Chuck Is Mesmerized by Paris Streets

Just one of the many bridges that cross the Seine in Paris

Chuck, my very rascally cat, is a big Woody Allen fan. He especially loved Sleeper, Play It Again, Sam, Annie Hall and the recent Midnight in Paris. In fact, his obsessive watching of Midnight in Paris just recently explains, I think, why he suddenly wanted to go to Paris.

Now Paris, the capital of France, has thirty million visitors per year and is the most visited city in the world so who wouldn’t want to hop on a plane or ride through the tunnel and see such a magical place? 

I suspected Chuck wanted to walk the streets, just like Owen Wilson who plays the nostalgic screenwriter, did. Perhaps, he was hoping that mysterious car from a previous century would pick him up and transport him to another time where cats led a simpler life. Perhaps, he was hoping he would meet, then fall in love with a beautiful Parisian kitty . . . 

So with that hidden dream in tow, we hightailed it to Paris, booked a room at the Montparness, and decided to take in the sights of Paris. Of course, we paid homage to the usual big name places that always rightfully attract the tourists--the Eiffel Tower, The Arc of Triomphe, the Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre. We even paid a quick visit to Les Invalides (the museums and monuments devoted to French military history). But even though Chuck got the usual thrill from seeing such exciting places, something was missing. I could see it in his eyes.

The Eiffel Tower from afar

The Arc of Triomphe

I then dragged my furry rascal to one of my favorite places--the second largest park in Paris--the Luxembourg Gardens, the home of the Luxembourg Palace, where many Parisians come to relax during the weekend or where they come to walk or sunbathe. Chuck, who loves to be outside, walking around, sniffing the grass and the trees, still didn’t seem to be completely satisfied.

Luxembourg Palace

Luxembourg Gardens - the second largest park in Paris

It seems he wanted the streets of Paris--not the monuments and statues, not the museums and churches. He wanted the tree lined streets. 

Statue of Winston Churchill

So we moved at our own pace. No one bothered us. And, no, even though it got a bit late and the sun went down and we were still outside at dusk, the magical car never arrived to take us to another century. Even so, by the time we arrived back at the hotel, Chuck was happy. 

Paris street

One of the many tree lined streets in Paris--this one near the Luxembourg Gardens

He even discovered that he enjoyed the French cat food that I bought at a local store. Although he did a double-take when he saw the label--very artsy-fartsy for a cat food label. After all, Chuck sees himself as just as an ordinary down to earth, run of the mill kind of cat, even if he is a world traveler, hiking around in "Paree".

I just loved the art deco on this can of cat food--I wonder do French people display their cat food as art around their house??

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Chuck is Obsessed with Crepes in Deauville

If we’d been living one hundred years ago, Chuck, the rascal cat and I might have come to Deauville, the wonderfully historic seaside resort--the closest one, in fact, to Paris--via railway, but, in fact, we came via highway.  

With great expectations.  

This lovely town has a fantastic history dating back to 1060. It seems to have always been the stomping ground of the rich and famous of France--the place where the fashionable people went--the upper class and the wealthy--to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

In 1865 when the railroad connected Paris to Deauville, it was easier for people to come to the Deauville Hippodrome to see the horse races, which then spawned the development of therapeutic baths, and eventually the construction of a casino.  Deauville was living high on the hog then.

But during World War I, Deauville took in and cared for the injured soldiers, and unfortunately, the war took an economic toll on the city. Then the Germans occupied Deauville during World War II, and it wasn’t until D Day that the Allied forces were able to finally liberate the city.

Since 1975 Deauville has been the location of the American Film Festival, which is a celebration of big budget and independent films. Every year they celebrate a different Hollywood star--Elizabeth Taylor, Robert De Niro, Janet Leigh, Sharon Stone, George Clooney . . . the list goes on. 

Many famous artists and writers have been inspired by Deauville. Marcel Proust vacationed nearby in Cabourg, Deauville’s sistertown, and wrote In Search of Lost Time. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatzby had Daisy and Tom Buchanan honeymooning in Deauville.  Claude Monet, the famous of all Impressionist painters, came to Deauville for inspiration.

Chuck and I could have come to Deauville to see the races or for the therapeutic baths or to gamble. We could have even come to play golf. But we didn’t. We came here to sample the famous French crepes.

Yes, we have crepes in America, in New Jersey, where we are from, but they are not the same.  In Deauville, the crepe is not just a breakfast food or a dessert.  It is also the main attraction, the main meal.  Entire restaurants are called creperies and that is basically all they serve--many different varieties of crepes. Ordering a crepe is like ordering a pizza here in the states.

They are thin and delicious pancakes filled with almost anything:

Yes, I would like my crepe with ham, mushrooms and spinach, please.

Yes, I’ll take the meat lovers crepe or the veggie crepe.

Yes, I’ll take two different kinds of cheese in my crepe, please.

It was lovely trying to choose which crepe to order from the menu. 

We stopped at the Creperie Becassine on the main boulevard in Deauville, a small and rather crowded creperie and sat at a quaint table inside.  Ordered up our crepes.  They cook in no time.  The cute waitress served them up almost immediately.  Hot and delicious.  She never blinked an eye that Chuck was a feline.  That is one thing I love about France.  The French people take their dogs with them everywhere--into stores, restaurants, and I would assume even into church, although I have to be honest about that--I didn’t actually eyewitness a dog in church.

Perhaps, they thought that Chuck was just a wierd looking dog, or that Americans treated their cats like the French treat their dogs--as constant companions.

Anyway, no one said a word about Chuck sitting on the stool.  He didn’t actually like the pancake-like crepe, but he liked the tiny bits of ham inside.  He gobbled the ham up like it was bits of candy.

The next morning, before we left Deauville, we passed an open market. That’s another thing about being in France. Sophistication abounds but everyone is also very down to earth. 

Remember, Deauville attracts the rich and famous. The French elite come and stay in Deauville. An open market? I love it.

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Chuck Sets His Sights on a Ruined Medieval Castle

I will admit that at times it’s difficult to understand the mind of my rascal cat, Chuck.  While we were traveling around France, in the Upper Normandy region, near the Seine River, one day I happened to mention the ruined medieval castle of Chateau Gailiard because I found the history of the place fascinating and thought that Chuck might like to sniff around a place like that . . .  

After all, Chuck knows a bit of history. He’d heard of Richard the Lionhearted, who was both the King of England and the Duke of Normandy, and how he wanted to build this castle in France to protect his interests even though he promised he wouldn’t. Nevertheless, despite the expense, it took him only two years to construct this castle which sported quite an advanced design from a fortification perspective.

Chateau Gailiard had what was known as a concentric fortification, which consisted of three enclosures and a moat. It also boasted a system of defense--very modern--where the floors could open so rocks and stones and other materials could be dropped on attackers.  Just in case there were attackers, which Richard the Lionhearted suspected there would be.  The battlements were made of stone, a vast improvement over the wood used in most castles, and this meant they were practically fireproof. 

Well, this design would have worked, but unfortunately, even these improvements couldn’t prevent Chateau Gailiard from being captured in 1204 by King Phillip II, the French King, after a lengthy siege. Not for the obvious reasons but more for humanitarian ones. The locals nearby begged to be let into the castle for protection against the French soldiers.  Their admittance was the downfall of the castle. They literally ate up all the stores.

The castle suffered much in later years and eventually was deliberately destroyed as a precaution. Nevertheless, what is left of it is a marvel.  

I walked around and thought about life over one thousand years ago. It would have been cold and drafty inside. Chuck trotted alongside me, and I guessed he was busy picking up all the smells, probably able to get a much better idea of the history than me.

I was taken with the beauty of the old stone against the gray sky and wasn’t really paying much attention to him, which explains how one minute he was there, and the next, he was gone.

Up to his old tricks.

Not on purpose, of course. Chuck follows his nose. But this castle ruin is an extensive place; and it wouldn’t be easy to find the kid. 

He is a bit of a meanderer, and he couldn’t have gone too far ahead, unless he was spooked by someone or something. Then he can run, and he could be on the other side of the historic site.

I quickened my pace and followed what seemed to be the logical way around--looking down, not up, missing what I should have been noticing, on the look-out for . . . and there he was.

At some point he’d realized that he’d lost me so he’d stopped in a  frozen position and waited for me to find him. 

I scooped him up in my arms and held him close. “It’s alright. No wandering off, okay?”

Within the next minute or two, he was his old self again, sniffing the ground and the walls. 

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A Father's Day Wish

Occasionally when you travel, you arrive at a place you know is special. The buildings look old and from another time. The vegetation is lush and a bit overgrown. Even the air feels different. A peace and calm overtake you as you wander the grounds. 

When Chuck, my rascal cat, and I arrived in Normandy, France, and made our way to the Abbaye Saint Wandrille de Fontenelle http://www.st-wandrille.com/, we expected, but were hardly prepared for, how very special this Benedictine monastery was going to be. 

Immediately I regretted that my father wasn’t with me to see the Abbaye. He, of all the people in my life, had a special connection with God. I imagined that in this place he would have felt as if he was in heaven.

St. Wandrille was a 7th century count who held a high position at the court of his King before he decided to give up the power and the fame and retire to the Abbey at Montfaucon in 629.  For ten years he dedicated himself to God before returning to Normandy and establishing the Abbaye at Fontenelle. 

The original basillica was dedicated to St. Peter, but it was destroyed by fire.  The Abbaye was built and re-built after it was destroyed over the centuries by Viking raids, lightning, fire, and even bombings during World War II.

In its heyday, over 300 monks lived there. It was known for its library and school. In 811 a monk and celebrated Mathematician hand copied four copies of the Gospels.  Today fifty monks live at Wandrille.

Over its long history, Fontenelle has produced thirty saints and “blessed persons,” which is quite astounding until you walk its grounds and breathe its air.  

We were lucky that day.  A group of us -- including Chuck, of course --were escorted inside the Abbaye to see the cloister, which is rarely shown to visitors.  A French monk led us into this sacred space, but there was no talking allowed.

We glimped the chapel where there are services still held.

We saw the ancient bells that still called members of the Abbaye to services.

As we wandered around, I thought of my dad.  He would have loved all of it.  The deep penetrating quiet.  The sanctity of the air, even. 

My dad passed away over ten years ago now, but I still think of the wonder he would have felt if he’d had the opportunity to see the Abbaye.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!

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Gargoyles Trump Joan of Arc in Rouen,France

       

       

When you travel with a rascal cat, things rarely go as planned.

Case in point.  We were in France.  Heading toward Rouen, the capital of the Haute Normandie region, which is in northern France, near the River Seine. If you are up on your French history, you know that Rouen--besides once being the largest and most prosperous city in medieval Europe--was also the place where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake in 1431. 

I’d told Chuck the story of Joan of Arc. She was both a folk heroine and Roman Catholic saint who had begun her life as a peasant girl but who claimed to be guided by God and led the French army to several victories, enabling Charles VII to be crowed King of France.  She was captured and executed at 19 years old, but twenty-five years later she was declared a martyr by Pope Callixtus III.

Chuck wanted to see the place where Joan of Arc was laid to rest so we traipsed into Rouen, on our way to her gravesite, and passed the magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral.  

The cathedral has a long history dating back to the 4th century when the first church was present, but over the years, the cathedral has been struck by lightning several times, raided by Vikings, burnt down, blown down by fierce winds, reconstructed, damaged during War, damaged during hurricanes, bombed . . . well, you get the idea.  

           But still the cathedral survived, was transformed and even immortalized by Claude Monet in his painting Notre Dame Cathedral which now hangs in the Musee D’Orsay in Paris.

On our way to see Joan of Arc, Chuck stopped. He was gazing upward at the cathedral wall, with that typical “cat quizzical look” on his face.  He sniffed once, then again, as if he could sniff out what he had spied.

“What are you looking at?”

Chuck couldn’t take his gaze off the wall.

I followed his gaze, intrigued at what was holding his attention. 

Suspended from the wall was a gargoyle.  

             I’d heard about gargoyles on buildings.  They were put on churches to frighten off evil or harmful spirits.

Chuck moved closer to get a better look, and I thought he needed an explanation.

“Chuck, the practice of putting gargoyles on buildings like churches actually started here in Rouen.  Many years ago St. Romanus,” I said, beginning the tale of the France legend, “who was eventually made Bishop of Rouen, had the job of scouring the countryside around Rouen and finding the monster called Gargouille.  Now Gargouille was a typical fire breathing dragon with batlike wings and a long neck.  St. Romanus, smart man that he was, used a crucifix to subdue the Gargouille, and he brought him back to Rouen and burned him. The head of the Gargouille was mounted on a newly erected church to scare off any other evil spirits that were lurking out there.  This was the first instance of a gargoyle used for protection.”

Chuck continued staring at the strange monster-like creature which was plastered on the wall of the church.  

“Are you ready to go see Joan of Arc?”

He glanced at me, and we turned away from the Cathedral.  We walked down the street, when suddenly Chuck stopped again.  He was staring up at a building this time. 

“Chuck, honestly.”

Two more gargoyles reared their ugly heads away from the building.  I had to admit they were interesting to look at.

             Finally, we reached the place where Joan of Arc was laid to rest.  No more gargoyles.

“She was killed a long time ago, and people still come to see her.”

Chuck looked up at me with that disappointed look.

“Excuse me.  People and cats still come to see her.”

And it hit me then, Joan could have used a gargoyle or two for protection.  

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Chuck Sees Paratrooper on Church Roof in France

To this day a paratrooper hangs off the roof of a church in the small town of Sainte Mere Eglise, Latin for the Church of St. Mary, in Normandy, France. 

He’s been hanging there for a long time. 

He’s not real, of course. The fake paratrooper is a memorial to the real paratrooper, John M. Steele, whose parachute became caught on the roof spire of the church in town when he landed with a slew of other paratroopers on June 6, 1944.  Their mission was to liberate Sainte Mere Eglise from the Germans.  Trapped on the roof for two hours, pretending to be dead, he watched the battle raging below. He was later captured, but he managed to escape. 

Ironically, he suffered a kinder fate than most of the other paratroopers who landed.  Some were caught on trees and utility poles and were shot before they were cut loose.  Others were sucked into the fires that raged around them.  Casualties were high.

I never considered Chuck, my rascal cat, a history buff, but it’s become clear to me that lately World War II and anything connected to the Second World War holds a certain fascination for him.  We were in France, and Chuck heard of St. Mere Eglise and what happened in that small village on one of the most important days of the war.

Location is everything, and it seems that Sainte Mere Eglise was located smack in the middle of the route that the Germans would have to take in order to launch a counter attack against the Allied troops landing on the Utah and Omaha beaches of Normandy.   

The Allies needed to take the town. Chuck knew the story.  He’d seen the film The Longest Day. 

Chuck wanted to see two things.  First, we went to the church so he could see the paratrooper--the memorial.  

He was impressed.

And then we went inside the church.  He wanted to see the stained glass window.  Here, too, John Steele, is immortalized.  He is one of the two paratroopers landing near the Virgin Mary.  

He was impressed again.

Sainte Mere Eglise was occupied for four years by the Germans,  but after June 6, 1944, it became the first village to be liberated by the Allies.  The people in the town don’t forget.  Tourists still come to see a bit of history.  And Chuck, well, he wanted to see the paratrooper.  

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