Bayeux and Beaches

The album that's been illustrating the last couple of posts. Enjoy!

After a magnificent English breakfast on Easter morning, we loaded back into the car and drove into the small town of Bayeux which is famous for housing one of the masterpieces of early Medieval art: The Bayeux Tapestry.


The tapestry is really an embroidered comic strip that tells the story of the Battle of Hastings when William the Bastard became William the Conqueror.


Edward the Confessor, the king of England and the Saxons, was getting old and feeble and never produced an heir. He had two options: He could pass the crown to his son-in-law Harold, or he could give it to his nephew, William, who was reigning over Normandy. Edward decided to crown William, and he sent Harold to tell the future king the news (a really stupid plan). Edward dies and Harold takes the crown after swearing a sacred oath of allegiance to William. The betrayal isn’t taken lightly by the king of the Normans who sails across the channel with a massive cavalry, an army of foot soldiers, and a bunch of archers.


The battle ensues at Hastings and William wins, leading to Francophied English and a long, bloody debate over who rules France and who rules England.


The tapestry is 70 meters long and presents each event with Latin surcaps. It’s a fantastic insight into life almost 1000 years ago. The armor is rendered in intricate detail, food items are identifiable, and historians have used it to understand the most important values of early European monarchs.

After the tapestry we wandered through exhibits that explored the details of the time period and the battle with models of castles, characters, and family trees. I walked out vowing to read up on my early British and French history (post-Roman, that is).

We then wandered to the Bayeux Cathedral where Otto, the brother of William, set up a massive church to glorify the Normans and house the tapestry. We were also in time for the Eucharist on Easter morning. After exploring the Romanesque and Gothic interior, we piled back into the car and headed for the beaches.

First we drove near Omaha Beach. We enjoyed lunch at a small hotel/restaurant that overlooked the waves. The region is famous for supposedly inventing the omelet, so I ordered one for lunch. I wasn’t sure if that would be enough, so I ordered what I thought would be crab cakes, or maybe crab salad. I received a crab. The boiled arthropod stared me down, challenging me to figure out what to do next. I’ve eaten an entire lobster, but never tackled a crab. Eventually through a process of elimination I figured out where all the meat was and can now say I dined on crab on Easter Day in France. Don’t know when I’ll say it, but know that I can.

We started with the World War II memorials along the coast and I dunked my toes into the water. Then we drove up the coastline to the American Cemetery. We didn’t have a lot of time, since the place closed a 4:30. We were just in time to see the flag lowering performed by an American family, and assisted by a private security guy who is presumably employed by the U.S. Government. For some reason I thought we would see military personnel at the cemetery, but I suppose resources are a little too thin.

The iconic fields of marble crosses were breathtaking. So many names. So many people who never made it past 23 or even past 19. As I reverently walked past crosses of unknown soldiers, and soldiers whose families had recently decorated their graves with flowers, a slow rage began to build. This didn’t need to happen. Some historians cast Hitler as an inevitable figure. Germany was kicked into the dirt after the Treaty of Versailles, was suffering through ineffective governance, and was in the midst of depression. Someone would rise.

But it didn’t have to be Hitler. Most of Europe, most of the world, was going through depression and political turmoil. The monarchies were dead. People needed to figure out how to run their country. Fascists and communists vied for attention and power. Mussolini, Franco, and Hitler. The first two were terrible dictators and made noises about inciting war, but neither could make their threats real. There was too much internal dissension. Hitler had a vast majority of German hearts and minds behind every damning decision. His hatred for minorities and non-German nationalities was no secret. He preached oppression and anger. Most went along for the ride. There were a few voices of opposition, but not enough to change the self-destructive momentum of the country.

So, these young men had to leave their homes on the other side of the Atlantic to stop a lunatic and the willing followers he created. Hitler wasn’t inevitable, but he was made possible by German politicians, and more worryingly, normal citizens. I don’t hold modern Germans responsible for the actions of their ancestors, but standing in that cemetery I couldn’t shake my anger with those ancestors who let this happen. The rage subsided.

The cemetery was closing. We got back into the car and waited in a long line of traffic to drive further up the coast to Utah Beach. On the way we stopped in a town that was a German garrison on D-day. As paratroops started dropping into the village, the Germans were thrown into confusion, but eventually started to open fire on the descending soldiers, one of whom was caught on the church steeple. He survived by playing dead and cutting himself down. The village became the first French town liberated by the Allies, and they memorialized the event by installing unique stained glass windows. Instead of fluttering angels and putti around the Virgin and St. Michael, heroic soldiers waft through the air.

Utah preserved the beach obstacles, barbed wire, and German guns that fortified the beach. It was easier to imagine the chaos of that day as soldiers rushed across the beaches and into open fields in one of the largest operations in history.

Everywhere French, Canadian, British, Norwegian, American, and Belgian flags reminded me this was a coordinated, international effort. I tend to focus on the American side of the story, but the British had their own beaches to take (Sword and Gold), along with the Canadians (Juno).

After a day of heavy history that began with the Normans crossing the channel to fight the British, and ending with the British crossing the channel to liberate the Normans, we drove back to Bayeux for dinner. The restaurant was recommended by the Michelin Man and Rick Steves. Each dish was elegantly –maybe gaudily – presented. Dad’s chicken came with a glass of gravy crowned with a chicken leg making it tough to eat. It was all delicious, but you felt a little guilty rearranging the chef’s ornate creations.

Back to the manor to sit on the couches by the fire and prepare for another day in the car, retracing the trail of the advancing Allies up through Belgium to the Rhine.

Pictures again.

Becoming North-men

Sorry about the hiatus. My brother and I were wandering Italy for the last two weeks. I was so close to being caught up, then I went and did some more exploring. I'm not complaining, but I'm sorry to leave my readership (i.e. my mother) waiting. So the catch-up continues...

The Photo Album with more of France illustrating this post.

The next morning we were up and moving towards the train station to catch a ride to Rouen. We knew they had one train every hour and we planned to arrive at the station with some time to get breakfast. Unfortunately, they rearranged the schedule and we had a lot more time to kill than we expected. Loaded with all of our luggage, we went into the quiet streets in search of something to eat. Tiny cafés were plentiful, but they wouldn’t fit our bags, so for our final meal in Paris was eaten at Quick, a sterile fast food chain that seemed to be McDonald’s French cousin.

Our time to head out towards Rouen was imminent so we walked back to the station where I had to wrestle with the validation machine before we could board. I’m gaining an increasing appreciation for the ease of German transport and the inefficiency of other national high-speed systems.

Rouen is an industrial town with a rich history that goes back to the Hundred Years War (War of the Roses) as France and England raged back and forth over who could claim the crown and Northern France. As we rolled through the city in a cab, we glimpsed a half-dozen towers of churches in different styles that spoke to the antiquity of our new surroundings. We arrived at the car rental place while they were on lunch break. One of the more annoying aspects of traveling through Europe is the unpredictability of lunch time. In France people seem particularly dedicated to their two-hour break in the day.

So we had some time to kill. We dropped our luggage in an accommodating hotel and went to see the Rouen Cathedral, made famous by Monet’s brush as he painted the façade at different times of day, setting up multiple canvases so he could move to the next one as the light changed. The interior was high-flying gothic constructed of light stone that made the whole worship space brighter than most Gothic churches I’ve visited.


We wandered through the quaint shopping district where you could buy fine cheese, wine, chocolate, and duck pate. In case you forgot, we were in France. Joan of Arc was burned in Rouen, and now the city center features a very modern church dedicated to the patron of France. The warped beams of the interior evoke the Viking longboats that gave the region its name (Normandy = North Men) and frame medieval stained glass windows that survived World War II. The church they once decorated did not.

With lunchtime over we grabbed our car, resurrected Brigitte and started North to Bayeux. Our destination was a Norman manor house in the middle of the French countryside. The place was owned and operated by two British sisters and their husbands who decided to quit their jobs in England and open a rustic bed and breakfast in France. Really, who wouldn’t.

The manor and farm houses were reminiscent of a Jane Austen setting with dignified shutters lining every window, and stately chickens wandering the grounds. Our room was a massive piece of the attic with skylights flooding the interior with light. As we were given the tour of our temporary residence, one of the proprietors mentioned the beams over our heads were four hundred years old. At some point I may not find such a statement shocking, but that time hasn’t arrived quite yet.

There was a large common area around a fireplace and bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks and classic novels. A cozy home that we quickly left so we could check off another place we should see before we die: Mont St. Michel.

At some point in the 12th century, a group of monks decided they needed to move to the coast. They built their abbey on a spit of land that was cut off from the mainland every day at high tide. As the abbey expanded, they moved further upslope until they had constructed an entire town ringing their secluded outcrop, crowning the town with a Gothic spire and a gigantic figure of St. Michael getting ready to lop Satan’s head from his shoulders.

Mont St. Michel first becomes visible on the horizon as you drive in on the highway. The flat coastline is suddenly punctured by the fantastical walled castle, the inspiration for hundreds of fantasy pop artists. The peninsula/island has been a destination for pilgrims for centuries. These proto-tourists forged the way for the modern restaurants and antique shops that line the road to the Mont. Finally we arrived on the coast, parked the car and took in the view of the walled city from the mainland (along with dozens of Japanese tourists). Breathtaking.

We stopped for dinner at one of the many restaurants that billed themselves as classic Norman establishments. The place was cavernous with dining area after dining area. Dozens of waiters and waitresses shot from the kitchen hauling oysters and fish fillets. The interior was reminiscent of Bill Knaps or Red Lobster and it was incredibly entertaining to watch the efficient marshaling of the staff by supervisors and managers, a distinctly American practice.

We finally arrived back at the manor house. Dad was exhausted from a day of driving, but stayed up long enough to sit by the fire and chat with one of the husbands who maintained the grounds. He wore a green vest and a jovial expression, and I knew I was in the cozy company of hobbits. Really, Tolkien's hobbits are idealized Brits, and the owners of our bed and breakfast were pretty close to ideal. Then it was time for bed before we made our assault on the beaches of Normandy.



The photos again.

Versailles-ing into a Louvre-ly swoon

If you would like to see more photographs, just click here. Or down at the bottom if you want to know the full story first.

Versailles was built by Louis XIV to be the greatest palace ever constructed. He believed as the Sun King that he was the single greatest person to grace the Earth and endowed himself with divine powers. He believed fully in the divine right of kings to rule. Therefore, his palace should be a suitable retreat for a Divine King. He may have succeeded.

Louis XIV, complete with his Sun-like halo and a hair-metal wig.

We caught an early train to the suburbs of Paris where Louis built the palace away from the squalor of the city. The location forced the nobles to come to him. He could wine and dine the elite, far from their manipulative networks and property, effectively turning the dukes and generals into fawning domestics. We grabbed breakfast near the train station, and then followed the crowds across a massive parking lot to the golden gates of Versailles.

The tour moves through a series of increasingly opulent rooms including the King's prayer chapel where the congregation faced the monarch rather than the alter. You watched the King worship God. If that doesn’t stir revolution, I don’t know what would (though it took two more Louis to finally get the revolution moving). Every ceiling was festooned with gold leaf and images of Greek gods being hauled around by animals ill equipped to drag a chariot. There were also plenty of Apollo and sun motifs driving your progress to the Hall of Mirrors, arguably the most famous hall in Western Civilization.

Rooster's pull Mercury, wondering why he needs them if he has winged shoes. Other tugging, impractical animals included Mars's wolves and Venus's Doves.

Of course hoards of tourists clogged the flow of traffic from one room to the next, but that's completely understandable. It takes a couple of minutes to let the sensory overload work its way through your eyes to your brain where it may or may not actually be processed. This slows things down a bit. But back to the Mirrors...

Many antiquated sites can be a little disappointing because it’s hard to contextualize them. The Egyptian Pyramids are only impressive when you know they were erected four-thousand years ago before the wheel was perfected and writing was in its infancy. A few trucks and an industrious quarry could set one up pretty quickly these days. Notre Dame is only impressive when you realize they had to work daily for 300 years to install every sliver of glass and leering gargoyle. Mirrors are easy to manufacture and plenty of businesses line halls with reflective glass. But, this hall still affects the viewer (or at least it effected me) with its explosion of color and light. The chandeliers line frescos that were once reflected in the carpet. The mirrors face massive windows that overlook a National Park of a garden which disappears into the distance…it wasn’t disappointing.


We walked into the garden to explore the fountains and admire the thousands of statues that line the well-manicured lawns and gravel paths. If walls could talk, or if bushes could whisper you would never be able to leave the palace because the stories would never end. As it is, the packs of tourists never end, but we were fortunate to find a quite bench to enjoy lunch and people watch while Apollo perpetually rose from his fountain to drag the sun across the sky at Louis command.


We caught the train back to Paris and rode directly to the most famous art museum in the world (it was a day of superlatives): The Louvre. After a couple of confused minutes trying to figure out which wing we needed to head towards, we finally launched into the exhibits, starting with Greek statuary. Venus de Milo and her rock-hard abs received our adoring attention as Rick Steves chatted in our iPods, letting us know what we were looking at and why we should care.

Winged Victory then Medieval masterpieces built up to the Renaissance where we turned into the Grand Gallery, an orgy of classical scenes and saints lining an impossibly long hallway covered in marble and oil. Madonna of the Rocks by Da Vinci. Baby Jesus and John by Raphael…then we turned into a cavernous hall and saw a hundred people jostling for a view of a small, dark portrait. The Mona Lisa.

There was something missing from the experience. I know why they need to keep people back and why she needs bullet proof glass over her visage, but the experience of seeing the actual painting was diminished. In fact, a high resolution image in a book or online would offer more time to linger over that smile and the balanced composition. We took pictures, did our best to be wowed, then retreated to the other masterpieces that crammed the room, like the Wedding Feast at Cana, whose scale and detail could never be appreciated in a book or JPEG.

Stirring Romanticism and stoic Neo-Classicism came next with David’s heroes of Rome contending with Delacroix roiling visions of Liberty and Survivors. We scrutinized Michelangelo’s life-like human figures and Canova’s supple marble. Suddenly we stepped into a time warp and rocketed back to the kings of Babylon and saw the first codified laws (Hammurabi’s Code), then forward to French statuary and Napoleon III’s living quarters (the Louvre was a palace remember).

David's 1784 "Oath of the Horatii" and symbol of the French Revolution (state before family or church themes were kinda popular at the time).

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1819) La Grande Odalisque. Venus de Milo on a couch with five extra vertebrae (someone did the calculations).

Canova making me a hopeless romantic as Cupid awakens Psyche.

Hammurabi making sure you don't give an eye for a tooth.

Finally we were able to tumble back onto the pavement as the Eiffel Tower was illuminated, providing a landmark for the evening in the City of Light. After so much visual stimuli, we needed to satisfy our other senses, so we found Le Florimond which was exactly what I think of when I picture a Parisian restaurant. Our waiter had a great repartee with our table and managed to make the whole dining area feel like the kitchen at home. The food was the kind of gastronomic experience the French are famous for, so not what I necessarily have in my home kitchen (no offense, Mom). The portions were heaping. Stuffed with stuffed cabbage, savory crepes and chocolate dumpling, it was time to go back to the hotel to digest a bit and prepare to leave Paris for the Normans…

More pictures of the palace, art, and Paris generally being the capital of culture.

Picturing Paris

Here is the album of pictures that illustrate the Frankish adventure as described so far.
Stay tuned as we wander through Versailles, the Louvre, and eventually invade Normandy! Have a fantastic start to your weekend. I'm headed into the hills for the next two days to bust my rock hammer on some Tertiary marine sequences. If I'm lucky, I'll find a European manatee which may or may not be the name of my next alternative rock band.

Gargoyles and Impressionists

The next morning, fueled by pain aux chocolate (also known as Schococroissant or “A croissant with a bunch of chocolate in the middle”) and fantastic coffee, we set out for another symbol of Paris: Notre Dame.

The Cathedral has always been highly significant in my imagination. I honestly didn’t know anything about the cathedral in Cologne before I arrived on the banks of the Rhine, and arguably it’s the more impressive building, but there was a kind an excited anticipation fueling my progress to Notre Dame.

As a Catholic Midwesterner, I’ve always known the name Notre Dame University, and somehow always have known it shares a name with a big church in Paris. “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” is also one of the finest animated Disney movies they ever created (“The Lion King” is number one in my book, but I have this thing for animals, you see.). The Disney Hunchback drove me to read an abridged version of the novel (I thought it was the real thing and felt duped when I later found the Victor Hugo Classic is more than 200 pages). So, I was pretty pumped as music from the movie’s soundtrack looped through my brain. Finally we emerged from the Metro and saw the twin bell towers dominating the plaza before us.

The structure is has a kind of solidity that the Cologne Dom lacks. Perhaps because this entire Cathedral was built during the actual height of the Gothic, while the façade and bell towers of the Cologne Dom were completed in the 19th century and are a kind of loopy Neo-Gothic. Still beautiful to behold, but it’s not as ancient as Notre Dame. The gargoyles and saints leered down at us as we filed into the building from perches they'd clutched for six hudred years.


The stained glass and rose windows were capturing all the light of the clear spring morning, the shards of color falling on tourists and the faithful as everyone prepared for Holy Week. But Dad and I quickly left the solemnity of the cathedral’s interior for a higher power: We wanted to see Paris from the roof (I have a history of climbing churches).

The line seemed incredibly long and we weren’t quite sure if it would be worth the time. It was long, but it was worth the time. Fortunately, for most of the wait we were entertained by a street performer who made his change by sneaking up behind people while the crowd looked on. I was waiting for a protective husband or mother to sock him, but most people were too bewildered to become violent. Ultimately, there’s some comfort in that.

After hauling up a couple hundred stone stairs, we finally broke out onto the “bridge” that goes between the two towers. There we were able to meet and greet some of the more famous inhabitants of the cathedral:





After spending some time taking in the view with some pensive gargoyles and checking out the massive bell that only rings on special occasions (for fear of shaking the bricks to the ground), we went up to the next level top of one of the bell towers. The view was breath taking.


We then went all the way down the stairs accompanied by a little girl who sang, “We’re going down the stairs!” to the tune of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” for the entire descent. I couldn’t shake the song for a solid six hours. She was lucky she was so gersh dern cute.


Our next stop was the Musée de l'Orangerie or just “The Orangerie.” The museum houses a relatively small collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist work from a private collection. The centerpiece of the exhibit are Claude Monet’s “Nymphéas” or “Water Lillies.” There are eight canvases in the series, and each stretches 30 feet. They’re among Monet’s final canvases and were painted as he developed cataracts, his eyes forcing him to paint on a larger scale just so he could see what he was doing. The paintings were made exclusively for this museum. You enter one of the galleries and are literally surrounded by water lilies and natural light. Each canvas depicts a different time of day and slightly different arrangement of trees and lilies. Absolutely gorgeous, and almost too much to take in.

One of the massive galleries housing the massive canvases.

A detail from one of Monet's final works. Each of those flowers is about the size of a dinner plate.

All men who jump in rivers in Paris are in Seine.

On to the Orsay. Most people know about the Louvre, the museum that houses ancient to early 19th century art. The Louvre is an art history book come to life…to a point. Once you reached Impressionists, it cuts off and before 1986, you had to trek all over the city to get the rest of art’s modern history. Then the city took an abandoned railway station and installed the Musée d'Orsay. Name the great Frenchmen and you’ll find his work: Monet, Degas, Renoir, Cezanne, Courbet, Pissaro, Manet. Throw in Van Gogh…again, overwhelming. The art seemed endless, but never monotonous. We also discovered new names and works. I’ll only give you a small sample here:

Paul Gauguin's "Arearea. Joyeusetes" (1892). Gauguin had a brainwave. What if I got out of Paris? What if I painted, you know, the rest of the world?

Olympia (1863) by Édouard Manet. Not an idealized nude. Thus a scandle. Manet loved it.

Georges Seurat (1891) The Circus. This is the guy that did that huge picture with the woman in a bustle and a monkey on a leash (A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte). I didn't know he could get...trippy.

Don Quixote and the Dead Mule (1867) by Daumier. I've made it a new goal to see as many Penguin Classic book covers as I can. Check.

Nikolai Nikolaievitch Gay's Le calvaire (1880-ish). One of the more striking, excruciating crucifixion paintings I've ever seen.

We went on a day the museum was open late, and we stayed until closing time, slowly herded towards the door by the guards. After waving our arms for a couple hours, we flagged down a cab and had dinner at a slightly darker restaurant than we had visited the night before, Café Terrane. Our waiter seemed like he was born to serve, with perfectly groomed facial hair and just enough of a business-like demeanor to make you feel like he would never want to intrude and would only do so when it was absolutely essential. I enjoyed rabbit (only the second time I’ve eaten lagomorph) in mustard and crème sauce. I’ll admit that I spent a good chunk of the meal trying to figure out if I was eating dark chicken meat or rabbit. When I finally got to the bones I knew I was dealing with a mammal. Desert was a sampler of crème brulee, little slices of cake, and espresso. So good. So filling. So tired, and we had THE palace to visit the next day.

A Frank Introduction

At 7 AM the next morning, I was furiously packing my backpack for the capital of Fance. By 8:30 I was at the Bonn train station and by 10:15 I was rocketing southwest towards Paris, the City of Lights. Thus begins a new adventure with a new travel party: My Parents.

It’s true they were here over Christmas, but who can resist the opportunity to visit their son on the Continent? What son could resist the opportunity to stay in a real hotel room (and see the folks, that was important as well)? It works for everybody.

It was especially exciting to visit Paris with Mom (no offense Dad). She grew up with a book called “This is Paris,” studied French in high school (after the Latin program died, go figure), and would generally be classed a second-class Francophile (an first class Anglophile). When I stepped onto the platform, my parents were waiting with hugs and confidence in navigating the Metro system. I like putting myself in charge of the map, but there was a kind of relief in letting them get me pointed in the right direction (despite their jet lag).

After dropping off my luggage at our lovely, Rick Steves recommended hotel, we dove into the city. We were literally one block away from Napoleon’s tomb, so it seemed like a good place to start. The final resting place of everyone’s favorite 19th century megalomaniac is located in Les Invalides, a complex that includes a French Military history museum, a military hospital, and copious war memorials.

The Dome at Les Invalides. Directly below the spire is a very little man.

Napoleon rests beneath massive St. Peter’s-esque dome interred in a monumental marble sarcophagus. Around him are friezes and sculptures depicting him as a Roman Emperor meting out justice and military victory. With all the bombast surrounding him, you would think Napoleon had some kind of…complex. To be fair, much of the decoration was added by his lackeys who bought into his grand vision for France.

Napoleon is in the dark box lower right. The dome arches up beyond the frame.

The rest of the complex was buzzing with activity as limousines carrying military commanders rolled past fascinated tourists. Our goal was to visit the stuffed bodies of Napoleon’s favorite horse and his dog, but, given the luck I seem to bring to every such excursion, the wing we wanted was closed. Satisfied we had seen the memorials of enough of France’s decorated heroes, we headed for the Rodin Museum.

As we crossed the street, trucks rolled by laden with pedestrian and vehicle barriers and clumps of riot police patrolled the pavement. If we played our cards right see a real French striking protesters’ march! But first there was sculpture to see. As we crossed the street I looked over my shoulder and saw it. Paris’s iconic focal point. The Eifel Tower. If I didn’t feel like I was in one of the great cities, a city that inspires art, literature, and revolution, seeing that steel spike shocked me into the moment. We would get there soon. First…

"The Kiss" Probably one of Rodin's most popular images which means he grew to hate it. Oh artists.

The Rodin Museum is a combination of a former hotel that was converted to house sculpture and a well-groomed, but not overly fussy garden where you can walk around bronze casts of the master’s work. The interior felt oddly lived in and threadbare. Chairs and display tables were smooth with use, and the mirrors needed a dose of polish and Windex. This created a comforting effect. You could take your time. You were a guest in this wonderful home. Of course, the electric work of Rodin was incredible to behold. He understood how to animate rock, plaster, and bronze, but beyond that, he understood how to draw the viewer into the story. You see The Thinker, and know he’s grappling with the implications of Hell (not where he left his keys). You see the terrified faces of the The Burghers of Calais and know they are facing death.

About to be executed for resisting the British during the Hundred Years War. They were let off at the last minute.

After the art we needed our first Parisian coffee experience. Then we caught a cab to the Eiffel Tower.

It’s huge. Please realize I am from Cincinnati, home of King’s Island where a 1/3 scale replica of the Eiffel Tower has dominated my idea of the perfect summer day. That replica is pretty big. The real article takes it to a whole new level. It’s also surprisingly beautiful. I heard the stories of angry Parisians who thought it was an eye-sore and assumed they had something to complain about. An Erector set gone massive is not necessarily going to spruce up the neighborhood. But those early detractors left off the elegant ornamentation that circles the base of the tower and runs all the way to the observation deck at the summit. I enjoyed the rare satisfaction of discovering an object I had seen in countless books, magazines, and movies could seem fresh and undiscovered.

Of course, that discovery could only go so far. The place wasn’t open. The workers were on strike and we were left to fume at the Geschlossen gods. As we walked along the park that leads out from the tower, Dad discovered a strange memorial that was erected in 1989. The capitals of Europe line a kind of mausoleum, and I posed with the engraved, then-capital of Germany: Bonn.

It was time for some fine Parisian cuisine, so we wandered through the city and down the Avenue Bosquet to the Rue de Champs de Mars. These streets encapsulated everything I expected from Paris. The chocolate shops were clustered with cafes, bakers and florists wedged themselves in between. I ate tartar and drank French wine. I fully expected to see an artists set up on a street corner documenting the scene, and was mildly disappointed with he didn’t appear.

After dinner we gathered in the hotel lobby for stories and pictures of my European roving, then collapsed into bed. My mom apologized for the “Old People Schedule,” but my body was trilled to get more than five hours of sleep for the first time in a week.