And what an adventure it has been! Not the good kind really… You see, after my last blog entry, I closed the computer and went to buy a French phrase book. Got the goods, went to the counter and opened my wallet and….. wait for it folks…..NO CREDIT CARD!!!!!!!! Gone… simply gone. Ring went the bell to board the ferry. No time. No time.
In Rick Steve’s highly successful, and no doubt lucrative, book series “Europe Through the Back Door” (which I can’t help but thinking of as a euphemism) he states right in the opening paragraph that “Loosing something major like a credit card or passport can be devastating and can ruin your trip in a second,” He actually rates credit card higher than passport.
I remember reading this passage and chuckling to myself about what type of person could possibly loose a credit card overseas. I thought of the stereotypical American family trip to Europe. Dad with camera around the neck in kaki cargo shorts shouting at mom and the kids to hold still for one more group pic of the the fam in front of the Louvre. Idiot. Big fat fricking idiot.
This is what I was thinking to myself the entire ferry ride from Portsmouth to Cherbourg. What should have been a wonderful transition in my trip from relative comfort to actually cycling quickly turned into a choppy ride across a windy channel, swaying like a drunkard around the boat while racking up multi-million dollar cell phone bills calling Bank of America’s supposedly “international” hotline. Remind me to switch to Chase when I get back to the city.
After frantic calls to Becky, and soothing words from she who somehow manages to calm me down in every situation, I realized that there was nothing I could really do about it. I mean, I was committed here. I’m on the boat, and the card is probably on some street in London getting run over by lorries. Or worse, of course, in the hands of some druggie.
On the trip over, there were three other people cycling in with bags. I had struck up some conversation with them prior to my dastardly discovery. One of them, George, was a well dressed Scottish accountant and looked the part wearing kaki office pants, button up shirt tucked in and sweater vest. He literally looked like he had riding to the ferry from the office in Glasgow. Sporting a brand new Canefeild touring rig that some enterprising salesman had sold him, complete with $500 Ortlieb waterproof panniers, bar bag and $180 brooks leather saddle, he looked ready to start my taxes.
But he turned out to be a genuine fellow. As we were talking I mentioned my sob story, and he didn’t hesitate to offer me money. I was truly taken aback at this. I mean, I could have been anyone scamming on anything and he offers me money. What a nice guy! Of course, I turned him down knowing that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I accepted while also realizing that the credit card was really only a backup plan in place of my real cash budget which was still extant.
After we got into Cherbourg, George and I cycled off the boat together with the other two folks, a young 20something English couple, and planned our next move. George had a hotel booked, and a tendancy to stand way too close to me while talking, so when the kids offered to show me to a hostel for 15 pounds, I accepted while apologizing to George many times. While I would likely have ended up staying at his hotel and it would have likely been fine, the whole situation was just a little too weird for this New Yorker. I’ve heard many many stories about the old come and check out my hotel with me story.
Ok, so I totally overreacted, but at least the real motivating factor was that the hostel was only 15 pounds. It turned out to be 17.50 Euro, roughly $30, but whatever. It had a clean bed, shower and bathroom, and I met up with a couple of great guys from London upon checking in. They were on a tour as well, only heading south to Morocco.
They head about my situation, grilled me on my bike and plans, and invited me to dinner. After stowing the gear, and talking a lot with Tom and James, the British college twins, we were merrily clicking our heals down the narrow cobblestone streets of Cherbourg. I started to think, after a few minutes, that my luck was still holding. Tom and James were really exactly what I needed after loosing the card. Our non-stop conversation covered our respective fields and had already shifted into funny/dumb stories about what we’ve done drunk by the time we arrived at “Le Dinner Americans”.
You guessed it folks, I came all the way to Cherbourg and had a cheeseburger and fries. The only thing that made it French was that it was served about as slowly as you can imagine, and we had one tiny pitcher of water to share among three cyclists. Afterwards, we made our way back to the hostel already feeling like old buddies.
Of course, I started to wonder if Grandpa had a similar experience in Paris or something. These guys were about the age of the average soldier. Young 20’s being sent to die. From Grandpa’s letters, I get a sense of how social he was. He definatlt must have possessed “the gift of gab” if you will. He’s always mentioning about how he calls certain people by certain nicknames, how these same people call him back. Bull sessions about home over squad meetings, constant references to parties with Grandpa they’ve had or will have, and many stories about partying in Paris. The guy liked to have a good time, even as conservative as the family has said many times, as he was.
In the morning, Tom and James said bye to me as they headed down stairs to breakfast. I had awoken early at 7:30 or so and already eaten, packed and readied myself to leave. Smiling, I shook their hands, as well as that of my elderly Austrian roommate who I got about three words with, and made for the door. Cherbourg and the credit crunch were over.
I was riding the coast just south of town when I finally felt free from yesterday’s crisis. The lush green countryside slowly wound by my consciousness to the whirr of the bike. The little road I was on passed through little coastal towns, with the hills of Normandy to my right, and the English Channel to my left. The chill air and the wind over the rolling farmland filled with cows, goats and donkeys reminded me of home so much that I almost felt like I was cycling just south of Corvallis, Oregon. I was only snapped out of this reverie when a thousand year old grey stone church would emerge from the horizon.
I stopped in Brochenes, a fishing village around 20 km from Cherbourg. The beautiful little stone buildings were arranged in a straight line street ending in the historic harbor surrounded by ancient rock quays filled with rich looking fishing boats. The masts resembled grass at the end of a driveway.
After a horrible attempt at speaking French in a local butcher shop, I emerged with some overpriced sausage. Just when I was about to panic, because the stores were closing for the traditional Sunday repass, I spotted a “normal” looking grocery store. I got in just in time, and got some apples, cheese, and juice. Tempted by the Haribo displace, I emerged from yet another embarrassing French language lesson with lunch and dinner for only 12 euro feeling pretty good about it.
A bathroom was the only trick. I’d heard that you have to provide your own toilet paper, but of course, had completely forgotten to buy some until I realized that it was too late. By too late, I mean learning how to hold a squat position in a disgusting, and toilet paper free, public bathroom stall. Like my friend Nate would say, I just had to go man.
A frantic search ensued for anything that would, or could, suffice. Maps, printed paper from England, a used piece of paper towel on top of the garbage can lid. Necessity is the mother of invention, and let me leave at this. Needless to say, I went right back to the store afterwards and procured a package of napkins. Dual purpose, you know. Just thinking ahead, or a-butt.
After this, the road cut inland a bit toward names I started to recognize like St. Mare Eglise, and Carentan. Soon, heading up a typical hill with trees lining the sides, I saw a strange plastic sign. Stopping to read it, I saw that the road had been officially renamed Wall Road after Lt. Richard Wall of the _____ tank regiment of the 4th infantry division, who had died right there. Soon, I saw hundreds of these signs, one for each road. They brought a real sense of just who had been here before, and how many must have died. How many didn’t get roads named after them I wonder?
As I began to tire around 2pm, I started seeing signs for Utah Beach. This picked up my spirits! I nearly sprinted the remaining 16 km to the beach. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Certainly in America, this sort of thing would have probably been developed into a “D-Day Resort” by now complete with casino, wave pool, and a parking garage the size of Montana.
The approach to the beach was downhill slightly culminating in a tastefull arrangement of French and United States flags flying adjacent to a clean and modern looking museum building built in a white curve. There was a metal monument in French in the middle of the roundabout next to the museum thanking all those Americans who died on D-Day, and a dead Sherman tank and 105 howitzer piece sitting on either side.
Just behind the beach road, with ran parallel to the sand wall sat a giftshop/restaurant serving American food like milshakes Budweiser/old German bunker. That wasn’t the only thing built out of an old German bunker. When I asked in the nice clean museum, “Oya La Toilette?”, the friendly staff pointed to the left at a bunker on the side of the building. I walked in and was confronted a toilet situation worse than Coney Island. Embedded into this edifice of war was a disgusting little hole in the ground, with a door, but no light. One had to aim.
You have to give to the French on this one, I mean what better way to emulate the sacrifice of the men who came ashore that day than to force people to line up in the sun and wait for a chance to blindly take shots in the dark at a bunker. Makes sense right? I truly enjoy, however, the fact that the bunkers are not simply thought of as some untouchable relic of history. They are so new compared with everything here, that I think people just think of them as any other concrete to be used or thrown away. I can hear the architect chuckling in my head.
On the road to Carantan, I passed by the spot where Easy Co 506th of the 101rst took out four 88m field guns on D-Day that where playing hell down on the beach. This battle is recreated in a great detail in HBO’s mini-series “Band of Brothers” as the first real ground action that Easy Co. faced in Europe. The quickness and ferocity of their attack is still studied today at West Point as an attack scenario on a fixed position.
I wonder how many fixed positions Grandpa had to “take out.” When he rushed forward into one of these, maybe feeling like he may well die, I wonder what he felt. Again, from his letters, he never speaks about specific actions even though Grandma is evidently repeatedly asking him for details. He only talks about how much he loves here, how much he “feels” her “with him”. This is said over and over again, and I have began to think that it means he was in combat. He must have been so scared.
It is really only later in life that I’ve been able to get at least a grip on fear, and what fear can do. Everyone is afraid, pretty much all the time. That is why fear is such a good motivator for most people. Fear of loosing your job. Fear of someone you know dieing suddenly. Fear of being audited. Fear.
The only thing I’ve been able to figure out is how to go forward even though I know I’m afraid. The only difference here between Grandpa and myself is that his fears were generally well justified. He really was getting shot at, and mortared, and shelled all while crawling into a foxhole and hoping to be lucky enough not to get hit. I am really only worried about someone getting ahold of my credit card, or getting something I can’t fix wrong on the bike or something.
Really, all fear that I may have experienced before flying out of New York on this trip is gone. It’s been slowly worked out of me by the rolling hills, landscape and winds of Normandy. I’ve got 39 days to go, many more kilometers to cover, and many more little problems to overcome. Sitting here in Carentan, sipping a crappy French beer that I bought because all the damn stores are closed today, I have a general sense that this trip will work out in the end. I’ve just got to figure out how to get on a train to Holland in three days without a credit card. No worries right?
Signing off for today! Keep reading, and stay happy. I miss everyone, and can’t wait for that big plane back home in October.
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