Saturday, January 30, 2021
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Descending into Valleys
Dawn the next morning found an exodus of hundreds of pilgrims vacating Roncesvalles, en route to Larrasoña, some 27 kilometers away. Before entering the forested path out of Roncesvalles, several pilgrims posed for pictures beside a highway sign that indicated that our destination, Santiago de Compostela, was 790 kilometers away.
I had spent the night in a deep sleep, too tired to be bothered by the symphony of snorers around me. I awoke more or less rested, but my aching shoulders and feet told me that my body had a lot of adjusting to do. A half hour outside of Roncesvalles I stopped at a small roadside store and bought some provisions for the day. This was more complicated for me than it may sound, as I was still figuring out how to balance the amount of stuff I needed for the journey versus the amount of stuff I wanted to carry all day. I stopped outside the store and had a simple breakfast of yoghurt and fruit, slung my backpack on, and continued on my way.
The second day of the Camino is not like the trial-by-fire of first day. Having descended from 1400m to 1000m, the path on day two leads pilgrims on more merciful terrain through forest and over streams, interspersed with rolling hills and pasture, before descending a couple hundred metres into the small village of Zubiri.
As I had descended into Roncesvalles the day before, I had passed a man with a thick black beard in his thirties, looking somewhat fed-up whilst soaking his feet in a stream. I ended up catching up with the same man halfway through day two and found the reason for his overly sore feet: he had already been walking for a week, and his boots were falling apart. He was Scottish, and had started his pilgrimage in Lourdes.
We spent most of the day walking together, talking about everything from politics to theology, from Monty Python to our motivations for coming on the pilgrimage. At Zubiri I stopped for lunch and he continued on to Larrasoña. My leg was already giving me trouble, so after a meal of fish and potatoes at a random community centre, I went to the pharmacy in Zubiri to ask for some muscle cream, massacring much of the Spanish language in the process.
In Larrasoña I rejoined the Scot who, along with three or four dozen pilgrims, were waiting for the albergues (pilgrim hostels) to open. Everyone was sitting in a parking lot sunning themselves with their boots off, allowing the strain of the hike to melt away. Somewhere between where we had parted ways and this parking lot, the Scot had procured a large bottle of brown ale, and drank it in generous gulps as he introduced me to a half dozen pilgrims whose names I would never remember. Such is the nature of most relationships on the Camino.
In this way, I began to see the Camino like an accelerated version of life: on any given day you may meet 10 to 20 people who may be incredible individuals, who may say something insightful, or who may even have a large impact on you, but you both know that the next day they could be 20km ahead or behind you, slowed up with and injury, or heading to another town than you. I started to try to appreciate and be present in those moments with people I would meet, because in all likelihood, I would never see them again.
Transposed to life, we all meet many people over the years, and some are marked indelibly in your psyche, your heart, or your memory. Of course, attempting to maintain fully functional relationships with every amazing person you have ever met is impossible, and attempting to do so strains the quality and strength of your bonds with others who have taken their place in your day-to-day life. Inevitably, we must part ways with many people who have had great impacts on our lives. This does not make the impact they had on us any less significant, nor does it diminish their place in our lives any less special, but it is often a loss we feel to our core. Appreciating and loving the moments with important people in our lives is crucial, as is grieving the loss of such a relationship as they end, whether through death, distance, or growth. Clinging to stasis and to the past is no substitute for growth and renewed paths. Contentedness is only possible when we gracefully accept this natural movement through life, at peace, and in the hope that each person has some lasting indication or knowledge of the important role they have played in your life.
That night I hobbled down to a pub in flip flops, and aided the mending of my wounds with a pint of beer. I sat in the middle of discussion on world relations and the Irish economy, lead by two retired Irish couples, with occasional contributions from a couple from Vancouver, a few Ontarians, a French Canadian from Québec, and even a girl who had grown up in Tignish, PEI. Small world indeed.
Before dark, each pilgrim made their way back to their respective albergues and began their nightly routines before bed. Some read or talked for awhile, others showered and brushed their teeth. I patched up my feet and rubbed some muscle cream into my leg, and drifted off to sleep just as a massive thundershower erupted overhead.
I had spent the night in a deep sleep, too tired to be bothered by the symphony of snorers around me. I awoke more or less rested, but my aching shoulders and feet told me that my body had a lot of adjusting to do. A half hour outside of Roncesvalles I stopped at a small roadside store and bought some provisions for the day. This was more complicated for me than it may sound, as I was still figuring out how to balance the amount of stuff I needed for the journey versus the amount of stuff I wanted to carry all day. I stopped outside the store and had a simple breakfast of yoghurt and fruit, slung my backpack on, and continued on my way.
The second day of the Camino is not like the trial-by-fire of first day. Having descended from 1400m to 1000m, the path on day two leads pilgrims on more merciful terrain through forest and over streams, interspersed with rolling hills and pasture, before descending a couple hundred metres into the small village of Zubiri.
As I had descended into Roncesvalles the day before, I had passed a man with a thick black beard in his thirties, looking somewhat fed-up whilst soaking his feet in a stream. I ended up catching up with the same man halfway through day two and found the reason for his overly sore feet: he had already been walking for a week, and his boots were falling apart. He was Scottish, and had started his pilgrimage in Lourdes.
We spent most of the day walking together, talking about everything from politics to theology, from Monty Python to our motivations for coming on the pilgrimage. At Zubiri I stopped for lunch and he continued on to Larrasoña. My leg was already giving me trouble, so after a meal of fish and potatoes at a random community centre, I went to the pharmacy in Zubiri to ask for some muscle cream, massacring much of the Spanish language in the process.
In Larrasoña I rejoined the Scot who, along with three or four dozen pilgrims, were waiting for the albergues (pilgrim hostels) to open. Everyone was sitting in a parking lot sunning themselves with their boots off, allowing the strain of the hike to melt away. Somewhere between where we had parted ways and this parking lot, the Scot had procured a large bottle of brown ale, and drank it in generous gulps as he introduced me to a half dozen pilgrims whose names I would never remember. Such is the nature of most relationships on the Camino.
In this way, I began to see the Camino like an accelerated version of life: on any given day you may meet 10 to 20 people who may be incredible individuals, who may say something insightful, or who may even have a large impact on you, but you both know that the next day they could be 20km ahead or behind you, slowed up with and injury, or heading to another town than you. I started to try to appreciate and be present in those moments with people I would meet, because in all likelihood, I would never see them again.
Transposed to life, we all meet many people over the years, and some are marked indelibly in your psyche, your heart, or your memory. Of course, attempting to maintain fully functional relationships with every amazing person you have ever met is impossible, and attempting to do so strains the quality and strength of your bonds with others who have taken their place in your day-to-day life. Inevitably, we must part ways with many people who have had great impacts on our lives. This does not make the impact they had on us any less significant, nor does it diminish their place in our lives any less special, but it is often a loss we feel to our core. Appreciating and loving the moments with important people in our lives is crucial, as is grieving the loss of such a relationship as they end, whether through death, distance, or growth. Clinging to stasis and to the past is no substitute for growth and renewed paths. Contentedness is only possible when we gracefully accept this natural movement through life, at peace, and in the hope that each person has some lasting indication or knowledge of the important role they have played in your life.
That night I hobbled down to a pub in flip flops, and aided the mending of my wounds with a pint of beer. I sat in the middle of discussion on world relations and the Irish economy, lead by two retired Irish couples, with occasional contributions from a couple from Vancouver, a few Ontarians, a French Canadian from Québec, and even a girl who had grown up in Tignish, PEI. Small world indeed.
Before dark, each pilgrim made their way back to their respective albergues and began their nightly routines before bed. Some read or talked for awhile, others showered and brushed their teeth. I patched up my feet and rubbed some muscle cream into my leg, and drifted off to sleep just as a massive thundershower erupted overhead.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
On Ignorance and History: Observing Remembrance Day in Montréal
Note: This was originally written as a field trip journal response in my course 'Legal Education' at McGill in November 2011. Opinions reflect a frustration with the lack of recognition of Remembrance Day in Québec.
In seeking unique perspectives for our field trip experiences, I decided to write about my observations during the recent Remembrance Day ceremonies on campus at McGill. I thought it relevant for a few reasons; first of all I believe that you can understand a lot about a society in how it observes history, historical decisions and the impact of those decisions. I also believe that a well-informed view of history, in concert with many aspects of our society is imperative when approaching the law, societal issues, and life in general. Finally, I thought that this would be a good topic of discussion or reflection in the days following Remembrance Day.
The reason why Remembrance Day interested me personally as a topic was two-fold. First of all, the observance of the day in Montréal is starkly different than in any of the other cities or provinces where I have attended ceremonies. Secondly, earlier this year I had the opportunity to live and work in Northern France for three months, exploring and guiding visitors at two Canadian Historic Sites that are comprised of battlefields of the First World War. That experience has made the act of remembrance much more poignant for me and, again, marks a stark difference to observance of the day here in Québec.
I am from Atlantic Canada, where Remembrance Day is a community-wide commemoration of the sacrifices made by soldiers and their families during times of war over the past century. Schools, businesses, banks, etc. close for the day, and entire communities attend ceremonies at cenotaphs: not just in major towns or cities, but also in villages and communities all across the region. In fact, other than Ontario and Québec, every province and territory in Canada, as well as the federal government, recognizes Remembrance Day as a holiday. From when I was a kid until my most recent Remembrance Day on PEI, I remember veterans marching in a parade while people lined the streets and applauded the men and women who had once put everything on the line to join the war effort. The logic seemed simple: they risked their lives and sacrificed years for our government and society. The least we could do was “sacrifice” an hour of our time to remember their contribution and to honour those who did not make it back home to their families. Increasingly, veterans no longer march, but are pushed in wheelchairs or ride in buses, but the ultimate destination is usually the Legion, where people clamber over each other to thank the veterans and to buy them a drink.
In Northern France and Belgium, this form of remembrance never ends. Thousands of cemeteries and monuments dot the swath of land that, between 1914 and 1918, was literally ripped apart and leveled under artillery barrages like nothing this world had ever seen. A continuous trench line stretched from Switzerland to the North Sea, and all along that 800 kilometre ribbon of defence lines and redoubts, towns and villages were decimated, some never to seen again. In Ypres, Belgium, you can still find Canadian flags hung from storefronts or in windows, honouring the men who defended the Ypres salient at the cost of thousands of lives during that war. The Menin Gate, in Ypres, has hosted a Last Post and wreath-laying ceremony every night since 1928 to remember the war dead and the ˜55,000 names of those KIA/BNR (Killed In Action/Body Never Recovered) that line the walls of the gate. They still find thousands of bombs in the countryside every year and, often enough, uncover the bodies of men who died in that conflict, now nearly 100 years later. Three full military funerals have taken place in Northern France this year for Canadian soldiers who died in the Great War, two of whom were identified and had members of their family present for the burial. Each was also attended by Canadian and French soldiers, visitors and officials, as well as a plethora of mayors and councilors from the neighbouring villages and towns. The memory of both World Wars is very much a part of the fabric of the communities in this region, and they are not soon to be forgotten. I spoke to countless citizens during my time there, and every one of them had a story to tell about how the war affected them, their family, or their community.
Indeed, the war transformed all the communities it touched, including those in Canada that saw 620,000 individuals participate in WWI, and 1.1 million more 25 years later during WWII. For me, it is unbelievable to think that some of those same communities have moved on and now choose not to recognize such a transformative event in our history. On my 20-minute walk to McGill for the ceremony on Remembrance Day, I saw two people wearing poppies. Everyone else seemed oblivious to the fact that it was approaching the 11th hour of November 11th.
When I arrived at the Roddick Gates, MUNACA had assembled in a large crowd. Unable to enter the premises due to the existing injunction, they none-the-less stood in observance of the ceremony, each wearing poppies and their MUNACA pins. Though it could be construed as a political statement, I found this to be a respectful and appropriate way to commemorate the day. Indeed, much of the union movement in Canada owes its success to strikes that were a direct effect of the First World War and of a workforce dealing with the influx of thousands of men returning from battlefields and new-found worker’s rights for women. There were also poppies being distributed by people at the gates, and so there were a lot more poppies on campus than I had seen on the streets of Montréal.
The crowd was more or less solemn, especially when the formal ceremony began, but some people continued to move in and around the ceremony. This included several photographers who lacked any regard for decorum, walking around during moments of silence and snapping pictures mere inches from soldier’s faces as they stood at attention. As the ceremony progressed, the usual sounds of Montréal of course continued, with honking horns and the foot traffic around McGill being difficult distractions to ignore. However, a 21-gun salute from four artillery guns in the middle of campus announced the ceremony to the city, making the observance hard to ignore, even for those most deeply wrapped up in their own little world.
The ceremony ran quite the same as the dozens I’ve been to before: ‘O Canada’ was played, followed by the recital of The Ode of Remembrance. A member of the military band then played Taps, followed by the lament from a military bagpiper, and finally Reveille was played after the observance of two minutes silence at 11:00. A priest, minister and rabbi read prayers in English and French, and then the laying of the wreaths began. These wreaths were laid on behalf of veterans of WWI and WWII, the Korean War, conflicts since 1953, Peace Keepers, and of Silver Cross mothers, the Federal, Provincial and Municipal governments, and many other organizations and governments. It is, when all is said and done, a fairly short and simple ceremony, but it is also often very touching.
Unfortunately, I had difficulty this year not being preoccupied by the lack of regard for the ceremony and its meaning. I certainly understand why people balk at the idea of a Remembrance Day ceremony. Some liken it to a glorification of war and of death. Others see it as troublesome that the tragedies of WWI and WWII are often now linked to current exploits in Afghanistan and elsewhere, that many Canadians do not see as our battles to fight. Still others cite the imperial nature and opposition on the part of many Quebeckers in both world conflicts as a reason not to observe any remembrance of our war dead.
Certainly it is difficult to rationalize the factors that led to the World Wars, and indeed, to most acts of war. It is also undeniable that the major conflicts that saw Canadians fight and die in the 20th century were, in many ways, not our wars to fight. Imperialism and colonialism is one of the greatest factors and tragedies of the First World War, seeing hundreds of thousands of men thrust into battle and certain death without any input from their homelands in the European colonies of Africa and Asia. But none of these, in my mind, reduce the need to remember those men and women who were affected by the unparalleled human misery and destruction of the wars.
While the reasoning and justification for those conflicts remain a dicey issue in many ways, the nobility with which these men and women signed up and served is not to be underscored. Along with everything else, it was the generations of Canadians that preceded ours that earned, through their service and sacrifice, the society that we now enjoy. The senselessness that led to the slaughter of a generation of young men in the Great War and to the deaths of millions of soldiers and civilians only two and a half decades later should be precisely what encourages us to remember, not what gives us an excuse to forget.
Often in our society and in the law, we are trained to look at the past as something to learn lessons from, but I feel that increasingly, this leads to a sense of superiority over past ages. Sometimes we forget that those who lived out our history were also rational beings, clouded by the forces of their time no doubt, but no less so than we are now. The agency that brought about war was human agency; the difficulties they dealt with as they approached war were the same difficulties we grapple with as a society today. Of course, the signals that we have fallen into the same path will not be personified by the likes Adolf Hitler again, but the evil that creeps into our world by passive ignorance is the same arrogance and superiority complex that we develop by ignoring our history. At risk of sounding incredibly cliché: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
The men and women who served our country and died for what they believed in during the wars of the last century were all victims of a world bound by oligarchs and greed. I remember them because every one of them deserved better. I remember because I hope to never be put in their situation. I remember, perhaps most importantly, because I do not ever want to be part of a society that, through action or inaction, forces people like them into a situation like that again.
In seeking unique perspectives for our field trip experiences, I decided to write about my observations during the recent Remembrance Day ceremonies on campus at McGill. I thought it relevant for a few reasons; first of all I believe that you can understand a lot about a society in how it observes history, historical decisions and the impact of those decisions. I also believe that a well-informed view of history, in concert with many aspects of our society is imperative when approaching the law, societal issues, and life in general. Finally, I thought that this would be a good topic of discussion or reflection in the days following Remembrance Day.
The reason why Remembrance Day interested me personally as a topic was two-fold. First of all, the observance of the day in Montréal is starkly different than in any of the other cities or provinces where I have attended ceremonies. Secondly, earlier this year I had the opportunity to live and work in Northern France for three months, exploring and guiding visitors at two Canadian Historic Sites that are comprised of battlefields of the First World War. That experience has made the act of remembrance much more poignant for me and, again, marks a stark difference to observance of the day here in Québec.
I am from Atlantic Canada, where Remembrance Day is a community-wide commemoration of the sacrifices made by soldiers and their families during times of war over the past century. Schools, businesses, banks, etc. close for the day, and entire communities attend ceremonies at cenotaphs: not just in major towns or cities, but also in villages and communities all across the region. In fact, other than Ontario and Québec, every province and territory in Canada, as well as the federal government, recognizes Remembrance Day as a holiday. From when I was a kid until my most recent Remembrance Day on PEI, I remember veterans marching in a parade while people lined the streets and applauded the men and women who had once put everything on the line to join the war effort. The logic seemed simple: they risked their lives and sacrificed years for our government and society. The least we could do was “sacrifice” an hour of our time to remember their contribution and to honour those who did not make it back home to their families. Increasingly, veterans no longer march, but are pushed in wheelchairs or ride in buses, but the ultimate destination is usually the Legion, where people clamber over each other to thank the veterans and to buy them a drink.
In Northern France and Belgium, this form of remembrance never ends. Thousands of cemeteries and monuments dot the swath of land that, between 1914 and 1918, was literally ripped apart and leveled under artillery barrages like nothing this world had ever seen. A continuous trench line stretched from Switzerland to the North Sea, and all along that 800 kilometre ribbon of defence lines and redoubts, towns and villages were decimated, some never to seen again. In Ypres, Belgium, you can still find Canadian flags hung from storefronts or in windows, honouring the men who defended the Ypres salient at the cost of thousands of lives during that war. The Menin Gate, in Ypres, has hosted a Last Post and wreath-laying ceremony every night since 1928 to remember the war dead and the ˜55,000 names of those KIA/BNR (Killed In Action/Body Never Recovered) that line the walls of the gate. They still find thousands of bombs in the countryside every year and, often enough, uncover the bodies of men who died in that conflict, now nearly 100 years later. Three full military funerals have taken place in Northern France this year for Canadian soldiers who died in the Great War, two of whom were identified and had members of their family present for the burial. Each was also attended by Canadian and French soldiers, visitors and officials, as well as a plethora of mayors and councilors from the neighbouring villages and towns. The memory of both World Wars is very much a part of the fabric of the communities in this region, and they are not soon to be forgotten. I spoke to countless citizens during my time there, and every one of them had a story to tell about how the war affected them, their family, or their community.
Indeed, the war transformed all the communities it touched, including those in Canada that saw 620,000 individuals participate in WWI, and 1.1 million more 25 years later during WWII. For me, it is unbelievable to think that some of those same communities have moved on and now choose not to recognize such a transformative event in our history. On my 20-minute walk to McGill for the ceremony on Remembrance Day, I saw two people wearing poppies. Everyone else seemed oblivious to the fact that it was approaching the 11th hour of November 11th.
When I arrived at the Roddick Gates, MUNACA had assembled in a large crowd. Unable to enter the premises due to the existing injunction, they none-the-less stood in observance of the ceremony, each wearing poppies and their MUNACA pins. Though it could be construed as a political statement, I found this to be a respectful and appropriate way to commemorate the day. Indeed, much of the union movement in Canada owes its success to strikes that were a direct effect of the First World War and of a workforce dealing with the influx of thousands of men returning from battlefields and new-found worker’s rights for women. There were also poppies being distributed by people at the gates, and so there were a lot more poppies on campus than I had seen on the streets of Montréal.
The crowd was more or less solemn, especially when the formal ceremony began, but some people continued to move in and around the ceremony. This included several photographers who lacked any regard for decorum, walking around during moments of silence and snapping pictures mere inches from soldier’s faces as they stood at attention. As the ceremony progressed, the usual sounds of Montréal of course continued, with honking horns and the foot traffic around McGill being difficult distractions to ignore. However, a 21-gun salute from four artillery guns in the middle of campus announced the ceremony to the city, making the observance hard to ignore, even for those most deeply wrapped up in their own little world.
The ceremony ran quite the same as the dozens I’ve been to before: ‘O Canada’ was played, followed by the recital of The Ode of Remembrance. A member of the military band then played Taps, followed by the lament from a military bagpiper, and finally Reveille was played after the observance of two minutes silence at 11:00. A priest, minister and rabbi read prayers in English and French, and then the laying of the wreaths began. These wreaths were laid on behalf of veterans of WWI and WWII, the Korean War, conflicts since 1953, Peace Keepers, and of Silver Cross mothers, the Federal, Provincial and Municipal governments, and many other organizations and governments. It is, when all is said and done, a fairly short and simple ceremony, but it is also often very touching.
Unfortunately, I had difficulty this year not being preoccupied by the lack of regard for the ceremony and its meaning. I certainly understand why people balk at the idea of a Remembrance Day ceremony. Some liken it to a glorification of war and of death. Others see it as troublesome that the tragedies of WWI and WWII are often now linked to current exploits in Afghanistan and elsewhere, that many Canadians do not see as our battles to fight. Still others cite the imperial nature and opposition on the part of many Quebeckers in both world conflicts as a reason not to observe any remembrance of our war dead.
Certainly it is difficult to rationalize the factors that led to the World Wars, and indeed, to most acts of war. It is also undeniable that the major conflicts that saw Canadians fight and die in the 20th century were, in many ways, not our wars to fight. Imperialism and colonialism is one of the greatest factors and tragedies of the First World War, seeing hundreds of thousands of men thrust into battle and certain death without any input from their homelands in the European colonies of Africa and Asia. But none of these, in my mind, reduce the need to remember those men and women who were affected by the unparalleled human misery and destruction of the wars.
While the reasoning and justification for those conflicts remain a dicey issue in many ways, the nobility with which these men and women signed up and served is not to be underscored. Along with everything else, it was the generations of Canadians that preceded ours that earned, through their service and sacrifice, the society that we now enjoy. The senselessness that led to the slaughter of a generation of young men in the Great War and to the deaths of millions of soldiers and civilians only two and a half decades later should be precisely what encourages us to remember, not what gives us an excuse to forget.
Often in our society and in the law, we are trained to look at the past as something to learn lessons from, but I feel that increasingly, this leads to a sense of superiority over past ages. Sometimes we forget that those who lived out our history were also rational beings, clouded by the forces of their time no doubt, but no less so than we are now. The agency that brought about war was human agency; the difficulties they dealt with as they approached war were the same difficulties we grapple with as a society today. Of course, the signals that we have fallen into the same path will not be personified by the likes Adolf Hitler again, but the evil that creeps into our world by passive ignorance is the same arrogance and superiority complex that we develop by ignoring our history. At risk of sounding incredibly cliché: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
The men and women who served our country and died for what they believed in during the wars of the last century were all victims of a world bound by oligarchs and greed. I remember them because every one of them deserved better. I remember because I hope to never be put in their situation. I remember, perhaps most importantly, because I do not ever want to be part of a society that, through action or inaction, forces people like them into a situation like that again.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
A Boy Went Over the Mountain
I shrugged off my backpack and sat on a nearby bench, drawing in a long breath before taking in my surroundings. The slope I had just climbed was framed with conifers, which followed the path all the way down to the base of the mountain, giving way to the expansive pastures where cows grazed, clanking the enormous bells that hung around their necks. Having just emerged from the silence of the countryside, I was now enveloped by a cacophony of voices, chattering along excitedly in German, French, Spanish, Korean and English. Some sipped tea, others smoked cigarettes, but each seemed united in the fact that they were cherishing this brief break in the morning sunlight before attacking the mountain once more.
I loosened the laces on my hiking boots and wrestled them off my feet, laughing to myself as a thick steam escaped from the tops of them. As I rummaged around in my backpack, trying to find my map, I mentally calculated how much farther I had to walk. “Well I’ve been walking straight uphill for basically three hours,” I reasoned. “I must be at least halfway there.”
That morning I was beginning the Camino de Santiago, a trail that, each year, leads thousands of pilgrims from southern France into the Pyrenees, through northern Spain towards the end point, Santiago de Compostela: roughly 800km away from where I now sat.
The evening before I had boarded a train in Bayonne, France, which had slowly made its way to St. Jean Pied-du-Port, the traditional start point of the “French Way” of the Camino. The train had snaked southward through lush valleys and quaint villages, passing by fly fishermen on placid rivers and past ancient monasteries perched on jagged mountains. On that small train I had sat beside an Englishman named Jim, who was beginning his second trek onto the Camino, and across from Jorge, a Frenchman born to Spanish parents who had fled Spain during the Civil War in the 1930s. However, I would not meet either of them until days later, and none of us made eye contact or spoke a word to each other for the entire three-hour journey to St. Jean.
And so, after a good night’s sleep at Maison Itzalpea in St-Jean, I had trudged out of the village in the early morning sunlight, taking my first steps of a journey that would extend about 475km on foot, taking the better part of May to complete. A mere forty-eight hours prior, I had vacated what had been my home for three months in Arras, and now I found myself 1000km south, climbing a slope into the Pyrenees Mountains. Having finally fished my map out of my bag, I realized that I was nowhere near halfway to the first stop of my pilgrimage. In fact, now sitting in Orison, France, I was barely a third of the way to my destination for the day.
Looking back on it now, I am very thankful that I was as fresh and ambitious as I was that first day. Surprisingly, for that time of day, I was also in a tremendously good mood. Those 28 or so kilometers between St. Jean and Roncesvalles, Spain, contain the roughest terrain of the whole Camino, guiding pilgrims through mountain passes for most of the trek, and then sharply dropping off on the other side. My mood and general exuberance carried me most of the day, buoyed by the pastoral beauty of the cattle and horses grazing on the rolling hills and the spectacular views from mountainside vistas.
Of course, my mood couldn’t do all the work. My body bore the stress of the steep inclines and would later feel the punishment of the constant drag and pull of my heavy backpack as I trodded over the kilometers. The enthusiasm I felt that morning reminded me of many other instances in my life where I had taken on a new challenge or headed down a new proverbial path. Many times I have undertaken new commitments to growth in many facets of my life, be they relational, physical, academic, intellectual, spiritual, etc., and often I face these tasks with a new outlook, attitude and ambition. Overtime, however, that novelty wears off. Blisters form in relationships. Excessive ambition gives way to lethargy and avoidance. People irritate me with their quirks and I allow my attitude or temperament to change. Negativity oh-so gradually slips in, growing without me noticing, all the while bringing me further and further from where I want and need to be.
This type of gradual slippery slope, caused by passive inaction or indifference, can only be reversed by renewed resolve to change and growth: a new commitment to take back what we have lost, step-by-step. Only this time, we have to fight and claw just to get back to our starting point, to override what we have become desensitized to, to lose the biases that our own passivity has allowed us to build up. Only enduring a steep, painful climb, persevering through bumps and bruises, and standing back up every time we fall will allow us to progress.
On this day, however, my literal climb is still new and fresh to me; my major challenges and bumps in the road were still far in the distance. I am astonished by the powerful winds that whip around the tops of the hills and mountains over the course of the day. I am surprised by a hillside full of daisies, (which always remind me of my Mom) this early in the spring. I am shocked when the descent from the mountain is actually much more difficult than parts of the climb. Overall, it is a day filled with new experiences and pleasant surprises. At some point during the climb, I cross the border into Spain, and as 300 or so pilgrims descend out of the mountains and invade Roncesvalles (a village with about 30 residents) I am all too happy to find a bed, to shower the stress out of my shoulders and rush peacefully into sleep. And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day.
I loosened the laces on my hiking boots and wrestled them off my feet, laughing to myself as a thick steam escaped from the tops of them. As I rummaged around in my backpack, trying to find my map, I mentally calculated how much farther I had to walk. “Well I’ve been walking straight uphill for basically three hours,” I reasoned. “I must be at least halfway there.”
That morning I was beginning the Camino de Santiago, a trail that, each year, leads thousands of pilgrims from southern France into the Pyrenees, through northern Spain towards the end point, Santiago de Compostela: roughly 800km away from where I now sat.
The evening before I had boarded a train in Bayonne, France, which had slowly made its way to St. Jean Pied-du-Port, the traditional start point of the “French Way” of the Camino. The train had snaked southward through lush valleys and quaint villages, passing by fly fishermen on placid rivers and past ancient monasteries perched on jagged mountains. On that small train I had sat beside an Englishman named Jim, who was beginning his second trek onto the Camino, and across from Jorge, a Frenchman born to Spanish parents who had fled Spain during the Civil War in the 1930s. However, I would not meet either of them until days later, and none of us made eye contact or spoke a word to each other for the entire three-hour journey to St. Jean.
And so, after a good night’s sleep at Maison Itzalpea in St-Jean, I had trudged out of the village in the early morning sunlight, taking my first steps of a journey that would extend about 475km on foot, taking the better part of May to complete. A mere forty-eight hours prior, I had vacated what had been my home for three months in Arras, and now I found myself 1000km south, climbing a slope into the Pyrenees Mountains. Having finally fished my map out of my bag, I realized that I was nowhere near halfway to the first stop of my pilgrimage. In fact, now sitting in Orison, France, I was barely a third of the way to my destination for the day.
Looking back on it now, I am very thankful that I was as fresh and ambitious as I was that first day. Surprisingly, for that time of day, I was also in a tremendously good mood. Those 28 or so kilometers between St. Jean and Roncesvalles, Spain, contain the roughest terrain of the whole Camino, guiding pilgrims through mountain passes for most of the trek, and then sharply dropping off on the other side. My mood and general exuberance carried me most of the day, buoyed by the pastoral beauty of the cattle and horses grazing on the rolling hills and the spectacular views from mountainside vistas.
Of course, my mood couldn’t do all the work. My body bore the stress of the steep inclines and would later feel the punishment of the constant drag and pull of my heavy backpack as I trodded over the kilometers. The enthusiasm I felt that morning reminded me of many other instances in my life where I had taken on a new challenge or headed down a new proverbial path. Many times I have undertaken new commitments to growth in many facets of my life, be they relational, physical, academic, intellectual, spiritual, etc., and often I face these tasks with a new outlook, attitude and ambition. Overtime, however, that novelty wears off. Blisters form in relationships. Excessive ambition gives way to lethargy and avoidance. People irritate me with their quirks and I allow my attitude or temperament to change. Negativity oh-so gradually slips in, growing without me noticing, all the while bringing me further and further from where I want and need to be.
This type of gradual slippery slope, caused by passive inaction or indifference, can only be reversed by renewed resolve to change and growth: a new commitment to take back what we have lost, step-by-step. Only this time, we have to fight and claw just to get back to our starting point, to override what we have become desensitized to, to lose the biases that our own passivity has allowed us to build up. Only enduring a steep, painful climb, persevering through bumps and bruises, and standing back up every time we fall will allow us to progress.
On this day, however, my literal climb is still new and fresh to me; my major challenges and bumps in the road were still far in the distance. I am astonished by the powerful winds that whip around the tops of the hills and mountains over the course of the day. I am surprised by a hillside full of daisies, (which always remind me of my Mom) this early in the spring. I am shocked when the descent from the mountain is actually much more difficult than parts of the climb. Overall, it is a day filled with new experiences and pleasant surprises. At some point during the climb, I cross the border into Spain, and as 300 or so pilgrims descend out of the mountains and invade Roncesvalles (a village with about 30 residents) I am all too happy to find a bed, to shower the stress out of my shoulders and rush peacefully into sleep. And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part IX
Once we hit April in Arras, time started to fly by, partly because most of us were in the process of doing exchanges to either Vimy or BH. This gave us each the opportunity to spend a few days working at the other site and to learn more about the history there while honing our guide skillz. Meanwhile, the sites were getting busier, and special events throughout the month contributed to the quickening pace of our session.
The April 9th ceremony at Vimy (the 94th anniversary of the battle) was an especially poignant event, with delegates from the local, national and international political community present, as well as Canadian officials, soldiers and visitors. While each of us had über-important duties for the day (such as pointing at the parking lot when cars drove up, taking wreaths from one vehicle and placing them in another, or telling older women that they weren't allow to lean on the monument), special props are certainly due to both Lisette, who gave a moving speech about her great-grandfather's involvement in the war, and Sahar, who sang O Canada and La Marseillaise so amazingly well that she was invited to sing them again two weeks later, this time at a preliminary World Hockey Championship game between Canada and France in Paris. Regardless of our special job that day, (including that of Laura and Kariane, our two lone guides at BH) we took advantage of the fact that everyone was, for once, in town, and headed out that evenings for dinner and some drinks. As per usual, the drinking delved to different depths for different individuals, and the night ended with me being confronted by an angry Acadian, several items being mysteriously hidden around Vauban, and a particularly memorable walk down Maple Lane for me the next day.
Over the course of our three months in Arras, many of us took the opportunity to use Northern France for a jump-off point to visit other European destinations. A lot of us explored more of France, some made it as far as Morocco, and two even made it to the Royal Wedding in London. Still more of us used up several days off drinking at The Great Canadian Pub in Paris (once with special guests MJ and Thomas), although the Pub itself was met with varying degrees of satisfaction. (Although I'm sure everyone would agree that any night someone doesn't follow through on their threats to jump into the Seine is probably a good night).
In early April, following up on the jaunt Sahar and I took up to Mont St-Michel, I flew to Lisbon, Portugal to meet up with John Thomson, a friend that Meghan and I had met on our whirlwind Eurotrip in 2007. During our trek through Eastern Europe, and hazy after a night-long train ride through Serbia and Bulgaria, Meghan and I were astonished to hear someone (namely John and his travel mate, Richard) speaking English in, of all places, the Sophia train station. They joined us for lunch, we mocked the Bulgarian menu mercilessly, and the rest is history. (And could certainly warrant a blog post of its own). Anyway, upon my arrival in Lisbon, John guided me through the streets of the city, stopping at mny of the requisite tourist and historic locales as we went. Over the course of my two-days in Lisbon, we visited many sites, including (but not limited to) Castelo de São Jorge, an eleventh-century castle that figures into much of Lisbon's history, the Monument of the Discoveries, dedicated to Portugal's rich past of discovery and conquest, and Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point in continental Europe. It was such a thorough tour that at one point I had to buy new €12 shoes at a Chinese corner store after tripping over my own feet and busting up the sandals I was wearing. After a great but exhausting weekend with John, his Mom cooked us a Sunday evening dinner, and I gunned it to the airport in order to get back to Arras in time for work the next morning.
In addition to watching time speed by, we were also becoming adept at two very important occurances at Vimy and BH: delaing with stupid questions and telling people to stop doing stupid things. By this point we were all used to the usual "Are you actually Canadian?", "Who won the war?" and (by far the most common) "Where were the toilets?" kind of questions, but there were also some astoundingly ridiculous queries made over the course of our three months. My favorites:
(noticing the number of Indian gravestones in one of the Commonwealth Cemeteries on-site) "So, where were all the Indians from?",
"Did all lieutenant-colonels have to be left-handed?",
"So these craters were caused by glacial retreat, right?",
(pointing at the figure of Canada on the monument) "Is that Jesus?",
"What was going on in South America at this point in time?",
and, my favourite,
(pointing at the pictures of all the guides in the Visitor's Centre) "Are those all the people who died here?"
Unfortunately, the ridiculousness at the sites was not isolated to questions, and that meant that a large part of our duties included yelling at people who were being morons on-site. Again, the usual biker or unleashed dog is to be expected, but I would say about 75% of my time on the monument was spent dissuading people from inappropriately posing with the figure of the mourning woman. Then there were people like the parents who would give plastic AK-47s to their kids and get them to run around the trenches shooting at each other. Or the bus driver who did do doughnuts around the parking lot trying to dislodge a sneaker from the roof of his bus, while the kids from his bus rans around the parking lot and the bus. (He got such a stern talking to that I almost made him cry).
But just in time to serve as a relief for all the yelling and tears, the canival came to Arras! Now, I am not much of a carnival type of person, but I'll have to say that one night with my favourite Canadians in France, a couple beer, cotton candy, bumper cars and walking around in giant inflatable balls on water goes a long way to help forget even the worst Sunday at Vimy.
Then, all of a sudden it was Easter. And then it was ANZAC Day. And then Kariane got conjunctivitis. And then, as suddenly as it began, the session was over. Fourteen new guides invaded the sites and took away my beloved Galaxy while we finished out Lame Duck Week while the newbies were getting fully trained and ready to take the reins. While our last day wasn't until Monday, May 2nd, the wheels started to come off the Saturday previous, when a thunderstorm ended our tour day early, and we all got a little hyper. The next day was a typical Sunday, with French people just crawling all over the place (I had to tell people on an unprecedented five occasions to get down from the Mourning Woman, and then tell two teenagers to 'degage' themselves from the site, after I caught them throwing rocks at the kiosk). On Monday, Vimy had a full staff of eighteen, with the newbies shadowing the pros as we went into the tunnels once last time. That night Vauban had one of its most memorable parties of the session (other honourable mentions include Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter and that random night with the blue-haired pansexual and native headress), this time in the basement, theoretically to cut down on the mess made in the house. André and Kristie showed up, and Arlene even put in a strong performance during our Vimy-BH version of King's Cup. A good night was had by all, although my memories of later in the night are about as blurry as Kariane's photos.
Unfortunately, the next morning I found that my theory about the basement party to mess ratio was invalid, and I was left holding the bag... actually, 12 garbage bags full of cans and bottles and food and garbage. Luckily I had the time to waste given that my train was at 12:10, while pretty much everyone else had flown the coop, and were already on their way to Greece, Portugal, Corsica, etc. Of course, I was only too happy to help my fellow co-workers out, and hardly even cursed once when I woke up and realized that every one of my roommates had ignored even the mildly threatening email André had sent regarding our final clean-up.
I was the last to leave Vauban, and as I walked through the streets of Arras for the last time, now carrying my backpack with the customary Canada flag sewn onto it, I had a renewed (or 'renaissance' à la Reta) perspective on why Canadians like being identified as such in Europe. Over the course of the session we had certainly learned a lot about the sacrifices of Canadians on those fields in Europe, and setting aside the multitude of half-baked factors that led to the First World War, Canada punched far above its weight in the European theatre, in war that certainly wasn't their own. At St-Julien, Vimy, Passchendaele, Canal du Nord, during the last 100 days, etc. the 600,000 who served in the Canadian Corps had earned respect for a country that was only 50 years old and, a few years earlier, many had never even heard of. And more than a million Canadians would do it all again less than 25 years later. While the reasoning and justification for these conflicts remain a dicey issue in a lot of respects, the nobility with which these men and women signed up and served is not to be underscored. Along with everything else, it was the generations of Canadians that preceded ours that earned, through their service and sacrifice, the right for Canadians to walk across Europe with our flag proudly sewn on our backpack.
However, three months at Vimy also changed my perspective on war in general. The senselessness that led to the slaughter of a generation of young men and the staggering loss for all involved is so heartbreakingly palpable at Vimy, BH and at all the memorials, battle sites and cemeteries that we visited over the course of our three months in France. After the session, I could certainly go on about the war for hours, but I will instead simply sum up the futility of that war with this Longfellow quote: 'If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.' Every man in those trenches and tunnels was a victim of a world bound by oligarchs and greed. Every one of them deserved better.
And while back home we often speak of Vimy as a moment of pride for Canadians; a major stepping-stone to nationhood, I see it now more as a monument to a necessary evil. A memorial for 3,598 Canadians who fell in that field. For 11,285 who fell in France without a trace. For 67,000 fallen over the four years of war. For 600,000 who, even if they survived, were never the same again, and for their countless loved ones, families, communities, villages and towns who suffered equally through that four years and beyond. Vimy Ridge and the mournful caribou at BH were also most certainly erected as hopeful beacons for peace.
Meanwhile, as I left Arras for Paris via train, I tried to switch gears. The journey I was about to embark on would have very little to do with pride, nationalism and war, and a lot more to do with humility, universalism and peace.
The April 9th ceremony at Vimy (the 94th anniversary of the battle) was an especially poignant event, with delegates from the local, national and international political community present, as well as Canadian officials, soldiers and visitors. While each of us had über-important duties for the day (such as pointing at the parking lot when cars drove up, taking wreaths from one vehicle and placing them in another, or telling older women that they weren't allow to lean on the monument), special props are certainly due to both Lisette, who gave a moving speech about her great-grandfather's involvement in the war, and Sahar, who sang O Canada and La Marseillaise so amazingly well that she was invited to sing them again two weeks later, this time at a preliminary World Hockey Championship game between Canada and France in Paris. Regardless of our special job that day, (including that of Laura and Kariane, our two lone guides at BH) we took advantage of the fact that everyone was, for once, in town, and headed out that evenings for dinner and some drinks. As per usual, the drinking delved to different depths for different individuals, and the night ended with me being confronted by an angry Acadian, several items being mysteriously hidden around Vauban, and a particularly memorable walk down Maple Lane for me the next day.
Over the course of our three months in Arras, many of us took the opportunity to use Northern France for a jump-off point to visit other European destinations. A lot of us explored more of France, some made it as far as Morocco, and two even made it to the Royal Wedding in London. Still more of us used up several days off drinking at The Great Canadian Pub in Paris (once with special guests MJ and Thomas), although the Pub itself was met with varying degrees of satisfaction. (Although I'm sure everyone would agree that any night someone doesn't follow through on their threats to jump into the Seine is probably a good night).
In early April, following up on the jaunt Sahar and I took up to Mont St-Michel, I flew to Lisbon, Portugal to meet up with John Thomson, a friend that Meghan and I had met on our whirlwind Eurotrip in 2007. During our trek through Eastern Europe, and hazy after a night-long train ride through Serbia and Bulgaria, Meghan and I were astonished to hear someone (namely John and his travel mate, Richard) speaking English in, of all places, the Sophia train station. They joined us for lunch, we mocked the Bulgarian menu mercilessly, and the rest is history. (And could certainly warrant a blog post of its own). Anyway, upon my arrival in Lisbon, John guided me through the streets of the city, stopping at mny of the requisite tourist and historic locales as we went. Over the course of my two-days in Lisbon, we visited many sites, including (but not limited to) Castelo de São Jorge, an eleventh-century castle that figures into much of Lisbon's history, the Monument of the Discoveries, dedicated to Portugal's rich past of discovery and conquest, and Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point in continental Europe. It was such a thorough tour that at one point I had to buy new €12 shoes at a Chinese corner store after tripping over my own feet and busting up the sandals I was wearing. After a great but exhausting weekend with John, his Mom cooked us a Sunday evening dinner, and I gunned it to the airport in order to get back to Arras in time for work the next morning.
In addition to watching time speed by, we were also becoming adept at two very important occurances at Vimy and BH: delaing with stupid questions and telling people to stop doing stupid things. By this point we were all used to the usual "Are you actually Canadian?", "Who won the war?" and (by far the most common) "Where were the toilets?" kind of questions, but there were also some astoundingly ridiculous queries made over the course of our three months. My favorites:
(noticing the number of Indian gravestones in one of the Commonwealth Cemeteries on-site) "So, where were all the Indians from?",
"Did all lieutenant-colonels have to be left-handed?",
"So these craters were caused by glacial retreat, right?",
(pointing at the figure of Canada on the monument) "Is that Jesus?",
"What was going on in South America at this point in time?",
and, my favourite,
(pointing at the pictures of all the guides in the Visitor's Centre) "Are those all the people who died here?"
Unfortunately, the ridiculousness at the sites was not isolated to questions, and that meant that a large part of our duties included yelling at people who were being morons on-site. Again, the usual biker or unleashed dog is to be expected, but I would say about 75% of my time on the monument was spent dissuading people from inappropriately posing with the figure of the mourning woman. Then there were people like the parents who would give plastic AK-47s to their kids and get them to run around the trenches shooting at each other. Or the bus driver who did do doughnuts around the parking lot trying to dislodge a sneaker from the roof of his bus, while the kids from his bus rans around the parking lot and the bus. (He got such a stern talking to that I almost made him cry).
But just in time to serve as a relief for all the yelling and tears, the canival came to Arras! Now, I am not much of a carnival type of person, but I'll have to say that one night with my favourite Canadians in France, a couple beer, cotton candy, bumper cars and walking around in giant inflatable balls on water goes a long way to help forget even the worst Sunday at Vimy.
Then, all of a sudden it was Easter. And then it was ANZAC Day. And then Kariane got conjunctivitis. And then, as suddenly as it began, the session was over. Fourteen new guides invaded the sites and took away my beloved Galaxy while we finished out Lame Duck Week while the newbies were getting fully trained and ready to take the reins. While our last day wasn't until Monday, May 2nd, the wheels started to come off the Saturday previous, when a thunderstorm ended our tour day early, and we all got a little hyper. The next day was a typical Sunday, with French people just crawling all over the place (I had to tell people on an unprecedented five occasions to get down from the Mourning Woman, and then tell two teenagers to 'degage' themselves from the site, after I caught them throwing rocks at the kiosk). On Monday, Vimy had a full staff of eighteen, with the newbies shadowing the pros as we went into the tunnels once last time. That night Vauban had one of its most memorable parties of the session (other honourable mentions include Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter and that random night with the blue-haired pansexual and native headress), this time in the basement, theoretically to cut down on the mess made in the house. André and Kristie showed up, and Arlene even put in a strong performance during our Vimy-BH version of King's Cup. A good night was had by all, although my memories of later in the night are about as blurry as Kariane's photos.
Unfortunately, the next morning I found that my theory about the basement party to mess ratio was invalid, and I was left holding the bag... actually, 12 garbage bags full of cans and bottles and food and garbage. Luckily I had the time to waste given that my train was at 12:10, while pretty much everyone else had flown the coop, and were already on their way to Greece, Portugal, Corsica, etc. Of course, I was only too happy to help my fellow co-workers out, and hardly even cursed once when I woke up and realized that every one of my roommates had ignored even the mildly threatening email André had sent regarding our final clean-up.
I was the last to leave Vauban, and as I walked through the streets of Arras for the last time, now carrying my backpack with the customary Canada flag sewn onto it, I had a renewed (or 'renaissance' à la Reta) perspective on why Canadians like being identified as such in Europe. Over the course of the session we had certainly learned a lot about the sacrifices of Canadians on those fields in Europe, and setting aside the multitude of half-baked factors that led to the First World War, Canada punched far above its weight in the European theatre, in war that certainly wasn't their own. At St-Julien, Vimy, Passchendaele, Canal du Nord, during the last 100 days, etc. the 600,000 who served in the Canadian Corps had earned respect for a country that was only 50 years old and, a few years earlier, many had never even heard of. And more than a million Canadians would do it all again less than 25 years later. While the reasoning and justification for these conflicts remain a dicey issue in a lot of respects, the nobility with which these men and women signed up and served is not to be underscored. Along with everything else, it was the generations of Canadians that preceded ours that earned, through their service and sacrifice, the right for Canadians to walk across Europe with our flag proudly sewn on our backpack.
However, three months at Vimy also changed my perspective on war in general. The senselessness that led to the slaughter of a generation of young men and the staggering loss for all involved is so heartbreakingly palpable at Vimy, BH and at all the memorials, battle sites and cemeteries that we visited over the course of our three months in France. After the session, I could certainly go on about the war for hours, but I will instead simply sum up the futility of that war with this Longfellow quote: 'If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.' Every man in those trenches and tunnels was a victim of a world bound by oligarchs and greed. Every one of them deserved better.
And while back home we often speak of Vimy as a moment of pride for Canadians; a major stepping-stone to nationhood, I see it now more as a monument to a necessary evil. A memorial for 3,598 Canadians who fell in that field. For 11,285 who fell in France without a trace. For 67,000 fallen over the four years of war. For 600,000 who, even if they survived, were never the same again, and for their countless loved ones, families, communities, villages and towns who suffered equally through that four years and beyond. Vimy Ridge and the mournful caribou at BH were also most certainly erected as hopeful beacons for peace.
Meanwhile, as I left Arras for Paris via train, I tried to switch gears. The journey I was about to embark on would have very little to do with pride, nationalism and war, and a lot more to do with humility, universalism and peace.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part VIII
It seems unlikely that I will ever take a train without being reminded of Meghan and our trip around Europe in 2007 (http://on.fb.me/gs2VNP), that is, of course, unless we're talking about a VIA Rail trip, which more just reminds me of some combination of a cattle cart on the Oregon Trail and Chinese water torture. My trip with Sahar to Mont St-Michel was no different. From Arras, our train took us west through the north of France to the city of Rennes, where we boarded a bus for Pontorson. From there, a short transit bus ride took us towards our final destination. I was pretty interested to see the old fortified city for myself, but as the bus wound down the country roads near the French coast, I realized that I, after three months away from PEI, was actually excited just to see the ocean.
Mont St-Michel rises like a fairy tale from the waters just off northern France. The site of l'Abbaye St-Michel since the 8th century, it is built on a peninsula that protrudes about a kilometer from the mainland, connected only by a narrow causeway when the tide is high. At the top of the imposing mount stands a church that was constructed in the 11th and 12th centuries, and then partially re-configured in the 15th century, leading to a combination of Romanesque and Gothic architecture. From there, a fortified city (current population of less than 50) spirals all the way down to the base of Mont St-Michel where, today, millions of visitors flock every year.
Sahar and I blended in well with the tourists that bound the streets when we arrived, as we settled into the business of taking pictures of every corner and angle that looked even halfway interesting. As is true any such attraction, the passageways of Mont St-Michel have become over-run with tacky souvenir shops stocked with the usual cliché fare. But once you make your way further up and out of the fray, the town offers spectacular views of both itself and of the surrounding tidal flats and waterways. After clambering up and down stairs for an hour or two, we headed down to walk around the island itself, renowned for its merciless tide. They say the tides here race to fill the void left in their departure like "galloping horses", which, at 14 meters is no match for Fundy's 17 meter tidal boar, but is still pretty frightening. Sahar and I didn't end up getting swallowed up in the tide, but we did get pretty muddy, which I'm sure did not impress the staff at the restaurant we went into immediately afterwards.
After dark, we headed off on foot in search of our chambre d'hôte, taking the opportunity to see Mont St-Michel lit up at night. About six kilometres later we stumbled into 'la Bastide du Moulin' and claimed our beds for the night. As far as I can recall, this was my first bed and breakfast experience, (although some hostels I've been to may technically be considered B&Bs) and it more than exceeded any expectations I may have had. Our room had a four-post bed and a double bed on the loft, as well as a newly renovated bathroom and a window/door that led into the backyard. Exhausted, we took a few moments to gush over the place before passing out for a solid eight hours of sleep.
After breakfast we headed back on foot towards Mont St-Michel to see the museum, but were also able to catch part of Mass in the ancient church, celebrated with the monks and nuns who still live in the monastery there. From there we continued back through the streets, where Sahar bought a few of the aforementioned cliché trinkets, and we headed back the six kilometers (that's 18km total, if you're keeping track) to our chambre d'hôte to retrieve our bags and to catch the bus back into Pontorson.
Fast-forward to about six hours and a couple broken down trains later, and Sahar and I are sitting stranded in a Paris train station, still many miles away from Arras, with Monday morning and another day at work ticking ever-closer. Tired from a long day of sight-seeing and traveling, we shuffled into the long line-up where all the passengers whose journeys had been disrupted now stood. Given my past dealings with VIA Rail, Air Canada and the like, I have come to accept such a low level of customer service that I assumed what awaited us at the front of the line was a lengthy argument, resulting in us getting a voucher or some other meaningless coupon that did nothing to resolve the predicament we were in. Fortunately, they do things differently in France. While in line, we were given a free boxed lunch which included a letter of apology from SNCF (Société nationale des chemins de fer français). However, we didn't have time to eat it, because the line moved very quickly, and when we reached the front of the line, we were dealt with efficiently and professionally. As the last train for Arras had already left, he offered us train tickets the following morning so that we would get back in time for work, and a complimentary stay at a hotel next to Paris Nord train station. And we didn't even have to yell or anything.
As the train schedule was fairly extensively messed up by whatever was going wrong with the engines or signals or whatever in France that day, it turned out that about 35 of us were all staying at the same hotel. We were given instructions on how to get to the hotel and then our convoy was set loose on Paris, rolling through train and metro stations like a well-behaved street gang with well-appointed luggage sets. When we came to the RER (Réseau Express Régional) turnstiles, each person politely held the door for the next, chivalrously enabling them to jump the fare while the rest of the group patiently waited for everyone to get through. When we reached Paris Nord, our posse took to the streets, and people stopped or slowed their cars at the sight of us, probably wondering what kind of protest we were mounting at one in the morning. After walking for about a kilometer (stopping occasionally so stragglers and those caught at crosswalk lights could catch up) we arrived at our hotel... or so we thought. But we were turned away and told that the hotel we were actually looking for was ten minutes in the opposite direction. And so we bravely spilled onto the streets of Paris again. We arrived at our hotel and crawled into bed with about 5 hours to go before we had to be back up at Paris Nord. After walking about 14,000 kilometers that day we were very tired and drifted quickly off to sleep.
In the morning we got a free breakfast along with our free hotel room, both of which were actually pretty good (especially considering the price) and made our way back to the train station. After a mishap where Sahar nearly got blasted in the face with a water hose by city workers, we got on the train. As our tickets were actually for the night before, we had not been assigned new seats and so we decided to just take a seat in 1st Class and see where that got us. When the ticket guy asked for my ticket, I silently handed it to him, again, expecting to be land-basted again for having the audacity to sit with my social betters, here in my light hikers and jeans.
"Did they put you up in hotel last night as well?"
I nodded.
"Very good." he said, as he handed my ticket back and continued up the aisle.
What a country.
Mont St-Michel rises like a fairy tale from the waters just off northern France. The site of l'Abbaye St-Michel since the 8th century, it is built on a peninsula that protrudes about a kilometer from the mainland, connected only by a narrow causeway when the tide is high. At the top of the imposing mount stands a church that was constructed in the 11th and 12th centuries, and then partially re-configured in the 15th century, leading to a combination of Romanesque and Gothic architecture. From there, a fortified city (current population of less than 50) spirals all the way down to the base of Mont St-Michel where, today, millions of visitors flock every year.
Sahar and I blended in well with the tourists that bound the streets when we arrived, as we settled into the business of taking pictures of every corner and angle that looked even halfway interesting. As is true any such attraction, the passageways of Mont St-Michel have become over-run with tacky souvenir shops stocked with the usual cliché fare. But once you make your way further up and out of the fray, the town offers spectacular views of both itself and of the surrounding tidal flats and waterways. After clambering up and down stairs for an hour or two, we headed down to walk around the island itself, renowned for its merciless tide. They say the tides here race to fill the void left in their departure like "galloping horses", which, at 14 meters is no match for Fundy's 17 meter tidal boar, but is still pretty frightening. Sahar and I didn't end up getting swallowed up in the tide, but we did get pretty muddy, which I'm sure did not impress the staff at the restaurant we went into immediately afterwards.
After dark, we headed off on foot in search of our chambre d'hôte, taking the opportunity to see Mont St-Michel lit up at night. About six kilometres later we stumbled into 'la Bastide du Moulin' and claimed our beds for the night. As far as I can recall, this was my first bed and breakfast experience, (although some hostels I've been to may technically be considered B&Bs) and it more than exceeded any expectations I may have had. Our room had a four-post bed and a double bed on the loft, as well as a newly renovated bathroom and a window/door that led into the backyard. Exhausted, we took a few moments to gush over the place before passing out for a solid eight hours of sleep.
After breakfast we headed back on foot towards Mont St-Michel to see the museum, but were also able to catch part of Mass in the ancient church, celebrated with the monks and nuns who still live in the monastery there. From there we continued back through the streets, where Sahar bought a few of the aforementioned cliché trinkets, and we headed back the six kilometers (that's 18km total, if you're keeping track) to our chambre d'hôte to retrieve our bags and to catch the bus back into Pontorson.
Fast-forward to about six hours and a couple broken down trains later, and Sahar and I are sitting stranded in a Paris train station, still many miles away from Arras, with Monday morning and another day at work ticking ever-closer. Tired from a long day of sight-seeing and traveling, we shuffled into the long line-up where all the passengers whose journeys had been disrupted now stood. Given my past dealings with VIA Rail, Air Canada and the like, I have come to accept such a low level of customer service that I assumed what awaited us at the front of the line was a lengthy argument, resulting in us getting a voucher or some other meaningless coupon that did nothing to resolve the predicament we were in. Fortunately, they do things differently in France. While in line, we were given a free boxed lunch which included a letter of apology from SNCF (Société nationale des chemins de fer français). However, we didn't have time to eat it, because the line moved very quickly, and when we reached the front of the line, we were dealt with efficiently and professionally. As the last train for Arras had already left, he offered us train tickets the following morning so that we would get back in time for work, and a complimentary stay at a hotel next to Paris Nord train station. And we didn't even have to yell or anything.
As the train schedule was fairly extensively messed up by whatever was going wrong with the engines or signals or whatever in France that day, it turned out that about 35 of us were all staying at the same hotel. We were given instructions on how to get to the hotel and then our convoy was set loose on Paris, rolling through train and metro stations like a well-behaved street gang with well-appointed luggage sets. When we came to the RER (Réseau Express Régional) turnstiles, each person politely held the door for the next, chivalrously enabling them to jump the fare while the rest of the group patiently waited for everyone to get through. When we reached Paris Nord, our posse took to the streets, and people stopped or slowed their cars at the sight of us, probably wondering what kind of protest we were mounting at one in the morning. After walking for about a kilometer (stopping occasionally so stragglers and those caught at crosswalk lights could catch up) we arrived at our hotel... or so we thought. But we were turned away and told that the hotel we were actually looking for was ten minutes in the opposite direction. And so we bravely spilled onto the streets of Paris again. We arrived at our hotel and crawled into bed with about 5 hours to go before we had to be back up at Paris Nord. After walking about 14,000 kilometers that day we were very tired and drifted quickly off to sleep.
In the morning we got a free breakfast along with our free hotel room, both of which were actually pretty good (especially considering the price) and made our way back to the train station. After a mishap where Sahar nearly got blasted in the face with a water hose by city workers, we got on the train. As our tickets were actually for the night before, we had not been assigned new seats and so we decided to just take a seat in 1st Class and see where that got us. When the ticket guy asked for my ticket, I silently handed it to him, again, expecting to be land-basted again for having the audacity to sit with my social betters, here in my light hikers and jeans.
"Did they put you up in hotel last night as well?"
I nodded.
"Very good." he said, as he handed my ticket back and continued up the aisle.
What a country.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part VII
Every evening since July 2nd, 1928, a Last Post ceremony has taken place at the Menin Gate, a First World Memorial standing at the entrance to the city of Ypres, Belgium. Containing the names of 54,896 men, it commemorates men of the British Empire who fell during the Great War who have no known grave, including 6,983 Canadians. On March 4th, we had the opportunity to take part in the ceremony and lay a wreath in remembrance of the men commemorated at the gate. Also present were 200+ members of the London Regiment, who marched in full procession under the gate to the beat of drums and the drone of bagpipes.
Two days later, the same regiment visited us at Vimy, getting the full tour of the tunnels and trenches before changing into full parade dress for a Drumhead Ceremony at the Memorial. After giving all the Regiment a brief 5-minute crash course on the Monument, I stepped back to watch as they took time to commemorate the history of the battle and the war, but also to highlight the on-going importance of service and sacrifice, a concept which struck a chord with me. In contextualizing the First World War, it is often difficult to find meaning or sense in the ill-conceived notions that led to war, but on the individual level, the idea of service and sacrifice is one that I believe permeates to all facets of society.
After spending a very busy day with the Regiment and at the site, a few of us decided to go out for dinner, and then took the opportunity to visit Vimy at night and to see the Monument lit up by lights that were, apparently, designed by a Canadian theatre company. Impressive in any light and at any time of day, the dramatic effect of lights provided yet another perspective by which to view the Memorial.
The following week, which took us into Canadian March Break territory, was also the beginning of Lent meaning Pancake Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, and the end of swearing and chocolate consumption for me. On Tuesday we had a feast of pancakes before heading out and having a few drinks to properly celebrate Mardi Gras, France-style. While the next day was not awfully rough, I was charged with the task of waiting for waiting for a new internet box from our provider (which took most of the day) and then setting it up (which was not as easy as it may sound) and then driving one of our cars to some random garage to get a headlight changed. By the end of the day, my Lenten swear jar tally stood at $11.
On the morning of March 17th, 2011, while across the ocean Canadians were just beginning their day, one of our Canadian soldiers of the Great War was laid to rest, nearly one hundred years after falling on the battlefields of the Great War. The somber ceremony at Pozières, shrouded in a morning fog that clung to the thousands of headstones at Pozieres Cemetery, was the second funeral that took place that week, the first honouring another soldier, identified as Private Thomas Lawless, who was laid to rest near Vimy on March 15th. For all of us guides who were able to attend, and I am sure the same was true for all Canadians in attendance, it brought home the importance of remembrance and of honouring the generations that have gone before us, forging a path through far rougher terrain than we have tread. It was certainly a once in a lifetime experience, and not one I will soon forget.
After participating in both funerals that week, the Loyal Edmonton Regiment had gotten well-acquainted with our staff, and so that night (St. Patrick's Day for those of you playing the home game) 30+ Canadian soldiers and 14 Canadian guides congregated at "The Irish" in Arras to properly celebrate the memory of Ireland's most famous alcoholic and Saint. While latter parts of the night became fuzzy to various people for various reasons, most agree that a good night was had by all, and that the gusto with which 'Barrett's Privateers' and 'O Canada' were sung was bested only in their frequency and volume. Understandably enough, guides and soldiers alike were in slightly less fine form when the Edmonton Regiment showed up for their tour at Vimy the following morning.
Canadian March Break translated into a slew of tours for Canadian school groups and tours over the course of the week, and by Saturday, after about 50 or so tours and about 4 billion photos taken by Canadian students, we were well-prepared for a break. After work, five co-workers (Sahar, Maxine, Colin, Marc and Lauren) and I headed for Paris for a night of unwinding. The Great Canadian Pub, located in the Latin Quarter just south of Notre Dame, was my final destination, providing one or two Moosehead beer and a much-needed Leafs-Bruins tilt to ease the lack of Canadian beer and NHL in my life in Arras. The next day necessitated another trip the the Pub, this time for a bacon-saturated breakfast, before heading back to the streets for a lazy sunny Sunday around the streets and riverside of Paris.
Our second round of March Break groups showed up in full-force Monday, with groups of hundreds of Canadians anxious to take another billion or so pictures of tunnel walls and what-not at Vimy. On Tuesday, fresh from the snowbanks of PEI, 23 Colonel Gray students showed up at our front door, floored by the sight of the Vimy Monument and site, but equally stunned by the sight of green grass, sprouting trees and daffodils that are exploding from the ground at an alarming pace. Indeed Spring has struck Northern France, with double-digit and sunny days dominating the forecast for the past week. Many of the guides have ditched their jackets and have taken to wearing only their shirts (most notably of which is Riggs, who is already sporting a painful sunburn). As if by clockwork, a package sent by my parents and aunt sent on February 7th (when it was still quite frigid) arrived today, complete with my gloves and a pair of new mittens. Such is life.
Two days later, the same regiment visited us at Vimy, getting the full tour of the tunnels and trenches before changing into full parade dress for a Drumhead Ceremony at the Memorial. After giving all the Regiment a brief 5-minute crash course on the Monument, I stepped back to watch as they took time to commemorate the history of the battle and the war, but also to highlight the on-going importance of service and sacrifice, a concept which struck a chord with me. In contextualizing the First World War, it is often difficult to find meaning or sense in the ill-conceived notions that led to war, but on the individual level, the idea of service and sacrifice is one that I believe permeates to all facets of society.
After spending a very busy day with the Regiment and at the site, a few of us decided to go out for dinner, and then took the opportunity to visit Vimy at night and to see the Monument lit up by lights that were, apparently, designed by a Canadian theatre company. Impressive in any light and at any time of day, the dramatic effect of lights provided yet another perspective by which to view the Memorial.
The following week, which took us into Canadian March Break territory, was also the beginning of Lent meaning Pancake Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, and the end of swearing and chocolate consumption for me. On Tuesday we had a feast of pancakes before heading out and having a few drinks to properly celebrate Mardi Gras, France-style. While the next day was not awfully rough, I was charged with the task of waiting for waiting for a new internet box from our provider (which took most of the day) and then setting it up (which was not as easy as it may sound) and then driving one of our cars to some random garage to get a headlight changed. By the end of the day, my Lenten swear jar tally stood at $11.
On the morning of March 17th, 2011, while across the ocean Canadians were just beginning their day, one of our Canadian soldiers of the Great War was laid to rest, nearly one hundred years after falling on the battlefields of the Great War. The somber ceremony at Pozières, shrouded in a morning fog that clung to the thousands of headstones at Pozieres Cemetery, was the second funeral that took place that week, the first honouring another soldier, identified as Private Thomas Lawless, who was laid to rest near Vimy on March 15th. For all of us guides who were able to attend, and I am sure the same was true for all Canadians in attendance, it brought home the importance of remembrance and of honouring the generations that have gone before us, forging a path through far rougher terrain than we have tread. It was certainly a once in a lifetime experience, and not one I will soon forget.
After participating in both funerals that week, the Loyal Edmonton Regiment had gotten well-acquainted with our staff, and so that night (St. Patrick's Day for those of you playing the home game) 30+ Canadian soldiers and 14 Canadian guides congregated at "The Irish" in Arras to properly celebrate the memory of Ireland's most famous alcoholic and Saint. While latter parts of the night became fuzzy to various people for various reasons, most agree that a good night was had by all, and that the gusto with which 'Barrett's Privateers' and 'O Canada' were sung was bested only in their frequency and volume. Understandably enough, guides and soldiers alike were in slightly less fine form when the Edmonton Regiment showed up for their tour at Vimy the following morning.
Canadian March Break translated into a slew of tours for Canadian school groups and tours over the course of the week, and by Saturday, after about 50 or so tours and about 4 billion photos taken by Canadian students, we were well-prepared for a break. After work, five co-workers (Sahar, Maxine, Colin, Marc and Lauren) and I headed for Paris for a night of unwinding. The Great Canadian Pub, located in the Latin Quarter just south of Notre Dame, was my final destination, providing one or two Moosehead beer and a much-needed Leafs-Bruins tilt to ease the lack of Canadian beer and NHL in my life in Arras. The next day necessitated another trip the the Pub, this time for a bacon-saturated breakfast, before heading back to the streets for a lazy sunny Sunday around the streets and riverside of Paris.
Our second round of March Break groups showed up in full-force Monday, with groups of hundreds of Canadians anxious to take another billion or so pictures of tunnel walls and what-not at Vimy. On Tuesday, fresh from the snowbanks of PEI, 23 Colonel Gray students showed up at our front door, floored by the sight of the Vimy Monument and site, but equally stunned by the sight of green grass, sprouting trees and daffodils that are exploding from the ground at an alarming pace. Indeed Spring has struck Northern France, with double-digit and sunny days dominating the forecast for the past week. Many of the guides have ditched their jackets and have taken to wearing only their shirts (most notably of which is Riggs, who is already sporting a painful sunburn). As if by clockwork, a package sent by my parents and aunt sent on February 7th (when it was still quite frigid) arrived today, complete with my gloves and a pair of new mittens. Such is life.
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