There is no word in Quechua for 'friend'; one can only call another brother or sister. Nor does this ancient Peruvian language have a word for Goodbye. In place of this rather final sounding sentiment is a word meaning "till next time".

To some, these two linguistic anomalies are nothing more than technical matters reflecting the difficulty inherent in all translations. Some even attribute the difference to a lack of precision in ancient tongues, reflecting their lack of intellectual evolution. 

After all, modern languages like French and English have many more words conveying an ever increasing precision of meaning and nuance. And viewed from this perspective, some have concluded that Quechua meanings are simply echoes of a simpler - less complex culture and time. The lack of ostensible exactness merely a semantic relic; an archaeologic footnote.

Or so it seems to some. 

The Modern World
Most visitors to Peru first arrive in Lima, the sprawling modern metropolis founded in 1535 by the Spanish Conquistador 
Francisco Pizarro. More than 1/3 of the entire Peruvian population resides here, and for many it is the very quintessence of contemporary Peru. Walking its streets is akin to a stroll in New York, Mexico City, or any number of similar giant cities of the modern world. 

Founded to facilitate the export of stolen treasure, its raison d'être is, and has always been, expediency. Lima's concerns are rooted in the practical demands of today's world; of the here and now. Her gaze is riveted on the commercial concerns of the moment. Little, if any, energy is devoted to looking backwards. The path from today to tomorrow consumes the attention of Lima; the cob-web covered road to the past is barely noticed - rarely traversed.
 
From the state-of-the-art newness and sophistication of Miraflores to the ramshackle slums of her outskirts - Lima is the capital of the present; the King of Now.

Into the Andes
Immediately upon arriving in any city of southern Peru you know you are in a world apart from that of Lima. If nothing else, the altitude at once grabs your attention as you struggle for breath in the oxygen thin air of the Andes. 

From the relatively lower elevation of Arequipa's volcano surrounded 2,335 meters to that of La Raya at 4,335 - the Peruvian Andes compel acknowledgement of their uniqueness. And in every corner of the altiplano you sense differentness; the unique is ever present. 

Skins are darker, languages more diverse, colors distinctly vibrant and new as you reach the rarefied environment of southern Peru. Not only do you struggle for breath in this somewhat otherworldly terrain - but for focus as well. 

The third-eye of your mind blinks again and again to clear the now from your consciousness as you are continually presented with something strangely other; something just beyond the focal-plane of your present-based gaze. Something decidedly un-now. 

The Capital of the Inca
While the cities of Arequipa, Juliaca, and Puno are each captivating and deserving a visit - it is Cuzco that is the portal to the otherworld that travelers to this region strive so hard to bring into focus. Here is the center of the Inca culture and the gateway to some of the most fascinating and mysterious historical sites on the planet.

With neighborhoods climbing into the hills surrounding its ancient core in the Urubamba river valley, Cuzco is striking in both its locale and its history. 

Its very name is a Spanish transliteration from the Quechuan original Qusqu or Qosqo, which itself traces its origin to the even more ancient Aymara language. Both tongues are still widely spoken in the Andes.

Indeed, the roots of history here stretch much further back than the time of the Inca. Archaeological research indicates that pre-Incan civilizations can be dated to 7000 BCE. 

So the basic psyche of the aboriginal Peruvian culture had been formed during many millennia prior to the Spanish conquest of the Inca in 1533. And that ancientness can be sensed, in a thousand different ways, just beneath the surface, in and around the Cuzco of today.

Still Waters Run Deep
One gets an odd feeling sitting in the main cathedral of Cuzco today. Everywhere you look you notice that each pillar and wall is constructed of the stones taken from destroyed Incan temples and buildings. The Inca were forced to worship their conqueror's God amidst the reconfigured remnants of their own past. 

Yet as I stood one morning watching my ostensibly Christian, Spanish (as a second language) speaking Quechua guide demonstrate to me the proper procedure for giving coca leaves to "The Gods" before ingesting them ourselves, I realized that this culture had only been subjugated; never conquered. 

As you browse Quechua markets seeing ebony pumas, serpents, and Inca crosses everywhere - you can feel it. As you stare into the coal black eyes of Incan descendants - eyes that seem to look back from another place - another epoch - you begin to sense the depth of time and place that lies behind those otherworldly glances.

 As you see festivals spilling spontaneously into the streets - the participants dancing steps with origins lost in the far distant past - wearing costumes which pre-date Christ - you somehow know that the cathedrals and plazas of the Conquistadors are but a ripple on the surface of a very still, and very deep river. 

And as you begin to absorb these messages - you begin to see why the Quechua has no word for friend - only for brother/sister.
You begin to know why goodbye never entered their language; why all leave-takings are seen as temporary; ephemeral.

As I left my guide before my return home - I knew that I had been subtly changed in some way by contact with these currents; by staring into this river. No words can adequately convey the nature of that change in me. I only know that as I left - I was certain that I would see my brother again.

Yesterday I made my way from Puno to Cuzco on a 10 hour bus ride across the Andean Altiplano. It was one of the (if not the) most scenic rides of my life. Wide stretches of total desolation, pampas, and mountains reaching 6000 meters, dotted with peasant villages filled with the descendants of the Incas.

The Altiplano is the high country of the Andes - well over 4000 meters. The air is thin and moving faster than a turtle is ill-advised. Here are a few photos to give you a glimpse of this wonderland.

Two Executions
This week two men were executed in different prisons here in the United States. Troy Davis was one of them, and his case received nationwide attention because there was considerable doubt about his guilt. 

And as last minute appeals to grant him a stay of execution were heard, nearly every news station in America covered the story live. Here was yet another case of a black American being put to death, in-spite of doubts about his guilt - and America was troubled.

Meanwhile, earlier that same evening, a man convicted of a brutal, racially motivated murder, was executed in Texas. And millions around the nation cheered. 

This man, Lawrence Russell Brewer, was a white man who had killed a black man by dragging him chained behind his truck for two miles - simply because he was black. It was a heinous hate-crime, and Mr. Brewer received little sympathy as he headed for the gallows.

But as thousands stood outside the prison (and millions more watched on television) and protested Mr. Davis' execution - nothing of the kind occurred in Texas. Indeed , for many, he couldn't be executed fast enough. However, there was one man there - protesting the execution of this white racist. There was a voice raised to say "This is wrong." And it was the voice of a black man who had himself often been on the receiving end of racist behavior. Yet here he stood to oppose the execution of one of the most evil of racists imaginable. This man was Dick Gregory.

A Slap to the Face
I first heard Dick Gregory speak in 1969, when I was a freshman in college at a little farm town in Washington State named Pullman; home to Washington State University. I remember him saying "I've never been here before, and even though this is a little all-white town in the middle of nowhere - I could find and buy heroin within three hours." That comment hit me like a slap in the face. It said to me, "you think you're in some protected bubble here? Well, there are no protective bubbles my friend. Reality is everywhere." And over his long career - Dick Gregory has slapped a lot of faces - and made many think the same thing I did, so long ago.

Dick Gregory became famous as a comedian. He was part of the first generation of so-called "cross-over" black comedians (negro, back then) that were allowed to present their material to white audiences. Hugh Hefner booked him into the Chicago Playboy Club in the early 60's - and he was on his way. He was funny. And safe. Along with other pioneering black comedians like Bill Cosby and Nipsy Russell, he delivered a tame sort of humor that white America could handle, while adjusting to the fact that he was "a negro".

But as time went on - he became less safe. He became a mentor to Cassius Clay - probably the most hated black man in America at the time. And when Clay became a Muslim and changed his name to Muhammed Ali, the association further weakened his acceptability in white America. 

Mr. Gregory then became a vocal and articulate critic of the war in Viet Nam. And white America pushed him further aside. And when Dick became a vegetarian - now he was deemed certifiably weird - and definitely no longer safe. 

Once weighing 350 pounds, drinking a fifth of Scotch and smoking four packs of cigarettes a day - his transformation both physically and ideologically troubled white America. Not only was he no longer safe - he had become downright threatening. And his days as a mainstream comedian were over.

Morality Affirmed
But Dick has stuck around, and continued to be the man he transformed himself into. His acerbic wit and unusual life-style have been challenging America's cultural pillars for over 50 years now. He has remained a fixture on the cultural periphery, a sort of modern Mark Twain, pointing to America's warts and blemishes and reminding us all that we're not nearly as cute as we think we are.

So when I saw him outside that Texas prison the other day - I wasn't really surprised. He was once again delivering a sharp 'slap to the face' of America. His presence there was a rebuke to the hypocrisy of those who opposed an unjust execution on the one hand, while they cheered a "just" one with the other. His presence and opposition to the killing of one of the most vile people to ever walk this Earth was a clarion call for moral consistency. For integrity.

I too had, deep within, cheered Mr. Brewer's execution. I remember thinking to myself, "Good. I hope he rots in hell." But as I saw Dick Gregory silently standing there - saying no to death, and yes to humanity - I once again felt that sharp slap in the face he first delivered to me as a young college student. And I felt pure, unadulterated shame for what I had just thought about this man's execution. 

And for instilling that feeling of shame and self-embarrassment in me, I have only one thing to say to Dick Gregory.
Thank you.

Is Québec in Canada?  
Seems like a simple question, answerable with a quick peek at a map. Yet each time I return and my friends at home ask me how my trip to "Canada" was, I always hesitate for a moment and have to ask myself, "what trip to Canada?" Then I remember the map, and I mutter a colloquial reply of some sort. 

But the fact is, when I'm in the province of Québec, I never really feel like I'm in Canada. When I travel to Vancouver, or Toronto, or Ottawa - yes - I know I'm in Canada. But Montréal, Québec City, Baie St. Paul? Then I'm no longer quite so sure. 

And it's much more than a geographical, or 'east versus west' issue. For example, I've recently been to Texas, New York, Washington state and Arizona. Each quite different, yet each completely American. But Calgary and Trois Rivieres? Now things aren't quite so matter of fact.

I realize that I tread on a touchy subject here. After all, twice in the last 30ish years the question of Québec sovereignty has been voted on in the province; bitterly contested and narrowly defeated both times. Raise the issue in north of the border social gatherings today and faces are quick to flush, tempers flare - and a hasty change of subject is usually the result. But I've been to Canada and its province of Québec a lot, and I'd like to share some of my experiences and impressions on the subject.

Parlez-vous français?
The biggest difference is, of course, language. English is spoken throughout most of Canada. For Americans, a trip to Canada is more like crossing a state line than an international border. Vancouver is so like Seattle in some ways that it's easy to get momentarily confused as to which one you're actually in. 

But cross the border into Québec, and suddenly it becomes very clear that you are indeed in a foreign country. The signs are in French. The newspapers, TV, radio - French. The people around you as you arrive are all (or mostly) speaking French. And suddenly, Vermont seems a million miles away instead of its actual one-hour drive from Montréal.

Officially, Canada is a bi-lingual country. 1969 saw the passing of the Official Languages Act insuring for the first time that all government services be provided in both French and English. And the Law 101 makes French the official language of the province of Québec. But the bi-lingualism only goes so far. 

Ask a question in English anywhere in Montreal and you are 99% certain to receive a response in French-accented English. But ask a question in French anywhere in Calgary, or Regina, or Winnipeg - and you are 99% certain to be met with a blank stare.

So is Canada really bi-lingual? Well - a large percentage of the citizens of Québec do speak, at the very least, functional English. Indeed, in public areas of Montréal you can expect fluency. But very, very few Canadians living in the other provinces speak any French whatsoever. Rien. So, in my experience, the answer is - it depends on where you are. As I heard someone say at a francophone dinner party in Montréal once - Yeah, Canada is bi-lingual - because we have to speak English.

A Culture of Difference
When I lived in South-Central LA in the early 70's, I was certainly in the USA - but I was also in a place few white Americans ever came to, or knew anything about. Yet everyone who lives in South-Central LA (no matter which city it's in) knows everything about "America". I get that same feeling when I'm on le plateau Mont-Royal in Montréal, or the neighborhoods of Québec City, or any number of other places in the province of Québec. 

And francophone Québecers largely feel the same. Canadians from other provinces are referred to as "the English". The sense of differentness is everywhere in Québec. I've been to Montréal 16 times in the last several years - and I can count on one hand the number of Canadian flags I've seen. But the blue and white flag of Québec with the fleur de lis is everywhere. 

Language and culture are inseparable. And I can certainly feel a much greater affinity between Paris and Québec City than the latter has with Regina. 

Fortress Québec
Québec has something else in-common with the South-Central LA's of the US; a sense of differentness born of being second-class citizens. And that's only natural given its history. 

In a very real sense, Québec remains an un-digested element of British colonial expansion. Québec, by losing a war, was subjected to British/Canadian political control - but it has always proudly guarded its unique linguistic and cultural identity. In-fact, the French spoken in Québec sounds more like that of Louis IV than that of modern-day Paris. And this is precisely because the linguistic integrity of Québec's French has been so zealously guarded from the assault of the sea of English surrounding it. Québec's isolation created a linguistic time-capsule of sorts.

And in many ways, Québec is more French than France herself. Come to a street corner anywhere in France and you see a Stop sign. Do the same in Québec and the sign says Arrêt. In France you send an email; in Québec un courriel. And there are many more examples like this. All manifestations of Québecers vigilance in protecting their culture & language from the cultural force of its Anglo neighbors. 

For most of its history in Canada, Québec has felt the sting of language discrimination and something less than full social inclusion. As a result, Québec's population was poorer and less integrated into national life than the citizens of any other province until quite recently. Something black Americans can definitely  relate to. Maybe that's why I always have a sub-sense of familiarity with everything Québécois.

Oh Canada
So is Québec really Canadian? Well, of course the answer is yes in formal political and economic terms. And the question of sovereignty is certainly not a topic of serious discussion anywhere in Canada today - including Québec.

But neither is it dead. Many still wish for it - someday - while accepting the facts on the ground of today. And even those Québecers who do not dream of sovereignty and are proudly Canadian, are at least equally proud of their unique culture and language. 

On my latest trip to Montréal, two of the biggest news stories were about Prime-Minister Harper's appointment of a communications chief who does not speak French, and a campaign to suppress the encroachment of English into public signs in downtown Montréal. And it seemed the near universal reaction to both stories across the province was a sense of exasperated acceptance that their guard can never be let down. 

So - Yes - Montréal and the rest of Québec is Canadian. If you look hard enough, you might even find a Canadian flag there to prove it. But cultural vigilance, provincial pride, and a deep sense of uniqueness are center-pieces of life for les Québécois - and The English forget this at their peril.

Memory Lane
There's a long walkway at the San Francisco Airport which leads to the United Airlines gates. And it has become a museum of sorts, with fascinating exhibits of varying kinds displayed there throughout the year; an entertaining and educational diversion for travelers passing by. 

Over the years I've seen exhibits of kitchen-ware, computers, furniture, and much more as I passed by on the way to catch a flight. It changes about four times a year - and is always interesting.

As I walked through the current display a few weeks ago, I initially smiled and thought "How cool !" It's a collection of 1950's television and public media memorabilia. There were the faces and programs I had grown-up watching. 

I knew them all quite well, and had specific memories involving each. For anyone over 55 - this was a walk through our own personal history. There was Howdy Doodie, and the Honeymooners. The Lone Ranger, Davy Crockett, and Hop Along Cassidy. 

There were the old TV's from the 50's too. I can still remember when they seemed quite modern to me. Now they looked unbelievably old, and primitive. And over it all hung the air of nostalgia. My initial reaction was one of a sense of fondness; a sense of missing the joys of this simpler, happier time. I think it's a fairly common reaction to seeing images from one's childhood. 

I'd arrived quite early for my flight that day, so I was able to really take my time. I slowly walked from one exhibit case to another - reading the descriptions - lingering over photos I knew well, but hadn't seen in many years.

But as I neared the half-way point, I noticed that I was no longer feeling the warm and soothing glow of sentimentality that I'd experienced when I first approached the exhibit. 

A Detour to Reality
As I got deeper and deeper into the displays, that wistful sense of homesickness that is the core element of nostalgia was suddenly gone. 

I stood staring at photos of the Mickey Mouse Club, Ozzie & Harriet, and Wagon Train - and I gradually became overwhelmed with the inverse of my initial sense of nostalgia. I was becoming depressed and uncomfortable. 

And as I arrived at a photo of one of my all-time favorite childhood movies - Old Yeller - I was completely consumed with a sense of lamentation and annoyance. I caught a reflective glimpse of myself in the glass of the display case - and was shocked to see a look of pure, undiluted disdain on my face. In the space of twenty minutes I had gone from dreamy nostalgia to utter contempt - and sadness. And I knew why.

I suppose popular media is always a reflection not only of who we are - but also of how we want to see ourselves. It is the projection of our values, our interests - our society and culture. And that is why I was suddenly feeling so very un-nostalgic. 

For as I looked at all those happy faces and scenes from the 50's, it was suddenly very clear to me that in none of them did I see a reflection of who I was during that time. Indeed, these images and that culture were a very clear and obvious negation of me - and everyone like me. These images said to me "not only do you not count - we wish you weren't even here." 

You see, in none of those happy faces and scenes of life were there any images of people of color. There were no Asians. There were no Latinos. And there were certainly no black faces - nor black lives - featured in this compendium of American happiness. None. Not one. 

Ashes to Ashes
And as I stood there, I realized that as a child in the 50's I had absorbed thousands of images and messages that said "You don't matter. You don't count."

Yes - we've come a long, long way from that America - though we still have many challenges in front of us - and barriers to overcome. But the America displayed in those exhibits disappeared a long time ago. And as I strolled toward my flight that morning, my overriding feeling was "Thank God those days are gone."  My homesickness had evaporated in the realization that that America had never been my home. I had never been invited in. For me, that walk down memory lane had grabbed nostalgia by the throat - and shoved it into the grave where it so justly belongs.

So RIP 50's nostalgia. I miss you Not.

A Day-Trip from Paris
One of the advantages of a vacation in Paris is the number of really cool places there are to visit as day-trips outside the city. The most visited of these is probably Versailles - but there's also Giverny, Chartres and Fontainebleau - all very interesting, and all full of tourists. 

Yet there is one such trip that seems to have fallen-off the tourist radar screen - is close to Paris - and is an absolute gem. So if you're looking to get away from it all and still be in a magnificent locale, break-out your map and find Provins, just 40 miles southeast of Paris.

In 2001 Provins was named a UNESCO World Heritage site due to its rich history, beauty, and collection of well maintained medieval sites. And once there, the only thing you really need in order to traverse the entire city is a good pair of walking shoes - and a map.

Trains to Provins leave from the Gare d'Est roughly every hour (€18 round trip), and it's about a 90 minute ride with stops in a few small villages along the way. When buying your ticket, go to the window for the TER trains (Transport Exprès Régional) - not the SCNF window - since Provins is within the confines of l'Ile de France (essentially everything within a 40 mile radius of Paris).
http://www.ter-sncf.com/weeblylink_new_window

Upon arrival at the train station there are buses available into town - but it is such a small and quaint village that I suggest walking to maximize your on the ground time. There are two basic areas to explore; the village of Provins (lower town) where the current residents live - and the medieval hill section (upper town) where you will see the majority of historical sites.

The Tower
The walk from the train station to Le Tour César is a good place to start. This will take you through the lower village and up the hill to the historic medieval area; about a 30 minute, easy walk. And once up there, a trip inside le Tour César is well-worth the €4 entry fee, and a great place from which to see all of Provins. 

From here you have a 360° view of the village and surrounding countryside. There is also a film presented on the history of the area - and the opportunity to wander around a real, well preserved, medieval tower. It's pretty neat.

Just below the tower is the 12th century Maison Romane, which now houses the Provins Museum. And just a few steps from the museum is the upper town's central plaza, which is a great place to find something to eat, or simply sit with a sack lunch while you watch the world go by.

Medieval Fortifications
Leaving the plaza you will soon reach one of the highlights of the trip - the fortified walls built during the time of Charlemagne. Provins was the home to the Counts of Champagne during the Middle Ages and the principal location of the leading medieval fairs of that period. As such, it was in need of protection from brigands and foreign armies. Hence the fortifications. 

Medieval knight's armies once paraded down these very streets and through the Portes  (entry points through the walls) on their way to the Crusades. Walking along these fortifications today is like a journey back in time. And inside the fortifications, fascinating period performances are presented (e.g. The Eagles of Provins) that the entire family will love. And there's even a quite interesting (if somewhat gruesome) medieval weapons museum.

The Lower Village
As you eventually wander back into the lower town, there are two places of particular interest to see. The Notre Dame du Val clock tower dating from the 12th century, with a clock that still works. Also, St. Ayoul's Church close by - dating from 1000 A.D. 

At St. Ayoul's be sure to see of the saints sculpted into the foyer of the main entrance. You will notice that each and every one of them are missing their heads; a little momento of the anti-clerical zeal during The French Revolution.

From this point in the village you are a 10 minute walk away from the train station. And along the way you will see some of the oldest wood frame houses still standing in all of France.

 It is quite simply a delightful village - not swarmed by tourists (yet) - and a lovely place to walk and soak-up both history and charm. It will be one of the highlights of any trip to France, and completely doable as a day-trip from Paris.
http://www.provins.net/weeblylink_new_window

Of the many day-trips from Paris available to the energetic traveler, one of the most captivating is an excursion to Normandy and the D-Day battlefields. And while you could easily spend a week in the area and still not have time to see all that there is to see - you can actually cover quite a bit of ground in one day. It is a long, demanding day - but if you have the inclination and energy, it is well worth the effort. Let's get started.

Our first stop is actually the day before your trip. That's when you'll stop-by your favorite delicatessen (traiteur) to pick-up the items you'll pack for lunch the next day. Your day will be way too busy for stopping at a restaurant - and there are many wonderful picnic areas along our route - so prepare a sack of your favorite goodies and get a good night's sleep; our trip starts early.

The Train to Normandy
The first leg of the trip starts at the Gare St. Lazare where you will catch the first train to Caen at 6:45am. Be aware that no food is sold on the train and none of the station vendors will be open at that hour either - so bringing some breakfast items isn't a bad idea. It's a two hour train ride through the beautiful Norman countryside with brief stops in two or three cities along the way.

You'll arrive in Caen at 8:45am and after walking outside you'll find all the car rental agencies just across the street from the train station (except Hertz - which is around the corner to your right). Pick-up your rental car and let's hit the road. And this will be the trickiest part of your day; namely, finding the road. You'll want the N13 toward Cherbourg. It can get a little confusing when you get on the freeway in Caen, but just remember, when in doubt - follow the signs that say Cherbourg.

The Tour Begins
Our first stop is at Longues-sur Mer where you will find the only remaining long-range German artillery guns, still in their bunkers. To get there exit the N13 at Bayeux (sorry - no time for the tapestry today) and follow the many signs. The guns are in three well preserved (considering what they've been through) bunkers on an isolated cliff high above the D-Day landing beaches. 

Not only are the bunkers and guns fascinating - but the cliff offers a panoramic view of all of the D-Day beaches. You are above Gold Beach with the artificial Mulberry harbor at Arromanches clearly visible off to your right.

In-fact, you have a better view of the Arromanches-Mulberry area from here than if you'd actually driven there. Since you won't have time to see all the beaches we'll head for the one off to your left - and by far the most interesting - Omaha Beach.

The American D-Day Cemetery
The road just behind you is the D514, where you'll turn right toward Port-en Bessin. Pass through this quaint village and continue on to Colleville-sur-Mer (10km total) where you will find the American D-Day cemetery beautifully laid-out on the cliffs above Omaha Beach. 

I think the best word to describe this experience is sobering. Here you will see the final resting place of over 9000 American soldiers killed during the two-month long battle of Normandy. There is also an excellent Visitors Center with many fascinating items from the invasion and an excellent documentary film focusing on some of the men buried there. 

Also - near the parking lot and down the ridge toward the beach - you can still see several German machine gun emplacements. It's a reminder that some of the heaviest fighting on D-Day took place right where you're standing.

When you leave the cemetery you'll be back on the D514 heading toward St. Laurent (5km). Turn right at St. Laurent and follow the signs to Omaha Beach (1km). 

When you reach the beach turn left and follow the beach road as it traverses the full length of Omaha Beach. To your left are the ridges where the Germans were dug-in, and to your right Omaha Beach. At the end of the road you will be at Vierville.

Omaha Beach 
This is where I suggest getting out and taking a walk on the beach - for this is the location of the famous Dog-Green sector featured in the film Saving Private Ryan. As you stand at the water's edge here and face the cliffs in front of you, you can easily imagine the terror of that June day in 1944.

When you leave here, follow the road as it goes up the hill, away from the beach and back to the D514. At the corner is a small D-Day museum well worth the €5 admission fee. Spend some time here (but not too long) and then hit the road again.

Continue following the D514 (turn right out of the museum parking lot) and after 5km you will reach Point du Hoc - the famous cliffs scaled by the U.S. Army Rangers on D-Day. Here is a location where it seems as though the war ended just months ago.

Point du Hoc - The Ranger's Assault
As you walk out to the Point you will see not only the remains of many German bunkers and artillery emplacements - but the still existing craters left by the Allied bombs trying to knock-out those guns.

Standing on the cliffs - behind the barbed wire - and looking down at the beach below - you can only be amazed that men climbed it at all; let alone under enemy fire. You can also explore several intact German bunkers here - and see the exact view the Germans had on that day. As you head back to your car there is a pleasant picnic area near the Visitors Center where that lunch you brought will really come in handy about now.

Upon leaving Point du Hoc you will again be on the by now familiar D514 where a short 4km ahead you'll reach Grandcamp-Maisy and the Army Rangers museum. 

Or - if you've had enough of museums for the day - you'll also see several places along the way where you can stop and sample the local Calvados. But if you do - just remember you have some more narrow Norman road driving ahead of you.

German Cemetery
Now we are headed for our last stop on our day-trip. From Grandcamp-Maisy you will leave the D514 and take the D199 (there's only one direction to choose - so this one's easy) until you reach the D113 - where you'll take that road in the direction of La Cambe (left). While driving you will be passing through some beautiful countryside filled with the famous hedgerows that complicated the Allied thrust during the Battle of Normandy.

At La Cambe you will find one of the more interesting - and least visited - sites having to do with the battle; the German military cemetery. Here you will see the final resting place of over 9000 German soldiers killed in the Battle of Normandy. And walking along the rows of grave markers you will be struck by the number of 17 and 18 year old soldiers who rest there. Another sobering reminder of war's cruel harvest. 

Also at the cemetery is an extremely interesting and well organized Visitors Center called The Peace Center. In one of the display cases you will seen the personal affects of three German soldiers buried in the cemetery - complete with pictures from their wallets. 

It brings a face to an enemy we seldom see and reminds you that in-spite of everything - these were young men not so very different from those buried at Colleville-sur-Mer.

 True - they fought for one of the worst causes ever - but they were brave young men- with friends and family - just like those resting a few miles down the road.
The cemetery is located just next to highway N13, which will take us directly back to Caen (1 hour) - where it is now time to head. All the car rental agencies close at 7pm (so be careful to not cut that too close) and our train back to Paris is at 7:45pm.

Caen and the return to Paris
Once you drop-off your car you should have enough time to walk to the Orne River three blocks behind the train station. Take a stroll through this area and notice that even though you are in one of the oldest cities in France - there is hardly an old building to be found. 

And this is your last battle scene - for Caen was the site of some of the heaviest fighting of the entire Normandy campaign. Indeed - the city was virtually destroyed - which is why everything looks so new - including all of the bridges. 

In a way, the "newness" of Caen is like a scar on the face of Normandy. A scar which should constantly remind us of the cost of war.
Back to the train station for the 7:45 departure to Paris - which gets you back to St. Lazare at 10pm. Yes - it's a long day. But one you will remember always - and definitely worth the effort.

In November of 1942 Léopold Trepper walked into his dentist's office in occupied Paris and was promptly arrested by the Gestapo, who were laying in-wait. 

Trepper was no ordinary dental patient. The Germans had spent the last two years frantically looking for him, and that day in 1942 was a cause for celebration at Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin. Why? Because LéopoldTrepper (a Polish Jew) was the head of the Soviet spy ring in Paris which the Germans had nicknamed Die Rote Kapelle (The Red Orchestra) - and which had caused them much grief since the beginning of the war.

The Dance Begins
The Gestapo had nicknamed Trepper "The Big Chief" - and once captured he was treated with 'kid gloves' because their goal was to have him switch sides and work for the Nazis. So Trepper was not tortured for information, as so many others before had been. 

He was taken to Gestapo Headquarters in Paris and given a fairly comfortable room - under close supervision - and the process of wooing him to their side began. For if the Gestapo could win him over, then they could feed the Soviets false information through Trepper and turn their own tool against them. 

 Realizing the Nazis were more interested in trying to flip his loyalties than in killing him, Trepper played along, giving them just enough information to let them think they were winning this high-stakes game.  But he realized that his ruse of cooperation could not last forever; that he would have to escape before his usefulness expired, for once that happened, his days of relative comfort would be at an end.

Laying the Groundwork
As time went on, both jailers and the jailed became more at-ease with each other. His Gestapo handlers began to relax a bit - and they started working together in an atmosphere of, if not friendship, then of grudging collegiality. In-fact, one of the Gestapo agents had somewhat befriended him, and they often sat talking together for hours over a bottle of cognac - talking shop. 

The agent drank a lot - and had confided that he suffered from horrible hangovers that nothing seemed to relieve. Trepper kept telling him of a "miracle cure" for hangovers he knew of - but it could only be procured at one particular pharmacy in Paris. He occasionally told the agent, "One day I'll take you there."

 And sure enough, one day in September 1943 the Gestapo agent was suffering a particularly bad hangover, and he suggested that they go to the pharmacy Trepper had mentioned. It was called Pharmacie Bailly, near the Gare St. Lazare, and Trepper had chosen it because it occupied a very special location. 

It was situated in a corner building and had entrances (and exits) on two completely different streets - the one not visible from the other. His original plan had been, once inside, to hit the agent over the head and bolt out the other door, so that those waiting in the car outside would not see him, and escape. But as luck would have it, this proved unnecessary. 

The Escape
As the car pulled-up to the pharmacy entrance on the Rue de Rome that day, just Trepper, the agent with the hangover, and a driver were inside. They stopped in front of the door, at which point the Gestapo agent (who was feeling too ill to even walk-in) told Trepper to go inside, retrieve the medication, and then come right back out - to which Trepper replied "okay".

 Trepper then walked into the pharmacy, crossed through the busy interior to the other door on Rue du Rocher - walked out - and disappeared. Once the Gestapo agent realized what had happened he brought in troops to search the entire building and neighborhood - but The Big Chief was gone - and he remained in hiding till the liberation of Paris in August 1944.

A Parisian Time Capsule 
As remarkable as this story is - I discovered something almost equally so the day I set out to see this corner in Paris. I simply wanted to see the area where this daring escape had occurred - but as I approached the corner I could hardly believe my eyes. There stood not just the same building - but to my great surprise - the Pharmacie Bailly itself was still there!

I stood for a long time staring at the pharmacy - imagining Trepper walking in one door - and - heart pounding - out the other. And my heart was pounding too as I walked into the pharmacy - stood silently and absorbed the atmosphere - and then followed his path out the other side - all the while attracting curious looks from the employees inside.

Yes - it's just a corner in Paris. But it's a corner with a tale to tell - and a fascinating place in a city full of fascinating places. And absolutely free to visit - and absorb. Corner of Rue du Roche and Rue de Rome - across from the southwest side of the Gare St. Lazare.

By the way - Trepper died in Israel in 1982 - long outliving his Gestapo captors.

Our third area of escape from the tourist throngs of Paris is at the very last stop on the Metro Line number 1; the Chateau de Vincennes and the adjacent Bois de Vincennes. This is an immense area at the edge of Paris that was once a royal hunting ground, and today offers the crowd weary traveler both a fascinating piece of French history and an enjoyable respite. 

Upon exiting the Metro you will be just across the street from the Chateau de Vincennes. The Chateau is essentially a mini-Versailles with a medieval castle to go along with it – and one of the few fully preserved Donjons (or Keeps) in all of Europe. The grounds were once a royal residence complete with administrative buildings, royal residences, and its own cathedral - all of which is still intact.

The Donjon has a rich history including being a prison during the French Revolution (Mirabeau was briefly jailed here), headquarters to chief of the French Army at the outset of WWII, and SS headquarters during the German occupation. 

It's a fascinating place to visit – and the grounds offer a lovely place to sit on the grass and read a book too. Entry to the Chateau is free – and €8 to go inside the Donjon and Cathedral. And not only is it an interesting place to visit, it also happens to not be inundated with foreign tourists; yet.

Adjacent to the Chateau is the immense Bois de Vincennes - essentially a giant park - which includes 4 lakes, a zoo, and miles and miles of scenic paths and picnic areas. This is where Parisians come to escape the city - and at three-times the size of New York's Central Park you will find it quite easy to have a little elbow room and breathing space all your own. 


http://en.chateau-vincennes.fr/weeblylink_new_window