Monday, August 8, 2005

I awoke tangled in a sleeping bag, travel towel and scarf, and sweating in my many layers of socks and tank tops. It was my first day in Bayeux, and James and I were on a mission.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

We had decided during our planning stages that we would visit the D-Day Beaches of Normandy. It would be an especially meaningful experience for both of us because our grandfathers had each taken part in the D-Day invasion during World War II. James’s grandfather was a tank commander for the British Army. He went ashore on Sword Beach during Operation Neptune in 1944.

My grandfather's flight log

My grandfather was a ball turret gunner on a B17 Flying Fortress called “Pretty Baby,” and flew two missions over the D-Day beaches, which my family discovered only recently. We have his flight log and there are two entries for June 6, 1944, both labeled “Invasion Coast, France.” He was stationed in England for part of World War II, and participated in over 30 missions between May and September of 1944. He flew over mostly France and Germany, but he also flew over Belgium, Czechoslovakia and Denmark a few times.

"Johnny and His 'Ball', 3-44"

My grandfather next to a ball turret on a B-17

Crew of Flying Fortress "Pretty Baby"

My grandfather is in the top row, second from the left

My mom tells me that her father never talked about the war, which I gather is pretty common. James’s grandfather rarely talked about his fighting experiences, only the camaraderie he felt with his fellow veterans.

My grandfather is on the right

James and I caught a bus from the Bayeux train station that took us through the French countryside toward the beaches. After what felt like forever, we took a chance and got off the bus. We wandered down the road and found ourselves at the American Cemetery on the bluffs above Omaha Beach.

American Cemetery, Normandy, France

No photos, movies or books could have prepared me for the sheer scale of white crosses and Stars of David. They went on forever, rows and rows of them. When you see the enormity of the memorials and realize that each white marble marker represents a person who was lost, and that there were many, many more beyond what you can see, it’s hard to not feel emotional. I saw a woman crying in the chapel, and many others with tears in their eyes. I wondered if they were searching for the graves of family members.

American Cemetery, Normandy, France

James and I wandered among the markers, reading some of the names, noticing the flowers left. Some graves had wet sand rubbed across the carved names, locations and dates, pressed into the letters and numbers so they could be read easily. This single cemetery contains the remains of 9,387 people. There are 13 more American World War II cemeteries on foreign soil*. That’s only American cemeteries. From that, just try and imagine how many were lost. It’s unreal.

We took the path down the bluffs and onto the beach itself. It was a beautiful day, with hardly any clouds in the sky. We could see beachgoers farther down the coast, and the wind carried only the faintest sounds of laughter over the surf. James and I were quiet. I think we were both lost in our own thoughts, imagining what it must have been like for other young people, two in particular, in the same place we were standing in 1944.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

*Figure taken from a leaflet prepared by The American Battle Monuments Commission, Normandy American Cemetery

Sunday, August 7, 2005

France from the Window of the Ferry

We arrived in Le Havre on Sunday morning. James and I, having spent a fairly sleepless night in and in the vicinity of our “reclining seats,” tried perking ourselves up with a breakfast and strong coffee. Here we were, at the very outset of our European adventure, tired to the bone already.

The very first glimpse of France in the dawn light did more for our spirits than any coffee could. France, and the whole of Europe, seemed to blossom before us out of nothingness. We had a rough itinerary together, and we were eager to disembark the ferry, catch a train, and disappear into the countryside.

France From the Window of the Ferry

Unfortunately, being a Sunday, train service was rather limited, which neither James nor I had taken into account. Also, as Le Havre is at the tip of a finger of land, there didn’t seem to be a direct train to the west. Our best bet would be to catch a train inland to Paris and change to another train back out to the northwest coast. The earliest train to Paris was in a little under 3 hours.

And so, we waited.

James, our backpacks, and I all sat on the marble floor of the Le Havre train station and waited, our butts growing cold and numb. Aside from the local pigeons, we didn’t see anyone else. I pulled out Europe on a Shoestring and began looking for what our next destination would be. We both decided that Bayeux looked like a good bet, especially since its campground looked cheap.

We caught our train to Paris, arriving at Saint Lazare station to grab a quick lunch of salami in a crusty baguette (a meal I would soon get really tired of), and hopped a train to Caen. We had a few hours to kill before catching another train to our final destination of Bayeux, so we decided to kill a few glasses of wine (“Je voudrais un vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”) while we waited at the tiny bar we could see from the station. I felt oh-so-European, sitting on the sidewalk at a tiny round table, sipping my wine and watching the world pass me by. Of course, I probably looked oh-so-touristy, with my giant backpack’s straps wrapped around my legs, my google-eyed stare darting left to right without ceasing, the unmistakable whiff of overnight ferry and fried breakfast caught in my hair. Ah well, c’est la vie.

Bayeux Station

When we finally pulled into Bayeux and realized we had no idea how to get to the municipal campsite, our fatigue got the best of us. We took a cab from the station, vowing that this was to be the first and only time we’d splurge on a taxi while we were traveling.

Our five minute taxi ride took us straight through town to the campsite, where we eagerly pitched our tent. That first night was one of the coldest, and brought back strong memories of my beach-camping experience. As the night wore on and the sea air got colder and colder, just about every item of clothing I’d brought found its way onto my body: jeans, socks, tank tops, more socks, long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirt, even more socks, scarf, finally even my towel. Unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I started to dread the coming month.

Saturday, August 6, 2005

It was time to go. Somehow my enormous backpack and I managed to get from my flat at Old Street to James’ house in Stoke Newington without taking anybody out. After a few final preparations (Passports? Cameras? Underwear? Check, check and check.) and a final home-cooked meal of chicken kievs and potatoes, we were ready to begin our journey. His parents drove us to London Waterloo station, wished us well and waved goodbye. We boarded our evening train to Portsmouth, and then we were off, my stomach in my throat.

A bookworm by nature, I had limited myself to bringing only 3 books to last me a month: Rite of Passage: Tales of Backpacking ‘Round Europe from Lonely Planet, Deep France: A Writer’s Year in the Bearn by Celia Brayfield, and the Lonely Planet’s Europe on a Shoestring: Big Trips on Small Budgets. (Can we see a trend here?) I pulled out Rite of Passage and began to scare myself silly. With stories of hostels that smelled like vomit and being mugged not once but twice in Saint’s Station, Barcelona, this was probably not the best choice of books to bring with me while experiencing my first backpacking adventure. With some distance and time, I can chuckle and empathize with these writers and fellow travelers, but at the time it just terrified me.

In no time, James and I were in Portsmouth, where we would leave behind Britain and all of its familiarity. As dusk fell around us, we made our way on foot to the harbor, where we had two seats on the overnight ferry to Le Havre waiting for us. Still a beginner at this backpacking thing, I felt like I was walking through neck-high water: exerting all the effort and not getting very far very fast. What a relief it was to find the ferry terminal.

As we pushed off, James and I stood on deck at the railing, watching England slowly slip away from us and be swallowed by the night. “I’m in the middle of the English Channel!” I thought to myself, mentally conjuring up a map of the world with a big X over southern California and an even bigger X in the space between Britain and France (You Are HERE). Just living in London alone had been a huge mind-bender at times (I live HERE?), so embarking on a European adventure was almost beyond belief.

The ferry to France takes longer overnight than it does in the daytime, so we had a long night ahead of us. The reclining seats we’d booked were disappointingly uncomfortable, with cold plastic covers and unmovable arm rests, and in actuality only reclined maybe 12 inches. Apparently our fellow travelers were just as disappointed, because before long, virtually all available floor space was taken over by sleeping bags and bodies. I bedded down in the aisle between the seats, only to be stepped on repeatedly throughout the night. The room we were in felt like a movie theater without a screen, or a conference room with no podium or stage. Just lots of bodies, anticipation brewing like a strong pot of coffee, making sleep impossible.

Late July, 2005

I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up, much less walk. My borrowed purple backpack was a monstrosity, almost as tall as me, and stuffed with tank tops, underwear, a camping stove, and whatever else I thought I’d need for the next month. It was all part of the crazy idea James and I had come up with to backpack around Europe after we graduated from art school. Crazy to me, anyway; I’d never dreamed of doing anything like this, and up until a few months earlier, had always said I hated camping and had no desire to do it. (This claim was based on one night in a tiny tent on the beach with my church youth group when I was 12. My sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough, my socks were damp, and the youth pastor’s kids threw rocks at my tent all night.)

Nevertheless, James and I came up with a plan: after we finished art school at our respective universities, we’d take a month to travel around Europe by train, carrying everything we needed in our backpacks, and find cheap campgrounds to pitch our tent in along the way. By the time we returned to London, my 3 year student visa would have expired, and I’d have to pack up and move home to southern California.

That July was an eventful month. After a rigorous campaign, London won the bid to host the Olympics in 2012. The Red Arrows flew over the city toward Buckingham Palace in celebration. The following morning, London’s underground and bus systems were attacked by suicide bombers. Thankfully, none of our crowd was lost or injured.

My family flew in for our graduations. Degree shows came to a close. James and I had a weekend trip to Wales, where I experienced the joys of peeing outdoors, along with many other firsts. (Lentils being one of them. Also sleeping in a sauna and seeing the Milky Way.)

And then it was time.

I looked at my backpack, innocently sitting on the floor of my room. I somehow contorted backwards, stuck my arms through the straps, and tried to straighten up. And immediately fell backwards onto my bed.