France 2003 Travelogue

Thursday October 16
Through the Vosges Mountains, Lorraine & Champagne
and Return to Paris


The beginning of the end. Today we were heading back to Paris. The 550 km drive would be the second longest of the trip and take most of the day.

After giving the car a good scrubbing and a not-so-good vacuuming at a carwash on the outskirts of Colmar, we headed north toward Strasbourg. Near Sélestat, we followed Highway N59 through frost-laden fields and climbed into the Vosges Mountains. At the old mining town of Sainte-Marie-aux-Mines, notable as the birthplace of the Amish movement, we expected to find a tunnel that would spare us the 30-minute drive over the crest of the mountains. Instead, we found that the tunnel was closed for renovation. So we tediously worked our way over the Col de Sainte-Marie, and followed the signs to Saint-Die on our descent.

We planned a quick layover in Baccarat, a very famous, yet rarely visited, town. Carolyn would shop for some small pieces of crystal at the outlet shop, while I would check out the Église St-Rémy, famous for its windows of colored crystal. The previous year, we visited the same outlet shop and toured the nearby Musée du Cristal, a very simple, old-fashioned museum displaying historic pieces of Baccarat crystal that was well worth the time.

Baccarat— City of Crystal
Baccarat Crystal Outlet Shop We arrived in Baccarat at 9:30 am and soon discovered a significant difference from our previous visit to the outlet shop— no one was on staff that spoke English. This forced some modifications to our plan because I had to remain and act as a crude translator between the clerk and Carolyn. Like so many Europeans, the sales lady exhibited an admirable tenacity when dealing with a language barrier, and was both patient and persistent in her attempts to communicate simple points.

After nearly an hour, Carolyn had some fairly stable opinions about the pieces she wanted, so I headed out the door and toward the town center. As I left the shop, I imagined the reaction of the refined ladies of the Baccarat staff if some prankster played a hidden tape recording of breaking glass (lots of breaking glass). I'll keep this idea in mind if we ever come through here on April Fools Day.

I crossed the Rue des Cristalleries, the surprisingly busy main street of Baccarat, which is packed with tacky-looking crystal shops, and headed for the river. The lady in the shop said the church was "juste à travers le pont" (just across the bridge), and sure enough, I spotted the 180-foot spire on the opposite bank of the river.

Église St-Rémy No one visits the Église St-Rémy because it is ancient, it was built in the 1950's as a replacement for an older church destroyed during the Second World War. Nor do visitors come to admire the plain concrete exterior. This church qualifies as a tourist attraction solely because of its unique windows.

The place seemed abandoned. No one was was around and the parking lot was empty. I tried the door and discovered that it was open. Peeking inside it was obvious that I was alone (not counting, of course, the divine presence alleged to inhabit such sacred places).

Except for the alter and pews, the interior is unusually stark. The reason for the absence of conventional forms of religious decoration is obvious. The sunlight entering the windows is transformed into a display of light and color. The polished wooden pews literally glow in warm reflected shades of yellow, red, blue and purple. I have been in many churches and cathedrals with beautiful stained glass windows, yet the effect of the light on the interior has never been this intense. In contrast to stained cathedral glass, which tends to draw the eye upward, to the source of the light, these windows of crystal tend hold the gaze inward. At first glance, the interior appears to be consumed in flames.

When looking directly at the windows, the intensity of the light increases to a level that is almost blinding. Individual pieces of crystal may appear to suddenly "light up," depending upon the relative positions of the sun and the observer, and the effect is reminiscent of an old-fashioned Christmas Tree densely packed with brightly colored bulbs. The patterns formed within the windows also have symbolic meaning, incorporating themes such as Life and Light, The Apostles, and The Creation.

Within this context of light and color, the severe simplicity of the church interior makes perfect sense aesthetically. Traditional forms of religious art would be superfluous, if not counterproductive.

From a non-artistic perspective, the physicist in me concluded that the intense color that permeates the interior results from a combination of the shapes of the individual pieces of crystal and the fact that leaded crystal has a relatively high index of refraction. These produce a focusing effect that minimizes the diffusion of light emanating from the windows. In other words, according to this interpretation, each crystal acts as a crude lens. I noticed this effect while looking at some of the figurines displayed in the Baccarat outlet shop. Under certain conditions, an individual beam of light produced by a "lens" of crystal can be remarkably coherent and "hold its color" exceptionally well, particularly when compared to ordinary cathedral glass.

Although the small and unpretentious Église St-Rémy is unlikely to take your breath away in the same manner as better-known and more magnificent monuments to faith, such as the cathedrals at Strasbourg and Cologne, this small parish church possesses an impressive inner beauty.

After taking a few pictures, I left a 5€ donation for the maintenance fund and headed back into the bright sunlight.

Baccarat Town Hall The most attractive parts of Baccarat are along the River Meurthe. This is where the Église St-Rémy is located, as well as a city park (Parc Municipal), and the town hall (Mairie de Baccarat). The park offers some pleasant views of the nearby Église St-Rémy, or at least it would if the church had an exterior aesthetically comparable to the interior. The bridge that crosses the river above the park, the Pont MacClenahan, is lined with flower boxes and flags, including a US flag.

We saw quite a few US flags on this trip. At first I thought they were intended to attract American tourists, generally regarded as big spenders throughout Europe, to specific hotels and shops. But that wouldn't account for the flags, such as the one on this bridge, that are displayed on public property. These flags seem to be a sincere symbol of the friendship between our countries. The anti-American rhetoric almost routinely issued by the political, media and academic elites in Paris apparently does not represent the sentiments of all French citizens.

The Mairie de Baccarat is a very attractive building, even by European standards. It is not an old building, however, as it dates only from the early 20th century. With an almost dramatically steep roof of bright red tiles, interrupted by several dormer windows and their green copper-plated covers, and a facade that artfully mixes reddish-brown stones and plain white walls, it was the most photogenic building that I spotted in the town. A particularly nice perspective of the town hall was from the Parc Municipal with the flower- and flag-lined stone bridge in the foreground.

When I returned to the parking lot at the Baccarat outlet store, Carolyn was waiting in the car. She wanted to see the church interior but decided to pass because we were still far from Paris. We were only 100 km from Colmar, and we had about 450 km yet to go. It occurred to me that this might also be a ruse on her part to get me to return to Baccarat in the not-too-distant future so that she can buy some more crystal ("but I didn't get to see the church"). Leaving Baccarat, we followed the signs to Nancy, the medieval capital of this region, and soon left the province of Lorraine behind.

Champagne
Champagne Farmland The route from Alsace to Paris passes directly through the heart of the historic Champagne district. This sparsely populated farming region, with alternating patches of recently planted greens with recently plowed yellows and browns, is reminiscent of the American midwest. Another similarity to Kansas and eastern Colorado is the artificial reservoirs that are popular for recreational water activities. One notable difference, however, is that Champagne is a region of rolling hills. The name Champagne, incidentally, is a variant on the French word for countryside, which is campagne.

The history of Champagne neatly embodies an aspect of "old countries" that I have always found intriguing— specifically, the unique regional cultures that sometimes evolve as each generation acquires a deeper understanding of the available environmental resources. One of my favorite examples is the "windmill culture" of Holland, in which the Dutch gradually recognized the potential of harnessing the wind in their struggle against the sea. The ability to balance one natural element against another was painstakingly perfected over centuries of environmental adaptation. In France, the cultural culminations of this process of efficiently utilizing and adapting to the available natural resources are often manifest in the arts, including, of course, the culinary arts. Limoges porcelain, to which we devoted a short detour earlier in this trip, is an excellent example. Universally recognized as china of the highest quality, Limoges is made from local deposits of rare clay and decorated with enamels that derive their brilliance from metal ore that is also mined in the immediate vicinity. Another unique cultural treasure of France, one that is also intrinsically connected to both land and environment, is Champagne.

The invention of Champagne is an extraordinary example of what can occur when ancient traditions are suddenly disrupted by an environmental "disaster." About 500 years ago, an abrupt and persistent climatic cooling descended upon much of the European continent. The grapes of Champagne, the northernmost wine producing region of France, ripened more slowly in the cooler conditions and this necessitated a delayed harvest. A serious problem then ensued because the alcohol did not have sufficient time to fully ferment before the onset of winter. In response to springtime warming, the wine would experience a "second fermentation," releasing additional carbon dioxide and causing bottles to burst. Of course, no one wanted a wine cellar full of exploding bottles, and the threat to the centuries-old Champagne wine industry was potentially catastrophic. Unsuccessful attempts to remedy this problem, which focused primarily on eliminating the second fermentation, continued for generations. Eventually, Dom Pérignon, a 17th century Benedictine monk, pursued an alternative solution— contain the excess pressure triggered by the second fermentation. The elevated pressure was compensated by the development of a stronger bottle that was sealed with a cork secured by wire. The higher internal pressure prevented the CO2 from escaping the solution and resulted in a wine with bubbles. The new and improved "bubbly" wines of Champagne soon became enormously popular, first throughout France, then throughout the world.

Periodic signs indicating the direction of Verdun were a continual reminder that the soil of Champagne holds more than the roots of wine-bearing grapes. These hills are the final resting place of countless European soldiers that sacrificed their lives during the First World War. The sweeping advances made by the Germans during August 1914 ended here, to the great relief of Paris. A stable front, however, soon degenerated into trench warfare and soldiers on both sides suffered the now notorious consequences (mustard gas, etc.). The stalemate persisted for years and, during this time, all humane concepts of a rational balance between loss of life and strategic advantage were abandoned. Tens of thousands of men were ordered to their deaths in offensives and counter-offensives intended to secure or defend less than a hundred meters of territory. As in Normandy, when the fighting ended the locals quickly resumed their ancient tradition of agriculture. Still, the now peaceful farmlands of northern France will forever serve as a reminder of the carnage of war.

We were tempted to stop in the ancient Roman town of Reims to visit one of the most famous cathedrals in Europe. For 800 years, the coronation of French monarchs has occurred in the Cathédrale Notre-Dame at Reims. It is essentially the Westminster Abbey of France. It was in this cathedral that Joan of Arc accompanied Charles VII as he was crowned King of France. The cathedral is also highly regarded as a brilliant work of architecture, and includes stained-glass windows created by Chagall. We still had a long drive ahead of us and wanted to arrive in Paris before dark, so we decided not to stop. As with Chartres, we did glimpse the cathedral towers in the distance.

Paris at Night
View from Pont au Change Our goal was to get the car back to the rental agency before dark. Traveling by car at night in Paris can be hazardous (remember Princess Diana?). We arrived in the city at the onset of rush hour, a chaotic free-for-all likely to paralyze even a veteran NASCAR driver with fear. Frankly, I'll take my chances with 80-year-old sidewalk-plowing Floridian motorists any day. It is a little-known fact that the average Parisian has killed at least one person with his or her car by the age of twenty-seven. OK, maybe this is not actually "a fact," but it does illustrate the gravity of the situation.

Drivers in Paris are extremely aggressive and perpetually angry. Remember the woman in Texas who ran her philandering husband over with a Mercedes and calmly circled the parking lot to repeat the procedure? That's a Parisian driver on a good day. These people refuse to slow down for any reason, yet all are anxious to pass the moment that a few inches of clearance are available. Lane markings and regulatory signs are merely suggestions, and bear, at best, a statistically marginal correlation with the movement of traffic. The only recognized form of communication between fellow motorists is the horn, all of which sound in wrathful unison the moment that any traffic light turns green.

I must confess, I did receive some sadistic satisfaction from driving like a Parisian. The realization that I could frighten them more than they could frighten me was a great morale booster. Also, although Carolyn refused to loosen her grip on the dashboard, I did finally get her to stop screaming "Watch out for that guy!." Parisian drivers are very skilled at taking advantage of adversaries that are distracted by a terrified passenger.

Finally, against all odds, we arrived at the train station. After driving nearly 4000 km across an alien land, we navigated the car, completely undamaged, to within a few feet of our starting point. I felt like a NASA engineer.

We turned the car in with no complications and took a taxi back to the hotel. I am fairly certain that the driver was disreputable— I noticed that we passed the Pompidou Centre twice and, when we arrived at the hotel, he added 5 Euros to the fare indicated by the meter. Rather than confront him over the equivalent of less than ten dollars, I made a deliberate act of writing down the identification number on his car, thinking that he might stress over what I planned to do with the information (which was nothing, I had better things to do with my time in Paris).

Cathédrale de Notre-Dame Our room was nicer than that we were given our first night in Paris. It was larger, with a larger bed and a larger bathroom, and located on the second, rather than the fourth, floor. It also offered a more interesting view, overlooking the bustling, but surprisingly quiet, Rue de la Verrerie.

Shortly after dark, we headed out into the "City of Lights." As a photographer, one of the things that I love about Paris is that virtually all of the buildings and monuments are illuminated at night. We walked down to the Seine, the heart of Paris, and admired the reflections of the buildings in the water. It was sobering to realize that many of these reflections— Notre-Dame, the Conciergerie, portions of the Louvre— have been essentially unchanged for centuries. The bridges that cross the river have an entirely different character at night. They seem to lead to mysterious places lost in the dimly-lit streets of the opposite bank. People are everywhere, yet, paradoxically, it is not difficult to find a lonely stretch of the river. In these areas it is easy to imagine that it is still the 17th century. Walk further along the river, however, and the sudden appearance of the glittering Eiffel Tower will bring you back into the present.

Towering above the river at the foot of the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, is the oldest department store in Paris. The five-story Samaritaine, founded in 1869 and renovated in art deco style during the early 20th century, is also the largest and most famous department store in the city. We visited this historic relic of retail marketing on the most mundane of missions— we were looking for some bubble wrap to safely pack the more delicate pieces of ceramic and porcelain that Carolyn had collected during the past two weeks. Despite the unofficial motto of Samaritaine, which is ou on trouve tout, "where all is found," we did not find what we were looking for. C'est la vie. We still had fun checking out the differences in clothing and household items, such as bedsheets and curtains. I found the pet section especially interesting.

Place de la Concorde A little further down the river, between the Louvre Museum and the beginning of the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, is the Place de la Concorde. Although no great battles were fought here, this square has the distinction of being one of the bloodiest places on French soil. During the revolution, this was the site of public executions by La Guillotine. The most famous victims of the blade included King Louis XVI, Marie-Antoinette, and Robespierre, but I couldn't help but think of a fictional victim of the guillotine— Sydney Carton, from Dicken's Tale of Two Cities— "It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done ..."

The guillotine and scaffolds are, of course, long gone. Today the centerpiece of the Place de la Concorde is the Obelisk of Luxor, a gift from the government of Egypt. Scattered about the square are statues representing various French cities, such as Strasbourg, Marsailles, Lyon and Rouen. I found a great after-dark photo subject. A fountain that I recognized from the beginning of An American in Paris. I got some surprisingly nice shots using my digital and mini-tripod, although I had to wait for a period when no people were cluttering the scene.

From the Place de la Concorde, we walked down the crowded Champs-Elysées toward the Arc de Triomphe. We decided to dine at that great icon of French culture, Le McDonalds. The place was packed. Virtually every "McDo's" that we noticed on this trip (and there were many) was busy, regardless of the time of day. French elites may rant about the "McDomination" of their country, but the vast majority of their fellow citizens do not appear to share their concerns or convictions. At a time when McDonalds profits are declining in the US, they are increasing in France. American-style marketing and French dining habits have reached a compromise, or at least declared a truce, where the BigMac is concerned.

It is interesting to compare this McDonalds to a typical franchise in the US. The first notable difference is the menu. It is in French of course, but more importantly the items available refute the common myth that McDonalds imposes the same bland and unhealthy food on the entire world. While the food may indeed be bland and unhealthy, it is not identical (when Carolyn and I lived in Tokyo, we could order a chicken curry at McDonalds). Even familiar items, such as hamburgers, possess an unfamiliar taste because virtually all of the ingredients originate in France. Importation of beef, cheese, etc. from the US would be prohibitively expensive. Unfortunately, one American import that is not unacceptably expensive is tobacco. Like the majority of restaurants in France, the McDonalds on the Champs-Elysées is filled with smoke. Despite the somewhat toxic atmosphere, the patrons seem to linger, which would be considered most unnatural in an American McDonalds.

Anyone interested in the global influence of American culture should spend time in a French McDonalds. Patrons clad in blue jeans and t-shirts smoke their Marlboros and sip their Cokes while listening to Madonna and Janet Jackson or watching CNN on captioned television monitors. Newspaper television listings suggest that the huddled groups of men and women might be discussing the latest episodes of Baywatch and Ally McBeal. Not far from the entrance to this particular McDonalds are posters that advertise the latest that Hollywood has to offer.

There are some in France who are concerned that the prominence of American pop culture, along even their most stately and legendary avenue, threatens the integrity of French cultural identity. A few even accuse the US of "cultural imperialism," although, from my perspective, "cultural imperialism" bears a suspicious resemblance to cultural addiction.

Those threatened by encroaching "Americanization," or any other external influence, invariably view culture as static, and, in doing so, confuse culture with history. Also, it is puzzling how those that possess such solid convictions that their culture is both inherently superior and firmly rooted are so alarmed by things as ordinary and mundane as hamburgers and pop music. Superficial fluff, whether American or French, is unlikely to displace centuries of cultural identity.

I doubt it will assuage the fears of the self-appointed guardians of all that is French, but, to this American, French culture remains distinctly French— even when viewed from the inside of a McDonalds.

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