When I looked at my phone, there was a text from home. Late last night, Merry passed. It was Wednesday back in Pennsylvania.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there with him.

He’s been having downs and ups for well over a year now. In the last couple of months, he would occasionally have “spells.” He would just stand, frozen, staring at nothing. The first time, I took him to the vet the next morning. He acted as though nothing was wrong. After a spell, he’d be ok for a few weeks—even rallying to his old self without the heavy wheezing.

Apparently, he refused his medicine and didn’t eat much food on Wednesday. He drank water, and then I guess he sort of went to sleep and died while there. At peace.

The weekend before I left on this trip, he was playing with a tennis ball in the dockyard at the warehouse. I rolled it across the pavement, and he chased it down and brought it back over and over. I stopped when I thought he might be overexerting his lungs. He then refused to drop the ball and paraded around with it in his mouth.

Such a little hero.

15 years since he was given to me as a puppy.

A great companion.

A friend for over 20% of my life.

Godspeed, Merry.

Thursday, April 23rd

It is the last day of the tour. We are leaving Amboise for Chartres. Then on to Paris. I fly home tomorrow.

The trip was so big that I’m going to cut this week’s story off at Tuesday. Next week, I’ll write the rest.

Saturday, April 18th, the tour begins. A beautiful morning. The French aren’t out yet. They had too much fun on Friday night.

“10:30 they may start coming out.”

It is a very small group on a very big bus. 21 on a bus that seats 44. That’s great. We can all spread out some. I think all but one are Americans.

The bus is heading into the city from the tour hotel in La Defense. We are on one of the cobbled streets leading like a spoke to the circle around the Arc de Triomphe. I discovered last night what a bumpy ride these cobbles cause.

The group orientation meeting was on Friday night. I left my Camille Hotel on the east side late morning. Finishing last week’s story was the first goal. My notes were a mess. There was a room ready, so I was able to work in comfort.

So, I ended up in bed tapping away on the laptop. It was more trouble than I had anticipated. Exhaustion was part of it. Thursday was another sleepless night.

Then some work issues started coming in.

A six-figure book buy dropped in.

“Amazing. Crazy times in Wonder-Land.”

I sent my suggestions for keeping. Things in balance with all these big goings-on. We need to keep adding books so that our stock is refreshed. We need to fill these orders so that the customers don’t need to wait for too long.

We are s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d.

I decided we should get a walk-behind electric forklift. We are stacking more and more Gaylords. The actual forklift you sit in like a driver. Maneuvering it in tight spaces can be problematic. Driving it sometimes makes me feel like a bull in a china shop. This device will be much more nimble.

I sent the blog across the Atlantic to Maryland. Then I reread it and sent the images.

Done.

There were now under three hours until the tour meeting at 6. The hotel was a substantial distance from anything remotely interesting. I had no need or interest in shopping. So, I decided to rest.

“I need a nap.”

My head was sandwiched between two pillows so that any external noise wouldn’t wake me.

It felt good and was sorely needed. I’d been in high gear since landing so very early on Tuesday morning after the overnight flight.

My phone buzzed me awake.

Down to the lobby.

The orientation didn’t take long, and we were cut loose.

“There are several restaurants within walking distance…” They sounded dreary.

I couldn’t go wandering in this “garden” of office buildings with the glories of Paris just across the Seine.

I opened the Uber app. 13 Euros to the Arc de Triomphe. Roads lead to the extremely busy traffic circle around the memorial like spokes on a wheel. The main spoke of the circle is the Champs-Elysees. That long stretch of wide boulevard is lined with fast food like McDonalds to French shops and bistros and high-end haute couture—like Louis Vuitton.

I could find food there.

So I Ubered into Paris and was dropped off near the Arc. No plans. I headed down the Champs-Elysees. The crowds on the sidewalks were a mix of kids, tourists, immigrants in native garb and plenty of women displaying their haute couture.

The Avenue des Champs-Élysées (UK: /ˌʃɒ̃z eɪˈliːzeɪ, ɛ-/, US: /ʃɒ̃z ˌeɪliˈzeɪ/; French: [av(ə)ny de ʃɑ̃z‿elize]; “Avenue of the Elysian Fields”), usually shortened to the Champs-Élysées, is an avenue in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, France. The avenue is 1.9 kilometres (1.2 mi) long and 70 metres (230 ft) wide, running between the Place de la Concorde in the east and the Place Charles de Gaulle in the west, where the Arc de Triomphe is located. It is known for its theatres, cafés, and luxury shops; as the finish of the Tour de France cycling race; and for its annual Bastille Day military parade.

I walked and looked and walked. A lot of places looked great, but I couldn’t pull the trigger and choose one.

L’Occitane de Provence has its own sidewalk cafe. I could buy hand cream and a croissant.

Then in the distance, far down the road, I saw the Place de la Concorde. (Concorde was where so many had their heads taken off by the guillotine—what’s in a name?) I know that area pretty well.

The square was the site of many notable public executions, including Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette and Maximilien Robespierre in the course of the French Revolution, during which it was temporarily renamed the Place de la Révolution (‘Revolution Square’). It received its current name in 1795 as a gesture of reconciliation in the later years of the revolution, although later the original name was reinstated for a period.

Night was falling. I wasn’t that hungry. The views were stunning and iconic. The walk was magical. (The word magic will likely repeat often as you read on.)

‘There’s the US Embassy up ahead with the guards in protective gear and automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. Maxim’s is just around the next corner,’ I thought.

There’s a hotel tucked in there discreetly with 4 or 5 mid-six-figure cars facing out from the curb waiting for their owners to stretch their legs.

It took a bit of bravery to ask at the maitre d’ stand just inside the door if there was a spot at the bar, but I was dressed pretty well in khakis and a black sweater.

“Oui, monsieur. Up ze stair.”

It is a beautiful, if slightly over the top, room. Lots of dark red plush carpets, furniture and walls. Mirrors everywhere to multiply the effect.

“This is it. This is where I’m supposed to be tonight.”

A glass of champagne and a tiny tin of caviar were all I had for dinner.

It was a splurge, but I savored every little black pop-in-your-mouth pebble. I lingered over that for a couple of hours before stepping out into the 21st century and taking an Uber for a bumpy ride up the Champs-Elysees back to the wasteland of La Defense.

It was a perfect ending for the first part of this trip. My self-guided “tour.”

Saturday

On the way to Versailles. A beautiful clear sunny Saturday. I haven’t been since I took my two little boys many years ago.

I brought my own guidebook.

Actually, this thing dropped in just before I left for this trip. I imagine it is a little out of date.

Books can be so evocative. That object almost certainly had some physical connection to the estate. (Why else would the original owner have bought it?)

Another positive about touring with the guide is that we had a special entrance with no line. Other lines had hundreds of people in them—mostly waiting for a timed entrance. We’d been given “Whispers.” They are very small plastic boxes on a lanyard. An earpiece connects the box to your brain, and the guide can speak softly to the group.

A few things she said stand out.

“You notice not one is smiling in the portraits. They all had bad teeth.”

“They didn’t bathe. They thought the body might absorb disease through the skin. King Louis used six liters of perfume a week.”

Only three Louis’s lived there: #14, #15, #16. (Prior, the site had been a royal hunting lodge.) Things didn’t end well for Louis 16 or his wife Marie Antoinette.

This winter, I spent “ice time” watching miniseries of A Tale of Two Cities and The Scarlet Pimpernel. I didn’t know I was going to France at the time. One theme you see is that the nobility were often not evil or sinister but simply disengaged from the real world due to their upbringing. As with so many of history’s bad guys, they existed in the system they were born into.

There were hundreds of people in numerous queues everywhere in the vast courtyard.

The palace complex is immense, sprawling. As a tour, we had no queue. When our time came, we were led to Entrance B and breezed in. We had been turned over to a local guide who was full of energy and information. She spoke softly into our ears with the little radios on lanyards around our necks.

Room after room after room… galleries, royal reception, bedrooms… Our guide told us what each was, and for the first dozen or so, I kept up. Then there was no more “room” in my head for these galleries and bedchambers. I disengaged and escaped outside to the gardens. We were to be back at the bus in about 40 minutes. The long pond at the foot of the gardens was my goal. If I could get there in 20 minutes, I’d have 20 minutes left to hurry back to the bus.

I walked briskly down past the tall squared-off boxwood hedges. Intriguing paths and tunnels opened along the sides. Often I could espy fountains glittering silver waters, but there was no time to investigate.

I got to Apollo’s Fountain with the gilded horses emerging from the water, pulling the god behind.

A water feature already existed here in 1636, during the reign of Louis XIII, and was known as the Lake of the Swans. Louis XIV later added the spectacular and famous work in gilded lead of Apollo riding his chariot. This piece, built by Tuby on a design by Le Brun, is based on the legend of Apollo, the Sun god and the King’s icon. It features the god bursting forth from the water in anticipation of his daily flight above the earth. Tuby made this monumental group in the Gobelins manufacture […] already in activity during the reign of Henry IV (1553-1610), Louis XIV made the Gobelins the Royal Upholstery Manufacture from 1667. […] between 1668 and 1670, when it was transported to Versailles and put in place and gilded the following year.

The long pond is just beyond that. The landscape architect Andre le Notre defeated the effect of perspective by widening the pond slightly as it extends away from the back of the palace so very far away.

I looked at my phone. I had 20 minutes to get back. It is a great faux pas to be late on the bus. 20 pairs of eyes would bore into you.

“Guilty!”

The difference was that the return is uphill.

“March! Double time!”

That evening, our guide took us on a dinner excursion to Montmartre. The bus had to squeeze onto the road as we approached the Pigalle. It has traditionally been known as the red-light district. They were at the foot of the mountain. We passed the Moulin Rouge with its red windmill on the roof and the building bathed in red.

Our guide had tickets for each of us to go up the funicular. I’ve taken the steps in the past. It is a long steep climb.

Our dinner was in a vintage building.

Imagine the conversations that took place there.

A “Golden Age.” Inside, it was decidedly designed for tour groups. Long tables… The dinner was unforgettable in its disappointment after what I’d already eaten in Paris. It was ok, though. I was in Paris with the spirits of the artists hovering everywhere.

Sunday. There is no traffic in the La Defense section where our hotel was. We are driving along the Seine—the west side of a big bend in the river that nearly encircles the Bois de Boulogne. It is a vast woodland park on Paris’ west side.

Houseboats line the river. Every one quite different from the others. Some are scruffy. Others “done up.”

The next stop is Giverny. I’ve never been, and I’m looking forward to seeing it in April.

Saturday was a massive day. I like that.

We began with a tourist overview of Paris. We went to the Arc de Triumph first. Then down the Champs d’Elysee. (The same route I took on foot the night before.) We crossed the Seine again near the Louvre. We had taken on a local guide who was very vivacious. She kept a running monologue of the sights we were passing from the jump seat next to the front door. It is a feature of these trips that the guides speak on a microphone much of the time. History, culture, geology, cuisine, politics… It is easy to zone out of this if you just wish to look out the window or play on your phone or…

We stopped near the Sorbonne and parked. I enjoyed this area on my last visit. We walked past the Cluny, and I regretted not getting to the Cluny—their medieval museum. There was a licorne (unicorn) exhibition on. Next time.

Our little group followed like ducklings down the ancient streets. Our goal was Notre Dame. Though I’d been there a couple of days before, no downside to walking through the church again. Early in the morning, there was no line. We walked past “Point Zero” and breezed inside.

A little more wandering and then back on the bus. A brief lunch and bathroom break back at the Arc de Triomphe, and we were on the road to Versailles.

Speed cameras in concrete pyramids. When the speed limits were reduced from 90 to 80 in 2018, “yellow vest” protests abounded in our guide’s rustic southwestern France. First, the locals spray-painted the speed cameras. Then shot them with shotguns. Then blew them up. The speed limit went back up to 90.

Sunday, we left Paris early. As a group with a reservation, we got into Giverny’s gardens early.

There are magical moments in one’s life. This was one. I felt as if I had stepped into a Monet painting.

All was quiet and serene but for the birdsong. There were so many that I turned on the Merlin app to see their names.

April in France. So much is in bloom. You enter the gardens and are not obviously directed to the lily ponds. Our guide, Karen, told us to go this way first. Down some steps, through a short tunnel, up some steps and into another world. There was no one else there. I scurried ahead of my group… ummm… so I wouldn’t interfere with their selfies and conversations.

There are paths around the ponds and a winding stream. Everywhere I was challenging myself to “name that bloom.” I used to have formal gardens at the old Pennsylvania estate. Up on the mountain, I can only focus on what grows in the stone and semi-shade and deer-infested terraces I’ve put in.

I did pretty well. Beyond the obvious, like azaleas and wisteria—euphorbia, lunaria, dill… All in bloom.

This had to be the peak time. Even the irises and water lilies were beginning to open.

It was a holy place. Unfortunately, some of my companions couldn’t keep their voices down. Tacky.

There are also large formal gardens. And you can walk through his home.

Just before we were to rendezvous, I went back to the ponds for one last look. I shouldn’t have. There were about 20 people on the bridge vying for shots and selfie space. The birdsong was somewhat overwhelmed by the chattering tourists from all over the world.

When we left, the line had about 150 people in it.

Lucky to be on a budget tourist tour? Perfect for my simple goals.

From there, we drove through Normandy. It was beautiful countryside. Somewhat reminiscent of the Middle Atlantic as far as landscape, it is the architecture that stands out. Half-timber farmhouses and townhouses then the seaside.

Sigh…

On to Rouen, a city decimated by WWII combat.

Joan of Arc was burned to death in the market square. Her remains tossed into the Seine. Her “trial” was a farce by the French clergy and English military. As much as anything, it was a political execution to eliminate an inconvenient character. Subsequent trials exonerated her.

The original trial was unjust and deceitful.

She was beatified in 1909. Canonized in 1920.

I would have thought the spot where her stake was planted would have had more of a memorial than this little sign.

Leonard Cohen’s wonderful tribute played in my head the rest of the time in the city.

The next stop was the quaint unspoiled town of Honfleur. Located where the Seine estuary meets the English Channel. The town has the largest wooden church in France—St. Catherine’s. The architecture inside features twin naves with barrel-vault ceilings, clearly built by shipwrights.

There’s a matching tower clock in the same square. Calvados is a big thing around here. Numerous little liquor shops have displays on barrels. The liquor is very much like cognac but made from pears or apples. I felt obligated to acquire some samples for cultural purposes.

Normandy also has its own official cheeses. Four of them—Camembert, Livarot, Neufchatel and Pont-l’Eveque.

Part of the town surrounds an early 18th-century “bassin” or small harbor. It is surrounded on three sides by townhouses that define “quaint.”

On to the last stop, Deauville, which our guide tells us is the Cannes of the north. In summer, wealthy people fly in for polo and a film festival and—whatever else wealth is amused by.

One downside of these tours is that the hotels are often located distant from city centers. From my room, the western horizon was obscured by hundreds of tall masts on large sailboats. I couldn’t just sit around, so out into the chilly wind I went. It was a long cold walk to where the River Toques meets the Channel.

The next day we passed Caen—the abbey has all that remains of William the Conqueror—his thighbone. War decimated many parts of Normandy. The abbey survived the decimation of Caen because civilians took shelter in it and placed sheets with red crosses on the roof.

William’s tomb has been disturbed several times since 1087, the first time in 1522 when the grave was opened on orders from the papacy. The intact body was restored to the tomb at that time. In 1562, during the French Wars of Religion, the grave was again opened and the original tombstone of black marble, similar to that of Matilda in the Abbaye aux Dames, was destroyed. William’s bones were scattered and lost, with the exception of one thighbone. This lone relic was reburied in 1642 with a new marker, which was replaced 100 years later with a more elaborate monument. This tomb was again destroyed during the French Revolution, but was eventually replaced with the current early 19th-century ledger stone in white marble.

Our first stop was Omaha Beach. We were the only ones there.

All that remains are the wind, waves and sand
The iron has rusted to dust
The souls have fled
Living memory has died off
Engraved in stone:
“No mission too difficult
No sacrifice too great
Duty first”
A steel memorial rises from the beach
A tear drops onto the sand
It disappears where
Blood vanished decades ago
Boys became men but never grew old

Our guide told us Americans are still loved in Normandy.

On every anniversary of D-Day, American flags are flown everywhere.

“If it weren’t for the Americans, we would be speaking German.”

Then we were taken to the cemetery and memorial. Again, we were the first ones there. I rushed ahead past the museum. I wanted to be in the cemetery alone.

It is perched atop the low cliff that overlooks the beach from which the Germans rained fire on the American soldiers trying to land and establish a beachhead.

There are 9839 graves in the American Cemetery.

It was heartrending. Every few minutes, I became choked up.

I made my way back to the visitor center and its wonderful exhibits.

“There it is!” someone on the bus exclaimed. Far off to the right, a mountain—more of a Gothic sculpture—rose from the sea.

Mont-Saint-Michel.

It grew in detail and beauty as we approached.

Our guide goosed us to climb to the top.

“It is 350 steps, but it is worth the effort. The views are unforgettable.”

The abbey was conceived in a dream:

Before the construction of the first monastic establishment in the 8th century, the island was called Mont Tombe (Latin: tumba). According to a legend, the archangel Michael appeared in 708 to Aubert of Avranches, the bishop of Avranches, and instructed him to build a church on the rocky islet.

It was finished in 1023.

One industry was bookmaking. It was a repository of many illuminated manuscripts.

The monks were expelled during the French Revolution.

I made it to the top. The ascent was more inspirational than exhausting. However, the first 350 stairs were less than half the story. You pass through many rooms—refectory, chapels, cloister… And to navigate those, you go up and down many stairways. At the abbey’s end, you go down the stairway you ascended. So 350 up. 350 down. And many more in between.

Our guide was right. The views were forever in all directions.

When I got to the bottom of Mont-Saint-Michel, I treated myself to a flaming rum, chocolate and banana crepe.

It is late Thursday afternoon. We will be in Paris soon. I will fly home tomorrow and bury my friend Merry.

“Godspeed, my little hero. Thank you for the light and laughs you brought to me all these years.”