Destination Strasbourg

I dream in France.  Of small towns, and larger cities.  In my dreams I wander in and out of small alleys. Surrounding myself with the smell and the sounds of the French people.  I have had people ask me if I believe I lived in Paris in another life. For some time I thought maybe so, but I am now sure that it was not my "home".  I am however not as sure about Strasbourg, France.

My first visit to Strasbourg, a city literally a stones throw away from the German border, was 9 years ago.  The plane ticket a 50th birthday gift from my husband. Flew into Paris and then took a train to the town.  Coming out of the train station it felt strangely familiar to me. I will say that I do a lot of research before I travel.  I read maps, layouts of towns.  I want to understand the lay of the land before my feet hit the ground.  Understanding how to cram in as much as possible without wasting to much time figuring out where I am.  And I have been known in a dire situation to turn on my cell phone data and consult Google Maps.  But until you see the real estate you haven't seen anything.

We spent 2 days in Strasbourg, Jess and Matt, and Jacquie and I.  Traveling small streets and taking in the Christmas Markets, eating bratwurst and trying our hand at Gluhwein. Late at night, when everyone was sleeping, I ventured out on my own.  Just to walk the town, to see things that in a crowd of people you miss.  I felt a kindred with Strasbourg.  She spoke to me in a whisper as I traveled down the Rue des Pucelles, where earlier we had dinner at Au Cruchon.  I stopped at the Place St Etienne, for a break and to just absorb it all.  

Flash forward to December 2019.  Again I had a trip planned for Strasbourg/Paris.  Turns out the great French transportation strike was due to start the day of our arrival.  So with a plan B for when they cancelled our train from Paris to Strasbourg, we instead completed the trek in a rental car.  Again, when I emerged from the parking garage it was a sense of home for me.  As before, I navigated the town as if I had lived there before.  Since the first trip lots of things have presented themselves to me.  Artwork of the city by an artist E Schmitt. My childhood fear of storks, the bird that literally nest in the chimneys and rooftops of the town. My life time love of Vichy rouge, and wooden hearts. 

My plan is to return to Strasbourg with Erik.  His family is from Germany but the Alsatian area is rife with Schmitts. See if he feels the kindred that I do.  

Flotsam, Jetsam, And Other Recollections.

Flotsam is described as debris in the water that was not deliberately thrown overboard, often as a result of a shipwreck or accident.  I believe that we all carry bits of flotsam inside. In our souls and hidden deep. Pieces of a life that we do not remember, small flashes of memories that aren't ours.  Maybe we also carry impressions of where we are from. Geographical locations where we were created. Anyway, I like to think so.  

Last June, Erik and I traveled to Seoul, South Korea.  Coming back to the United States, we had a layover in Narita, Japan. Sadly we did not have enough time to leave the airport, and a part of me was quite sad.  I was born in Yokosuka, Japan, in nineteen hundred and sixty two, in the Year of the Cat. Some lost part of me wanted so badly to step outside that airport, and just take a huge breath. Feel the soil beneath my feet.  Maybe to feel like I had come home.  

Home is a strange word.  It can mean so very many different things.  The house you grew up in, the faces of your children, and the arms that hold you when you return from a far away place. I have seen people yearn for home in the past. Where parents are still with you and maybe life was a bit more gilded.  And it is all of those things to me, in increments. 

There are concrete things that I know about myself.  I am short, brown haired, brown eyed, and blood type A negative. I am agnostic, emphatic, and I am in love with a man named Erik.  But there are so many things I do not know. I have been blessed enough to travel and see so many far away places.  And some of those places, I have stood in and thought, this feels like home to me. 

Last February, I went back to Seoul.  I finally got the opportunity to hold my new grandson, Alexander Michael. And yes, he is a part of my "home".  When you hold a child or a grandchild, you get to see all of it.  Your parents, grandparents, siblings, and those who belong to others, who are now part of your life. I hope that some small part of him will remember me coming to see him, a distant memory that his adult self will feel.  I also hope that he will make his way back to Seoul.  Created and born there, he can take that breath of air, and feel that ground beneath his feet.  

On my flight back to the US, I stayed in Narita for 24 hours. Yes, I got out of the airport this time, and decided to take the opportunity that presented itself to me. Locked up my large luggage, and caught the train from the airport. Trekked the "10 minutes" that the hotel website assured me it would take, and tried my best to conquer this huge language barrier. 

The next morning I headed out by 8:00 am. Determined to see all I could in a short span of time.  I walked down the Omotesando Road, in Narita. Walked past shuttered buildings, finding my way.   I found the Temple at the bottom of this winding road, with the sun lighting the grounds.  Up too many steps to count, back down through the woods. Ponds, paths, and everywhere just the most serene spaces. I came upon another temple with a kettle out front, burning incense. Flotsam. There it was. The smell of sandalwood and patchouli. A smell I have been drawn to for as long as I can remember. I have several friends who abhor the smell of it. One is catholic. She says it reminds her of church, of death. Maybe a memory from when I was young? Not so much. We attended church sporadically and never a Catholic Church. All I can tell you is that it was spiritual. 

Outside a temple, there was a wooden rack with pieces of paper tied around it. They are called O-mikuji.  Flotsam again. The o-mikuji predicts the person's chances of his or her hopes coming true, of finding a good match, or generally matters of health, fortune, life, etc. When the prediction is bad, it is a custom to fold up the strip of paper and attach it to a pine tree or a wall of metal wires alongside other bad fortunes in the temple or shrine grounds.   In the event of the fortune being good, the bearer has two options, he or she can also tie it to the tree or wires so that the fortune has a greater effect, or they can keep it for luck.  Strangely I have done this with a tree in my yard.  It is covered with well wishes, and thoughts for good.  Again, maybe a memory rearing it's head, but I cannot recall ever seeing one.

In my basement, is a Army footlocker with my Father's name.  Inside is a plethora of ephemera from our residence in Yokosuka.  Not my memories.  They belong to Dottie and Jim, my parents.  My parents took advantage of the opportunity to discover Japan, with trips to Temples, Sumo Wrestling, and day excursions.  The pictures of them in their travels, were all before I was born, and none of them show my Mother obviously pregnant.  I am sure that all I saw in Japan was the house on the Base Installation.  My passport picture shows a baby girl, approximately 4-5 months old, too young to have harbored any memories of what I was feeling in Narita.

Do I carry flotsam from a time when I was not Lori?  There is no way to say for sure.  I sat by the pond at the Temple, and contemplated all of it.  I felt a calming presence, and I spoke aloud to my Mother and Father, and thanked them for all that they gave to me, starting with my life.  I like to think that they were there with me.  My Mother laughing at me for returning to Japan, and my Father encouraging me to see more than what my eyes present to me.  Yes. Flotsam.

Dearest Alexander Michael....

Dearest Alexander Michael.

The day you were born, I breathed a bit easier, and my heart healed where there had been a small crack in it.  You are a child conceived in love absolutely.  But also a child conceived in the heartbreak and pain of too many lost babies.  A child that held the possibility of being the glue needed to mend broken hearts.

You did not disappoint. From the moment I got the first picture of you, and held this crazy electronic device that allowed me to see you, 6700 miles away, my heart seemed to fuse together.

I was lucky enough to have 3 beautiful babies.  All born full term, and ready to wrap me around their little fingers.  Easy babies.  Home from the hospital and immediately onward, with the help of my sister, Mother, and in laws.  I never had to question if I was doing everything okay.  There were plenty of people to tell me if I wasn't.

When I came to visit you in South Korea in February, that crack mended itself.  Just this little peewee of a baby, you seemed to know me right away.  Actually this story started out about you, but really it is about your Mom.  She is my middle child, and her personality is completely that.  Her older sister was the best child.  We could take her anywhere, and she would sit and look at a book, or toy, and would be occupied with that.  Your Momma came along, and she was like a hurricane.  There was no taking her anywhere she had to stay still.  So determined. she walked at an early age, because I think she knew there was a whole big world she needed to see and getting there by crawling was just not an option. Funny?  Yes, we were sure that her goal in life was to make us laugh, and she did.  When her younger sibling came along, she was the one that "mothered" her.  Made sure that she had what she needed, and would sit and hold her hand while she slept.

She is musical.  You are going to need to remind her of that when you are older.  You are going to have to ask her to play the songs that she knows on her oboe, flute, and her whistles.  Keep at her, because sometimes being an adult is tough and you lose part of yourself.  She is also incredibly smart.  She can repair a car, she taught herself how to do it.  She also taught herself to sew, and is so crafty.  All of those things in your room she put together.  She also knows some airplanes inside and out, and she can fish like nobody's business.  Again, she is incredibly smart, and you will need to ask her about these things.  When she was a teenager, there was a time that I didn't like her very much.  Sometimes her independence got in the way of logic, but hopefully she will remember all of that when you are a teenager, and it will help her understand you.

But you know what?  She kept "growing up".  And once we got past that bump in the road, we became friends as well.  And she wanted a baby more than anything, she was determined.  And what's funny is that you are just like your Momma.  Determined.  Yes, just a little peewee of a baby, but there you are holding your head up, and trying to figure out how to move those legs forward.  The only time that I have seen your Momma falter, was in February.  She was so scared for you.  You came along and you were permanent.  She was not used to that.  Because you were born early, you had to stay in the hospital.  So your Momma and Daddy, had to come back to the hospital to see you. You had tubes, and alarms, and wires everywhere.  These things would make a seasoned parent quiver. But your Momma?  She figured it out.  Figured out how to talk to caregivers that did not speak the same language. Learned how to put a feeding tube in you.  And she did all this without any help that new Momma's usually have.  And you are so very lucky, her love for you is enormous.

So today, when she comes to wake you and you are already awake in your crib just hanging out, think about all of this,  And wish her a happy Birthday. because Birthday's are so very special.  She will tell you that. and give her that half smile.  The same one that she has.
 
And tell her how much I love her and could not be more proud of who she is.  Tell her that Nene said "Happy Birthday, Pookie".

9 months to Paris, day 260. Giverny and Monet.

Snow, rain, sleet...bah.  I want to have spring.  I want the smell of freshly turned earth. I want the beauty of  5 pm light on the flowers and the green grass.  Je veux le printemps.

  I want to travel by train, from Gare Saint-Lazare in Paris to the town of Vernon, and then on to Giverny.  I want to walk the paths at Claude Monet's home, and marvel at the profusion of flowers there.  I want to wander the streets of this town, peering into gardens, and meadows.  I want to sit in a field of coquelicots, and admire the blue of the sky.  

My first trip to Giverny was a solo trip.  Actually the first time I went to Paris solo.  I mapped out the train schedules, and bought a ticket.  I remember the young woman in the seat next to me asking where I was headed.  Giverny.  I also remember her being kind enough to see that I got off at the right stop, and wishing me a bonne journee.  People ask me all the time, if the French are rude. I often think of that moment when that young lady touched my sleeve and spoke to me in French that it was my stop, and when I looked confused, she told me in what English she could manage.  No, I have been blessed by the graciousness of the French people that I have encountered. 

Off the train at Vernon, outside the station to the bus that is around the corner. 7,00 or so euros for a round trip.  Window seat.  A lone middle aged woman making the first independent trip of her life.  Exit the bus, follow the path and into the town.  Down a narrow street, following the signs to Monet's home.  Paid my admission, through the gift shop, and into the gardens.  And, oh what gardens!  Such an explosion of color, texture, and smell.  Irises, roses, tulips, and pansies.  Grouped by color. Pinks, purples, magenta.  Truly a color wheel of flowers.  A backdrop of a crushed pink brick house with green shutters. I must have spent 3 hours just wandering the gardens.  Follow the path under the roadway to the pond on the other side.  Yes, there it is. The Japanese garden with the bridge over a pond with those water lilies.  A wandering path, and every turn presented me a picture perfect setting.

Back under the road, and queue the line to tour the house.  Yellows, and blues. Japanese wood block prints.  Utterly amazing.  Claude Monet died in 1926, and left the house to his son, who left it to the Academie des Beaux-Arts.   It had fallen into disrepair and required 10 years to get the gardens and house back to what it looked like at the time of Claude Monet.  The house was painstakingly returned to its former self.  The 231 Japanese woodblock prints are a study by themselves.  Hokusai, Hiroshige and others are offered up.  It was interesting to me to see what a impressionist painter chose to decorate his own home, and even though many 18th century painters were influenced by Japanese art, it was still a bit of a shock to see so many.

Back through the gift shop, and yes I did buy some very nice note cards adorned with Monet's work.  Back into the street, with time to wander.  I had lunch in the garden of the Musee d'art Americain.  Yes, it was still called that back then.  It was a defining moment for me, as it was here that I had my very first Kronenbourg 1664 biere, and I realized that yes, you can have lunch by yourself in a beautiful town, in this amazing setting and enjoy it.  

After lunch I again wandered through the small town, down the Rue Claude Monet towards the Eglise Sainte-Radegonde de Giverny, a quaint country church.  Monet's family grave is here, and others.  The crew of a RAF plane that was shot down in World War II are interred here.  There is a monument to the crew of 7 there as well. French graves are a work of art in themselves.  Graves are adorned with pictures of loved ones, mementos from their lives, and flowers are planted and maintained by family members and loved ones.  

Back on the bus, back to the station and on the train returning to Paris.  Late afternoon sun beating in the window, and a destination ahead.  Memories made in a beautiful town just west of Paris.  La vie est bonne, et je suis beni!

9 months to Paris, day 278. Chocolat, Chocolate, and other traitement spécial.

So, you think you want some candy?  The very first time I went to Paris was in 2000. I was armed with my copies of Frommer's and Fodor's books about Paris. Mind now, these were not digital copies but rather full fledged books. And heavy.  I read them front to back. Twice. Packed them in my suitcase, and I decided that I was going to be Parisian in my quest for chocolate, and other candies.

Having spent most of my life in the South Central Pennsylvania heartland, I was a certified, tried and true Hershey bar lover.  I mean who doesn't love Hershey bars?  Yummy, smooth milk chocolate still made in the small town 25 minutes north of where I live.

Still, I was intrigued by the thought of Parisian chocolates. We wandered a lot, that first trip.  And I cannot possibly imagine the amount of miles we walked since it was new and we were unsure of our destination.  The first chocolate shop we ended up at, was on Rue St. Honore.  Godiva.  A name I knew but cost prohibitive in the United States.  We looked in the windows at the beautiful array of chocolates, and marzipan.  We decided to give it a shot.  Since we were in a rather well known shopping area, English was spoken.  We talked a bit, sampled a few, and I ending up purchasing some chocolates for my husband.  

Things I learned that first trip.  There were no clothing shops that carried the size that my rather tall husband needed his clothing to be.  Tall sizes? Qu'est-ce que c'est? So I decided that food, liquor, and candy would be his souvenirs of my trip.  Godiva had liquor filled chocolates.  Not those nasty, waxy bottle shaped liquors that are sold in the US, but incredible truffle shaped chocolates, with real liquor in them.  They literally melted in your mouth, with a burst of Cognac, Cointreau, Whiskey, and Rhum.  I promptly bought a box of them.  

While I enjoyed the Godiva, I had read in my tour book, of a small chocolatier that was not to be missed.  La Maison du Chocolat.  They had 2 locations in Paris. I set my sights on the one at Rue Francois, smack dab in the Golden Triangle.  I had no idea just what the "Golden Triangle" meant. Again, this was my first foray into Paris.  I had no real perception of the layout of the city.  No Plan du Arrondissement, tucked into my pocket.  I think we walked in circles till we found the store.

We walked inside, glad to be out of the chilly air, and took a deep breath.  The smell of the chocolate in that store was just indescribable . I felt like I had wandered into Wonka land.  Surely there had to be a chocolate river somewhere in this small building, hidden from view, only to appeal to your sense of smell.  I remember the young lady as extremely helpful even if she did not speak fluent English. She allowed me to sample several pieces to make up my mind.  This was when they would still allow you to sample their "Pave du Faubourg', a incredible dark ganache.  I bought a box of them, it didn't matter what it cost,  I had to have this, and bring it home for Erik to try.  Small batch European chocolates are in a class by themselves.  Their tastes are complex, layered, with herbs, and spices. They linger on your senses long after you eat them.  They take you on a sensory trip to exotic places, a taste of South America, or the Caribbean. 

Since that first trip, I have ventured into other establishments for chocolate.  Godiva no longer sells the liquor filled chocolates, and since they opened a plant in Wyomissing, Pennsylvania, their appeal has been lost to me.  The taste has been "Americanized" and not at all like the kind you buy in Europe, made in Belgium.  I have tried La Mere de Famille's chocolates, and while they are still far better than those Hershey bars, I tend to only buy their butter salted caramels.  If you have never had one, and you love caramel, splurge and treat yourself.  I have purchased Galler chocolate from their Blvd. Haussman location, and their Chocolat du Chats as gifts for friends in the food hall at Galleries Lafayette.  I refuse to buy these chocolates any where but in France. Determined to keep them as a special treat.  On my next trip I have made Henri Le Roux in the 9th a destination.

But I am always, always drawn back to La Maison.  Maybe it is those incredible eclairs that I have purchased as my lunch, to be eaten on the steps of the Palais de Chaillot, across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, or shared with a friend, barely making it a block past the shop. Maybe it is the cocoa dusted truffles, eaten late at night in a hotel room, after an incredible dinner.  Or maybe, it just sneaked up on me.  An unspoken tradition.

Heartache and Wonderings.

I am a thinker.  I wonder about things all the time.  When an event happens, I analyze it, I dissect it.  I look at it from this angle and that angle.  I wonder what has made things happen just this way. Sometimes I can come up with an answer that will satisfy my curiosity.  Other times, the answer just eludes me. La page est vierge.  

My daughter Jacquelyn, has been trying to have a baby for the past several years.  She has no trouble conceiving.  I actually said to her at one time, that she should consider herself lucky that she can at least do that.  I wonder how those words ever came out of my mouth.  She miscarries before 12 weeks.  I have scoured the internet looking at others stories about the same issue.  I have read article after article, wanting to find an answer for her. I read blogs. I read medical papers.  I do this to make myself feel better.

I am her mother.  Damn-it.  The fixer of all things.  I patched up her skinned knees, I hugged her, and dried her tears when people were unkind.  I should be able to fix this. I never had any problem with my pregnancies. I wonder why she does not have it that easy.  I wonder why I cannot find an answer to why this keeps happening. I want to take her childhood magic wand and wave it.  Make all of this go away, and keep the baby here. With her, and Mike.  With us.  

And I am angry, and sad.  I watch the news and see another baby thrown away.  I wonder again.  I wonder what would ever make a Mother do something so horrific.  I wonder where the fairness is.  I wonder if those people regret their actions. I wonder why would you not offer this child up to someone else to love?  What makes someone be so selfish as to not want somebody else to love their child? 

I wonder about Jacquie.  I wonder about her all the time.  I remember how when she was young, she was the most determined, and the most independent of my children.  I wonder if that was to prepare her for this stage of her life. I wonder how strong she must be when she tells me "it's okay, Momma" when I know it's not. I wonder if she breaks down when no one else it there to witness it.  I wonder how many pieces can a heart break into. I wonder if she will ever be okay. 

This was her last shot.  She and Mike decided this would be the last.  I wonder if that's a mistake.  I wonder how you could possibly want to try over and over for the same result.  I wonder why there is no miracle for them. I wonder how in the big scheme of the universe, that this was even considered.  I wonder how this has damaged their relationship.  I wonder if they will be alright.  I wonder how she will explain this, again, to his Mother. I wonder if his Mother will understand everything my child has done, to try to make this dream come true. I wonder if they will find a baby to adopt.  I wonder if it will be enough.  I wonder if she will ever have that little face to look up at her, and call her Momma.  I wonder if it will take all this pain away and make it okay, easier to bear.

I wonder when I look at Facebook.  I wonder how these people can complain about the little things their children do.  I wonder if when they complain about how miserable their pregnancy is, do they think about those who would love to have made it far enough to have a sore back, or swollen feet.  I wonder if they are thankful for that tiny miracle they carry. I wonder if they know how truly lucky they are.  I wonder about the others who have loved and lost like my daughter. I wonder how they make it through.

I wonder how I could have ever said you are lucky to be able to at the very least get pregnant. I wonder how I could have thought that would ever make it easier, just to say goodbye.  I wonder if she knows how much I love her.  I wonder, all the time,

9 months to Paris, day 282

There is a Basilique to the north of Paris.  The majority of people go to Paris and see the typical tourist items.  The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Sacre Couer, Notre Dame, and Montmartre.   After all, these are the attractions most advertised, and recommended.  However, there is a Basilique in the Parisian Suburb of St. Denis.

This Basilique is on the end of metro line 13, to the north of Paris.  This large imposing edifice is home to 90%  of the Kings and Queens of France.  The area itself is blue collar, and not one which would bring the term tourist friendly to mind.  But, oh, once you come up from the Metro Station, though a small pedestrian area with the largest Carrefour market that I have ever seen, and you find this Gothic Church, any reservations you had about coming here are long gone.

You watch the short film in the visitor center, buy your self a ticket in the churchyard,  you push those enormous wooden doors open, and suddenly you are enveloped by this massive church that was built in the 12th Century.  You look towards the Nave, and the sun is streaming though stained glass windows, and even if there is not a religious bone in your body, you feel humbled.  The smell is a bit of incense that had been burned, a bit of dust, and the ever present Parisian smell of age.  You stand in awe.  There is no other way to say it, but awe.

You start to walk around.  You see Louis XVI and his Austrian wife, Marie Antoinette's crypt. You see Henri II and Catherine de Medici's. The sculpturing is of such magnitude that you can see the embroidery that would have been on Catherine's dress.  You stand there and wonder at the amount of time that it must have taken to produce this. Before you know it, you have spent several hours in this house.  You read of people that existed before your homeland was even a thought in anyone's mind. You wonder what these people have died from. You wonder at the unmarked tomb featuring the likeness of a beautiful woman.  Who was she? Why is there no mention of her name?

This is the Paris, the France that sucks me in.  The history buff in me wants to know about these people. I want to know how this church survived all these years, though two World Wars.  I want to know what the sculpture on the outside of the building means.  You walk a bit more, and resign yourself to what you have been able to see.  You leave, pushing that door open one more time. You walk back to the Metro Station, and wait for the train.  You arrive back in Paris, and you walk past Notre Dame, on the Ile de Cite.  The tourists are there in throngs.  The beggars are following them.  You push through the crowd and you want to scream to them, "You are in the wrong church!" "Come with me and let me show you where history is sleeping!"  But alas, you just walk on, over the Pont St. Louis, in the fading light of the day. Humbled.