paintings) had made the journey from the West to Germany up to July 1944. Much of the booty went into the private collections
of Hitler and his number two man, Field Marshal Goering.
I
wandered through the leaf-strewn quietude of the Jardin Des Tuileries. I became envious of the amorous couples that I saw
walking along the sidewalks, sitting on benches, or canoodling along the corridor of shady
trees. To be in Paris without someone you
loved was a tragedy.
I
emerged from the tranquility of the garden at the Place de la Concorde, said to be one of
the most beautiful squares in the world. This
was formerly called the Place de la Révolution and it was a place of retribution –
Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette and Robespierre were among those who had lost their heads here
to the guillotine. Now the noise and haste of
city traffic assaulted you. I considered
retreating to the garden.
I
stopped for a moment to marvel at the 72-foot (22-meter) -high Egyptian Obelisk. Once again, I romanced the notion that I was on my
way to Egypt, a place that promised so much contrast to all that I had seen so far on the
journey. The obelisk looked sorely out of
place. It dated from the time of Ramses II and
was brought to France in 1833 from the temple in Luxor as a gift to Louis Philippe from
Egyptian Viceroy, Mehmed Ali. It seemed
to me that it should have been criminal even for a leader of a country to give away or
allow the export of any artifact of his or her country’s heritage. What, for example, did Ramses II have to do with
Paris? The obelisk was covered with
hieroglyphics that illustrated Ramses’ glorious deeds.
I wondered, Would that temple back
in Luxor not be truly complete without the obelisk?
I stopped by the embassy to see Denise and tell her of my meeting
with Alain Belais. Big Mistake. As we went up
the elevator, she pruned her nose.
"Eeeuuuw! You went there looking like that?"
I
was mortified. My first impulse was to shrivel
up and leave. But she had a point. My blue jeans were badly faded on the front of the
legs, scrubbed bare by wind and rain while riding Melawend.
I was wearing a jacket festooned with colorful crests – something a kid
might wear after school. I needed a haircut. Her comment made me suddenly glad that I had turned
down the invitation of the parks and historical sites manager. But I also thought it was silly to feel so badly
about myself and that Denise was taking the nature of my journey completely out of
context.
"I
traveling around the world on a motorscooter," I said.
"I really don't think people expect me to show up in a three-piece
suit."
And
besides, it seemed that I might have been excused by the words of Henry David Thoreau who
said, “Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes.”
I
could be trusted, even if I did look a bit shabby.
Denise
just frowned and shook her head. My
spirit cracked. The vagrant image stuck with
her. She said she was too busy to help me but
that I could use the photocopier, sparingly. I
did and then walked by her office and saw that she was reading a newspaper. She appeared not to notice me. I found a chair in a hallway and rolled the Odyssey
Jacket into my daypack. I got my cameras back
from security and was about to leave when Denise came down to the front door. We went out at the same time.
"May
I join you for lunch?" I said.
"No,
I'm just going to grab a sandwich and get back to the office."
You
would not have guessed that we knew each other. She
walked a few steps ahead of me, oblivious to my presence, and disappeared into nearby
café.
I
let my mortification influence my opinion of Denise.
“She
was small and neatly suspicious and too good for her position.” (The latter in the context of Denise having to help me at the embassy.) Hemingway's words suited the way I was feeling.
The embassy's
neighbours included the posh stores of Ricci, Christian Dior and Valentino. I saw a wealthy Japanese mother and daughter
photographing each other outside the Christian Dior store across the street from the
embassy and I stealthily photographed them. Well-dressed
ambassadors of their country, I thought.
Was
Denise right? Was I wrong? Was I being rather crude or even radical in my
approach to my journey? I was in France, the
place that had given the world the aspect of “Right” and “Left”
political views. In May 1789, just two months
before the French Revolution began with the storming of the Bastile, King Louis XVI called
a meeting of a national body, for the first time in over 150 years. As was customary at official gatherings, honored
guests sat to the right of the host. The more
revolutionary members sat on the left of the speaker’s rostrum. As often seen in history, there was a fomenting gap
between the over-privileged rich and the overtaxed poor.
All parties at the meeting agreed on the need for changes in the status quo
but there was lack of unity for action. On the
right, the entrenched nobility and clergy, with Louis’ support, tried to thwart the
more numerous commoners by throwing up procedural delays.
The commoners on the left took matters into their own hands and Louis
ultimately lost his head back there on the Place de la Concorde.
I
was not so radical (or confident enough) as to more assertively challenge Denise on her
scented opinion of my approach. This was
partly because I detected between us a distinct separation of common and aristocratic airs
– she was just too snooty for me to face any more.
I continued my trek to the Arc de Triomphe on the busiest part of
the famous Champs Élysées. To me, the very
name Champs Élysées evoked the romance and glitter of Paris. This was the commercial part of it, full of big
banks and the offices of international airlines, luxury shops, hotels, countless
restaurants and outdoor cafés. I bought
a large butter cookie and an apple pastry and I sidestepped café patrons as I made my way
to the Arc.
Beside
patrons at one of the cafés, soldiers were searching several Middle-Eastern men, one of
whom looked quite distinguished. TV cameras
were taking this all in.
I
was still feeling badly about myself as I walked toward the Arc. I wanted to hide somewhere. Before coming to Paris, I had wanted to have a cup
of coffee at an outdoor café along this famous boulevard, but when I came by the Brassier
de L’Etoile, I felt scrutinized. Though I
would normally have enjoyed being among its people-watching patrons, I passed it by. Denise’s words and demeanor had really gotten
to me. Why?
"Nobody
can make you feel inferior without your consent."
Eleanor Roosevelt had said.
I
needed to regain my confidence.
The
ring road around the Arc in the middle of the Place Charles de Gaulle was a mass of
circling cars, about seven-deep. There seemed
to be no way to get to the Arc.
“Look
out!” said a girl standing nearby.
I
had stepped into the road and a girl pointed to a truck that was coming at me.
The
driver honked.
The
girl was beautiful!
"Thanks."
I said.
She
informed me that you went under the road to get to the Arc and she pointed to a stairway
that led down to a pedestrian tunnel. We
walked together to the next intersection where she planned to catch a bus. Her name was Tammy.
She was an American and she looked like the singer Marie Osmond. She was dressed in a stylish black business suit. She looked and smelled so exquisite that even
Denise would have envied her (or at least should have).
She was a recent graduate in Marketing and had been living in Paris for
three months. She was on her way to an
important meeting. Tammy did not seem to take
any notice of my appearance. She smiled at me,
often, and she would keep direct eye contact with me when she talked. We stood in the shade of golden trees and talked
like old friends, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around us. Her bus came and went, but she laughed it off.
"I'm
so sorry, Tammy," I said. "I
made you miss your bus."
"That's
okay. Another will be along soon."
I
was happy but I felt weak. Denise's comments
and actions had drained my self-confidence. I
wanted to see Tammy again, but I thought, why would this beautiful, cosmopolitan girl want
anything to do with me? Still, Tammy seemed so
at ease with me. She was just getting
interested in a tale about my journey, and I was almost ready to ask for her phone number,
when another bus came. Suddenly I was
conscious of the Parisian rush around us. People
scurried onto the bus and she was taken away in the flow.
"Good-bye,
Tom," she said as she stepped into the bus. "Good
luck!"
The
bus pulled away. I could see Tammy smile and
wave at me as she walked back toward a seat. I
raised a hand and waved feebly as she disappeared from my life.
I
felt more self-confident now but also very flustered with myself as I made my way to the
Arc de Triomphe. With limited funds, I'd had
to choose between the Arc and the Eiffel Tower. I
decided that I wanted to do the Eiffel later, with someone I loved.
The
Arc was a tribute to the victories of someone who was ultimately defeated. There were bas-reliefs of Napoleon’s triumphs
and the shields around the top bore the names of great battles. The 150-year old structure itself, bigger than the
Arch of Constantine in Rome, was crumbling. Shifting
foundations and vibrations from traffic had unsettled it.
A nylon net hung from its ornately carved arches to catch chunks of falling
stone. In the floor beneath the huge arch was
the ubiquitous Tomb of Unknown Soldier and the Eternal Flame, which was tended every
evening.
I
went to the top of the Arc and took in the view: tree-lined boulevards radiating from the
Arc like the spokes of a wheel. I could see
the Eiffel Tower looking like an exquisite broach on the sequined fabric of Paris –
you could not help but want to serenade this beautiful city, even in describing it.
While
I was snapping pictures, I met a Japanese girl with splayed teeth. She was on vacation.
She had been living in London and was learning English there. She hated city weather and city food. She was on a brief tour of Europe before returning
to Japan to teach English to children. She was
a friendly soft-spoken girl but my mind was still on the departing of a bus.
Then I was alone atop the Arc.
I looked out over the city. Paris
was like a woman so beautiful that she was adored and protected by everyone. It was hard to imagine Paris besieged by anyone
except hordes of admirers. But she had been
raped by many, including invisible terrorists and a gloating dictator. I looked down at the traffic that circled the tower
and held in mind a bizarre image of a smug Adolph Hitler, standing in his convertible
Mercedes, being driven around and around the Arc, and saying, "Paris is mine! France is mine!
Ring around the rosary!" But
when the tide of war turned against him, he gave the order that heavy artillery and V-1
bombs be used to destroy Paris.
Looking
at the everyday traffic below, it was hard to visualize the battle for Paris in June of
1944. Hemingway had been in the thick of it. He had stood up here atop the Arc with Colonel
David Bruce and a squad of Pompiers. At the
far end of the Champs Élysées they could see a vehicle was burning in the Place de la
Concorde and behind, in the Tuileries Gardens, it looked as if a tank was on fire. They saw smoke was coming from the Crillon Hotel.
Colonel
Bruce wrote: "Snipers were firing steadily into the area around the Arc de Triomphe,
and French were firing back at them. Tanks
were firing in various streets. Part of the
Arc was under fire from snipers… A shell
from a German 88 nicked one of its sides."
If
the Arc glorified battles, the Eiffel Tower epitomized the romance of Paris. I made my way over to it to capture some images. I stopped first at the Palais de Chaillot, a pair
of monstrous pavilions that were built for the 1837 World’s Fair. It stretched out in two enormous wings and had a
complex of terraces, stairways and gardens leading down the slopes of Challot Hill to the
Seine. The pavilions contained museums; the
grounds contained tourists. The Palais de
Chaillot offered splendid views of the tower. I
came to capture on image of the romance the tower invoked.
My shot was of a young European couple.
He was sitting Indian-style on the concrete wall of a terrace. She had taken
off her shoes and straddled the wall, with her body facing him. They were gazing at the tower in silence. I moved in behind them.
Click.
I
walked over to the Eiffel Tower and took photos from many angles. You might have thought it was photographed to
death, but its elegant lines defied cliché and challenged your creativity.
(Almost two
years later, I would reach the Hollywood studio of celebrity photographer Doug Kirkland,
who also grew up my hometown of Fort Erie. There,
I would see his image of the debonair French actor Maurice Chevalier, taken here at an
unusual upward angle against the tower…but I’m getting ahead of myself again.)
I
was standing beneath the very intricate and impressive and romantic Eiffel Tower, feeling
the absence of Her in my life more than ever. I'll be back…with Her. I felt an unbearable urge to leave Paris
immediately.
I
walked swiftly back toward the rue du Cherche Midi. But
I thought, This haste is stupid! What a waste. I’m
in Paris NOW! God only knows when – or if
– I will return. I slowed my pace and
enjoyed the golden light of sunset as it mellowed the walls of houses and the pavement
along narrow streets. I let myself begin to
feel an intimacy with Paris, like a first kiss on first date: I wanted more but I knew
that I would have to leave soon.
I
went back to the Hericher's flat where Jocelyne and I looked at my photos. Jocelyne had spent the day in Versailles. Her parents had been busy with the exposition at
the Grand Palace. We sat down to another
sumptuous meal that her parents cooked together. I
shared with the Herichers one of the bottles of wine that the mayor of Lahr had given to
me. Everyone turned in after dinner.
In
the morning, I shared breakfast with Jocelyne's parents who dined in their bath robes. They dressed and we said our good-byes as they left
separately. I managed to take a portrait of
Francoise just before she departed.
I
packed up my gear. I had received a lot of printed information and artifacts from British,
Scandinavian and European officials who had welcomed my visit. These people had made my efforts seem important, no
matter what my appearance might have been. Because
of the quasi-diplomatic nature of my journey, I wanted to see if the embassy in Paris
would send these materials to Fort Erie for me. I
offered to pay for the postage. But I had to
make my application through Denise.
"I
don't want to do that," she said.
Despite
Denise's put-downs, I now felt better about myself. The
Herichers, the city officials I had encountered, the girl who got away, and the city
itself had helped me to feel that way. I spent
the rest of the morning repacking my gear and making repairs to the wooden platform. Jocelyne talked about my travels and made a
fantastic lunch for us – vegetable quiche (who said real men didn’t eat quiche?), fish in a great
tomato sauce, cheeses, and tarts that you ate with a spoon.
We
went out briefly so I could shop for bread, film and a better map of France. Jocelyne was such a shy and gentle person and so
appreciative of simple things, like someone opening a door for her or giving her your
homeland souvenirs in gratitude. In the
courtyard, we hugged goodbye and she walked me to the gate.
And with her good directions, I left Paris.
Phileas Fogg was in the city for a mere 1 hour and 20 minutes – I was
lucky to have had four days, a home and friends in Paris.
I
left realizing I had not seen the places in Paris that had been the most familiar to
Hemingway. That was okay – I had not
designed my journey as a walk through anyone’s footsteps. I had made this first visit to Paris my own. I had also not seen Paris by night, but that was a
minor tragedy. I left happy in knowing that,
if possible, I would definitely return someday, in the arms of love.
Melawend and I took highway
number 20, on which you did not have to pay toll, rolled down through flat open country to
Orleans where I backtracked to find another no-toll road, Number 152, taking it to Blois. (Joan of Arc had once lived in a châteaux here.) I wanted to experience at least some glimpses of
the famous Loire River and its famous châteaux.
This tranquil river was a
canvas for the European Renaissance where 16th century French kings built
architectural masterpieces to die for. In
fact, it was at the invitation of King
Francis I that Leonardo da Vinci came to the Loire to live out the rest of his life. (Leonardo brought along with him his Mona Lisa.) The
king gave him the 15th
century manor, Clos-Lucé. Leonardo spent the last three years of his life in
Amboise. Here, Leonardo
proposed to the King a system for regulating the untamed river Loire, and possibly
outlined the plans for the exquisite châteaux
at Chambord. It was in Amboise that I
sent home 14 rolls of exposed film, the 4th odyssey story to the Times-Review, and a letter to Charlton Heston.
But of the
river and châteaux,
all I got were glimpses. From the road I was
on, I saw only arrows pointing down long shady lanes to various châteaux. I saw only
small fraction of a wall or, above the tops of the trees, the peaks of some elegant towers. The river itself was often out of sight. The Loire
Valley became yet another place to come with Her, someday.
It was late
afternoon and I needed to find a place to camp. I
rode through pretty villages and passed by what amounted to hobby farms, but nothing
really promising of a campsite. Larger farms
seemed to be well off the road so I got onto the 991, a "D" or tertiary road
that followed the south side of the river.
I saw some fancy campgrounds, and thought they would be
expensive. Further on, I saw three vans parked
by the river. I pulled in and was eyed
suspiciously, perhaps even appraisingly by what seemed a small band of gypsies. I feared theft or worse, so I smiled, waved and
left.
Further
still, I saw perhaps a dozen white RV trailers and a few cars parked down by the
riverside. I pulled in. It was not a campground. I asked a Frenchman, who was dark like an Italian,
if I could camp here. He did not speak English
but he knew what I meant – a free camp.
"Oui,"
he said.
The
whole group seemed intermingled, as if they belonged together like some a large family. I set up under a tree just a few feet from the
riverbank and was watched occasionally by some of the people staying here. The man I had originally met came over and tried to
carry on a conversation in French. I wished
I'd had a phrase book. He understood gestures
but gave up and went back with the others. No
one bothered me and I watched a pleasant sunset over the river.
I
stayed all the next day, writing the next story for The
Times-Review while sitting against a tree by the
riverbank. A man passed by and made a
gesture that asked if I was writing. I nodded. He smiled and left me to it.
While
I was writing, a short muscular man came up to me. He
was about sixty years old and he wore a sleeveless red T-shirt and green cap. He skin was leathery and he had a coarse
white beard – picture a coarser version of Charles Bronson. He started talking away in French and I knew he was
talking about the Second World War. I
recognized "Luftwaffe", and "Canadien pilots" and "Zzzuk bhoom, bhoom,
bhoom…tat-tat-tat-tat-tat."
"Canadien,
French, Engleesh, Belgique," he said. He
clasped his hands over his arms in a gesture of solidarity and said, "Ami." He clasped my hand tightly, then patted me on the
back and left. I returned to my writing. He came back a short time later with a thermos of
coffee and poured a cup for me. As I drank, he
just sat there, smiled and nodded a few times.
Here
I was just a few feet from the placid Loire, in the company of total strangers who had
accepted my presence without hassle. One had
even confided deep long-held feelings that made me proud of my nation and grateful to our
soldiers. The old gentleman had given me
far more than a tale and some coffee.
In
Tours the next morning, I noticed that Melawend's rear tire was getting critically bald. I had not been able to get a free tire out of Honda
Switzerland nor had I time to see if there was a Honda company in Paris. I had to make for Madrid as soon as possible so I
barreled toward the border at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay.
It
was sunny and warm as I rode south along mostly open highway past vineyards and fields of
corn and sunflowers. It was, to me,
unspectacular country made depressing because crops had been harvested and the sunflowers
were brown and wilted. They looked
regiments of charred standing corpses. I could
not imagine any other field of crops that looked more devastated after harvesting.
About
30 miles (50 km) north of Bordeaux, I spotted a farmhouse up a steep drive from the
highway. A tall old man in coveralls was
working in dark dusty shed that was attached to the brick house. He understood my gestures for camping and nodded.
"Femme?'
he said.
"No,"
I said, pointing to my empty ring finger. Then
I pretended I was looking through binoculars.
He
gave me a big toothless grin and laughed approvingly and then left me to set up just
beyond a small overgrown flower garden about 100 feet from the house. I was observed constantly by a fat white cat. I drifted off to sleep in a weedy field that
smelled like damp hay.
The
next morning under mainly overcast skies Melawend and I drove through Bordeaux, one of the
dirtiest cities I had ever seen. From a bridge
over the Garonne River, I saw a thick rusty-brown cloud hanging low over the city. It darkened the clutter of filthy crumbling
buildings along congested waterfront.
(In
retrospect, this was a harsh observation of the city, colored by atmosphere. This view was the only one I really had of the
city.)
I
continued to Bayonne and found Franco Americain Honda, a large Honda dealership in
Biarritz, one that carried cars and motorcycles. I
talked with the manager. He understood a
little English. The biggest scooter they had
was the 125cc. Two of his mechanics helped me
put my spare tire on rear wheel – I did most of the work because they had never
worked on a 250cc scooter. They got the new
tire on but could not get air to stay in it. The
manager came in, bounced the tire and rim hard on the floor a couple of times and filled
the tire. We discovered that the plug that had
been put in the tire in Norway for $60 was just about to pop out.
At
the foot of the Pyrenees, I turned off onto a side road to look for a place to camp. There were nice forests with homes scattered at the
fringes. I stopped at a particularly beautiful
home that was next to a forest. A woman came
down from the upper level entrance followed by her shirtless 20ish son. I explained my journey.
"May
I camp over there for the night?" I said, pointing to the woods.
"Yes,"
the woman said, turning to her son.
"Back
up the road, we have a campground," the son said.
"I
saw it but I really don't have money for campgrounds."
"No
problem. We own the campground.
You just go ahead and don't worry."
He
said he would come by later to collect camping fees from the other campers, but he never
showed up. It was a woodsy campground and I
saw only one other tent set up. There was a
light on in one of the tiny bungalows. There
were a few camping trailers parked but there were no cars near them. The campground was virtually deserted. As I listened to the twitter of birds, I caught up
with my journals.
Night
closed in and it began to rain. For the third
time on the journey, I treated myself to music on my GE Walkman. (I tried to conserve my
batteries.) I listened to my tape of
inspirational music including movie soundtracks from St.
Elmo's Fire, Star Wars, Neil Diamond's The Jazz
Singer, King Kong, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Star Wars and Superman. The
music inspired me and kept me company.
Around
10:30, in the full blackness of night, a storm hit. Though
I used a ground sheet under the tent, I found that the rain would still seep in through
seams in the floor. As the torrent began, I
wrestled with my mountain of gear in the dark, shifting it all to one side of the tent as
I spread out a plastic sheet on the floor and then moved the gear over to complete the
job. When I was done, I laughed with a fearful
excitement as the rain beat hard on the wall of my tent.
The walls would flash brilliant green like a strobe light during bursts of
lightning. The sudden shadows of trees made me
feel surrounded by prowlers. The sky cracked
with thunder, just inches above my head, it seemed.
God is bowling
tonight, all strikes.
When
He finished, I relaxed to the sound of a gentle rain that tapped on the walls of the tent. I could hear acorns falling on Melawend's wooden
platform. I decided to stay here for another
day. It would give me time to clean up, thin
out my load and plan ahead. I also wanted to
stay in France one more night so I could change money and find a crest of France for the
Odyssey Jacket.
It
drizzled all the next day so I spent my time cleaning, disposing of excess papers, writing
in my journals and organizing my gear. I
learned to eat sparingly as I had only four slices of bread and a can of chicken noodle
soup.
I
went to sleep that night thinking of Spain – how, supposedly, the rain fell mainly on
the plain; of recent Basque terrorism; of castles; of El Cid; of the warm beaches of the
Mediterranean; and of Hemingway and bullfights and the running of the bulls in the streets
of Pamplona… It was all such a contrast to what I had experienced so far. But what did I truly know of Spain? I drew the lip of the sleeping up tight against my
chin. Ignorance had a way of building
apprehensions.
Chapter 20
Spanish Heroes
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