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
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.
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.
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
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
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).
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.
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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