Blessing in Bucharest
By Peabod
There was a sense of mystery; a feeling of intrigue the first time I ventured into Eastern Europe. It was winter, and the dull gray skies of light-shortened days combined with the surroundings and the weather to create the illusion of stepping back into one of those black and white espionage films of the 40s.
Years ago, I was traveling in Romania with a group of students from Wingate College. It was during the time when Nicolae Ceausescou was in power; a time when those shadowy and sinister feelings were very much a reality. At that time, Romania was the most intensely surveilled and Stalinistic country in Eastern Europe.
We crossed the border by train from Hungary on New Year’s Day after it had stopped for a couple of hours while Romanian customs officials performed a thorough search of each railway car.
Even in their inebriated state after a day of celebration, the inspectors were efficient and humorless as they went about their duties. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, the train lurched forward through the black surroundings shrouded by the Carpathian Mountains.
Throughout the night, each time the train made a stop, gypsies would emerge from the curtain of darkness with their babies in their arms, begging for money and cigarettes.
By mid-morning, we reached Bucharest, a city of two million people in a country that had no national history until the end of the American Civil War.
In Bucharest, the New Year’s trees were brightly decorated with ribbons and tinsel. Trees were not allowed to be decorated until after Christmas since Christmas was not acknowledged or tolerated by the government.
Romanians could attend church, but they were required to register their attendance with the government within 24-hours of doing so, which could have a severe effect on upward mobility for workers in the already oppressive society. Therefore, most of the people who went to church were elderly – but still they came; despite the hardship and the weather and the lack of transportation.
They came in such numbers that we had to sit in the balcony for the service because the lower part of the sanctuary was full. The men sat on the left; the women on the right. No one removed their overcoats in the poorly heated sanctuary, and the only sign of color was the brightly colored scarves the women wore on their heads.
Throughout the service, whenever we stood, the Romanians kept turning from below, looking up to the balcony. It was unusual for them to see so many visitors, especially from America, in their place of worship. And speaking only with their eyes, it was as if they were reaching out to touch us with their hearts.
After two hours, the service came to an end, and the Wingate students walked down the balcony stairs to the vestibule to greet the Romanians who were leaving the sanctuary. The students formed a semi-circle at the door, shaking hands and smiling at the people as they departed. Then an old Romanian woman looked at one of the Wingate students and uttered the word, “Pace.”
The young girl from Wingate turned to our interpreter who simply translated, “Pace. It means ‘peace’.”
Soon the entire vestibule was filled with the hushed tones of American and Romanian voices, all saying the word, “Pace.” It was totally appropriate, for it was the only word that needed to be spoken.
They said it over and over again. “Pace. Pace.”
Then in the dim light of the room, the young coed from Wingate reached into her purse and handed the old Romanian woman a small English version of the Bible.
The woman looked down and began to cry softly, quietly. As the tears rolled gently down her cheeks, she looked at the interpreter, and in her native language said, “All my life I have dreamed of having an English version of the Bible. Today you have answered my prayers.”
Then the Romanian woman spoke again as the interpreter repeated her next sentence, “She says she only knows three words in English.”
At that moment, the Romanian moved forward to hug the young woman from Wingate and, as she did, she whispered into her ear, “I love you.”
Three simple words. “I love you.”
The message is universal, and even in that dreary, bleak corner of the world there was hope, there was faith and there was love.
And the candle still flickers because people still do believe. For perhaps better than anyone, those people understood the meaning of the word, “Pace.”
Monday, February 16, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Switzerland
Hans Odermatt, “Le Montangard”
By Peabod
His name was Hans Odermatt, and he was one of those people you never forget, regardless of how long or how brief the encounter.
It wasn’t so much the hand-knitted woolen knee socks that made him distinctive. Nor was it his home-made wooden sandals with the thick leather straps that arched across his feet. It wasn’t even the snow-white Santa Claus beard that nearly grew down to his chest. No, it was more than that. It was his spirit; undefinable and intangible, but nevertheless an aura that touched everyone who ever walked into his little restaurant in the hills overlooking Montreux, Switzerland.
Hans Odermatt was a simple man. A carpenter by trade. But when the armies of the world mustered their forces and surrounded Switzerland in the 1940s, Hans left his beloved mountains and traveled to Australia. It was there that he learned to speak English.
When the war was over, Odermatt returned to Zurich where he enrolled in a culinary school. When he had mastered all that he could about the art of food and its preparation, he went back to the rural highlands that rise over Lake Geneva.
With his life’s savings of 20,000 Swiss francs, Odermatt purchased a stable, and being a carpenter, he decided to transform the old barn into a restaurant. Working with his own hands by day, Hans built his dream timber by timber, nail by nail. Then at night he would prepare fondue and raclette for the villagers who lived in the countryside.
Before long, the restaurant became a culinary showcase known throughout the region, and soon, the rich and the famous found their way to Hans Odermatt’s kitchen. William Holden. President Richard Nixon. Richard Burton. David Niven. Even Charlie Chaplin and Charles Lindbergh, who owned estates and lived along the shores of the lake, were visitors to the “Le Montangard” restaurant. And every night when his cooking chores were complete, the little man with the wooden shoes and snow-white beard would sit in a corner booth with a glass of red wine in his hand, and proudly survey his domain.
Yes, Hans Odermatt was a simple man. A man who claimed he didn’t need a calendar because in springtime he knew what day of the month it was by the wildflowers that climbed ever higher up the hillside just outside his window.
When asked about his world famous clientele, Odermatt stated humbly, with tears in his eyes, “The villargers are the most important for me. They come every night, and the rich and the famous don’t spend any more than the peasants do.”
Hans Odermatt is gone now. He died many years ago doing what he loved most, cooking in the restaurant he built with his bare hands. But the restaurant still thrives. Le Montangard means “The Mountain Man" in English. It’s easy to find. Just take a short, serpentine taxi ride from the city of Montreux up into the hills. The driver will know where it is.
And somewhere Hans will proudly be watching from a corner of heaven with a glass of red wine in his hand.
His name was Hans Odermatt, and he was one of those people you never forget, regardless of how long or how brief the encounter.
It wasn’t so much the hand-knitted woolen knee socks that made him distinctive. Nor was it his home-made wooden sandals with the thick leather straps that arched across his feet. It wasn’t even the snow-white Santa Claus beard that nearly grew down to his chest. No, it was more than that. It was his spirit; undefinable and intangible, but nevertheless an aura that touched everyone who ever walked into his little restaurant in the hills overlooking Montreux, Switzerland.
Hans Odermatt was a simple man. A carpenter by trade. But when the armies of the world mustered their forces and surrounded Switzerland in the 1940s, Hans left his beloved mountains and traveled to Australia. It was there that he learned to speak English.
When the war was over, Odermatt returned to Zurich where he enrolled in a culinary school. When he had mastered all that he could about the art of food and its preparation, he went back to the rural highlands that rise over Lake Geneva.
With his life’s savings of 20,000 Swiss francs, Odermatt purchased a stable, and being a carpenter, he decided to transform the old barn into a restaurant. Working with his own hands by day, Hans built his dream timber by timber, nail by nail. Then at night he would prepare fondue and raclette for the villagers who lived in the countryside.
Before long, the restaurant became a culinary showcase known throughout the region, and soon, the rich and the famous found their way to Hans Odermatt’s kitchen. William Holden. President Richard Nixon. Richard Burton. David Niven. Even Charlie Chaplin and Charles Lindbergh, who owned estates and lived along the shores of the lake, were visitors to the “Le Montangard” restaurant. And every night when his cooking chores were complete, the little man with the wooden shoes and snow-white beard would sit in a corner booth with a glass of red wine in his hand, and proudly survey his domain.
Yes, Hans Odermatt was a simple man. A man who claimed he didn’t need a calendar because in springtime he knew what day of the month it was by the wildflowers that climbed ever higher up the hillside just outside his window.
When asked about his world famous clientele, Odermatt stated humbly, with tears in his eyes, “The villargers are the most important for me. They come every night, and the rich and the famous don’t spend any more than the peasants do.”
Hans Odermatt is gone now. He died many years ago doing what he loved most, cooking in the restaurant he built with his bare hands. But the restaurant still thrives. Le Montangard means “The Mountain Man" in English. It’s easy to find. Just take a short, serpentine taxi ride from the city of Montreux up into the hills. The driver will know where it is.
And somewhere Hans will proudly be watching from a corner of heaven with a glass of red wine in his hand.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Sweden
The Gota Canal: Environmental Blue Ribbon
By Peabod
For most of us, the idea of taking a cruise conjures images of the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, Alaska or even the Panama Canal. But for many travelers, transiting the Panama Canal is merely a part of a checklist of things to experience. In the scheme of things, it becomes more of a conversation piece to extrude from a traveler’s dossier than something that instills romance or creates longings to pursue extended junkets to other parts of the world.
This is about a different kind of cruise however, and a very different type of canal. It is located in Sweden, and while it is regarded as a major attraction throughout the country, the Gota Canal, affectionately known to Swedes as “The Blue Ribbon,” remains relatively unknown to the rest of the world. This makes it an ideal subject for social gatherings, because the Gota Canal can be counted among an ever-dwindling list of discoveries that travelers often seek, but rarely encounter.
By Peabod
For most of us, the idea of taking a cruise conjures images of the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, Alaska or even the Panama Canal. But for many travelers, transiting the Panama Canal is merely a part of a checklist of things to experience. In the scheme of things, it becomes more of a conversation piece to extrude from a traveler’s dossier than something that instills romance or creates longings to pursue extended junkets to other parts of the world.
This is about a different kind of cruise however, and a very different type of canal. It is located in Sweden, and while it is regarded as a major attraction throughout the country, the Gota Canal, affectionately known to Swedes as “The Blue Ribbon,” remains relatively unknown to the rest of the world. This makes it an ideal subject for social gatherings, because the Gota Canal can be counted among an ever-dwindling list of discoveries that travelers often seek, but rarely encounter.
Like most canals, the purpose of the waterway was a shortcut, designed to expedite iron exports between Stockholm in the east of Sweden with Gothenburg in the west. It was also built to avoid exorbitant Danish customs charges for passage through the Oresund Sound.
The project had been proposed as early as 1526, but the idea was tabled for financial reasons and did not arise again until the 18th century. By 1750, it was finally decided that construction of the canal should be undertaken. Funding was not allocated during the following session of parliament however, and before parliament could meet again, Sweden was at war with Prussia. The canal was no longer a priority.
By May of 1810, with wars at an end and financing in hand, work began on the Gota Canal. For the next 22-years, 58,000 men worked 12-hour days, 6-days a week to complete the project. When it was finished in 1832, the canal was the quickest, most efficient way across Sweden. Today, it is probably the slowest.
For nearly 100-years the Gota Canal was a huge financial success, making the four day journey from one side of Sweden to the other by transporting everything from grain to pulpwood and timber, to coal and oil, and minerals and sundry goods.
By May of 1810, with wars at an end and financing in hand, work began on the Gota Canal. For the next 22-years, 58,000 men worked 12-hour days, 6-days a week to complete the project. When it was finished in 1832, the canal was the quickest, most efficient way across Sweden. Today, it is probably the slowest.
For nearly 100-years the Gota Canal was a huge financial success, making the four day journey from one side of Sweden to the other by transporting everything from grain to pulpwood and timber, to coal and oil, and minerals and sundry goods.
But times change. With advent of motorized vehicles and improved railway transportation, the usefulness of the Gota Canal rapidly declined. Happily, the death of commerce along the waterway, brought with it the birth of tourism and pleasure boating. When the government took over the operation of the canal in 1978, it became an environmental masterpiece overnight, and it has been attracting visitors from all over the world ever since.
Ask any Swede to describe the single best feature of the country and they will all mention the environment. While they may express it a thousand different ways, the answer always returns to a reverence for the natural beauty of Sweden’s woodlands, lakes and archipelagos. Whatever your environmental passion, be it bird watching, wildlife, scenery, history, the idyllic serenity of the surrounding countryside or any combination of those things, the Gota Canal has become the ideal place to observe them all.
Today the canal can be sailed aboard three historic ships that ply its waters throughout the summer. Depending upon the ship you choose, capacity ranges from 28 cabins to 31, each with enough space to accommodate 60 passengers. The flagship of the mini-fleet is the Juno, which went into service in 1874. It took nearly four decades for the Wilhelm Tham to join her in 1912, followed by the Diana, which was built in 1931. Juno and Wilhelm Tham do four-day excursions, while the Diana makes six-day outings. Diana also does several seven-day sailings that cater to golfers.
Today the canal can be sailed aboard three historic ships that ply its waters throughout the summer. Depending upon the ship you choose, capacity ranges from 28 cabins to 31, each with enough space to accommodate 60 passengers. The flagship of the mini-fleet is the Juno, which went into service in 1874. It took nearly four decades for the Wilhelm Tham to join her in 1912, followed by the Diana, which was built in 1931. Juno and Wilhelm Tham do four-day excursions, while the Diana makes six-day outings. Diana also does several seven-day sailings that cater to golfers.
Each ship features cabins on three decks. As you might expect, accommodations are necessarily small. Cabins do include wash basins with hot and cold water, but showers are found only on the main and bridge decks. There are bathrooms on each deck, but no private facilities in the rooms. Still, the polished brass, varnished doors and cozy surroundings create an intimate, romantic ambience throughout, and the postage-stamp living arrangements quickly yield to a picturesque travel experience that will not soon be forgotten.
The canal is a friendly place. All along the route there are walkers and bikers who carry on conversations with passengers as the ships glide along their tranquil course. In many places, people actually walk faster than the ship, and many “landlubbers” take up the challenge of racing the ship as a source of exercise on the way to the next lock.
The canal is a friendly place. All along the route there are walkers and bikers who carry on conversations with passengers as the ships glide along their tranquil course. In many places, people actually walk faster than the ship, and many “landlubbers” take up the challenge of racing the ship as a source of exercise on the way to the next lock.
The concept for the Gota (pronounced YER-ta by Swedes) Canal was simple, to connect two major lakes, Vanern and Vattern, plus the western archipelago of the Baltic Sea from Stockholm to Mem, with a series of manmade canals that link the two most important cities of the country. The result, a total of 58 locks and 65 bridges along an intricate, serpentine system of waterways that crest some 300-feet above sea level.
Locks are always gathering spots. They are a good place for passengers to get off the ship to observe the process of raising or lowering the tiny vessels from one level to another. It is always and “event” whenever a ship arrives at a lock. Passengers mingle with locals who have stopped along the towpath for a picnic or merely want to pause to offer moral support. Even though Swedes are sun worshippers by nature, it is not uncommon for a ship’s passage through a lock to briefly disrupt someone’s tanning ritual, but that’s all part of the genteel ambience of the canal.
At Berg, about halfway along the canal, the ships navigate 15-locks along a two-mile stretch that features a remarkable 59-foot change in the elevation of the water levels. The most elaborate portion of this section is a series of nine locks which basically form a huge aqua-escalator for the boats to make methodical maneuvers up or down the picturesque marine staircase before continuing their journey. As one might expect, this segment of the canal is particularly popular for passengers and observers alike.
Locks are always gathering spots. They are a good place for passengers to get off the ship to observe the process of raising or lowering the tiny vessels from one level to another. It is always and “event” whenever a ship arrives at a lock. Passengers mingle with locals who have stopped along the towpath for a picnic or merely want to pause to offer moral support. Even though Swedes are sun worshippers by nature, it is not uncommon for a ship’s passage through a lock to briefly disrupt someone’s tanning ritual, but that’s all part of the genteel ambience of the canal.
At Berg, about halfway along the canal, the ships navigate 15-locks along a two-mile stretch that features a remarkable 59-foot change in the elevation of the water levels. The most elaborate portion of this section is a series of nine locks which basically form a huge aqua-escalator for the boats to make methodical maneuvers up or down the picturesque marine staircase before continuing their journey. As one might expect, this segment of the canal is particularly popular for passengers and observers alike.
The width of the canal is only about 80-feet at its widest points along the water’s surface, with a depth of about 12-feet. Maximum speed for the ships is 5-knots. The meandering route travels past medieval castles, ancient fortresses, Sweden’s oldest spa, museums and charming villages that are all nestled among the glorious natural settings so beloved by the citizens of the country.
While aboard the ship, you can bask in the morning sunshine as the day unfolds just beyond the bow of the ship, and later, revel in the stunning richness of fading light that only a Scandinavian summer can create. The angle of the northern sun has a way of enhancing colors, giving them a vibrancy that must be witnessed at twilight to be appreciated, for they are impossible to describe.
While aboard the ship, you can bask in the morning sunshine as the day unfolds just beyond the bow of the ship, and later, revel in the stunning richness of fading light that only a Scandinavian summer can create. The angle of the northern sun has a way of enhancing colors, giving them a vibrancy that must be witnessed at twilight to be appreciated, for they are impossible to describe.
In short, the Gota Canal is an environmentalist’s paradise, and it may just be one of the best kept tourism secrets in the world. Here you can float gracefully across a mirror of water and observe the peaceful rolling countryside of Sweden surrounded by forests and lakes, and at the same time, experience sheep, deer, waterfowl, haystacks, castles and those traditional red and white farmhouses all thriving in the warmth of the glorious Scandinavian sunshine.
If your itinerary allows a choice, the preferred direction is to travel from Gothenburg to Stockholm rather than from east to west. This offers the benefit of concluding your journey in one the most charming large cities in the world. Sweden’s capital is a cosmopolitan wonderland that floats upon 14-islands.
There are some who would say that the slow pace of a four-day excursion on the Gota Canal is boring. Others might have difficulty adapting to the Lilliputian size of the cabins. But for a world-weary traveler, the calm and serenity of gracefully sailing through seemingly untouched scenery along an ever-changing ribbon of water with no perceptible deadline is alluring. As one passenger said, “This is one very impressive ditch.”
He didn’t know how right he was.
There are some who would say that the slow pace of a four-day excursion on the Gota Canal is boring. Others might have difficulty adapting to the Lilliputian size of the cabins. But for a world-weary traveler, the calm and serenity of gracefully sailing through seemingly untouched scenery along an ever-changing ribbon of water with no perceptible deadline is alluring. As one passenger said, “This is one very impressive ditch.”
He didn’t know how right he was.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Italy
THE INVISIBLE HOTEL OF THE AMALFI COAST
Every now and then I make a discovery in my travels that seems just too good to be true. For me, discovery is the essence of travel, and the Hotel San Pietro in Positano, Italy is just one of those discoveries.
Sometimes I have mixed emotions about these little treasures, however. On the one hand, there is a genuine desire to share them with anyone and everyone who loves to talk about the adventure of travel. In a sense it’s a bit of one upsmanship, a status symbol of sorts, to have been to a place so unique that I cannot wait to tell others about it. But there’s also a selfish side to that philosophy, because there is an equal feeling that I should keep these gems hidden as my own little secrets; a kind of personal reward for all my years of exploration in pursuit of such treasures.
I've decided to relent, just this once, and tell you about Hotel San Pietro, but only with the promise that you keep this information just between us so nobody else will know about it. Truthfully, San Pietro is now recognized as one of the most exclusive hotels in all of Europe. It has become a playground for the rich and famous, so I am really not giving anything away at all. What I am doing however, is letting you know about it too, so that you may hopefully seek out this incredible gem that is a truly unique travel experience.
by Peabod
Every now and then I make a discovery in my travels that seems just too good to be true. For me, discovery is the essence of travel, and the Hotel San Pietro in Positano, Italy is just one of those discoveries.
Sometimes I have mixed emotions about these little treasures, however. On the one hand, there is a genuine desire to share them with anyone and everyone who loves to talk about the adventure of travel. In a sense it’s a bit of one upsmanship, a status symbol of sorts, to have been to a place so unique that I cannot wait to tell others about it. But there’s also a selfish side to that philosophy, because there is an equal feeling that I should keep these gems hidden as my own little secrets; a kind of personal reward for all my years of exploration in pursuit of such treasures.
I've decided to relent, just this once, and tell you about Hotel San Pietro, but only with the promise that you keep this information just between us so nobody else will know about it. Truthfully, San Pietro is now recognized as one of the most exclusive hotels in all of Europe. It has become a playground for the rich and famous, so I am really not giving anything away at all. What I am doing however, is letting you know about it too, so that you may hopefully seek out this incredible gem that is a truly unique travel experience.
What's so special about this charming, little hotel nestled along the Amalfi Coast about three hours south of Rome? Aside from the fact that the scenery is breathtaking, the cuisine superb, the service elegant and the ambience pure romance; aside from all that, this family run hotel is…well…It’s invisible!
Whether you approach from the road or from the sea, you quite literally have to look for Hotel San Pietro to find it. Even then you may not see it. But that’s just the beginning of the charm.
To reach San Pietro, drive the coastal road from Sorrento toward Salerno along the spellbinding, serpentine ribbon of road that twists and turns around the rocks with stunning vistas and dramatic hill towns that only whet your appetite for what you are about to experience. About two kilometers past the once quiet fishing village of Positano, you will come to a bend that is little more than a wide spot in the road, and tucked alongside of that bend is a tiny chapel. The chapel is called “St. Peter" (San Pietro) and this is where the hotel gets its name. Park the car and walk behind the chapel. There you will find flower-lined stairs leading to an elevator, or if you prefer, you can walk down through the bougainville terraces to the lobby.
In mere minutes you will find yourself enveloped in a world of Italian marble and tiles, cantilevered terraces, sloping gardens and majestic views of a coastline that points a perpetual face to the sun.
Conceived by Carlo Cinque, the original owner, who was not an architect, but rather a designer and a master of “elite tourism," San Pietro is an architectural wonder where the rooms have literally been excavated into the rock to preserve the scenic beauty of the coastline.
Every room is different. Each exquisitely, almost decadently, decorated to banish inhibitions to another time, another place. And, of course, each room looks out to the sea. In fact, there's no need for curtains in any of the bathrooms. Some feature sunken marble bathtubs (one will even comfortably accommodate four), but all are designed so that guests can see out, while no one else can see in. Thus, San Pietro creates an atmosphere for the traveler of being totally alone within nature. Some rooms feature full-sized marble statues, and one has a bed so large that it literally had to be constructed inside the room.
To reach the pool, take the elevator, which runs eighty-eight meters straight down through the rock. It takes a full 45 non-stop seconds before opening out to a grotto, which leads to the seclusion of the sundeck and the sea.
A poetic, inspirational ambience lingers everywhere at San Pietro, for it is a place that celebrates a symphony of life; where music seems to rise from the sea and seep into the clouds. Here is a place where dawn doesn’t break, rather it eases up hillsides and caresses each little nook and every little cranny. San Pietro is a place where celestial rhythms cross the water, shimmering with golden pathways of daylight that yield to sparkles of moonlight that dance like liquid stars upon the surface of the sea. The San Pietro is a place where the ascent from the blue horizons of the sea merges with the sky in a gateway to paradise.
I’ve made a solemn promise to myself that one day I will find a way to somehow spend at least one night at San Pietro. But for now, you share my secret, though I remind you that you have been sworn to secrecy. Trouble is, as I've already mentioned, the San Pietro is invisible, and yet, oddly enough, it is one place where “seeing is definitely believing.”
Whether you approach from the road or from the sea, you quite literally have to look for Hotel San Pietro to find it. Even then you may not see it. But that’s just the beginning of the charm.
To reach San Pietro, drive the coastal road from Sorrento toward Salerno along the spellbinding, serpentine ribbon of road that twists and turns around the rocks with stunning vistas and dramatic hill towns that only whet your appetite for what you are about to experience. About two kilometers past the once quiet fishing village of Positano, you will come to a bend that is little more than a wide spot in the road, and tucked alongside of that bend is a tiny chapel. The chapel is called “St. Peter" (San Pietro) and this is where the hotel gets its name. Park the car and walk behind the chapel. There you will find flower-lined stairs leading to an elevator, or if you prefer, you can walk down through the bougainville terraces to the lobby.
In mere minutes you will find yourself enveloped in a world of Italian marble and tiles, cantilevered terraces, sloping gardens and majestic views of a coastline that points a perpetual face to the sun.
Conceived by Carlo Cinque, the original owner, who was not an architect, but rather a designer and a master of “elite tourism," San Pietro is an architectural wonder where the rooms have literally been excavated into the rock to preserve the scenic beauty of the coastline.
Every room is different. Each exquisitely, almost decadently, decorated to banish inhibitions to another time, another place. And, of course, each room looks out to the sea. In fact, there's no need for curtains in any of the bathrooms. Some feature sunken marble bathtubs (one will even comfortably accommodate four), but all are designed so that guests can see out, while no one else can see in. Thus, San Pietro creates an atmosphere for the traveler of being totally alone within nature. Some rooms feature full-sized marble statues, and one has a bed so large that it literally had to be constructed inside the room.
To reach the pool, take the elevator, which runs eighty-eight meters straight down through the rock. It takes a full 45 non-stop seconds before opening out to a grotto, which leads to the seclusion of the sundeck and the sea.
A poetic, inspirational ambience lingers everywhere at San Pietro, for it is a place that celebrates a symphony of life; where music seems to rise from the sea and seep into the clouds. Here is a place where dawn doesn’t break, rather it eases up hillsides and caresses each little nook and every little cranny. San Pietro is a place where celestial rhythms cross the water, shimmering with golden pathways of daylight that yield to sparkles of moonlight that dance like liquid stars upon the surface of the sea. The San Pietro is a place where the ascent from the blue horizons of the sea merges with the sky in a gateway to paradise.
I’ve made a solemn promise to myself that one day I will find a way to somehow spend at least one night at San Pietro. But for now, you share my secret, though I remind you that you have been sworn to secrecy. Trouble is, as I've already mentioned, the San Pietro is invisible, and yet, oddly enough, it is one place where “seeing is definitely believing.”
Puerto Rico
THE BUTTERFLY PEOPLE
by Peabod
Once upon a time, many, many years ago, a young couple walked along the beaches of San Juan, Puerto Rico with their infant daughter selling arrangements of beautiful multi-colored butterflies encased in plexiglass boxes. Every day this little family carried their large suitcase filled with their butterfly rainbows to the waterfront, hoping to earn enough money to merely eke out a living.
The tiny transparent boxes of butterfly art glistened in the sun, selling for just 20-dollars to anyone who wanted an unusual souvenir. Before long people were purchasing the delicate masterpieces from all over the world for the butterfly displays offered eternal beauty that anyone could afford; a moment in nature that had been suspended in time.
Soon the small boxes became portrait-sized displays that later gave way to murals of stunningly beautiful mosaics of butterflies. The beach was no longer suitable for the butterfly rainbows now began to cover entire walls. Museums and collectors began demanding even more spectacular displays.
So the butterfly people left the beach and found a shop in the bustling streets of Old San Juan; a place where they could showcase their arrangements; a museum of their own with colorful rooms filled with butterflies from every part of the spectrum.
But the butterfly people never lost sight of those early days on the beach when survival was so precious. Though they located their gallery in one of the most beautifully restored old mansions in the teaming heart of the city, they purposely located their museum on the second floor so that people would have to seek them out. Rather than have people stumble upon them while strolling the streets, the butterfly people wanted their works of art to be a much sought after prize.
Today, the main gallery is 70-feet long with an open air feeling that immediately puts you at ease with yourself and the world. There is a solitude and an optimism about the place that overtakes you the moment you walk into the second-floor atrium. Visitors are surrounded by walls of tranquility, while just below, looking down from the balcony, the streets are filled with the daily congestion of every day living. The Butterfly People is a place of discovery, a place that thousands have passed by and missed because they didn’t know it was there. But, if you ever happen to be in San Juan, Puerto Rico, you will find the Butterfly People on the upper floors at #152 Fortaleza Street.
The man and woman are old now. Their daughter is grown. Their butterflies no longer find their way to the beaches of Old San Juan, and the murals they create are sometimes valued at six figures. But the butterfly people never forgot. They still sell some of their boxes for just $20. And they always will. They can’t help it, because they are reminded daily of what their lives and their gifts are all about; the beauty of their art, and the simplicity of their beginnings.
Once upon a time, many, many years ago, a young couple walked along the beaches of San Juan, Puerto Rico with their infant daughter selling arrangements of beautiful multi-colored butterflies encased in plexiglass boxes. Every day this little family carried their large suitcase filled with their butterfly rainbows to the waterfront, hoping to earn enough money to merely eke out a living.
The tiny transparent boxes of butterfly art glistened in the sun, selling for just 20-dollars to anyone who wanted an unusual souvenir. Before long people were purchasing the delicate masterpieces from all over the world for the butterfly displays offered eternal beauty that anyone could afford; a moment in nature that had been suspended in time.
Soon the small boxes became portrait-sized displays that later gave way to murals of stunningly beautiful mosaics of butterflies. The beach was no longer suitable for the butterfly rainbows now began to cover entire walls. Museums and collectors began demanding even more spectacular displays.
So the butterfly people left the beach and found a shop in the bustling streets of Old San Juan; a place where they could showcase their arrangements; a museum of their own with colorful rooms filled with butterflies from every part of the spectrum.
But the butterfly people never lost sight of those early days on the beach when survival was so precious. Though they located their gallery in one of the most beautifully restored old mansions in the teaming heart of the city, they purposely located their museum on the second floor so that people would have to seek them out. Rather than have people stumble upon them while strolling the streets, the butterfly people wanted their works of art to be a much sought after prize.
Today, the main gallery is 70-feet long with an open air feeling that immediately puts you at ease with yourself and the world. There is a solitude and an optimism about the place that overtakes you the moment you walk into the second-floor atrium. Visitors are surrounded by walls of tranquility, while just below, looking down from the balcony, the streets are filled with the daily congestion of every day living. The Butterfly People is a place of discovery, a place that thousands have passed by and missed because they didn’t know it was there. But, if you ever happen to be in San Juan, Puerto Rico, you will find the Butterfly People on the upper floors at #152 Fortaleza Street.
The man and woman are old now. Their daughter is grown. Their butterflies no longer find their way to the beaches of Old San Juan, and the murals they create are sometimes valued at six figures. But the butterfly people never forgot. They still sell some of their boxes for just $20. And they always will. They can’t help it, because they are reminded daily of what their lives and their gifts are all about; the beauty of their art, and the simplicity of their beginnings.
Switzerland
THE EYES HAVE IT
by Peabod
While visiting an exhibition of artwork by children, the famous artist Pablo Picasso once commented, “When I was their age I could draw like Raphael, but it has taken me a whole lifetime to learn to draw like them.”
To be sure there are well-known works by Picasso in museums throughout the world, but this is a story about a small Picasso museum that is tucked within the narrow streets of the popular resort village of Lucerne, Switzerland. What makes this permanent collection unique is not the fact that it is housed in a building that is several centuries old, or that it looks out upon the famed Chapel Bridge and the rushing waters of the River Reuss below with the majestic Alps just beyond. No, what makes this museum special is that it is owned by someone who once knew Picasso; someone who once called him a friend; someone who was once the subject of some of his portraits. The result is a unique place alive with the presence of one of the greatest creative minds in the history of art.
When Angela Rosengart was a young girl of 19, her father, who was an art collector, introduced her to his acquaintance, Pablo Picasso. Picasso became instantly infatuated with the girl. An occurrence not uncommon for the master Spanish artist. He requested that Angela sit for him, and upon obtaining permission from her extremely proud father, she posed on three separate occasions. As Angela describes the experience, each time she sat, the intense, hypnotic eyes of Picasso pierced her soul as if “hot arrows were burning her heart.”
Over the years Rosengart met Picasso on 50 or more occasions, and each encounter added a new page to her diary. When her father died she inherited his collection, but the Picasso’s were, of course, the most cherished of the works she possessed. But that was only part of the story.
Shortly after World War II, a well-known photographer for LIFE magazine named David Douglas Duncan mentioned to a mutual friend who knew Picasso that he would like to make the acquaintance of the renowned artist. When Picasso learned of the request, he told Duncan’s friend that the photographer was welcome any time. Sure enough, one day the photographer did indeed knock at Picasso’s door.
When Picasso’s mistress, later to become his wife, Jacqueline answered the door, Duncan, with his cameras still wrapped across his chest, introduced himself and explained the nature of his unexpected visit. Jacqueline excused herself for a moment and went to inform Picasso, who was taking a bath at the time, exactly what was happening. With an uninhibited wave of his hand Picasso smiled at Jacqueline and said, “Tell him to come up.”
Immediately upon his arrival at the scene, Duncan began snapping photographs, and from that initial, and unlikely, serendipitous scenario, the two became lifelong friends. Over the years Duncan amassed a vast collection of black and white portraits that chronicled the personal and artistic life of Pablo Picasso.
Little wonder that Angela Rosengart was motivated to purchase the entire Duncan collection of Picasso photographs, which proudly and poignantly displayed today in her museum; a museum that also features the etchings she posed for at the age of 19, along with the original Picasso paintings she inherited from her father.
The result is more than a mere museum, for here is a venue that embraces the personal warmth, affection and love for greatness that profoundly touched the lives of two people. The Picasso Museum in Lucerne is captivating, a gem among the other gems of this favorite tourist destination, yet all too often it is passed by and goes unnoticed.
It’s well worth a visit, if for no other reason than to experience the magical sensations created by three dynamic personalities, Rosengart, Duncan and the incomparable Pablo Picasso. You see, the Picasso Museum in Lucerne, Switzerland is a portrait in genius.
While visiting an exhibition of artwork by children, the famous artist Pablo Picasso once commented, “When I was their age I could draw like Raphael, but it has taken me a whole lifetime to learn to draw like them.”
To be sure there are well-known works by Picasso in museums throughout the world, but this is a story about a small Picasso museum that is tucked within the narrow streets of the popular resort village of Lucerne, Switzerland. What makes this permanent collection unique is not the fact that it is housed in a building that is several centuries old, or that it looks out upon the famed Chapel Bridge and the rushing waters of the River Reuss below with the majestic Alps just beyond. No, what makes this museum special is that it is owned by someone who once knew Picasso; someone who once called him a friend; someone who was once the subject of some of his portraits. The result is a unique place alive with the presence of one of the greatest creative minds in the history of art.
When Angela Rosengart was a young girl of 19, her father, who was an art collector, introduced her to his acquaintance, Pablo Picasso. Picasso became instantly infatuated with the girl. An occurrence not uncommon for the master Spanish artist. He requested that Angela sit for him, and upon obtaining permission from her extremely proud father, she posed on three separate occasions. As Angela describes the experience, each time she sat, the intense, hypnotic eyes of Picasso pierced her soul as if “hot arrows were burning her heart.”
Over the years Rosengart met Picasso on 50 or more occasions, and each encounter added a new page to her diary. When her father died she inherited his collection, but the Picasso’s were, of course, the most cherished of the works she possessed. But that was only part of the story.
Shortly after World War II, a well-known photographer for LIFE magazine named David Douglas Duncan mentioned to a mutual friend who knew Picasso that he would like to make the acquaintance of the renowned artist. When Picasso learned of the request, he told Duncan’s friend that the photographer was welcome any time. Sure enough, one day the photographer did indeed knock at Picasso’s door.
When Picasso’s mistress, later to become his wife, Jacqueline answered the door, Duncan, with his cameras still wrapped across his chest, introduced himself and explained the nature of his unexpected visit. Jacqueline excused herself for a moment and went to inform Picasso, who was taking a bath at the time, exactly what was happening. With an uninhibited wave of his hand Picasso smiled at Jacqueline and said, “Tell him to come up.”
Immediately upon his arrival at the scene, Duncan began snapping photographs, and from that initial, and unlikely, serendipitous scenario, the two became lifelong friends. Over the years Duncan amassed a vast collection of black and white portraits that chronicled the personal and artistic life of Pablo Picasso.
Little wonder that Angela Rosengart was motivated to purchase the entire Duncan collection of Picasso photographs, which proudly and poignantly displayed today in her museum; a museum that also features the etchings she posed for at the age of 19, along with the original Picasso paintings she inherited from her father.
The result is more than a mere museum, for here is a venue that embraces the personal warmth, affection and love for greatness that profoundly touched the lives of two people. The Picasso Museum in Lucerne is captivating, a gem among the other gems of this favorite tourist destination, yet all too often it is passed by and goes unnoticed.
It’s well worth a visit, if for no other reason than to experience the magical sensations created by three dynamic personalities, Rosengart, Duncan and the incomparable Pablo Picasso. You see, the Picasso Museum in Lucerne, Switzerland is a portrait in genius.
France
NORMANDY 2001
by Peabod
The date was September 14, 2001, three days after the horrifying terrorist attacks in the United States. I was traveling in France when the massacres took place, and on this day the Normandy American Cemetery at Omaha Beach seemed an appropriate place to be. Solemn and reverent; a haven for reflection and solitude amid an apprehensive world suddenly filledwith uncertainty.
The soft autumn light was particularly radiant at the memorial where cotton-ball clouds dotted a cerulean sky that blanketed manicured grounds that sloped gently toward a cobalt blue, white-capped sea. It was a place where timelessness merged with infinity.
Lengthening shadows angled from the graceful elegance of thousands of white crosses and Stars of David; their charcoal silhouettes made even more distinct by the contrasting brilliance of the green lawn.
The setting was landscape architecture at its finest, where the unification of earth, sea and sky had been harmoniously achieved to perfection. Sublime elements of nature entwined with human inspiration in eternal gratitude to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the freedoms that are the cornerstone of our American identity. Freedoms that will be forever cherished, even by generations unborn.
Shortly before noon a ceremony began, unannounced and without fanfare. A small procession of people solemnly marched forward, forming a line in front of the 22-foot bronze statue symbolizing The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves. They faced the rectangular reflecting pool with the chapel in the distance. Moments later the chimes of the carillon rang out poignantly with the American National Anthem followed by three minutes of silence, a rifle salute and the haunting music of Taps. And then it was over.
It was a heartfelt expression of sympathy observed in a brief span of 6 or 7 minutes to honor the brave, innocent victims who perished in the United States on September 11th. But it was the participants at the ceremony who made it so meaningful, for they were the mayors and dignitaries from every village and town along the entire coast of Normandy who gathered in that hallowed place to pay their respects to the American people. An America that had liberated their own country from the grip of tyranny nearly sixty years before.
Later, I continued my D-Day journey, traveling along the coast toward the resort community of Arromanches. With thoughts and images of what I had experienced at Omaha Beach vividly replaying in my mind, I stopped along the route to visit Longues sur Mer.
Several bunkers, with gun emplacements still intact, remain at Longues sur Mer, just as they were six decades ago. The artillery sits high on a bluff with massive, dormant barrels overlooking the English Channel, still aimed at the coast of Great Britain.
Longues sur Mer seems a contradiction of itself today. Though the weapons are awesome, powerful reminders of a world at war, the area is now a grass-covered park that is eerie in its serenity as it placidly looks toward the sea.
In truth, the entire region of Normandy is much the same. Though the past thousand years have frequently been filled with conflict, it is difficult to imagine as you gaze upon rolling landscapes that become a prism of rich, dappled colors beneath ever-changing patterns of light. Pastoral rural tableaus dotted with stone cottages and half-timbered houses where the ravages of wars past are but a distant memory. Perhaps William Zinsser said it best when he wrote that “death in battle is an old story here.” And yet, despite its turbulent history, Normandy remains today, one of the most tranquil regions of France.
German artillery was a force to be reckoned with on that eventful day in 1944, but in the end, it was the hedgerows, the dividing lines that have defined property boundaries for centuries, that were the toughest barriers to overcome in the allied march to the interior.
On clear days, just eight miles inland from Longues sur Mer, the twin-spired silhouette of Bayeux Cathedral can be seen rising above the horizon of meadows and fields. Bayeux was the first town liberated after the landings on D-Day. It is also home to the famed Bayeux Tapestry, an impressive, nearly intact 11th century embroidery that provides a vivid pictorial account of medieval times and the Norman Conquest of 1066.
Along the coast, just a few miles east, the remnants of the Mulberry Harbors protrude above the waters of Arromanches. Ingeniously designed to allow vehicles, machinery and other large equipment to penetrate the German perimeter on D-Day before moving into the interior of France, the artificial harbors were instrumental in the success of Operation Overlord and the events that followed the invasion.
I continued to Arromanches and began searching for a place to have lunch. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew my prospects would be limited. After fifteen minutes, I located a small restaurant and went inside. The dining room to the right was filled with locals, but the bar on the left was empty, except for a couple of employees watching the news on French television.
Being hopelessly monolingual, I signaled to the hostess about the possibility of getting something to eat. She glanced at her wristwatch. Instantly I knew the kitchen was closed for the afternoon, but as I turned to leave, the young woman held up her forefinger and gestured for me to wait. Then she vanished into the kitchen.
Moments later she returned, followed by a large man wearing an apron. She motioned to a table, and with a smile, handed me a menu as she indicated that I sit down. As I took my seat, the dark-haired man with the apron spoke.
“You American?” he asked in broken English.
“Oui,” I replied, using one-third of my knowledge of French.
“You eat,” he said. “We open for you.”
And with those few words, he turned and went back to his kitchen. Through hand signals and occasional nods, I managed to communicate my order to the waitress. So occupied had I been in deciding what to eat, I was unaware that the proprietor had returned. He was standing behind the bar, scanning the television channels with his remote. After a determined search the Frenchman found what he was looking for. He called to me across the room as he pointed toward the television. Then in a loud voice he shouted, “CNN!”
There so far from home came a small, but significant, act of kindness from a stranger in a foreign land. A man I would probably never encounter again. Between bites I caught up on the events in the States. By 3:45, my hunger and curiosity now satisfied, I paid for the meal. I thanked the owner for his hospitality with countless “mercis” and several “merci beaucoups,” fully depleting my French vocabulary in the process.
When I was ready to leave, the proprietor followed me to the door. Once outside, I thanked him one final time, and began to walk away, but he stopped me, pausing momentarily to point to the French flag outside his restaurant. It was tied to the pole at half-mast. The owner smiled at me and waved, and as I made my way down the street, alone with my thoughts, uncontrollable tears trickled down my cheeks.
The incident at Arromanches was the second time I had been overwhelmed with emotion that day. The first had occurred at the conclusion of my visit to the American Cemetery earlier that morning. With thoughts of the noontime tribute etched into my memory, I had somberly, almost aimlessly, wandered the grounds of the memorial. As I strolled past the Statue of American Youth for the last time, I noticed something that had not been there before the ceremony. At the base of the sculpture was a single basket of flowers which had been placed by an anonymous donor. And tucked behind one of the flowers, to hold it in place, was a picture.
The picture had been taken from the front seat of a car while crossing a bridge. No doubt the work of an amateur. A tourist. Someone who had once visited the United States. It was a photograph of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. But there was something even more telling about that tiny, unidentified tribute, for I knew it had been placed there by someone who had survived the Battle of Normandy in 1944. The answer was written in four simple words along the sash that draped across the basket. Words that read, “We have not forgotten.”
It has long been my quest in my travels to seek out stories with a message; vignettes of life that extend beyond guidebooks and bring other destinations, cultures and points of view into perspective; meaningful narratives that provide greater understanding of who we are as Americans by observing the world through new eyes.
Through it all I never fully understood the source of my passion in that search. Then unexpectedly it all became clear. Compassion had validated my passion. It happened on an autumn day in September, 2001 in a place that has witnessed more than its own share of turmoil and grief. A place the world knows as Normandy.
by Peabod
The date was September 14, 2001, three days after the horrifying terrorist attacks in the United States. I was traveling in France when the massacres took place, and on this day the Normandy American Cemetery at Omaha Beach seemed an appropriate place to be. Solemn and reverent; a haven for reflection and solitude amid an apprehensive world suddenly filledwith uncertainty.
The soft autumn light was particularly radiant at the memorial where cotton-ball clouds dotted a cerulean sky that blanketed manicured grounds that sloped gently toward a cobalt blue, white-capped sea. It was a place where timelessness merged with infinity.
Lengthening shadows angled from the graceful elegance of thousands of white crosses and Stars of David; their charcoal silhouettes made even more distinct by the contrasting brilliance of the green lawn.
The setting was landscape architecture at its finest, where the unification of earth, sea and sky had been harmoniously achieved to perfection. Sublime elements of nature entwined with human inspiration in eternal gratitude to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the freedoms that are the cornerstone of our American identity. Freedoms that will be forever cherished, even by generations unborn.
Shortly before noon a ceremony began, unannounced and without fanfare. A small procession of people solemnly marched forward, forming a line in front of the 22-foot bronze statue symbolizing The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves. They faced the rectangular reflecting pool with the chapel in the distance. Moments later the chimes of the carillon rang out poignantly with the American National Anthem followed by three minutes of silence, a rifle salute and the haunting music of Taps. And then it was over.
It was a heartfelt expression of sympathy observed in a brief span of 6 or 7 minutes to honor the brave, innocent victims who perished in the United States on September 11th. But it was the participants at the ceremony who made it so meaningful, for they were the mayors and dignitaries from every village and town along the entire coast of Normandy who gathered in that hallowed place to pay their respects to the American people. An America that had liberated their own country from the grip of tyranny nearly sixty years before.
Later, I continued my D-Day journey, traveling along the coast toward the resort community of Arromanches. With thoughts and images of what I had experienced at Omaha Beach vividly replaying in my mind, I stopped along the route to visit Longues sur Mer.
Several bunkers, with gun emplacements still intact, remain at Longues sur Mer, just as they were six decades ago. The artillery sits high on a bluff with massive, dormant barrels overlooking the English Channel, still aimed at the coast of Great Britain.
Longues sur Mer seems a contradiction of itself today. Though the weapons are awesome, powerful reminders of a world at war, the area is now a grass-covered park that is eerie in its serenity as it placidly looks toward the sea.
In truth, the entire region of Normandy is much the same. Though the past thousand years have frequently been filled with conflict, it is difficult to imagine as you gaze upon rolling landscapes that become a prism of rich, dappled colors beneath ever-changing patterns of light. Pastoral rural tableaus dotted with stone cottages and half-timbered houses where the ravages of wars past are but a distant memory. Perhaps William Zinsser said it best when he wrote that “death in battle is an old story here.” And yet, despite its turbulent history, Normandy remains today, one of the most tranquil regions of France.
German artillery was a force to be reckoned with on that eventful day in 1944, but in the end, it was the hedgerows, the dividing lines that have defined property boundaries for centuries, that were the toughest barriers to overcome in the allied march to the interior.
On clear days, just eight miles inland from Longues sur Mer, the twin-spired silhouette of Bayeux Cathedral can be seen rising above the horizon of meadows and fields. Bayeux was the first town liberated after the landings on D-Day. It is also home to the famed Bayeux Tapestry, an impressive, nearly intact 11th century embroidery that provides a vivid pictorial account of medieval times and the Norman Conquest of 1066.
Along the coast, just a few miles east, the remnants of the Mulberry Harbors protrude above the waters of Arromanches. Ingeniously designed to allow vehicles, machinery and other large equipment to penetrate the German perimeter on D-Day before moving into the interior of France, the artificial harbors were instrumental in the success of Operation Overlord and the events that followed the invasion.
I continued to Arromanches and began searching for a place to have lunch. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew my prospects would be limited. After fifteen minutes, I located a small restaurant and went inside. The dining room to the right was filled with locals, but the bar on the left was empty, except for a couple of employees watching the news on French television.
Being hopelessly monolingual, I signaled to the hostess about the possibility of getting something to eat. She glanced at her wristwatch. Instantly I knew the kitchen was closed for the afternoon, but as I turned to leave, the young woman held up her forefinger and gestured for me to wait. Then she vanished into the kitchen.
Moments later she returned, followed by a large man wearing an apron. She motioned to a table, and with a smile, handed me a menu as she indicated that I sit down. As I took my seat, the dark-haired man with the apron spoke.
“You American?” he asked in broken English.
“Oui,” I replied, using one-third of my knowledge of French.
“You eat,” he said. “We open for you.”
And with those few words, he turned and went back to his kitchen. Through hand signals and occasional nods, I managed to communicate my order to the waitress. So occupied had I been in deciding what to eat, I was unaware that the proprietor had returned. He was standing behind the bar, scanning the television channels with his remote. After a determined search the Frenchman found what he was looking for. He called to me across the room as he pointed toward the television. Then in a loud voice he shouted, “CNN!”
There so far from home came a small, but significant, act of kindness from a stranger in a foreign land. A man I would probably never encounter again. Between bites I caught up on the events in the States. By 3:45, my hunger and curiosity now satisfied, I paid for the meal. I thanked the owner for his hospitality with countless “mercis” and several “merci beaucoups,” fully depleting my French vocabulary in the process.
When I was ready to leave, the proprietor followed me to the door. Once outside, I thanked him one final time, and began to walk away, but he stopped me, pausing momentarily to point to the French flag outside his restaurant. It was tied to the pole at half-mast. The owner smiled at me and waved, and as I made my way down the street, alone with my thoughts, uncontrollable tears trickled down my cheeks.
The incident at Arromanches was the second time I had been overwhelmed with emotion that day. The first had occurred at the conclusion of my visit to the American Cemetery earlier that morning. With thoughts of the noontime tribute etched into my memory, I had somberly, almost aimlessly, wandered the grounds of the memorial. As I strolled past the Statue of American Youth for the last time, I noticed something that had not been there before the ceremony. At the base of the sculpture was a single basket of flowers which had been placed by an anonymous donor. And tucked behind one of the flowers, to hold it in place, was a picture.
The picture had been taken from the front seat of a car while crossing a bridge. No doubt the work of an amateur. A tourist. Someone who had once visited the United States. It was a photograph of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. But there was something even more telling about that tiny, unidentified tribute, for I knew it had been placed there by someone who had survived the Battle of Normandy in 1944. The answer was written in four simple words along the sash that draped across the basket. Words that read, “We have not forgotten.”
It has long been my quest in my travels to seek out stories with a message; vignettes of life that extend beyond guidebooks and bring other destinations, cultures and points of view into perspective; meaningful narratives that provide greater understanding of who we are as Americans by observing the world through new eyes.
Through it all I never fully understood the source of my passion in that search. Then unexpectedly it all became clear. Compassion had validated my passion. It happened on an autumn day in September, 2001 in a place that has witnessed more than its own share of turmoil and grief. A place the world knows as Normandy.
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