Casablancas crew
John with Julian
Jeanette with Julian
John with Cal
Juliet, Julian, and a future Cal
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American Deviant Pt. 3: Normandy
It’s hard to write about something that you don’t understand.
The sight of more than 9,000 American graves is something that I can’t understand, and have a hard time putting my feelings into words.
When you stand on the cliffs that are permanently scarred by the craters bomb explosions left behind, you can’t piece together what it must’ve sounded like.
When you stare out through the barbed wire covering the window in a long-abandoned German bunker, you can’t fathom what it would’ve felt like, waiting to kill or be killed.
When you walk on Omaha beach, on a relatively warm day by Normandy standards, you can’t relate to the idea of thousands of men, some never even making it as far as the end of their boats, trudging through salt water, covered in their own vomit, not fully comprehending the mission they’ve been asked to carry out.
For more than 50,000 American men, not even counting their Canadian and British allies, they understood what it was like on June 6, 1944.
I walked around the sites where Americans carried out their D-Day missions.
The explosion craters left in the cliffs that soldiers had to climb are now grown over with grass and yellow flowers. Children run through them.
You can walk through the German bunkers and take photos in them to later post on Facebook. Most photos from the actual D-Day invasion didn’t even make it to print.
Not only can you stroll along the sterile beaches of Utah and Omaha that were once coated in blood, but you can buy beach house property and get a tan there during the warmer, sunnier months.
It’s hard to find something that looked, sounded, tasted or felt the way it must have been when soldiers the same age as me were asked to take part in the largest invasive undertaking known to military history.
Tombs at the Normandy American Cemetery are clean, white and soft to the touch. They’re probably about as far as possible from representing the dirty, gritty soldier they statically rest above.
A few words, mainly names, ages and hometowns, are meant to sum up 20 to 30 years of a human life. You don’t get to read about the children that lost fathers that day, or about the college educations that went incomplete.
You don’t get to see the looks on the faces of family members who found out their loved one had been killed.
Instead, you get perfectly symmetrical rows of the tombs of thousands of dead and buried men, some unknown. You get perfectly manicured gardens.
You get the furthest thing from the chaos that took place that day.
If the Cemetery, beaches and museums are meant to remind people of what happened on D-Day, they do a bad job at provoking within people any of the fear or anger that the soldiers must’ve felt.
They do, however, create a beautiful tribute to men who, acting by order instead of by choice, did something they didn’t understand. We understand now the heavy price they paid.
It’s bigger than simply having the freedoms to say what we want or write what we feel. They’re the reason we have a Europe full of different yet rich cultures, all of which we’re able to peacefully get along with.
Their sacrifice will hopefully be the reason nothing like D-Day ever needs to occur again, or that we never find ourselves in the midst of a WWIII.
Though a tribute rests in Normandy, the best tribute we could offer those men is to recognize the faults of our past and make damn sure we’re not destined to repeat them. That way, they will not have died in vain.
They will not have given up their warm beds, their pretty wives, their children’s birthdays for no reason.
American Deviant Pt. 2: Paris
If there’s one thing to know about Paris, it’s that you should believe the hype. If you’ve never been to Paris, this column does the city about as much justice as trying to put a loved one into words.
Paris houses just a few things that do the soul good, such as the Louvre, Notre Dame, the sparkling Seine and of course the Eiffel Tower, which is best taken in at night accompanied by a chocolate crêpe and some friends.
It’s also a city without a sales tax, where wine is cheaper than water and the bread tastes better than a $30 steak.
On every rue there’s another beautiful monument or charming café. Each couple you see is engaged in an adoring glance. Parisiens stop and enjoy hours of conversation over coffee and pastries.
While I was busy snapping pictures and pinching myself, Parisiens just went about their days like nothing was out of the ordinary.
This is because to them, nothing was out of the ordinary.
Each of their days are filled with beautiful sights, plentiful time and beaucoup de vin. To them, evening strolls through Montmartre must be like going to the grocery store.
It’s unfair enough to almost make me hate their fortune. I can only hope they appreciate living in the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen.
I’ve spoken French for about six years now. It’s still extremely broken, but it’s been more than sufficient to get me around the sprawling city of Paris.
Prior to this trip, learning French has just been something to do. When I first started I loved the language, with its playful sound and beautiful words.
Lately, as I continue my studies, I’ve just found myself studying French because it’s something I’ve done for so long. It’s not that the passion was gone, it’s just that it wasn’t nearly as significant as the days when I didn’t even know what renard, église, amitié or fenêtre meant.
Now, having been immersed in the language for the better part of a week, I know I’ll take a better appreciation for the language back with me.
I’ve been able to communicate just fine with Parisiens on a very superficial level, but thinking about coming back to Paris with a full understanding of the language and all of the conversations I could have makes me want to commit to learning French.
A city so rich in food, art and good people deserves to be absorbed fully, just like a local.
My time in Paris left me with a few life rules Americans could benefit from living by.
Take more time to stop and smell the roses.
While we are a nation of doers and we accomplish a lot that way, there is another type of gratification from spending that extra hour with a friend over coffee, or from walking somewhere and taking in the sights rather than hopping in your SUV to save time.
Get to know the people around you. Talk to your waiters and the strangers next to you on the bus. They’re no outsider, they’re a fellow countryman, but Americans can have inhibiting tunnel vision when it comes to recognizing their neighbors.
Next time I visit Paris, and there will be a next time, it’ll be as a relaxed, fluent and better-oriented person.
If you go, I recommend bringing the love of your life.
American Deviant Pt. 1: London
Upon arriving in London, you’ll be exhausted. The flight will have been long and uncomfortable and full of ill-fated attempts at getting some shut-eye.
But while you may not have gotten an adequate amount of sleep, fortunately the adrenaline coursing through you at the thought of being in a new country will get you through the day.
At least, it got me through mine.
I know I was expecting a few things when I got to London, mainly red telephone booths, different accents and for the bathroom to be called the “loo.” There were more cultural quirks to be absorbed just during my first day.
For example, the first thing you’ll want to do when you arrive in London after your six-hour flight is eat a meal that isn’t airline food.
A typical English breakfast isn’t set up the way Americans are used to.
Instead of more pancakes, omelets and biscuits and gravy than you can eat, the English prefer fried eggs, cold cuts and cheeses and some dishes not often found on the breakfast table like mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans.
Surprisingly though it all comes together for a hearty breakfast, topped off with some very strong coffee.
Don’t waste time freshening up in your quaint but smartly laid out hotel room. If the weather is nice during your trip, it’s a scarce commodity in London and shouldn’t be wasted.
My first day in London was spent taking in Westminster Abbey, which would end up setting the precedent for historic buildings later in my trip and would be a tough act to follow.
The Abbey was full of people visiting and people having personal conversations with God. It’s a living church which means you can practice your faith amongst the graves of Charles Dickens and Isaac Newton.
Contradictory to what might be deemed acceptable in America, Charles Darwin is buried within the Abbey. Upon asking the church’s views on housing an intellectual known for promoting natural selection over intelligent design, you’ll find that the church values the sciences.
Not only is Darwin respected by the church, but you’ll find him on the Pound as well.
I’m not a religious person. I’ve never felt comfort or reverence in any stale, stuffy church I’ve been to in America.
In London, it was different.
Looking at the chiseled gothic ceilings and towering gilded tombs of Westminster Abbey demands your adoration.
It’s impossible not to feel small and humble, and harder to ignore the thought that all of the people gathered in the Abbey know something about a higher power that you don’t – they understand something that you’re missing.
If being religious meant I would get to pray to God in Westminster Abbey, I just might be able to make a believer out of myself.
By the evening, I was pushing more than a day without sleep.
One thing that kept me awake during most of the day was a craving for a local specialty: fish ‘n’ chips.
When abroad and in need of suggestions, I recommend befriending the hotel concierge. More than once did the friendly chap behind the desk help me find where to shop, drink or find a convenience store.
His recommendation for the best fish ‘n’ chips around was spot on and just around the corner at the Hareford Arms.
The Hareford Arms employed the first of many attractive bartenders to come that I would meet during my trip. He accepted my order for a London Pride and an order of fish ‘n’ chips with a smile and a “cheers.”
Contrary to what some might say, Europeans are not rude.
The batter was light and flaky, the fish moist and not overly fishy. The fries are thick cut and require several returns to the ketchup bottle.
If you’re like me, you’ll get to watch the locals take in the rugby match on the telly. Americans are not the only people who go crazy about their sports.
In the evening it’s worth a trip out to Piccadilly Circus, a kind of London Times Square. You’ll see the bizarre from shops devoted to nothing but pandas, to the loud and drunk Irish Pub full of Irish taking in their team’s rugby tournament.
However, despite the fact that you’re in one of the greatest cities in the world, don’t ignore your bodies’ need for sleep come nightfall. London will still be there in the morning with more to see and do.
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