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.

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

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.

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

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.

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

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.

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

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!

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

April 22

En route to Quimper, Brittany

As the bullet train flies out of Paris at 180 mph and I am situated in a cabin with a bearded man, probably around 30 and two small kids (one, a toddler, screaming bloody murder), I will summarize what we actually did in Paris for the four days we were there. (Embry is in another cabin on this car, also with a family, where hopefully she is having better luck than I am.)

Well, we walked.

And what is a better way to see this extraordinary city than walking along its narrow streets, its grand avenues, its parks and plazas, and, highest on the list, along the cay beside the river Seine? The first day we started off around nine in the morning, about the same time as the French Marathon was getting underway and turned right just over the bridge as the runners—and there were many thousands as you can imagine– were turning left. We walked a couple of miles along the quai watching all the tourist boats and barges motor by and all the families spreading out picnics on this drop-dead-gorgeous day. It was Sunday, and the entire city seemed to be empting out of apartment buildings into the parks and along the river. We eventually crossed back over to the Left Bank where we strolled through the Jardin de Plantes (botanical gardens), stopping for a salad and a sandwich and then made our way along the narrow streets of the Left Bank, pausing at small parks every now and then to watch kids playing and adults watching kids and, of course, a stop for an afternoon coffee at a sidewalk café. (For some unknown reason coffee here does not seem to bother me where in the US I levitate with one cup of real coffee.)

We arrived back at the flat around five and at seven strolled with Mireille a mile or so to one of the best French bistros in Paris, which it turned out was actually a Mexican Restaurant, which seemed a bit unusual at first until I realized that in the US we would never take a guest to an American restaurant in our neighborhood but rather to one of our favorite ethnic restaurants, which could well be Mexican. Or French! In any event, we had a great time and returned home around nine, exhausted after walking about seven miles (how did I ever manage without an iPhone walking app?) and seeing a lot of Paris. It was a terrific day!

I have gone into to some detail about day one in Paris because this is pretty much what we did every day. The key variables were when to start, whether to go east or west along the Seine and whether to explore the Right Bank or the Left Bank. One day we walked to the Eiffel Tower (and, yes, went to the top despite the long lines and waiting, probably not worth it), and another to the Champs Elysees. We spent the four days outside in this perfect weather, saving the museums for when we return.

There were three highlights. The first was spending time with Mireille, who has to be one of the world’s most remarkable women, who at age 80 looks like a fifty-year old, powerwalks like a forty-year old and has a zest for living and a sense of humor unmatched at any age. The second was the evening we spent reuniting with Beatrice, one of Embry’s French colleagues in the health research and policy field. Well known in international health care research circles, Beatrice mentored Embry when Embry spent six weeks in France in the 1980s working on her dissertation, comparing the US and French health care systems focusing on maternity and child health. (Frankly, I was convinced from the outset that the topic was chosen as a way to legitimize another long stay in France; and it worked, resulting in a PhD and a long term friendship with Beatrice, among other things.) Beatrice proudly showed Embry, Mireille and me around the hospital where she works and her office along with the historic buildings associated with it (Port Royal and its cloister, along with the historic Observatoire).   Afterwards we went out for drinks at a very upscale neighborhood restaurant followed by a delightful dinner at an intimate, quiet café.

The third highlight was running into Josie and Melissa, dear friends from All Souls Church (and also from sailing since Melissa has been a lynchpin on the “Carolina Blue” racing team for years). We had no idea they were in Paris but learned yesterday via Facebook (which we finally got access to when we discovered there was free WiFi available in the park behind Notre Dame) that not only had they just arrived the day before, they were staying in a hotel only a few blocks from Mireille’s flat. After some effort we finally connected and met them for a glass of rose, good conversation, and catching up at a café behind the cathedral before they rushed off for a dinner reservation, and we headed off to the Notre Dame Cathedral for an amazing concert of renaissance and Baroque music just at sunset when the windows are at their most beautiful.

Now we are on the way to Quimper on the Atlantic Coast to visit our sister-in-law, Martine and her partner, Bernard, where we will be for the next three days.

And, oh yes, the infant for the moment has stopped screaming. But the older one, a girl, is throwing up.

And, by the way, I lost my cell phone on the train, Incident Number 4!

(The two-year-old stole it, I am sure. When his sister was throwing up, he was under the table carefully removing the cell phone from my pocket with his tiny, trained hands as instructed by his dad, the guy with the beard and, I now remember, beady eyes.) Martine’s only comment was, “Joe, if these things keep happening to you, by the time you are ready to board the container ship in Shanghai, you won’t even have your clothes left.”

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

April 21

Paris

I am sitting in a flat on the fourth floor of a mid Nineteenth Century apartment house overlooking the vast plaza in front of Notre Dame. Even though the time is approaching seven in the evening, the crowd of well over a thousand is still milling around, many awaiting entry into the church, others just hanging out. The bells of the cathedral are ringing loudly. The evening sun basks the white walls of Mireille’s tastefully decorated flat where we will be staying for the next several days. We are in Paris. The world is good.

To understand the French leg of the journey, you need some history. We will be staying at the homes of two people who are very dear to us. The first is Mireille, who is Embry’s de facto older French sister, who has rented the flat where we are now for the last fifty years. The second is Martine, the former French wife of Embry’s brother, Mike, who despite being an ex, has always been our bonafide sister-in-law. Martine lived in the US for around 25 years, raising their two children(to whom we are very close) in North Carolina but moved back to France following her retirement a number of years ago and now lives in a seaside town, in Brittany. We will take the train there in a couple of days.

A word on the Mireille connection. When Embry was twelve, her family shipped her off via Icelandic Airlines for a summer in France where she would live with a French family. The oldest son of the family of seven children had attended Davidson on a Fulbright Scholarship in the 1950s where he became close to Embry’s family. A second French summer followed a few years later. Merrille, the middle child, was about ten years older than Embry and took a special interest in her, helping her learn the language and adapt to the French culture. They have remained close ever since. And the relationship has continued into the next generation. Our kids have stayed with Mireille or her extended family; and her son, Bartheleme, stayed with us for a summer when worked as an intern at Howell Associates and crewed on Wednesday night sailboat races.

Mireille was at the train station to greet us last evening as we roared in on our bullet train. Though she will be 80 this year, she is fit and spry, and it was all we could do to keep up with her as we charged out of Gare Lyon and flagged down a cab. The evening was spent catching up and enjoying a delicious light meal of bread, cheese and a salad. Nobody does fresh bread and cheese better than the French. But the catching up part was bitter sweet. Four of the seven children have died, including the youngest, Henri, who also attended Davidson for a year and someone I knew, though not well. He was only 65. (Embry was aware of only two of the deaths.)

Bitter sweet, yes. But also the way life runs its course on the planet Earth. We are getting old. When people get old, they eventually die. It is a blessing that our health has permitted us to embark on this adventure, and we are probably in a fairly small minority of people our age who are physical able, have the time, money and the inclination to take a trip like this. When you are in your eighth decade and you hear a voice in your head, “Do it now, you never know how much time you have left,” you pay attention. When you catch up as we did this evening, it reminds you how short life is and how you only get one shot in trying to get it as right as you can. And no one is saying it is easy. Mireille lost her husband over 35 years ago to cancer and has had to manage as a single parent raising two sons and being a widow way before her time—which she has done with style and grace. But it has not been easy.

So here we are for a few days before we go to Brittany and then return for another short stay before heading to Germany. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous, lots of flowering trees, daffodils and tulips, blue skies and temperatures around seventy. It is April in Paris!

And is their anything more glorious than a warm, sunny, Sunday afternoon in Paris in April? I am convinced that everyone physically able—and even many who are not—is outside today enjoying the sunshine and the street activity that is so splendidly Paris. Families have spread out blankets and make-shift tablecloths along the Seine and in the parks. Husbands are opening bottles of wine as the kids skate board or kick around a soccer ball and wives pull bread and cheese out of picnic baskets. Old men with canes are sitting on park benches discussing affairs of the afternoon and watching all the action. The sidewalk cafes are jam packed for afternoon café or a glass of beer, and ubiquitous French couples are embracing and kissing even as they walk by fast as if they were afraid of missing the last train to someplace. Only here, I think, can you witness in one split instant the depth and breath of what I believe is the best life has to offer on this troubled planet. It is April and it is Paris. Life is good.

 

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

April 19

Paris

We are in Paris, but that will be the subject of the next blog. This one is about Madrid and some final thoughts about Spain.

Madrid is magnificent. The metro area has a population of over six million (similar to Washington), but the city itself is four times the size of DC with over two and a half million people. And in both Valencia and in Madrid there is no such thing as single family housing and suburban neighborhoods. Except for some of the older neighborhoods, where there are some two or three story, ancient townhouses, everyone lives in apartments of seven to twelve stories, similar to the scale of the multifamily buildings in DC. Also in both Madrid and Valencia, there is an abrupt line between the high density apartment neighborhoods and farmland, a “hard edge” as it is called in planning circles. Public transportation is prolific and reliable. Graffiti persists in Madrid as it does in Valencia but seems somewhat more under control.

The big difference between Valencia and Madrid is the energy level. Madrid seems like New York City with its crowded streets and jammed sidewalks. While there are a handful of Medieval neighborhoods, most of modern day Madrid was built and rebuilt during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and it has a monumental feel to it. Several large plazas near the center of town are the scene of 24 hour activity with bands, clown acts, people in weird costumes, gypsies begging for money, old men with buckets and wands producing huge bubbles, women who look like prostitutes, smoking cigarettes, wearing short, short blue jean pants, spiked heals, lots of weird makeup and died hair, and thousands of people mulling about seemingly having a good time in a frantic but also paradoxically laid back atmosphere. Being in the middle of all this is like being in a huge carnival.

Our hotel was at the center of it all; but instead of being a tourist hotel as I had expected, it was a hundred room boutique, bed-and breakfast hotel with small rooms and the most beautiful lobby I have ever seen, with an extraordinary bar, fireplace and library, a true oasis and relief from the hustle of the street outside. If you ever go to Madrid, stay there: the Hotel de la Reina at Gran Via 22.

Our big mistake was not allowing for more time in Madrid. You really need at least a week; but we crammed about as much in as we could in two and a half days—a hop-on, hop-off bus tour, a walk through the royal gardens (a lot like Central Park), a guided “free” walking tour of the old city (tips accepted) and fashionable 3:00 pm lunches at two terrific spots—one, La Tasquita de Enfrente, world class. And we attended an evening dinner show of Flamenco music and dancing. Naturally we visited the Prado, which has a collection of Renaissance paintings that few other museums can match. But we did not see the dozen or so other important museums, the royal palace or some of the other spectacular parks and gardens. Madrid is on our list of places to return to.

I have talked about the friendliness of the Spanish people despite our language barrier. (In Madrid many more people speak English than in Valencia; and there are many American and British tourists, so language is not as much of an issue.) As an example of how nice most people are, our cab driver headed off in the wrong direction when taking us to the Flamenco show due to Embry’s giving him the wrong address. The street name ended in an “a” instead of an “o” as was written on the paper she handed him. The “o” address was ten miles away. By the time we realized there was a problem we had run up almost eight Euros on the meter. He slammed on the brakes, turned around, reset the meter to zero, and headed back in the right direction, writing off the eight Euros as a business loss—and without a single complaint. What are the odds of something like that happening in Washington? (A generous tip helped a bit, but still…)

So Spain ranks very high on our list. The history has been mixed: vast empires: Roman, Visigothic, Moorish, and then unification under the Christian monarchs, Isabella and Ferdinand, followed by a 100 year history of world dominance. But the empire came at the expense of the Moors and the Jews, and there was the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, the Civil war and Fascism under Franco that are blots on Spanish history that have still not been thoroughly reconciled and remain controversial up to today. Today there is a multi-party constitutional monarchy that retains some aspects of the “old right” (church, monarchy) and “old left” (socialism); these divisions that go back for centuries still exist, as played out in the parliamentary system.

There also seems to be a wisdom and maturity that comes from such a long history and knowing what it is like to be on top and then over time see it all slowly vanish like sand spilling between your fingers. They look at us and perhaps hope we make the best of the time allotted to us….

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!

April 17

En Route to Paris

Madrid is now history and we are on our way to Paris via another modern European bullet train. The train from Valencia was superior to Acela in “luxury” and cruised along at speeds close to 300km/h (185 mph), even faster than the bullet trains in the US. Bullet trains in the US? What do you mean we don’t have any bullet trains in the US?

So this was going to be the blog about how terrific Madrid is—a New York style, high energy city with monumental avenues, vast plazas and urban spaces, narrow Medieval streets, beautiful parks, world class museums, countless cafes and restaurants, and much, much more. I will touch on that at some point but not here.

This blog post is about yet another incident. If you have been following the blog, you know we have now had two “incidents.” The first incident occurred on Day 25 in Valencia and involved Embry falling on a rock on the beach, resulting in a deep wound requiring six stitches and producing a award winning black eye. Kudos to the Spanish health care system for patching her up. The second incident was described in blog post Day 27 and recounted our being stopped by the police for having our bright lights on at noon on a sunny day. Both ended on reasonably good notes.

Incident Number 3—and I am sure others will follow—occurred around 6:30 pm yesterday on our third and final evening in Madrid. Having awakened from a siesta following another nine course “tasting menu” feast from a world class chef (good friend, by the way, of the famous Washington chef of Jaleo and other restaurants, Jose Andres) in a tiny, upscale café only minutes from our hotel, we decided to go for a walk. The sidewalks were jammed with all kinds of people, and you had the feeling you could have been in Times Square or leaving the stadium after a Nats playoff game. We were no more than a hundred feet from our hotel when a bald headed guy in his forties, wearing a bright red shirt, turned to me and asked if I spoke English. In a heavy Spanish accent, he said “Need to check your wallet. Think you were just robbed.” I immediately checked my back pocket. No wallet.

“Think he went that way and into that store. Just happened. Need to act fast.”

Instincts take over at times like this. I immediately turned around and retraced our steps looking for a shady character with my wallet. Now you might ask what I would actually do if I found some shady character who looked suspicious.

“Excuse me, but did you happen to come across a wallet in the last minute that is not yours; and if so, could you kindly return it to its rightful owner?”

Alas, as I stared into the vast multitudes all around me, no one looked shady; then everyone did, and then everything seemed a blur. Then I heard Embry’s voice. Always the one to act quickly and decisively, she had charged directly into the store where the nice, baldheaded guy said the suspect probably was. It was a small ice cream shop with no seats and about a dozen people standing around, mainly twenty-somethings, either eating ice cream or standing in line to buy some.

“Someone in this store has my husband’s wallet and I want it back right now!” She was shouting, loudly enough for me to hear her about 20 feet away above the noise of the street and the endless chatter. All eyes were fixed on her, and none of the customers were saying a thing. I nudged my way in and scanned the crowd for a shady character. There were only a couple of likely suspects, young guys, but they seemed innocent enough; and I noticed one of them was searching through his pockets as if he were trying to find a set of lost keys, then looked up at Embry and shrugged with a look which said, “Sorry, can’t find it anywhere.”

Then several women took out their purses and rummaged through them trying to find the wallet. Two of the women opened their purses for Embry to inspect.

No wallet anywhere. Must not be in the store. Maybe look somewhere else.

Now five minutes had passed, and our window of opportunity was over, but does anyone actually think that the thief, had we found him, would willfully return the “lost” wallet. What were we thinking? Embry’s comment was that it never hurts to try.

We dejectedly followed our steps back to the hotel where we reported the incident to the people at the desk, to which the response was something like, “Oh, ho hum, sorry, not much you can do.” A guy not much younger than me who was standing in line behind me, commented in perfect English (a Canadian from Alberta), “Sorry to hear the news, but welcome to the club. Our traveling companion had his wallet stolen yesterday. Lost everything. Happens all the time in Madrid. Welcome to Spain!”

So what was supposed to be a leisurely evening stroll turned out to be a two hour ordeal on the phone trying to cancel credit cards and ATM cards. Have you ever tried to cancel an ATM card when you do not know the number of the card or the tax id or social security number which is on record for the card and can’t remember the name of your first pet or your mother’s birthday? But that is another story which does not merit time here. Like the fellow club member who lost everything yesterday, so did I, except thankfully I have my passport; and Embry still has some money in her bank account. How all this finally gets resolved will be the subject of a subsequent blog.

The most disappointing aspect of this incident is that it cast a pall on what otherwise was a wonderful experience and a wonderful city. The Madrid story will be next.

Visit me on Substack!
Subscribe to my Substack!