June 6, 2008

Good morning,

Our Speech Day was a beautiful, English day. S made us incredibly proud by winning, as I said before, three awards for Chemistry, History and Religious Studies. She was also awarded the Headmaster's Award for Academic Excellence. It made for great day.

Having been to an extravagent 50th birthday party on Friday night and a grueling day of sunshine, champagne and lovely frocks on Saturday's Speech Day, J and I struggled to pack the car and leave the house in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The house looked less like we had left for vacation and more like we fled: dishes on the table, life's equipment strewn everywhere, crumpled party dresses on the floor. Somehow, we managed to make our early morning ferry out of Portsmouth.

The ferry was decidedly better than flying. It had restaurants, shops, lounges, a movie theater and, most importantly, cabins. Thankfully, we had the foresight to book a cabin. It was the beginning of half term break and the boat was crawling with kids. By 6 a.m. that morning, we were VERY tired of our own kids and had no interest in sharing space with anyone else's. We were able to rent a couple DVD's and rest as we made our six hour journey to Normandy, France. When we disembarked in France, we were a ten minute drive to the hotel and, from there, a half a block to the sea.

The hotel was a family run, simple and charming place. It was not the huge American chain hotel normally preferred by J, but it did the trick and the non English speaking owners and their darling school age daughter were wonderful hosts. We dropped our cases in the room and headed to the sea where I was immediately ripped off by a pimply faced French youth who refused to give me the correct change for a bucket and spade (an A Englishism). I was glad we had refueled on various French fried doughs. It eased my anger. And, after collecting shells and tossing washed up star fish back into the sea, we were witness to the pure ecstasy of A on a bungy jumping contraption. His unbridled joy, which is a side that his guarded self rarely makes public, melted my bitter heart and I let the pimply youth incident drop. Sort of.

We hit the historical beaches of Normandy on Memorial Day. At Pointe du Hoc, we walked through craters left by bombs and climbed through the gun encampments and even through a couple of bunkers. On Omaha Beach, it was hard to imagine the horrors that took place here in 1944. It was one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. Soft sand surrounded by those infamous cliffs and hills. We played for a long time in the sand. We thought about what it must have looked, sounded, smelled and felt like to those brave men who fought there.

We visited the American Cemetery and arrived just in time for a small Memorial Day ceremony. A general in charge of all the national cemeteries, gave a short speech. He spoke of the bravery of the US soldiers who died in all parts the world. "These soldiers have died protecting other countries. Has the United States ever asked for money or colonies or slaves in return? No. We have only ever asked for a place to bury our dead." It was so powerful as we looked out over a cemetery, technically American soil as the land was gifted to us by France, with well over 9,000 white crosses and the occasional Star of David, all pointing to America. It left me breathless. We went to thank the men and women who spoke, but the only words I could choke out were, "thank you" before I completely broke down, my pride, gratitude and love of country just overcoming me. There are those that worry that by living abroad our children will not be fully American or patriotic. Moments like those we shared at the American Cemetery will be forever suspended in time. I doubt the kids will forget it. Even A was silent and in awe. I have no doubt that our children are immensely proud of their nation.

An unfortunate situation arose while we were wandering around the cemetery. It is, of course, a solemn place. We were disturbed by 15-20 French youths (15-16 years?) who were shouting, laughing, throwing pine cones at each other and leaning and jumping on the headstones. One employee ran some of the kids off, but they all congregated elsewhere. Finally, I couldn't take it and I marched over. Seeing an angered adult made them disperse, but J came up behind me shouting at them. They left then and M walked over to one headstone where boys had been gathered laughing at the name cut into the headstone. M who has such a strong sense of justice, was overcome with emotion when he realized this soldier had died the day after Christmas, 1944. He was outraged. Having recently toured Auschwitz, M could not believe these French boys could be so ungrateful. Did they not appreciate what these men gave up to liberate France from the Nazis? No. I do not worry about his patriotism whatsoever.

The following day we headed to the middle of nowhere to see Mt. St. Michel. It is a monestery/politcal prison/castle which remains a monestery today. It is magnificant pile of rocks that protrudes literally out of the ground. It is a tremendous castle and church with a small quaint town at its base. At high tide, it becomes an island. It is the second most visited site in France behind the Eiffel Tower. We arrived quite excited to navigate the 500 plus stairs to the top. R saved the day (it was R's second trip to the site) by directing us the back way and thus avoiding a huge crowd, but not before we could have another unfortunate situation with the French youth. In the crowded entrance, we were bumped and jostled by crowds of tourists. We ended up close to some kids on a school trip (16 years? Same group?). R accidentally walked into a picture one boy was taking of his friend. Without a moment's thought, this boy took R by the shoulders and shoved him hard. Again, I was disciplining French youth who seemingly had no supervision. It marred the day which was a shame.

On Wednesday, we visited St. Therese's Basilica in Lisieux. St. Therese, The Little Flower, is my patron saint, so we stocked up on those items necessary to ensure my safe passage into heaven: holy water in a plastic bottle molded into the shape of a saintly woman. A plastic jar candle with a picture of St. Therese printed in wildly vibrant colors, a laminated picture of St Therese one could keep in her pocket (in order to remind the owner just how much God loves those who shut up and put up), and a charm or two. St. Therese was a silent sufferer. Just like me. She never complained. Just like me. Even when she didn't like people, she studied them to find the face of Jesus in their soul. Just like me. She ate food she didn't like and was completely grateful. TOTALLY like me. The similarities are uncanny. Obviously, to name me after St. Therese was a profound act by my parents. Too bad I ended up with a goofy nickname ('Are your parents hippies?' I was once asked by a neighbor.).  Sadly, even in front of St. Therese's church, we ran into trouble with poorly behaved children. This time grade school kids were outside running around (nearly knocking A down) pushing over garbage cans, screaming, etc. I have never seen anything like it, not in the US or else where.

So. My thoughts on France? It is the MOST beautiful country. I SO want to love it! A French friend of ours assures me that all these children were probably just nasty Parisan kids on school trips. He tells me that everyone outside Paris is likeable. Anyway, the French butter alone may make me want to go back. And the baguettes. I won't say I'll never go back. It is just that being in France is more work than being in Italy. Bring on Tuscany.

Thursday, we arrived home at 1:30 a.m. and got M to school at 5:30 a.m. for his trip to Belgium. How many World War memorials can you take in before you want not to wake up in the morning? Ask M.

With love from England,

T-Ann