Seven years ago while both studying and traveling abroad, my eight year old niece asked me to take her "Flat Fran" with me on a trip and mail it back to her, at school, post marked from some obscure city. She was excited because the rest of her class had sent thier "Flat Fran's" to cousins across town or at most a grandmother in a Florida. My niece was in for, not just a history lesson, but a moral dilemma. Not only did I bring "Flat Fran" to Omaha and Normandy beaches, the cemetary etc, but I brough "Flat Fran" to the infamous Hofbräuhaus where they have beer steins, as big as Fran, breathalizers in the urinals, so you can see how drunk you are, and real oom-pah bands with beer wenches to satiate your thirst.
Thursday March 21, 2002
Sitting here in the hostel, full from spaghetti bolognase and one too many glasses of house red wine, it is difficult to express in words what one feels when walking on Omaha and Normandy Beaches. Even though I wasn't alive when the American, British and Canadian troops were being bombarded, and murdered by the thousands, by German soldiers, I still felt as though I was at their wake. There was a very somber tone, walking through the gigantic divets on the hills surrounding the beach that was caused by mortar shellsand were now filled in with grass. I walked away from my friends and strolled down the beach and was blanketed by a silence that leaves a funny buzzing sound in your ears. I was imagining what it must have been like to be eighteen years old and hearing bullets and mortar shells blowing up around me. What could it have felt like to wade through the crimson colored sea water filled with your comrades blood? The hair on my entire body was erect and and the cool ocean breeze sent chills down my spine. The grounds at the Normandy American Cemetary are impeccable, and the scene is breathtaking. Thousands of perfectly symmetrical, white, marble crosses are carefully set on top of grass that looks as though it is manicured by hand. The crosses are etched with the names of the brave young men and women who lost their lives on this infamous day.
The French people in this part of the country are so warm and welcoming to us "Americans," compared to the Parisians. They offered us coffee and were eager to chat, it was very uplifting and I have never felt so proud to be an American in all my life. I was treated as the grandson of one of the fallen heroes that lie in the ground below me and the patriotic feelings that rushed through my body made me quiver with ecstasy. I am going to make it a point to pay tribute to these fallen soldiers every Veterans Day. This is a place that everyone should visit.
Following a visit to the museum at the cemetery, we decided to take our little fiat, to a place called Mont St. Michel. This ancient monastery that is now a tourist mecca that is incredible. It sits a top of a cliff overlooking the currilean blue waters over the Atlantic. At low tide we were going to walk out to another island as the tide changes are so drastic, however we dicided to drink a pint of kronenbourg and watch the other tourist walk through the muck and mire, as we contemplated the depthness of our morning. The castle encapsulates a small village filled with cobblestone streets and old french vendors selling the usual trinkets to the tourists. So I did the ususal tourist thing and bought my granmother a bell with the castle on it, my nieces some spoons and I bought myself a patch to put on my hat. Mont St. Michel is one of those places that are always damp and cold. Climbing up the stairs were treachorous as they were all covered in a microscopic film that was more slick than water on oil. It smelled like my friend Flea's basement that I remember alwasy being musty. I thought that this place is truly picturesque but didn't care for the almost twenty dollar entrance fee. Gotta get some much needed shut eye for our excursion to Aix-en Provence tomorrow!
No comments:
Post a Comment