People of Europe: The Good Samaritan

Our first day on the cycling tour had its frustrating moments. As I mentioned in my previous post about that day, Mark and I chose to do a part of the route backwards, something we really enjoyed and no regrets doing, but it put us a bit behind, and we were pretty much on our own come early afternoon. Everyone else was ahead of us.

So, coming out of Cruseilles - the town where we had had lunch - we got a bit lost. Mark's Garmin was saying to go one way, and my map was indicating that we should go another way. As we stood at the side of a highway leading out of Cruseilles, trying to figure out where we should go, a middle-aged man (who was probably younger than us), trotted across the highway and said in broken English, "You look a bit lost."

The city hall in Cruseilles. Mark and I had sat on the bench in front to each our lunch. There is a patisserie (bakery) next door, where Mark got a sandwich and I bought a small quiche provencal (pictured below). Then we each had an almond croissant for dessert.

I showed him the map and indicated the route we were supposed to be on, which was a teeny road leading out into the countryside from Cruseilles. He looked, nodded and said, "I have car. Come, follow me. I show you."

Wondering if we had heard correctly, we crossed the highway behind him. He got in his car, where a woman - presumably his wife - was already seated. He then made a u-turn and headed up a fairly steep hill, indicating with his arm out the window that we should follow him. We did. His car disappeared from sight, but after we made it up the hill, we saw that he was waiting for us. He then headed up another hill, and again we huffed and puffed up the hill after him. 

Eventually, he pulled over and indicated that we were on the route we needed. We profusely thanked him, then I asked him if I could take his picture. Both he and his wife smiled in delight, and the result was the photo pictured above.

There are kind people all around us. We were blessed to be reminded of that on Monday.

People of Europe: One of the Just

Since beginning our trip, I have written a series of posts about "Humans of Europe," a take-off on the Facebook page, "Humans of New York." But I've decided I prefer the term, "People of Europe."

I had two "encounters" yesterday with people of Europe. The first, the subject of this post, was with a dead man. As we were cycling in the morning through a little village, Mark and I stopped to take off our arm warmers. The village was more like a hamlet, a wide spot in the road. There was a church across from where I was standing, and as I happened to look up, I noticed a plaque on the wall of the house opposite the church, and this is what I saw.

"Here lived Father Claudius Fournier, pastor of Vers, 1929-1961, Awarded the Medal of the Just by the State of Israel for saving, at the peril of his life, numerous fleeing Jews under the German occupation from 1942-1944."

This was not the first time I have run across World War II-era memorials. There were several we ran across in the French Alps near Bourg d'Oisans, monuments to the "maquis," or the French name for the underground resistance during German occupation. But seeing this monument touched me particularly. I wondered about this man who had lived in that house and said mass in that church. So I did a little Googling, and this is what I found.

Father Fournier, pictured left, was, I suppose, like a number of other people during the war who was confronted with a decision of whether or not to help Jews escape into Switzerland. I don't know how he initially became involved in this effort, but there must have been a time when he cast his lot, then became increasingly involved, increasingly exposed to danger of being discovered, of being shot.

There is a fair amount that one can learn about Father Fournier, available on the Internet. I will summarize here some of what I have learned. The village of Vers was situated fairly close to the Swiss border and thus served as a relay station for those who were fleeing the Vichy regime (puppet government set up in southern France by the Germans) or German police, including many Jews. In September 1943, the Germans occupied the region and patrols of the frontier were reinforced. Nevertheless, Jews continued to come to Vers, alone or in groups. Fournier courageously hid them several hours or longer while he searched for a guide to take them across the border. It finally got to the point where he could find no guides, so he himself accompanied the fugitives to the Swiss border. 

Father Fournier went on with his daily life after the war, and it apparently wasn't until the mid-1950's before his role in the war came to light as a result of a radio broadcast. More and more Jews whom Fournier had helped cross came forward once the story was known, and he was eventually recognized by the State of Israel as one of the "Just." As one site wrote, "Recognized or not, they represent the best of humanity, all considering their efforts during the War as nothing more than their duty to Man." 

I'm glad I looked up at that plaque. I felt more connected to the human race of which I am a part.

Food and Humans of Europe: Nous Sommes Arrivés!

We have arrived (in the land of good food).

We had the most delicious meal at our hotel-chain hotel on Friday night since arriving in France last Tuesday. I do believe that the appetizer and dessert were two of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

My appetizer is pictured above. O ... M ... G... It was billed (in English) as "puffed pastry filled with tomatoes in honey, duck and aubergine caviar." I suspect something was lost in translation, but the cherry tomatoes were some of the most delicious I have ever tasted. The little puff pastry wafers were heavenly. But what was oh so yummy was the "caviar" (paste). So, so good; and the balsamic added the finishing touch. 

Mark and I both had the "spaghetti" with Bolognese sauce, which turned out to be linguine, but who I am to quibble over pasta.

It tasted good and was filling.

The pièce de résistance, however, was my dessert: Tiramisu framboise (raspberry tiramisu). This was perhaps the most delicious dessert I have ever tasted. I'm going to have to work on my foodie language. I don't have a lot of experience in this area. All I know is that is was d... good. Lovely. Delicate, yet hearty. Sweet, yet ... oh hell ... it was really good.

Now I get to the Humans of Europe part of this post. The little boy seated at the table next to us with his mother and older sister. With his blonde hair, mustard-colored shirt and green pants, he looked  a bit like a sweet pea. Not everyone can pull off that color combination. 

What made him cute is that he was perplexed by the way in which we (I) were switching back and forth between English and French. He really didn't know quite what to make of us. Thus the look on his face.

Humans of Europe: A Boy and His Father

Today, we cycled from Bourg d'Oisans to the Col de la Croix de Fer (Iron Cross). More about that later. As we began the true ascent several miles into the ride, we were passed by a father and his son, who appeared to be about 9-10 years old (the son, not the father). At that time, the ride was just commencing its climb through forested area, as depicted in the following photograph:

Mark and I remarked that it was amazing that a boy that age would be climbing the route to the Croix de Fer. We didn't see them again until we reached the col (which in French means "pass"). We saw him and his father, as well as the rest of the family. They were from Luxembourg, which we deduced from the license plate on their van. At the col, it became apparent that the mom was traveling in tandem with her husband and her son, with two other little boys and a child in arms (whose gender wasn't determined). Each of the two boys was dressed in a kit identical to that of the older brother: blue cycling shorts and a red and white polka-dot jersey. As Mark said, it was like the two little boys were preparing for the day when they, too, would ride with their father and older brother. (BTW, in the Tour de France, the red and white polka dot jersey is worn by the best climber. So cute.)

We were amazed that a boy this young could ascend 6300 feet from the valley floor to the Col de la Croix de Fer. I wanted to take the above picture to show to my children: how a boy their age could ride with his father on such an incredible ride. (Unfortunately, the father is not pictured). The boy is on the left; his mother is on the right. What a family! My story is that the father was once a professional cyclist. But I wondered what he does now. Regardless, I felt to salute these parents from Luxembourg who were spending such amazing time with their children and with each other. It would have been wonderful to talk with them.

Humans of Europe: Encounter at the Indiana

It's interesting. As we cycled our way up the Alpe d'Huez (which for any non-cyclists out there, is one of the iconic rides on the Tour de France), I thought about my project of writing every day while on this trip about someone I meet along the way. The thought occurred to me, "Hmmm. How are you going to write about encounters when most of the people you meet will be French, Italian and Greek?" The answer came to me today as we reached Alpe d'Huez and were sitting outside the "Bar L'Indiana."

Mark and I stopped here two years ago and ordered a "Croque Monsieur," which is basically a grilled cheese sandwich with ham. I ordered the same thing today. It's not exactly the summit of French cuisine, but I knew it would provide me with fat and carbohydrates, which is what I needed to complete today's ride.

When it was delivered, with the dulcet tones of Dolly Parton singing "Jolene" in the background, I asked the server (in French) whether it would be possible to have a knife and fork (because of my braces). She replied, rather indignantly, that this was a snack place and a fork was not going to be forthcoming. A knife, however, she could manage. I was grateful. If I had tried to pick up this sandwich and take a bite, the results would have been embarrassing. 

I took this in stride because, well, we are in France, and, well, the French can be quite blunt sometimes. So I used my knife, as the above photo demonstrates, but the ham was a killer because I couldn't manage to "cut" it with my teeth, bound as they are in metal. But whatever.

That's why I nearly keeled over when, after we got up to leave and disengage our bikes, a man came up to me and said in English, "Do you speak French?" I knew he was French, so I just didn't even try to pretend. "I speak English," I replied, recognizing immediately how silly that sounded. Of course I speak English; I'm an American. Nevertheless, this gallant Frenchman proceeded. 

My bike is in the foreground. The man who approached me has his back facing the camera, in the grey shirt. This is a close-up of the lead photo.

"I want to apologize for my fellow Frenchmen," he said. Suddenly, I was feeling lightheaded. No French person in my hearing has EVER apologized for a fellow countryman (or -woman). "I am so sorry that you have received such a poor welcome." At that point, I didn't really know what he was talking about. Then, it became clear as he continued. "All you did was ask for a fork, and to be treated the way you were was unforgivable." 

I was astounded. I explained that I had asked for a fork because of my braces. He nodded and said, "I know." "But it's not a big deal," I replied. "No," he insisted, "I want to apologize on behalf of my countrymen for your poor welcome." 

What could I do but reach forth my hand and tell him thank you. I wish I had taken a picture, and I swear from now on, I will.

Perhaps only those who have had experience traveling in France will recognize the significance of what I experienced today. My faith in the French is restored. I'm so thankful for that encounter. It, among other things, made me believe that I will have such encounters every day of our trip. Why? Because I will be looking for them.

Humans of Europe: A Pound from Matthew

In my last post, I wrote about a goal I have for this trip, i.e., to engage at least one person every day and then write about the encounter. Yesterday, I wrote about our ticket agent at the Delta counter in Salt Lake. Today, I will introduce you to Matthew.

Once again, I wish I had taken a picture of Matthew. Here’s what happened.

After we had finished at the TSA oversized baggage counter, our next task was to exchange some money at the Zion’s Bank counter. There hadn’t been anyone in line, but just before we headed over, a group of a half-dozen or so sister missionaries got in line.  They were interesting to watch. After completing her transaction, one sister walked by me muttering, a scowl on her face, “That was weird.” I couldn’t help thinking that this young woman has a lot to learn about judging people and being open to new experiences.

I thought the same as I saw elders hanging around, making phone calls on the pay phones. I noticed the different cuts of suits, some edgy but most standard issue. I also noticed that more than a few elders were wearing light brown shoes with their dark suits. That would have been a fashion faux pas back in the day, but I guess it’s okay now.

There must have been a least two dozen missionaries seated just behind us. I kept telling Mark to breathe (He has strong feelings about what these young men and women do, or rather what the LDS Church asks them to do.

As I looked at these young missionaries, I was reminded of my journey to France almost 30 years ago to the day. We flew to New York, then on to Paris on an Air France flight. I sat next to a French woman from Nancy. We conversed about what I was going to be doing in France, and of course I tried to give her a Book of Mormon, which she politely declined. Just as we were preparing to land, she turned to me and said, “Well, I think what you are doing is very interesting. However, if you’re going to work with the French, you really need to learn how to speak French.” I was crestfallen. What a reality check.

Me, my mission president and his wife, upon my arrival at the mission home outside Paris in August 1984

But I digress. Back to Matthew.

As I was standing in line to exchange money, a 20-something young man entered the line behind me. He asked if I might have any coin. (As I write this in our room, I hear a church bell ringing in the distance through our open windows.) He was English, a tall, blonde with a clear complexion and a very large smile. He exuded a sunny outlook on life. I said I didn’t. Turned out he needed money to use a pay phone to call the person who was to pick him up. 

After a few minutes, I had a “duh” moment, turned to him and said, “Would you like to use my cell phone to call your friend?” Brilliant smile. “That would be great!” he replied. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I handed him the phone, and he called his friend, reaching his voice mail. Matthew left a message, hung up and then asked if it would be ok to text his friend as well. “Sure.” 

When he was done, he handed the phone back and said, holding out a coin. “This is a British pound. I won’t be going back to England for quite some time. Please take it. Perhaps you may have use for it someday.” With that, he smiled – again – and took off. It made me feel good that I’d been able to help a complete stranger.

Life is grand.

Meanwhile, we arrived at our destination, Le Freney d'Oisans, late yesterday afternoon after driving down through gorgeous scenery from Geneva. Today, the plan is to ride the Alpe d'Huez. Should be interesting since we haven't been on our bikes since last Friday.

Scene just outside our hotel this morning.

This is the first thing I saw as I went outside this morning.

The bike mechanic at work.

Humans of Europe 2014

I love the Facebook page, Humans of New York. So many interesting stories and fascinating photographs. It, along with other things, inspired me to set a goal for this trip that my husband, Mark, and I are now on in Europe. My goal: to have an encounter with at least one person every day of the trip which I can then write about (and learn from and grow from). I will entitle theses posts "Humans of Europe 2014."

I already had two at the Salt Lake Airport before we left.

The first was our Delta ticket agent. By the luck of the draw,  we got a 50-something-year-old man. He was very pleasant, yet officious. He got us all taken care of at the counter, then walked with us and our two bike boxes down to the TSA counter for oversized luggage. I don't know if he was required to, but he stayed with us the whole time that the boxes were being examined by the TSA employee.

I wish I had gotten the Delta agent's name. It would have added so much. I would also liked to have taken his picture, but that might have been weird. So I will just refer to him as "the Delta Agent." So impersonal, but there you have it.

Mark dealt with the TSA guy while he opened first my box, then Mark's (both packed by Mark). Apparently, no one is supposed to touch the bags while they are being inspected. The TSA-er swabbed various areas of the bike for explosives (as if), then was done. Mark advanced at one point to help him restore his carefully-packed bike box, but the -er turned and said, "No. Stay there. You might have something up your sleeve that you could slip in the box. (I guess he just showed his hand.) I'll welcome your help when I'm done, but now now." The Delta Agent told me no one is allowed to touch the bag except the -er. 

While Mark was dealing with the -er, I was chatting with the Delta Agent. He appeared to be about my age (but I later learned that I am a few years older than he/ him? - grammarians feel free to jump in), and was quite personable, becoming more so the longer we talked. (Question: When is a person "able"?) While we were waiting a whole flock (and I choose my words carefully) of missionaries fresh out of the Missionary Training Center in Provo descended on the Delta kiosks. I wish I had taken a picture. It seemed like there were dozens of them (at least two).

I wondered aloud to the Agent whether the missionaries would be on the same flight to Paris. Then, I heard an elder walk by and say to another, "Vous etes prets?" I turned to the Agent and said, "Yep, they're going to France." He seemed surprised that I understood French. I then saw a couple of sister missionaries close by and noticed that their name tags said, "Soeur" ("sister" in French). That removed any doubt. Again, the surprise on the face of the Agent.

"I was a missionary in France a million years ago," I told the Agent. The first fleeting look that crossed his face appeared to be quizzical. My story was that he had deduced that Mark and I are a gay couple, and so he was trying momentarily to compute the fact that I had served a Mormon mission. That look quickly passed, and was replaced by a broadly-smiling face.

"I served in England," he said. I asked him where in England, and he proceeded to list a number of cities and towns in southern England, including London. "My daughter," he added, "is now in Trinidad." And so we chatted. Two humans.

The subject then came around to our bicycles. He asked if we had been in the recent Tour of Utah. I chuckled and said, "No, that's for professionals." "Oh," he replied, I thought you guys are professionals." (Gotta love it.)

As we completed the bike baggage check, I said good-bye to the Agent, shaking his hand. He, in turn, wished us bon voyage. I later reflected that I had perhaps done a little missionary work myself that day. Perhaps I had demonstrated to him, and apparently active Mormon, that gay people are just like everyone else.

But regardless of all that, we connected as human to human while we overlooked the -er (who I am sure has a very interesting story) complete his task.

Life is grand.

(BTW, the second encounter will have to wait to the next post. I'll just say, as a teaser, that it involves a British pound coin. Seriously.)

Also, BTW, the lead picture was taken of our window in our small hotel in Le Freney d'Oisans. As I write this, I am sitting with Mark outside the hotel on a cool summer evening, watching the glow of the sun recede from the forested hills across from us. (A note to my brother-in-law, Koen: A Dutch guy is about 15 feet away speaking in Dutch (?), to Rob, one of the owners - along with his partner/husband Dirk - of the Hotel Cassini where we are staying. I thought of you.)