Still Not Fitting In

Sandwiched between the ham and the cheese
(The meat is young and supple and ingenious
well-schooled and active
Perhaps a bit full of itself
The cheese stands alone at the pinnacle of it all
Yeasty, aged and exquisite)
Where does that leave me?
The pickle? Sliding around between cheese slices?
So indefinite
God forbid, the mayo?
I say nayo!
Perhaps I'll be the slice of pickled ginger
slipped in-between the layers
A surprise sweet and sour
Independent of the pork and the dairy
No need of cousin Dill or
Colonel Mustard
Yet full of complements.

---

From our latest Poetry Jam session.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Abbey at Fontevraud, Eleanor's Final Resting Place

Monday, June 13, 2011 

Journal Excerpt, Monday, June 13, 2011, Hotel Mercure, Saumur, France: Just back from my day tour of the Abbeye de Fontevraud with Pierre. However, it turned out to be much more – we went to the Abbey first and as he drove, Pierre talked about the area and the abbey. Then we spent a goodly amount of time there, two whole hours.

A view of the Abbey at Fontevraud from the gardens west of the complex.

I had been looking forward to my tour of the Fontevraud Abbey all weekend. I was up and ready for my 9am meet-up with Pierre, my tour guide and driver. I stood in the lobby in my long pants, hiking boots, long-sleeved sweater, and back pack, waiting. Soon a wiry man with silver hair and expressive eyes walked by me without a glance. He looked around the lobby, then walked back out the door. In a few minutes he came back in and hesitated. I walked up to him. “Are you Pierre?” I asked.

My tour guide for the Abbey at Fontevraud, Mr. Pierre Romanet, who then drove me to several other sights, including a wine cave for a wine tasting.

“Yes, Yes!” he said. “Are you Mrs. Wilkin?”

I was so relieved. I could get out of this hell hole of a hotel and spend a structured day with someone who spoke English! I wondered if Pierre didn't think I was his tourist because I didn't fit some image. Maybe I wasn't old enough or perhaps I was not dressed like the wealthy female solo tourist he assumed me to be. What does the fashionable middle-aged woman abroad wear? Is it not loose khakis that convert into shorts, a money belt hidden under two tops making you look 15 pounds heavier, and a back pack? No matter. We soon were on our way and talking about the Abbey and the surrounding area sites. During the drive, I told Pierre about my problems at the hotel. He shook his head sympathetically. "Some of these hotel staff are very young and inexperienced." I felt better. Finally, a personal connection with someone. Pierre was very neat and exact and professional. And he clearly enjoyed showing me around. It's like he took a personal interest in it. He was there for me.

Entrance to the abbey refectory.

One of the things that surprised me about Pierre was that he was focused on so much more than the Abbey. He knew of Eleanor of Aquitaine, of course, but had not heard of the Eleanor Vase, the artifact I went to the Louvre in Paris to see. I loved that I could tell him something he didn't know. But Pierre was very knowledgeable about everything else.

We drove to the Abbey first. The valley unfolded before us as we traveled south and east to Fontevraud and I began to relax and really enjoy being a proper tourist. Looking out the window as Pierre drove and pointed out interesting sites, I saw sandbars and the green of scrub growth across the river. The day was partly sunny, and this lent a bright intensity to the green banks and the sandbars, which left the river a dark smolder in contrast. On the other side of the road were squares of farm land with farmhouses scattered among them, and occasional villages.

The complex in front of the administration building. Pregnant black cat in center view.

When we arrived at Fontevraud-l'Abbaye, the confusing name for the town that grew up around the Fontevraud abbey, Pierre parked the van and we strolled up a narrow paved street toward impressive pale stone buildings. Fontevraud is incredible. It is the largest surviving monastic complex from the Middle Ages. Back in those days, it was one of the only double monasteries, housing both men and women in separate buildings. Even more unusual, it was ruled by an abbess. As we entered the main courtyard, Pierre pointed out the pregnant black cat, which was part of a larger club of cats that lived at the abbey. We entered the abbey courtyard. Our first stop would be the abbey church where Eleanor was entombed.

This quaint little cottage is actually an entryway to the abbey and part of the church building. Looks like it could have been the living quarters of a caretaker or, perhaps in earlier times, the home of the abbess or church reverend.

The abbey at Fontevraud was established in 1101 by Robert of Adrissel, the founder of a community of religious men and women that needed a new home. The abbey grew in prominence until it included four monasteries. Abbesses ruled over the monastery for 400 hundred years until Napoleon broke up the order. In the meantime, the abbey kept going if not actually thriving. It survived the Hundred Years War when the community lived in extreme poverty and, later, the War of Religion when one of the monasteries was destroyed.

View into the interior of the chapter house at Fontevraud Abbey.

Journal Excerpt, Monday, June 13, 2011, Hotel Mercure, Saumur, France (continued): The abbey was huge, white stone. Quiet, reflective, gardens of wistfulness – cold dormitories with glass-less windows. Contemplative. Lay as well as religious people. Huge kitchen. Silence except for in the chapter house. Where they could talk. Had meetings of the order and judged people. Perhaps where Colin [one of my novel's secondary characters] would be judged. Why the abbey, though? Penelope, the sidekick in my story, is supposed to be silent at the abbey, but she obviously can't be [because she has a horrible tic]– so maybe that's why she doesn't go to the abbey after all. Maybe Aihne is able to convince the duke not to send her?

A close-up of Eleanor of Aquitaine's effigy by ElanorGamgee (Fontevraud) [GFDL or CC BY 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The chapel houses the tomb of Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband, Henry II. Their second son Richard the Lionheart lies near them as does the effigy of their youngest son John's wife, Isabelle. Very eerie. The carving of Eleanor on her tomb seems unlike her. Her hands hold a prayer book-- a very contemplative image for such a radical queen. However, Eleanor was a complex woman. She probably spent some time in prayer and reflection during the 12-plus years she was locked in a tower as her husband's prisoner. And just before she died at 80, Eleanor was living a contemplative life at the abbey. But that was at the end of a long and active life and was actually her second attempt to retire from public life. The first time she retired, she was 72 and ready to leave governance to Richard, but then Richard died. She then had to leave the abbey, get on a horse, and ride through the Pyrenees to negotiate alliances of marriage between her grandchildren and rulers of other European countries to ensure the stability of King John's rule. However, as Sue Morris points out in her blog about traveling with Sharon Kay Penman during her “In the Footsteps of Eleanor of Aquitaine” tour, Eleanor's effigy holds her book open rather than closed like so many devout-looking effigies do. This indicates to her that Eleanor was being honored for her understanding of the spiritual world as well as her wisdom regarding the material world. I accept that as an appropriate tribute to this wife of two kings and mother of two kings.

An empty hall at the abbey. The limestone is degrading. Repairs are constantly being made.

As we moved on through the complex I noted the emptiness and lack of furnishings in the huge rooms, Some structures were destroyed, yet others lived. The original living quarters of the nuns and the monks were still in tact, yet you could see where furniture and decoration had been completely removed, perhaps to accommodate the prison housed here beginning in Napoleon's reign and lasting until the 1960s. 

Some of the abbesses appear in Renaissance paintings depicting Christ's life. Notice the dark figure with a white whimple in the lower right.

The abbesses were well-respected, retaining a lot of power at Fontevraud. Some, such as Gabrielle de Rochechouart (the sister of Madame de Montespan who was the most famous of Louis XIV mistresses), were honored during the 16th and 17th centuries when painters included their likenesses in depictions of Christ's life. Later abbesses felt that they, too, should be part of the paintings, so they had themselves painted in much after the fact. 

Beheaded statuary everywhere at the abbey. Relic of the Wars of Religion.

By the middle of the 12th century, the Order of Fontevraud had fallen on hard times. At that point to help save the order, the nuns were allowed to keep their inheritance in contradiction with normal monastic practice. The devastation of the Hundred Years War, which ended in the mid-15th century, caused further economic problems.  In the second half of the 16th century, the abbey and its surrounding buildings were vandalized as a result of the Wars of Religion. Many statues were beheaded. Some of these still reside at the abbey looking eerily like the statuary at the Cluny Museum in Paris.

An artist's "walkway" under construction over the cloister at the Abbey at Fontrevraud.

One bizarre aspect of my visit to the abbey was that French artist Vincent Lamouroux was creating an "experience" in the cloister -- a walkway that looks like a roller coaster where people can traverse the gardens from above and look down on the pathway where monks and nuns walked in silence centuries ago. In a way, I was I glad that I missed the opening of this "attraction." It didn't seem appealing to me. See what you think: Here is a link to a short YouTube video from alternatif-art that walks you through the installation a year and a half after it was completed.

The kitchens, called The Tour Evraud, at the Fontevraud Abbey. The "pine cone" roof adds a distinct character to these 12th-century buildings, which were renovated in the early 20th century.

The Romanesque kitchens at the abbey are cool. They are the only preserved Romanesque kitchens in France. The huge octagonal building is known as Tour Evraud. Its shape and steep "pine cone" roofs are distinctively 12th century, although the building underwent heavy renovation in the 20th century. 

The ovens, probably added much after the original 12th-century kitchen building.

When you go inside you see that walls contain several ovens in a circle. There are holes in the roof to let the smoke from each oven travel out. The ovens are huge. I wondered how much bread they could bake here in a day. Lots, I figured. But in researching the subject a bit more, I found one source that says the ovens were not added until 1904! I am so disappointed.

The chimney above one of the abbey ovens.

There is controversy over whether the kitchens were EVER used to cook or bake. More likely they were a smoke house. My husband Dave suggested this is logical because being able to preserve food by smoking it would be more useful to more people over time than cooking fresh food that had to be eaten within a day or so. Smoking allowed for storage of meat for months. This idea also supports the notion that the building had no ovens--not until the 20th century, anyway. It is strange that a kitchen could be so controversial. And I was unable to find a second source to confirm that the ovens were, indeed, 20th-century additions.

The ovens in the kitchen have ornate capitals on their columns like they were entrances to a great building.

 The alcoves that held the ovens were guarded by columns with ornate capitals at the top as if these were entrances to great rooms in the abbey itself. I was continually impressed by the ornate nature of everyday objects from the middle ages, from door ironwork to the entranceway to ovens!

The small church or chapel at the abbey.

We visited the Eglise Saint Michel, a small church in the town near the abbey. It was built by Henry II and Eleanor about 1170 for the townspeople. I like the smaller churches best. This church was beautifully decorated with fresh lilies and wildflowers. Someone was tending it very closely. The stain glass windows were brilliant, and the altar gleamed with the gold altar piece and tabernacle.

We were at the end of the tour, and I thanked Pierre and sadly turned back toward his white van to return to the hell that was my hotel in Saumur. He said, "Would you like to see Chinon Chateau?"

"Why yes," I said, trying not to shout with glee. "I would!"

To Be Continued!

References:
Fontevraud Abbey:
Trip Advisor
Travel France
Travel Gumbo
Wikipedia

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Unable to Speak at Le Mans; Grumpy Gus; Kindness, Rudeness, then Irony in Saumur

Friday, June 10 through Sunday, June 12, 2011, Bayeux to Le Mans to Saumur, France

Re-reading my travel journals not only reminds me of what I learned about my novel protagonist and about time travel, but returns me to that foreign place where I tried to speak another language and was not understood, then stumbled my way through the streets. The discomfort wraps its arms around me once more.

It was tricky for me to balance the need to interact with strangers on a daily basis with constant travel and changes of venue. No one was there to compare stories with at the end of the day. I often went to bed completely drained, yet I did not always sleep well. I would toss and turn on unfamiliar mattresses, rehashing the days activities. I needed people, yet when I tried to express myself to folks who did not understand my language nor me theirs, it was exhausting—just to ask for the check, let alone to have a normal conversation. There was no easy banter, few real personal connections. I had to actively study facial expressions and body language to understand if people were neutral, happy, or upset.

View from my balcony upon arriving mid-evening at the Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur.

The result of all this was that by the time I left Bayeux,  I was becoming a Grumpy Gus. But I was only halfway through my journey. There would be more challenges ahead. I had to protect myself. I had to create a more robust barrier between myself and others. But even as I hid behind emotional armor, I was able to learn from my interaction with one person and act on that knowledge with the next, sometimes later that same day. At times I could even drop the armor when I met people who took extra care to try to make me feel comfortable. And help me forget the jerks.

To help reinforce my armor for when I did need it, I had a regular routine in every town: I ate a lot, slept in, walked miles through and around old city centers, and talked with family and friends back home through the magic of the internet, . Friends' comments on pictures I posted on social media were priceless. Facebook allowed me to have conversations with my peeps thousands of miles away. And, of course, my phone chats with husband Dave were essential to my sanity. An occasional Australian met on the road was a real treat as well. Those I met were full of good, wry humor. I began to see the humor myself in this crazy "stranger in a strange land" situation I was in. But I also began to see the irony in it.

In the United States when I meet someone who does not speak English, I assume without thinking that she is uneducated and not on "my level." I am not proud of this. I mean, I like people! But I am, like most folks, lazy. It is too much effort and time to pay close attention to get the details about a new person we meet in passing. Our brains have been evolved to make quick judgements on matters that are not immediately critical. We decide whether this person is a threat or not, and if not, move on. The quick dismissal also protects us by moving on before a stranger can get too close.

In Europe. I was the ignorant "less than" person, the potential yet rejected threat. I got the message, whether it was sent intentionally or not.

My journey from Bayeux to Saumur was stressful for all the reasons I've mentioned. I first backtracked to Le Mans by train before I could make a connection to Saumur. It was a long day. I met several kind people, two rude people, and a person who helped me but wouldn't look me in the eye.

View from my balcony as darkness descends at Saumur, France.

Journal Excerpt, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur, France: In Saumur. Had great difficulty pronouncing the name of this city. It is something like "Sah-uh-muhr—but get your lips out and linger on the "uhs." I usually say "Sam-UR." The man at the train station in Le Mans could not understand me at all. A gentlemen in line understood, but he did not look at me, just at the SCNF train guy. "Sahuh-muhr," he told him. I felt like I was almost beneath his notice. But because I butchered the language, he had to do something.

I thought I would never make it to Saumur. It turned out not to be a train I connected to at Le Mans, but an "autobus." I could have taken a train to Angers and then another to Saumur, but as the SCNF man said, the bus left sooner and I could just relax for the nearly two-hour ride. So, I took the bus. It seemed obvious and it worked out well, too. I had planned to walk to the hotel, but when the bus pulled up at the end of the line and I got off, I was so tired and felt so alienated from lack of communication, I asked the bus driver, a huge truck driver of a man with animated features, "Je voudrais un taxi. Oo?" He motioned that one must call, but after a few phrases in heavy French in his booming bass voice, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Oo?" he asked me. "L'otel Mecure," I said. I heard him repeat this into the phone. He chatted for a moment and I heard him say, "Anglais." Yep. That's me. Then he patted me on the head—on top of my white sun hat—and said. "En la chapeau blanc." Okay, he was making fun of me a bit, but what a funny scene. I could never interact with the natives this way if I'd been traveling with someone else. He was awfully kind to me. I got my taxi and another 5.03 euros later I was at my hotel.

(Editor's note: It was only after I re-read my journal, that I realized the bus driver had mistaken me for an English woman. I'll take it!)

Earlier that morning, when I caught the train from Caen to Le Mans, I underwent trial by fire as I attempted to speak French. Now I realize that experience helped me have a pleasant interaction with the bus driver in the afternoon. When I got on the train I headed for an empty seat next to a young woman sitting at the window. I asked if I could sit next to her, and we took several moments to come to a conclusion that I could sit there. She asked me where I was getting off the train and I was so tired, I couldn't process her repeated, "Oo? Oo?" Finally she listed the names of the stops and I heard "Luh Mahng."

Train at the Le Mans train station January 2011. Photo by jean-louis Zimmermann through Creative Commons 2.0 License CC BY 2.0

"Oui! Le Man," I said. She sighed and slumped back in her seat. She pulled out a tablet of paper, pens, a ruler, and an exercise book and began rapidly writing in earnest, slouched over on my side so that I had to shift toward the aisle to keep her off of me.

Somewhere in my brain I knew she had meant, "Where?" as in "Where are you getting off?" but I could not process it. I was too intimidated by her bossy manner. She gave up completely on my ability to speak sensibly in French. This exchange was so exhausting for her that, when she needed to get off the train (in only three or four stops) all she manage to do was poke me in the arm and gesture for me to move. If she wasn't going to be on the train for long, why did she care where I got off? How did this information affect her life in any way? If she was getting off well after me, than nothing had to change because I would be the first one to get off. Because she was getting off before me, this information should have impelled her to change seats with me so that she wouldn't disturb me when she got off the train. But she changed nothing after gaining her hard-won information. She remained at the window so that I had to get up to let her off. My only conclusion was that she was not a nice person. Which is unfortunate. Later I realized that she was very young, and I let it go. Mostly. But not before awarding her the nick-name, "Rude Girl."

Journal Excerpt, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur, (continued): On the train to Le Mans, I introduced myself to the English-speaking gentleman who took a seat after Rude Girl got off. He was from Nairobi, lived in Atlanta, Georgia and had been in the states for 16 years. He was touring Europe for the first time, visiting relatives and friends who lived in France and Germany. Anthony. He pronounced it, "Ant-ehlt-oni," which is prettier than how I was saying it.

When we were nearing my stop, I got up with my pack and moved to the doorway. I met a gentleman standing by the door named Paul who is from New Mexico and who had been living in France for one year. He now hails from Angers—maybe I'll run into him while I'm there. He lived in Denver for a while and knew Boulder and Longmont. He looked very native American. He teaches indigenous culture courses. I don't know if he is associated with a school or not. Who woulda thunk?

Truly makes up for Rude Girl. It even makes up for the difficult communication I had with the Hotel Mecure night clerk twice—both on the phone before I arrived and in person when I walked into lobby after traveling over 5 1/2 hours (real glad I took the taxi at the end). I just had enough energy to give my name, hand over the hotel voucher from the travel agency, get the key, wonder for a minute at the French the woman rattled at me, give up understanding it because I couldn't get her attention again (she kept avoiding my eyes), and head to the elevator. I still don't know why she pointed at the number on the back of the card the key hangs on. It couldn't be my room number because that was on the front...

(Editor's Note: I determined afterward that the number on the back of the card was was the code for the front door, which was locked after hours. Good thing I never needed it.)

You can see the shadow of me taking this photo off my balcony as the sun was setting and after I finally got to my Saumur hotel.

It was true. When I got to my hotel in Saumur, my challenges were not over. It was 8:00pm by the time I was settled into my room, and I was starving. I had not eaten since a tiny lunch in Le Mans. So I went downstairs to order room service instead of attempting to communicate over the phone. I got the young woman's attention at the front desk and pointed to items on the menu to put in my order. The woman just shook her head and muttered something I didn't understand. I tried to clarify. I was proud that I was able to piece together the phrase in French, "Is it too late?" But she shook her head. "Por qua?" I asked. She did not answer. I lost my cool a bit, flung out my arms, and marched back to my room. Too tired to go out, I went to bed hungry. Before I pulled the curtain, I could see the glowing moon hanging above the chateau across the river. The sky was midnight blue and the water shimmered with waves of moonlight. It was almost enough to make me forget the nasty concierge.

(Editor's Note: More of this story can be found in the blog entry, "My Dinners with Julia.")

A view from the top of the hill overlooking the bridge and river, Saumur France.

The main reason I came to Saumur, was not its awesome position on a hill above the river on the western edge of the Loire River Valley, but to experience a traditional European market. It also put me close to the Abbey at Fontevraud, a must see for me because it was the place where Eleanor of Aquitaine lived her final days and where she was buried.

The Saturday Market at Place St Pierre, Saumur, France

Saturday was the day of the week when the biggest, most traditional market opened in Saumur. To make sure I landed there on Saturday, my travel agent manipulated my schedule. Even though Le Mans, the Plantagenet City, was on my way to Saumur from Bayeux, she had me by-pass it. I would have to come back to it later. And I had to stay in Saumur a day or two longer than needed to make it all work. Of course, I can imagine a much worse fate than having to spend leisure days in the Loire Valley. I made the most of it, exploring wine caves and vineyards, and walking the city from top to bottom.

Enjoying the flowers at the Saturday Market Saumur, France.

Saturday morning I slept in, exhausted after my long travels and communication difficulties. I ate a good breakfast and caught up on my journaling. By late morning, I was headed to the center of town. The old city was half a mile southwest and across the river from my hotel. I was looking forward to exploring the chateau, its vineyards, and other surrounds later that day. But first, I would take in as much of the market as I could.

A young father with a toddler on his back contemplates the cheese selection.

It was a gorgeous June day. I walked across the grand bridge and noodled around until I found Place St Pierre where they were setting up tables. I was early for the market, so I hiked up toward the chateau and got a lovely view of the river valley from the old town. When I came back, the market was in full flush. Tables covered in cheeses and grains and dried beans and herbs extended up the cobble streets. Across from that stood huge bundles of flowers: lilies, yarrow, campenella, and delphiniums. I stood aside and absorbed it all. A young man with a toddler in a carrier on his back approached a table and stared at the rounds of cheese, eventually picking out several varieties. I guessed they would be heading to the ice cream cart across the way soon.

The multitude of sacks of every kind of grain and dried herb or spice at the Saturday Market, Saumur, France.

Red, orange-and-white, and green canopies protected fresh vegetables from the sun: carrots, garlic and turnip bulbs, tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, cabbages, artichokes, radishes, onions, leeks, peppers, and fresh parsley. There were also melons and rhubarb. It was a bit early in the season for most other fruit. This market was similar to the farmer's markets in Boulder County. What was different was the incredible variety of cheeses, some unwrapped and inviting you to just taste, and row upon row of sacks opened to reveal the vivid colors and textures of their contents: cumin, sage, basil, tandoori, anise, green and black peppercorns, parsley, cinnamon sticks, and so much more. Another table displayed many styles of olives.

The Irish pub where I spent a couple of pleasant meals with a sandwich and a Guinness in Saumur, France.

After visiting the marketplace, I stopped at the Guinness pub at the bottom of the hill and ordered a sandwich and a Guinness, then sat looking out at the Loire. I could have been in Dresden Germany sitting next to the Elbe again. But this valley was flatter and more open. No towering cliffs and ancient fortresses atop them. From reading I knew that there were such edifices further east. I would not be seeing much of that, I thought. But I would be wrong.

The theater and rehearsal for what tonight will be a "luminary" or theatrical drama with lights and horses.

Journal Excerpt, Later that night, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Saumur, France: Saumur is known for the military equestrian academy. Jury is out on it IMHO. Looks like a bunch of horse tricks to me. Do the horses enjoy that?

After eating, I wandered up to the chateau and did the tour. The original castle was built in the 10th century to defend against the Normans, destroyed in the 11th by the Normans, then transferred in the 12th to the House of Plantagenet and rebuilt by Henry Plantagenet (Henry II of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine's husband). The vineyard was lovely and the views of the valley were lush from the summit. As I stood on the ramparts I saw a collection of men on horses with colorful caraprices moving in formations in a field below. I got closer and saw that they had set up bleachers around the grounds. Apparently it was a rehearsal for a "luminary" or theatrical drama with lights, which, in this case, also included horses. Turns out, Saumur has a long equestrian tradition and is the home to a famous military equestrian academy.

After watching the maneuvers for a while, I went back to my hotel for a nap to reclaim some energy before heading out for dinner.

The chateau at Saumur and its surrounding vineyards.

Journal Excerpt, Sunday, June 12, 2011 Saumur France: I feel I'm in that restaurant I was at in Chicago, part of a chain called Ed Debevic's. Their motto is, “Eat and Get Out!” Except it is the entire country of France. I am not to ask for anything. I am to follow a set of rules that are not expressly set out. The woman who is the night clerk at my hotel seems unwilling to make allowances for the fact that I need a little extra help. And the woman in the hotel bar at breakfast who “yelled” at me—I do not know how else to describe it—as I was finishing my breakfast after a couple of trips to the bar...?  It was closing time for the buffet, but I was not asking for more food, so all I could imagine was that she thought I was going to want more food because I did not know they were about to close? Or I took too much food? I am starting to not care so much after a better night's sleep and a good tasse de cafe or tasse aux cafe? I don't know.

An empty street in the rain, Saumur France.

It's funny. I see the humor in it now although no one else here seems to. Got to find some Australians to laugh with. I sat down at this cafe along the river. I needed to get out of a steady and breezy sprinkle. But apparently I sat at the wrong table. A woman yells at me. I don't understand exactly what she says except “cafe.” I say, “oui, un cafe, sils vous plais.” She gestures generally to the other side of the cafe and says something else I can't understand. She yells at me again. Oops. So, I head to the undressed tables at the side, realizing now that the dressed tables are set for the afternoon bar/brasserie traffic and I am just odering a coffee. I feel I should have gone to the Celtic pub straightaway—they were serving cafe there. I didn't even see this woman—she was sitting outside at the entrance to the bar eating her breakfast or lunch. I don't understand the rules here. I will try to be more polite and ask before I sit down in general. At a cafe, when I just want coffee, I mean.

The irony here is that, although few people speak English and some people treat me as subhuman because I don't speak French, I hear American music everywhere. At breakfast this morning it was Scott Joplin, Gershwin, Bernstein. As I was walking through the city center, I heard Cyndi Lauper belting out “Girls just want to to have fun!” Mixed message?

Saumur Dolmen Bagneux 2007 by Manfred Heyde (Own work) [GFDL or CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

My strolls were lonely in Saumur. On Sunday, I was literally by myself on the streets, probably because of the constant drizzle. But I was not walking on a tourist track, either. After resting out of the rain at the cafe table for a while, I traveled around the city. I had time to kill. I discovered some hidden treasures, including the Dolmen de Bagneux. I had to walk a half mile or more out of town to the suburb of Bagneux to see it, but it was worth it. This stone is the only evidence left of the first settlement on the site of modern Saumur and is about 5,000 years old. It is considered a "megalith," which is defined in Merriam Websters as a very large usually rough stone used in prehistoric cultures as a monument or building block. Structures built of such stones use no mortar or concrete. The Dolmen de Bagneux is the second largest dolmen uncovered. No one knows for sure who built these dolmens throughout Britain and Europe, but they are likely remnants of burial chambers. Some of them might have been originally covered in earth and small pebbles.

Underground at the Louis de Greneville Cave (winery).

I also visited the Louis de Greneville Cave (winery) where they make great sparkling wine. The caves are underground tufa (limestone). Some of the bottles here are over 100 years old. Saumur is part of the Loire Valley wine country, and they are very proud of their wine. I entered the store front at Louis de Greneville and was greeted by a young woman who spoke English. She understood my situation and put me at the end of a tour that was just starting, telling me that, although the tour group was French, the tour guide would be happy to answer any questions in English when the formal tour was finished. She was and she did. I tasted several sparkling white wines and rose wines, and I loved them all. I enquired, and found that it was difficult to get these wines in the USA. This seems to be true of most small, local wineries in western Europe. So, I focused I enjoying them in place.

When I got back to my hotel, I crashed for a while, then grabbed a brief dinner. But soon I was back at my hotel and in bed. I wanted to be fresh for my tour of the Abbey at Fontevraud the next day with my guide, Pierre.

My experience in Saumur wasn't over, but the worst of my stress in that city was. I would encounter other difficulties in other cities before I made it back home, but my days were also peppered with pleasant and fun experiences, including meeting kind people like my bus driver. And I was touring incredibly beautiful countryside full of a rich and interesting heritage. I was still a grump at times, but I usually met challenges head on and gained much from the experience.

My feelings of alienation in this and in other cities throughout my journey has convinced me to work to change my automatic thinking about "foreigners" and non-English speakers in my own country, and to be more charitable toward them. I feel I gained only an inkling of what it might be like to be an immigrant. I hope that now, if I meet a traveler from another country or a U.S. Citizen who doesn't speak much English, I will remember my lessons from Europe and meet her with kindness instead of judgement. Even if I have to fight my usual impatience and rash conclusions.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Unexpected Pleasure in Dresden

Thursday, May 26, through Sunday, May 29, 2011, Dresden

The time I spent in Dresden was an unexpected pleasure. I knew it would be interesting, and fun to see my friends for a long weekend in the middle of my research trip, but I had no idea how it would affect me personally. (Editor's note: See my previous blog entry,  "Half Destroyed and Living History.") This blog entry is devoted to the pleasures of my visit there.

I had been haunted the entire train trip by the story my friends told of a visitor who missed the Dresden stop, wound up 20 km away, and had to get a new ticket and re-board to get back to Dresden. But I successfully got off at the proper stop, arriving just as my friend Dave was there to greet me. He took me to the apartment he shared with his wife Lisa and where I unpacked before we set out for beer and dinner.

Me drinking my first fresh German beer at a biergarten in Dresden, Germany, May 2011. If I remember correctly, it was a hefeweizen. Thanks to Lisa Larsen for the photo.

My friends, knowing I was an avid cyclist, handed me a bicycle. I jumped on the bike before checking it over, and while trying to ride over the cobbled street, I biffed and scraped up my knee a little. Turns out, the tires were a bit under inflated. After helping me clean up my knee and then pumping up my tires, my friends led me on a ride along a bike path that parallels the Elbe River. We arrived at a biergarten about 15 minutes from their apartment. The food was great, and the views lovely. We hadn't seen each other in a while, and there was much to talk about.

The Zwinger palace, the main palace of Augustus the Strong, built in the 18th century. A tour group convenes below me as I stand on the walkway above. Dresden, Germany, May 2011.

The next day, Friday, I hung out in Altstadt while my friends worked. Neustadt, or “new town,” is where Dave and Lisa live. The buildings in Neustadt only go back to the 18th century. (Yeah. I said “only.”)  Altdstadt is “old town,” where all the 16th and 17th century palaces and churches are. The Zwinger Palace of Augustus the Strong is enormous. It was partially under repair while I was there, and it was weird to see this 17th century edifice with paint cans and barriers up around areas that were being restored. The Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady, was austere and weathered. (Editor's note: See previous blog entry.) I was able to see a panorama from the top of one of the towers: New and old and ancient all nestled together along the river.

View from the top of the Frauenkirche looking south along the River Elbe with both very old and very modern architecture. Dresden, German, May 2011.

After exploring the Zwinger palace and its museum, then the cathedral, I strolled along Brühl's Terrace, a river side walkway known as “the Balcony of Europe”,  and settled on the patio of Bruhlsche Garten, a restaurant in a magnificent old building overlooking the Elbe River. I ordered lunch in German without too much confusion, then I ate a scrumptious meal. After I had finished, the server arrived with a digital pad with my receipt on it. I looked it over and nodded, then he took my credit card and ran it through the little machine, I signed, and I was done. Wow. Leagues ahead of any of the restaurants in the U.S. (Editor's note: the smart phone/pad use for restaurants is much more common now than in 2011 when I visited Germany.)

Looking west along the Elbe River in Altstadt from “the Balcony of Europe” where Bruhlsche Garten is located. Dresden, German, May 2011

That night, Dave and Lisa met me for tapas at a restaurant right on the Neumarkt square in Altstadt, within view of the cathedral. I was still feeling overwhelmed from my explorations of the old city and having to speak--albeit very little--German to order food and ask questions, but I had fun telling them how strange I found Dresden to be. Afterward we headed to an Irish pub in Neustadt where we me two of Dave's and Lisa's friends, drank Guinness, and listened to a Neil Young cover band. The band was fabulous, and, with no disrespect to the great man, the lead singer was just a touch more listenable.

Hanging out at a popular watering hole with old and new friends in Neustadt, Dresden, Germany, May 2011. Thanks to Dave Larsen for the photo.

The next day was Saturday, so Lisa was free to go exploring with me. We spent the day traveling along the Elbe, wandering through hamlets in the region known as Saxon Switzerland, south of Dresden. We climbed up the hills to the beirgartens and wine gardens along the banks of the river. We took the train out, and planned to take the river boat back. It was a gorgeous day. And we took our time.

The water marks measuring the level of the flood waters over the centuries in Konigstein on the Elbe River. The river has flooded several times more since my visit in May 2011.

We landed at one hamlet too late to take the bus up to a fortress we wanted to explore. Too bad, but we filled our time until the train returned by exploring. It was a tidy little town called Konigstein with bridges and stairs that led across creeks and up hillsides. Saxon Switzerland has survived many floods, including one in 2004 which only made it to the third highest level marked on a building in the square.

Waiting for the ferry to return so Lisa and I can float across the Elbe to the wine garden on top of the hill behind me. Rathen, Germany, May 2011. Thanks to Lisa Larsen for the photo.

When we returned to an area where there were several choices of uphill hikes that ended at biergartens, we chose the one at Rathen. It wasn't the highest, but it was the most picturesque. We could see it from the opposite side of the river: a large building with walls and towers of pale stone sitting above the ridge, surrounded by bushes and small trees. To get there, we had to take the ferry across the river.

That's me enjoying a brew on the Rathen ferry, aka "floating biergarten." Germany, May 2011. Photo by Lisa Larsen.

And guess what? The ferry was actually a floating biergarten! You just can't away from beer and gardens! Of course, we each had to have a tankard full.

After we crossed the river, we climbed up to the biergarten. The climb was steep in places, but there was so much air available compared to the Rocky Mountains that it was just invigorating.

At the top of the cliff at Rathen. Such incredible rock formations, worn down by centuries of sun, wind, and rain. Notice the "fingers" of the "hand" behind me. Kind of cut off at the knuckle.

What incredible views and rock formations! I had never seen anything like it. I was most fascinated with what looked like a hand or fist coming out of the rock outcropping. We also saw rock climbers repelling off the cliff faces below us from the biergarten balcony. Such a lively place! I had another beer at the biergarten and we relaxed for a bit before heading back down.

Breathtaking views from the cliffs above Rathen, Germany, looking south down into the Elbe River Valley. May 2011.

When we arrived back at the dock, Lisa negotiated for tickets on the steamboat. Something was complicated. I don't know what the issue was. She spoke in German to the woman at the ticket window at length. This was Lisa's third or fourth language, and she was very patient as she carefully constructed the proper questions and answers in German. The woman at the window was likewise patient. The transaction took a little longer than average, but we got our tickets and all was well. We sat on the grassy bank to wait for the steamboat back to Dresden central. People were hanging around and lounging in the sun. It was such a beautiful day. We took the steamboat when it arrived and had a lovely chug back up the river.

The steamboat back to Meissen arrives at the dock in Rathen, Germany. May 2011.

The next day, Sunday, we biked along the river just south of Dresden and visited all the pleasure palaces, most of them built by Augustus the Strong. These structures are huge, and I still can't believe they survived the bombing of Dresden in 1945. So much statuary and art in and among the gardens. Also ponds with lily pads and fountains. Like a German fairy tale.

The main entrance to one of the palaces along the Elbe and facing the river. Many of these former royal residences and "pleasure palaces" have been converted into cafes/museums/theaters with lovely and extensive gardens.

After exploring and riding around a bit. We stopped at a wine garden and sipped white wine and ate thin-crust pizza with salmon and white dill sauce. We watched the boats along the river and just vacated for a while.

My friends, Dave and Lisa toasting me at a wine garden on the Elbe River after our tour of the "pleasure places." Dresden, Germany. May 2011.

When we got back from our bike ride to the pleasure palaces, we hung out with Lisa and Dave's friends again, this time at a place called City Beach. It sits on a built-up area with a boardwalk that parallels the river. Sand was brought in to fill enough area to create a couple of sand pit volleyball courts. The bar is open to the air. Seating includes deck chairs along the boardwalk leading up to regular seating around the bar. There are tiki statues, surfboards on the walls, and lots of bamboo decor. It reminded me of the idea of a surf shop on Waikiki beach.

The City Beach biergarten and bar on the boardwalk of the Elbe River, We've got the palm fronds, the surfboards and the sand. Dresden, Germany. May 2011

The next day, I was left to my own devices. I could have taking a train 150km north to Prague (2 hour trip) and hung out, but I was exhausted, and elected to hang out in Dresden and rest and prepare for my train journey back to Paris the next day. I had a lovely brunch at the Rose Garden Cafe (Editor's note: See previous blog entry), reviewed my train journeys for the rest of my trip, and checked what tickets I would reserve with my EurRail pass and which ones I had to purchase separately. (When I got on the train from Paris to Frankfurt, the conductor yelled at me for buying a another ticket despite the fact that I had a EurRail pass. I didn't try to explain, but I was getting a bit pissed at the EurRail program in general. The rules were not clear to anyone, it seemed.) 

The Rose Garden Cafe where I spent part of my last day in Dresden, getting ready for my return to Paris and the work of my research. May 2011

The trip back to Paris was uneventful (no yelling by conductors, at least). I returned to the hotel I had stayed in previously, La Quartier Latin. I also returned to the Shepherd's Star restaurant and had the fondue, as I had promised myself I would. I ate heartily because I knew the next day was going to be grueling: I was headed to the old Cluny Abbey,  now a Museum, to immerse myself in the middle ages. I swear, there will be fewer pictures of me and food for a while.

As soon as I got back to Paris, I headed back to the Restaurant L'Etoile du Berger (Shepherd's Star) and had the specialty of the house: fondue. May 2011.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Paris. Where to Pee? In Subway, at Louvre, or Directly on EurRail Pass?

Wednesday, 05/25/2011

I had a wonderful breakfast of muesli, yogurt and fruit, and a croissant with coffee—very rich dark, wonderful coffee—and armed with subway directions from the owner of the hotel, I headed to Gare d'Austerlitz, which was the closest train station. I first entered the subway just two short blocks from the hotel and bought a Paris Visite' pass at the subway window. The woman behind the counter spoke little English, but she was able to confirm that the subway train that I needed to travel to Gare d'Austerlitz was number 10.

What a bright subway compared to NYC! White walls and broad platforms. I didn't feel like I was underground. It was just five quick minutes to the Gare d'Austerlitz station, but it took me another 5 minutes to find the ticket window. “Billets!” said one sign. “Grand Journeys!” said another. The “Billets!” sign led to a ticket window that advertised local Paris and other French destinations. Dresden was not listed. Aha! I thought. Maybe “Grand Journeys” means tickets for trains to other countries. After a moment, I discovered the tickets for Grand Journeys in a separate area set back from the rest. It didn't say "billets" until you got inside. Once there, though, the woman was very helpful.

At least, that's what I thought.

Gare d'Austerlitz subway station by Vincent BABILOTTE (Own work) [GFDL, CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY 2.5], via Wikimedia Commons

I asked her for a reservation to the Dresden-Neustadt station for the following day. She told me I couldn't use my EurRail pass for the first part of the journey, from Paris to Frankfurt. I was dumbfounded. But I was so eager to check off the task of making my reservation for the next day from my long list of tasks that I Rambo'd through it. It didn't occur to me until later that I was just making a reservation so that I shouldn't have been purchasing a ticket at all. My EurRail pass was the ticket. Pushing down my confusion and just making it happen, I paid for the ticket, even thanking the woman. To be fair to myself, I did guess that I might have missed some fine print, or that I did not make my reservation in time to use the EuroRail pass.

It all made sense later. Sort of.

I handed the woman my credit card. It didn't work. It had just worked earlier that day, so I was again surprised. What else could go wrong here? I put that card back in my wallet , and pulled up my shirt to get to my money belt. I hoped no one would think I was stripping. I pulled out my back-up card. The woman's eyes got big. "Wow!" she said. I made some sounds of apology and she said, “No! Is good!” I assume she was referring to how careful I was being with my money and credit cards by keeping backups underneath my clothes.

Voila! The second card worked. (I later found out it was just a setting on the first credit card and hubby fixed it for me long distance—what a guy!)

Gare d'Austerlitz Paris Train Station by ignis (Own work) [GFDL, CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Several days later, I did manage to finish reading the EurRail Pass Traveler's Guide (which I should have done already). Guess what? If you don't get a reservation fairly early on, you may not get one of the seats set aside for EurRail Pass holders. If they run out of those, you have to buy another ticket or reserve a seat on another train. They recommend that you make your reservations even before you enter Europe through your travel agent! Something my travel agent did not tell me. So, when next I am at the train station, I will try to make my reservations for the remainder of the journey -- especially if I can find a EurRail office at one of the train stations, Better yet, I'll email my travel agent and have her do it!

So the lady at Gare d'Austerlitz was correct: I had to buy an additional ticket because I had waited too long to make a reservation for that specific train. All the reservations for EurRail seats on that specific train had been filled already.  My conclusion is that a EurRail pass is not worth the money unless you are really flexible. I am glad I did it this time, because it is nice to have some expense out of the way, and now I know how to make better use of it. But, you are paying a premium for train tickets with it. I have been told by two separate sources (one is a friend who lives in Europe and the other is the guy at www.seat61.com) that Americans pay more for train tickets than anyone else. Even direct purchases from the in-country train web sites. So, live and learn. Now that I know my way around a bit better, I think next time, I will just get the tickets either directly through the rail company web sites or when I get here. I also will be more flexible on when I travel. I now realize that if I had picked a later train to Dresden, I could probably have gotten on it without paying an extra fee. But I wanted to get on that specific train because I had told my friends I was coming at that specific time. If I had changed it, I would have had to communicate back to my friends about the change. It seemed like too much trouble when I was already overwhelmed with my first day in Paris.

My EurRail Pass from Spring 2011 all filled in.

Even though it was a rude awakening to discover that my EurRail Pass was not going to always work smoothly, I was happy that I had made a connection with this woman at the train station. It is the small things. And I had accomplished my goal of securing a ticket to Dresden.

The rest of the day was a blur. At this point, I really had to pee. I found the bathroom, but I needed a .50 euro coin to use it, which I did not have. I wonder how many Americans finally find the bathroom and then just pee their pants right there in front of the sign that says, “.05 euro, please!” because they don't have any change.

I found my way to the metro, wondering if I could just hold it until I got to the Louvre, but a fashion boutique caught my eye. Perhaps I could get change for the toilette there. I examined the goods and decided on a bright orange India print shawl. It would go well with the orange, red and aqua dragon print dress. After explaining to the proprietress that I needed change for the toilette, and after she conferred with a friend who was chatting with her when I walked up, she handed me several coins including a couple .50 euro pieces in change. I thanked her, then headed back to the toilette emporium. I put my coin into the machine, but the gate would not let me through to the toilettes. I could see the sinks from where I was stuck in the gate and I knew that the commodes were nearby, but I could not get to them. The woman tending the bathrooms said something like "not enough," and put another coin in. "Merci," I said and continued on through the gate. What a relief! I must have put in a .20 coin instead of a .50. They looked alike to me. They were both gold, and the .20 was the size of a U.S. quarter. The .50 was even bigger.

What a hectic morning! I returned to the platform and asked directions to the Louvre. The poor woman at the window was struggling to find the words in English and did a good job getting the essentials in there so I understood. I'd ask someone else if I didn't quite get it. I thanked her and went on my merry way catching the 1st train, number 10 again, to travel back one stop along the route I had taken to Gare d'Austerlitz, and then I switched to train 1. I thought I had to switch again at the next stop, but it turns out that I was already there at the Louvre!

Well, kind of.

Before I entered I went in search of the elusive Museum Pass. Two sources said that you purchase it under the Louvre, in the train station. I saw a couple of signs that looked like they said, "To the Louvre," but I couldn't get through. I went back the way I had come and watched the next load of people come off the train, and followed them. I found a ticket booth. I asked the man. "No, no,” he said. "Not here." I gave up at that point. I was spending so much time running around trying to make all the things happen that my travel agent said I needed to make happen, but there was a disconnect with reality. I had asked everyone about the Museum Pass, from the hotel clerk to the subway booth cashier. Everyone sent me somewhere else, and that somewhere else turned out to be NOWHERE.

When I finally got to the Louvre, I referred to the Lonely Planet country guide on my kindle. It said that if you came through a certain entrance you could buy a pass and not wait. Oh, well. I saw a line in front of me that came all around the glass pyramid entrance to the lower level, so I stood there checking with the couple in front of me that I was in the right line. They were American, but not very talkative. But they were also traveling together. I'm told, and I think it is true given my own experiences, that when you travel with other people, you only talk with them and not with strangers you meet along the way. Alone, I am constantly talking with strangers who sometimes become acquaintances, Even friends. More about that later.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Based on a blog post originally published on electricrider.net on May 31, 2011.

So, You're Walking!

I wrote this poem as an internal dialogue, and for some reason the voice I heard in my head as I wrote it was a cross between Fran Drescher and some Boston lady. So, I had to read it that way. Enjoy the recording.

Park the car
And do the last half mile on foot
So, You're Walking!
Kick off the high heels
And plant them flat feet
In some Merrell's
So,You're Walking!
Maybe you get a stone in your shoe
Sit on a park bench
Remove your shoe,
shake it out for a while
A long while...
Enjoy the trill of the creek
And the scent of tree blossoms
As you sit in the park
Maybe people drive by
And see you sitting there...
Smile at them
Show them how much you enjoy
Sitting there in the soft breeze
Surrounded by birdsong

Then You're Walking!
Breathe in deeply
Don't choke on the exhaust,
Maybe hug the creek a little,
Yeah, So You're Walking!
Get a good rhythm going now
You have to cross a thoroughfare
It's okay
The light turns green
And You're Walking
A motorcycle crashes through a puddle
Right in front of you
Splashing your Anne Taylor slacks
It's Okay!
Maybe the dry cleaner can get out the stains
Maybe not!
Don't worry about it!
Send it to ChaRM in Boulder
They'll take care of recycling that material
Probably give you a discount
On your next trip in...
Cause You're Walking!

Ten minutes late for your lunch date?
Well, now you know, Sweetheart!
Leave yourself more time
the next time.
So, You're Walking!
We all had to learn
At some point in our lives
Your friends will forgive you
After they finish giving you parakeet looks.
You'll out live them anyway, Dear.
'Cause
You're Walking!

Not Enough Daves

In response to Dr. Seuss' Too Many Daves and to all the times that "Dave" is the name of the villain of the piece, whether in a movie or a TV show or a memoir or a novel. And for my husband, Dave, who is bloody well sick of it.

Have I told you about my husband named Dave?
He wasn't the twenty-third son of Mrs. McCave,
The fact is he was born alone of Dave-kind,
the youngest of three and I am sure you will find,
He's unique, one of a kind, not ubiquitous.
And it's despite his name that I make a fuss:
He is true beyond what a name can endow.
It is his brilliance, kindness, wisdom, and know-how--
Not having a name like Dave--that gives him perks.
For why else are there Daves who are outright jerks!
It's the true Daves who should lay claim to the name
Not some cur who deserves nothing but all the blame
True Daves could have been called any name at all
Be it Harvey or Corey or Jim or Paul
It would not matter a bit or a mere jot
if his name was Theodore,  Sam, or Pol Pot:
A true Dave is a true Dave is a true Dave
(and the name is starting to become my fave).
There are certainly Daves who are shifty thieves,
Who are liars or have something up their sleeves,
But a true Dave is something other than that,
He's as iconic as the Cat in the Hat.
And like a flower with any name smells sweet,
A true Dave doesn't need a name to be neat.