The Siren Song of Saint-Malo

We meet our host Paul outside the Saint-Malo train station. He is a sixty-something year-old man with wavy white hair, a charismatic face, and crisp French diction. He could have been an actor. Despite the supposed language barrier between us, we communicate with ease and Paul gives us the general run-down of Saint-Malo on the short drive to our apartment. The intramuros or historic walled-in area of the small city comes into view and we cross a bridge and breach one of the east-facing arched city gates on Quai Saint-Louis. My excitement builds as the scenery suddenly becomes a maze of narrow stone alleys whose tops rise to meet the clouded November sky, casting mysterious shadows and concealing the secrets of this very old place. It feels like a place where people have lived for over 2000 years.

Paul miraculously maneuvers the car into an impossibly narrow alley, carefully reversing under an archway that opens into a small courtyard. We unload our belongings and he ushers us up two flights of stairs to the apartment. There, his friendly wife Chantal is just putting the finishing touches on freshening it up for us. They hand over the keys, give us some information, and leave us to our devices. The apartment is bright and clean, decorated in yellows, blues, and nautical-themed decor. To our delight, we discover that the bedroom has metal black-out blinds that cover the window by means of a crank, hermetically sealing the room from any outside light. This will help us to finally get some sleep, we agree. And just when we thought it couldn't be any better, we discover that the king-size bed, already a rare occurrence in France, is adjustable. As a teenager I began referring to this type of bed as a "fold-up-your-old-people" bed, owing to the Craftmatic TV commercials depicting elderly couples being folded in half by simultaneously raising both the head and the foot of the bed. We take full advantage of this particular bed by folding and then unfold ourselves many times over the next couple of days.

Almost immediately we shed our belongings and head back out the door and down to the street, our internal compasses leading us west to the ramparts. Charlie has been to Saint-Malo before as a teenager, so this is all somewhat familiar to him and he leads the way. We emerge from one of the narrow streets and are met with a rampart wall rising up before us. Looking left and right we observe that we have a choice: at regular intervals are small archways leading directly to the beach that alternate with stairs to take us up to the top of the ramparts. The nearest option is stairs so we begin to ascend. As we are nearing the top I am engaged in yammering about something or other while Charlie maintains a knowing silence. Then our heads rise above the obscuring stones and the scene outstretched before us meets my eyes. I gasp and, mid-sentence, am instantaneously struck mute, a sob catches in my throat, and my eyes shine moist. After a moment I manage a quiet, "Oh my God." Charlie smiles. He was expecting this reaction.

The high city wall drops terrifyingly far down to an expanse of fine tan sand etched with the wavy ripples of the outgoing tide. Curving lines of tidewrack meet rocky outcrops filled with tide pools. Beyond lies a shimmering silver-blue sea reflecting the patchwork of pristine sky peeking through clouds above. Off to the southwest distinctive white rays of sunlight beam onto the still surface of the water where sailboats nudge along at a lackadaisical pace. Most notable are the numerous fortified islets that interrupt the expanse of sea. One stands proudly just off shore, only accessible during low tide by means of a stone footbridge, while others seem to be phasing out of view in the mist far out on the horizon. No camera could ever hope to do it justice, but I attempt it anyway, if only to later remind myself of how much more beautiful it is than whatever image comes out.

I don't really try to compose myself and it takes several minutes of walking along the ramparts before the sniffling stops. Charlie is silently nostalgic as we begin a wander that lasts until dinnertime. We descend to the beach and Charlie lights up a cigar. We explore the clumps of rocks and their tide pools, handling small shells and red seaweed, and exclaiming over small crabs and mollusks. When the tide begins to urge us back toward to the city, we climb the stairs to the top of the ramparts again and continue our slow circling. Toward dusk we move our wandering to the maze inside the walls and begin looking for a place to eat. We find curious architecture, street names, and places where modernity stands starkly out from the historic. For dinner we settle on one of the many crêperies where we find the food to be about as good as one would expect from a tourist town in the off season.

The walkway to Grand Bé, with Petit Bé peeking over its shoulder

The ramparts

Narrow Rue Saint-Barbe

A tidepool inquirer

Saint-Malo intramuros from the rocky beach

Rue du Chat Qui Danse (Dancing Cat Street)

An odd piece of modern architecture in the historical district

Folding up my old man

After a night of being sufficiently folded up in the pitch black of our room, we don our armor and head for the ramparts again. At this early hour mist still obscures even the water's edge. We search for yet undiscovered new treasures in the morning's tide pools but find only the usual suspects from yesterday. We venture out onto a long man-made spit to investigate the diminutive Môle des Noires lighthouse that looks across the mouth of the Rance River to Dinard. There Charlie executes a handstand, a tradition we began when we first started traveling together but one that we have failed to uphold during the last several adventures. I am surprised and delighted that he is reviving it. Toward midday we find ourselves at the town's 15th-century chateau-fort, the Château de Saint-Malo, and take a quick spin through it. Later we wander into the Roman-Gothic Saint-Malo Cathedral dimly lit by the cloudy day's light filtering in through the blue and purple rose window. Four local women are huddled near the central altar practicing their plainchant.

Morning fog on the ramparts

Edible sea creatures revealed by the outgoing tide

A rooftop garden in a town where space is limited

Buttresses behind the Chateau

Taking the castle with nothing but my finger gun

Cathedrale de Saint-Malo at night

The rose window bathes the nave in soft purple light.

Oh, they meant the other Marie.

As we explore the town's narrow cobbled streets, we pop into a few shops to purchase the succulent items on display in their windows. In particular we are after kouign amann (pronounced kween ah-MAHN), a Breton butter cake made by rolling an obscene amount of butter and sugar into multiple layers of viennoiserie dough and then baking it until, assuming you've done it correctly, you have a weepingly moist pastry with a crispy caramelized top. We find one that is just okay, but a far cry from the quality of others we've had in the past. For dinner, we scope out one of the town's many seafood joints serving giant platters of boiled crustaceans with sides of butter, lemon, and the tools you need to crack their shells. Later on, Charlie will bravely take on a massive pile of sea creatures while I opt for a simpler pre-shelled dish of scallops. We will both leave happy and full.

No langoustine shall escape intact

As soon as the receding sea has sufficiently uncovered the walkway to the nearest fortified islet, Grand Bé, we cross and ascend the path that spirals up to its summit. On its north side we find the grave of French writer Chateaubriand, although we only learn this later as it is just mysteriously marked "Un grand ecrivain français (a great French writer)." We continue along the gravel path to the summit and then drop down to the west-facing side of the islet. There a park bench waits for us and we sit and gaze out into the distance beyond Grand Bé's smaller companion, Petit Bé, with its own 17th century fort. On the horizon the sun slowly sinks, creating bands of blue, orange, and purple as it falls behind the curvature of the earth. The sea shimmers its colorful reflection while boats slice long lines in its surface. Quiet descends on the evening, interrupted only by the evening song of nearby wild birds and a gentle wind rustling the grass.

An adventurer

Sunset from Grand Bé with Petit Bé in silhouette

Bonne nuit

Now please enjoy the most recent episode of Smoking in the Park!

The Dead

The Why

"I think the people who are happiest here in the city are the ones who find a stillness somewhere," says Geoff.

"That's why I like ossuaries and cemeteries," I contribute, "They offer a kind of absolute stillness."

"I understand what you mean, but that's a bit dark," he gently chides.

Charlie and I have always enjoyed the places where the dead hang out. Our interest in these spaces may have started as a way of acting edgy or fearless in the face mortality. It may have been influenced by goth subculture and general depressive nihilism during our formative years. Now it really is about peace and quiet, perspective, and history.

The Brief Histories of the Dead - Montparnasse Cemetery

Here lie the likes of French legends Jean-Paul Sartre and Simon de Beauvoir, Baudelaire, Camille Saint-Saenz, and Serge Gainsbourg. It's also the final resting place of Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes and former Mexican president Porfirio Díaz. The fact that the latter is buried in Paris rather than Mexico is testament to how well his political career went.

The entire grounds are awash with the colors of freshly placed flowers from All Souls' Day. The low morning sun filters through the shedding trees and tiny stained glass windows on mausoleums made to look like miniature Gothic cathedrals. The other living are mostly tourists, wandering around with large laminated placards that give the rough locations of various celebrity graves. A few people are here to pay their respects to dead loved ones. We are touched to see an elderly woman knelt on the edge of a long, flat tomb, silently praying.

Charlie smokes a nice Cuban cigar and we chat quietly, appreciating the creative sculptures, unusual names, and stories engraved into the gravestones. One is a giant multicolored mosaic cat. Others show their owners' professions, such as a chef portrayed by a toque-wearing bust or a writer portrayed with an open book and quill pen. We pause a long time in front of one grave, speechless as we read that the only people who lie there are the parents of four children who perished at the Auschwitz-Birkenau extermination camp in 1942.

Ricardo's mosaic cat

We are all compost in the end.

Pure leisure

Paleontology and Comparative Anatomy

We are on our way to the paleontology and comparative anatomy exhibit of the National Museum of Natural History. I first visited with Charlie's family in 2011 when they came to see us in Paris, but Charlie was working that day and couldn't join us. That first time, as soon as I walked in I knew I had to bring Charlie here. He's a skeleton enthusiast and would love it.

Guided by Google maps, we emerge from the metro at the wrong side of the sprawling Jardin des Plantes and must walk through it to get to the museum. Fortunately, it's a gorgeous garden and there is plenty to see, including wallabies (of all things) and a curious colony of feral rose-ringed parakeets, a species introduced to Europe in the 1970s. The herb and flower beds are manicured and colorful and, since it is raining, there is hardly anyone here to disturb the peace of it all. We are glad to have to take the long way in and choose to take the long way out when we are finished.

I am afraid the museum might be crowded because of it being a good indoor activity for a rainy day, but there isn't even a line. We are two of perhaps a couple dozen visitors this morning and enjoy winding through the bone collections at our leisure. And I am right, Charlie loves it and marvels at all of the creatures, large and small, from tiny bats to woolly mammoths.

A silently stampeding herd

A little homie relates to his ancestors.

In the event of a Jurassic Park-type scenario, a pet triceratops is not feasible.

An unexpected flock of parakeets having lunch.

A gardener's dreamscape

The Catacombs

We have been here before, but my skeleton enthusiast husband insists that we come again. Here we stand in line for much longer than we like and, by the time we gain entry, completely hate humanity. Luckily, all the humans we've come to see are dead.

Here lie the skeletal remains of about six million people, collected from centuries-old cemeteries all around the city in response to overflow. None are fully intact, but are stacked into organized piles by bone, namely skulls, femurs, and the other large leg and arm bones. Where they've heaped all the pelvises, vertebrae, hands, and feet remains a mystery. Even ignoring the dead masses, the former stone mines are dark and foreboding. The air is chilly and smells of damp. The architects of this space attempted to add to the spook factor by including large plaques displaying the most Edgar Allan Poe-esque quotes from the Bible that they could find, and taking their pick from Dante's Inferno. Security guards stand at (not regular enough) intervals to try to prevent the ill-adjusted living from defacing or stealing from this impressive collection, with varying degrees of success. We slip through the exhibit swift and silent, pausing here and there to look closer, or to step back and take in the enormity of the space and its contents. Then, in less time than it took us to gain entry, we exit and head directly into the only gift shop worth visiting.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

"For me... to die is gain." Philippians 1:21

Death's altar

I find this humerus.

Plenty of chiaroscuro to be found here

The Cats of Montmartre Cemetery

I spot one as soon as we enter the gates, a white and grey tabby doing figure eights around the legs of two ladies who stand chatting near a bench. One is holding a bag and the cat knows it's full of delights, which she has come to share with the feline population that inhabits the space. I approach the bench and call to the cat. She jumps up onto it and comes to me, stuffing her face into my outstretched hand for affection. But she quickly realizes I have brought her no food and returns to impatiently orbiting the ladies' legs.

As we move through these enchanted grounds, slinky bodies in our periphery dart around corners and between gravestones like little furry ghosts. I try calling to most of them and am met with either fear or disdain. It is morning and chilly. Golden sunlight is beginning to shine between the tall skeleton trees, its beams lighting up the white stone tombs like natural spotlights for opportunistic cats to warm themselves. Crows congregate on tombs, picking through the wilted flowers and fallen leaves in search of some rare morsel. Despite the early hour, Charlie lights up a cigar and we spend a good long time slowly wandering through the stone menagerie, inadvertently happening upon the graves of historical figures like Alexandre Dumas.

A brief but sweet encounter later on our trip, during a visit to Père Lachaise Cemetery

The Maginot Line

I first read about the the Maginot Line as a young military-minded boy and fell in love with the idea of the extended interlinked mountainous forts separating France from Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany. The idea of a fortified subterranean wall built into the sides of mountains, with crew quarters, generators, elevators and a train track, was the stuff dreams were made of. I've always wanted to see, so leapt at the chance when Marie asked "What's the one thing you've always wanted to do in France?"

Often held as a prime example of France's supposed military incompetence, we're told the line was conceived as an extension and natural evolution of trench warfare developed during World War 1. With this diminution of France's strategic plan, of course the story goes that Hitler's blitzkrieg simply flew over it, or went around. That's not the story as it apparently happened, though.

Planned in 1927 with full-scale construction beginning in 1929, the line was meant to slow a German attack to allow time for France to marshal her forces for a counter offensive, and to funnel advancing armies away from geographic weak points of France's relatively open borders. The line's intent was never to repel a German attack, and in this, it arguably did its job, to relative degrees given factors beyond the military's control: prevailing politics of the authorizing bodies having elevated bad decision makers to oversight of the line. The "site" we spent the day touring, blowing many of my perceptions of the Line away, was the first point at which the Germans breached the Line and began their advance through France.

We woke early and had a big breakfast, knowing we'd be on our feet for the next 12 hours. Our tour guide Richard, a friend of our hosts, gathered us and advised the weather was not ideal and ponchos were called for. Not knowing the scope of the tour (wasn't it all tunnels, bunkers, and trenches?), we reluctantly took rain gear from our generous hosts and went on our way. Richard, a Brit expat, was buoyant and excitable, clearly loving his foreign home and the cherishing every bit of history found in every single step he took. After giving an overview of each country's strategic plan and a look at the geography of the land we were about to explore, we set out thinking we would go to a bunker and spend the day walking through.

More accurate than the childhood fort, buried in the French country hills, this is what the Maginot Line looks like:

Far from being disappointing however, the real story belies a great disservice to French military tactics, technology, resolve, and ingenuity. Rather than a continuous wall of fortifications, the Line is made up of a series of fortified sunken structures, with little profile against the terrain and natural foliage camouflage, dependent on interlocking fields of reciprocal fire.  Even before getting to these, however, observation posts and hidden pillboxes lined the highways the Germans were most likely to take. These were disguised as country cottages, and were placed as a gauntlet to slow the invading convoy. This one, partially a recreation, told the story of a 5 man team who held the Germans up for 15 minutes, allowing a 16 year old serviceman time to bicycle down and inform command to man the line. The squad leader explained to the boy telephone lines had been severed, knowing full well they had not. Our tour guide had recounted meeting the now 93 year old boy a few years ago, who was only alive because of this lie.

A few kilometers down the road, the Line proper began.  The smallest and most numerous are called blockhouses, and are one or two room structures with 2-6 man positions operating machine guns which provided cover for larger gun casemates, operating anti-tank weaponry and larger anti-materiel guns. At times the blockhouses were oriented in line with the enemy, providing defense in the direction of advance. Around the larger (though still small) casemates are where we began to see the image often associated with the Line. There were trenches running out to the closest cover positions, as well as small sleeping areas and storage space for food.

The blockhouses and casemates were fortified well. This casemate's damage was inflicted by 88mm antitank rounds, over the course of several hours.

We counted 32 points of impact, presumably from the same 88mm artillery.

 

The surviving three men in this two room blockhouse were eventually overrun. An SS detachment imbedded with the German infantry lined them up and summarily executed them. Those bullet holes are torso height and fired at point-blank range.

 Most known for the giant installations known as ouvrages, the Maginot Line is much more than a series of concrete pillboxes. The ouvrages garrisoned anywhere from between 100 and 1,000 troops, all underground, with retractable 135 mm howitzers, providing (again, interlocking field of fire) artillery support. We toured a smaller example of the smallest kind of ouvrage, named La Ferté. It consisted of 2 blocks, and at the time that it fell had a crew of 100. Due to the bureaucracy associated with preparing the Maginot Line for attack, and the thought that the Ardennes forest would make a German attack improbable, La Ferté was ill-equipped with substandard architecture, engineering, machinery, and escape routes. Over the course of four days, the ouvrage remained unbreached but increasingly combat ineffective, until fuel from the generators caught fire on day three, killing all 100 men via carbon monoxide poisoning. Their bodies were mostly recovered from a  transportation tunnel 300 feet underground.

The entry way

What they were defending

Artillery rounds striking one of the cloches, a retractable armament dome

The winch to raise the largest cloche

When all resistance had ended, the Germans used breaching charges to begin securing the structure.

Uninhabited bed frames were in the line of overpressure from the charges.

300 foot-long tunnel, 300 feet underground.

Infirmary

Interesting example of logistical failure: mess for 2000 soldiers, in a structure staffed with 100.

Antitank gun

Smaller door breach

It was a long day and we left with sombre moods. Expected was the disjunct between reality and imagination. Admittedly, the ouvrage we toured was minor in the Line overall, and still impressive. The terrible fate and partially told stories of the men that died in La Ferté removed most of my lingering boyhood imaginative joy.