“Seeds or no seeds?”

The train from Cologne, Germany is just perfect; it is sleek and ready to speed us to Amsterdam, Holland. We’re early enough to box out the other Europeans which is essential since luggage space is a premium especially on a Class 2 car like we’re riding today. We’ve looked at the “train coach schematic” so we know exactly where coach #22 will be situated on the long thin concrete platform. This is our 50th train for team Glavin so we’ve got this down to a science. Eamon, Seamus and guest Josh will attack from the North side of the platform paying particular attention to the grey hairs that think lines are for amateurs while Ann, Pearse and Dad with the “big ass” orange duffel will flank everyone from the south. It is a well rehearsed battle plan that has produced many victories in Vienna, Rome, Warsaw, Zurich, Balzano and countless other destinations along the rails of Europe during this 1 year adventure. In fact, our platform confidence is such that seasoned train travelers, even the Germans, seem to find us when they have a question.

The train slides into the rail yard and we watch as rail car #16-17-18 go by us. There’s a lot of platform and “crap” is all I can say as coach #22 slides by us and is still moving and halts 75 meters from our position and now the scramble is on with 6 people and 6 bags plus a food bag (gotta have peanut butter and jelly ready at all times). As the saying goes “The best laid plans” and as we rush up the platform, sweat now pouring off dad, we have to do some “field” adjustments. Pearse knows his role as he jitterbugs in and out with Seamus, butting in line like the seasoned pros they are. I see the looks and body language from a few adults that say “Who owns these kids?” I see Seamus’ trademark orange shorts as he hoists Pearse and the bags up the stairs ahead of us. Eamon and Josh add to the luggage rack that Seamus is guarding like a supply depot army Sargent and Dad places the orange taco-like duffel bag between car #21 and #22. As the Cologne Cathedral spires jut into the sky to our right I will always remember its sheer size and beauty and the fact that it is right next to the Cologne train station. All aboard and the doors close on yet another European city for Team Glavin.

The ride to Holland is uneventful and we relax and prepare ourselves as the train makes the short 2 hr journey to the central station Amsterdam. It is the city of many reputations and as expected that changes by the hour and the street. I know I am in for a special 5 days when Pearse asks “Dad why does the city flag have XXX on it in red and black? We are far enough in front for me to say “I don’t know ask your mother!” We walk by and over canal after canal as boats with chairs and couches float by us making the 700 level of the old VET seem like a pajama party. Amsterdam is the land of “anything goes” and I wonder how long it will take “Frick and Frack” aka Eamon and Seamus to notice the 3 things that keep any kid rocketing through puberty interested and focused “scantily clad girls in windows with red lights”, Coffee shops that aren’t “coffee shops” and chocolate treats made into shapes that would make Michelangelo’s David blush.

It doesn’t take long for the innuendo to fly. The souvenirs shops are a combination of “get your orange colored Holland "clog-like" slippers next to stuff that used to be sold with a brown bag around it when I was a kid. A walk down any aisle yields chuckles from front to back and the boys clearly planned a divide and conquer strategy as Seamus is yelling from one side “Hey check out the girl’s boobs that change color pending the temp of the liquid” no sooner do we get over to end that diatribe when Pearse yells out “What’s a latex nurses costume?” to the roars of teenage boys all over the store. Ann is looking for Christmas ornaments bringing new meaning to “ho ho ho” and I am thinking why bother it’s Christmas in June for Eamon and Seamus. Straws shaped like anatomy and t-shirts that have sayings that congress legislates against but …. well let’s just say that falls into the category “Do as they say not as they do” on that one. The 1st amendment is alive and well in Amsterdam.

As we make the walk back to the apartment the laughs are flowing and Mom is clearly outnumbered. Sometimes the situation just calls for letting the fire burn itself out. Just when the embers seem cold we happen past a string of “coffee shops.” Pearse looks up, smile on his face and says “They have brownies” as he makes his finger tips meet like a science teacher announcing a surprise quiz. He looks at the outside menu like he’s been taught and is happy the menu is in English too. Hey mom “Do we want those brownies ‘with’ or ‘without’ seeds?” He looks up, eyebrows furrowed; a look of confusion creases his small freckled face. Ann looks at him, smiles and says “I don’t know ask your dad?”

My Day at the Swiss Guard Barrack’s by Pearse

One day we were walking in the Vatican and my dad recognizes someone that he met in Bermuda. His name is Andréas and he was a Swiss Guard. We say “hi” and the end of the conversation he says that “ I will try to get you in the Swiss Guard Barrack’s” since he was a Swiss guard. At dinner my dad told me the story of Andréas and how he knew Pope John Paul II. The story is that Andréas became a Swiss Guard and at Christmas he was crying in the Swiss Guard Barrack’s because this was his first Christmas away from home. His duty was at night to guard inside an area in the Vatican for a long time. (When I mean long time I mean four or five hours of just standing) Then these big doors open right behind him and someone walks down this really long hallway. When the person gets around twenty feet away from Andréas he realizes that it is Pope John Paul II. The Pope greets Andréas; then the Pope says thank you for guarding the Vatican and walks away. The Pope had seen in the light that Andréas had been crying so he turns around walks back to Andréas and says, “Let me guess this is your first Christmas away from home.” “Yes your Holiness,” says Andréas and then the Pope blesses Andréas and walks away. Three days later as I wake up from my good nights sleep the person that my dad met in St. Peters Square, Andréas, my mom tells me that Andréas sent us an exciting E-mail. The E-mail said that Andreas would give us a tour of the Swiss Guard Barrack’s at ten O-Clock.

About an hour later we walk into Saint Anne’s gate and Andréas says “hi” to the three Swiss Guards guarding Saint Anne’s gate in Italian. I walk in an office right outside of the Barrack’s and say to myself “ This is going to be really COOL!” My family and I are in the Barrack’s and Andréas tells us the history of the Swiss Guards and how they are the private army of the Pope which began in the year 1506. Every May 6^th the new Swiss Guards are inducted and that is why Andréas is here to help the new guards. We are outside where they train the Swiss guards to stand really long and I walk along the training area and I see a Cafeteria an arch and a bathroom. Andréas walks down stairs and I am pretty sure I got to meet a high ranked Swiss Guard right next to the armory. We walk in the armory where they hold the uniforms and armor and Andréas shows us the multicolor striped uniforms with the colors Orange, Blue, Yellow, hats of black, and some uniforms have Red. About ten minutes later we walk in where they hold the guns I make a HUGE smile at Dad and say “AWESOME!” I look around with my brothers there making smiles in the video camera. All of the weapons are more than 100 years old except for two new guns. Andréas tells us more history (I’m not really listening because I’m looking at the guns, maces, spears, and crossbows.) About 10 to 20 minutes later we leave the armory and see the Halyards where the uniforms are (Halyards are the spears that are thrown in the air.) Now we are headed to Saint Anne’s Gate and Andréas shows us the Swiss Guard pictures. “Hundreds of people were Swiss Guards” Andréas tells us in his Swiss accent. We get to Saint Anne’s Gate about ten minutes later Andréas says “bye” and we leave Saint Anne’s Gate…

I just visited the Swiss Guard and I was amazed, flabbergasted, I was definitely not disappointed! My favorite part obviously was the armory, which I think that would be normal for a kid my age. I hope that you enjoyed my paper/blog on the Swiss Guard Barrack’s.

One of a Kind Shoes…No Really!!!

We’ve all seen the TV shows, watched the movie Pretty Woman, and heard the stories about Rodeo Drive in California. Sure, it’s a cliché “Woman love to shop” but not my Ann. Anyone that’s shopped with her on Black Friday knows her “No muss no fuss” style. She gets in and out of store after store with her list in one hand and cloths sizes in the other, a pencil at the ready to check it “off the list.” Her closet at home is a testament to 16 years of Catholic School education where black and blue is a wardrobe description and not that of a prize fighter’s face in the 12th round of a championship bout.

You can’t be in Paris and not be aware of the fashion all around you. My stalwart Ann is crumbling under the barrage of images on every street corner and in every fashion house window. Like the sirens singing to Odysseus, they call her to their windows hoping to lure her to the sparsely filled shelves that scream expensive but exclusive. You brain tells you “That isn’t right for you” but your heart says “Go ahead you’ll never know unless you try, it might feel sooooo goooood.” I think I saw that same message in a “Don’t do drugs” advertisement, didn’t I?

Over the course of 4 weeks we walked by hundreds of shoe stores, block after block zig zagging as if trying to lose someone that was following us. We saw shoes that would make the fish in the Red Sea cry they were so colorful and shoes that looked like they were left over from a “fitting” for the gladiators at the Coliseum in Rome. The shoes came in every color and style one could imagine and Monet and Degas would have been proud of the beautiful pastels flowing in the windows like canvases of the impressionist paintings. It really is like walking around an outdoor museum.

Then, one late afternoon, with the sun dipping past it zenith, there they were, standing upright, a truncated toe cap with white outlined bows in exclusive, soft, matching leather and calling Ann’s name. She looked at them wantonly with guilt red betraying her desire on her face. You could hear the bad angel say “just this once.” There they sat, a pair of pink/coral high pumps, poetry on heels, and a Shakespeare love sonnet looking back at her through the window. As if a cruel joke by the gods, in the adjacent window is the exact model in traditional black and white. I stood at the magnificently clean glass window and watched the civil Irish war raging on Ann’s countenance. With each facial contortion a different question: “Are Coral/pink shoes really practical?” “Will I get much use from them?” “Aren’t the Black/White one’s equally pretty and more sensible?” “Who buys pink/coral color shoes anyway?” I listened closely and while she didn’t say it I swore I heard “What would my mother think?” eek from her subconscious. I say to myself, “I can’t wait to see the WWIII battle once she turns’em over and gets a load of the price!” I’m considering getting some stadium seating and selling popcorn.

I didn’t have a stop watch but I am pretty sure that a sun dial would have been more appropriate as I waited for the magical sound that the shop door makes when it opens. You know the one; it’s the sound that made Pavlov famous, where the wolves, I mean the inside sale people, respond to the bell like a steak just landed on the polished white tile floor. Deep inside as she walked towards the shoes on the acrylic shelf Ann prayed silently that they didn’t have her size which would spare her this whole experience and make it easier for her. When she picked them up off the shelf I swore I heard a celestial hymn ooze from the speakers as if to say “Buy these shoes” and you’ll walk with the angels. Where are those Victoria Secret wings when you need a pair?

The French sales woman was curt but professional, eyeballing our “American-ness” that is so plain to all the Europeans. She wasn’t quite sure if Ann was the dreaded “shoe kicker.” Was she going to “try them on” to FEEL like someone that warrants a shoe of this fine quality or is she a REAL player? Frankly it’s a jump ball, Ann could be either today! I felt like a resident in the operating room watching the professional sales rep dissect every conceivable barrier to a purchase. She’s a pro as she relates the story of the handcrafting and how the cows cried to give up this soft leather. As if we needed a sign the exclusivity is clear because these are the only 2 pair of shoes on display in the whole store, one in coral/pink and the other in the dreaded black/white. There are a limited number of outfits hanging from the silver racks and a couple of them could have been mistaken for colored dental floss. Does that tag say “1200 euros?” YIKES!!! As the sales woman figures out that Ann is “serious” she informs Ann that they make this shoe in a “quantity of 1 in each size.” I almost burst out laughing when she said “Once you buy this pair no one else in all of Paris will have your shoe.” Should I tell her we’re leaving for Italy tomorrow and I want the same promise for Italy, Germany, Denmark, Finland, England, and America or my money back?

I appreciate her sales effort and the fact that a pair of shoes can elicit such feelings in a woman and I am equally shocked that these shoes are turning Ann into Cinderella. Ann “hems and haws” not betraying the thousands of years of Irish DNA coursing through her veins and she feels the conflict of being reckless against the pull of common sense. It is like a playground battle tug-of-war going on in her mind and her eyes are giving away that fact that her “practical” side is losing. She looks up from the stiff black leather couch and she doesn’t have to utter the phrase, it is written on her face, “Should I?” Now for a husband this isn’t quite the equivalent challenge of responding to the question “Does this make me look fat?” but it is fraught with intrigue. If you say “go for it” too fast then you run the risk that you haven’t agonized quite long enough to appreciate the depth of such an important decision. If you say “No” you run the risk of stomping on the one chance for your wife to “buy pink/coral shoes in Paris” thus running the risk of disappointment and anger all the way through the rest of Europe’s 70+ days of travel. You search your mind and heart for just the right timing and the perfect turn of phrase. The clock is ticking, your heart rate is increasing and you think of 19 years of marriage where these rare moments pop up, looking for the kernel of experience that will allow you to say just the right thing. I look into her hazel eyes and say with the best voice I can muster, “Why the hell not!” I pause, hoping, a bit unsure if that was gonna do it and then a big smile from Ann and a quick “Yeah why the hell not!”

Ann floated out of the store, sent a few text messages and e-mails to “the girls” informing them of her new cocaine like shoe habit and then went to her first meeting in the next Church we saw; it started with the phrase, “Hi my name is Ann and I’m a shoe - aholic.” Hi Ann!

The Deepest of Faith at Lourdes

I sat on the hard metal seat, olive wood rosary in hand that we got while in Israel, staring at the Blessed Mother Statue in “The spot” where she appeared to the young girl Bernadette. There’s an eerie quiet as you look left and right seeing so many amazing things it makes it difficult to process. I spend the better part of 45 minutes trying to codger in my mind the words that folks will hear from me in response to the question “What was it like at Lourdes?” I can’t say I came up with an answer until I watched the most amazing display of love, affection and faith.

She could have been anyone’s mom or grand mom. The black, auburn, or brown color of her hair clearly sacrificed to the altar of a hard life is left as white as a pillow. Her sweater was royal blue, clean but a bit more worn than even she would like with a string here and a worn elbow there. Her taupe colored shoes were cushioned and sensible and had years of experience that said “pumps are long past for me.” Hers was the simplest of looks, a weathered face with a hint of red perhaps rouge but the odds favored that the wind whipped too hard from where she came from today. Her clean fingers, slightly bent and swollen at the knuckles suggested years of work that begets the clear sign of arthritis, are wrapped around the plastic handles of the wheel chair. It was an old style wheel chair requiring someone to push it or someone to grab at the wheels and make it work. The canvas back that held the two sides the proper distance apart was cracked with age like an old painting or like the lady pushing it ever so gently as it rolled by me.

She approached the grotto with her charge. He was wrapped in so many blankets it was difficult to disseminate the age of the boy. This elderly woman, with the greatest of effort, pushed him towards the ramp of the Grotto. To her left people were streaming by but she remained resolute. She pushed a few yards at a time; the age of the wheel chair creaking in a way that left no doubt that it had many years on its wheels. She stopped every few yards to catch her breath, I thought, but I was clearly mistaken. As she came within ear shot I could hear that she was praying. It was a romance language for sure but barely perceptible and I couldn't make it out, maybe French or Italian. She was having trouble with her wire rimmed glasses, trying to keep them on and at the same time trying to keep the other hand on the wheel chair. She passed so close I could hear her breathing; it was a bit heavy given the need to push the chair on the uneven stone as she approached. I could then see that her “glasses” issue was related to her tears. The water from her teary eyes combined with the undulation of the wheels striking the expansion cracks in the concrete created her challenge. As she slowly knelt down next to the wheel chair and in front of the altar she prayed. Her posture was like that of an 11 yr old girl at her first Mass as an altar server. The boy in the chair was as quiet as a mouse as if he’d experienced this scenario a million times. There she stayed, kneeling on the hard ground deliberate and unphased to everything around her. The only movement came as her head bobbed from a bow before the Altar to look up at the niche where the Statue of the Blessed Mother is nestled. In her hands, almost imperceptible, is a rosary. Her back heaves up and down, slightly labored as she finishes the last of the Hail Mary’s. She struggles to her feet suggesting a shot of oil to the joints is needed to make them work.

It was as if time stood still. She got behind the wheelchair and positioned it to make the 6” ascent over the stone step onto a ramp that has seen millions of handicapped and infirmed cross over its path. She pushes that boy, wrapped in blankets wearing a bright colored stocking cap towards the rock. She seems renewed in her strength. She pushes the chair with one hand and reaches the other to the grey and black mountain wall to her left. The surface of the wall is now like polished granite from decades of Pilgrims tracing the same path as this woman. After she touches the wall, she takes her small hands, leans over to the boy and rubs his head and his eyes. He is immobile, he is blind and he can’t do it himself. His mom or grand mom holds him tightly and strokes his face, love oozing thru her to him trying to help him feel the coolness from the rock as she looks again to that nestled statue of Mary. She pushes him a few more feet and repeats the same thing, tears streaming down her face as she places the residue that is the wetness from the cold rock as the sun has already set behind the Pyrenees. She passes behind the Altar, not forgetting to bow to the tabernacle, and rubs the rock vehemently under the statue of Mary as if to say “Please please, please” help him. Her eyes are red, her heart is heavy her faith ever-present.

She rolled him down the ramp, bowed to the altar and wheeled him away. She is Lourdes!

To The Beaches of Normandy, a Dad and His Son's

I write a journal entry everyday, this is the entry for Friday, April 9, 2010. I apologize in advance for its length but the day was simply to moving to leave out anything I could remember or feel:

Today is one of those moments I planned in my head the moment we decided to “move to Europe for a year.” There’s an exhaustive list of “things to do” but only a few “must do’s.” Going to the Normandy beaches from Paris was a “must do” and as the jet black Mercedes van makes its way, serpentining through the streets of Paris, our guide points out the many historic sites of the Parisian landscape. It isn’t until he gets to the open road just past Versailles that I feel invigorated with the familiar feeling one gets when it is certain that you are going to learn something special. Today I will see one of the most historic sites on the planet and I will learn about it with Ann at my side and my 3 son’s in tow. As if the day needed a “bonus,” a friend of Eamon’s named Christian is here in Paris with us for his spring break and he is making the trip with as well. I coached Christian in football at IHM 4 years ago and I marvel at the changes in his physical stature and his maturity. I am so pleased to have him on the trip to the “Beaches of Normandy” and as I said to him several times during the week, “Always a coach always a teacher.”

It is a solid 2.5 hour ride from Paris to the first stop on the Normandy tour. Our private guide, Pierre (you can’t make this stuff up) is barreling towards the Pegasus Bridge. It is the spot where the first liberators of France arrived by glider behind the German forces. The 6th British Airborne landed troops June 5th late, late at night and ambushed the German occupied bridge defenders in the early morning hours of June 6. As you can imagine the bridge held strategic significance. The Pegasus Bridge was formally known as the Ranville-Benouville Bridge but was renamed in honor of the liberators from the British Brigade known as Pegasus on D-Day. As I write these words, the goose bumps on my arms and neck remind me of the endless connections and stories of valor that started at this simple bridge at 4-5 AM.

We opted for a private tour for this remarkable excursion and the difference between a private tour and a bus tour is simply explained by the Pegasus bridge experience and encounter. Pierre is seasoned and knows the “in and out’s.” As we pull into the parking area of the cafe right in front of us is the infamous bridge from the movie “The longest Day.” There is a placard that explains the landing of the gliders and across the road you can see the British soldier statue and the tanks that joined them later to secure the bridge so that any German advance could be stopped from the east. It’s all great stuff, but as we approach the café, and all so common European home attached to it, you know this place has the distinction of being the first liberated home in all of France. You close your eyes and you can imagine the yelling, the firefight and the rat a tat tat of machine guns piercing the dark early morning hours of occupied France. The guide shares the fact that the woman we are about to meet, Arlette Gondree, was 4yrs old when the British forces banged on her door. Arlette ran through the house in fear and said “There are soldiers at the door and they don’t speak German or French.” Here we stand with the woman that met the first of Allied the expeditionary forces that would change the outcome of the World War II. We learn that the British and the newly freed French family had tea and coffee and planned the next series of moves in the small living room of her house which also served as an operating room for the wounded while her dad gave them intelligence concerning the German forces in the area. As the boys walk about the small café filled with war remembrances, maps of the D-Day invasion and books, letters and 100’s of pictures of British 6th Airborne families coming to the Pegasus Bridge they are in jaw dropping awe of the feeling they are witnessing something monumental and special. When was the last time you had to yell at your kids “Guys we really need to leave the museum?” I think that pretty much says it all.

The signs pointing to the D-Day beaches are those non-descript simple white arrows with black trim you see throughout your travels in Europe. The kids are busy, fighting for air time as each tries to top the other one’s story about the “best thing in the café turned museum” at the Pegasus Gondree Café. I wish I had a euro for ever time someone said “yeah but did you see…?” from the back seat of the van. While they traded stories on the bench seats behind us, Ann and I focused on the road in front and the landscapes beside us. We were absorbing the fact that to our right is the channel and coastline and by proximity we know that across these fields and hedgerows ran the tired, harrowed but lucky men who made it off the beaches and began the march to Germany. It is unsettling as you look across the pastures and know that with every step they took the possibility of life meeting death was but a mine beneath your feet or a sniper’s rifle away from reality. Only a week ago we stood on the steps of the Acropolis in Greece and talked about that stronghold and the effort and design to protect the citizens against invaders like the Persians, Crusaders and Ottoman’s. At this moment we make our way to the beaches where America, Canada and Britain by definition are invading with the largest naval armada ever assembled. It is surreal.

You’ve seen thousands of images and countless hours of film regarding the American Cemetery at Normandy. The mind builds the experience for you as the synapses fire excited to couple heretofore background information to the actual moment. Before we break from the parking lot thru the beautifully manicured green trees and bushes I huddle the boys together for a “pre-game speech” of sorts. I appreciate the energy that remains from the Pegasus Bridge experience and frankly it is the want of every boy to want “play army” but the next hours require a different passion or should I say compassion? As I look into their eyes and try, feebly, to explain the depth of what it is they are about to experience, I can see the subtle change in them that comes with being a dad. They nod their heads as I share the fact that while this will be an amazing and life changing moment it requires a deference that is akin to seeing the price of visualizing “good versus evil.” Eamon looks at me and says “Dad we know, it’s a memorial and the price paid to stop a place like Auschwitz from happening again.” Christian looks at the 3 boys, and says “Wow you went there too!” It took me a few moments to recover from our talk as tears welled in my eyes.

As I walked along the red dyed paths towards the Memorial’s freedom statue, I couldn’t help but turn my neck over my shoulders first right and then left again and again and again. The path from the parking lot leads you to the newly constructed memorial center and for whatever reason you feel compelled to follow it but there is something magical about the brilliant white “Latin” Crosses and the occasional, from this vantage point, “Star of David” markers. The expeditionary forces “landings and advances” are all laid out in front of you on a map as big as the side of house with bright red arrows and the names of landing sites so famous to us all: UTAH, OMAHA, GOLD, JUNO, and SWORD. The countries flags pinned to each landing site with the Stars and Stripes on Utah and Omaha and the Canadian Maple Leaf on Juno and Britain’s familiar George’s Cross and Red White and Blue on Gold and Sword. Pearse said, surprised, “Canada came here too!” All the information is fascinating but you can’t help but see from almost every place you look those ever-present “white crosses.” The kid’s feel it too as Seamus seems to speak for all of us “Can I go look at the crosses now?”

Our guide is filled with information about the different aspects of the cemetery and the kids were enthralled and appreciated his discussion about the traditions related to a family member visiting a grave site. He said “They take wet sand from the beach where they landed and they bring it to the Cross or the Star and they rub it with the wet sand. It makes the lettering of his name stand out against the white background and they take a picture of the marker stone for the family and say ‘thanks’!” As he relates this story we walk by a Cross and it is still filled with the sand, we stop and know just recently someone related to this person visited their dad, uncle, or brother. You can’t make how you feel happen from a picture in a book or a Hollywood movie.

The walk thru the precise and meticulously lined Crosses leaves an impression for life. Each of the kids comments on the amazing precision and the overwhelming sense of loss so evident in the rows and rows of white markers. Eamon is on his knees capturing this amazing moment on video and he works diligently to get the feelings he is having from every possible angle. Christian asks the question that is on all our minds “How can it be so magnificently precise?” Our guide has an equally magnificent response, reminding me that he is a truly grateful Frenchman, “America has been burying so many men for the cause of freedom on foreign soil for so many years that they’ve gotten good at this task!” Wow

You feel like you need to sit on the wall and just feel the history flowing into your soul. I watch the boys and they can’t seem to get enough as they bounce from row to row careful to not disturb the plantings or flowers laid by family or friends at the gravestone of various soldiers. I hear questions like “Dad what does Cpl mean?,” “Why so many Eng’s?,” and “How come this one has all the letters in gold?” Some I know the answers to and others I do not. We learn that the gold lettering is in recognition of that person winning the Congressional Medal of Honor and one was a Roosevelt.

The Cemetery overlooks Omaha Beach. From the stone wall you can look across the English Channel and know that on the horizon on June 6th 1944 there were thousands of ships delivering men, vehicles and supplies to these very beaches. You look right to left and see the waves crashing to the shores. Our perspective is that of the German forces and from our height you can see what they saw and feel the emotion of the day. The magnitude of the Allied forces must have struck fear in the everyday soldiers called to defend this coastline. It is equally unsettling to see the significant advantage of the height and the downward angle to the beach some 400-700 yards away pending the tide. As folks walked the beach below you got a terrific sense of the scale as some were close to the waters edge and others were just below the hills. No one really knows what that day was like except those who participated and shared their stories with the others who thankfully passed it from one generation to the next. I can tell you that while I looked out onto that beach my heart was racing, my stomach in knots and my mind over sensitized to chaos that I can only imagine. It was both confusing and enriching to stand and sit so close to where it all happened; the Crosses behind me and the English Channel in front of me, physical symbols of the start and final struggle for so many. From the 9 year old the simplest observation, “Dad, it must have been hard to get from all the way out there all the way up here while guys were shooting at you!” He continued “I guess that’s why there are so many white Crosses.”

We pulled out of the parking lot with muted conversations in all parts of the van. The excitement of the Pegasus Bridge experience seems like a month ago not a few hours ago. All of the boy’s are recounting the “things that made impressions” on them. It is a delight to hear their thoughts. I know it is an experience that will change the course of their studies of this period in history and it is my hope that it will help them to understand America a bit better and make them better citizens.
We head to Pointe du Hoc where 2 battalions of Infantry Rangers from the 29th division are tasked with scaling the Atlantic Walls to overtake Field Marshall Rommel’s forces and the 6-155mm guns that protect the beaches of Omaha and Utah. I am not sure that the kids are capable of absorbing anymore information but as they walk in and out of the crater riddled ground from the blasts by the American Airforce they are filled with awe. Pearse asks standing at the bottom of a 10ft deep crater, “Can a bomb really make a hole this big?” A grandma walks by and takes a picture to show her grandson when she gets home. She says with a smile, “He’s about the same size!”

The cliffs are sheer and the drop makes your heart skip a beat. Again we are seeing the challenge from the perspective of the German forces. 225 men made this climbed here, slightly later than planned, on the early morning of June 6. They climb with special gear and are engaged almost immediately. The day is filled with stories of heroism but this stop at Pointe du Hoc is a microcosm of the D-Day mission. It is bloody, hard fought and filled with uncertainty. You feel the fight for every bunker and every turret as you walk this small tract of land. It is a living museum and a memorial with blasted stone walls, concrete block strewn all over the hill top, rusted barbed wire protecting the cliff edge etc. When the Allied reinforcements came days later than anticipated the 225 strong Army Rangers assault force was left with 90 men mostly injured and wounded.

The libraries and museums are filled with the details of the momentous day known the world over as D-Day. Eisenhower’s “Orders of the Day” letter said it clearly “The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty loving people everywhere march with you.” I won’t ever forget the day we went to the beaches of Normandy with our 3 boys and learned about, prayed for and respected the monumental sacrifice of the brave soldiers on these foreign lands.

April in Paris Need I Say More

I am not sure who’s more excited Ann, the kids or me. There are few places in the world capable of conjuring an entire imaginary book than the phrase “April in Paris.” Just say it to yourself….No really just say it, pause for a few moments and sense it…! Do you feel the wisp of “spring like” hope? Can you sense the 1000’s of unforgettable characters in books and movies throughout the century’s right up to Professor Langdon in Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code, characters who trolloped thru the streets of Paris or made great escapes along the Seine River on horseback or by a Mercedes convertible coup. It is a city filled with a feeling of “Isn’t it great to be a Parisian, if only for a day a week or a month?” Who cares about strikes and workers that hold managers hostage if they don’t get what they want? We want to relish the baguettes that are still hot and the café that gives you an unfettered view to the latest in the fashion world walking down the street. Is that man wearing a chapeau with a silk ascot or as Eamon would say, “Really?” Imagine his surprise when his mother says “You’ll see a lot of that in Paris.”

The van ride from the Charles de Gaulle airport is excruciatingly long. Not because the traffic is difficult but because the kids expected the Eiffel tower to be visible from Switzerland. Pearse just asked over and over “Where’s the Eiffel Tower?” I guess it would have bothered me like the dreaded vacation phrase “Are we there yet?” from the backseat but this is Paris so stuff just doesn’t bother you as much. What did Mr. Brownlow, our 20th Century European History teacher call it, “laissez faire” or something like that I think. It isn’t a great political or economic strategy but it sure as hell makes for a stress free vacation.

The white nondescript Renault passenger van makes “THE turn” and before our eyes stands the massive stone arch that is the Arc de Triomphe. In the days to come the boys will learn all about its height, breath and history but for now, through the windshield they see the most famous stretch of cobblestone and blacktop, the Champs Elysees. The youthful energy in the van is both surprising and welcome as the hustle and bustle of the street life edges right up to the windowed van. Pearse preens and cranes his neck unsatisfied until he finally shouts “There it is at 2:00!” Eamon and Christian think it’s a beautiful girl because that is their game “11:00 O’clock, 6:00 O’clock, 3:00 O’clock” They seem surprised when I yelled 10:00 letting them know that I am both “on to their game” and that I am “married not dead.” Pearse is so proud that he saw the Eiffel Tower first!

We pull up to 32 Rue Saint Guillaume our home for the next 4 weeks. Come on, doesn’t that street address just sound like Cary Grant or Audrey Hepburn should live here? It is in the 7th district and a great neighborhood. It is an Internet find so we hope for the best, open the door and pray that the facade is representative of the building behind it not like one of those Universal Studio movie sets all "show and no go". As the door to the Parisian apartment opens we breathe a sigh of relief and drop our 6 bags, it is remarkable! “How could it not be?” I ask myself we are, after all, living a fantasy.

And so, as we saunter from one street to the next on the first of many evening walks, we cross one of the numerous bridges across the Seine River and in minutes we are standing in the courtyard of the Louvre next to I.M. Pei’s controversial glass pyramid. I ask the lads “So do you like this pyramid or not?” ½ say “yes” and ½ say “no,” I chuckle and say “We’re already Parisians!”

Even the God’s Picked the Pretty Girl

Everyplace in Athens has a spectacular view of the Acropolis. We began early in the morning to take in all that is “Ancient Athens.” Our tour guide looked like a cross between the mean, age battered history teacher from high school and a caricature of a stop “smoking campaign.” Her sun scarred countenance, gravely voice and rail thin frame seemed paradoxical when she mentioned the voluptuous and stunningly beautiful goddesses like Hera, Aphrodite and Athena. It took a while but Pearse said “Is she speaking 2 languages?” After every explanation in English she’d follow with another rendition in Italian. We felt like folks on the TV show American Bandstand “Rate a record” where you vote “Liked it or hated it.” Pearse hated the explanations in Italian. A couple weeks ago he didn’t seem to mind folks speaking Italian but then again there was a snowboard attached to his small feet.

The new 130 million euro Acropolis Museum is simply stunning. The glass floor seemed like you peeled back a book jacket to see into the novel and ancient world of Greece. Below your feet you can see marble and stone columns that date 1000’s of years and red and black decorated pottery still sitting in its B.C. earthen cocoon. How appropriate that the National Acropolis Museum ran into issues requiring preservation, “further study” and documentation before they could dig or build. I wonder how many residential and commercial builders chuckled with glee when the federal government complained that this “discovery” would increase the price and make the project “over budget!” I am not sure if there is a Greek god for “building” but if there was he is laughing like hell all the way from the Parthenon.

We saw the preserved city ruins in Ephesus, Turkey less than a week ago and they were awe inspiring to say the least but as you make you way up the marble dimpled steps to the ancient Acropolis you almost feel like someone should be selling wings so your feet don’t ruin this treasure for others. The Acropolis has been battered, rammed, attacked and burned. It has been a fortress, a city with all amenities and its Parthenon a temple to the ancient god’s, a Catholic Church and an Ottoman Empire mosque. Its marble statues and beautiful colorful relief’s have withered and weathered and in a few cases been stolen and not returned. Pearse asked to the delight of the tour guide “How come Britain just doesn’t give them back, stealing is wrong?” I think our tour guide almost cried as she gave the ginger haired Pearse a skeleton like hug.

The Parthenon, 8 columns wide and 17 columns deep, and the surrounding ancient buildings are mesmerizing and elicit overwhelming feelings; while your brain knows civilization is based on ideas not buildings the sheer magnitude of these structures boggles the mind. The panoramic view of the city of Athens is one of a kind and if you listen hard you can hear the deciding vote between the gods. Zeus called for a contest to name the great Greek city between Athena and Poseidon. Each had to deliver a gift to the city and the gods would decide who gave the better of the gifts. Poseidon gave the city access to the sea when he touched his trident to the well in the Acropolis. Athena gave the gift of renewed life that is represented by her present the “olive tree.” Now I’d argue that the deck was stacked since Athena was born from the ax that split the brain of Zeus and she is indeed beautiful. Poseidon while ripped with an 8 pack, the world’s first thong and could conjure the power of the sea, who was going to vote against the daughter of Zeus? In what I think was the world’s first reality show, Poseidon got “voted off” the mountain. If he’d won we would have visited Poseidon city today instead of Athens! So today’s lesson: A not so great gift wins every time if your dad owns the heavens!