May 5

En route to Moscow from Warsaw

The good news is that we are on the overnight train from Warsaw to Moscow. The bad news is that we seem to have lost our ticket and risk being thrown off at the next backwater village. The odd thing is that we had the ticket when the conductor came by and have not left our compartment. I am assuming he must have taken it. We will see what happens.

In the meantime it is about 90 degrees in our tiny two-bunk compartment, and there is no café car. And we are creeping along as if we were in the US. No bullet train today. Welcome to Eastern Europe!

Actually getting on the train was half the fun. After some effort to determine which platform the train would be on, we went to platform 2 where a herd of anxious people were waiting; and one friendly English-speaking guy wearing a blue, plaid shirt confirmed that this was the Moscova platform. (He too was headed to Moscow.) Then all of a sudden –at the approximate time the train was supposed to arrive–after an incomprehensible announcement, everyone on the platform started running madly toward the escalator including the guy with the blue plaid shirt. We madly rushed behind him and the mob, which appeared headed for platform 1, where a train was waiting, conductors looking at their watches impatiently, and people desperately running for the doors. We were dead last (since our car was at the rear of the train and we had longer to go and more luggage to pull), and the conductor hurried us up and helped us pull up our 50 pound suitcases as the train started to move.

Whew! We are on our way to Moscow where we will arrive in about 20 hours if we make it through Belarus border control and don’t get thrown off for losing our ticket.

But what about about Warsaw? In a word, it was terrific. Warsaw is definitely a sleeper. Embry was here on a choir tour in 1988 (along with her mother, who joined her since the Charlotte Symphony was accompanying the Cathedral Choral Society in a performance of Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony). In those days it was grim: dull grey buildings, no advertising of any sort, empty restaurants, all owned by the state, offering lousy food with poor service, no evidence that anything new had been built for a long time, limited food options in the stores, and an atmosphere of gloom. In short it was a poster child for the Soviet Occupation. Ironically, it was only a year later—in 1989—that the Soviet Union collapsed; and shortly after that Poland gained its independence. No one Embry talked to in 1988 had a clue that this was coming.

So what is Warsaw like today? It is a complete sea change from what is was 25 years ago. It is certainly not a Madrid, Paris or Berlin, but it is a thriving city with energy and vitality and optimism and hope for the future. There are perhaps a dozen new tall glass office buildings with 30 or more stories, a number of elegant hotels, most of the major hotel chains, shopping malls and street fronts with all the major retail chains, countless restaurants offering a wide range of food, bright lights and a lot of restoration still in progress. Most impressive is the restoration of the “Old Town,” rebuilt from drawings and other documents, since most of it was destroyed in World War II along with the rest of Warsaw. A lot of money has gone into rebuilding and restoring Warsaw. The Old Town now feels very much like the older sections of Madrid or Valencia. There are numerous outdoor cafes and small shops and several large plazas. And the restoration actually covers a fairly large area, similar to Georgetown or Capitol Hill. It was jammed packed, full of people both days we visited.

What made our first visit to Old Town special was that the day–May 3, our first full day in the city–was Constitution Day, celebrating the fact that Poland has the oldest constitution in Europe (and which is older than the US Constitution). The main street of Old Town was decorated with red and white Polish flags, and thousands of people lined the streets on this beautiful, sunny day to hear speeches and watch the dignitaries parade up the long avenue accompanied by bands and marching soldiers. We stumbled upon this spectacle and enjoyed every minute (though unfortunately John stayed back at the hotel nursing a pulled muscle). There is terrific pride here as evidenced by people waiving miniature Polish flags, wearing small red and white buttons and ribbons and the exuberant spirit of the crowd.

And they have good reason to be proud. Warsaw was obliterated by the Nazis and did not fare much better under the long Soviet occupation. But these two occupations were only the most recent in a long chain of conquests going back to the Middle Ages—Prussia and Russia being the primary culprits. For many years they were not even considered a country at all. There is something about the Polish soul that does not give up, and which keeps outlasting the foreigners who lay claim to their homeland.

A few other observations: in terms of city planning and design, except for the restored Old Town sector, Warsaw seems a lot more like US cities than it does the Western European cities we just visited. John and I took a day trip out of the city and observed that suburban sprawl and junk advertising are pretty much on a par with US cities. The countryside is beautiful with lush fields and small farms and villages; but along the road it is KFC, McDonalds, Burger King and every kind of sign you can imagine, along with our European friend, Graffiti.

Then there is the role of the Catholic Church. According to everyone we talked to in Spain, France and Germany, the established church is for most people—especially young people, academics, intellectuals and “thinking people”—a thing of the past. Not so here. You can feel the presence of the church—clergy and nuns walking the sidewalks, clergy represented at Constitution Day, and standing room only at the large Catholic Church where we visited briefly on Sunday.

There are probably many explanations, but one is that in Spain, Germany and France, the Church generally took the side of the bad guys, tacitly supporting Franco, the Vichy Government and Hitler. In Poland, they were clearly supportive of and instrumental in the Liberation effort during and following the Soviet occupation. It is refreshing to experience a Church seems to be very vital in people’s lives.

Finally, a word on sports heroes. There is a seven foot center who plays for the Washington Wizards who is from Poland whose name is Marcin Gortat, known as the “Polish Hammer.” When I mentioned this to the driver of the car John and I were traveling in yesterday on our day trip, he perked up and exclaimed, “Gortat? Scored 12 points yesterday and the Wizards beat the Hawks in the playoffs! Everyone in Poland loves Gortat!”

(In my effort to understand the graffiti phenomenon, I asked Peter, our driver, to help me understand why there is so much graffiti, to which he answered, “You should know. We got it from the US.”)

Finally, a special thanks to John and Grace Curry for joining us for this part of the trip. They enjoyed doing the same kind of things we did, and we had great fun being with them in Germany and Poland. As we make our way to Moscow, they are now on a plane to Frankfurt where they will spend a day before heading home. We will miss them.

(We just got a text message from John saying that the driver of a “private cab” spit in his face when he paid less than expected when vacating the cab. Hope that does not ruin for them the memories of this extraordinary city.)

Yesterday Embry and Grace took the bullet train to Krakow, and John and I hired a driver to take us to Auschwitz. That is the subject of the an accompanying post.

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May 6

Warsaw

The other thing we did while in Warsaw was take a day trip to Auschwitz. John and I hired a driver to take us on the four hour drive to get there. Embry and Grace decided to take the bullet train to Krakow, one of the few Medieval towns spared by the Napoleonic and 20^th century wars. (Embry had visited Auschwitz in her earlier trip to Poland.)

I suppose there are few people who do not have an image of Auschwitz, especially people our age. We have seen the photographs. We have read articles and perhaps books. We know it was awful and horrendous.

But it is also true that you really do not get the complete picture until you see it first hand. You stand in the gas chambers where toward the end of the war more than 20,000 persons a day, mainly Jews, were being murdered. You stand where the medical official separated those who went immediately to the gas chambers, almost all the women, children and elderly, from those who would be given a reprieve of weeks or perhaps months to do the dirty work—remove dead bodies from the chambers, clean the latrines, construct more barracks, or anything else they were told to do. These “lucky ones,” mainly boys and men between 14 and 40, worked at least twelve hours a day, got soup and bread to eat if they were lucky, and usually died of exhaustion or starvation within weeks.

You see the torture chambers where “unruly” prisoners were put into tiny cells with no light and suffocated or starved to death slowly.

You hear that one of the chief factors for using gas to kill the prisoners in addition to being more efficient was that it was more painful to the victim. Considerable effort went into perfecting the technique to enhance the pain inflicted. The procedure which they eventually settled on took and an average time of around 20 minutes to die. Those who were still alive that time were shot.

You look at the bunks—wood or concrete, no mattresses or padding– where perhaps three people could have managed to sleep uncomfortably but were routinely occupied by six or seven. You see the mountains of shoes, the tons of hair, the prayer shawls, the piles of suitcases and the photographs, which are the most chilling of all. All prisoners were photographed upon entering Auschwitz. There they are: kids who would have been in school or on the playground. Mothers and fathers, grandparents, just normal people whose only crime was being a Jew (or gay or a gypsy or physically handicapped or mentally ill). There was no room for these “misfits” in the Super Race that Hitler intended to create which would rule the world for a thousand years.

At its height, the Auschwitz death-machine accommodated on any given day over 90,000 people in two locations less than a mile apart. There were more than 4,000 guards and police there each day keeping them in line. One million deaths were officially recorded between 1941 and 1945. The actual number was closer to 1.5 million. In the various camps located across Nazi Europe, over six million Jews were murdered, more than half of all the Jews in Europe. By 1945 Hitler was well along the way to eliminating the entire Jewish population. Had the US not entered the war and had the Allies not defeated the Nazis, he could well have succeeded.

Yes, we all know this story. But actually being at Auschwitz, seeing it with your own eyes and walking in the same paths as the prisoners did–well, it is different.

Of course, the big question is how could this have happened. This was not the Middle Ages. This was not a “backward” country. This happened just over 50 years ago in one of the most advanced, most well-educated parts of the planet, a region which had produced the world’s greatest music, philosophy, theology and art. It happened in an area that was officially Christian.

When we look at what is going on in Syria and elsewhere in the Middle East and north Africa and conclude that “those people” are barbarians, let us not forget the Holocaust. For “Westerners,” this happened on our watch, in our back yard, not in some remote, “backward” area. This is our legacy.

I have to admit that for years I have been prejudiced towards the Germans. The German population elected Hitler in the first place and acquiesced as the rules of the game changed. They may not have had all the details; but they surely knew Jews were disappearing from their communities and going somewhere. Why didn’t they rebel? Why didn’t they overthrow this maniac, this demon? What was wrong with the Germans?

I now do not see this as exclusively a German problem but rather a human one. The Germans are not any different from the rest of us. We humans are herd animals. We may complain about politics, but we need leaders and ultimately we follow them. That is just the way we humans are. We live our own lives and let the chips fall. If an action does not affect us personally, most of us simply go about our daily lives. We don’t fight back, especially when the consequences to us and our families may be dire. The problem with Germany was they got Hitler.

That is why leadership is so important and why good leaders ultimately make all the difference. I know it is not only leaders, but that surely is part of it.

But to be honest, I am stumped. Why do we live in a world where the Holocaust happened? Where does God fit into all this? How can God be all powerful and all good? Why is the church more often than not a bystander and upon occasion an enabler of really bad things? There are no answers, only questions. This is the human condition.

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May 5

Belarus

So what is it like to cross from Poland into Belarus?

Our train reached the border with Belarus around seven pm. The first group to board were dressed in Polish military uniforms. They asked where were going and why we were on the train, looked at our visas, smiled, and wished us well. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that this obstacle of getting into one of the world’s most inhospitable countries was overcome. The train crept along for about 15 minutes when I looked out and spotted a guard post. In five minutes the train had stopped again, and a different military group boarded the train. They did not look happy.The conductor told us we were in Brest, which is in Belarus.

We had our door open, and suddenly someone slammed it shut. We waited patiently for several minutes until two officers in brown uniforms abruptly opened our door and demanded our passports, then started searching our tiny compartment. Oddly they did not open our luggage but looked under our mattresses. I was secretly hoping they might find my missing cell phone, the one stolen by the two-year-old in Brittany. They asked essentially the same questions as the other soldiers, gave us stern looks, some forms to fill out, took the passports and disappeared.

In about 30 minutes they returned with the passports, frowned and nodded that everything was in order. We had cleared Belarus passport control. How sweet these small victories!

Then came the onslaught. The onslaught consisted of three different women—all in their 20s or 30s and pretty, who appeared one after the other, selling exactly the same food—beer, Russian vodka, warm, baked chicken wrapped in newspaper, potatoes wrapped in thin plastic wrap and large pickles. We ended up buying chicken, potatoes, pickles and beer from the first two women. When the third one appeared about five minutes later, we had already purchased all the food we wanted and were low on money. So we refused. But she would not leave us alone, badgering us for a good five minutes before she finally admitted defeat and left. We locked the door behind her. It reminded me of being in Egypt.

Part of the challenge was that they spoke no English and for whatever reason demanded to be paid only in euros, which I had already cashed in for rubles at the train station. When it became apparent that we had no euros, they reluctantly agreed to take the equivalent of five euros, which they said was 3,000 rubbles. I had no idea of what the exchange rate was and cheerfully handed over 3,000 rubles as requested, discovering afterwards that the exchange rate is 55 rubbles per dollar, which meant we had paid $60.00. Nice windfall for the ladies.

The food, however, was delicious, probably even worth the money when you consider there was no café car . According to Embry the potatoes were the best she had ever eaten and in my opinion the chicken was not far behind.

After the conductor chased the ladies off the train, it moved very slowly into what appeared to be some kind of repair facility where we sat for a while with intermittent slams and jerks. And then we sat and sat and sat. By 9:45 pm we were rolling again, a delay of about three hours. As we pulled out of the repair facility–or whatever it was– a huge, orange full moon rose over the mostly dark buildings in Brest. Welcome to the Russian Federation! Onward Toward Moscow!

The night went much better than expected and we both got a fairly decent sleep, waking up around six to sun shining through the mist and sparkling, delicate green leaves just popping out in early spring. The houses now were wooden, many in disrepair, resembling the shacks you used to see along railroad tracks in the US and still exist in parts of Appalachia. There were lots of small vegetable plots but no visible cultivation of large fields like we had seen in Western Europe, some early signs that Russia was going to be very different.

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May 1

Berlin

The bullet train whisked us from lush rolling farmland to evergreen forests and steep hills about an hour out of Paris when houses of different colors, some bold, started to appear, quite unlike the white and beige house colors in France. The announcements over the loud speaker suddenly changed from French-then German-then English to just German-then English. We were in Germany!

The county side was more hilly and the farm houses and villages more varied but every bit as beautiful as the French countryside.

After transferring about half way to a local train (with many stops) we arrived at the massive train station in central Berlin on time at 5:30, a total trip of almost eight hours. In heading for the taxi line, we bumped into our friends, John and Grace Curry, whose train from Prague had arrived only a few minutes before us, and who would be joining us for the Berlin and Warsaw legs. We shared a taxi to the Adina Check Point Charley Hotel (apartment hotel, two room suites, and very nice) where we enjoyed a very nice dinner in their small bistro. Great to reunite with our good friends from Ashville!

The following day we spent a good eight hours touring the city by bus (Hop on/hop off), by boat (one hour cruise along the Spree River) and by foot (about seven miles worth). At the end of the day we were exhausted.

Berlin lives up to its reputation: high energy, economic powerhouse, rebuilt from the ashes of World War II. Tower cranes dot the city scape everywhere. Much of the architecture is modern, some of it stunning. And when you think that over 70% of Berlin had been obliterated in the war, it is quite remarkable how successfully this city has been rebuilt and reinvented itself. If you were not aware of the history of the city, you probably would not conclude that it was virtually destroyed in World War II or that the city was divided during the Cold War. But the Germans won’t let you forget it. There are history markers and interpretative plaques everywhere, and the plaques do not white wash what happened in the 1930s and 40s. It is not a pretty story.

Compare this with the silent approach you get in Paris and what seems almost like a denial in Spain where we did not see or hear one mention of Franco or the Spanish Civil War, “too sensitive a topic” according to our walking tour guide. That the Germans have embraced and owned up to this horrific period in their history is a testament to their national character and one reason for their strong recovery.

The city has monumental boulevards, a huge park, a well developed river front and enough well designed, modern buildings to put it a league with Chicago. And to think that the rebuilding occurred mostly in the 50s and 60s—the same period that in the US we were building vast sprawling suburbs and office parks—the accomplishment is quite remarkable. That they chose not to imitate the development patterns that were in vogue in the US at that time in retrospect was the right move. Urban planners blame sprawl in the US on the automobile. But automobiles were in use in Germany at the same time. They rebuilt in a manner that preserved the character of the prewar city (urban, mixed use, high density). This was not preordained. They could have gone in a different direction but didn’t; and for that we should all be grateful.

The other thing that really stands out is about Germany is their proficiency in English. I have touched on the challenges we faced in Spain where very few spoke English. As expected, almost everyone speaks at least some English and many speak it better than we do, a fact which goes a long way to reducing stress for us weary, non German speaking American travelers.

Spending only two days in Berlin was shortsighted and a mistake. This is not enough time to begin to think you have a clue as to what is going on. Berlin easily deserves a week, perhaps a month. But two days is what we got and we made the best of it. It also offered some surprises along the way, which are the subject of the next two blog posts.

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May 3

Berlin

While Berlin is very different from Paris and Madrid, there are two ways it is similar: It is on a par with Paris with graffiti, which I now realize is not a national disgrace but a continental—perhaps world—disgrace; and the second is there are signs everywhere warning people about pick pocketing.

And you might have guessed it: they got me again. This time (third city, third theft) it was technically not pick pocketing because they stole my brief case, and I can’t get my brief case into my pocket. Now to appreciate just how impressive this feat was you have to understand that ever since the first “incident,” I have been obsessed with keeping close tabs on my brief case because that is where we keep our passports, itinerary with all the tickets and hotel vouchers, and my computer. Remember that at this point I have lost my credit cards, debit cards, money and drivers license. No passport, no identity. No tickets, no travel. No computer, no blog. We are talking major calamity if the briefcase goes.

Because of the doomsday associated with losing the brief case, I carry it around my neck, not over my shoulder. I put my foot through the strap when I am sitting down or in a restaurant. I keep it on my lap at all times when I am on the train and I would use it as a pillow at night if it were not so lumpy. To describe this as a pathological obsession only begins to describe it. I am Fort Knox with legs.

But they got it. And the theft occurred in this nice little hotel! How did they do it? How did it happen? All we know is that when we got back to our hotel the evening of the first day following our dinner it was not to be found anywhere, and you can imagine how hard we looked. I am telling you, these guys are good, real good.

But as luck would have it, Embry’s guardian angel stepped in; and this is one of the few times when none of the critical stuff we need was in the brief case. Computer, itinerary, tickets etc. were safe in our hotel room. So we lost a few things such as recharging equipment and miscellaneous items but none of the big stuff. Catastrophe averted.

But incident number four does give one pause. For one thing it is now apparent that you can be vigilant 59 minutes out of the hour, and the one minute that you are not looking they will pounce. In fact I had a chilling nightmare last night, causing me to wake up in a cold sweat. I was an aging antelope in a huge herd of antelopes and wildebeests. The herd is moving slowly from Spain to Russia and is surrounded by lean, hungry lions, eyeing the herd carefully with beady eyes, looking for any sign of weakness. They keep their eyes on the very young and the old, waiting for the animal to get behind, to stumble, to show even the slightest sign of weakness; then they pounce. I was trying my best but falling behind the herd. Just before they pounced I woke up.

Now the problem is that we have just visited the three “safest” cities we will visit. If this is the kind of experience we have had in the “safe” cities, what can we expect when we reach Russia or Mongolia or China? We have had numerous people warn us about Moscow, one who claimed that nowadays it is virtually impossible to spend any time in the city without being robbed, suggesting we barricade ourselves in our hotel room. Our son, Andrew, who has worked in Moscow, travels internationally a lot on business, and knows the city well says that the fears are grossly exaggerated but not totally without merit. He has taken the initiative to have a friend meet us when our train arrives.

It is not that we have never travelled before. We (one or both us) have been to China, India, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Kenya, South Africa, Gabon, Tanzania, Peru, Japan, Turkey, Israel, Jordan, Uganda, Cameroon, Mexico, Honduras, Tahiti, Russia, Israel, Egypt, Croatia, Bosnia, and most of Europe—most of the time by ourselves rather than being with a tour group. In all this travel I have never had anything stolen before. What is going on?

Embry has pointed out that she has not had anything stolen. Perhaps this is a clue.

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May 3

Berlin

It is May first and this is our second day in Berlin. It is time again to explore European health care.

I am sitting on the cold, concrete floor of the emergency room of Charite Hospital, which could be the world’s largest –and perhaps oldest —hospital, located in the former East Berlin sector. It is not about me or Embry. This time it is about John, our traveling companion, who, with his wife, Grace, has joined us for the Berlin and Warsaw legs. He has what he believes is possibly a serious infection (“cellulitis”) in his calf, a potentially dangerous situation which requires strong antibiotics to avoid calamity. Prospects do not look good for seeing a doctor any time soon. The lobby is crowded with around 50 forlorn people, and John has been standing for some time in a line that has barely moved . I just gave up my seat to a lady who appeared to be older than I am and indisputably in worse shape.

But we are seeing Germany in a way that few Americans do. We are experiencing the German health care system as it really is. We are experiencing the real Germany!

Actually the biggest challenge was getting here in the first place. We never dreamed it would be this difficult and certainly would not have been, had we just taken a cab; but we decided to take the metro (very similar to the French metro) and walk. (Embry and Grace were visiting museums, and based on Embry’s eye experience in Valencia, I naively thought we would be out of the hospital in time to join them for a late lunch.)

The hospital is like a small city with scores of buildings, resembling one of the ancient and now defunct mental institutions in the US. Picture “One Flew Over of the Cookoo’s Nest.” We wandered from building to building trying to find the emergency room, asking for directions along the way, when we could find someone, which was not very often. The vast campus was eerily quiet, almost disserted, due, I suppose, to the fact that May 1 is a national holiday in Germany, called “work day,” when everything is closed and almost no one works. Most of the people we asked did not speak English; and the few who did gave us conflicting directions. (One older guy, about my age, scolded us for not speaking German, “You are in GERMANY we speak GERMAN!”) My health app (on my replacement iPhone) showed we had walked almost six miles, a good portion of which was on the campus of this giant hospital.

John finally got to see the intake specialist, checked in and joined me on the floor. I thought it would take forever since there were a lot of people who had gotten there before us who had not been called; but in an hour, his name was called and he emerged from the small intake office 300 Euros poorer and with an appointment to see the dermatologist. We located the dermatology clinic in one of the smaller buildings, which like everywhere else we had been (except the emergency room) was deathly silent with virtually no sign of human life. In about fifteen minutes a petite, brown-skinned woman, probably in her forties, wearing a white doctor’s coat and a headscarf appeared, smiling and motioned for John to follow her. In thirty minutes he walked out with the order for the prescription he needed, and we were back to the hotel at five. John was very pleased with the treatment he received. The professionals were cordial, knew what they were doing and treated him kindly. High marks for the German health care system.

We had an excellent dinner at a small bistro last night and now are off to Poland. There was, however, a bit of frustration regarding finding the restaruant. The clerk at the hotel, a young woman in her thirties, had recommended a restaurant nearby and made a reservation for us. At the appointed time we came downstairs to the desk and asked her for the name of the restaurant and the address. She have us the name, which began with what sounded like a “V,” and when asked about the address, said, “It’s over there, you can’t miss it,” and pointed to her right. When asked about how long it would take to walk there, she said 15-20 minutes. Fifteen to 20 minutes meant it was a least a half mile, perhaps longer. In our view the instructions insufficient. So we asked again. She sighed and threw up her hands as if to say, how many times do I have to tell you.

So the new strategy was to take it one step at a time.

“Is the restaurant on the street the hotel is on?…No? Ok, is it on the next street? Okay, not there, what about the next street?” In asking these questions we determined that it was on a street beginning with a “G” and containing about six syllables and totally unpronounceable. And it was “over there you can’t miss it. Fifteen minute walk.” But not knowing the actual name of the restaurant or the whereabouts of the “G” street was still not enough, so we all just stood there, looking puzzled, staring at each other, at which point she sighed again and handed us a Xeroxed copy of a map that showed the exact location of the restaurant and its address (“Rotisserie Weingrun, GertraudenstraBe 35”) She gave one final sigh and a disgusted look that said, “Ok, so now are you happy?”

Well, yes.

The food was terrific, better than any food we got at any of the restaurants we visited in France, and despite having to walk in the rain with no umbrellas, well worth it.

Another day with challenges, adventures and a happy ending.

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April 29

En route from Paris to Berlin

Goodbye Paris! We are off via bullet train humming along through the bucolic French countryside at 320 kmh (180mph), headed to Berlin. France was terrific! A wonderful combination of being a house guest and a tourist. We spent about as much time talking and catching up with old friends as we did sightseeing. Highlights of the last two days in Paris included a concert in Sainte Chapelle featuring Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” (at twilight with the stain glass windows glowing a magical blue), Mozart’s “Magic Flute” at the Paris Opera House (modern setting, quite extraordinary), a goodbye dinner at a quaint restaurant (where oddly we were the only guests), the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay (Embry only. I was in the Apple store buying a replacement iPhone. ), lots more walking (Under Mireille’s wing we visited two beautiful Medieval churches), and trying to keep up with our indefatigable host, who seems to have more energy than both of us combined.

The weather has also continued to cooperate. We got rain for a couple of days in Quimper, and it was raining pretty hard in Paris when we returned on Sunday. But other than that, it has been sunny and partly cloudy with high temperatures in the mid 60s.

I find myself asking why it took me song long to realize just how magic Paris is. Embry’s response was that it was probably the weather. While I am affected by the weather, that does not explain it.. The city is magic.

One thing I will remember most fondly is the French bread. Every morning Mireille would appear at the breakfast table with coffee and fresh baguettes and croissants still warm from the bakery oven, where she went every day before breakfast. One morning I volunteered to get the bread and was given careful instructions as to where to go. Walking there took a good fifteen minutes, and I counted six other boulangeries along the way. (“Others are not good enough; you want only the best.”) If Mireille’s boulanger is the best in Paris, then I figure the baguettes and croissants we ate every morning are the best in the world. I have never tasted bread this good and unless we return to Paris, probably never will.

So what about these two wonderful countries, France and Spain, which we are leaving behind as we head north? While Spain is arid and France lush, to two tourists like us the similarities seem to outweigh the differences. Both have rich histories with plenty to be proud of and plenty to be ashamed of. Both have preserved the old and historic parts of their cities and yet are modern in their public infrastructure and have excellent mass transit systems and public spaces. Their vitality and energy levels are high, but you also get the impression that the Spanish and French know how to enjoy life.

One day in Brittany Embry recalled the old saying, “Americans live to work, but the French work to live,” to which Martine replied, “This is definitely true.” And I think it applies to both countries with their obsessions for good food, good wines, the importance of the family and having fun by just hanging out.

We found people to be very friendly in both countries. In Spain, our inability to speak Spanish was an issue, but not insurmountable with a little sign language; and we experienced none of the cold shoulder that tourists often complain of in Paris. This could be because Embry is fluent in French, and we were with French people most of the time.

Both countries seem to be doing better on environmental issues than we are. You see many wind farms and solar panels. Lights automatically go out when you leave the room. People use public transportation and drive small cars.

That is not to say that life is perfect in these countries. There seem to be a lot more smokers than in the US, and smoking is permitted in the outside areas of cafes. There has been a lot written about the sagging economies in both countries, especially in Spain, where unemployment is very high and young people find it hard to get jobs. Emigration continues to be an issue, and being accepted into the culture if you are African or from South America seems to be difficult—probably harder than in the US where being a country of immigrants defines us despite the current controversies. Of course, there is the perplexing graffiti issue which I have been complaining about, which seems to mean something, but no one can say exactly what. And finally there is the security problem. Somebody got my wallet in Madrid and somebody else got my iPhone (probably) in Paris. In a perfect country people don’t steel wallets and iPhones from frail, elderly tourists.

( And we haven’t even gotten to Moscow yet where we have been advised by several people that if we want to be safe to avoid all public transportation, all taxis and not to leave your hotel.)

But if some creature from outer space dropped in to check out the the planet Earth and stopped in Paris or Madrid, my guess is that the report back home would read “pretty good spot, worth a visit.”

So in a few hours we will be in Berlin where we will meet up with John and Grace Curry, dear friends who live in Ashville, who will join us for the Berlin and Warsaw legs. John is an old friend from Davidson College days and from graduate school in Chapel Hill, when I was in planning school, Embry in the UNC School of Public Health and John in law school. We will take off our home exchange and house guest hats and become full time tourists.

What will it be like in Germany? We have both been to Germany but before the Wall came down; and I have never been to Berlin, which has the reputation of one of the world’s great cities– in the league with Paris or New York. Stay tuned.

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April 27

Paris

Every now and then I will pause to convey impressions gleaned from this journey.

In this blog post, I am putting on my city planning hat.

It is virtually impossible to set foot in Europe without noticing the difference between how human settlements have evolved in the US and Europe. In the two countries we have visited so far, Spain and France, the difference is remarkable. Part of the difference is due to timing. Most of our cities came into their own after the automobile became king. European development patterns were set a century or more earlier. Part has to do with culture and values, part with how countries treat property rights and part with the political system. Whatever the reason, cities are different in Europe and the US:

1. Suburban sprawl is mostly non existent in Spain and France. The city stops and farmland starts. There are boundaries and edges. In Valencia and Madrid we saw no single family dwellings at all. Apartment houses extend for miles and then they stop and farmland begins. While some outlining communities in Paris have single family housing, yards are generally small and compact; and there is nothing equivalent to the sprawling suburbs we have in the US where houses with large yards are predominant.
2. In part because of land use development patterns, public transportation is more available, less costly to consumers (and is more heavily subsidized), and more reliable. Every train we have taken has been on time. The bullet trains go twice the speed of our fastest trains. Because they are fast, reliable, efficient, and pleasant to ride, they are used heavily. Europe could not function without its trains. The same is true for local transportation. We have one of the best local public transportation systems in the nation in Washington; yet despite being much newer, Metro is no better than the systems in Madrid or Paris. And most US cities are not even close.
3. Housing in cities is very different in Europe and the US. In the Spanish and French big cities the vast majority of people live in apartments where the typical unit is much smaller than in the US. One result of the higher density/ smaller unit development pattern is the need for more outdoor community space—parks, plazas, and community open space—and the cities we have visited so far all have it. A bi product of high density development is that the European cities are more vibrant and dynamic than American cities.
4. Neighborhoods are different. There are sections of Paris, Madrid and Valencia that are better than others. Some are less expensive and cater more to a working class population. But on the whole there is nothing that we have seen that corresponds to our sharp division between rich and poor neighborhoods, and the presence of slums and ghettoes that have defined American cities for over a century.

 At the same time there is a graffiti problem in France and Spain that exceeds   anything I have seen in the US. I have asked a number of people about this and have gotten the same general response, which is that it used to be even worse and people don’t like it, but you can only do so much. I am still trying to figure this one out.

5. There is virtually no advertising or billboards once you get out of cities, towns and villages. The pastoral beauty of the countryside is preserved—no junk to speak of, though graffiti is still present along the railroad tracks and on some shuttered storefronts. When I think of the difference between the landscapes on the country roads in Europe and the US, I shake my head in dismay.
6. There is a fundamental cultural and philosophical divide as to how we tackle problems and challenges related to housing and urban development. It basically boils down to this: do you consider the issues of housing and urban development to be more in the public realm and considered a public good to be regulated and subsidized accordingly? Or do you believe that housing and land use are private goods, not to be meddled with by bureaucrats and generally left for the Invisible Hand of capitalism to address? Of course, there is a continuum. Europe tends to favor the public role, the US the private role. The results of the two approaches seem pretty apparent as we travel via train from one European town to the next.

So our travel so far underscores what I suppose most Americans realize as they travel through Europe: that there are very big differences between how and where people people live in Europe versus the US. We have much to learn from European countries. There are also significant environmental implications since higher density developments with better public transportation systems means less reliance on the car, less gasoline use and lower emissions. There are also public health implications. People walk a lot more and they are not as fat as in the US.

On the whole, in my view in the US we have done a pretty poor job of it. The movements of New Urban Urbanism and Smart Growth in the US are a response to our failures related to sprawl, affordable housing, and inefficient and wasteful land use. We should have paid more attention to Europe.

More on this topic will follow as we tour Germany, Poland, Russia, Mongolia and the big boy of them all: China.

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April 26

En route from Brittany to Paris

We are returning from our wonderful visit to Brittany visiting our French sister-in-law, Martine. Joe thought you might be interested in my observations about French life and how it might have changed over the years.

I believe you have read that I have a rather unique perspective. I counted up and I have been to France on 10 separate occasions, spanning over 50 years; and since three of the visits were quite long, I have spent about a year in France. While this is only 1/70 of my entire lifetime, the effect of this country on who I am and how I view the world is much, much greater. While it is impossible to say, I would guess that the proportion of its effect on “who I am” is at least 1/7. So I guess this proves that time is a very relative thing, and I believe Einstein has proven that!

I think the effect of France on me is so great because about half my time here was spent when I was an adolescent. Is it perhaps true that our experiences in this period of our lives have the most profound effect on our sense of ourselves, and particularly our sense of independence and self-worth? I’m sure a study has been done on that.

The first time I came I was only 12 years old. I came on May 1 and went home on August 31, missing one month of school. I was invited by Mireille Dardel (now de Mun) to stay with her family in Montmorency (just outside Paris) and attend the lycee of which her father was the Director (Lycee Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the famous writer who had lived nearby). At that point I had never left the South, and rarely my little Southern town of 2,000 people. The whole town thought my mother was crazy to send me, and looking back on it I think she was a bit crazy too! But I was asked whether I would like to go to Paris, and I said “yes”, not knowing what I was getting into!

I arrived in my little cotton dresses to a Paris that was “tout frois” (very cold). The family (mother and daughters) quickly knitted me a heavy grey sweater, which I wore over my cotton dresses for two months until it warmed up. I attended the lycee (although I could not understand a word that was spoken except in English class, in which I excelled). Eventually I learned how to ride the bus to school and go on the train into Paris; go to the boulangerie and bring home the family’s bread; grind the coffee each day for the after-dinner-coffee; and in general make my way as a young French girl.

In 1958, France was still recovering from the war, with shortages of certain things (such as bed sheets) and no refrigeration in the typical house. This was strange to me, along with the little cars. They seemed very, very small. I had never played soccer; I had never heard of soccer. If you would like an image of what it was like then, see the movie (or read the book), “The Red Balloon.” Little boys of my age still wore short pants most of the time (except to church). It was a big deal to be able to wear long pants once you got to a certain age.

This I did without speaking a word of French when I arrived (other than a few words from the lessons of Mireille, which had taught me only how to request pieces of candy of a particular color, which was not very useful in making my way around). The first month I was essentially a deaf-mute. (Most of the family could speak some English, but refused to speak with me in English, only French 100%.) I could not understand a word and I could not say a word. The second month I began to understand things. The third month I understood almost everything, and could say a few things. By the end of August, I was essentially fluent in French with a good accent. This experience is what has convinced me that the immersion method is the only way to go in terms of language instruction. I am proud to say that our two children had the same experience (although a bit later in their teenage years) and are fluent in French (plus some other languages they picked up later, having had the experience of learning French early on).

How has France changed (my perceptions)? In some ways a lot, and in some ways not at all.

I think the ways it has changed are perhaps more superficial than the ways it has not changed. There are more tourists in Paris, and they take up more space. I suppose I should not resent this, because I am here as a tourist this time. But there is something inside me that is screaming (a silent scream): “Get out of here; this Paris belongs to me!” There are also all these chain stores, mostly American. My inner voice screams, “Get out; I want those cute boutiques back!” The way people dress is not so different from Americans anymore; we all wear things from Gap, etc. Finally, there is much more diversity. When I was here 50 years ago, France was “all white.” Today, all the colors of the “human rainbow” are evident, especially in Paris.

However, the heart of France has not changed at all. The French people are so proud of their country (but still resentful of American power and influence, perhaps more so); so in love with literature, art and beauty in all its forms (including good food and wine!); so warm to those they know and love (but—to Americans—often seem standoffish to strangers); and so proud of their basic values, especially the right of each individual to freely express an opinion (a value which, of course, we share). Vive la France!

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April 25

Quimper, Brittany

There is big news today: it is raining. Can you believe that we are now in Day 45 and we have not experienced a drop of rain until now? The plants love it. And after a long stretch of sunny skies, so do I. Water means life, and life means green. And green is everywhere in Brittany, all shades of it, but especially the deep, rich green that comes after a spring rain. You can almost hear the grass, trees, shrubs and flowers saying, “Thank you, thank you.”

We arrived in Brittany three days ago where we were met at the train station in Quimper by our French sister-in-law, Martine and her partner, Bernard. Martine and Bernard have been a couple for about twelve years, and she has lived in this charming house for about eight years.

The train ride through the French countryside was spectacular—rolling hills and farms, white farm cottages and an occasional chateaux. The short drive to their house, located about a mile from the picturesque town center of Quimper, took us through more farmland and then along narrow winding streets to Martine’s three-story house, overlooking in the distance the tidal river, Odet. When Martine moved from the Paris area eight years ago, I thought she might be making a mistake by leaving the world’s most enchanting city. But now I know it was the right decision. This is the area where she grew up, and it is beautiful.

Martine has become a master gardener, and her small back yard and garden are something out of House and Home. Her rhododendron is just beginning to blossom with red flowers, and the redbud behind her yard is in full bloom. The house has four bedrooms/two baths and is probably five or six times the size of her condo in Vincennes. And there is a huge “family room,” added by the previous owner, which serves as a dining room, living room, artist studio and anything else you want it to be. She is very happy here and describes the decision to move here as one of the best she has ever made.

But as has been the case with Embry’s French brothers and sisters, only three (of seven) of whom have survived, Martine is in the middle of serious health issues. She was diagnosed with intestinal cancer about a year ago and has just gone through two very complex operations, which thankfully seem to have been successful; but other problems have recently developed—severe back pain and pain in the bones for which there is no immediate diagnosis. Life is not easy.

But despite health problems, Martine maintains her upbeat optimism and sense of humor, and her energy level is high. She probably overdid it by leading us on a three mile stroll from her house to the tow path along the Odet river but insisted. (Bernard, who is now 78 is also in poor health, due to a spine injury, walks occasionally with a cane, and was not able to join us.) In fact she had carefully mapped out the entire three day visit before we got here—various day trips to see the countryside and the port cities, a couple of gourmet dinners at home (In addition to becoming a master gardener, she is a gourmet cook.), two evenings eating out at very nice restaurants, and a tour of the historic village center, most of which came off as planned. Bernard was the chauffeur and Martine the tour guide as we have made our way from village to village, stopping once for crepes at a country creperie for lunch and visiting three port villages.

Communication is half in French and half English since Bernard speaks even less English than I speak French.

The three port villages (Port La Foret, Concarneau, and Pont Aven ) are different in many ways. La Foret is a yachting and sailing capital with a huge marina, which included among other things two high tech, racing yachts about 60 feet long, having just returned from what could have been a trans-Atlantic crossing. The second, Concarneau, is a working port with fishing boats mixing with yachts and an historic old town enclosed by a Medieval wall; and the third, Pont Aven, is a tiny village situated on a tidal estuary on the fall line about 8 miles from the sea. But they have two things in common: they are all beautiful and they all experience pronounced tidal variations of 15-20 feet.

The second feature, the tidal variation, I find perplexing. When we visited these communities, the tide was low, and the boats that were moored were all high and dry on the mud, most propped up by supports but some keeled over on their sides. Four hours later they would all be floating again. But for the life of me, I can’t see how people sail in these conditions where at maximum ebb and flood tides, the current has got to be close to 10 knots. In the case of Pont Aven—and also Quimper—you have over 8 miles to go before you reach the sea. The only way that I can see this working is to cast off at high tide and to ride the ebb tide out until it is about to turn from an ebb to a flood and then to ride the flood back upstream to the port. That gives you 8-12 hours to sail, which is plenty for a day sail, but one mistake or an uncooperative wind or motor failure could spell big time trouble. This may explain in part why the French are considered by many to be the best sailors in the world. If you can sail in these conditions, you can sail anywhere.

So the stay here in Brittany with Martine and Bernard has been special. We have enjoyed long walks and long talks, wonderful meals both at home and at restaurants, and visually feasted on some of the best scenery in the world. I used to think the Brits had claim on the finest pastoral and maritime beauty in the world. It is now a toss up with Brittany.

 

 

 

 

 

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