Tuesday, March 11, 2003
OK: Now Rod Dreher's gone too far.
He's doing the unthinkable: He's defending the French.
Ack.
Just kidding. Rod makes many good points, and reminded me of my own experience with the French in 1989, which explains why I haven't jumped in the general piranha feeding frenzy of French-bashing. Well, OK, for the most part I haven't joined in. Hey, I've gone cold turkey for four months. Plus, my ancestors are almost entirely working-class Brits, which makes Francophobia even harder to control.
Proceeding apace.
During my sophomore year of college, two friends (one of whom was stood up with me at my wedding and is a certified genius to boot) and I enrolled at the University of Aberdeen in Scotland. We went over two and a half weeks before classes started to tour Western Europe. The English I liked right away ("what part of the States are you from?" being the introductory greeting, and "No, we don't have cube ice, sorry" being the regular apology), but I'll confess to rising Frogophobia as we popped over the Channel. No problems initially, though we really didn't stay in France until the end. We went roughly counter-clockwise in our travels: France-Belgium-Holland-West Germany-Austria-Italy-Switzerland-France-Spain-France-England. The only anti-Americanism we encountered was on a commuter train in Munich, where we were accosted by a midgety, nervous German fellow who looked like Goebbels after several years of estrogen therapy. After getting into a loud political argument with a fellow German who got disgusted and walked away, Der Twitchy decided to gripe about the Yankee foreigners. Evidently, our shoes gave us away, although I suspect my borrowed U.S. Army duffelbag had something to do with it, too. He glanced nervously in our direction, made several disparaging remarks, but evidently decided against a kampf against Yanks who had an average of several inches and forty pounds plus on him. We decided to impersonate well-mannered English tourists and ignore him.
It worked. At the next stop, Meister Wippel departed, no doubt returning to his place of unemployment, and a friendly German woman quickly approached us and apologized. She gave us an almost-certainly sanitized account of his tirade, and tried to assure us that all Germans weren't jerks. We gave the fuggedaboutit response, reassured her we had liked our stay in Bavaria and Germans in general, and left the car at our stop, international amity restored. After all, how could we hate Earth's beer capital?
Did I mention we were there during Oktoberfest?
Still, I expected worse when we arrived in France to spend a couple of days in Normandy, right at the tail end of our European odyssey.
Didn't happen. In fact, the opposite was the case. The Normans were delightful folks, friendly to a fault. And the cuisine? Rod's right: French food rules. I had this sauteed fish that to this day leaves me drooling in remembrance. French bakers, right down to the hot dog stand outfits, are the living masters of the art. The earthy delight of walking the streets of Ouistreham, munching on a fresh baguette and taking in the atmosphere, is one of my most treasured memories.
Ouistreham sits right on the English Channel. Even the name of the village, with its "-ham" ending, evokes a time when it was under British rule. Perhaps ironically, then, Ouistreham became the destination of a decidedly different kind of British beachgoer on June 6, 1944.
In nearby Arromanches, you can still see impact craters, preserved with concrete, which gives a feel for the firepower employed that day. Even the remnants of the artificial "Mulberry" harbor built by the Allies are still visible, far out to sea.
We were looking at a burnt-out gun emplacement in Arromanches when an older Frenchman approached us. The weapon, apparently a small anti-tank model, was in the open air, but in a dugout behind a locked gate. The gun appeared to have seen better days, with obvious burn marks and a thick coating of rust. The Frenchman, having overheard our conversation, greeted us in both French and broken English. He was relieved when Steve responded in reasonably fluent French. He still took a run at it in broken English for the benefit of monolingual Dale and Tim. After greeting us and confirming we were Americans, he took out his wallet, and showed us a laminated card. Steve helped to explain that this was proof of his veteran status during the Second World War. To emphasize the point, he said something about liking Americans because they had liberated his country, and to further drive it home repeatedly said "friendship, friendship." He was aware that even then, American tourists were not always persona grata in the Republic, and wanted us to know he definitely did not have that mindset.
It was at this point that he filled us in on the history of this particular gun emplacement. What we didn't know is that a large number of non-Germans fought alongside the Wehrmacht that June morning. These soldiers were generally men from the Soviet Union, and had hated Stalin. While quite happy to fight the communists, they were decidedly less enthusiastic about fighting American and British troops.
The Frenchman explained that this particular gun crew had evidently been among the least enthusiastic:
They had been chained to their gun. They had died chained to it, too.
The Frenchman told us this story without anger or emotion. He noted our shocked faces, and nodded sadly. He seemed to be telling us this story to remind us of the hellish regime that had held his country captive, and how that grip began to be broken on D-Day. After he finished, he again said "America. Friendship, friendship." He shook our hands and left. We were quiet for a little while afterward.
That moment, and the Frenchman's gratitude and friendliness have been with me ever since. He, like many of his countrymen, knew the difference between the type of people who would chain other men to a gun emplacement to fight for them, and those who came ashore that gray morning to break those chains. He was still grateful for it.
So, if you, like me, are sorely tempted right now to give up on the French as irredeemably treacherous weasels, remember: the corrupt adulterer who runs the country and the oily talking hairpiece of a Foreign Minister are not all of France.
Not by a long shot.
He's doing the unthinkable: He's defending the French.
Ack.
Just kidding. Rod makes many good points, and reminded me of my own experience with the French in 1989, which explains why I haven't jumped in the general piranha feeding frenzy of French-bashing. Well, OK, for the most part I haven't joined in. Hey, I've gone cold turkey for four months. Plus, my ancestors are almost entirely working-class Brits, which makes Francophobia even harder to control.
Proceeding apace.
During my sophomore year of college, two friends (one of whom was stood up with me at my wedding and is a certified genius to boot) and I enrolled at the University of Aberdeen in Scotland. We went over two and a half weeks before classes started to tour Western Europe. The English I liked right away ("what part of the States are you from?" being the introductory greeting, and "No, we don't have cube ice, sorry" being the regular apology), but I'll confess to rising Frogophobia as we popped over the Channel. No problems initially, though we really didn't stay in France until the end. We went roughly counter-clockwise in our travels: France-Belgium-Holland-West Germany-Austria-Italy-Switzerland-France-Spain-France-England. The only anti-Americanism we encountered was on a commuter train in Munich, where we were accosted by a midgety, nervous German fellow who looked like Goebbels after several years of estrogen therapy. After getting into a loud political argument with a fellow German who got disgusted and walked away, Der Twitchy decided to gripe about the Yankee foreigners. Evidently, our shoes gave us away, although I suspect my borrowed U.S. Army duffelbag had something to do with it, too. He glanced nervously in our direction, made several disparaging remarks, but evidently decided against a kampf against Yanks who had an average of several inches and forty pounds plus on him. We decided to impersonate well-mannered English tourists and ignore him.
It worked. At the next stop, Meister Wippel departed, no doubt returning to his place of unemployment, and a friendly German woman quickly approached us and apologized. She gave us an almost-certainly sanitized account of his tirade, and tried to assure us that all Germans weren't jerks. We gave the fuggedaboutit response, reassured her we had liked our stay in Bavaria and Germans in general, and left the car at our stop, international amity restored. After all, how could we hate Earth's beer capital?
Did I mention we were there during Oktoberfest?
Still, I expected worse when we arrived in France to spend a couple of days in Normandy, right at the tail end of our European odyssey.
Didn't happen. In fact, the opposite was the case. The Normans were delightful folks, friendly to a fault. And the cuisine? Rod's right: French food rules. I had this sauteed fish that to this day leaves me drooling in remembrance. French bakers, right down to the hot dog stand outfits, are the living masters of the art. The earthy delight of walking the streets of Ouistreham, munching on a fresh baguette and taking in the atmosphere, is one of my most treasured memories.
Ouistreham sits right on the English Channel. Even the name of the village, with its "-ham" ending, evokes a time when it was under British rule. Perhaps ironically, then, Ouistreham became the destination of a decidedly different kind of British beachgoer on June 6, 1944.
In nearby Arromanches, you can still see impact craters, preserved with concrete, which gives a feel for the firepower employed that day. Even the remnants of the artificial "Mulberry" harbor built by the Allies are still visible, far out to sea.
We were looking at a burnt-out gun emplacement in Arromanches when an older Frenchman approached us. The weapon, apparently a small anti-tank model, was in the open air, but in a dugout behind a locked gate. The gun appeared to have seen better days, with obvious burn marks and a thick coating of rust. The Frenchman, having overheard our conversation, greeted us in both French and broken English. He was relieved when Steve responded in reasonably fluent French. He still took a run at it in broken English for the benefit of monolingual Dale and Tim. After greeting us and confirming we were Americans, he took out his wallet, and showed us a laminated card. Steve helped to explain that this was proof of his veteran status during the Second World War. To emphasize the point, he said something about liking Americans because they had liberated his country, and to further drive it home repeatedly said "friendship, friendship." He was aware that even then, American tourists were not always persona grata in the Republic, and wanted us to know he definitely did not have that mindset.
It was at this point that he filled us in on the history of this particular gun emplacement. What we didn't know is that a large number of non-Germans fought alongside the Wehrmacht that June morning. These soldiers were generally men from the Soviet Union, and had hated Stalin. While quite happy to fight the communists, they were decidedly less enthusiastic about fighting American and British troops.
The Frenchman explained that this particular gun crew had evidently been among the least enthusiastic:
They had been chained to their gun. They had died chained to it, too.
The Frenchman told us this story without anger or emotion. He noted our shocked faces, and nodded sadly. He seemed to be telling us this story to remind us of the hellish regime that had held his country captive, and how that grip began to be broken on D-Day. After he finished, he again said "America. Friendship, friendship." He shook our hands and left. We were quiet for a little while afterward.
That moment, and the Frenchman's gratitude and friendliness have been with me ever since. He, like many of his countrymen, knew the difference between the type of people who would chain other men to a gun emplacement to fight for them, and those who came ashore that gray morning to break those chains. He was still grateful for it.
So, if you, like me, are sorely tempted right now to give up on the French as irredeemably treacherous weasels, remember: the corrupt adulterer who runs the country and the oily talking hairpiece of a Foreign Minister are not all of France.
Not by a long shot.
Labels: Travels
