Monday at the Louvre, etc.

Monday, September 20th, was our last full day in Paris. On our way to the Louvre, we stopped at one place I'll tell you about in my next post and then at Yves Rocher so I could buy some face cream. They were having a big sale – 50% off the whole store! I behaved myself and just picked up one little jar though.

On to the Louvre, which was fabulous, of course! I'm not going to waste space here writing about its history - all that stuff's easily found on the Web. Instead, here's a visual tour with some comments and impressions thrown in.


That, of course, is I.M. Pei's famous pyramid in the Napoleon Court. The pyramid opened in 1989 to become the main entrance to the museum. Apparently, the original entrance was being destroyed by all the foot traffic, so a new entrance was needed. Voila! The pyramid is very cool!

Because we had our handy dandy museum passes, however, we totally bypassed the line to enter through the pyramid entrance – for which I was kind of sad - and entered through the Richelieu Wing.


Before I go on, here's a note for future visitors - if you need to potty before setting out to see the exhibits, bypass the ladies room on the entrance floor and look for one on the upper floors. The line downstairs is S-L-O-W.

Back to more important stuff. One of the first pieces we saw was the Code of Hammurabi. The writing in this shot says, "If you like art, you've come to the right place!"


Next is a comparison of my photo-taking technique and Kathie's. The first photo of the Venus de Milo is mine. Looks like any tourist's snapshot, right? Why did that guy have to be behind the sculpture? I mean really - what was he looking at? Was her butt showing? Cropping him out would make this a very narrow pic.


Then we have Kathie's photo of the same sculpture. She's hilarious to watch as she waits and waits and waits for the perfect shot - but look at her results! You might see that photo in a guidebook or art text. I just hate her.


Then we have the Winged Victory of Samothrace. I took this photo but it was nearly impossible to get a stray tourist in the background from this angle - I was up on a landing.


Kathleen and I stood back a ways out of the crowd pressing forward to get close enough to snap a photo of Mona Lisa, while Kathie weaseled her way toward the front of the pack to get her shot. Nice job, Kath.


I remember the first time I saw the Mona Lisa in 1970 – what a disappointment! The painting was much smaller than I expected and it was on a wall with all the other paintings, just roped off so she couldn’t be touched by unauthorized hands. Now, she’s on a wall all by herself and behind glass, looking much more impressive than back then. And impressive she is – it took da Vinci four years to complete the painting of La Joconde – probably most of that time was spent letting each of the thirty layers of paint and glaze dry. The technique is called sfumato, the results of which are hazy illusion of depth and shadow. (I didn’t make that up – it’s from the Web but I can’t remember where.) Anyway, the total thickness of all that paint is only forty micrometers, half the thickness of a human hair. Pretty amazing.


We finished up the morning checking out the Lacemaker and several other priority pieces, then headed for the museum cafe for lunch. Yum! We split salmon and eggplant “cake” (gateau), and washed it down with Coke. Double yum!

After lunch, we were walking toward the main lobby (under the pyramid in the pic below), getting ready to split up to go see the stuff we each wanted to see, when we were stopped by a security guard. Looking past him, we could see that the main lobby had been cleared and there was a lone backpack sitting in the middle of the vast floor. Human nature being what it is, we spent a moment mesmerized by the situation, then realized that if there really was a bomb in that backpack, we needed to be skedaddling on outta there. We took off down a hallway of shops, trying to figure out what to do, then headed back the way we came. Lo and behold, the backpack was gone and the lobby was crowded again, as if nothing had ever happened. Weird.


Kathie took off for the antiquities...


...while Kathleen and I lounged around in one of the courts (not the one below but a similar one).


When it was time to meet up again, Kathleen and I waited and waited, wondering where Kathie was. Of course, she'd gotten lost. I knew she would so why hadn't I gone with her? One can only wonder.

We exited through the pyramid and went out through the Tuileries to find l’Orangerie, where Monet's lilypad paintings are on display. Alas, the museum had closed early – consequently we saw no Impressionism. WAH!

So we took the metro to Luxembourg Gardens – a very nice, large park which is well used by the Parisians…joggers to babies (in strollers, of course). The palace is now the seat of the French senate. Hey look - there's Kathleen!


Somehow we figured out how to take the metro to the Ecole Militaire stop to see the Eiffel Tower. We made a stop at Carmine's for pizza. Watch out – parma is ham! Then we caught the last bit of the twinkle lights on the tower but weren't quick enough to catch 'em in a photo.


We stood under the tower and looked up – not a huge thrill – maybe it’s a daylight thing. It's a cool place though – we enjoyed it!

Finally, we hopped on the metro one last time, getting off at St. Michel to enjoy the sight of Notre Dame one last time. Sigh.

Sunday at Versailles

After we left mass at Notre Dame, we caught the train to Versailles, the seat of French political power during the reign of Louis XIV through XVI, ending when Louis XVI was forced to move his family back to Paris during the French Revolution.


Because we had a museum pass, we hopped to the head of the admission line – so smart, Kath and Kathleen! Here's a view of the gate from the inside. Doesn't that tall guy in the bowler hat look like Charlie Chaplin? Whaddya suppose he's looking at? Maybe wondering when the king's chariot is going to arrive?
This little chapel is just inside the entrance. No wonder the French revolted, eh? I mean, really - did they NEED a chapel with a golden altar in their house?
And then there's the Hall of Mirrors, or the Galerie des Glaces, with its crystal chandeliers catching the light from the windows along one wall and reflecting it in the mirrors on the opposite wall. Just imagine all those tourists in powdered wigs and brocaded silk gowns. I know it's a stretch...
Right at the end of the hall is where the Treaty of Versailles was signed in 1919, ending World War 1. What's there now? A big plastic Murakami "sculpture". Maybe it's just my age, but I totally missed the rationale for having this garish anime exhibit in such a garishly opulent setting. Too much garish for me. Bordering on gruesome. (Are you wondering how I really feel about this?)
Outside in the gardens that seemed to go on forever, we enjoyed walking among the ponds, statues, and trees while listening to classical music. The weather was beautiful and the flowers were tres magnifique!

Down there in the woods on the right, we stopped at a little outdoor cafe for lunch and people-watched from behind our sunglasses.

Back in Paris, we went to Sacre Coeur…a beautiful church despite the hordes of peeps and street entertainers – right outside the front door of the church.

After we observed part of the mass at Sacre Coeur, we trooped down to the Left Bank for dinner at Café Paris, then walked back across to the Right Bank to visit the Tour St. Jacques in the moonlight.

Why did we want to see this relatively obscure 16th century Flamboyant Gothic monument? Ah, that story is yet to come.

Wish They Were Bulletproof

This morning I overheard one of the sheriff's deputies ask another whether Veterans' Day was to honor the veterans that died or all veterans. I wondered what he thought Memorial Day was for, but he's probably not alone in his confusion.

Just for the record here, Memorial Day was started after that blood bath we called the Civil War and Veterans' Day was started after that blood bath we called World War I. November 11 was set aside to mark the anniversary of the signing of the armistice ending World War I, ending the war on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918.


The book is in my stack of "still to read". On that 11th day, both sides were still going at each other with 2,738 soldiers dying and 11,000 total casualties - more than D-Day. Still, almost a century later, the men of the world haven't figured out how to resolve conflict, territorial and ideological disputes, and other differences without sending young ones out to kill and maim each other.


My Daughters of the American Revolution buddies and I go up to Camp Pendleton once a month to feed the Wounded Warriors a good home cooked meal, this month a tasty Thanksgiving dinner, and to give some support. Fun and inspiring as they are, I'll be glad for the day we don't have any more Wounded to feed.

Just another Saturday afternoon stroll.

So we left the Notre Dame area late that Saturday morning, walked west along the south side of the Ile de la Cite, and crossed over the Seine to the Right Bank. After lunching on lovely ham and cheese sandwiches at a sidewalk café, we passed through the Louvre’s courtyard and by its fantastic pyramids (I promise there will be photos in an upcoming post!), and took off for the Champs-Elysees with the goal of walking its length to the Arc de Triomphe.

Parisians spend a lot of time outdoors during nice weather, enjoying their many parks and green spaces. My theory is that they get cabin fever from living in their tiny apartments and have to escape for some fresh air. Of course, I may be wrong…but just look at this photo Kathie took of the locals sunning themselves by a pond/fountain in the Jardin des Tuileries.


(The significance of the word tuileries is that tile kilns, or tuileries, occupied the site on which the Tuileries Palace was built by Catherine de Medici in 1564. Before the palace burned down in 1871, it enclosed the Louvre’s courtyard.)


At the western end of the Tuileries Gardens is the Place de la Concorde. Its primary claim to fame is that more than 1200 peeps were guillotined here, including Louise XVI and his queen, Marie-Antoinette. Yikes! Could you hear those spirits talkin' to ya, Kath?? BTW, that obelisk is 3300 years old and is the twin of one that stands in front of the Temple of Luxor in Egypt.

On along the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, we passed the Guerlain shop - where this gentleman was shopping for some Shalimar for his honey...

...and some afternoon diners at a sidewalk cafe. Kel-kel, check out the Sephora store in the background.


I directed traffic to wait while Kathie stepped out into the busy street to get this shot of the Arc de Triomphe...


(Actually, I watched the red light and hollered for her to hustle up before it turned green.)

Ordinarily, we would've been able to go inside the monument and up to the top where there's supposedly a great view of the city. On this particular day, however, a labor strike closed the inside to visitors. (This would not be our first strike-caused inconvenience on the trip. More on that in a future post.) So we contented ourselves with exploring the exterior of this early 19th century beauty...


The names of French victories and generals during the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars are inscribed on the walls.

This plaque commemorating the French soldiers and Resistance fighters who died in World War II caught Kathie's eye.


On the way back to the Ile St. Louis, we decided to cut back to the Left Bank by way of Avenue Marceau in order to avoid the masses on the Champs-Elysees. There wasn't as much to gawk at but it was much quieter. We passed Eglise St. Pierre de Chaillot, a grimy-looking church of thick walls and little windows. Kathie, Kathleen, and I thought it must surely be a medieval or Romanesque or even Byzantine structure, but guess what, Girls - it was built in the 1930s!!!

Next post, Sunday at Versailles.

Church Photo in Lieu of Attendance - Pat and Kathie Style

I've always admired Joan's "Church Photo in Lieu of Attendance" posts. This post, Pat and Kathie style, is the first of perhaps several such posts.

As Kathie wrote in her last post, she, Kathleen (co-worker and friend of Kathie), and I set off on an adventure about 4 weeks ago. We started in Paris, where we stayed for 3 days. Our B&B, the 3rd floor (that's the 4th floor in American terms) walk-up apartment of Carol Guay Bolton-Brown, was located on the Ile St. Louis - right across a little bridge from Notre Dame. So where did we go as soon as we freshened up from our overnight flight? To Notre Dame, of course!! This was our first view.


Would you just look at those flying buttresses? Drool. (For those of you who must know, the cathedral's construction started in 1163 and lasted about 100 years. Notre Dame was one of the first Gothic cathedrals built and one of the first buildings to use flying buttresses. Go here for more info.)

After walking across the little bridge, this is what we saw.


Nice flowers, eh? Here's the front of the cathedral...


...and its south side from across the Seine River...


Turns out that Saturday was a very busy day in Paris. As a thank you to French taxpayers, a bunch of museums were open to visitors for free - so there was a long line to get into the cathedral and its museum. We contented ourselves with admiring the exterior and made a mental note to return Sunday morning. It was worth the wait.


We happened to visit during 10:00 mass. Kathie seemed to be fascinated by the service. Maybe she was just waiting for the hunchback to appear! The organ music WAS very nice.

Next post - Saturday afternoon in Paris.

Some Boots Don't Stop Walking

Patty and I are just back from walking 200 miles of the five hundred mile Camino de Santiago pilgrimage across northern Spain.



When she gets over her jet lag, she's going to write about our trip, with maybe a few interjections from the West Coast sister. Two hundred fifty thousand pilgrims from around the world stream across northern Spain every year and we met our fair share.

A young red-bearded Scotsman told me he had been walking Europe for three months, and after he got to Santiago he was going on to Finistrae at the "world's end", then turn south to Portugal. "I don't know if I can stop walking", he said.

At the cathedral plaza in Santiago de Campostela, I met an Italian man in his 60's, Luigi Cianti, who had given away his fortune of $7 million fifteen years earlier and started walking. He had walked everywhere, including thirty one times across the Camino, and was indeed the Guinness record holder for number of completed Caminos. I googled him and it was for real.

We could relate to this. After the first hundred miles getting broken in, you feel you could walk infinitely. Maybe walking a hundred miles should be a requirement for high school graduation, or getting married, or, better still, running for office.

We are so Magnet!

This is a little late. You might say I've been recovering.



(Magnet Hospital designation call, 1 p.m. on August 16, 2010, Bon Secours St. Francis Hospital, Charleston, South Carolina - film credit to the fabulous Lee Bastian)

They Stood As If Every Man was a Hero

In the afternoon after a blistering morning at the Chickamauga battlefield, I went back up to the relative cool of Lookout Mountain and the three of us - Jenbach, Isabella, and myself - went over to Point Park, a strategic location overlooking Chattanooga held by the Confederates during the siege of Chattanooga.


At 4:00 AM on the morning of September 8, 1863, Company A of the Kentucky 23rd Infantry started up Lookout Mountain on a reconnaissance, arriving at Point Lookout about 11:30 AM. "we found no enemy in force on the mountain, and now from this point could be distinctly seen the dust from the enemy's column moving out from Chattanooga". I wonder if our second great grandfather, George Caseman, would have thought three of his granddaughters would be looking at the same view from the same location a hundred and sixty four years later.

Eleven days later, brothers George, Jacob, and Foster Caseman were fighting in the bloody battle at Chickamauga, a few miles south of Chattanooga. From their brigade commander's report at Chickamauga, "they stood as if every man was a hero... I ordered my men to rise up and open fire, which they did with a cheer. The Twenty-fourth Ohio halted in our rear, and now, side by side and shoulder to shoulder, did the Twenty-fourth Ohio and Twenty-third Kentucky stand up and successively repulse the enemy in all his attacks...the fire now was very hot...it appeared to me as though every third man in the regiment was struck". Of the brothers, only George and Jacob would survive to retreat with the Union Army to Chattanooga. On the first day of battle, young Foster, age 21, was killed in action.

Later in the evening we walked downtown Chattanooga, found Orchard Knob which I had to climb, closed to the public or not,


and drove a bit east to Missionary Ridge.

Here the Kentucky 23rd was part of the famous charge up Missionary Ridge on November 25, 1863. Ordered to only make a "demonstration" at the bottom of Missionary Ridge, the 18,000 enlisted men on their own and without orders from General Grant, smarting from the defeat at Chickamauga, one by one or in small groups of two to three, gradually rose to their feet and charged up the steep slopes of the ridge toward the rebel's fortified position chanting "Chickamauga, Chickamauga".

"At the center of this unplanned and unordered attack was Arthur MacArthur and the 24th Wisconsin. MacArthur’s color bearer had been killed during the fighting for the rifle pits and, as men began to clamber out of the trenches and up the hill, his replacement was decapitated by a round of solid shot from a Confederate gun above. MacArthur himself was wounded but still standing. When the colors went down a second time, he climbed out of the trench, grabbed them, and turned to his men, who were still cowering in the rifle pits. Raising the now ragged, battle-scarred flag high above his head, he shouted "On Wisconsin!" and moved quickly up the ridge.

In one of those rare moments when men are moved from terror to bravery, the men of the 24th Wisconsin rose up and began to follow Little Mac up the steep slope amid a hail of enemy rifle and artillery fire. As the Union soldiers up and down the line moved closer, the Confederate defenders abandoned their positions at the crest in disorganized panic. As Arthur MacArthur reached the summit of Missionary Ridge, he firmly planted the staff of the bullet-riddled flag in the ground for all to see. MacArthur, the 24th Wisconsin, and the Army of the Cumberland, who Grant had feared would not leave their trenches, smashed Bragg’s center in six places, sending the Southern army into full retreat. The siege of Chattanooga was broken."

Young Arthur was an 18 year old lieutenant with a command in the Wisconsin 24th, a Scotsman, of course, father of General Douglas MacArthur of World War II fame, and inspiration for the "On, Wisconsin" fight song. I wonder if most University of Wisconsin freshmen know this?

Tomorrow, we start our "March Through Georgia", by car of course.

The Killing Fields of Chickamauga

After leaving the Cousins Reunion in Athens, we three generations - 8 yr old Isabella, 40-something mom Jennifer, and the ageless Ouma - headed north to the Tennessee border to Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain with a plan to trace Sherman's 1864 March through Georgia. This was a week I'd planned to do by myself since tracking Civil War history is not exactly appealing to most people, but Jennifer always figures where her mom goes there must be adventure. With the pot sweetened by the beautiful state of Georgia, some peaches and lakes and lofts thrown in, it was a pretty good deal for everyone. Even some history was learned.

No sweetening is enticing enough to endure the blistering hot one hundred degree battle field of Chickamauga just outside Chattanooga, but walking these places is what I set out to do. I was alone on this one. With the two youngsters ensconced at the Thomas Kincaidish Chanticleer Inn on Lookout Mountain, I set off for what I knew would be a sobering day.

Chickamauga was one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War, more than 30,000 casualties. In a nutshell, the Union Army of the Cumberland with 60,000 men went against 65,000 men in the Confederate Army. The prize - for the North geographic access into Georgia and control of the rail lines, for the South protecting the Homeland that hadn’t seen action in its interior. On September 19-20, 1863, 125,000 men and countless cannons, rifles, infantry and cavalry went at each other, often hand to hand, stretching over a battle line of more than 4 miles. At times the fields were so littered, they could be crossed only by walking on fallen soldiers.


The battle site covering a huge area of fields and forests has been a national park since 1895. Even with the scorching heat and no water bottle, I set out to walk the areas I could, and drive the sections in between. The battle field holds 1400 monuments and markers, 600 put up for the various brigades and regiments for where they saw action. I was determined to check out as many as I could, and to walk those areas of action I knew about, like Longtreet's break through the Union line.

Some stand in the beauty of an open field,


others line the woods where soldiers did their best to put up some type of defense,




and the tallest of all for the state of Georgia.


A cannonball pyramid is erected wherever a commander fell, the higher up the officer the bigger his pyramid.


I climbed Wilder's monument honoring his legendary Lightening Brigade with their repeating Spencer rifles.


The view over the battlefield from Wilder's tower would have been bucolically beautiful if not for my mind's eye seeing the tens of thousands of young men killed and wounded across the landscape.


Overwhelmed by the heat and reality of the battle field, I finally found Snodgrass Hill where General George H. Thomas, the "Rock of Chickamauga", held off the Confederates while the Union Army retreated back to Chattanooga for a good siege. Yes, kids, the North lost this one.


In October of 1861, three brothers from Pendleton County enlisted in Kentucky 23rd Infantry, all in Company D. They were farmers, second generation German stock, two come from Pennsylvania with their mother and the third born in Kentucky. George Caseman at 33 years was old for a soldier, by now married with two young children but with Kentucky threatened by incursions from the Confederate Army, he enlisted in the Union Army. His 4 years younger brother, Jacob, was newly married with a young son, working on a farm. The youngest, Foster, was just 18 when the war broke out and he was the first to sign up with the 23rd. Who knows what Lydia felt when her three boys went off to war, all with the 23rd, Company D, the boys from Pendleton County, but I doubt it was much different from other mothers over the history of mankind's making war on each other.

The three young men fought with the 23rd into Chattanooga and from there to Chickamauga. Foster, age 20, was killed in action the first day of Chickamauga, on September 19, and is buried at the Chattanooga National Cemetery.

Jacob was wounded two weeks after the Battle at Chickamauga. The Union Army had retreated to Chattanooga and Jacob was accidentally shot by a drunken guard in the barracks, requiring amputation of his arm at the elbow.

He returned home to his family and farm and died ten years later at the age of 43.

Only George remained with the Kentucky 23rd whose boys endured the starving siege of Chattanooga and under General Grant made the ferocious charge up Missionary Hill, and followed Sherman on the march through Georgia to take Atlanta. He mustered out of the 23rd and returned home in early 1865. He had another six children and lived to an old age of 85.

George's first child, Mary Jane, born before he went off to war, is our great grandmother. George is our second great grandfather, and Jacob and Foster our uncles.

Every soldier on the field has a story, and a life, as rich as those of George and Jacob and Foster. That is the magnitude of it all.

Wounded Warriors

Let it be known that he who wears the military order of the purple heart has given of his blood in the defense of his homeland and shall forever be revered by his fellow countrymen.
George Washington, commander of Continental Army, 1782

Once a month, some of us ladies from the Daughters of the American Revolution go up to Camp Pendleton to make a home cooked meal for the wounded warriors. The new barracks house 200 wounded warriors and, overlooking a lake and surrounding mountains, it is gorgeous. Even though it has a nice kitchen where the guys and girls - yes, there are wounded women Marines - could cook for themselves, most walk down the road to the hospital cafeteria for meals. So a home cooked meal is a treat, especially with a bunch of mother types cooking and serving.

This week was special as we were invited to a Purple Heart ceremony for Sargent Gonzales, wounded in combat in Iraq five years ago as a Marine in the Third Battalion, 1st Marine Expeditionary force, and now a member of the Wounded Warrior Battalion at Camp Pendleton.






A Marine officer spoke to Sgt. Gonzales' bravery and dedication as a satchel demolition expert in Fallujah, but also to the "we are your family", no Marine left behind philosophy. This ideal extends to wounded Marines who can remain active duty while they recover and either return to their unit or transition into civilian life. About half stay in the Marine Corps, some returning for another tour of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan.

Finally, Sgt. Gonzales took the podium and gave an amazing speech. More so, as he came into the kitchen later and told us one of his injuries was TBI (traumatic brain injury) and he had been very anxious for a couple weeks about having to talk in front of a crowd.


I noticed tattooed on his right forearm "NO SACRIFICE" and on his left "NO VICTORY".

Just as amazing were the Marines sitting at attention, hands on knees, pretty much motionless, on the hot tarmac for the entire ceremony. I suspected their third grade teachers would have seen very different behaviors.


After the ceremony, while the sargent's comrades lined up to speak with him, his two boys played basketball,


and got some coaching from another Marine.


My D.A.R. buddies and I headed into the kitchen to make and serve dinner.


Sometimes the warrior's wounds are evident - the missing hand or leg, the cane, the way he/she walks, the surgical scar across the skull. At other times, they're not - the abdominal wounds covered by the uniform, the TBI's, the psychic injury. Always, though, they come into the kitchen to thank us for making their dinner. They, who have given so much.

Happy 4th of July! It's about more than beach and fireworks and picnics. Remember those back to the 1700's who have made your Fourth possible!

APPENDIX

NO SACRIFICE


NO VICTORY