Margraten, Netherlands

This post, while it will cover the fact that I had train fiascos coming back and had to switch tickets and re-route myself (there, I covered it) I really want to focus on the reason I ventured to Holland for just one night.

My grandfather, William H. Starns, was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. Buried in The Netherlands American Cemetery and Memorial, none of my family has had the opportunity to visit his grave - until now.

The cemetery is hauntingly beautiful. Family of the deceased are treated differently. I was escorted to my grandfathers grave by the American in charge of overseeing the cemetery that day. He took a camera, and a bucket of sand and discussed my grandfather with me as we walked to plot B, row 18, grave 18. I had brought a bouquet of flowers and my guide carried an American flag and a special vase for the fall assembly of daisies, roses, and tulips, among others. As my escort placed the sand along the inscription of my grandfather's name, he explained to me that the sand was used to make the words more visible (for photos) and was brought from the beaches of Normandy specifically for this purpose.

As I placed the flowers in the vase, he inserted the flag just to the left into the ground and backed up to take a photo. Then, the guide left me alone with my thoughts. I sat down next to my grandfather's grave and started sharing my life with him. I talked about all I had done so far and how he'd be proud of me. I sat there for a good long time, hoping he could hear me somehow. Think of it as crazy or touching, your choice.

When I returned to the visitor's office, my helpful employee had several things ready for me. He had printed out the photo on a card with the row, plot, grave and other information.  Also, he had researched more information about grandpa that I hadn't previously known and printed it out. On top of that, there was an elegant folder with more facts on the cemetery, and a DVD about the cemetery, including interviews and stories from relatives of the deceased. I thought it was going to be strictly about the cemetery, but when I began watching it while waiting for the train, elderly brothers were being interviewed about their oldest sibling who was buried in the cemetery. The old man's breath caught in his throat, and I began to cry. I cried a lot today.

Also in the folder was a pamphlet about adoption. Each grave in the cemetery (all 8,301) has been adopted and it has the strongest family/adopting family ties. I'm really interested in learning about the Dutch family who cares for my grandfather when we can't be there.

There are almost 2,000 graves of unknown soldiers. Names are marked on the wall near the entrance to the cemetery, and each individual grave reads: Here rests in honored glory, a comrade in arms, known but to God.

I love you, Grandpa. 

Je t'aime

London

  I am currently on a train to Maastricht in the Netherlands, and I thought I had time to type a few notes on my trip to London (from which I just got back to Poitiers yesterday - I am way too familiar with the train stations of Paris).

  I was so fortunate to have amazing hosts! Saail and his flatmates were accommodating, kind, and a blast to be around. While on the train, a fellow International Studies major and I bonded over similar interests. I mentioned I was involved in theatre and to my delight he said, "You know, Wicked is playing right now..." 

Sign me up. That night, I braved the Tube (the underground metro for foreigners) and ventured into the heart of London. Needless to say, the play was spectacular and even better than the first time I saw it. I had a glass of wine, and sat in the front row. Can't get much better than that.

  Day 2 consisted of mainly Portobello Rd. There was a train fiasco, which led me to meet another girl headed to the same market, Johanna. Originally from Finland, Johanna was working in London for schooling. Together, we managed to find our way to the market by taking a train, a bus, and walking our feet off. I must admit, a main reason I had such a desire to visit this attraction was because of the movie, Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Don't judge me. Johanna and I also made it to Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey.

 Why spend the day in London when you can take a coach two hours outside and see something older than the Bible? I took advantage of a tour bus and headed west, near Salisbury to see one of the most astounding things I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing:

  Yes, I took that photo myself. I was there, at Stonehenge. A Canadian student taking classes in Sweden was in London for the weekend and her and I both had the same idea afterwards: Tower Bridge. Continuing on our jaunt, Leceister Square was the next stop. Madonna had a movie premiere that night, so there was a lot of hubub about the square and roads were closed off. That night, after gazing at the countless advertisements in the Tube for plays, I said to myself, you're in London and you have another night. Why not go see another play? So I did.

  Les Miserables happened to be playing just off Piccadilly Circus at Her Majesty's Theatre. I stopped by an Irish pub before and grabbed a pint to kill some time. Having never heard a mass amount of the music, I didn't know what to expect other than the basic premise of the play. I nearly cried at the end, and that's saying something to the magnificent work the actors and orchestra did. 

  

Some things I learnt:

1. I would pick a French driver over a Brit any day. Although both are crazy drivers, the British have a propensity to run yellow/red lights. Constantly.

2. Stonehenge is noticeable from a ways away.

3. It's true: You can't understand Scottish people when they speak (and you're sober)

4. Platforms 9 and 10 at King's Cross Station are nowhere near each other. Sorry J.K. Rowling.

5. It's easy to tell when you're back in France: gothic and renaissance buildings dot the countryside.

The Loire Valley

I spent the past weekend wandering around centuries old buildings that are teeming with history. But first, I got drunk...

Our very first stop was a visit to Marc Brédif wine caverns. I had told my friend I would try to drink some Loire Valley wine after he insisted that I do so. Little did I know I was going to do just that. Our site director apologized for the visit to the caves, since it was barely after 10 in the morning - she figured it would be difficult to drink wine in the morning, to which my friend JP said, "...hair of the dog, man". The caverns held over a million bottles of wine, some dating back to 1874. At the end of the tour, we were given wine glasses and encouraged to try a few different specialities. After roughly a glass and a half, pens and clipboards were distributed. I should listen to my intuition when it tells me that something is about to occur that might not end in the best way (or turn out hilarious at my expense). There were more empty glasses spread throughout the room at stations, where there were a total of five "drinking games" set up. We had to determine which wine was what from the options we had on our paper. One game consisted of trying to discern which wine was a Sauvignon and which was a Chenin. Another was a bit harder: guess the year of the wine, followed by 8 year options, all within the last 30 years or so. At one point, there was a disagreement among my group of which wine was which (this game consisted of 3 different wines) and they looked to me for my opinion. By that time, I had forgotten and after a pause, I uttered the words, "Crap, I'm going to have to drink more wine". We came in second place in the game, so I guess the hangover I received from the countless glasses served it's purpose. Regardless, I bought two bottles of wine that I had tried.

  While perusing the town after the tour, I spied hot air balloons taking off a few fields away and rising over the ancient buildings of Amboise. Something overtook my fear of heights (vertige in French) and said, "Sam, you're going to go in a hot air balloon one of these days if it kills you." - it would have been right then if circumstances hadn't been so unfortunate.

Château d'Amboise

A beautiful castle atop a hill, and the resting place of none other than Leonardo Da Vinci. This is a combination of renaissance and gothic style architecture. My friend and I had wonderful kebabs for lunch before we ascended the stairs leading to the château. Our guide was amicable and kept the group entertained with fun facts about the history of the building. I never realized Da Vinci was buried in the chapel of the castle, and when I found out I immediately became gleeful. I'm a big fan of Leo. He's the bee's knees.

Château Chenonceau

The Ladies Castle. It housed 6 important women over time. Spanning the river Cher, it is flanked by two gardens, one of which was from Diane de Poitiers and the other from Catherine de Medicis. This has to be one of my favorite châteaux. It's gorgeous and has an intriguing history. After the death of her husband, Louise de Lorraine became incredibly upset and retreated to one room in the house. She locked herself in her bedroom and painted mourning symbols on the black walls. This lady (who might have been off her rocker, in my opinion) wore only white - the color of mourning for royalty. She was referred to as "The White Queen". 

Loche

The medieval stronghold of Loche stands high above the centre ville. I was fortunate enough to visit the donjon or the keep as well as the torture room. They preferred to call it "la salle de la question". Among the torture methods, they forced anywhere from 9 to 18 litres of water down ones throat. My personal favorite was this: they put salt on the prisoner's feet, and had a goat lick off the salt. It tickled like hell, but after a while became painful because a goat tongue can be rough, not unlike a cats. 


Enjoy some photos from the weekend, day two I had an amazing hairdo courtesy of Clara, a friend from Oregon.....

This looks photoshopped to me..

Note: My languages are starting to blur together. Some words that I know should be correct just don't look that way, and vice versa. I'm also becoming more fluent in oral comprehension (even surprising myself at how badass I am).

In Flanders Fields...

Every day that I travel to the university, there are little things I notice. After countless hours staring out the window, one is bound to discover something new beyond the tempered glass.

At my home in Oregon, California poppies are plentiful and always a joy to see them mix in with the wild Camas that coats our fields in a blanket of violet with dashes of yellow and orange. It's a magnificent portrait. The one thing that I had yet to see in person until now are poppies - not California poppies, these are different. I see them on a small hill each and every day. Amongst the green are bursts of red. When I got closer, I came to realize that there were other smaller flowers surrounding the main thing that drew me. I have yet to see them anywhere else in or around Poitiers. Maintenance could mow the flowers, since they are in the middle of an area that should be groomed. But the poppies remain unharmed. I can only think that they left them there just to admire.

The only time I had glanced upon them before was in a poem I was shown before a Veteran's Day Concert tribute to service members, specifically local ones. The poem was entitled: In Flanders Fields..

On November 11th, poppies are worn in honor of Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, or Veterans Day. WWI ended officially on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. 

Darn you.

I spent the majority of Thursday being sick and trying to put together the hardest 250 piece puzzle I have ever worked on. That probably didn't do much for my physical health, as it began to drive me crazy. The puzzle itself was attractive, but there was a significant lack in details and color variety, which any puzzle aficionado knows makes it difficult to piece together. To top it off, there was a note written on the back and in order to read it one must complete the puzzle. I spent the majority of day sweating over the damn thing, muttering "I'm going to beat him to within an inch of his life".

I did finish the puzzle, by the way.

  This evening, my host mother is hosting (ha ha!) a dinner party. As I was helping her with groceries today, I noticed she had bought close to 10 bottles of wine. Welcome to France, Sam. I have seen this multiple times in the store with strangers. One would be tempting to throw around the word, "alcoholic" if someone purchased that much alcohol in The United States.

  I've been constantly fighting of some sort of malady since I arrived in this country. There is an ever-present sore throat and I'm starting to develop some flu symptoms. Busy work is rampant in my schooling and it's driving me batty. The French education system is inefficient and unorganized, and that's putting it mildly. The professors cannot stand anyone with a different answer than their own and they have a nasty habit of making students look incredibly stupid. I plan on giving it another month or so, and if things show no improvement, I am seriously considering cutting my stay to just a semester. My site director will probably have something to say about it, for the pure reason that when I come to her with issues (which is what we were all instructed to do, of course) she always has something negative to retort ("What are your real reasons for wanting to move into an apartment?" - "Come back to me after you think more about it. You should really stay in a host family"). 

I absolutely cannot wait for my mother to send me peanut butter. Here's to hoping it gets here toute de suite!