Tour de France

I've been getting up early every day since July 4th to sit and watch the Tour de France with Sennet. I love the Tour, and have since I was lucky enough to be in Paris in 2000, on the Champs-Élysées, to see Lance Armstrong win the second of his seven straight Tours de France.

It's been a fun time, holding my boy, feeding him, rocking him to sleep, and watching the intrigue and madness of the Tour. Today was the last stage, Alberto Contador of Spain won - as he should have (being the strongest rider), Andy Schleck of Luxembourg was second, and Armstrong - after being out of the sport for almost 4 years and breaking his collarbone this past March - came in third.

This was probably a great disappointment to Armstrong, who really wanted to win again, but was a huge accomplishment for someone of his age (37) who had been away from competition for that long. He is the second oldest rider to finish on the podium.

What was most pleasing for me was his statements about this year's race. They are words and thoughts I hope to instill in Sennet as he grows:

"I'm realistic, I did everything I could," Armstrong said before the final stage. "For me, and even more for my kids, it's probably a healthy thing for them to see, because they saw their dad that never lost, and the kids in their class (say) 'your dad never loses,' so it's good for them to see dad get third and still be cool with that and still be happy."

That's a great gift to give to your children. Vive la Tour!

KJT - Seattle (2009)

Armstrong quotes from the Seattle Times, photo by Sirotti.

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Through Paris, Quickly

“Secrets travel fast in Paris.”
- Napoléon Bonaparte, military & political leader of France, later Emporer (1769-1821)


From 1988 to 1995 I went to college at Colorado State and eventually graduated with a bachelor's degree in technical journalism (and a history minor). In one of my various electronic field production classes our professor showed us the above movie (along with The Red Balloon). It impressed the hell out of me, but over time I had forgotten it completely.

Recently a blog I follow posted it, and it brought back a flood of memories. It was great to see it again, because when I originally viewed it back in maybe 1992 or 93, I hadn't been to Paris. Now that I've been four times and recognize some of the scenery it is even cooler.

Here is the background behind the movie, from Hollywood Elsewhere:
"On an August morning in 1978," the story goes, "French director Claude Lelouch mounted a gyro-stabilized camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and had a friend, a professional Formula 1 racer, drive at breakneck speed through the heart of Paris.

"The film was limited for technical reasons to 10 minutes. The driver barrel-assed all the way from Porte Dauphine (on the city's western edge, adjacent to the Bois de Bologne) to the Basilica Sacre Coeur in Montmartre.

"No streets were closed, for Lelouch was unable to obtain a permit. The driver completed the course in about 9 minutes, reaching nearly 140 mph (or was it kph?) in some stretches. The footage reveals him running real red lights, nearly hitting real pedestrians, and driving the wrong way up several one-way streets.

"Upon showing the film in public for the first time, Lelouch was arrested. He has never revealed the identity of the driver, and the film went underground until a DVD release a few years ago."

That kicks ass.

Tip of the hat to Cajun Boy, I basically stole his post.

KJT - Seattle (2009)

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Journey to Verdun, part 2

"And there went out another horse that was red: 

and power was given to him that sat thereon 

to take peace from the earth, 

and that they should kill one another: 

and there was given unto him a great sword." 

(Second of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - War) Book of Revelation 6:4

(Click here to read the first part of this story, "Journey to Verdun, Part 1")

After the long journey from Paris, the train finally pulled into the station.

The city of Verdun was built along a shallow valley of the Meuse river, with gradual bluffs climbing up on either side of it. Under the reign of Charlemagne it was part of his Frankish empire. After his death it, and the area now known as Lorraine were given to his grandson Lothair in the Treaty of Verdun in 843. From the 10th to the 11th centuries a series of walls and towers were built which would eventually encircle the whole town. The city and surrounding countryside would change hands many times through the centuries, swapping from Frankish to Prussian control and back. In 1552, the French King Henri II occupied Verdun, Metz and Toul, marking the beginning of majority French rule. From 1624 to 1636 Henri IV's engineers built a fortified 'city' into the high bluff in the center of Verdun: La Citadelle Souterraine (the Underground Citadel).

Two reinforced forts stand on a bluff overlooking the river valley near the city, Fort de Douaumont and Fort de Vaux. These combined with La Citadelle Souterraine made the area one of the strongest in the French line of defense at the start of the Great War in 1914. The German armies wisely skirted these defenses and crossed the Meuse on the left bank in their bid to reach Paris. The Battle of the Marne halted this advance. Throughout 1914-1915 the two countries fought for control of the high ground, and as the front lines stabilized the armies dug underground trenches to try to get some protection from the constant shelling and machine gun fire. In an effort to outflank each other, both armies began to extend their trench lines in each direction, north and south - the race to the sea. Eventually this resulted in a series of trenches stretching from the English Channel in the north, down through Belgium, France, and ending near the border of Switzerland in the far south. Roughly 400 miles...

At daybreak on February 21, 1916 the Germans turned 1,225 guns on Verdun in an attempt to break this stalemate. By February 25th Fort de Douaumont had fallen, and in June Fort de Vaux also fell into German hands. The French still held the high ground of the hills called Mort-Homme (Deadman) and Cote 304, defending the city and preventing the Germans from actually taking Verdun itself. With help from their colonial Moroccan troops, the French retook Douaumont in October. By November 2nd Fort Vaux was back in French hands, and the battle of Verdun ceased - for a time. In 1917 the hills of Mort-Homme and Cote 304 were taken by the Germans, and the city would surly haven fallen but not for the reinforcement of American troops in 1918. On November 11, 1918 an armistice was signed in a railroad car in the Compiègne Forest, ending the actual fighting between nations. Seven months later, in June 1919, The Treaty of Versailles was signed in the Hall of Mirrors in the great French chateaux - formally ending World War I (and unwittingly laying the very seeds for World War II).

With all this swirling around my head, I made my way from Gare de Verdun into the city proper under a cold drizzle. At the Porte de St. Paul I turned right and walked past Rodin's actual bronze statue "La Defense," showing the agony of triumph in bloody battle. I crossed the Meuse and stopped at La Monument aux Enfants de Verdun (Monument to the children of Verdun) - a huge statue of five French soldiers, one from each of the French armies in full military dress, standing shoulder to shoulder - their chests forming an impassable wall.

I made my way into downtown, hoping to pay for a tour of the battlefields and monuments. At the tourist office I was informed that there were "no more English tours." Of course. It was a re-occurring theme that had followed us almost every step of our European journey. Where ever we went, the tours given in English had either been the day before we arrived, the day after we departed, or had been canceled or were non-existent. "Ce n'est pas possible" (It's not possible) - this was another common phrase we heard far too often.

Frustrated, I bought a ticket to get into La Citadelle Souterraine, and took a mildly cheesy, but still respectable tour of the underground city - still laid out as it had been during the Great War. I still longed to walk through the forts and battlefields and decided to try to walk and hitchhike. The forts are about 10km from the city and I began trudging through the mud and rain, fields and ditches. After about half an hour a car pulled up as I held my thumb out. I managed to get my point across that I wanted to go to the battlefields, and the kind old man behind the wheel acquiesced.

He let me off near the Mémorial Ossuarie (the Ossuary), near Fort de Douaumont. The memorial houses the remains of 130,000 unknown French and German soldiers who died during the battle. Small windows open on alcoves containing the bones. A sobering site. The day was now dark grey and windy, as rain slashed sideways. To the north, I walked to Les Tranchées des Baïonnettes (The Trench of Bayonets). On June 12th, 1916 a part of the French 137th Infantry Regiment was caught under heavy bombardment as they huddled in their trench. After the battle cleared it was discovered that the entire trench had been covered in with earth from the explosions and just the tips of the soldier's bayonets could be seen sticking up out of the ground. They had been buried alive, standing, still holding their guns. A concrete memorial now housed this gruesome reminder of the horrors of war.

By now it was pissing rain and the wind was howling and I was soaked and a bit miserable. I caught another ride back to Verdun where I stepped into a small café and shivered to the bar. I asked for an espresso and as the bartender was preparing it he poured me a small glass of cognac. Smiling as the liquor warmed my belly and the coffee perked me back up, I made my way back through the rain to the train station. I would soon be back in Paris. C'est Possible! (It is possible).
KJT - Verdun, France (1998)

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Journey to Verdun, part 1

"Ils ne passeront pas..." 

("They shall not pass..." - from the Order of the Day, 23 June 1916)

- Robert Georges Nivelle (1856 - 1924), 

French artillery officer and Commander the French Second Army at Verdun

I rolled over and stared at the window. It seemed awfully light out. I could hear cars and trains and people talking on the street below. I grabbed my watch and looked at the time. 7:55am. My heart missed a beat. I was supposed to catch the 8:18 train. I jumped into my clothes, grabbed my backpack and shot out the door. Luckily our hostel was just across the street from the métro stop Barbès-Rochechouart. I could hear the Metro pull into the station as I ran up the steps. I scrambled onto the platform just as the warning buzzer sounded and I leapt on as the doors closed behind me.

Gare de l'Est was only two stops away, and that was made in good time. I ran through the station, dodging people, jumping to the next platforms, scanning the boards for the train I needed heading east. The decidedly 19th-century mechanical "tick-tick-tick" sound of the destination board updating added to my anxiety. I saw my train just as it started to rock, shudder, and move forward. I grabbed a handle and pulled myself aboard as it began to pull away. If I had needed to stop and buy a ticket I would have missed it, but I had my Eurail pass and so I settled back to catch my breath and enjoy the journey. So much for my plans of getting up early, having a nice breakfast with lots of espresso, and then making my way to the train station at a leisurely pace.

We made our way out of the capital, the tracks playing out under the avenues and beneath the ancient buildings, eventually leaving Paris proper and then the suburbs behind. I bought a coffee, a Toblerone, and a baguette from the man with the food cart. After a brief stop to switch trains at Châlons-sur-Marne (today called Châlons-en-Champagne) I was soon headed toward my destination.

The French countryside, between the Marne river and the German border, was rolling hills. Vast fields of deep blue-green grass and endless stretches of bright yellow field-flowers broken up by intermitent waterways and canals that followed beside us, chasing the tracks and crossing under and back. The hills rose to high bluffs and then dropped into low valleys of geometric farmlands. The sky was overcast and a misty rain fell, wetting the grasslands and the windows. To the north were the vestages of the Ardennes forest, and to the south the forest of Argonnes. Some of the deeper valleys were cloaked in a low fog, wisps snaking between the trees, giving the landscape an ethereal, dreamy quality. In the distance an old, stone farmhouse had a light in one window and smoke curling from the chimney.

I had decided to leave RJ in Paris while I made a day-trip to a place that had held morbid fascination to me for years. Being a history buff I was particularly enamored of the period at the end of the 19th century through the two world wars, and especially the World War I era. The battles of the Marne, Ypres, Passchendaele & Flanders Fields, and the Somme had captivated me from reading about them as a young boy through studying them in college. The most terrifying battle of the war could be summed up by one cryptic, chilling word: "Verdun." Known as the 'Mincing Machine of Verdun' or the 'Meuse Mill', the battle of Verdun came to symbolize both the atrocious waste of the strategy of 'war of attrition' and the indescribable horrors of what would become known as The Great War.

Straddling the Meuse river not 50 miles from the German border, Verdun was 139 miles east of Paris and had been a key strategic city for over a thousand years. Attilla the Hun had been foiled at the gates of Verdun in the 5th century as his horde swept through Gaul from the Central Asian steppes. It became part of the Holy Roman Empire under Charlemagne in 843 A.D. In the 1600s it became the possession of the French, and was an important part of their defensive line after the Franco-Prussian War in 1870.

After 1914, once the war had bogged down into the stalemate of trench warfare and both sides dug in for the long haul, Verdun would again play a crucial role. In late February 1916 the Germans began a bombardment at Verdun that was to last through almost to the end December. Just in those short months almost half a million French and German lives would be lost in and around Verdun. The city's forts would be lost and recaptured, and by the end of the battle, as the guns finally fell silent for a time, the front lines had moved little. Because of the system of French troop rotation, nearly 75% of all French soldiers fought at Verdun at some point during the war. Heavy artillery, poison gas, and for the first time flamethrowers were put in use during the battle.

My train was taking me toward a city shrouded in history and steeped in human suffering...

To be continued...  Click here to see "Journey to Verdun, Part 2"

KJT - Verdun, France (1998)

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Swiss Miss

"Each friend represents a world in us, 

a world not possibly born until they arrive, 

and it is only by this meeting that this new world is born."

- Anäis Nin, Cuban-French writer/Bohemian (1903-1977)

A re-connection with an old friend, whom I hadn't heard from in quite some time. Nicole was studying at La Sorbonne during the same summer session as myself in Paris, 2000. She was an important cog in the machinery of friendship that was born of the lunacy of that time. She recently emailed me, saying she is back across the pond, traveling and tasting some of the nectar that Europe has to offer. 

Whilst in Switzerland, she went bungee jumping and hang gliding in the majesty of the Alps. She sent some pretty amazing pictures, and here are a few. She said she's conquering her fear of heights, but I suspect she's a bit of an adrenaline junky, as I know she's also enjoyed the thrill of sky-diving.

That last shot is of us, from Paris in 2000. A night out on the town, at a restaurant called (I believe) Coq au Vin, but that may be what we had for dinner. That's my roomie, P, in the background.

KJT - Stockhorn & Interlaken, Switzerland via Nicole (2008), and Paris (2000)

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Bastille Day

"Any law that violates the inalienable rights of man is essentially unjust and tyrannical; it is not a law at all."

- Maximilien Robespierre, French politician/lawyer (1758-1794)

Happy Bastille Day. The French National Holiday (Fête Nationale), celebrating the storming of the Parisian prison on 14 July 1789. 

This act was seen as the symbol of the idea of the people over the monarchy and the uprising of the modern French nation. Just six weeks later, on 26 August, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen were proclaimed - putting forth the idea of sovereignty of the people, rather than the law of divine right of kings.

KJT - View toward the Seine from my apartment in Paris (2000)

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Rolling on the (Rhône) River

"Sur le pont d'Avignon

L'on y danse, l'on y danse

Sur le pont d'Avignon

L'on y danse tous en rond"

"On the bridge of Avignon

They are dancing, they are dancing

On the bridge of Avignon

They are dancing all around"

- Chorus from Sur le Pont d'Avignon, 15th century French chanson, traditional

Another weekend during my summer of study in Paris and I found myself once again without plans. I decided to head south on another solo journey. This time to my favorite part of France: Provence. 

After getting out the map and train schedule I saw that the TGV Méditerranée line (southern high speed rail) could take me from 

Paris Gare-de-Lyon to Avignon in just over 2-1/2 hours. Not bad for covering 465 miles. I had never been to Avignon, and was excited to spend an entire weekend alongside the Rhône river.

After class on Friday afternoon I took the métro to the train station and bought a round trip ticket. I was in Avignon before evening. As I didn't have a reservation I decided the first thing to do was find a place to stay. From the train station I walked into the old town and began to poke around for a hostel. The first few that I stopped in were full. I stopped in at a tourist information kiosk and found out that the Festival d'Avignon was taking place that weekend - one of the oldest and biggest arts and music festivals in all of France. Hmmm... not the best time to be there without a reservation. I inquired further and was told that there might be room at a youth hostel/campground outside the city on an island in the river. Being outside the city was not what I wanted, but the idea of being on an island in the river was intriguing. It was a hot trek in the late afternoon/early evening sun to get out of the city and across a bridge to the island. The hostel wasn't open yet and I had to wait a while, as more and more travelers contiued to show up. Eventually they unlocked the doors, and I was lucky enough to get a bed in a dorm style room. Many of the people that arrived after me had to continue their search elsewhere.

Once I got my pack settled in and paid the fee, I had a look around the Ile de la Barthelasse. It was a long island that followed the bend of the Rhône across from the mainland. It had magnificent views of the city just across the water. The medieval city walls rose up from the far bank and to the north was the broken remnant of the Pont d'Avignon - the famous medieval bridge that now only spanned halfway across the river. Behind the walls towered the imposing Palais des Papes - the palace of the Popes, home of the head of the Catholic church after Pope Clement V moved the papacy from Rome to Avignon in 1309. Off in the distance, the "Giant of Provence" - Mont Ventoux, rose into the sky, it's bald crown reaching for the heavens. I decided this had been a very opportune find.

As the sun was setting I made my way back across the modern bridge and into town. I found a small, out-of-the-way bistro that had an empty table in the corner. I started off with a Lillet apértif and a cold tomato-melon soup seasoned with olive oil and basil. I then had an excellent dinner of roast lamb scented with lavender, lentils, and fresh baked bread with olive oil. Since the vinery was just up the road, I splurged and ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. After dinner I wandered the twisted lanes and small alleys of the old town. It was ancient and breathtakingly beautiful. It was July and after the hot day the warm summer evening felt inviting. The sky was a deep midnight blue and the stars shown out like diamonds. The moon was just beginning to rise behind the timeworn city walls. Art exhibits, painters, jugglers, acrobats, and impromptu musical performances were around ever corner. People were out strolling, holding hands and laughing. I ached for my fiancé. I stopped at a small bar to enjoy a Ricard pastis. I leaned against the bar rail and watched the human theater unwind before me. I ordered a simple bottle of Côtes du Rhône to take with me. Once back across on the island I didn't feel like turning in just yet. I walked down to the water's edge and sat down on the soft grass under an old, gnarled Willow tree. Now that it was full dark the walls and towers of Avignon were lit up across the river. I laid there on the grass with the fragrant night enveloping me in a warm embrace and sipped the dry red wine. The crooked and delicate branches hung down to frame the spectacle of the slow-moving river, the old city, and the moon and the stars. Lulled into a sense of serenity and peace, I drifted off to sleep...

KJT - Avignon, France (2000)

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Remembrance of Things Past

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness."

- Mark Twain, American humorist/writer (1835-1910)

This being Independence Day sparked a particularly strong memory of times past...

During the summer of 2000 I lived in Paris for a period of several months, studying the French language at La Sorbonne. I lived on the 5th floor of an apartment in the 5th arrondissement, a few blocks from Notre Dame - the famed Left Bank. The building was just around the corner from Place Maubert. I was quite a bit older than most of the students in my classes. Most were just out of high school or in their first few years of college while I had already earned my bachelor's degree. My roommate, P, was a nutty man and very much shared my world view of bohemianism, hedonism, and wanderlust.

 

On this particular day (that happened to be July the 4th), we were all standing around outside the classroom building in Montparnasse. We were trying to decide where we should go to dinner that evening. One young lady spoke up that we should call first to make sure the restaurant would be open. P and I looked at each other somewhat confused, and asked her why they wouldn't be open? She replied that some things might be closed because it was the Fourth of July. We laughed and asked her why the French would feel it necessary to close for an American holiday that, while they had helped to bring about, they certainly didn't celebrate. She didn't understand, and we had to patiently explain to her that while certain holidays were truly world-wide events, such as Christmas, Easter, Yom Kippur and Ramadan, others that we celebrated in the states such as Independence Day and Thanksgiving were not celebrated or even known in most "foreign" countries. It took a while of explaining, but eventually you could see the dawn of comprehension in her eyes. It was kind of a cool moment. She had just shaken off the veil of ignorance that we all wear from time to time, but that is most permanent on those who haven't ventured from their home shores, or even home towns. She really began to look at things differently after that day. It may have been one of the best lessons she learned during that whole summer.

KJT - Paris, France (2000)

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St. Michael's Mountain

"I believe in nothing, everything is sacred.

I believe in everything, nothing is sacred."

- Tom Robbins "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" (1976)

Paris > Rennes > Pontorson. Trains are the only way to travel.

We headed out from the City of Light, pilgrims to witness the splendor of Le Mont Saint-Michel: a small stony island in the tidal flats of the mouth of the Couesnon River, on the coast of Normandie. An abbey was built on the island around the year 700, and repeatedly added-on and built-up over the centuries. It had been used as a monastery, a site of pilgrimage, a fortification during the 100 Years War, a prison, a church again, and finally a tourist trap. We booked a hotel in Pontorson, whose only claim to fame is that it is the closest train station to the abbey. We missed the last bus out to the Mont so had to share a taxi. We wandered through the snake-like lanes of the abbey, stopped in at several cafés for cocktails, and had a quick dinner of agneau de pré-salé (salt meadow lamb), a delicious local specialty. We stood out on the high parapets and gazed over the countryside. In years past the Mont had been connected to the mainland only during low tides by a narrow causeway. During high tides it was completely cut off. The tides could come in at an alarming 6 1/2 feet per second and vary by 46 feet between low and high. A permanent land bridge had been constructed in 1879.

 

We watched in amazement as the water rushed in, and what was a vast field moments before was transformed into a churning, frothy sea. It was well past dark when we decided to depart. We began walking back along the causeway with our thumbs held out. Very soon a car pulled over and a nutty Italian couple leaned out the window. Eliano & Cinzia asked us in an absurd mix of broken English, bad French and frenetic Italian if we needed a ride. We laughed and jumped in. The trek back to town was a chaotic journey as we all tried to communicate with one another and succeeded only minimally. But they were great fun and we asked them if we could buy them a drink when we arrived back in town. We stopped at a small café and continued the ridiculous attempt at conversation over wine, Ricard, and Sambuca. They lived southwest of Rome and were on their honeymoon. We laughed long into the night and made plans to see them again when our journey took us south into Italy.

KJT - Le Mont Saint-Michel, Normandie, France (1998)

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Two Pints

"Hold to the now, the here, 

through which all future plunges to the past."

- James Joyce, "Ulysses" (1922)

We had the weekend off from studying at La Sorbonne so I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to make a much needed solo voyage. I filled a small backpack, pulled out the credit card, and bought a round trip ticket from Paris to Dublin on Aer Lingus. I was soon on the way to Ireland, the land of my grandmother. On arrival I made my way to the south bank of the River Liffey, to the Temple Bar neighborhood. I checked into a somewhat seedy hostel and proceeded to sample as many pints of true Guinness from not only the St. James's Gate Brewery, but also from as many pubs as were within walking distance. I proclaimed them all to be superb, and found 

that a wee nip of Jameson was the perfect accompaniment 

to a "pint o' the black." 

The next morning, after a quick breakfast of coffee and Advil, I caught an early train headed west. After some hours and a bit of a nap, I found myself all the way across the country in the City of Galway, sister city to my beloved Seattle. Nestled up against the River Corrib and Galway Bay, the city is beautiful and vibrant and known as Ireland's Cultural Heart. 

Once again I found an economical hostel, this time a dorm-style room with six bunk beds. My roommates were all fine Irish lads and lasses, who upon learning my first name welcomed me as a long lost brother and quickly shortened it to "Kev." During another evening of pub roaming, I found myself saddled with a new nickname: Two Pints. 

As the lines at the bars were all quite long, I had taken to ordering two pints of Guinness at a time. That way I could drink the first while becoming further acquainted with my roomies, and the second I could nurse as I stood in the long lines awaiting a refill. An old trick we had perfected in my college days. Prevents one from running dry and the frightening possibility of becoming parched. They proclaimed it genius, and the moniker was given. Sláinte! (Cheers!)

SIDENOTE: Today, June 16th, is Bloomsday (Lá Bhloom), celebrated in Dublin (and elsewhere) to commemorate the life and work of the great Irish writer James Joyce, and especially his magnum opus "Ulysses," whose protagonist is named Leopold Bloom.

KJT - Galway & Dublin, Ireland (2000)

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A Day at the Beach

"Never think that war, no matter how necessary, 

nor how justified, is not a crime."

- Ernest Hemingway, American writer (1899-1961)

We took a train from Paris to Caen and stayed in Bayeux at a 16th century residence that had been converted into sort of an upscale hostel (oxymoron?). We had croissants, baguette, Camembert cheese, hard sausage & wine for dinner. We laughed about the bidet. I constantly bumped my head on the five foot door frames. Our footsteps echoed in the stone staircases. The next morning we went out to the beaches of Normandie. Omaha, Gold, Juno... we walked the sand, skirting the surf, and hiked up to the cliffs. The air was chilly and the sky grey and overcast. We visited the cemetery and memorial at Colleville-sur-Mer. Endless rows of white crosses and markings. We were somber and didn't say much to each other. We walked to the edge of Pointe du Hoc, imagining the brave rangers who had to scale this terrible, broken rock some 60 years previous. The battlements, barbed wire, and shell holes still exposed - an indictment and a testimonial. A tragic trophy. All the wasted lives lost. All the children who were never born. All the inventions never dreamt. All the medicines, books, movies, and paintings lost to that terrible human invention - war.

KJT - Pointe du Hoc, Basse-Normandie, France (1996)

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