My last full day in Europe was spent on a day trip from Lyon to Chalon sur Saone, the city where Opa was imprisoned and escaped in 1942, leaving his mother behind.
I went with little knowledge of what happened in that city beyond Opa's recollection, admittedly doubtful in this area (he had thought he was either in Pithiviers or Drancy). The Internet offered little information beyond that there was some sort of prison center here in 1942. I went to see if anyone in the city knew any more.
First I went to the local office of tourism. I have learned that these places throughout France are often good places to find English speakers. The women there did not know anything about any prison camps, but suggested that I should speak to someone at a war memorial museum not far away. No one there had heard of any prison site either. Theirs was a memorial to the fallen French soldiers of the war, not victims of the Holocaust, an event that barely touched their rural city.
So I did not find much success here. I even spent time wandering near the train station (thinking that likely the prison would have been near the area most of the arrests were being made, on the trains) looking for a building that matched the description given by Opa. But he admitted in his journal that his impression of the place was influenced by his small size (he thought it was an enormous building with an 8 - 10 foot wall), and it is doubtful that the building still stands today in any event, so I found nothing.
But, like with all of my travels, my time in Chalon sur Saone will help me better write the parts of the story that take place here with better accuracy, so the day was not a wash.
It is both strange and exciting to think that it is nearly time to go home. I am very happy and proud of my accomplishments on this trip.
Tomorrow will be spent mostly on trains to Paris and then Amsterdam where I will stay overnight in the airport and I fly home around 1 PM local time on the 2nd to New York City. It is an eight hour flight, but because of the time difference I will land around 3 PM Eastern, and then I have one more flight to Detroit and I fly from there to Burlington. I am not looking forward to that jet lag!
Until tomorrow!
Showing posts with label Train. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Train. Show all posts
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Toulouse to Lyon 30th May 2013
Today's time traveling was well spent in discussion - albeit in a convoluted mixture of my own broken French and her broken English - with a very sweet woman regarding Opa, his mother, my family, and her family. It made the time pass quickly and I was moved, once more, by how supportive of my project everyone I meet has been.
And, geographically speaking, I was not prepared at all for what I saw on this train ride. I am ashamed to admit, "geographer" that I am, that I had little sense of where exactly Toulouse was relative to Lyon, and additionally I had no preexisting notion of what southeastern France is like; I can tell you now, it is beautiful.
Toulouse is farther south, and the Mediterranean farther north, than I thought. Imagine my surprise to look out the window at a sandy beach lapped by the brightest-blue water I had ever seen. Noting my fascination, my riding companion said, simply, "C'est la mer. La mer Méditeranée." I never expected it. The Mediterranean snuck up on me. Some geographer! Looking at the map now, of course we would skirt the coast. What an exciting surprise! If only I could have got out!
And then it was gone. And at Nîmes, so too was my intrepid amateur tour guide. But the land was no less impressive.
From Nîmes we sped almost directly north through some of the most rugged terrain I have ever seen. Mountains seemingly composed of nothing but fist-sized rubble shot up into the sky, clad in hardy evergreens, the occasional vineyard (which look eerily like the war graveyards, neat rows as far as the eye can see) and a scrubby little undergrowth resplendent with yellow and pink flowers that made their lives in such a seemingly sparse area. It was beautiful in its alienness and I really wish I could spend time there: there were miles of shoulder-width walking paths through the underbrush begging to be explored. Perhaps someday!
It's funny what time does to language. Trying to talk to the woman, I found myself very near to answering her French in German (I took German this semester for the first time) despite the fact I took two semesters of French in high school. I am much more comfortable in German than in French. I ended up showing her the pictures I have of Opa, his family, etc., and she understood everything I was saying much better than when I had been trying in elementary French! She told me I have Opa's eyes. I wanted to hug her for that.
There are hourly trains from here to Chalons sur Saone, so I will spend tomorrow there. I am not sure what I will find, if anything, but the best way to see is to go! Then my real last day in Europe will be over, already! I travel the next day to Paris where I take a connecting train to Amsterdam and will stay in the airport there for roughly 13 hours or so before heading home. If I smell when I land, Mom and Dad, I'm sorry! Just sit me next to Trey on the ride back!
Until tomorrow, readers!
P.S. Everyone who has been enjoying my blog over the course of this month, and who is disappointed now that it is coming to an end, should take a moment and check out my good friend Ethan's nascent blog, Summer Adventures of a Northwoods Wildlife Intern, where he details the incredibly interesting day to day life of a wildlife refuge in Wisconsin. His posts are funny, exciting, and I am jealous of the fact that he gets to have such a cool job for the summer! Give it a read and follow him as loyally as you have been following this blog (I'm thankful for that, by the way!)
Au revoir!
And, geographically speaking, I was not prepared at all for what I saw on this train ride. I am ashamed to admit, "geographer" that I am, that I had little sense of where exactly Toulouse was relative to Lyon, and additionally I had no preexisting notion of what southeastern France is like; I can tell you now, it is beautiful.
Toulouse is farther south, and the Mediterranean farther north, than I thought. Imagine my surprise to look out the window at a sandy beach lapped by the brightest-blue water I had ever seen. Noting my fascination, my riding companion said, simply, "C'est la mer. La mer Méditeranée." I never expected it. The Mediterranean snuck up on me. Some geographer! Looking at the map now, of course we would skirt the coast. What an exciting surprise! If only I could have got out!
And then it was gone. And at Nîmes, so too was my intrepid amateur tour guide. But the land was no less impressive.
From Nîmes we sped almost directly north through some of the most rugged terrain I have ever seen. Mountains seemingly composed of nothing but fist-sized rubble shot up into the sky, clad in hardy evergreens, the occasional vineyard (which look eerily like the war graveyards, neat rows as far as the eye can see) and a scrubby little undergrowth resplendent with yellow and pink flowers that made their lives in such a seemingly sparse area. It was beautiful in its alienness and I really wish I could spend time there: there were miles of shoulder-width walking paths through the underbrush begging to be explored. Perhaps someday!
It's funny what time does to language. Trying to talk to the woman, I found myself very near to answering her French in German (I took German this semester for the first time) despite the fact I took two semesters of French in high school. I am much more comfortable in German than in French. I ended up showing her the pictures I have of Opa, his family, etc., and she understood everything I was saying much better than when I had been trying in elementary French! She told me I have Opa's eyes. I wanted to hug her for that.
There are hourly trains from here to Chalons sur Saone, so I will spend tomorrow there. I am not sure what I will find, if anything, but the best way to see is to go! Then my real last day in Europe will be over, already! I travel the next day to Paris where I take a connecting train to Amsterdam and will stay in the airport there for roughly 13 hours or so before heading home. If I smell when I land, Mom and Dad, I'm sorry! Just sit me next to Trey on the ride back!
Until tomorrow, readers!
P.S. Everyone who has been enjoying my blog over the course of this month, and who is disappointed now that it is coming to an end, should take a moment and check out my good friend Ethan's nascent blog, Summer Adventures of a Northwoods Wildlife Intern, where he details the incredibly interesting day to day life of a wildlife refuge in Wisconsin. His posts are funny, exciting, and I am jealous of the fact that he gets to have such a cool job for the summer! Give it a read and follow him as loyally as you have been following this blog (I'm thankful for that, by the way!)
Au revoir!
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Toulouse 29th May 2013
Finally my allergies have subsided! Apart from the occasional debilitating sneeze it seems yesterday's rain and today's cloudiness have defeated southern France's considerable pollen level, meaning today was a great day to explore Toulouse.
I really like this city, though I have trouble comparing it to anywhere else I have been. It is no Paris, where thousands are on the street at any time. Neither is it Vienna, with its Imperial legacy. And it is unlike Amsterdam, too, that city is far too maritime in character. And Toulouse is sprawling and doesn't climb upward like any American city.
But the houses are colorful, the streets are narrow and lively, and I did not find a visibly impoverished area here like I did in the other cities I have visited on this trip (though I am sure it must exist somewhere).
It just seems like a city comfortable with its mixed French, North African, and even Spanish influences. None of the other cities seemed this cosmopolitan, which seems strange considering Toulouse is smaller than the others. This seems also to run counter to the American trend where smaller communities seem more insular.
That said, though, I did not wander upon any Jewish heritage in Toulouse like I did everywhere else. It is a big place and I cannot say that a Jewish quarter does not exist, but the other cities were bigger and I found theirs. Perhaps Toulouse is not so cosmopolitan, or has not been historically, at least, as it seems.
Tonight I pack again and tomorrow is spent on a train to Lyon. I am excited to go to Chalons sur Saone on the day after but I am having a very hard time finding any information on the camp there. I will have to "wing it" (like I have on most of this trip, honestly).
I also am very excited now to go home. This trip has been immensely rewarding but I am exhausted and long to be in Vermont. But, not much longer!
Until tomorrow!
I really like this city, though I have trouble comparing it to anywhere else I have been. It is no Paris, where thousands are on the street at any time. Neither is it Vienna, with its Imperial legacy. And it is unlike Amsterdam, too, that city is far too maritime in character. And Toulouse is sprawling and doesn't climb upward like any American city.
But the houses are colorful, the streets are narrow and lively, and I did not find a visibly impoverished area here like I did in the other cities I have visited on this trip (though I am sure it must exist somewhere).
It just seems like a city comfortable with its mixed French, North African, and even Spanish influences. None of the other cities seemed this cosmopolitan, which seems strange considering Toulouse is smaller than the others. This seems also to run counter to the American trend where smaller communities seem more insular.
That said, though, I did not wander upon any Jewish heritage in Toulouse like I did everywhere else. It is a big place and I cannot say that a Jewish quarter does not exist, but the other cities were bigger and I found theirs. Perhaps Toulouse is not so cosmopolitan, or has not been historically, at least, as it seems.
Tonight I pack again and tomorrow is spent on a train to Lyon. I am excited to go to Chalons sur Saone on the day after but I am having a very hard time finding any information on the camp there. I will have to "wing it" (like I have on most of this trip, honestly).
I also am very excited now to go home. This trip has been immensely rewarding but I am exhausted and long to be in Vermont. But, not much longer!
Until tomorrow!
Monday, May 27, 2013
Toulouse 27th May 2013
I fell asleep very early last night and woke up at 07:00 this morning. I have suffered from particularly bad allergies today: so bad, in fact, that my Chinese roommate (who speaks almost no English) was so concerned he asked me if I was OK as I cooked dinner, apparently looking like I was crying over the poor sausages I was cutting.
Despite my allergies I took a two hour train ride to Pau, a city in the Pyrenees Opa visited for some time in 1942 before making his way to Switzerland. I had heard the Pyrenees are beautiful, so I took a south-facing window seat.
"Beautiful" is an understatement. The Pyrenees drive up into the sky seemingly out of nowhere. On the northern side of the train there are rolling plains for miles; on the southern, the snow-capped white peaks of the range intermingle with the clouds.
Pau itself is located in the foothills of these mountains. It sits atop a north-facing ridge that makes for a steep climb (there is a ski-lift-like tram offered to those who cannot make it up walking) and an amazing view. I would say it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen if my trained had not passed through Loundes just before...
Loundes is nestled between three tall green spires in a valley carved by a swiftly-flowing blue-green river. I did not stop, but even from the train it left an impression. The ruins of a castle sat atop a hill on the bank of the river flying the tri-colored flag of France. Not far down river the spire of a cathedral climbed upward triumphantly. The place is gorgeous.
My frustration at my allergies keeps this entry short. Tomorrow, depending on my allergies, I plan to explore Toulouse some. I also need to do laundry, I am down to one clean sock (not sure how that happened).
Until tomorrow!
Despite my allergies I took a two hour train ride to Pau, a city in the Pyrenees Opa visited for some time in 1942 before making his way to Switzerland. I had heard the Pyrenees are beautiful, so I took a south-facing window seat.
"Beautiful" is an understatement. The Pyrenees drive up into the sky seemingly out of nowhere. On the northern side of the train there are rolling plains for miles; on the southern, the snow-capped white peaks of the range intermingle with the clouds.
Pau itself is located in the foothills of these mountains. It sits atop a north-facing ridge that makes for a steep climb (there is a ski-lift-like tram offered to those who cannot make it up walking) and an amazing view. I would say it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen if my trained had not passed through Loundes just before...
Loundes is nestled between three tall green spires in a valley carved by a swiftly-flowing blue-green river. I did not stop, but even from the train it left an impression. The ruins of a castle sat atop a hill on the bank of the river flying the tri-colored flag of France. Not far down river the spire of a cathedral climbed upward triumphantly. The place is gorgeous.
My frustration at my allergies keeps this entry short. Tomorrow, depending on my allergies, I plan to explore Toulouse some. I also need to do laundry, I am down to one clean sock (not sure how that happened).
Until tomorrow!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Paris to Toulouse 26th May 2013
As I course over the French countryside on a high speed InterCity train it has occurred to me that the most beautiful days seem to be travel days when I cannot enjoy the sun and its warmth because I am stuck in a metal tube hurtling along at 165 km/h. C'est la vie, I suppose. It is still snowing in Vermont, though. Rebecca posted a picture this morning that I feel warrants attention here:
So I will take a sunny day on the train in France.
Leaving Paris was a strange experience. My time there was certainly the most rewarding yet. In numerous places I have seen the Hebrew supplication Zachor, "remember." This concept, as I have immersed myself in my research, has taken on a new and personal meaning.
I think that one of the most intriguing and worrisome truths regarding Holocaust studies is that while the Holocaust as an event is one of the most researched topics in human history it seems that remembrance, true zachor, is more and more difficult to ensure. This is a nascent idea for me and I welcome comment and apologize in advance if it is controversial.
In my own American education I was taught a good but overwhelmingly broad history of the Holocaust. I worry that this teaching style might be damaging. "Six million Jews were killed," we are told, "simply because they were Jewish." But when we view the issue through such a wide lens we lose sight of the fact that each of those six million was a person, a human being with a life story. Perhaps they were Heinz Najman, a 13 year old boy, never devoutly Jewish but hunted for it anyway. Perhaps they were Bernard Najman, only 2 years old, never given the chance to decide what Judaism meant to him before he was sentenced to the gas chamber for it. I am reluctant to view the Holocaust as anything that happened "simply because," because that logic seems almost to lend itself to the logic of Nazism itself.
I rather think that the Holocaust should be told personally. This is what I will try to do with Heinz. Opa and his family were far more than simple Jewish victims of Nazi hatred; they were human beings with wants and needs and they ought to be treated as such in any telling of their tale. To reduce them to the identity Hitler sought to impose on them would be a dramatic and hurtful disservice.
I think that an education in this vein can also stir interest that other pedagogic styles cannot. Anne Frank's story was remarkably touching and relatable because of its intimately personal nature. Anne was a living person with emotion and depth, no matter how adamantly Nazi propaganda claimed otherwise. Heinz Najman, too, was a human being, resisting his oppressors from the first day that they threatened him and his family, never passive as the word "victim" implies. And I am remarkably and unstatably proud to descend from such a person.
This is not to say that such personal narratives do not exist. Indeed great work has been done and continues to be undertaken to document and share the lives of those people killed during the Shoah. But I worry that many general Holocaust education methods gloss over the humanity of those killed by lumping them together in the decidedly inhuman abstraction "Jewish victims."
What does this mean? I think that educators should take caution in all cases of genocide because it is incredibly easy in teaching such subjects to slip into faceless and yeastless statistics and generalities. I ask that, instead, educators should highlight the humanity of those killed, as this humanity is the very thing those perpetrating genocide try to deny. We have not yet learned, despite all the time and money dedicated to studying the Holocaust, how to prevent genocide. Several are ongoing today.
Perhaps it is time for a new way to teach this subject.
So I will take a sunny day on the train in France.
Leaving Paris was a strange experience. My time there was certainly the most rewarding yet. In numerous places I have seen the Hebrew supplication Zachor, "remember." This concept, as I have immersed myself in my research, has taken on a new and personal meaning.
I think that one of the most intriguing and worrisome truths regarding Holocaust studies is that while the Holocaust as an event is one of the most researched topics in human history it seems that remembrance, true zachor, is more and more difficult to ensure. This is a nascent idea for me and I welcome comment and apologize in advance if it is controversial.
In my own American education I was taught a good but overwhelmingly broad history of the Holocaust. I worry that this teaching style might be damaging. "Six million Jews were killed," we are told, "simply because they were Jewish." But when we view the issue through such a wide lens we lose sight of the fact that each of those six million was a person, a human being with a life story. Perhaps they were Heinz Najman, a 13 year old boy, never devoutly Jewish but hunted for it anyway. Perhaps they were Bernard Najman, only 2 years old, never given the chance to decide what Judaism meant to him before he was sentenced to the gas chamber for it. I am reluctant to view the Holocaust as anything that happened "simply because," because that logic seems almost to lend itself to the logic of Nazism itself.
I rather think that the Holocaust should be told personally. This is what I will try to do with Heinz. Opa and his family were far more than simple Jewish victims of Nazi hatred; they were human beings with wants and needs and they ought to be treated as such in any telling of their tale. To reduce them to the identity Hitler sought to impose on them would be a dramatic and hurtful disservice.
I think that an education in this vein can also stir interest that other pedagogic styles cannot. Anne Frank's story was remarkably touching and relatable because of its intimately personal nature. Anne was a living person with emotion and depth, no matter how adamantly Nazi propaganda claimed otherwise. Heinz Najman, too, was a human being, resisting his oppressors from the first day that they threatened him and his family, never passive as the word "victim" implies. And I am remarkably and unstatably proud to descend from such a person.
This is not to say that such personal narratives do not exist. Indeed great work has been done and continues to be undertaken to document and share the lives of those people killed during the Shoah. But I worry that many general Holocaust education methods gloss over the humanity of those killed by lumping them together in the decidedly inhuman abstraction "Jewish victims."
What does this mean? I think that educators should take caution in all cases of genocide because it is incredibly easy in teaching such subjects to slip into faceless and yeastless statistics and generalities. I ask that, instead, educators should highlight the humanity of those killed, as this humanity is the very thing those perpetrating genocide try to deny. We have not yet learned, despite all the time and money dedicated to studying the Holocaust, how to prevent genocide. Several are ongoing today.
Perhaps it is time for a new way to teach this subject.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Paris 25th May 2013
My last day in Paris was one of rather high ambitions: today I would get to the tourist sites I had been neglecting in favor of research.
The plan was only mildly successful, mostly because I made a rookie's travel mistake: never leave everything of one type for one day. If your one day gets rained out, you will miss seeing the Eiffel Tower.
Honestly, I was in Paris and never saw the Eiffel Tower except from afar. Worst tourist ever.
But I console myself in knowing I was here first as a researcher and my efforts on that front have been broadly successful.
I made my way late this morning (a beautiful morning, mind you) to the fountain of St. Michael near Notre Dame where a free three-hour walking tour began at 1:00. Generally I, being the seasoned veteran of nearly a month in Europe now, scoff at such blatantly tourist-y attractions as this tour, but I don't regret starting this walk: the guide was young, funny, knowledgeable and friendly. I learned some very neat curiosities of Parisian and French history.
Unfortunately the weather did not hold. By the time we reached the Louvre a torrential downpour soaked me. I was cold. I told Europe that it had won this day, left the tour, and headed back to my hostel. I have spent today trying to be as productive as I can be here.
Tomorrow my train for Toulouse leaves at 09:42, so I will have to get up fairly early to take the subway to the Gare d'Austerlitz. Tonight I will pack and sleep early!
Another travel day tomorrow! I will update you all from Toulouse where I hope it is a bit more dry (though at least it isn't snowing like it is today in Vermont).
Au revoir, Paris!
The plan was only mildly successful, mostly because I made a rookie's travel mistake: never leave everything of one type for one day. If your one day gets rained out, you will miss seeing the Eiffel Tower.
Honestly, I was in Paris and never saw the Eiffel Tower except from afar. Worst tourist ever.
But I console myself in knowing I was here first as a researcher and my efforts on that front have been broadly successful.
I made my way late this morning (a beautiful morning, mind you) to the fountain of St. Michael near Notre Dame where a free three-hour walking tour began at 1:00. Generally I, being the seasoned veteran of nearly a month in Europe now, scoff at such blatantly tourist-y attractions as this tour, but I don't regret starting this walk: the guide was young, funny, knowledgeable and friendly. I learned some very neat curiosities of Parisian and French history.
Unfortunately the weather did not hold. By the time we reached the Louvre a torrential downpour soaked me. I was cold. I told Europe that it had won this day, left the tour, and headed back to my hostel. I have spent today trying to be as productive as I can be here.
Tomorrow my train for Toulouse leaves at 09:42, so I will have to get up fairly early to take the subway to the Gare d'Austerlitz. Tonight I will pack and sleep early!
Another travel day tomorrow! I will update you all from Toulouse where I hope it is a bit more dry (though at least it isn't snowing like it is today in Vermont).
Au revoir, Paris!
Friday, May 24, 2013
Paris 24th May 2013
I am, once again, astounded and excited by the fragments of information I find everywhere I go. Nine days ago in Brussels I learned the names of all four of Opa's grandparents. Two days ago I used those names to learn the names and addresses of an aunt, uncle, and four cousins of Opa's that none in my family knew lived. Today in Orleans I used those names and addresses to find pictures of that aunt and those cousins. I am, once again, blown away.
By the nature of my project I go to most places with little idea of what to expect. I knew that Orleans was home to CERCIL,essentially a center for Holocaust studies focused on the Loiret region of France and its three large camps (among them Pithiviers), but I expected it to be little more than a museum of sorts (there are many, an example is the Jewish History Museum in Amsterdam I wrote about previously), which are nice but do not generally do much to forward my own project. There were, after all, many people involved in the Shoah and it is impossible in most broad interest museums to dwell or focus on the countless individual stories inherent in the Holocaust. In fact, I almost did not go to Orleans today: another day in Paris was tempting and I was not feeling well this morning anyway, but I decided to go and see what I could find.
Orleans is a pretty city, bigger than Ypres but much smaller than Paris, which was nice after a few days in the city. I do not think I will ever be a "city person." I feel overwhelmed by the massive tide of humanity in Paris.
The receptionist at CERCIL was a very sweet woman, embarrassed by her lack of command of English (she was better than she gave herself credit for), but helpful nonetheless. She let me into the museum for free because, she said, everything was written in French and she apparently doubted that I would get my money's worth from the exhibits. She was wrong.
For the most part it was a museum. It featured a barrack like those found at Pithiviers and then summarized, much like other museums, the lead up to the war and the genocide.
But CERCIL had a room with three sectioned and illuminated walls. In each small section sat the name of a child arrested in France, most during the Vel d'Hiv, and most eventually killed. In roughly 1/5th of these a picture accompanied the name. The many names with blank spaces were ominous, evidence of the mountains of work still due to these children whose stories are not fully understood, and discouraged me from hoping, but I worked my way slowly around, looking at the faces of innocents whose lives were torn apart by a hatred they could not possibly have deserved.
I reached Rosa Brykman's place first. No picture of the 16 year old girl with whom my great-grandmother was killed was available. This made me sad. Opa said she was pretty, and I had hoped to see her.
But the "N"s were different. My breath caught as my eyes settled first on Lucien Najman, Opa's younger cousin, who looked incredibly similar to Opa and to my father. Above and below Lucien were pictures of his brothers and sisters. They were a beautiful family. The oldest, Helene, was only 16.
Additionally there was an interactive database that let me search for each of them, game some details of their lives, and cycled between an enlarged picture of them and a family photo of the children with their mother, Marjem. I could not help but be moved by this photo. Their happy smiles in the face of such horror are incredible. They were together.
I thanked the receptionist profusely and assured her I had found more than I could have hoped for.
On the train ride back I met an interesting and trilingual mechanical engineer from near Orleans who fell for a Brazilian girl at university and moved to Brazil to be with her. We discussed life, my project, and politics (both American and French) all the way. It was very nice to meet a local for once (most of my friends have been fellow hostelers). He even told me a bit about Chalons sur Saone!
Unfortunately I came back too late to try to attend services at the synagogue tonight. I was disappointed, but I am still so happy with today. I cannot get over Lucien. It is remarkable.
Until tomorrow!
By the nature of my project I go to most places with little idea of what to expect. I knew that Orleans was home to CERCIL,essentially a center for Holocaust studies focused on the Loiret region of France and its three large camps (among them Pithiviers), but I expected it to be little more than a museum of sorts (there are many, an example is the Jewish History Museum in Amsterdam I wrote about previously), which are nice but do not generally do much to forward my own project. There were, after all, many people involved in the Shoah and it is impossible in most broad interest museums to dwell or focus on the countless individual stories inherent in the Holocaust. In fact, I almost did not go to Orleans today: another day in Paris was tempting and I was not feeling well this morning anyway, but I decided to go and see what I could find.
Orleans is a pretty city, bigger than Ypres but much smaller than Paris, which was nice after a few days in the city. I do not think I will ever be a "city person." I feel overwhelmed by the massive tide of humanity in Paris.
The receptionist at CERCIL was a very sweet woman, embarrassed by her lack of command of English (she was better than she gave herself credit for), but helpful nonetheless. She let me into the museum for free because, she said, everything was written in French and she apparently doubted that I would get my money's worth from the exhibits. She was wrong.
For the most part it was a museum. It featured a barrack like those found at Pithiviers and then summarized, much like other museums, the lead up to the war and the genocide.
But CERCIL had a room with three sectioned and illuminated walls. In each small section sat the name of a child arrested in France, most during the Vel d'Hiv, and most eventually killed. In roughly 1/5th of these a picture accompanied the name. The many names with blank spaces were ominous, evidence of the mountains of work still due to these children whose stories are not fully understood, and discouraged me from hoping, but I worked my way slowly around, looking at the faces of innocents whose lives were torn apart by a hatred they could not possibly have deserved.
I reached Rosa Brykman's place first. No picture of the 16 year old girl with whom my great-grandmother was killed was available. This made me sad. Opa said she was pretty, and I had hoped to see her.
But the "N"s were different. My breath caught as my eyes settled first on Lucien Najman, Opa's younger cousin, who looked incredibly similar to Opa and to my father. Above and below Lucien were pictures of his brothers and sisters. They were a beautiful family. The oldest, Helene, was only 16.
Additionally there was an interactive database that let me search for each of them, game some details of their lives, and cycled between an enlarged picture of them and a family photo of the children with their mother, Marjem. I could not help but be moved by this photo. Their happy smiles in the face of such horror are incredible. They were together.
I thanked the receptionist profusely and assured her I had found more than I could have hoped for.
On the train ride back I met an interesting and trilingual mechanical engineer from near Orleans who fell for a Brazilian girl at university and moved to Brazil to be with her. We discussed life, my project, and politics (both American and French) all the way. It was very nice to meet a local for once (most of my friends have been fellow hostelers). He even told me a bit about Chalons sur Saone!
Unfortunately I came back too late to try to attend services at the synagogue tonight. I was disappointed, but I am still so happy with today. I cannot get over Lucien. It is remarkable.
Until tomorrow!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Paris 23rd May 2013
I am still on a genealogy high from yesterday. I was inspired by my success in the archives to spend last night updating and expanding my ever-growing family tree. In so doing I found several family members I hadn't been notifying of these posts and should have been. So, if you are new here, I hope you enjoy reading about the project, and welcome to the club!
I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep last night, mostly as a result of my excitement of the day's success, but I suspect in part also because I had more coffee than I should have with Ashley and Jordan. So I have spent most of today tired and will likely turn in early tonight, but I did use the time thinking of potential ways to present Heinz when I get back to Aberdeen, so I was at least somewhat productive.
Today was spent traveling to Drancy, the transit camp north of Paris where numerous members of my family - indeed, tens of thousands of Jews from France - were held before being deported to their deaths at concentration camps across Europe. The building that housed the internees itself was demolished years ago. In its place stands a twisted and haunting statue in memory of the Hell on Earth that was built here, and train tracks leading ominously to a freight car like those used in the deportations. It was an odd experience being there. The plaques say n'oubliez pas - "do not forget," but life goes on at Drancy and I am the only one at the memorial. It is situated in (yet another) poor residential neighborhood. Few even notice the memorial they walk past every day. I suppose noticing and remembering are the jobs of my project.
Tomorrow I will take a train to Orleans to visit the memorial for child victims of the Vel d'hiv, the mass roundup of Jews in France in which many in my family were arrested. If my French is up to snuff this is also the Pithiviers memorial. I will try to be back in time to attend services at the synagogue near Rue des Francs Bourgeois.
Until tomorrow!
I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep last night, mostly as a result of my excitement of the day's success, but I suspect in part also because I had more coffee than I should have with Ashley and Jordan. So I have spent most of today tired and will likely turn in early tonight, but I did use the time thinking of potential ways to present Heinz when I get back to Aberdeen, so I was at least somewhat productive.
Today was spent traveling to Drancy, the transit camp north of Paris where numerous members of my family - indeed, tens of thousands of Jews from France - were held before being deported to their deaths at concentration camps across Europe. The building that housed the internees itself was demolished years ago. In its place stands a twisted and haunting statue in memory of the Hell on Earth that was built here, and train tracks leading ominously to a freight car like those used in the deportations. It was an odd experience being there. The plaques say n'oubliez pas - "do not forget," but life goes on at Drancy and I am the only one at the memorial. It is situated in (yet another) poor residential neighborhood. Few even notice the memorial they walk past every day. I suppose noticing and remembering are the jobs of my project.
Tomorrow I will take a train to Orleans to visit the memorial for child victims of the Vel d'hiv, the mass roundup of Jews in France in which many in my family were arrested. If my French is up to snuff this is also the Pithiviers memorial. I will try to be back in time to attend services at the synagogue near Rue des Francs Bourgeois.
Until tomorrow!
Monday, May 20, 2013
Brussels to Paris 20th May 2013
Disaster has struck, readers! In the course of today's travels I lost not just one but both of my fancy and beloved Sharpie fine-point felt-tipped pens. This is a tragedy. I am writing this entry with a standard issue ballpoint Bic pen bummed off the reception desk... Comparatively it is like writing with hammer and chisel. A moment of silence for my trusty but lost companions, who wrote me through more than half of this trip. You will be missed!
... I promise I am not going crazy, it has simply been another very long day. I do not much care for what I have started calling "travel days," the days when my just-developed sense of normalcy in a city is thrown to the wind and turned upside down in the move to a new one. But, joking aside, such abrupt changes in scenery and situation cannot begin to compare with those Opa and his family had to make between 1938 and 1945. Even on the most elementary level, mine are voluntary moves where theirs were forced. I cannot begin to imagine...
As I wrote previously I opted for the slow (free) route to Paris rather than the €30 high-speed Thalys train. I don't regret it, though there was a curve ball thrown at me...
The train supposedly from Lille to Amiens was actually a train from Lille to Arras with a bus connection from Arras to Amiens. How did I figure this out? Was it the announcements plastered everywhere on the train in French telling me to take the bus after Arras? Or the spoken announcement in French telling me that this was the final stop for the train? No. I blissfully ignored all of those... Who needs a command of French in France? No, my mistake was made apparent when I looked up from my book to see that I was the only person remaining on the entire train. A moment of panic passed when I found a nice man who helped me to right my wrong, and I made the bus.
The bus, driven by an apparent mad man, made great time to Amiens but still arrived roughly 30 seconds after my planned train to Paris left the station. Woops. I waved it au revoir and waited for the next train to Paris, only about an hour later. Luckily Eurail allows me this kind of flexibility, because I may have been stuck in Amiens, otherwise.
(Sidenote: this pen is leaking on me...)
But taking the bus was actually a very good experience. It wound (sometimes hurtled) its way through the smallest villages I have seen yet in Europe and it was nice to see that rural towns here look much like rural towns in the US: most houses have a swing set in the back yard, etc., etc. It was a very intimate and relaxing way to experience France for the first time before the rush of Paris.
In the city itself I had no trouble navigating the underground (much more busy but much more thoughtfully planned, in my opinion, than Brussels') and finding my hostel (which seems nice, if a bit small).
It is exciting to start in Paris. I need to go to the station and fix/figure out all of my bookings, and I'll do my laundry tomorrow night, but the rest of the day is free for wandering.
More on that tomorrow!
... I promise I am not going crazy, it has simply been another very long day. I do not much care for what I have started calling "travel days," the days when my just-developed sense of normalcy in a city is thrown to the wind and turned upside down in the move to a new one. But, joking aside, such abrupt changes in scenery and situation cannot begin to compare with those Opa and his family had to make between 1938 and 1945. Even on the most elementary level, mine are voluntary moves where theirs were forced. I cannot begin to imagine...
As I wrote previously I opted for the slow (free) route to Paris rather than the €30 high-speed Thalys train. I don't regret it, though there was a curve ball thrown at me...
The train supposedly from Lille to Amiens was actually a train from Lille to Arras with a bus connection from Arras to Amiens. How did I figure this out? Was it the announcements plastered everywhere on the train in French telling me to take the bus after Arras? Or the spoken announcement in French telling me that this was the final stop for the train? No. I blissfully ignored all of those... Who needs a command of French in France? No, my mistake was made apparent when I looked up from my book to see that I was the only person remaining on the entire train. A moment of panic passed when I found a nice man who helped me to right my wrong, and I made the bus.
The bus, driven by an apparent mad man, made great time to Amiens but still arrived roughly 30 seconds after my planned train to Paris left the station. Woops. I waved it au revoir and waited for the next train to Paris, only about an hour later. Luckily Eurail allows me this kind of flexibility, because I may have been stuck in Amiens, otherwise.
(Sidenote: this pen is leaking on me...)
But taking the bus was actually a very good experience. It wound (sometimes hurtled) its way through the smallest villages I have seen yet in Europe and it was nice to see that rural towns here look much like rural towns in the US: most houses have a swing set in the back yard, etc., etc. It was a very intimate and relaxing way to experience France for the first time before the rush of Paris.
In the city itself I had no trouble navigating the underground (much more busy but much more thoughtfully planned, in my opinion, than Brussels') and finding my hostel (which seems nice, if a bit small).
It is exciting to start in Paris. I need to go to the station and fix/figure out all of my bookings, and I'll do my laundry tomorrow night, but the rest of the day is free for wandering.
More on that tomorrow!
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Brussels 19th May 2013
It is a beautiful day here on my last day in Belgium, so I walked into the city center to eat and attempt to change my reservation for 1st June to Amsterdam, which I noticed last night I accidentally made from Toulouse rather than Lyon. Unfortunately the rather unfriendly lady at Centraal told me they cannot make reservations for trains outside of Belgium from here (how did I make the incorrect reservation in the first place? No one knows...). So I will have to do that in Paris. I am a bit worried I may not be able to get to Pau, but more on that if I have to deal with it...
I kept walking past the city center to the European Union Parliament. It was an impressive building but it is closed to individuals, so I could not go inside.
Menno suggested that I should write a bit about hosteling in general to encourage more people to travel affordably like I have been. I think it is a good suggestion, and I think hostels have two major positives that in particular students should consider when traveling: price and atmosphere.
Every hostel's price varies, of course, and in major tourist cities the price will be a bit higher. But I paid €17.00 in Vienna and €17.50 in Brussels per night, the equivalent of roughly $22.00. A night at the Super 8 in Aberdeen, by comparison, costs about $65.00 at least, and the quality is lower than some of the hostels I have been in.
How do hostels offer such a low price? It is simple: in hostels you rent a bed in a dormitory setting rather than an entire room to yourself. Most offer all-male, all-female, or mixed dormitory options, and the dorm life has not been a problem at all; it is a bit like school, just with a few more people in a room (my current room is eight people mixed, in Vienna it was six mixed, in Amsterdam 12 all-male). For the most part everyone I have met has been very kind and very interesting. That brings me to...
Atmosphere. Hostels, frankly, are fun. Students and people our age from all over the world are the primary clientele of hostels and it is exciting to meet people and share stories. The experience is different in every hostel, obviously (I seriously highly recommend the Hostel Ruthensteiner in Vienna... It was amazing.), but most have friendly staff and people which is huge, particularly when traveling alone.
So would I suggest hosteling? Yes! Take the chance to see the world while you're young. As we get older money will get tighter and our expectations will get higher; travel will never be easier than it is today, so do it!
Tomorrow I will spend the day on trains heading to Paris and then locating and settling into my hostel there.
Until then!
I kept walking past the city center to the European Union Parliament. It was an impressive building but it is closed to individuals, so I could not go inside.
Menno suggested that I should write a bit about hosteling in general to encourage more people to travel affordably like I have been. I think it is a good suggestion, and I think hostels have two major positives that in particular students should consider when traveling: price and atmosphere.
Every hostel's price varies, of course, and in major tourist cities the price will be a bit higher. But I paid €17.00 in Vienna and €17.50 in Brussels per night, the equivalent of roughly $22.00. A night at the Super 8 in Aberdeen, by comparison, costs about $65.00 at least, and the quality is lower than some of the hostels I have been in.
How do hostels offer such a low price? It is simple: in hostels you rent a bed in a dormitory setting rather than an entire room to yourself. Most offer all-male, all-female, or mixed dormitory options, and the dorm life has not been a problem at all; it is a bit like school, just with a few more people in a room (my current room is eight people mixed, in Vienna it was six mixed, in Amsterdam 12 all-male). For the most part everyone I have met has been very kind and very interesting. That brings me to...
Atmosphere. Hostels, frankly, are fun. Students and people our age from all over the world are the primary clientele of hostels and it is exciting to meet people and share stories. The experience is different in every hostel, obviously (I seriously highly recommend the Hostel Ruthensteiner in Vienna... It was amazing.), but most have friendly staff and people which is huge, particularly when traveling alone.
So would I suggest hosteling? Yes! Take the chance to see the world while you're young. As we get older money will get tighter and our expectations will get higher; travel will never be easier than it is today, so do it!
Tomorrow I will spend the day on trains heading to Paris and then locating and settling into my hostel there.
Until then!
Friday, May 17, 2013
Brussels 17th May 2013
Today has been one of significant ups and downs... I am not sure now whether I am satisfied with how the day went or not.
I started by walking north toward Rue Verte 3, the address of the building in which Opa and his family lived once they reached Belgium in late 1938. It was a fairly long walk (something like two miles) in the rain and I was soaked by the time I reached it. The street is in a much more modern area of town than most of the city center and, much like Klosterneuburger Strasse in Vienna, today it is a poor neighborhood inhabited primarily by Moroccan and Turkish immigrants. I could not find no. 3, so I entered a nearby hotel and asked if either man inside knew of it. One of the men went out with me (in a suit in the rain! They were both very nice) and explained that nos. 1 - 7 all referred to one building demolished only the previous month! It had housed Islamic immigrants for at least sixteen years (as long as he had worked in the hotel) and then been abandoned in the last few. He did not know if the building had stood in the late 1930s.
They also looked up the name Blanchet for me in the phone book online, as a "Mrs. Blanchet, Rue Verte 3" was listed as a reference for the Najmans on the paperwork I found yesterday at the National Archive. Alas, no Blanchets remain today on Rue Verte. C'est la vie.
I wandered my way back to the hostel to dry off, stopping on the way at a large cathedral (signs simply called it "the Cathedral," so it seemed worth a stop), very pretty and impressive.
I cooked my most ambitious meal yet when I arrived back at the hostel. I wondered what it might take to make my own pasta sauce, and recipes I found online did not look difficult, so I gave it a shot. For those who want to play the "Cook Across Europe with Mike" game, it went something like this: I bought canned whole peeled tomatoes, hand crushed them to the right consistency, grated a carrot, chopped an onion and a clove of garlic, boiled them all together and enjoyed the delicious results. I was really impressed. It tasted something like Oma's pasta sauce and the Olive Garden's mixed. So I can't be doing too badly. Protip: 1.2 kilograms of canned tomatoes makes WAY more sauce than one person needs. Again, I am really enjoying cooking and the whole thing cost me €3.83. Can't complain about that...
At 6:00 PM I headed to the Rue de la Regence to attend services at the Great Synagogue. I am starting to get a feel for the city and can navigate fairly well. I got there around 6:30 but the doors were closed, so I did what is best outside a synagogue: I loitered.
It did not take long before a passing woman looked at me suspiciously and reported me to security. A nice man in his early 30s greeted me firmly and asked what exactly I was waiting for. I told him that I would like to attend the service, and a bit about my project. I showed him my passport, and he asked me if I frequented any Jewish communities in the US. I told him that I did not, and he told me that I would not be allowed to enter tonight.
This essentially boiled down to me not being "Jewish enough." He insisted that it is a matter of security, and I understand that, certainly. But it was honestly a little hurtful to not be accepted by a community that I have felt more and more tied to as this project has progressed. It is, frankly, a disappointing commentary on our time that houses of worship of any denomination should feel the need to resort to insularity to defend themselves from perceived threats. I think for the Jews this feeling is doubly strong given both the historic and contemporary tensions that they have and do face as a group.
Anyway, he was just doing his job. I will try in Paris next Friday if I can.
Tomorrow I may either see some last tourist sites in Brussels or, more probably, hop on a train from Centraal to Ypres, the city in Flanders made famous by numerous battles in World War I memorialized in the poem In Flanders' Fields. I memorized the poem in high school for Trem's English class, and I figure it's an excuse to get outside of the city. There are hourly trains and it is a two hour ride, so it should not be too bad.
Until tomorrow!
I started by walking north toward Rue Verte 3, the address of the building in which Opa and his family lived once they reached Belgium in late 1938. It was a fairly long walk (something like two miles) in the rain and I was soaked by the time I reached it. The street is in a much more modern area of town than most of the city center and, much like Klosterneuburger Strasse in Vienna, today it is a poor neighborhood inhabited primarily by Moroccan and Turkish immigrants. I could not find no. 3, so I entered a nearby hotel and asked if either man inside knew of it. One of the men went out with me (in a suit in the rain! They were both very nice) and explained that nos. 1 - 7 all referred to one building demolished only the previous month! It had housed Islamic immigrants for at least sixteen years (as long as he had worked in the hotel) and then been abandoned in the last few. He did not know if the building had stood in the late 1930s.
They also looked up the name Blanchet for me in the phone book online, as a "Mrs. Blanchet, Rue Verte 3" was listed as a reference for the Najmans on the paperwork I found yesterday at the National Archive. Alas, no Blanchets remain today on Rue Verte. C'est la vie.
I wandered my way back to the hostel to dry off, stopping on the way at a large cathedral (signs simply called it "the Cathedral," so it seemed worth a stop), very pretty and impressive.
I cooked my most ambitious meal yet when I arrived back at the hostel. I wondered what it might take to make my own pasta sauce, and recipes I found online did not look difficult, so I gave it a shot. For those who want to play the "Cook Across Europe with Mike" game, it went something like this: I bought canned whole peeled tomatoes, hand crushed them to the right consistency, grated a carrot, chopped an onion and a clove of garlic, boiled them all together and enjoyed the delicious results. I was really impressed. It tasted something like Oma's pasta sauce and the Olive Garden's mixed. So I can't be doing too badly. Protip: 1.2 kilograms of canned tomatoes makes WAY more sauce than one person needs. Again, I am really enjoying cooking and the whole thing cost me €3.83. Can't complain about that...
At 6:00 PM I headed to the Rue de la Regence to attend services at the Great Synagogue. I am starting to get a feel for the city and can navigate fairly well. I got there around 6:30 but the doors were closed, so I did what is best outside a synagogue: I loitered.
It did not take long before a passing woman looked at me suspiciously and reported me to security. A nice man in his early 30s greeted me firmly and asked what exactly I was waiting for. I told him that I would like to attend the service, and a bit about my project. I showed him my passport, and he asked me if I frequented any Jewish communities in the US. I told him that I did not, and he told me that I would not be allowed to enter tonight.
This essentially boiled down to me not being "Jewish enough." He insisted that it is a matter of security, and I understand that, certainly. But it was honestly a little hurtful to not be accepted by a community that I have felt more and more tied to as this project has progressed. It is, frankly, a disappointing commentary on our time that houses of worship of any denomination should feel the need to resort to insularity to defend themselves from perceived threats. I think for the Jews this feeling is doubly strong given both the historic and contemporary tensions that they have and do face as a group.
Anyway, he was just doing his job. I will try in Paris next Friday if I can.
Tomorrow I may either see some last tourist sites in Brussels or, more probably, hop on a train from Centraal to Ypres, the city in Flanders made famous by numerous battles in World War I memorialized in the poem In Flanders' Fields. I memorized the poem in high school for Trem's English class, and I figure it's an excuse to get outside of the city. There are hourly trains and it is a two hour ride, so it should not be too bad.
Until tomorrow!
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Vienna to Brussels 14th May 2013
I am on the train again today, traveling the opposite direction as last time, heading to Brussels, Belgium. It is another long ride, just under 11 hours. But again it feels shorter than a similar time would on a plane, so it is not too bad. The weather is nice again, at least, so I get an excellent second look at the German countryside.
It seems strange that my time in Vienna is done... I have already been in Europe a week, and I have a little less than three left. I am very happy with my time spent in Vienna. I have a better feeling now for the city than I possibly could have a week ago, and that will certainly help me to write Heinz.
Visiting Opa's home was the most moving part of the trip to Vienna by far. It was strange to stand so near a place where Opa spent so much time, and where such injustice took place...
In this journal I have already written over 20 pages in my week in Europe, and I think it has been helpful in organizing my thoughts and keeping myself focused. It would be very simple to lose my way in the vastness of the cities I visit, in the vastness of Europe, but I have to stay on task.
Seeing Bavaria in its early summer makes me long for Vermont, though, and a string of chaotic occurrences on my arrival in Brussels (trouble finding my hostel, trouble finding an ATM, trouble finding food, only one washer and dryer for the entire hostel, and my padlock is too big for the lockers here!) have made me feel homesick (not for the first or last time, I am sure). I am enjoying this trip and my project, of course, but I will be happy to be home in June.
I also am inspired by my travels here to travel more in the US. Ethan, we've talked about it and you wanted a mention in my famous blog, so here it is: Let's make a trip happen, maybe on Thanksgiving like we discussed!
Anyway, I am tired. I am going to spend the rest of tonight relaxing and tomorrow I may meet my friend Kaylie who does not live far from Brussels and has offered to show me around the city. Then, as soon as possible, I will visit the national archives to see what information their records hold. I hope that there is an address, since Opa left none for Brussels, just a description of the area.
Until tomorrow, everyone!
It seems strange that my time in Vienna is done... I have already been in Europe a week, and I have a little less than three left. I am very happy with my time spent in Vienna. I have a better feeling now for the city than I possibly could have a week ago, and that will certainly help me to write Heinz.
Visiting Opa's home was the most moving part of the trip to Vienna by far. It was strange to stand so near a place where Opa spent so much time, and where such injustice took place...
In this journal I have already written over 20 pages in my week in Europe, and I think it has been helpful in organizing my thoughts and keeping myself focused. It would be very simple to lose my way in the vastness of the cities I visit, in the vastness of Europe, but I have to stay on task.
Seeing Bavaria in its early summer makes me long for Vermont, though, and a string of chaotic occurrences on my arrival in Brussels (trouble finding my hostel, trouble finding an ATM, trouble finding food, only one washer and dryer for the entire hostel, and my padlock is too big for the lockers here!) have made me feel homesick (not for the first or last time, I am sure). I am enjoying this trip and my project, of course, but I will be happy to be home in June.
I also am inspired by my travels here to travel more in the US. Ethan, we've talked about it and you wanted a mention in my famous blog, so here it is: Let's make a trip happen, maybe on Thanksgiving like we discussed!
Anyway, I am tired. I am going to spend the rest of tonight relaxing and tomorrow I may meet my friend Kaylie who does not live far from Brussels and has offered to show me around the city. Then, as soon as possible, I will visit the national archives to see what information their records hold. I hope that there is an address, since Opa left none for Brussels, just a description of the area.
Until tomorrow, everyone!
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Amsterdam to Vienna 9th May 2013
This time my Blogspot interface is in German! "Neuer Post" it is, then!
This entry, unlike its predecessors, will be written as the day goes on rather than after the fact. I am into my second hour aboard a train from Amsterdam to Frankfurt, Germany, a trip scheduled to take just under four hours with stops along the way in places like Arnhem, Koln, etc. Once in Frankfurt I will board another train that, seven hours later, will stop at the Wien (Vienna) Westbahnhof.
This is my first time (not counting the short trip from Amsterdam Schiphol Airport to Amsterdam Centraal) on a train, and I must say that I enjoy it quite a bit. Planes are faster, true, but there is something to be said for the train. The American romance with trains, as passionate as it was short-lived, has largely ended. The plane offers too much efficiency, too much time-saving, for the growing US to pass up. But this is not the case in Europe. Here, the cities are close and the trains always run on schedule... They don't fool around: I nearly missed this one when I took longer at breakfast than I expected. I had to run (AGAIN, JON DUNNICK) the 2km to Centraal from my hostel. I supposed it wouldn't be a Michael Newman trip if I weren't scrambling to get on my selected form of transportation...
But the wide windows and slow (relative to planes, at least) speed of trains allows a fascinating and romantic experience of the European countryside. The Dutch lowlands are undoubtedly an excellent introduction to this type of travel. On either side are vibrant green sheep pastures and fields cut by small irrigation canals and dotted with windmills, both old and modern. This is farming more in the Vermont style than the Midwestern, and it is refreshing to see such greenery after months in the Midwestern cold.
But it is noticeably not Vermont. The fields are interrupted often by large cities, and the tunnels and train-blinds (which I hate, by the way, they obstruct a view of a lot of interesting stuff!) are all covered in graffiti. It is still beautiful, just different.
With all that said about romance and beauty, the kid in the seat behind me just threw up everywhere. So much for romance. That's the price of second class. And my allergies are killing me today. That's the price of greenery.
I saw what I believe to be a school with a waterslide outside of Utrecht. So that explains Menno Schukking, everyone.
I complained to Rebecca last night that €2.00 was too much for water from a vending machine. I take it back... On the train they charge €2.80 for the same thing. But it's very fancy water. Straight from the Alps.
I found out that my reservation has a specific car and seat number, which makes sense, and I am nowhere near the right place. In my defense, I'm a poor helpless American and the ticket is in Dutch, which we have established is a mildly ridiculous looking/sounding language. The woman who was supposed to have the seat I have stolen is fine with me sitting here, anyway, and she is nice. She is a researcher at the German Institute of Archeology in Rome, home in Dusseldorf to give a guest lecture on the Roman army. So you can imagine that I quite enjoy her company...
Arriving in Koln is a strange experience. It is the first city on my trip that Opa mentioned in his memoir. It was here that he and his family arranged a guide to take them on foot over the border from Germany to Belgium. It is odd to think, as I sit here waiting to continue onward, that Opa at 10 years old likely looked up at the same cathedral I sit beside today...
Outside of Bonn the landscape becomes more and more mountainous. The flat farm country gives way to hills and forests and gone are the vast cities and graffiti... Here is the rural Germany I expected to find somewhere: small villages and beautiful views. I am excited to get to Austria.
In Frankfurt I changed trains. I am on the train now that will take me all the way to Wien. This time I am in the right seat. This train is far more full than the last but it makes numerous stops along the way at Nurnberg, Linz, etc.
I am incredibly aware of my foreignness now. People address me first in German and I must stumble my way into English. I dress differently and am in general shorter than most. But that goes without saying.
It is now 15:30... We just left Regensburg. I have repositioned to a window seat and can take more pictures now. The countryside is amazing. A seven hour train ride is worlds more interesting than a seven hour plane ride.
I have fallen into and out of sleep for the past two and a half hours. We just left Linz (I am in Austria) and the train is practically empty now. This is my longest entry yet and nothing particularly exciting has happened. Today I am truly rambling.
We are in the longest tunnel of the day thus far... Tunnels interrupt the path of the train when we have to pass through mountainous areas. I do not particularly like them: your ears pop with the heavy pressure of the earth above you and then again when you exit.
Across from me, a man roughly my age has been downing beer by the large bottle-full since Regensburg. Interesting guy: spiked hair, stunner shades, techno music blaring from his head phones, John Lennon backpack, and apparently a dwindling case of beer in his luggage...
When I reach Vienna my hostel is not far from the train station. I hope to get there, do laundry, find something to eat, and sleep. I will, of course, type up this entry: I am sure all of you are dying to hear of the puking boy from this morning and the drunk guy tonight!
I am not certain what I will do tomorrow, yet. I need to make Eurail reservations for my return trip to Brussels on the 14th, and then the day is free. I may use it to get a feel for the city. In any case, I've written enough today.
Until tomorrow!
This entry, unlike its predecessors, will be written as the day goes on rather than after the fact. I am into my second hour aboard a train from Amsterdam to Frankfurt, Germany, a trip scheduled to take just under four hours with stops along the way in places like Arnhem, Koln, etc. Once in Frankfurt I will board another train that, seven hours later, will stop at the Wien (Vienna) Westbahnhof.
This is my first time (not counting the short trip from Amsterdam Schiphol Airport to Amsterdam Centraal) on a train, and I must say that I enjoy it quite a bit. Planes are faster, true, but there is something to be said for the train. The American romance with trains, as passionate as it was short-lived, has largely ended. The plane offers too much efficiency, too much time-saving, for the growing US to pass up. But this is not the case in Europe. Here, the cities are close and the trains always run on schedule... They don't fool around: I nearly missed this one when I took longer at breakfast than I expected. I had to run (AGAIN, JON DUNNICK) the 2km to Centraal from my hostel. I supposed it wouldn't be a Michael Newman trip if I weren't scrambling to get on my selected form of transportation...
But the wide windows and slow (relative to planes, at least) speed of trains allows a fascinating and romantic experience of the European countryside. The Dutch lowlands are undoubtedly an excellent introduction to this type of travel. On either side are vibrant green sheep pastures and fields cut by small irrigation canals and dotted with windmills, both old and modern. This is farming more in the Vermont style than the Midwestern, and it is refreshing to see such greenery after months in the Midwestern cold.
But it is noticeably not Vermont. The fields are interrupted often by large cities, and the tunnels and train-blinds (which I hate, by the way, they obstruct a view of a lot of interesting stuff!) are all covered in graffiti. It is still beautiful, just different.
With all that said about romance and beauty, the kid in the seat behind me just threw up everywhere. So much for romance. That's the price of second class. And my allergies are killing me today. That's the price of greenery.
I saw what I believe to be a school with a waterslide outside of Utrecht. So that explains Menno Schukking, everyone.
I complained to Rebecca last night that €2.00 was too much for water from a vending machine. I take it back... On the train they charge €2.80 for the same thing. But it's very fancy water. Straight from the Alps.
I found out that my reservation has a specific car and seat number, which makes sense, and I am nowhere near the right place. In my defense, I'm a poor helpless American and the ticket is in Dutch, which we have established is a mildly ridiculous looking/sounding language. The woman who was supposed to have the seat I have stolen is fine with me sitting here, anyway, and she is nice. She is a researcher at the German Institute of Archeology in Rome, home in Dusseldorf to give a guest lecture on the Roman army. So you can imagine that I quite enjoy her company...
Arriving in Koln is a strange experience. It is the first city on my trip that Opa mentioned in his memoir. It was here that he and his family arranged a guide to take them on foot over the border from Germany to Belgium. It is odd to think, as I sit here waiting to continue onward, that Opa at 10 years old likely looked up at the same cathedral I sit beside today...
Outside of Bonn the landscape becomes more and more mountainous. The flat farm country gives way to hills and forests and gone are the vast cities and graffiti... Here is the rural Germany I expected to find somewhere: small villages and beautiful views. I am excited to get to Austria.
In Frankfurt I changed trains. I am on the train now that will take me all the way to Wien. This time I am in the right seat. This train is far more full than the last but it makes numerous stops along the way at Nurnberg, Linz, etc.
I am incredibly aware of my foreignness now. People address me first in German and I must stumble my way into English. I dress differently and am in general shorter than most. But that goes without saying.
It is now 15:30... We just left Regensburg. I have repositioned to a window seat and can take more pictures now. The countryside is amazing. A seven hour train ride is worlds more interesting than a seven hour plane ride.
I have fallen into and out of sleep for the past two and a half hours. We just left Linz (I am in Austria) and the train is practically empty now. This is my longest entry yet and nothing particularly exciting has happened. Today I am truly rambling.
We are in the longest tunnel of the day thus far... Tunnels interrupt the path of the train when we have to pass through mountainous areas. I do not particularly like them: your ears pop with the heavy pressure of the earth above you and then again when you exit.
Across from me, a man roughly my age has been downing beer by the large bottle-full since Regensburg. Interesting guy: spiked hair, stunner shades, techno music blaring from his head phones, John Lennon backpack, and apparently a dwindling case of beer in his luggage...
When I reach Vienna my hostel is not far from the train station. I hope to get there, do laundry, find something to eat, and sleep. I will, of course, type up this entry: I am sure all of you are dying to hear of the puking boy from this morning and the drunk guy tonight!
I am not certain what I will do tomorrow, yet. I need to make Eurail reservations for my return trip to Brussels on the 14th, and then the day is free. I may use it to get a feel for the city. In any case, I've written enough today.
Until tomorrow!
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