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My wintry trip to western Europe was fruitful from a research standpoint. I visited many places listed in my grandfather's WWI diary, getting the lay of the land and solving some mysteries. I also made useful contacts along the way.

I got back to New York last Wednesday, and was surprised to see that Gotham was just as snowy as Germany. It's been a long and hard winter for many people.

One of the best decisions I made on this trip was to stay at B&Bs (chambres d'hote). Besides being an inexpensive alternative to hotels, it was a wonderful way to get to know some French families. All the rooms I had were comfortably furnished and cost less than $50 per night including breakfast. The breakfasts often included products made right on the spot: jams, jellies, fruit juice and yogurt. I recommend the experience highly if you're going to France and want to stay outside the cities. There's a French Web site that helps you find rooms and farm products for sale.

Here's a shout-out to the individual chambres d'hote where I stayed:

Outside Remiremont in the Moselle valley Bernadette and Jean-Marc Desmougin welcomed me warmly to Les Mitreuches. They were very helpful with my search and generous with their farm products.

Just down the road in the town of Vecoux I spent a night with Monique and Gerard DuPré and had a great home-cooked meal. Their chalet has one room to rent with a very comfortable bed. M. DuPré is a local historian and most interested in the project. He gave me some books about the local history and has already emailed material pertaining to my grandfather's stay in the region.

Then, in tiny Maxey sur Vaise (pop. 330), Danielle Noisette and her family made me feel most welcome. I had a private apartment off a side entrance to their 18th-century house. Danielle took pity on me and invited to dine with her family one evening due to the remoteness of the area. It was a real treat; again, practically everything came out of their farm. In addition to running her B&B, Danielle also rents entire vacation properties.

In Germany I stayed for two nights at „Die Scheune” mit Gästehaus „St. Hubertus”, or "The Barn" with "St. Hubertus" Guesthouse, near Bad Kreuznach. This solid stone house (and barn) was once a mill. The setting is probably really lovely in the summer with its many trees and a private garden. They host social events in the barn during the warm months. However, the courtyard was filled with increasing amounts of snow while I was there. In contrast to the inclement weather, I was greeted warmly by owner Klaus Moehring. He provides a delicious breakfast in one's room.

Castles on the Rhine

The last two nights I've been in a Gästehaus near the city of Bad Kreuznach. The inn was an old mill with thick stone walls and, boy, was it cold inside! Must be great in summer, but I had to wear several layers to bed. It was okay since I was only there to sleep. I chose the location because it was convenient to several places Grant mentioned in his diary.

Monday I recreated a trip Grant made down the Rhine to Speyer with a stop in Worms on the return trip. Both cities have marvelous Romanesque cathedrals. The trouble often with traveling on Mondays is that many museums are closed. I would have like to have visited the Historical Museum of the Palatinate in Speyer, but it was „geschlossen." They had enticing posters all over town for an exhibit called "Witches: Myths and Truth" with a photo of a big green toad.

In the afternoon I intended to explore Mainz and find the exact location of the barracks where Grant and his outfit lived for several weeks. But once again I ran up against carnival! Roadblocks at every turn! So I parked the car and took a tram into the city. I followed the costumed throngs into the old part of Mainz and found a parade in full swing. I gave up trying to find the tourist office. Everything was closed anyway. So I decided to join the party for a while. I had a beer and snapped some photos of the crowd. I had to be careful where I walked because the pavement was littered with bottles of all kinds and other refuse. The crowd had clearly been enjoying themselves for hours.

This morning I drove up the west side of the Rhine from Bad Kreuznach to Koblenz, again recreating one of Grant's jaunts. Even though it was hazy, the castles that adorn both sides of the river were very visible. What also stood out were the incredible (nearly vertical) vineyards. Someday I would like to come here at harvest time and see how they do it. It must be hard to pick the grapes without tumbling down the mountainside.

I remember making this same journey past the Lorelei Cliff (only in the opposite direction) with my parents in the spring of 1984. My dad drove, of course, I navigated from the front seat, and my poor mother, who had a cold, lay down in the rear seat, rallying every once and a while to gaze at a castle before sinking back down again.

Once I hit Koblenz, the sun came out and I had bright sunshine the rest of the day. It's ironic that on my last day in Europe I had the best weather in three and a half weeks! Since it had snowed heavily for the past few days I had a beautiful drive through the forested mountains east of the Rhine to Limburg an der Lahn. The snow clung to every tree branch. The sunlight on the snow was blinding at times. In picturesque Limburg I wanted to talk to someone on in the tourism office, but it was closed for carnival. Grant evacuated a prisoner of war camp and I wanted to find its exact location. I had similar intentions later in the afternoon in Gießen, but gave up. These questions will have to wait.

Around three o'clock in the afternoon I arrived in a small town northeast of Gießen. It was an emotional experience for me because it happened to be the hometown of two brothers who live in my building in New York. Their family lived and worked in this small town for many years. And then the Nazis came to power. During World War II the family was deported to Theresienstadt (where they lost the grandmother) and thence to Auschwitz-Birkenau. There the parents were murdered in the gas chamber, but these two young brothers survived. Eventually they emigrated to America, settled down in New York and raised their own families. I feel lucky to know them.

Au Revoir, France… Hallo, Deutschland!

Let me begin with a side note: One the real pleasures of this voyage is seeing so many birds of prey—hawks, ospreys, kites or kestrels. I’m not knowledgeable enough to know exactly which species I’m seeing. There have been so many large birds sitting on fence posts right beside the road, close enough to touch, or on a low tree branch or wire over the road. Sometimes a movement will catch the corner of my eye and it’s a hawk taking to wing and landing in a nearby field atop some prey. Each time I think of trying to photograph these beautiful birds I then think that by the time I stop the car and get set up they will have flown away.

Saturday I bade farewell to France and wound my way into Germany. Why Germany? I’m glad you asked. After the First World War came to a halt on November 11, 1918, my Grandfather Grant’s ambulance unit was sent into Germany with the occupying French army. Throughout the winter of 1918-19 Grant and his comrades ferried patients here and there, and evacuated prisoner of war camps, including the dreaded camp at Gießen.

Part of me was sorry to be leaving France because it meant I’d be losing my felicity in a foreign language. Although German was the first foreign language, it does not roll off my tongue as easily as does French. I’ll never be able to make myself understood as well in German as in French. I can't hold in depth political or social discussions in German. I can order a meal and ask for directions, sort of.

I lingered over some sites in the Argonne Forest before heading towards Germany and I’m sorry to say that I badly misjudged the distance between Verdun and Saarbrücken, my stop for the night. It was nearly eight o’clock by the time I’d finally found my hotel in that unfamiliar town. I was completely lost when I stopped at a gas station to ask for directions. The clerk enlisted the advice of a taxi driver who was standing nearby. He said (auf Deutsch) that it was far to complicated to tell me how to reach my hotel and that it would be better to hire a taxi driver to lead me to the hotel. I thanked him for his advice and went to one of the nicer hotels downtown. The desk clerk spoke English and was very helpful. He gave me a map and showed me how to get there. I wasn't far off.

As I drove around downtown Saarbrücken I saw a couple on their way to a costume party. "That's nice," I thought to myself. Then I saw another couple. "They must be going to the same party," I thought. Then I saw another couple and another. Pretty soon everyone I saw was in costume. Teutonic maidens, cowboys, witches, etc.

Then I remembered: my visit to Germany was coinciding with that annual bacchanalia known as carnival. While people are sambaing in practically nothing in the streets of Brazil, Germans, young and old, are dressing up in wigs and costumes and partying in the snowy streets and beer gardens. I can't tell you how many cars I've seen in the last two days being driving by people wearing bright wigs. I feel kind of left out without a costume. I thought about putting down the earflaps on my hat while amongst the revelers in Mainz this afternoon, but thought I was funny enough looking with my overshoes on. But am I sure glad I brought them. Whether in Belgium, France or Germany, it has snowed most of the days I've been over here and I've been living in the overshoes. Pretty they are not, but practical.

Verdun

It's been snowing in Verdun since I arrived on Wednesday. It's made the city very pretty, but the sidewalks are slick--I've nearly landed on my derrière a few times. There's not the same snow removal effort that exists in New York or Minnesota. Still, for having snowed for three days there's not much on the ground. I can still see the green grass poking up.

I realize by covering the same ground as my grandfather I'm traveling much faster than he could have done in 1917. I traveled between cities in a few hours--a journey that took him two or three days in an ambulance convoy. The French transportation infrastructure has changed so much in the last one hundred years. That sounds like a simple statement, but I don't think many of us stop to think about the speed and modes of transportation available to our grandparents a century ago and those that we use now. The world has changed so much.

I've had success in Verdun finding the locations of Grant's bases. I met with a librarian at the Verdun Memorial and she showed me "top secret" maps of the Verdun battlefield from 1916. The topographical map showed the locations of the various forts that had fallen into German hands. Carefully marked also was the system of trenches, the French in red and the German in blue, (red state/blue state?) that spread out in a very complicated maze. Each trench had its own name, sometimes named after the hometown of the soldiers fighting there, sometimes after famous people on one side or the other. The cartographers of the day were certainly kept busy by the continually shifting front lines.

After studying the maps I ventured off into the snowy woods to try to find a particular aide post Grant mentions frequently in his diary. But, alas, all I found were thousands of shell impact craters covered with trees and snow. I did walk a ways into an old trench that is still maintained and tried to imagine what it had been like to fight there. The snow and -4 C temperatures helped a bit, but I don't think one can really comprehend what happened there.

I have to say it was a shock to check into a tiny hotel room after having stayed in private homes for six nights! It's pretty sleepy at night, but I've managed to find a few good restaurants. And a fun bar called Le Lapin Qui Fume (the Smoking Rabbit). But they do seem to roll up the sidewalks not long after the sun goes down.

Then came the odor of mustard gas

Beaumont

I've read war described as long periods of boredom broken up with moments of absolute terror. Tuesday I spent time in places where my grandfather and his comrades experienced that kind of terror. In the spring of 1918 they were scattered at aid stations across several square miles near a protrusion in the Western Front called the St. Mihiel Salient. I visited villages called Mandres-aux-Quatre-Tours, Rambucourt, Ansauville and Beaumont. Today they are sleepy farming villages. The loudest sounds are made by trucks rumbling through. Back in 1918 it was artillery fire from 77 mm German guns and gas shells exploding nearby. Grant survived a couple of run-ins with chemical warfare, but wound up in the hospital for several days... and he may have had lung problems for the rest of his life.

Rambucourt

April 19, 1918: "Our last trip down from Mandres took us through the fumes of a fruit gas shell which broke ahead of us right in the middle of the road. We were making pretty good time so it didn’t get us badly except in mind. My orderly, McDonald, a very plucky boy, got sick to his stomach and when we got in to the hospital we were ordered to stay in for the night. Boatman took my car and Mac and I went to bed pretty sick to our stomachs with eyes smarting and blood-shot... I found my car at Ménil-la-Tour all whole and we went back to Vignot with the Lieut. There we were met by a Captain who sentenced us to the hospital. Sunday and Monday were spent between sheets in the 104th Field Hospital where we received gas treatment and liquid diet. We were glad of the rest, but the liquid diet almost killed us because we hadn’t eaten very much on the two preceding days. Our day hospital sergeant was an ex-movie actor who was drafted. His assistant was a mechanic in Chicago. The night Sergeant was a bar tender in New York before being drafted so one can imagine what kind of care we had when the doctors were not around. They did the best they knew how."

Ansauville

Route Inondée

Some general observations, nothing profound:

• Many French people burn wood for heat. I noticed this in the Vosges Mountains and also along the banks of the Meuse, where I am presently. The air is redolent with the smell of a wood fire and there are chimneys everywhere smoking lazily.
• I am amazed by the presence of moss in a lot of places. Moss on the trees, of course, but also on stone walls, concrete telephone polls, etc. The colors are vibrant: bright green, tumeric yellow and mushroom brown.
• As is usually the case when I'm in Europe, I am struck by the ancient and the old being smack up agains the modern. In the city of Toul yesterday I saw a medieval tower against which had been built a building in the 18th-century against which in turn had been a built a building in an art deco style of the 1930s. Most of the farm buildings I've seen have to be at least 2o0 years old or more.
• The Meuse and many other rivers/creeks have overflowed their banks due to melted snow and rain. This is normal, I guess, for this time of year, but it's a little disconcerting to me. Many smaller country roads are closed because of flooding.
  

On Saturday the weather cleared up considerably. There were patches of blue amongst the clouds and I could see the mountaintops. The temperatures were higher than they had been; the thermometer in my car didn’t keep warning me about the dangers of ice!

I decided to take advantage of the clearer skies to visit the Epinal American Cemetery and Memorial on a bluff overlooking the Moselle River. There is a family connection buried here--a cousin by the name of Edward A. Everett. Known as Ted, he was my mother’s first cousin and her favorite, according to her. Tenderhearted, artistic and fun to be around, he was killed on October 2, 1944, just a few days after the Americans liberated Remiremont and Epinal from the Germans. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two. He survived marching up the boot of Italy and invading the south of France, but died somewhere near the Moselle. Naturally, I never knew him, but grew up around his sister and brother who live on still.

When I pulled up to the visitors’ building at the cemetery, it was obvious I was the only visitor. There was a bright-eyed American named Shane in the office who offered to show me to Ted’s grave. Shane had been in the US Air Force but now works for the American Battle Monuments Commission. As we walked we talked about my grandfather project, about Ted Everett, the cemetery and World War II. Shane had thoughtfully brought along a bucket of sand and a wet sponge. He explained that by rubbing sand into the inscription on the grave marker the lettering stands out much more than the bare marble. I was grateful for the extra attention this young man gave me.

Due to a miscommunication (my fault) I had to spend Saturday night at another chamber d’hote, but the cultivatrice Bernadette Desmougin helped me by finding me a room with a colleague down the road. This new host provided a great meal Saturday evening for a reasonable fee. All the food for the meal was either grown in their own garden, preserved by them in some way or purchased locally. This is very hard to do in New York City.

Sunday I left the Vosges and made my way in the northwesterly direction to the department of the Meuse. I stopped in several towns where Grant had been in 1917-18: Neufchâteau, Gondrecourt-le-Château and Vaucouleurs. I'm in Joan of Arc country town; strange that Grant doesn't mention her in his journal. I'm staying just up the road from the place where Joan claimed to have received a message from God to save France from the English. There's a basilica on the spot. One may also visit her birthplace.

I'm spending three nights in an 18th-century bourgeois house in a tiny town called Maxey-sur-Vaise. The family that runs the chambre d'hote welcomed me warmly; they don't get too many visitors in February. I have a little apartment all to myself with a separate entrance. Yesterday evening they invited me to dine with them and it was fun. We discussed the region, history and politics while eating, what else, quiche lorraine!

Today I am off to see several places where Grant found himself in the spring and summer of 1918.

Snow at Higher Elevations

Yesterday, after several days spent with friends in Belgium and the Paris region, I struck out for Lorraine to find more traces of my grandfather Grant. I abandoned my original plan of a meandering trip along old highways though Champagne and other regions for the fastest automobile option which was taking the A5 autoroute most of the way. My goal was the city of Remiremont, nestled in the Vosges Mountains and the Moselle River valley. It was 270 miles away and I wanted to get there before it was really dark. The autoroutes are anything but cheap (it cost $27 to make the trip), but one may fly along at 130 km/h (78 mph) or slightly faster if no one is watching. Flying even faster still were the TGVs that passed me as if I were standing still at 130 km per.

The weather yesterday was some of the best I've seen since arriving in France the week before. A lazy sun succeeded in breaking out from clouds. For a change there was no snow or rain. I can't tell you how many hawks and ospreys I saw sitting on fence posts or landing on some carrion, but it was a least a dozen. I enjoyed watching the rolling countryside as I drew away from Paris and entered Champagne. The roadsign said simply: "You are in Champagne," and I thought how fun it would have been to taste some. But soon I was in other regions at higher elevations and there was snow on the ground. The closer I got to Remiremont the more snow there was. There are several feet on the ground in most places around here and even on the rooftops.

I am staying on a farm outside of Remiremont in a sort of bed-and-breakfast. The two farmers who run this place are husband and wife, and seem to be a good team. It made me realize we have no distinct word in English for a woman farmer. "Farmer and his wife" seem to go together but are sexist really. In any event, I welcomed warmly Mr and Mrs D. who thought for some reason that I would be German. They were a bit amazed when they discovered a French-speaking American. Madame seemed very interested in my project as most people who stay here this time of year are going skiing in the Vosges. She offered me a bowl of hot homemade soup to go with the baguette and cheese I'd bought along the way. Soon I was joined by three scruffy carpenters who are staying here while they build a hay barn. They and the farmer drank Pernod and water while we talked a bit.

I spent most of today driving around the area in the rain. It was hard to do much else. I spent time in Remiremont tracking down the location of an old French army barracks and hospital where Grant and his buddies spent Bastille Day, 1917. Their ambulance unit was camped out in Rupt-sur-Moselle (the soggy, snowy town in the photo), about 7 miles south of here, and on July 14, with the war on hiatus for the day, they walked all the way to Remiremont to check out the festivities. By chance they were mistaken for American officers and were invited into the Marion barracks to enjoy a concert for the wounded soldiers. Grant said it felt strange to be saluted by French majors, captains and lieutenants when he and his comrades were lowly volunteer ambulance men.

Afterward I drove over snowy mountain passes to an ancient spa town called Luxeuil-les-Bains. Because it was above freezing and raining there was a mist rising from the cold snow that blanked the region. The tops of the mountains were shrouded. Grant passed through Luxeuil but didn't stay long. The Romans called it Luxovium and created baths with the warm mineral water. In 590, St. Columban founded the Abbey of Luxeuil, and I found a modern statue of the Irishman outside the ancient basilica. I asked about the thermal baths and found they don't open for business until March 1. I'm not exactly here at the high season!

I paid a visit yesterday to the Domaine de Sandricourt, about 30 miles northwest of Paris. On this large estate is an old farm used by American ambulance corps as a training camp during the First World War. My grandfather spent several months here in 1917 and 1918. Mr. G, the son of the owner in 1917, graciously showed me around before he and his wife offered a sumptuous lunch and interesting conversation in the chateau!

The old farm look similar to the way it looked in my grandfather's day, although the buildings are a bit rundown. Mr. G is trying to get them renovated and meanwhile has rented it to a budding beekeeper.

It was eery standing in the muddy courtyard of this place that I've read about for so long. But there may be several eery moments on this voyage of discovery.

L'amour, l'amour!

I knew from the start the three vieilles françaises were going to be trouble. There was something about these women that set off my alarm bells. I'm not sure if it was the piles of carry-on luggage and shopping bags they had, or the sense of entitlement that eminated from them. They could have been sisters. They all had the same platinum blond dye job and were clad in matching fur jackets, velvet jump suits, Uggs and DG eyewear (real or knock-off). All of them had leathery wrinkled skin from too much sun and too many cigarettes.

Unfairly, I pegged them as first/business glass passengers for when we boarded they were just in front of me in coach. And my alarm bells were not wrong: the women delayed the whole boarding process by blocking the aisle, asking others to lift all their carry on luggage into the overhead bins and generally standing around as we tried to squeeze past.

Once we were airborne three vieilles françaises didn't cause problems. The one nearest me (diagonally across the aisle) was a nervous flyer and started having emotional fits when we spent hours flying through severe turbulence. The meal and beverage service was suspended twice. Every shake and side-ways motion of the plane sent her into a panic. She was trying to watch some of the classic films available on the entertainment system. As I watched what she was watching (George Cukor's The Women from 1939) I realized I'd seen it so many times that I could recite the dialogue just from watching the actresses' mouths. Jungle red!

Once at the baggage claim, these three women reverted to their entitled behavior, however. Not once, but twice the woman who'd had the fits on the plane pushed her way through people waiting for their bags on the carrousel to grab one of her bags and hit them with it as she went. If someone stood in her way she just stopped and glared at them until they moved out of her way. Encroyable!

Time of the Cicada

The recent muggy summer days have been filled with the haunting, prehistoric sound of the cicadas. I've heard them out my window in Washington Heights, on bicycle rides through the leafy lanes of the Bronx and Central Park, and on strolls through lower Manhattan. At times the sound is omnipresent and deafening.

The song of the cicadas is the sound of summer--its creaking timbre immediately conjures memories of the hot dog days of July and August. The hotter the day the louder the song.

But now, inevitably, the days are cooling off and getting shorter. And the cicadas are singing less and less. But I can still hear them in my mind; and that memory will warm me during the cold winter.

One Year Later

I began this blog a year ago tomorrow. It seems hard to believe--so much water under the bridge-but it is true.

A year ago I was hurriedly preparing to move to London for five months.

"The last few days have been hectic with packing and preparing our New York apartment for my departure. Furniture is being covered..."

A lot of that living room furniture is gone. When we returned last November we gave the living room a long overdue renovation: new paint, new furniture, new layout.

"...plants are being farmed out to neighbors..."

All but two plants left in the care of our neighbor died while we were abroad. Actually, they were murdered--left to die in the back patio when the frosts of November came. Our trusted neighbor, having had several spats with the co-op board, decided to take his revenge on our houseplants. I had chosen this guy to care for our green friends because he loved plants and animals--he had a real green thumb--and was a vegetarian. He turned out to be a petty plant killer. What does one call plant murder? Botanicide?

"...and the refrigerator cleaned out. I must be truly mentally ill: I found five opened jars of salsa in the fridge with varying dates of expiration and amounts of remaining salsa. In addition there were several nearly empty jars of old preserves at the back. Why? I vow to live more simply and efficiently."

Well, the ice box is full, but not as crammed as it had been. Levels of salsa and preserves are under control. Still, I threw out several pieces of cheese last evening that were like bricks! Simplicity takes diligence!

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's off to Heathrow we go

It is the morning of Friday, November 21 and our London experiment is coming to a close. Today John and I return to New York. It is very strange to be leaving this place. We've been here long enough to get used to it, pick up the linguistic differences, have favorite restaurants, know some local shopkeepers and, well, feel at home. But leave we must.

In no particular order, here's a list of things I will miss about the last five months:

• Being able to pop into a pub from time to time and enjoy a beer or a light meal
  
• The post office with the best exchange rate and the incredible services
  
• Being able to buy a copy of The Guardian every morning and The Observer on Sundays
  
• The efficiency and ease of the bus system, even if the 214 is crap!
  
• The British Museum, The British Library, The Tate, The Tate Modern - and all free
• The Tower and Hampton Court - not free!
  
• The 100-foot flat screen LG television set in the flat
• Having my own washer/dryer right in the flat even if it takes hours (we share laundry facilities with everyone in our building in Manhattan)
• The United Nations of restaurants and services a stone's throw from my front door
• Easy train access to the Continent. I have been to Paris, Rome, Tuscany, Brussels and NE France all within hours
  
• Great architecture: ancient, modern and everything in between
  
• Living amongst history
• Great labeling on food in grocery stores
• No high fructose corn syrup in our food
• Knowing that the National Health Service was always there if I fell ill
  
• Sharing my thoughts with you here

And now: back home.

Our Flat

In this, our last week living in London, I thought I should talk a little about the flat that has been our home away from home since the summer.

Naturally, I can't complain. I've been living rent-free for four and a half months in one of the most expensive cities in the world. The one-bedroom flat has been claustrophobic at times, but has served us well.

We are on the 2nd floor (3rd for Americans) of a building built in the 1980s on Albert Street in Camden Town. You can see the location of the flat in this photo: the three windows at the upper left. According to a local history book there used to be a small factory of some sort on this plot. The only remnant of that older building is a stone plaque set into the facade that says E.R. VII for Edvardvs Rex, the seventh (King Edward VII). The first two stories are occupied by the British headquarters of World ORT, a Jewish non-governmental education and training organization.

There is an L-shaped entry hall off of which are the bedroom to the left and the bathroom to the right. The living room is straight ahead, and the kitchen is off the far side of the living room. The space is much smaller than what we were used to having in New York (The living room here is about the size of our second bedroom at home). But the bed is comfortable, we have a high speed Internet connection and a lovely flat-screen TV (it must be 3 feet across) with a gazillion cable channels.

An interesting aspect about the flat is the artwork that greeted us when we moved in. It's as if it had been selected especially for us. In the bedroom there a print of John Lennon and Yoko Ono watching over us every night. As some of you know, John Lennon was one of my John's idols and he's a fan of both artists. In the living room over the sofa or settee there is a painting of calla lilies in a vase--they happen to be one of our favorite flowers. On another wall Steve McQueen grins at us atop his motorcycle that he rode in the film The Great Escape, one of my favorite WWII films. (McQueen, a motorcycle enthusiast, got the producers to change the storyline so he could steal a German motorcycle and try to jump over the barbed wire border with Switzerland.) Finally, on the wall above the TV is the beautiful visage of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's. She stares out at us directly wearing a black sleeve-less frock, long black gloves, a pearl necklace and diamond tiara, and is about to puff on her cigarette in a ridiculously long holder.

Our kitchen has been troublesome for us. John and I both enjoy cooking, but have felt sort of hamstrung in that department since we arrived. Although I brought some good knives with me we're missing a lot of utensils and pots/pans that we've grown accustomed to. The oven is a fan variety and works pretty well although cooking times have to be adjusted from a regular gas or electric one. The hob (stove) is a drag because it has electric plates; they heat up very fast, but you can't cool them down in a hurry. "Simmer" is a difficult operation on this hob. The fridge is very small. It fits below the counter and there's no freezer to speak of. It's a lot like the fridges we used to rent in our college dorm.

We have a clothes washer/dryer all-in-one unit in the kitchen, as well. One wash takes up to 2 hours, but is probably energy efficient. It sloshes the clothes around in about an inch of water! Then we line-dry the clothes or use the drying function in the unit. It's a slow process again, taking up to an hour and a half to dry a load.

Where's the Remote?

You’ve got to have friends, or so Bette Midler sang in the '70s. Well, I am afraid I have to disagree. I am not referring to social connections, people to hang out with and share your life with. I am talking about the television show Friends. This show is broadcast on UK television about 8 hours a day. When you change channels during most hours of prime time chances are you will come across an episode. When you don’t find Friends, you find a mattering of other American sitcoms from the past 20 years.

I know most of us think of UK television as something a cut about the average American fare. We have images of Monty Python's Flying Circus, Upstairs Downstairs, Brideshead Revisited, Keeping up Appearances and Are You Being Served. Well, not to shatter your illusions but those are all from a long forgotten past. Today British television is made of mostly of reality show, shows about reality shows and chat shows hosted by former reality show participants interviewing reality show participants. There are a few bright moments in between but they are the exception.

One show we have mentioned on a previous post is called Booze Britain. This chronicles young Brits as the set about destroying their livers, and sometimes more, on a night out. Last night we watch a group of 8 young men in tailored suits spend almost 2000 pounds drinking on one night. If you recognize yourself in anyone on this show, it is time to enroll in a program! A brilliant television executive must have seen an opportunity in spawned a sister show--Boozed Up Brits Abroad. How original! On this show they follow around groups of young Brits in the age of low air fares mostly in Eastern Europe as they binge beyond belief. I guess they don’t consider it so bad when it is done abroad.

There is another show that follows around a “celebrity” couple. This couple became celebrities by appearing on different series (seasons to Americans) of Big Brother. They met when they both participated in Celebrity Big Brother. They had become celebrities by virtue of appearing on Big Brother! Once they had been firmly placed in the pantheon of a real live celebrity, they were given their won chat show (talk show). When nobody tuned in the decided to move to California, following in the steps of Posh and Becks (yes they are huge here even if most American don’t have a clue who they are). The result was a new reality show following them around from one agent to another trying to be famous. Fame in California eluded them so they are back here in the UK appearing in tabloids at the newsstands everywhere!

We can’t wait to return to the land of Letterman, Mad Men and HBO.

(Creative credit: John Carroll)

Oh Where Oh Where Has My Zipcar Gone?

Yesterday morning in London was beautiful: sunny, crisp and autumnal. A world of difference from the soggy, rainy mess that greeted our eyes the morning before! The plan of the day was to pick up a Zipcar not far from our flat and drive John to his company's office in Basingstoke in the county of Hampshire, 50-some miles southwest of the capital. While he was busy with meetings, I would drive to Winchester to see the sights.

The plan hit the first hitch when I arrived to pick up the car--it wasn't there. Normally the Zipcar called Honda Jazz "Jonathan" is parked at All Saints Church in Islington, but all I found was an empty parking space with a sign telling me it was reserved 24 hours for Zipcar.

In a panic I called Zipcar.

"Are you sure you're in the right place?" asked the customer service nimrod at Zipcar.

"I'm where I'm supposed to be but your car is not here!" I shouted. (The wind was blowing into my cell phone.)

"All I can do, sir, is give you another available Zipcar. There appears to be one at a Travelodge on Museum Street, near High Holborn, about a mile from you. We would be happy to reimburse you for the expense of a cab."

What was I to do? I needed the car and the plan was rapidly falling behind schedule. Then the plan hit a second snag: when I called John on my English pay-as-you-go cellphone to give him the bad news, the phone told me I only had 2 minutes left to talk. Great! John heard panic in my voice and told me to calm down. I told him I was off to find this new car and would call back...somehow. Believe it or not I have not used a pay phone in four months in the UK.

Cursing Zipcar.com under my breath I started walking toward the King's Cross/St. Pancras area at the height of the morning rush to catch a bus, the Tube or a cab. I reached the new car's location by bus and foot. By the time I got back to Camden Town to get John, we were more than an hour behind time. Luckily we were going against the commuting stream and made good progress through London and into the 'burbs. We pulled up to his company's office at a quarter past 11 o'clock, so he was fifteen minutes late for a meeting.

Then I was off to Winchester, 16 miles away. This historic cathedral city is worth a visit. Ancient capital of England, it was the home of Saxon kings including King Alfred the Great. I made first for the huge Gothic cathedral. The building of the current edifice began in 1079, replacing a much older minster. It has one of the longest naves in Europe. It was once an important pilgrimage center: the ancient Pilgrims' Way traveling to Canterbury began at Winchester. I also visited the 13th-century Great Hall, the only part of Winchester Castle that Cromwell didn't have blown up during the English Civil War. Inside is "King Arthur's Roundtable." Though it's not old enough to be the real one, it's still charming to see.

The highlight of my day, however, was visiting the tiny village of Littleton on the outskirts of Winchester. It was here around 1615 that my ancestor, William Fifield, was born. Most Fifields in the US descend from this one man. William sailed from England on the ship Hercules in the spring of 1634 to Ipswich, Massachusetts. He became one of the original settlers of Hampton, NH in 1638 and died there in 1700.

I decided to look around the village church, Church of St. Catherine, for clues of Fifields. I'd just gotten to the front door of the church when I found a Fifield tombstone just to the left of the entrance! It was the grave of the wife a one Richard Fiffild. Then I found more and more Fifield graves around the churchyard. It was very exciting. It seems Fifields lived there for centuries.

Click here to see all my Winchester photos.

November 11

Today my mind was on the men and women who served in World War I. And those who perished in that cataclysm who, to quote Eric Bogle, were "a whole generation butchered and damned." For my own selfish existential reasons I am grateful that both my grandfathers survived unharmed. I know that millions of families were not so lucky.

There was another ceremony at the Cenotaph in London today at which the last three surviving British veterans of the Great War "laid" wreaths. At ages 112, 110 and 108, respectively, these ancient men couldn't stand, let alone place a wreath on a monument.

The French don't have any WWI veterans left. At the Verdun battlefield, President Sarkozy and Prince Charles laid wreathes. In a last bit of WWI posturing Sarkozy had changed the memorial service to Verdun from the traditional Paris. The English were wondering why a purely Franco-German battlefield was chosen over an Anglo-Franco-German place like the Somme. And German Chancellor Angela Merkel canceled plans to attend. She is said to be furious the change of venue to the site of German ferocity. The war is over but it's still going on in a way.

I will leave you today with the thoughts of my Grandfather Grant Willard.

Monday, November 11, 1918:

The [82nd] Division is moving today and so are we. I reported back to our HQ. this A.M. and found them packing up. We left about noon for Clefmont on the main road between Neufchâteau and Langres about 35 km south of Neufchâteau.

While we were en route the news that the Armistice had been signed and all firing had ceased at 11 A.M. today was received and the towns were wild all the way down. Everybody was smiling. It’s hard to realize. I haven’t grasped the idea yet. How joyous everyone is!

When we reached Clefmont we went down to the school house and helped the kids ring the bell. We are the only soldiers in the town so we have things pretty much our own way. Our Frenchmen are busy making a hit with the French people around here. Luyx, Hap, Johnnie, Fraze, Eric, Titchmer, Schmittie, McGuire and myself ate in town this evening. We had chicken, french-fried, omelet, bread and raspberry jam and champagne to celebrate the armistice. A merry party.

Remembrance Sunday

Today is Remembrance Sunday: the day that people remember Britain's war dead. The Queen laid a wreath of red poppies at the Cenotaph memorial in the middle of Whitehall Street as Princes Philip, Charles and William looked on. The prime minister and other members of the government also laid wreaths. British veterans of conflicts from World War II to Iraq and Afghanistan marched past the Cenotaph.

This year's Remembrance Sunday seems all the more poignant as it's falling just two days before the 90th anniversary of the World War I armistice. The Great War is more of a living presence in Britain, France, Belgium and Germany (and other countries) than it is in the United States. There are war memorials in every town and people turn out for these remembrance events. The British media, among others, have been running special WWI commemorative pieces in print, online and on the air. For weeks now Britons have been sporting red paper poppies on their jackets and coats, showing their support of British service people past and present. It's de rigueur that all TV presenters and personalities wear the poppy while on the air. And truth be told, I've been wearing one, too.

It's been a cold, rainy weekend for the most part. The streets and sidewalks (pavements) are covered with fallen leaves from the plane trees and every time we go in or out of the front door of our building leaves seem to blow into the hallway. Autumn is definitely here. The plane tree outside the flat is practically denuded.

We played host this weekend to an old friend from the Netherlands. M and John first worked together nearly twenty years ago and have been friends ever since. She was in England for a job interview and crashed on our settee last night. We had a good time strolling around Primrose Hill and Camden Town showing M the sights. It was great fun to talk about old times and future hopes.

Later in the day John and I went to the movies to see Oliver Stone's W. Josh Brolin gives an impressive performance as George W. Bush, and the supporting cast are all equally strong. Stone puts Bush on the analyst's couch, so to speak, and we find that he's been trying to live up to his father's expectations all his life. How many people are dead because W has been working out his demons in the White House? The movie's subject matter was maddening, but would have been worse if the outcome of last week's election had been different. To George Bush I say: good riddance to bad rubbish!

Fireworks!

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I can think of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

Tonight is Bonfire Night or Guy Fawkes Night that commemorates the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot of the November 5, 1605, in which a number of conspirators, including Guy Fawkes, attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. As I type, fireworks are being lit all around our flat in London. We can see and hear the explosions.

But John and I prefer to think that people are setting off fireworks in honor of the election of Barak Obama to the US presidency. It's a historic day, and I was up until 4 a.m. watching the election results. I am optimistic it's a new day for the US and the world.

How Long Are You Planning to Stay in Our Country?

The rest of my time in France was filled with driving through beautiful autumnal countryside of rolling hills and pastures, visiting very sobering cemeteries and taking photographs of the places where my grandfather had been.

As it's difficult to put this moving experience into words I will let my photographs and my grandfather's speak for me.

On my way back to London I had to change trains (and train stations) in Paris. At the Gare du Nord before boarding the Eurostar to London one must pass through the UK border control. I was already sweating from the 10 minute hike between Parisian stations when I started getting grilled about why I was visiting the UK. The agent started flipping through my passport and saw all the entry and exit stamps I've acquired since the summer. And I start sweating a little more...

• When did you first arrive in the UK?
• How long did you stay in March?
• What is your occupation?
• How much money do you have with you?
• How much money is in your bank account?
• Whose flat is this in London you wrote down?
• What does your partner do?

All the while she's madly scribbling notes on the back the landing card I had filled out. Did I say something wrong? I know I haven't been in the UK longer than the allotted 6 months. I know I've done no work paid or unpaid while here. I haven't broken the law. I have an airplane ticket to take me back to NY on November 21.

Still, the agent was suspicious and not entirely satisfied with my answers. She let me back into the UK for 6 months, but she stamped my passport with a special stamp with a code number that can allow another agent to pull up her remarks the next time I try to enter the country.

Now I understand a little about what visitors to the United States go through when they fly into our cities. How everyone has to be fingerprinted when visiting America; how Latinos or Arabs must feel when they get singled out try to pass legally through our borders. It's not pleasant.

Verdun to Pont-à-Mousson

The weather in this part of France turned cold and rainy overnight and stayed that way for the rest of the day. I decided to return to the Verdun battlefield this morning in an attempt to find the exact spots where my grandfather had been. I think I got pretty close--as close as I'm going to get without tramping through the woods with a compass to find the aid stations he serviced. I wouldn't want to set off any unexploded shells.

It's been ninety years since the slaughter here and most of the battlefield has grown over into a managed forest. It was hard to equate the photos of the area that Grant Willard took showing a desolate, cratered, moon-like surface with the beautiful, peaceful autumn forests I found today.

It was difficult to spot this:













In this:















From Verdun I drove southeast along the Meuse River and a beautiful canal built alongside, the surface of the canal like a mirror. At St. Mihiel I turned east into the heart of what had been the German-held St. Mihiel Salient, a knife-like protrusion in the Western Front. In September 1918 the Americans fought the Germans for the first time on their own and won a decisive victory. The salient was removed.

This part of France is very rural. I doubt the land has changed much in thousands of years. The towns are very small--a church, a townhall and a WWI monument. I passed some of the spots where my grandfather spent the spring and summer of 1918 seeing some of the most grueling action just south of the salient. While in these tiny villages he and his comrades were subjected to chemical warfare. They were all shaken out of their sleep my a mustard gas shell exploding outside their quarters. They spent the night in the cellar in the gas masks with rats dying around them. In the following days they were gassed further while removing the wounded. Grant wound up in the hospital for a few days.

By September, Grant and his unit were working the eastern end of the offensive around Pont-à-Mousson. That's where I'm spending the night.There has been a bridge across the Moselle here since the Middle Ages, but the present one was built after heavy bombardment during both world wars. The town survived relatively unscathed, despite the importance of the St-Gobain iron foundry – the name Pont-à-Mousson is familiar throughout France as just about every manhole cover in the country is made here.

Here's what was on my grandfather's mind ninety years ago:

Sunday, October 27:

Got 3 hours of sleep last night. Pretty good for me on post. Our guns cut loose this A.M. at 4 o’clock and a couple of big boys over back of us somewhere shook me out of bed. Sat in the dressing station until 6 A.M. when I got a call to Sommerance. "Fritz" raised hell in Fléville last night. Several new shell holes in the road and many newly killed horses.


Read Pres. Wilson’s reply to German plea for armistice. Hope there is no armistice until we have German militarism ousted. Don’t think it will be long now. What is the new German system going to amount to?


Took a shower bath this A.M. at headquarters -- the first since returning from Paris. Everybody has cooties!