Hello Friends!

I thought I would keep a kind of electronic journal again this year ~ even though I will not have places nearly as interesting as last year's to describe. This will be more "today I drove from a to b", for those who are curious.

So the highways have been clear and dry. There is almost no snow left on the plains, but I did wake to a beautiful frozen-fog effect on the trees. Today I drove across Nebraska ~ from Council Bluffs IA to North Platte. I stayed my first night out on the banks of the Missouri. Well, not really. Harrah's is on the bank. It is technically a "river boar" so they have full Las Vegas gambling, complete with garish lights and a twenty-story hotel (some riverboat).

I made a point of staying in Council Bluffs, because it is a very early childhood memory, from one of the winters before Kindergarten, when my grandmother stayed with us to take care of me. I remember her referring to what sounded to me like "Consa-bluss". It was the Big City for her when she was growing up in the 1880s about fifty miles to the NE in a town called Harlan. It is not too far from Early, for you Greg Brown fans.

Anyway, I think both are very evocative names. We have a number of them, I was thinking: Blue Earth, Sleepy Eye, Good Thunder.

The land is beautiful even in winter. If I remember correctly, last year I compared Piccardy to Iowa. I was right, but it's really more like Nebraska at least the Platte River Valley where I-80 runs. Completely flat, with little groves dotting the horizon, and lots of wetlands all along the river. Just like the Somme. No gothic cathedrals in N. Platte, however, as far as I know.

There is an Episcopal Church, though. And the Baptists barely outnumber the Lutherans. My intelligence is drawn from the Ramada Inn's list of churches. There is one called, suspiciously, "Church of Jesus Christ" which I'll bet has deliberately left off the "LDS". There are also two entries for "Church of Christ", one distinguished by the perplexing qualification, "Vocal." Do you suppose the other one is manual only? Or nasal? Maybe they are mute. anyway, it almost makes me wish I were going to be here on Sunday so I could check out this "Church of Christ (Vocal)." Or maybe the non-vocal one would be more interesting.

So, tomorrow I drive away to the Mountain Time Zone (I am surprised that it is still Central, here in N. Platte) and the unbearably hip town of Boulder. My old friend there, Joe de Raismes (a real, live, French viscount) is a Sufi of many years, whose Pir required them to become Muslims. They have a little community, all of whom I have known for a long time. They never would let me attend any of their meetings, though (they are kind of like Wisconsin Synod Lutherans, as far as that's concerned). But either they have mellowed or they think my contact with Pir Vilayat has koshered me, so to speak, because they have invited me to their initiates-only Khanega tomorrow night.

That should be fun. Years ago, I introduced Joe to another old friend, a Minnesota woman. In 1966, Annie and I drove to Acapulco in my Morgan. She looked like a cross between Melina Mecouri and Julie Christi. Then she moved to the mountains and married a Mountain Man. The last time I saw her, she was living with him in an miner's abandoned log cabin on the back of Aspen Mountain, where you had to climb up on skis. But that's another story.

A Salaam Aleikum*,
Bill+


* Did you know you can be jailed in Pakistan for saying this if you're not a Muslim? Then in Tajikistan, it is the standard greeting for everybody. You want to be careful, I guess.

Piccardy and Notre Dame d'Amiens

After a couple of weeks of driving around Paris, I am really getting to feel comfortable here. It was still pretty overcast and rainy the day my friend Cindi was supposed to arrive from MN. It was even worse in Chicago, where the blizzard was so bad that she missed the Air France connection. Not knowing it, I REALLY got to know the Charles de Gaulle Airport and its several terminals (the AF flight was late, and gated at a terminal different from the scheduled one, so I parked and waited at both until it became clear that something was wrong). Anyway, C. couldn't get on another flight for Paris until it would have been just about time to come home, so after two days at the Holiday Inn in Chicago, she went home. Too bad.

The next day was beautiful here - the first of a series of what really feels like early Spring (crocuses up, and all - even one , lone cherry tree in full bloom down in the Bois de Boulogne). I had been feeling guilty about not taking enough advantage of the city, while I'm here, so I drove to the Musee Guimet (which I have to brag about finding without consulting the map - and on the way found a spectacuklar view of the Eiffel Tower, framed by a beautiful street, Avenue Victor Hugo). This is the Archaeological museum, where Claude's sister, Marielle works (except she's in Laos now). There is a unique exhibition of treasures from Afghanistan, but the line was out the door and down the steps and around the corner, so I decided not to do that. Instead, I just drove around: up the right bank of the Seine (not the underground tunnel expressway, but the quaiside streets past Concorde, the Tuileries park, the Louvre, the Isle de la Cite and Isle St. Louis all the way to Bercy (the Frank Gehry building commissioned as an American center, which then went belly up [the center, not the building] and now houses the Cinematheque Francaise, the museum of hte history of cinema where you can watch lots of classic movies every day - the French invented movies: a couple of brothers aptly named Lumieres, in the 1880s), then back to the eastern arondissments to the famous cemetery, Pere Lachaise. I found out that this part of Paris is delightfully hilly, and it was fun to see a new part of town. Except for the cemetery, tourists don't come here much. Also, it is not particularly trendy. I was strongly reminded of my first visit to Paris 44 years ago.

It occured to me that I don't have to feel guilty about not going to the Louvre or something every day. I'm not a tourist. I am just living here for a while. But then this past weekend, I started some serious sightseeing. On Saturday, I drove to Amiens, the principal city of Piccardy. For those of you to whom Piccardy means a major rather than a minor third at the end of a tune, it's one of the old royal provinces of France, and it is home to several important medieval cathedrals. But none more important than Amiens. It is pretty much my favorite. It doesn't have Chartres' glass, the glass is all clear - grisailles, which is just as well I think because it is so fabulously light inside, and the architectural features are perfect. It is the highest cathedral in France. The highest complete one, that is. Neighboring Beauvais, to the south, is higher, but it just has a choir, because when they started to build the nave, it fell down and they gave up!

Notre Dame d'Amiens was built in an unusually short period of time (16 years), and the unity of the Master Builder's conception is apparent. There is no trace of Romanesque influence or moorish flavors. It is possibly the best example of the pure gothic style. (Be sure to click on the pictures to enlarge them - some of them came out quite well, and you can see lots of detail.)










Its facade also has breathtaking statuary - nothing ever lost. Every niche of every archivolt is ocuupied. (See pictures at Wikipedia) The north portal has one row of saints that depicts two martyrs, one in chasuble and the other in toga, both holding their own severed heads! (Enlarge and check out this one especially, the decapitee in the toga is flanked by a very pleasant, thurificious angel.)

Near the crossing is a large labyrinth, very clearly marked in black and white tiles. It was explained that those who couldn't make the










pilgrimage all the way to Jerusalem or even to Santiago de Compostela, were encouraged to gain spiritual benefit by walking the labyrinth, the center of which represents (I think) Jerusalem. I noticed that the cross in the center's tiling is not oriented with the cathedral itself (which is on an east/west axis, as usual). Maybe the cross is pointed toward Jerusalem or something?

But most glorious is the nave, soaring more than 136 feet. The great nave windows are in the clerestory, atop the blind arcade of the treforium. Seven bays in the nave. The choir

and apse are actually wider than the nave, because the ambulatory leads around a series of apsidal chapels radiating out, each more gorgeous than the last. All of it is a kind of golden white color. Indescribable. UNESCO has registered it as a patrimonial treasure of the human race. I actually wept.

The choir is adorned by a later treasure: carved wooden stalls of the 15th Century. intricate and delicate in detail.

The edifice sits on the high bank above the Somme. [Not far away was the dreadful battle: Somme. The whole history of the world cannot contain a more ghastly word. (Friedrich Steinbrecher). More than a million casualties. A MILLION in one battle, in 1916. It is also noted as the debut of the tank - a British invention] The river flows more or less east-to-west at this point, and only about ten miles to the east is Corbie, the site of the great Abbey that was home to my Parish's patron, St. Anskar. He was born in Amiens, raised at the Abbey in Corbie, and volunteered to be a missionary to the pagans up north. First Archbishop of Bremen and Hamburg, and first missionary to Scandinavia. He is known to history as the Apostle of the North. Not much is left of his old Abbey on the Somme. Just a much later church, a very large late gothic structure - can't be much older than 15th C. - with plenty of baroque features. It is closed except for occasional services, so I didn't get in. I did ask St. Anskar if he had ever dreamed a guy from Minnesota would come looking for him 1200 years later!

Corbie is a pleasant, laid back town. I saw several like it as I deliberately avoided the freeway for a while. It reminded me of home. Not the architecture, naturally (Piccardy is kind of like Belgium - mostly brick row-houses that aren't all that charming), but the feeling. This is very rich farming country - like southern MN or IA - it was already pretty green (winter wheat.

Mostly flat, with low, forested ridges in the distance, and the occasional ravine or river valley, which made me think of Trempealeau County or the land around Menominee. Think driving from St. Paul to Eau Claire, that's Piccardy. Quite pleasant, but nothing very spectacular - except for those ravines.

The Somme Valley itself is extremely marshy. It's not just a river channel, but a whole lot of backwaters and little ponds and lakes. I drove through this countryside and noticed that there were quite a few houses that looked like humble little vacation homes. This is not a part of France that is mobbed with tourists, ever. And these summer houses were barely more than cabins and trailers. Kind of nice, actually, compared to the swanky and expensive villas in tonier places like Brittany and the South. And the fact is, the Somme Valley is quite wild. No one lives in these marshes except waterfowl, and they are really quite pretty. It made me glad, despite the horrors associated with its name.

And today (Sunday) I managed to get to St. Sulpice in time for the organ audition (recital). Later, I had another driving adventure, to attend a free afternoon concert of 17th C. music on the backside (north) of Montmartre (18th Arr.) This is the seedier part of Paris, and quite fun to drive in. I say that because I got lucky. I consulted the map all the way, but was headed for the wrong section of the street, an error that I caught just in time. I overshot the mark and was about to bail, when I noticed a brasserie named for my street, and so I looked, and sure enough, there it was. I went around the block, checked the numbers, and - by God - I found a PARKING PLACE RIGHT BESIDE THE VENUE, which turned out to be a Protestant church center.

The concert, however (which started one minute after I arrived), was all RC tenebrae music from the 17th and 18th Centuries: Stabat Mater by an Italian named Sances, and Lamentations lessons by Lalande and Couperin, alternating with instrumentals by Frescobaldi, Couperin, and Barriere. A very good soprano, accompanied by a baroque cello and clavecin (is that what we call a clavichord?). And it was FREE. (Donations accepted.)

Good way to get ready for Lent.

Brittany

The medieval lavoir and mill-race at Vannes

Cancale looks SE across the bay towards Mont St. Michel. Just west along the coast is the 17th Century fortified port of St.Malo . :
Very beautiful, although it had to be completely rebuilt after WWII, inside and out. This was an important base for the French Navy in its interminable struggle with the English. St. Malo was the home of the Corsairs (privateers, licensed by the King to do whatever they wanted to the English on the high seas). For some reason, they let you drive in this completely walled city, wqhich has only one gate open to the land. As you can see, it's kind of a nightmare. (The picture is more visible if you click on it.)

We continued west on the coast [you can manipulate this map to see all the detail you wish] past St. Brieuc to Perros-Guirec, which is about the northernmost point in Brittany. Here everything is made out of that striking rosy granite. Seawalls, churches, houses. Then on to Brest, which is the headquarters of the French Atlantic fleet. Poor Brest was really completely destroyed during the war, for obvious strategic reasons. So now, except for the old fort, all the buildings are ugly and hastily-built, in the functional post-war modern style devoid of charm, which reminded me of the Soviet Union. Too bad, because the setting is spectacular: in a deep estuarial bay, with lots of islands, points, and inlets. A perfect harbor.

We spent the night across this big bay, on the southern shore of another peninsula, named for the charming little town of Crozon. [See map.] Here I think I had a feeling for Bretagne profonde. The people were wildly friendly - like the Irish. Everybody smiles and goes out of their way for you. One hotel (42 euros), one restaurant - 39 euros for local lobster. (That’s over $50, so I skipped it. I also skipped the $12 breakfast at the hotel.) We ate dinner and breakfast at the pub next door. And it really was more like an Irish pub than a French café: big exposed timbers for rafters, a crowd of guys watching soccer, and very friendly. The bartender gave us a big smile and offered his hand in greeting. I ate a croque madame andouillette. Now, a croque monsieur is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, but this was made of andouille sausage instead, which is not like Cajun andouille, but made of tripe (or "bowels", as J-l explained). When served as a croque madame, it comes with a raw egg, which I put inside, where it seemed to cook a little. Anyway, with mustard it was just fine. Crozon has a market on its square every day of the week. Loads of fresh fish from the night before.

Speaking of authentic Brittany, all the road signs out here are in two languages (as they are in Provence and around Perpignan - the Catalan part of France right next to northeastern Spain). It turns out that there is more than one Breton language. As in Wales, it is taught again in schools. It looks really odd in French orthography. Most of these signs are Kerthis and Kerthat, which I guess refers to clans. Ker = Mac in Scotland.

J-l says there is a fairly strong nationalist movement here. They want their language and they are very conservative ("fascist" is J-l’s term) about religion and politics. This is the only part of secularist France in which religion is taught in the public schools. Because, according to J-l, who is a teacher and sometime union official, otherwise the public schools would be empty.

After coffee and croissants at the café, we drove around the next bay to another charming fishing town called Douanenez. They also can the catch, so their economy is thriving.

We headed south for Quimper, a small city in a deep valley, with another to-die-for cathedral (St. Coretin). This one is distinguished by its lightness.

The stone is bright, the ribs are painted a delicate yellow, and there is just a general sense of airiness and space. They have also done very well in incorporating modern elements into the gothic. The altar in the transept is a beautiful big marble table, which I think harmonizes with the gothic feel better than all of those baroque reredoses you usually find. Likewise, the new organ. It is housed in a cylindrical tower of gleaming metal. Per the town’s official website:

Thanks to recent restoration works of the interior polychromes and
ribbed ceilings in yellow and ochre and the white washing of the facings, the
cathedral is a true revelation of 15th century architecture. This colourful restoration was totally in the spirit of the first builders, in opposition to the austere look of religious monuments during the 19th century.

Another feature of this part of Brittany is the pastel and brightly-painted houses. You don't see this in Normandy, or on the north coast of Brittany either. The paint-jobs are almost like Mexico. Lots of images of Quimper here, just stay with it a while, because the images change rapidly.

Those of you familiar with Asterix and his companions will remember Obelix, the menhir (megalith) delivery-man. Well, we found where he delivered them: outside Carnac there are fields and fields of these standing stones, three to four feet high, arranged in rows, as in a modern cemetery. [More on these and some exceptionally good pictures.]

After a quick visit to Vannes, once the capital of the Kingdom of Brittany, (see lavoir at top) which lasted for about three generations just after Charlemagne and then became a Duchy, we headed home, a three-hour drive on the autoroute.

Cotentin

[click on images to enlarge]

Jean-loup drove me out to Normandy and Brittany for last week. It was cloudy and foggy all but the second day, so we came home a day early, but there was still plenty to see. I had never been to Brittany before, and it is well worth the trip. It reminds one of Maine and Quebec and the north coast of California. Full of rocky cliffs and estuaries and inlets, some of which are deep enough to qualify as fjords, I would say.

We started in Normany, where Jean-loup and Claude lived for eight years, near a market town called Briquebec, in the middle of the Cotentin peninsula, which sticks up into the English Channel just northeast of Brittany, [see map] and whose eastern beaches are still called Omaha and Utah. Off the western coast are the Channel Islands, belonging to the UK (Jersey, Guernsey, Sark). The Azéma’s hamlet is not too far from St. Mere Église, the little village where the Amerian paratrooper got caught hanging by his parachute from the steeple and survived, because none of the villagers told the Germans, who miraculously never looked up!

On the way, we stopped at Evreaux, which has a really splendid flamboyant cathedral.
Jean-loup says that this town is the beginning of Normandy. [please consult map] You will find Evreaux in the 27th Department just between "Mantes" and "Nanterre". J-l says that the Duchy of Normandy was basically the territory between the Seine and the Loire, north to the sea, but not including Brittany. The eastern borer was always under negotiation wiuth the King of France. (On this map, the names of the Revolutionary Departments are given, but the old Normandy was bigger.)

Then we dropped in at the unfortunate Basilique de St. Thérèse at Lisieux. Really hideous ‘30s monstrosity. Awful. Ghastly. Think Emmanuel Louis Masqueray satanically possessed by the shade of Albert Speer. Imagine starting with the St. Paul’s Cathedral’s rather uplifting Beaux-arts grandeur and filling it with horrible fascist-modern sculpture and trashy, late nouveau mosaics. The only art that isn’t entirely objectionable are the mosaic angels in the pendentives, but even they are pretty bad.

Norman village architecture, by contrast is delightful and everything you could hope for, distinguished by lots of half-timber, because there are big forests all over, except for Cotentin, which is more windswept, like Cornwall, and the houses are made of stone, as in Brittany. We stayed the night in a fishing/resort town called St.Vaast-la-Hougue, on the northwest coast (see map, just south of Pte. Barfleur). Mostly closed up for the winter, but there was a nice little hotel with an expensive but underwhelming restaurant. I finally found out what dorade is, however: a bronzish fish called sea-bream in England, what we call ocean perch, I think. It came en papillotte (steamed in foil), complete with head. Very tasty, sweet white flesh. There was also a somewhat arduous assiette de fruits de mer, which was mostly decorative. A couple of good oysters, but otherwise lots of tiny shells: sea-snails, langoustine (crayfish), and extremely small shrimp).

The next day we drove up to Cherbourg, where the Azémas used to teach. Then a brief visit to a couple of retired teacher friends and on to Cap de la Hague. This is right at the northwest corner of Cotentin, on a headland with a spectacular view, from which we could see the Cannel Islands. Here is Sark as seen from Cotentin: the private property of the Dame of Sark, who lets people live there under her rules, and she is an absolute dictator (no cars, but also no taxes). Cap de la Hague is the site of one of the world’s two spent-fuel reprocessing centers. They get U-238 from all over the world and turn it into plutonium.

This facility has never had an accident. In their characteristic modesty, the French say this is because of superior technology, just like their high-speed trains. It is true that the TGV has never had an accident, which is something the German bullet trains cannot claim, but Jean-loup says that every so often, the government would come around and buy all the milk and eggs, at outrageously high prices. This was never explained or announced, but the locals, of course, all knew about it. The condition was that nobody talk to the press. You figure it out.

Anyway, the government assures everyone that the radiation danger from the plant is no where near as bad as ordinary earth's, as for example across the water Brittany, where the pink granite makes your geiger counter twitch alot more. So they ship spent fuel here all the way from Japan. About as far from Japan as you can get. The Japanese are not so dumb.

One interesting geographical detail: at the south end of the peninsula, the land is low and marshy. The peninsula at one time actually was “almost an island”, like Mont Saint Michel. Among the many public-works projects of Louis XIV was draining these marshes and building levees to keep it drier. Apparently, one of the reasons for situating the nuclear reprocessing plant at Cap de la Hague, was that, in case of a China Syndrome event, the marshes could be flooded again, and whole peninsula made inaccessible. (Meanwhile, the local residents - who would, presumably, be abandoned to their fate - were advised, in case of undefined emergency, to close their shutters and stuff towels under their doors!)

We visited the Abbey of Our Lady of Grace, OCSO (Trappist). This is a short walk from Jean-loup’s former hamlet. Severely simple, of course, as are all Cistercian monasteries. Whitewashed barrel vault that is great for plainchant. J-l used to stop in for Matins at about 3:00 am, after a night of partying. One time, he fell asleep,and a monk gently awakened him, to say that he was most welvcome, but only if he stayed awake.

"If you would sing in Latin, I wouldn't sleep!" said J-l. And, by God, they did. This is the kind of thing that only happens in France.

Then we went to see Madame Denis. She is the neighbor at the other end of the hamlet. A real peasant woman, now 84, now living alone in her old stone farmhouse, connected to the stone barn that houses a five-hundred-year-old cider-press, which J-l says is a twin of one in the museum in Valogne. I remember making hay with M. Denis almost thirty years ago. We began the day at the kitchen table with coffee accompanied by a couple of good shots of eau-de-vie de pommes (home-made calvados - M. Denis used to make over 100 liters/year; he was allowed by law to make 30). Then we went out to the field. Everything in France is on smaller scale than in the US: the field, the bales, the hay-rack, the hay-loft. So that meant several trips back to the barn. Each of them was marked by a nice big glass (NOT small-scale) of hard cider (home-made, of course). M. Denis had several barrels (BIG barrels) of this in the barn.

M. Denis died of alcoholism a few years ago. Mme. Denis is really a beautiful old lady. All smiles and bright as can be. One daughter lives next door and another in Briquebec, so she is safe and happy. She has redone her kitchen. She used to cook exclusively on a wood-stove, which is still her sole source of heat:


It’s chimney connects to the enormous hearth, which is now (wisely) plugged up and never used. Great to see her.

From Briquebec (and its medieval castle in the middle of the town square), we drove down the West side of the peninsula to Coutances, where there is another fabulous cathedral. A little bigger, earlier and simpler than Evreaux, with a big lantern over the crossing and 13th C. glass in the apse. See pictures .

Then we passed through Granville, which was the first big luxury-liner port. There was a fast train non-stop from Paris, and ships like the Normandie would receive passengers here for the voyage to New York. It was bombed to pieces during the war, however, and then served as the Allied headquarters. I remember Fr. George Metcalf, Patton’s Chaplain, remarking about his time there in 1944.

And so to Mont Saint Michel. Truly one of the world’s wonders. Too late for a visit (and too many stairs for me, anyway), so we just drove up as far as we could and admired from afar. The current plan is to eliminate the causeway and make it a permanent island, because the bay is silting up too fast. Anyway, with the ice-caps melting, it may be just making a virtue of necessity. But This holy place is one thing that won’t be affected - too high. We spent the night up the Breton Coast, in the fashionable resort town of Cancale [see map], which has the best (and, alas, the most expensive) oysters in the world. In situ they weren’t nearly as expensive as in Paris, so I had a dozen for dinner for about $8.00.

For pictures better than mine click: Cancale and St.Malo (Bourbon-fortified town from which the Quebec colonists came, subject of next entry).

Adieu, Abbé Pierre!

The French won my heart all over again today. Tens of thousands of ordinary Frenchmen (and some extraordinary ones) turned out for the funeral of Abbé Pierre at Nôtre Dame de Paris. "Abbé Pierre" was the nom de guerre of a leftist priest, who helped save Jews during the war and went on to found the world-wide Emmaus community.

Emmaus is a network of communes that collects clothing and furniture, much like the Salvation Army, and resells it to benefit the homeless. Volunteers help with the work. (Those of you who know Gregg and Marianne Westigaard may remember that they met at the Emmaus House in Sweden.) Abbé Pierre himself was always poor, walking around Paris in a beret and black cape. He was in the tradition of French religious eccentrics, priests and others, which includes the Jean-Baptiste Vianney (the Curé d'Ars), Charles de Foucault, Léon Bloy, and Peter Maurin.

His funeral was a national event. I wasn't able to get into the Cathedral, but I got up close to the barrier on the Parvis, right in front of the great doors, which stood open to receive his coffin. It was a beautiful day, but the Parvis was full, as was the Church. The place was crawling with police, gendarmerie, firemen in rubber suits (one with an outrageous Dali mustache and goatée), soldiers, commandos, and naval cadets in their cute little striped shirts and beribboned berets. Two of them were the official military honor guards flanking the great doors, and they were women. People of all ages came, some in buses from Emmaus houses all over Europe. Many dignitaries pulled up between me and the doors, including one who was booed and jeered (Sarkoszy, I think - it was kind of a left-wing crowd), and no one made a sound when the big, black Citroën, flying from its fender the tricolor with a black mourning ribbon, pulled up to disgorge the President of France. The Archbishop of Paris (not yet a Cardinal), vested in a purple chasuble and radiant pallium, formally greeted him and then turned him over to the Dean, who escorted M. Chirac, like a king, to a velvet throne just in front of the bier.

There was no bier, actually, just four huge candles arranged in a square. Like Pope John Paul II, Abbe Pierre, simple wooden coffin was laid on the floor. (All of this was on national TV, conveniently visible on two huge screens in the Parvis.) The hearse drove very slowly through the streets. Meanwhile, the great low bells began to toll and the procession rounded the corner from the sacristy, making its way outside to the fromt of the Cathedral. Led by thurifer (huge censer) attended by a middle-aged boat-boy, four big torches surrounding the processional cross, many vested priests and monastics, a whole slew of deacons (all wearing their purple stoles in the style of an Orthodox protodeacon), about a dozen bishops, including two of the RC Eastern Rite. Among the honored guests (not in the procession) also were the Rector of the Chief Mosque of Paris and the Orthodox Archbishop. There was also someone there in an Anglican cassock, but it wan't our American Bishop-in-charge.

The Archbishop said some initial prayers over the coffin while it was still in the hearse. Then eight men of every age and race carried it on their shoulders into the Cathedral. When they started to move, the crowd applauded, and this continued inside Nôtre Dame until it was laid down. (I don't know if that is traditional in France. The only other place I have seen it is at a Papal funeral.) The pallbearers carefully turned the coffin around, so that the head was nearest the altar, as befits a priest. Then they put his black cape over it and the formal jewelled insignia of the Légion d’Honneur rested on top of his beret on the coffin above his head. It was reported that Abbé Pierre recently relented and finally accepted the highest degree of the Légion, having refused it repeatedly over the years. It is France’s highest civilian honor.

This was the homage solonelle. There was also an homage non solonelle last night at a big soccer stadium for 17,000 people. All this for a rather irascible, unkemptly-bearded (he looked like Mr. Natural!), vaguely scandalous figure. Can you imagine the Predident of the United States and citizens from all over the country standing for hours to pay respects to Dorothy Day? Ha! But the French, though they may sneer and scoff and deny any belief and never go to church, still are proud of their saints. More, they are grateful for them. There was no sneering or irony in this huge crowd in one of the world’s most sophisticated cities. I was in tears. I left at the Kyrie .

France at her best.

The American Cathedral

For some reason, most of the significant places in my ecclesiastical life have been named for the Holy Trinity (the parish in my home-town of Excelsior, where I first received Commuion; the parish in which I was ordained, and now again serve; and the Russian Orthodox monastery in upstate New York, where I first encountered Apostolic Christianity as an adult. So is the American Cathedral in Paris.

The Cathedral of the Holy Trinity is a handsome neo-gothic building a bit smaller than our own Cathedral of St. Mark in MPLS. It serves as the center of the Episcopal Church (as distinct from the British, Anglican Church) in Europe. The Bishop is the Presiding Bishop in New York (now a woman) and the one who actully lives here is called the "Bishop-in-charge." The parishes of the diocese are in cities all over Europe, mostly in Germany and Italy, in addition to France. Though founded originally to serve ex-pats and military, there is an increasing ministry to indigenous Europeans. Many of them are married to Americans, others are people who wish to worship in the Catholic tradition, but can't stand (or due to divorce and remarriage aren't welcome in) the Roman Catholic Church. Holy Trinity Cathedral has liturgies and other programs in French as well as English, and at least one lesson at the main service is always read in French.

The Cathedral is at a very good address, Avenue de Georges V, just a couple of blocks toward the Seine from the Champs Elysees, next door to the Most Expensive Hotel in the World (Paris Four Seasons). I saw two Morgans and a Bentley convertible parked outside, and distinguished-looking men in striped pants on the street. And not-so-distinguished-looking men in denim and high boots and rough jackets and stubble beards, standing in clumps near the entrance to the church. Out of place? No, security. Protection from terrorists provided to the Americans by the nice French police!

A contralto, Denise Graves - who must be the re-incarnation of Marian Anderson, sang a spiritual called "Give Me Jesus", to the accompaninment of the rebuilt baroque piano (all florentine inlay woodwork). As they say, there wasn't a dry seat in the house. I have never heard such a powerful lower register. Apparently, she's a regular at the cathedral. Another is the old lady Sharif once heard read the lesson. He was quite impressed with her elocution, and went up to her at coffee hour with congratulations. "Oh, thank you!" She said. "I was quite nervous about whether I could get it right."

Then she introduced herself as Olivia de Haviland! (For you younger readers, she was one of the stars of Gone With the Wind, in 1939.) She's ninety years old.

Right across the street is a nice little Lebanese restaurant called Diwan, which has a very adequate buffet (at the more-than-adequate price of 26 euros or about $30, but you just have to grin and bear it, these days, and after all, this is the toniest part of town). And right down the street, is Crazy Horse, the famous up-scale strip-club.

Only in Paris.

Road-trip to Rotterdam

Rotterdam, like quite a few cities, I suspect, (Hamburg, Marseilles, dear old Minneapolis) has a quite undeserved reputation for being drab and uninteresting. Just because it got bombed and is not as picturesque and charming as Amsterdam, everybody thinks of it as an old frump. (Or new, frump, as the case may be.) But I found it quite attractive. Sure there are lots of new buildings, but most of them are beautiful. And the bridges are really stunning. They have one of those new-style suspension bridges that has one pillar at one end, from which the whole thing hangs. St. Paul decided against one like that to replace the high bridge, and chose a more traditional-feeling one instead. Big mistake, I think.

Anyway, R-dam is the largest port in the world, by tonnage. (Not just in Europe - in the world.) My host had some business to attend to there, so since we had to drop off some Sufis at the airport, very early, to catch their early flight for Delhi, we continued north on the Autoroute 1 for Lille, and watched the sun rise over Flanders. Signs for Chantilly, l'Oise, and la Somme. I shuddered when we crossed the last one - site of a great battle in the war the French still call La Grande Guerre.

And so we crossed Belgium, which impressed me as a humble, dingy place. Utterly flat, and rather comfortingly run-down. Apparently the Flemish are not nearly so up-tight about things like neatness and paint-jobs as the Dutch. But they do have very beautiful old towns. We went deliberately by way of Ghent, to see The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, by Jan van Eyck (1432), an altarpiece displayed in a room in the cathedral. It was "worth the trip" as the Guide Michelin puts is. Definitely three stars. The painting is a triptych, whose central panel depicts the Lamb That Was Slain, blood streaming out of His breast into a chalice, censed by angels, and adored by four groups of saints: red-robed martyrs, blue-robed non-martyrs, prophets and others, and contemporaries. It is quite large, so the cities in the distant baackground can be minutely detailed. Around back (the two folding doors of the triptych, which are on the front when shut) is the annunciation, with a rather urgent-looking Gabriel, whose hair is touselled, as though he just got out of bed. He seems to be rushing at the Virgin,who appears somewhat startled, and not at all pleased to be interrupted in her studies. (As usual, she is reading something.)

In the Crypt there is a fine, small Passion showing Christ bearing the Cross, surrounded by numerous heads of extremely ugly, frightening people: Hieronymus Bosch.

We crossed the parvis to have some stew at a small restaurant. Like Holland, everybody speaks English, and you don't even have to try to speak French. Ghent is terminally charming. Lots of car-free streets (like most old European towns nowadays - they say the mayor of Paris even wants to ban cars entirely from the inner arrondisments, except for residents). Ghent has those step-ladder facades like holland - high and polychrome. And beautiful towers and half-timbered houses. It was an extremely wealthy cloth-trading city at one time. They are still very proud of their lace and tapestry fabric.

And on to R-dam. After about an hour there, we headed home. We stopped for dinner outside Lille at a little town called Hem, at a restaurant called L'Hempenpont (or something - I considered this uncannily appropriate), which claimed to have been in continuous operation for more than 200 years. It had a cheery wood fire in the bar (which was nice, because it was a bit chilly), and a big tiled hearth in the dining room, which was decorated to make you feel as though you were in a kitchen. The place was filled up after we sat down, on Sunday night, and the food was terrific, and at @26 euros ($30) for three courses and coffee, it was quite a bargain, as I have learned.

I started with a local cheese baked in a fine pastry shell, followed by perfectly rose calve's liver, served with sweet red cabbage and endive braised in a strong, brown stock. Then a flaming Norman tarte (apple flamed with calvados at the table) for dessert. I drove the last 200 km to Suresnes, which was pretty easy. You can go 130 km/hour, whcih is about 85mph, I think. We got home around midnight. The whole trip of more than 600 miles roundtrip took about 15 hours, but it was quite comfortable.

Apparently there was another big straight-line-wind storm of the kind that damaged much of France a few years ago. It didn't hit Paris this time, though, and I didn't noticse any damage in Belgium. I guess most of the damage was in Germany.

Driving in the non-tourist parts of Paris

I have been driving in new places the past few days, places not on the usual tourist itinerary. On Sunday, I tired to go to a concert (Negro Spirituals with a chorus led by a firend of Sharif's). Found the church without difficulty thanks to the peripherique (which has become my friend) and the excellent French street atlas, but there was no place to park, so I bailed and settled for driving around a new part of Paris: the 18th Arrondisement (north central, near the Porte de Clignancourt. This is a decidedly un-tony neighborhood, on the north side of Montmartre, with lots of head-covering and chodors and stuff. Then I decided to find my way home by the city streets. There was a big one going toward central Paris (south) it went right by the Gare du Nord, and it was hideous traffic.

Still, I found my way around, despite all the one-way streets. According to Irina (my French friend's daughter) the mayor of Paris is trying to discourage driving by making everything one-way, so that in any given neighborhood, there are lots of one-way streets leading OUT, but only one or two leading IN. This makes for alot of driving in circles unless you know where you're going. I kept getting routed back to the hideous-traffic street (Boulevard Magenta, for those of you following this on a map). But finally, I got on one of the Grande Boulevards that curve around the middle of town on the right bank (north side of the river). Soon I recognized landmarks (the Opera, the grandes magazines or department stores) as I headed west. I wanted to avoid the great traffic circle at the Place de l'etoile (the Mother of All Traffic Circles, around the Arc de Triomphe). I succeeded, and in the process found a nice way home - a leafy boulevard that also permitted me to omit the big circles at Por teMaillot, which is just about as daunting as L'etoile. The problem with these very convenient features of driving in France is that they are designed to get you through the big intersections as fast as possible, without stopping. There are strict rules about the cars on the right having priorite, so it's no problem getting INTO the circle (everyone has to let you in, since you are coming from the right, in the counterclockwise motion of the traffic). The problem comes when it's time to get OUT. Then you have to use all your mirrors and look over your shoulder and not expect any quarter from the drivers behind you. I'm getting the hang of it, though. The smaller cirlces are pretty easy. And they do avoid what would otherwise be apocalyptic traffic jams. And I have a sense of accomplishment.

Then today, I had lunch with my old friend Frank Kane. (I know him from the Yale Russian Chorus.) he has been living here for 18 years, but he has gotten tired of it and he is planning to move to the world's second largest francophone city, Montreal. After a fabulous "lunch" of glazed shoulder of mutton confit with home-made potatoe chips at Les Gallopins, I drove him home to St. Denis. (An even more de-classe suburb). This is all very interesting, because it is a part of Paris that, like most tourists, I had never seen. It was easy enough getting there: it's right down the Seine a few miles (the river is running SW to NE at that point, on one of its several ox-bow meanders, but I got all turned around on the way back I blame the overcast sky, since I had no idea what direction was what, and I ended up going in exactly the wrong direction. I figured this out when I got to Le Bourget (where Lindberg landed) before I turned around. But I did have an interesting tour of the drab, industrial suburbs of the northern side of town. The only thing worthy of note was a genuinely ancient village, now completely engulfed by urban sprawl, but somehow preserved in all its medieval squalor.

Then I resorted to the freeways and got back without difficulty. (The French traffic signs are really great - they are color-coded, so you can get the level of detail you need at a drive-by glance: blue is for the autoroutes [freeways - most of them pay-through-the-noseways, but only outside of Paris], then the green signs are for the bigger trunk highways, and white is for local roads. These colored signs have, in addition to the number of the road, the name(s) of towns indicating which direction you are going. If you have some idea of where you are going, you don't even need a map!) So, I arrived back at the Bois de Boulogne (great big park on the western edge of Paris)without difficulty. I feel I am home when I get there, because it's avery easy and hassle-free drive to the house from there.

Gallette des rois (I think) and the dentist

[N.B.: this is a little out of order; the previous post had the menu for the Friday night dinner]

January 12
Things are fine here - Sharif is in FL for the weekend giving a talk, and I am on my own. I went driving around Paris yesterday. Literally ''around'' to get my bearings and revive my French driving skills. Actually it is very easy to drive here, once you know their customs (people on the right ALWAYS have the right-of-way) and they have lots of little traffic circles, which they call camemberts after the little rounds of cheese These make life a lot easier - as long as you keep eyes right!I am going to drive to the other side of town tonight to see my old French friends, who are leaving for Egypt tomorrow. I did a dry run yesterday to see how to get there, and it was pretty easy. On the way back, I took the boulevard perepherique, which is a beltway that runs all around the city proper, just within the city limits. All very rational. They have very informative LED signs above all the major freeways, telling you how many minutes to the next major intersection, and alerting you to accidents.

January 14
Dinner on Friday concluded with the gallette des rois - or king's cake. This is a large, round pastry made out of croissant dough, in which is hidden a little figurine or two. This is an old 12th night tradition (Epiphany), celebrating the visit of the Magi. This is when it was traditional to give gifts (like the Magi), and the poor, whio had nothing to give, made these simple cakes to give to friends. Spain and Mexico have very similar traditions (tres reyes), and it has survived in France as a delight to children. The cakes are sold with a paper crown, and whoever finds the figurine(s) gets to wear the crown. There was something similar in England, preserved among some Episcopalians, in which a sweet cake was baked with a ring in it, and whoever found the ring had to bake the cake next year. As Jean-loup observed, "it's good for dentists."

And speaking of denstists, as soon as I got here (before the gallette des rois) I broke a tooth (it was ready to go: I broke it on a crust of French bread!) Since I could feel it when I sucked air, I thought I had better have it seen to. Sharif's dentist is a New Zealander expat. Here's how it goes with dentists in France. You call, and if he can't see you today, he can tomorrow. When you get there, the receptionist asks whether or not you have an appointment. Apparently, you don't really have to have an appointment, if you are willing to wait. I had an appointment, and I had to wait less than five minutes. Then you go into a room with a desk, computer, files, and medical cupboards and a dentist chair. The old-fashioned kind with a porcelaine spitoon on the left - just like I remember from childhood. In fact the whole thing was very much like my childhood experience of dentistry: one dentist, one assistant, and somebody out front, who serves as appointments secretary top a number of professionals on the same floor, who share a witing room. I was out in 15 minutes, and the installation of the temporary cap cost 30 euros ($39), which I delivered in cash into the hand of the dentist. This was so cheap that I am seriously considering having him do the whole crown, as long as I'm here. It would have taken at least a week to get an appointment at my denstist at home, and cost almost three times as much.

Jean-loup and I are planning an excursion to Normandy, Mont St. Michel, and Brittany in a couple of weeks. Just five days, but J-l wants to see an old friend in Normandy (a peasant woman, whom he befriended in their hamlet). I once helped him make hay for her husband. M. Denis is the one who makes cider with an old press, which J-l says is the twin of one in the museum of rural antiquities in Valogne (nearby). It is at least five hundred years old. When we arrived early in the morning, he gave us coffee and calvados (apple brandy). Then we went to work. Everything is on a smaller scale here: the tractor, the field, the hay-wagon, the bales themselves (about 25 pounds as opposed to 40 in America). This made it a piece of cake. It also required many trips back to the barn. Each time, we had to drink a nice big glass of cider. M. Denis died of alcoholism about 15 years ago. Mme. Denis lives on in the same old stone farmhouse, about as old as the cider press.

Then we will go to Mont St. Michel, which will soon be inaccessible to cars. (They're going to bust up the old causeway, which is causing sediment problems. The place is now a UNESCO treasure of humanity and they want to keep it an island. Good idea. J-l likes to visit it once a year. Then we will go on up the north coast of the Bretagne penninsula, stopping at St. Malo (Louis XIV fortified town in the English Channel) and Brest - France's western-most harbor, which J-l says is very beautiful, and then back along the south coast to Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire, where J-l wants to look for property.

Arrival in France

Pretty easy getting from MPLS to Paris on US Air. I like that service. Small, new airbus (only four seats across the middle row. I had to sit inside, but it was ok - movies on demand - no sleep , but ok).

Formalities in Paris were startlingly informal. The nice passport control official beckoned me forward, even though I was in the EU ONLY line, and stamped me right away. No one checked anything. It was like flying domestic in USA. In the hall marked "nothing to declare" there stood a number of pleasant-looking uniforms, who couldn't have been less interested in me, as I wheeled my cart right by them into France. Just outside the door, the street had my destination (Porte Maillot-Charles de Gaulle-Etoile) painted on the street. IN a few minutes, the bus came and 20 minutes and 11euros ($15) later I was there. My friend, Sharif, with whom I am working for these two months had just pulled up behind the bus.

Sharif lives up on the ridge, which is the highest in the Paris region, near Mont Valerien. This is a big fort, which was the Gestapo interrogation center, then the Allied headquarters. At the foot of the hill is a big American cemetery. His house is right around the corner from the high street, which offers considerable delight: three butchers, a charcuterie (sausage and pates 7 such), fish-monger, including occasional oyster-man who shells them for you right on the street, superette, cheese shop, and five bakeries. And a bit further down is a full-scale super-market, which is of interest only because the prices are considerable lower.

This is a consideration, because of the weak dollar. Not as weak as I had feared, but about 9% lower than last year at this time. Meanwhile, prices have risen, so in all, most things are more expensive. NOT. however cheese and wine. The latter doesn't help me, but the former certainly does. Great French cheeses (including the raw-milk kinds that you can't get in the States anymore) are about half what they are at home. Meat, though is higher. e.g.: a rotisserie chicken was $15 compared to $5 at Rainbow. But then, it was about twice as big AND fermier, which means free-range, single-farmer-raised. And BOY did it taste good! It came with little yukon-gold-type potatoes, which were roasted at the bottom of the rotisserie, with the chicken's drippings. There are two of these rotisseries on the street.

Been to Les Gallopins just once so far (the little bistro down the hill, which has a limited but excellent menu). I had pork cheeks, which was the special of the day. It was indescribably good. Tasted more like brisket of beef than porkm, and was just as tender. Knife not necessary. The owner remarked that an animals cheeks are always the best, from trout to beef, to pigs. Les Gallopins also has delicacies such as whole sauteed foie gras (goose liver NOT made into a pate), gizzard salad, and glazed shoulder of mutton confit (slow-cooked in hot oil), served with home-made, paper-thin potato-chips for two. The latter costs $46. The fixced-price menu of the day (including an appetizer or dessert and main course) is $32. This is at an inexpensive restaurant.

So, I am cooking for myself, as usual, and going our only occasionally. There will be one or two splurges, however. I am determined to try the tripe at the Lyonnaise brasserie, maybe brains, too. There is also a chain called Hippopotamus, which is about the best chain restaurant I have ever been in. They have them all over France, and they are like a fine French restaurant in the States. They specialize in French beef (Limousin, Charolais, &c.). The cuts are generous (though the butcher the carcass differently and have slightly different cuts from ours), and the cuisson or degree of cooking is meticulous: au point is medium, sangeant (I think) is "bloody", or medium rare, and bleu is cold and raw in the middle, warm on the outside. Of course, every bistro, brasserie, and restaurant has steak tatare on the menu, so you don't really have to have it cooked at all! And I don't even know how to orer something well-done. Some French chefs flatly refuse to cook it that way. (Just like Maurice, at the Cafe Bouef.) And they're right.

I think I'll skip the snails, but the shellfish are very inviting. Coquilles St. Jacques (scallops) are sold on the sidewalk, still attached to their shells. Lots of mussels and oysters, too. Sharif's wife and daughter were back for the holidays from Saratoga Springs, where Kore is teaching French for the year. She had all the nearby Sufis in for oysters on New Years' Day. Four dozen, opened by the street vendor. To die for. Apparently, this is some kind of French tradition. I intend to make oyster stew with creme fraiche sometime soon.

So far, I have been to my French friends twice. Rabbit stew the first time and gigot (leg of lamb) the next. The first course was smoked trout with dill sauce and asparagus timbale. Something I used to make. I think I'll try it again.