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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part VI
You know you've been in France too long when walking home from the store with a baguette under your arm no longer seems cliché.
Most of my housemates have gotten onto an intense baguette and cheese routine, to the point that there are literally 7 types of cheese per person in our kitchen. This isn't a bad thing in principle, but every now and then someone will get adventurous with their cheese selection, and then our fridges end up smelling like a poorly-managed waste treatment plant for a few days. And as the French have made the odd choice not to sell baking soda in their stores, the rest of are completely at the mercy of the stench. Fortunately, just as the baguette and cheese stereotypes hold true, so do those regarding chocolate and beer. Though I have always liked chocolate as much as the next guy, I have never eaten it to the extent that it consumes a significant portion of my disposable income. It seems I have developed a full-blown chocolate addiction here and am, by times, flirting on the edge of a diabetic coma. While I hope the same doesn't hold true for my booze intake, beer is ridiculously cheap in France. Last week a 12-pack of Stella Artois was going for 3.66 Euro (roughly $5) at the grocery store. And while the locals consider Stella a small step above Listerine or turpentine, I have absolutely no shame in buying it by the case. The bottles are slightly smaller, so we've done the math, and it turns out that a 12 of Stella here is about 1/3 the cost of a 12 of Tremblays or Boréale in Montréal... and lets remember that once you buy it, you don't have the misfortune of having to choke down 12 Tremblays or Boréale. That's a win-win-win by my count.
Back on the Western Front, our education on the First World War and the commemorative efforts here in Northern France and on behalf of Canada and the Commonwealth continues each Monday. Last week we had the opportunity to visit the Commonwealth War Graves Commission headquarters here in Arras. The Commission was established in 1917 (then the Imperial War Graves Commission) as a result of the concern that there was no coordinated plan in place to facilitate the construction of cemeteries and memorials for the hundreds of thousands of men who were dying in the war. Through the two world wars, the Commission worked to secure land for cemeteries and memorials, standardizing the design of gravestones and cemeteries to ensure some regularity, as well as somewhat of a comforting atmosphere for the families visiting the graves of the men who never came home. The final construction efforts were completed just a few years before the outbreak of World War Two, and then their work began anew. Funded by the governments of Commonwealth countries, their work continues today, maintaining the cemeteries where the soldiers who fought and fell now lay. In France alone, the Commission maintains graves in some 2991 cemeteries, and around the world is responsible for around 23,000 sites in 150 countries. In all, they are responsible for the maintenance of gravestones and memorials that commemorate about 1.3 million individuals.
Needless to say, their work is cut out for them (so to speak). Stones have to be replaced in the thousands each year due to age, and each must be carved in the stone originally chosen for the cemetery in which it stands. The same is true for the aging gates, fences, doorways and metalwork in each of the cemeteries. While the stones are now carved mainly using computerized machines, the wood craft and metalwork is still done very much by hand, and visiting each workshop to speak with the artisans on-site certainly gave a better idea - and an appreciation - for the amount of work that goes into maintaining such a massive amount of aging, yet none-the-less important, sites.
This Monday half of our group drove through Northern France to Belgium and visited several memorials and battle sites where Canadians, Australians, Indian and other Allied and Central Power forces were engaged during the First World War. We visited sites associated with the Battles at Ypres, where Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote his poem 'In Flanders Fields', St. Julien, where Canadians suffered and endured the first poison gas attack of the war and held the Allied line, and Passchendaele, a costly victory for the British Forces, where Canada lost almost 16,000 men in just over two weeks.
The most sobering sights of the day were perhaps Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world, where over 46,000 men are buried or commemorated, and the Langemark German Military Cemetery, where more than 44,000 German soldiers lie, mostly unknown. The sheer numbers associated with the battles and memorials was certainly astounding, but it was even more incredible to see how extensively the men who fought and died are commemorated and honoured throughout the villages and the countryside. In Ypres, for example, Canada's contribution and losses during the war are still remembered today. Canadian flags hang from several buildings and mark the entrances to some of the stores and pubs along the cobblestone streets of their main square.
Back at Vimy, things are starting to pick up as Canadian University students and families take a mid-semester break, and as March break approaches. In proportion with the increase of visitors, we also get an increase of trouble-makers. Last week I had to yell at some 20-somethings who were trying to take rather inappropriate pictures with one of the female figures on the monument, which is meant to represent a mourning Canadian mother or wife. And on two different tours I was forced to stop the entire group of British school kids to stop them from a. pretending to shoot each other in trenches and b. making the Nazi salute while posing for pictures. In each case I remind them that hundreds of thousands of men died in the surrounding battlefields, many of whose bodies were never recovered. That Vimy is a very important and solemn commemorative park for Canadians, as well as for those countries whose young men died there as well. "So I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making gun noises or making the Nazi salute," I said. "Not only is this the wrong war, but it is also incredibly inappropriate." The sheepish looks on their faces suggested that they got the message, but I was assured they had when one small British boy came into the Visitor's Centre to apologize to me after the tour. "I'm sorry for giving the Nazi salute, Sir," he said in a very quiet voice and with a very British accent. "I looked very foolish."
Perhaps not as foolish as I looked a few nights later when I was charged with the task of getting gas. Usually a fairly simple task, to be sure. However, being a Canadian boy with very little use for diesel, I brashly thrust the first gas hose I grasped into the tank, and, predictably, gassed up our diesel van with 35 Euro worth of gasoline. Stupid as I was, I did recognize the difference in the smell of gas to that of diesel, and luckily had the sense not to start the van, which would've been fairly large problem, instead of a relatively small one. And so, as I sit here writing this, our staff of 14 has been without our much-needed van for four days, and has instead had to jerry-rig an exchange schedule for all the Canada vehicles at the disposal of Veteran's Affairs here in Arras. Swift move, Gallant.
Most of my housemates have gotten onto an intense baguette and cheese routine, to the point that there are literally 7 types of cheese per person in our kitchen. This isn't a bad thing in principle, but every now and then someone will get adventurous with their cheese selection, and then our fridges end up smelling like a poorly-managed waste treatment plant for a few days. And as the French have made the odd choice not to sell baking soda in their stores, the rest of are completely at the mercy of the stench. Fortunately, just as the baguette and cheese stereotypes hold true, so do those regarding chocolate and beer. Though I have always liked chocolate as much as the next guy, I have never eaten it to the extent that it consumes a significant portion of my disposable income. It seems I have developed a full-blown chocolate addiction here and am, by times, flirting on the edge of a diabetic coma. While I hope the same doesn't hold true for my booze intake, beer is ridiculously cheap in France. Last week a 12-pack of Stella Artois was going for 3.66 Euro (roughly $5) at the grocery store. And while the locals consider Stella a small step above Listerine or turpentine, I have absolutely no shame in buying it by the case. The bottles are slightly smaller, so we've done the math, and it turns out that a 12 of Stella here is about 1/3 the cost of a 12 of Tremblays or Boréale in Montréal... and lets remember that once you buy it, you don't have the misfortune of having to choke down 12 Tremblays or Boréale. That's a win-win-win by my count.
Back on the Western Front, our education on the First World War and the commemorative efforts here in Northern France and on behalf of Canada and the Commonwealth continues each Monday. Last week we had the opportunity to visit the Commonwealth War Graves Commission headquarters here in Arras. The Commission was established in 1917 (then the Imperial War Graves Commission) as a result of the concern that there was no coordinated plan in place to facilitate the construction of cemeteries and memorials for the hundreds of thousands of men who were dying in the war. Through the two world wars, the Commission worked to secure land for cemeteries and memorials, standardizing the design of gravestones and cemeteries to ensure some regularity, as well as somewhat of a comforting atmosphere for the families visiting the graves of the men who never came home. The final construction efforts were completed just a few years before the outbreak of World War Two, and then their work began anew. Funded by the governments of Commonwealth countries, their work continues today, maintaining the cemeteries where the soldiers who fought and fell now lay. In France alone, the Commission maintains graves in some 2991 cemeteries, and around the world is responsible for around 23,000 sites in 150 countries. In all, they are responsible for the maintenance of gravestones and memorials that commemorate about 1.3 million individuals.
Needless to say, their work is cut out for them (so to speak). Stones have to be replaced in the thousands each year due to age, and each must be carved in the stone originally chosen for the cemetery in which it stands. The same is true for the aging gates, fences, doorways and metalwork in each of the cemeteries. While the stones are now carved mainly using computerized machines, the wood craft and metalwork is still done very much by hand, and visiting each workshop to speak with the artisans on-site certainly gave a better idea - and an appreciation - for the amount of work that goes into maintaining such a massive amount of aging, yet none-the-less important, sites.
This Monday half of our group drove through Northern France to Belgium and visited several memorials and battle sites where Canadians, Australians, Indian and other Allied and Central Power forces were engaged during the First World War. We visited sites associated with the Battles at Ypres, where Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote his poem 'In Flanders Fields', St. Julien, where Canadians suffered and endured the first poison gas attack of the war and held the Allied line, and Passchendaele, a costly victory for the British Forces, where Canada lost almost 16,000 men in just over two weeks.
The most sobering sights of the day were perhaps Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world, where over 46,000 men are buried or commemorated, and the Langemark German Military Cemetery, where more than 44,000 German soldiers lie, mostly unknown. The sheer numbers associated with the battles and memorials was certainly astounding, but it was even more incredible to see how extensively the men who fought and died are commemorated and honoured throughout the villages and the countryside. In Ypres, for example, Canada's contribution and losses during the war are still remembered today. Canadian flags hang from several buildings and mark the entrances to some of the stores and pubs along the cobblestone streets of their main square.
Back at Vimy, things are starting to pick up as Canadian University students and families take a mid-semester break, and as March break approaches. In proportion with the increase of visitors, we also get an increase of trouble-makers. Last week I had to yell at some 20-somethings who were trying to take rather inappropriate pictures with one of the female figures on the monument, which is meant to represent a mourning Canadian mother or wife. And on two different tours I was forced to stop the entire group of British school kids to stop them from a. pretending to shoot each other in trenches and b. making the Nazi salute while posing for pictures. In each case I remind them that hundreds of thousands of men died in the surrounding battlefields, many of whose bodies were never recovered. That Vimy is a very important and solemn commemorative park for Canadians, as well as for those countries whose young men died there as well. "So I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making gun noises or making the Nazi salute," I said. "Not only is this the wrong war, but it is also incredibly inappropriate." The sheepish looks on their faces suggested that they got the message, but I was assured they had when one small British boy came into the Visitor's Centre to apologize to me after the tour. "I'm sorry for giving the Nazi salute, Sir," he said in a very quiet voice and with a very British accent. "I looked very foolish."
Perhaps not as foolish as I looked a few nights later when I was charged with the task of getting gas. Usually a fairly simple task, to be sure. However, being a Canadian boy with very little use for diesel, I brashly thrust the first gas hose I grasped into the tank, and, predictably, gassed up our diesel van with 35 Euro worth of gasoline. Stupid as I was, I did recognize the difference in the smell of gas to that of diesel, and luckily had the sense not to start the van, which would've been fairly large problem, instead of a relatively small one. And so, as I sit here writing this, our staff of 14 has been without our much-needed van for four days, and has instead had to jerry-rig an exchange schedule for all the Canada vehicles at the disposal of Veteran's Affairs here in Arras. Swift move, Gallant.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part V
As with any new city and any new job, we have all slowly slipped into some semblance of routine as our surroundings have become more familiar and as the once-steep learning curve has slackened. While I still found new ways to get lost on the drive to work every morning, and while many helpful criticisms were shared amongst co-workers in our first week (which were received on a scale varying between gracious and contemptuous), inevitably we have all begun to settle into life in France. (This also means that our fridge is filled with anywhere between 20 and 30 types of cheese, all of which stink.)
For those of us at Vimy, our workday is centred around the Visitor's Centre, where our schedule for the day is coordinated and where tours are booked. From there we take turns guiding or following tours of the tunnels and trenches, answering questions or talking with locals at the monument, and walking around the parking lot waiting for someone to show up or for someone to step on the grass so we can yell at them. Typically the tours of tunnels and trenches take about 50 minutes, and represent the fruits of our in-depth training session we received in our first week here.
At Vimy, the 172nd Royal Engineers dug a series of 13, sometimes interconnected, subways and tunnels that at the time of the battle snaked for 10-12 kilometers under the surface. The tunnel we now have access to was the second longest on that day in 1917, stretching for 1.2 kilometers, of which about 200 meters are accessible to the public today. Tours consist of explaining to visitors how the tunnels were dug the purpose they served and the risks inherent in the operations and maintenance of them during the time leading up to the battle. The tour takes us into an underground battalion headquarters that consists of five rooms (that at the time housed officers from Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry) to the mouth of a deep-fighting tunnel (that would've been used to blow massive mine craters in No Man's Land or under German defenses) and in view of the tunnel where one of the Black Watch of Montreal Battalions would've waited before shuffling out onto the battlefield in the hours that preceded the Arras offensive. The end of the tunnel tour brings us out the original exit of the tunnel into the backside of preserved Canadian trenches where we continue to explain the tactics that were used at Vimy, the awesome power of the rolling barrage that helped secure victory that day and show examples of the effects that the underground mines had on the surface.
The tunnels and trenches are quite impressive, but this is hampered once one realizes that this battle and war was fought for practically no reason, and had few redeeming results. For all the lessons learned from the Somme and Verdun that made Vimy a success, millions of men died. Millions more would die before the end of the war. Some were mowed down my machine-gun fire or smothered by poison gasses, many were vaporized by the exciting new technologies of the day, and still others in the trenches, beaten down by the pneumonia, dysentery or other diseases that come with living in frigid holes in the grounds for months at a time. As one of my co-workers emphasizes in her tour, today the whole nation mourns where one or two soldiers dies in a war zone. On April 9th, 1917, 3,598 Canadian died in a field in foreign land, thousands of miles from home, and mostly just because some oligarchical heads of state had bruised egos.
If I was nervous at all about my first tour (I was), I didn't have to wait long to face my fear. My first tour was a group of 25 French students, the morning of my first day. We had been warned that many groups of French students were very badly-behaved, would make fun of our accents and just be general assholes. That did not help my confidence. Nor my already sketchy French accent. However, this particular group was very well-behaved and were also very attentive, and it was instead my french that failed me. One would think that after nine years of French semi-immersion in a classroom with a chalkboard one would remember the word for "chalk". However, pressed for the name of the material the tunnels are dug in, my ind drew a complete blank, and I had to rely on Jenna, my follow on this particular tour to bail me out. (She also says that instead of saying "messenger" for some of the tour I instead said "mailbox", making for some very confused French kids I would assume. "How did they get the mailboxes to run through the trenches?"). In the end, the tour wasn't a complete disaster, but it definitely sent me back to the books and humbled my "know-it-all" demeanor for a day or two. By the end of the week I had led another half-dozen or so tours and they were starting to come together.
Our week of training and of getting a lay of the land during the battle is also very helpful when stationed at the monument, probably the site that most people would identify with Vimy Ridge today. One look at the land surrounding the monument and the view that spans out from its position atop Hill 145 makes its importance to military strategy immediately obvious. The monument itself, however, has a history of its own. Carved from 6,000 tonnes of Seget stone from a Croatian quarry and built on a base of 11,000 tonnes of concrete, the monument took eleven years to complete, and was unveiled at a huge ceremony on July 26th, 1936. After the breakout of the Second World War, accusations were leveled against the Nazis, alleging that soldiers were vandalizing WWI sites in occupied France and Belgium. In response, who had served on the Vimy front as a messenger in the First World War, visited the Vimy Memorial on June 2nd, 1940 to prove that Germany was not desecrating the war memorials of the Commonwealth countries. Later in the war two Nazi soldiers committed suicide by jumping from the memorial after receiving word that they were being transferred to the eastern front.
This is of course not what I think about in my one or two hours a day that I am stationed at the monument. Most of my time is spent greeting people as they walk up to the monument, and then chasing them around to see if they have any questions about it. Though I am a guide, I feel more like a retail salesperson, whose queries of "Can I help you?" are to be dodged at all costs. The only people who do not seem completely annoyed with giving me the time of day are Canadians who have made the long trek to Northern France just to get a glance at the monument, and old French couples who talk on end about their lives here during the Second World War and the coal mines that dot the landscape over the expansive kilometers in view from the top of Hill 145. As the Battle of Vimy Ridge is for Canadians, the monument is symbolic for those who have lived their entire lives in its shadow, and they teach me more about the region and the effects of war than I could ever hope to convey after reading about it in a book. And I am very much content to listen.
For those of us at Vimy, our workday is centred around the Visitor's Centre, where our schedule for the day is coordinated and where tours are booked. From there we take turns guiding or following tours of the tunnels and trenches, answering questions or talking with locals at the monument, and walking around the parking lot waiting for someone to show up or for someone to step on the grass so we can yell at them. Typically the tours of tunnels and trenches take about 50 minutes, and represent the fruits of our in-depth training session we received in our first week here.
At Vimy, the 172nd Royal Engineers dug a series of 13, sometimes interconnected, subways and tunnels that at the time of the battle snaked for 10-12 kilometers under the surface. The tunnel we now have access to was the second longest on that day in 1917, stretching for 1.2 kilometers, of which about 200 meters are accessible to the public today. Tours consist of explaining to visitors how the tunnels were dug the purpose they served and the risks inherent in the operations and maintenance of them during the time leading up to the battle. The tour takes us into an underground battalion headquarters that consists of five rooms (that at the time housed officers from Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry) to the mouth of a deep-fighting tunnel (that would've been used to blow massive mine craters in No Man's Land or under German defenses) and in view of the tunnel where one of the Black Watch of Montreal Battalions would've waited before shuffling out onto the battlefield in the hours that preceded the Arras offensive. The end of the tunnel tour brings us out the original exit of the tunnel into the backside of preserved Canadian trenches where we continue to explain the tactics that were used at Vimy, the awesome power of the rolling barrage that helped secure victory that day and show examples of the effects that the underground mines had on the surface.
The tunnels and trenches are quite impressive, but this is hampered once one realizes that this battle and war was fought for practically no reason, and had few redeeming results. For all the lessons learned from the Somme and Verdun that made Vimy a success, millions of men died. Millions more would die before the end of the war. Some were mowed down my machine-gun fire or smothered by poison gasses, many were vaporized by the exciting new technologies of the day, and still others in the trenches, beaten down by the pneumonia, dysentery or other diseases that come with living in frigid holes in the grounds for months at a time. As one of my co-workers emphasizes in her tour, today the whole nation mourns where one or two soldiers dies in a war zone. On April 9th, 1917, 3,598 Canadian died in a field in foreign land, thousands of miles from home, and mostly just because some oligarchical heads of state had bruised egos.
If I was nervous at all about my first tour (I was), I didn't have to wait long to face my fear. My first tour was a group of 25 French students, the morning of my first day. We had been warned that many groups of French students were very badly-behaved, would make fun of our accents and just be general assholes. That did not help my confidence. Nor my already sketchy French accent. However, this particular group was very well-behaved and were also very attentive, and it was instead my french that failed me. One would think that after nine years of French semi-immersion in a classroom with a chalkboard one would remember the word for "chalk". However, pressed for the name of the material the tunnels are dug in, my ind drew a complete blank, and I had to rely on Jenna, my follow on this particular tour to bail me out. (She also says that instead of saying "messenger" for some of the tour I instead said "mailbox", making for some very confused French kids I would assume. "How did they get the mailboxes to run through the trenches?"). In the end, the tour wasn't a complete disaster, but it definitely sent me back to the books and humbled my "know-it-all" demeanor for a day or two. By the end of the week I had led another half-dozen or so tours and they were starting to come together.
Our week of training and of getting a lay of the land during the battle is also very helpful when stationed at the monument, probably the site that most people would identify with Vimy Ridge today. One look at the land surrounding the monument and the view that spans out from its position atop Hill 145 makes its importance to military strategy immediately obvious. The monument itself, however, has a history of its own. Carved from 6,000 tonnes of Seget stone from a Croatian quarry and built on a base of 11,000 tonnes of concrete, the monument took eleven years to complete, and was unveiled at a huge ceremony on July 26th, 1936. After the breakout of the Second World War, accusations were leveled against the Nazis, alleging that soldiers were vandalizing WWI sites in occupied France and Belgium. In response, who had served on the Vimy front as a messenger in the First World War, visited the Vimy Memorial on June 2nd, 1940 to prove that Germany was not desecrating the war memorials of the Commonwealth countries. Later in the war two Nazi soldiers committed suicide by jumping from the memorial after receiving word that they were being transferred to the eastern front.
This is of course not what I think about in my one or two hours a day that I am stationed at the monument. Most of my time is spent greeting people as they walk up to the monument, and then chasing them around to see if they have any questions about it. Though I am a guide, I feel more like a retail salesperson, whose queries of "Can I help you?" are to be dodged at all costs. The only people who do not seem completely annoyed with giving me the time of day are Canadians who have made the long trek to Northern France just to get a glance at the monument, and old French couples who talk on end about their lives here during the Second World War and the coal mines that dot the landscape over the expansive kilometers in view from the top of Hill 145. As the Battle of Vimy Ridge is for Canadians, the monument is symbolic for those who have lived their entire lives in its shadow, and they teach me more about the region and the effects of war than I could ever hope to convey after reading about it in a book. And I am very much content to listen.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part IV
It is early on a Saturday morning, and I am standing in the middle of a field in Northern France. The morning sun, high above the clouds, has not yet dispersed the mist, and it clings to the trees scattered around me and floats just above the green grass that reaches out in all directions. As the piercing cold stings my hands, I perceive the profound silence here, miles from the closest town. Usually being enveloped in such an environment would be peaceful, but the scene before me today is, in contrast, haunting. Planted around me are thousands of black crosses, marking the final resting place of over 44,000 German soldiers from the First World War. This is the German cemetery at Neuville St-Vaast. It is our first stop of the day in a week that has been filled with site visits and orientation on the battlefields of the Great War in France.
Our training started Monday, five days before, with a whirlwind of administrative processes and briefings on the Vimy and Beaumont-Hamel sites, as well as all Canadian memorials maintained by Veterans Affairs Canada in Europe. Much of our direction was delivered by VAC Admin in France, but also via teleconference from various people back home at Veterans Affairs in Charlottetown. Over the course of two days we filled out tax and employee forms, toured both the Vimy and Beaumont-Hamel site, received instruction on how to drive in France and for over an hour, with much trial and error, were outfitted with our bright green and red uniforms, complete with a couple golf shirts, a dress shirt, dress pants, belt, fleece sweater, rain coat, wind-breaker, splash pants, toque, and neck-warmer, with ties for the guys and scarves for the girls.
By Wednesday morning, most of the formalities had been dealt with, and we settled in for a couple days of solid classroom instruction. What followed could be described as a two-day ultra-intensive University-level WWI course. We covered, at length, the ranks and structure of the Canadian military, with a crash course in HQ organization and logistics on the front. This was followed by instruction on the range, technical issues and evolution of guns, artillery and weapons during the Great War. Then we tried to keep up with a four-hour brief on the First World War in general, focusing on major battles, campaigns and strategies of all sides on all fronts. Then the French Red Cross took an hour of our day to explain how to dial '18' (European '911').
Thursday consisted of eight more hours of classroom instruction, this time with more specific focus on the Battle of the Somme, including Beaumont-Hamel, and the Battle of Arras, including Vimy Ridge. Although the instruction on both Wednesday and Thursday were phenomenal, I still struggled to stay awake, as the lingering effects of jet-lag were allowing me only 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night. Either way, by the end of the day Thursday we had more info and background on the First World War than we know what to do with. The next two days would help us put it all in context.
On Friday we visited close to a dozen sites involving the Battle of the Somme. Braving the biting cold, we took a full tour of the remains of the battlefield at Beaumont-Hamel, before driving to different cemeteries, towns and random fields to get a lay of the land as it stood on July 1st, 1916; the first day of the four-month battle. Seeing the lines as drawn across the miles of countryside, the size of the craters that were blown that morning to initiate the attack, the extensive German fortifications behind their 2nd line at Pozières and the countless war cemeteries that dot the countryside of Northern France were all eye-opening experiences. To trudge through the mud in the path of these soldiers and to visit the cemeteries where they fell (some as young as 16 or 17) quickly brings the reality of war into focus. I am doubtful that a higher-quality tour of the battlefields of the Great War exists.
And so, when I found myself in the middle of a massive cemetery on Saturday morning, I felt better-equipped to comprehend the context of where we stood and the events that led to these men being buried in this foreign field. Over the course of the day we would visit several Canadian memorial sites and get better oriented in how the lines were drawn at the Battle of Arras. By 5:00, as we gazed at the imposing rear slope of the ridge that Canadians had fought and died capturing, we were all freezing, exhausted and hoping that, somehow, all of the info that we had been taught over the past six days would somehow be absorbed into our brains. Most of us were also ready for a beer.
Sunday was a near-carbon copy of the one before, with late mornings all-around. In the evening, I walked through Arras with Reta, Kristina and Becky for Mass at the beautiful L'église St. Jean-Baptiste. It seemed a fulfilling conclusion to what had been an extremely busy, but incredible week. One would expect our next week, however, to include a another steep learning curve, as we would begin to put our training into action. The next day would be our first in uniform.
Our training started Monday, five days before, with a whirlwind of administrative processes and briefings on the Vimy and Beaumont-Hamel sites, as well as all Canadian memorials maintained by Veterans Affairs Canada in Europe. Much of our direction was delivered by VAC Admin in France, but also via teleconference from various people back home at Veterans Affairs in Charlottetown. Over the course of two days we filled out tax and employee forms, toured both the Vimy and Beaumont-Hamel site, received instruction on how to drive in France and for over an hour, with much trial and error, were outfitted with our bright green and red uniforms, complete with a couple golf shirts, a dress shirt, dress pants, belt, fleece sweater, rain coat, wind-breaker, splash pants, toque, and neck-warmer, with ties for the guys and scarves for the girls.
By Wednesday morning, most of the formalities had been dealt with, and we settled in for a couple days of solid classroom instruction. What followed could be described as a two-day ultra-intensive University-level WWI course. We covered, at length, the ranks and structure of the Canadian military, with a crash course in HQ organization and logistics on the front. This was followed by instruction on the range, technical issues and evolution of guns, artillery and weapons during the Great War. Then we tried to keep up with a four-hour brief on the First World War in general, focusing on major battles, campaigns and strategies of all sides on all fronts. Then the French Red Cross took an hour of our day to explain how to dial '18' (European '911').
Thursday consisted of eight more hours of classroom instruction, this time with more specific focus on the Battle of the Somme, including Beaumont-Hamel, and the Battle of Arras, including Vimy Ridge. Although the instruction on both Wednesday and Thursday were phenomenal, I still struggled to stay awake, as the lingering effects of jet-lag were allowing me only 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night. Either way, by the end of the day Thursday we had more info and background on the First World War than we know what to do with. The next two days would help us put it all in context.
On Friday we visited close to a dozen sites involving the Battle of the Somme. Braving the biting cold, we took a full tour of the remains of the battlefield at Beaumont-Hamel, before driving to different cemeteries, towns and random fields to get a lay of the land as it stood on July 1st, 1916; the first day of the four-month battle. Seeing the lines as drawn across the miles of countryside, the size of the craters that were blown that morning to initiate the attack, the extensive German fortifications behind their 2nd line at Pozières and the countless war cemeteries that dot the countryside of Northern France were all eye-opening experiences. To trudge through the mud in the path of these soldiers and to visit the cemeteries where they fell (some as young as 16 or 17) quickly brings the reality of war into focus. I am doubtful that a higher-quality tour of the battlefields of the Great War exists.
And so, when I found myself in the middle of a massive cemetery on Saturday morning, I felt better-equipped to comprehend the context of where we stood and the events that led to these men being buried in this foreign field. Over the course of the day we would visit several Canadian memorial sites and get better oriented in how the lines were drawn at the Battle of Arras. By 5:00, as we gazed at the imposing rear slope of the ridge that Canadians had fought and died capturing, we were all freezing, exhausted and hoping that, somehow, all of the info that we had been taught over the past six days would somehow be absorbed into our brains. Most of us were also ready for a beer.
Sunday was a near-carbon copy of the one before, with late mornings all-around. In the evening, I walked through Arras with Reta, Kristina and Becky for Mass at the beautiful L'église St. Jean-Baptiste. It seemed a fulfilling conclusion to what had been an extremely busy, but incredible week. One would expect our next week, however, to include a another steep learning curve, as we would begin to put our training into action. The next day would be our first in uniform.
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part III
Sunday started slower than most for the crew both here and at the other guide house at St-Aubert. The sleeping endurance title went to our most recent arrival, Jenna, who clocked in at 14 hours of sleep, on her way to extinguishing some of the jet-lag that we had all incurred over the past week. My roommate Colin, Jenna and I spent our last evening before training walking the cobblestone streets and seeing Arras by night.
When awoke early the next morning to get ready to head to Vimy Ridge, the house was freezing. The stone floors felt like ice, making getting out of both bed and the shower and extra challenge at such an early hour. At some point during the night our heaters had shut off, leaving the house barely warmer than outside. We made it out of the house on time, but to no shortage of grumbled complaints. We, along with the guides from St-Aubs, jumped into two white cars with "Canada" emblazoned on the side for the trek to Vimy Ridge, some 20 minutes outside Arras.
The Battle of Vimy Ridge was part of the larger British offensive known as the Battle of Arras, undertaken on April 9th, 1917. It marks the first time that the four Divisions of the Canadian Corps fought together, taking on three Divisions of the German Sixth Army in order to secure a ridge that had eluded both French and British troops in past attempts. After an extensive artillery barrage and meticulous planning, the Canadian Corps advanced at 5:30am on Easter Monday, 1917. By the evening of April 12th, three days later, Canada had firm control of the ridge and the surrounding countryside. The battle established Canada as a formidable fighting force, one that lead the charge in the defeat of Germany the following year, and has been known for generations as "a nation-making moment". Said one veteran after the battle "We went up the ridge as Albertans and Nova Scotians. We came down as Canadians."
The costs were heavy as well, however, as Canada suffered 10,602 casualties with 3,598 killed and 7,004 wounded during the battle. As a result of Canada's incredible success in the battle at Vimy and unprecedented contribution to the war, it signed the Treaty of Versailles as an independent nation, and would later gain complete independence from Great Britain in all matters, including foreign affairs, with the Statute of Westminster in 1931. In gratitude to the Canadian people, France granted a 260-acre parcel of land on the site of where the battle occurred in perpetuity to Canada, where the breath-taking Vimy Ridge Memorial was completed in 1936. As well as a commemoration of the Battle of Vimy Ridge, it stands as a memorial for all Canadian soldiers who fell in France with no known grave, their names engraved in stone around the base of the structure. The site today is also comprised of the remains of trenches and shell craters, as well as 500 metres of underground tunnels that once snaked for kilometres under the battlefield on both the Canadian and German sides.
Vimy remains a watershed moment in Canadian history, and as a proud Canadians and a historian at heart, the battle has interested me since I first heard about it in Grade 6, and my interest has only deepened as I studied it further through High School and during my undergraduate degree at UPEI. Part of my job will be informing visitors about the contributions of Canadians here, and of those of the Newfoundland Regiment at Beaumont-Hamel during the Battle of the Somme. Monday morning, however, was to be my first time seeing it in person.
The Chemin des Canadiens snakes into the commemorative park between convolutions that fold the landscape into mounds around pits and pockmarks carved by artillery and explosives long ago. The soft green grass and trees that have grown in the 94 years since betray the story of the brutal battle, but also create an eerie silence amidst the fog that often clings to the forest here. This is the final resting place of many Canadians whose bodies were never recovered, and there are untold numbers of unexploded and undiscovered shells that hide somewhere deep in these mounds. The impact of this sight was perhaps stronger than that of seeing the monument itself, which is no small statement, as the two white pillars of the Vimy Memorial reaching 40 metres above the French countryside is a spectacular sight.
We began the day with introductions and then progressed through the usual administrative and introductory work to familiarize ourselves with our roles and responsibilities as guides with the Government of Canada. This was followed with a brief tour of the memorial itself, and then of the tunnels used by Canadians during the battle, some eight metres below the surface. We then drove to Beaumont-Hamel to visit the Newfoundland Memorial, about sixty minutes away.
The Battle of the Somme represents for many the senseless and brutal slaughter that was the Great War. In the first day of the battle alone, the British Empire lost 60,000 men - and this was a battle that lasted nearly four months. The Royal Newfoundland Regiment, made up of men from the Dominion of Newfoundland (independent from Canada until 1949), has been transferred to the Western Front from their post in Gallipoli in March of 1916, and was part of the 29th British Division on the first day of the Somme. It remains an infamous day in British military history, but particularly for the people of Newfoundland.
When the Newfoundland Regiment advanced the morning of July 1st, 1916, they faced barbed wire defenses and artillery fire, and struggled to advance over the bodies of the dead and wounded men who had faced the same perils minutes before. Pinned down by heavy machine gun fire, the Newfoundlanders relented in their push and moved back towards their trench, only to be gunned down as they retreated. They suffered a horrendous casualty rate of 90% and of the 780 Newfoundlanders who had gone over the top, 68 answered roll call the following morning.
A lone caribou stands watch over the remains of the battlefield today, representing Newfoundland and the caribou on the crest of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment. The land it overlooks is the largest section of the Battle of the Somme that remains, the rest now stretching out as tranquil farmland in all directions.
After visiting Beaumont-Hamel, we returned to Arras, only to find that our house was still frigid. As it turns out, we were out of oil, and none could be delivered until the following day. Mercifully, several space heaters had been dropped off for our use. We plugged in a few of them and began to cook supper. Meanwhile, as we turned on the electrical heaters around the house, we threw the circuit, leaving the house in complete darkness, and our meals cold. Unable to fix the problem with the usual fuse box-flick, we called in a repairman, and went off in search of fries via fry wagon, or some other such French delicacy. We found one down the street and, after ordering, returned home and sat down for our first family meal together at Vauban, bonding over heaping portions of fries and croque-monsieurs, or other such sandwiches.
With the power restored, we re-set our alarm clocks and climbed into out cold beds in our cold house. However, our grumbling complaints from that morning were perhaps somewhat muted after having walked through the fields where Canadians had suffered far worse conditions and awaited far worse fates so many years ago.
When awoke early the next morning to get ready to head to Vimy Ridge, the house was freezing. The stone floors felt like ice, making getting out of both bed and the shower and extra challenge at such an early hour. At some point during the night our heaters had shut off, leaving the house barely warmer than outside. We made it out of the house on time, but to no shortage of grumbled complaints. We, along with the guides from St-Aubs, jumped into two white cars with "Canada" emblazoned on the side for the trek to Vimy Ridge, some 20 minutes outside Arras.
The Battle of Vimy Ridge was part of the larger British offensive known as the Battle of Arras, undertaken on April 9th, 1917. It marks the first time that the four Divisions of the Canadian Corps fought together, taking on three Divisions of the German Sixth Army in order to secure a ridge that had eluded both French and British troops in past attempts. After an extensive artillery barrage and meticulous planning, the Canadian Corps advanced at 5:30am on Easter Monday, 1917. By the evening of April 12th, three days later, Canada had firm control of the ridge and the surrounding countryside. The battle established Canada as a formidable fighting force, one that lead the charge in the defeat of Germany the following year, and has been known for generations as "a nation-making moment". Said one veteran after the battle "We went up the ridge as Albertans and Nova Scotians. We came down as Canadians."
The costs were heavy as well, however, as Canada suffered 10,602 casualties with 3,598 killed and 7,004 wounded during the battle. As a result of Canada's incredible success in the battle at Vimy and unprecedented contribution to the war, it signed the Treaty of Versailles as an independent nation, and would later gain complete independence from Great Britain in all matters, including foreign affairs, with the Statute of Westminster in 1931. In gratitude to the Canadian people, France granted a 260-acre parcel of land on the site of where the battle occurred in perpetuity to Canada, where the breath-taking Vimy Ridge Memorial was completed in 1936. As well as a commemoration of the Battle of Vimy Ridge, it stands as a memorial for all Canadian soldiers who fell in France with no known grave, their names engraved in stone around the base of the structure. The site today is also comprised of the remains of trenches and shell craters, as well as 500 metres of underground tunnels that once snaked for kilometres under the battlefield on both the Canadian and German sides.
Vimy remains a watershed moment in Canadian history, and as a proud Canadians and a historian at heart, the battle has interested me since I first heard about it in Grade 6, and my interest has only deepened as I studied it further through High School and during my undergraduate degree at UPEI. Part of my job will be informing visitors about the contributions of Canadians here, and of those of the Newfoundland Regiment at Beaumont-Hamel during the Battle of the Somme. Monday morning, however, was to be my first time seeing it in person.
The Chemin des Canadiens snakes into the commemorative park between convolutions that fold the landscape into mounds around pits and pockmarks carved by artillery and explosives long ago. The soft green grass and trees that have grown in the 94 years since betray the story of the brutal battle, but also create an eerie silence amidst the fog that often clings to the forest here. This is the final resting place of many Canadians whose bodies were never recovered, and there are untold numbers of unexploded and undiscovered shells that hide somewhere deep in these mounds. The impact of this sight was perhaps stronger than that of seeing the monument itself, which is no small statement, as the two white pillars of the Vimy Memorial reaching 40 metres above the French countryside is a spectacular sight.
We began the day with introductions and then progressed through the usual administrative and introductory work to familiarize ourselves with our roles and responsibilities as guides with the Government of Canada. This was followed with a brief tour of the memorial itself, and then of the tunnels used by Canadians during the battle, some eight metres below the surface. We then drove to Beaumont-Hamel to visit the Newfoundland Memorial, about sixty minutes away.
The Battle of the Somme represents for many the senseless and brutal slaughter that was the Great War. In the first day of the battle alone, the British Empire lost 60,000 men - and this was a battle that lasted nearly four months. The Royal Newfoundland Regiment, made up of men from the Dominion of Newfoundland (independent from Canada until 1949), has been transferred to the Western Front from their post in Gallipoli in March of 1916, and was part of the 29th British Division on the first day of the Somme. It remains an infamous day in British military history, but particularly for the people of Newfoundland.
When the Newfoundland Regiment advanced the morning of July 1st, 1916, they faced barbed wire defenses and artillery fire, and struggled to advance over the bodies of the dead and wounded men who had faced the same perils minutes before. Pinned down by heavy machine gun fire, the Newfoundlanders relented in their push and moved back towards their trench, only to be gunned down as they retreated. They suffered a horrendous casualty rate of 90% and of the 780 Newfoundlanders who had gone over the top, 68 answered roll call the following morning.
A lone caribou stands watch over the remains of the battlefield today, representing Newfoundland and the caribou on the crest of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment. The land it overlooks is the largest section of the Battle of the Somme that remains, the rest now stretching out as tranquil farmland in all directions.
After visiting Beaumont-Hamel, we returned to Arras, only to find that our house was still frigid. As it turns out, we were out of oil, and none could be delivered until the following day. Mercifully, several space heaters had been dropped off for our use. We plugged in a few of them and began to cook supper. Meanwhile, as we turned on the electrical heaters around the house, we threw the circuit, leaving the house in complete darkness, and our meals cold. Unable to fix the problem with the usual fuse box-flick, we called in a repairman, and went off in search of fries via fry wagon, or some other such French delicacy. We found one down the street and, after ordering, returned home and sat down for our first family meal together at Vauban, bonding over heaping portions of fries and croque-monsieurs, or other such sandwiches.
With the power restored, we re-set our alarm clocks and climbed into out cold beds in our cold house. However, our grumbling complaints from that morning were perhaps somewhat muted after having walked through the fields where Canadians had suffered far worse conditions and awaited far worse fates so many years ago.
The Vimy Shuffle - Part II
Friday started with what I have come to accept as the typical hostel breakfast: tons of bread, Nutella, bland cereal and coffee. I shared it and stories of home and travels with a Vancouverite named Sarah, who was just beginning her own 3-month adventure in Europe. From there, I packed my bags and headed to Paris Nord train station for my trip north. Being as I had left Montreal in -30 temperatures, the +3 Parisian climate seemed balmy by comparison. I entered the station in a long-sleeve t-shirt which was met with some very cold stares from some very cold commuters who were huddled around space heaters, bundled up in what seemed to be every piece of winter clothing they owned.
The beauty of the Northern French countryside as viewed by train is bested only by the small towns that dot the landscape. A 50-minute train ride brought me into the town of Arras, a small town (at 48,000, slightly larger than Charlottetown) in the Pas-de-Calais department in northern France, approaching the Belgian border. Arras was founded by Belgic tribes and later became an important garrison town for the Roman Empire. The modern form of the town took shape around the Benedictine Abbey of St. Vaast sometime in the 5th century. Situated in the path of pivotal battles of the First World War, Arras was devastated by the bombing and warfare, and much of the original Gothic architecture of the city was destroyed, though much has been restored, making the two large squares, Grande Place and the Place des Héros, along with the imposing town belfry, some of the most picturesque in all of Europe.
At the train station I was met by André, the Visitor Activities Support Officer here in France, and Lauren Johnson, another guide who arrived on the same train. André gave us a brief overview of Arras en route to one of the two houses occupied by guides here in Arras, and gave me a tour of the house that I would be living in. The house at Vauban is a three-storey residence owned by the Government of Canada that is leased to guides during the duration of their stay here in Arras. The ground floor has a small kitchen and pantry (with 3 fridges and a freezer to accommodate all our food and drink), a large living room and dining room, as well as a large back patio area, garage (for bikes and garbage) and laundry facilities. (It also has a toilet in a closet). Upstairs there are, in total, four rooms, two large bathrooms, another toilet closet, and a very odd hallway filled with abnormally large closets. For my three months here, I will be living at Vauban with 6 other guides (split between those four bedrooms), with the additional 7 guides living at a large 3-floor apartment a short distance from here.
Throughout Friday, my co-workers slowly trickled into Arras with each arriving train, so that by that evening, all but two had arrived. We spent Friday night talking and getting to know each other, but as jet-lag set in, all of us crashed early and hard and retired to bed, where most of us stayed until early the following afternoon.
On Saturday I took my first walk alone around Arras, visiting the town squares and the massive Cathédrale Notre-Dame-et-Saint-Vaast d'Arras, which was built on the site of a 1000-year old Cathedral in 1833, after the original basilica was destroyed in the French Revolution. Over the course of the day, Jenna and Sahar, the last two components of our 14-member team, arrived in Arras. The full roster congregated at Vauban for some additional introductions and an animated game of Sociables. And so, along with seven Ontarians*, one Newfie, a Nova Scotian, a Manitoban, an Albertan, a British Columbian and an army brat from all over (but primarily from Ottawa), I headed out on the town in Arras.
*I feel it important to note here that while there are seven Ontarians in our group, not one of them identifies themselves as being from Toronto. (Although, for all intents and purposes, Pickering is pretty much downtown Toronto.)
The beauty of the Northern French countryside as viewed by train is bested only by the small towns that dot the landscape. A 50-minute train ride brought me into the town of Arras, a small town (at 48,000, slightly larger than Charlottetown) in the Pas-de-Calais department in northern France, approaching the Belgian border. Arras was founded by Belgic tribes and later became an important garrison town for the Roman Empire. The modern form of the town took shape around the Benedictine Abbey of St. Vaast sometime in the 5th century. Situated in the path of pivotal battles of the First World War, Arras was devastated by the bombing and warfare, and much of the original Gothic architecture of the city was destroyed, though much has been restored, making the two large squares, Grande Place and the Place des Héros, along with the imposing town belfry, some of the most picturesque in all of Europe.
At the train station I was met by André, the Visitor Activities Support Officer here in France, and Lauren Johnson, another guide who arrived on the same train. André gave us a brief overview of Arras en route to one of the two houses occupied by guides here in Arras, and gave me a tour of the house that I would be living in. The house at Vauban is a three-storey residence owned by the Government of Canada that is leased to guides during the duration of their stay here in Arras. The ground floor has a small kitchen and pantry (with 3 fridges and a freezer to accommodate all our food and drink), a large living room and dining room, as well as a large back patio area, garage (for bikes and garbage) and laundry facilities. (It also has a toilet in a closet). Upstairs there are, in total, four rooms, two large bathrooms, another toilet closet, and a very odd hallway filled with abnormally large closets. For my three months here, I will be living at Vauban with 6 other guides (split between those four bedrooms), with the additional 7 guides living at a large 3-floor apartment a short distance from here.
Throughout Friday, my co-workers slowly trickled into Arras with each arriving train, so that by that evening, all but two had arrived. We spent Friday night talking and getting to know each other, but as jet-lag set in, all of us crashed early and hard and retired to bed, where most of us stayed until early the following afternoon.
On Saturday I took my first walk alone around Arras, visiting the town squares and the massive Cathédrale Notre-Dame-et-Saint-Vaast d'Arras, which was built on the site of a 1000-year old Cathedral in 1833, after the original basilica was destroyed in the French Revolution. Over the course of the day, Jenna and Sahar, the last two components of our 14-member team, arrived in Arras. The full roster congregated at Vauban for some additional introductions and an animated game of Sociables. And so, along with seven Ontarians*, one Newfie, a Nova Scotian, a Manitoban, an Albertan, a British Columbian and an army brat from all over (but primarily from Ottawa), I headed out on the town in Arras.
*I feel it important to note here that while there are seven Ontarians in our group, not one of them identifies themselves as being from Toronto. (Although, for all intents and purposes, Pickering is pretty much downtown Toronto.)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Vimy Shuffle - Part I
There is a time and place for changes of pace, and as I fought through the tedium of third-year law this past semester, I felt one was inevitable. Thankfully, I was presented with an amazing opportunity to apply to work as a guide for the Federal Government at Vimy Ridge and Beaumont-Hamel in Northern France, educating visitors on Canada's (and Newfoundland's) contributions and sacrifices during the Great War. It was certainly a chance that was too good to pass up. And so, after an interview process, a request to take a hiatus from law school, and a lengthy visa application process, I found myself standing in line at Charles de Gaulle International in Paris, clearing customs after a long flight where I had accrued all of 30 minutes of sleep, ate the typical airline microwaved chicken dinner and had lost six hours somewhere over the Atlantic.
"Do you like McGill Law?" a lady beside me queried in French, gesturing towards my red McGill hoodie. "Ummm. It's alright." I replied, mustering as positive a reaction as I could in regards to the institution that had helped facilitate much of my aforementioned tedium. We talked about McGill, Montreal, the French language, Acadians, PEI and so forth, as the line slowly snaked towards the sole customs officer. France may have the most ridiculously lax customs process that I have ever seen. After barely looking at each passport, the guard stamped his approval, and each traveler was unleashed on France on their own recognizance without so much as a bag search, metal detector scan or even a question. After a train ride and a crash course in the metro system, I stumbled into St. Christopher's Hostel, claimed my bunk bed, and effortlessly slipped into sleep.
At 5:00 the next morning, however, I was deep in the throes of a bout of jet-lag, and was strongly regretting my mid-day nap. The smell and snores emanating from my bunk mate below certainly didn't help either. Relief from my insomnia and headache finally came at around 6:00 and after two hours of sleep, I promised myself that I would stay awake all day and try to reset my circadian rhythm as soon as possible. I spent the morning reading up on Vimy Ridge and the Battle of the Somme, before falling asleep by accident for a couple hours in the afternoon. At around 17:30 I headed out into Paris to visit Notre Dame and meet up with a friend.
Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris towers over the edge of the Seine on the Île de la Cité in Paris. Construction of the French Gothic Cathedral began on the former site of the first Christian church in France, Saint Etienne, in 1163 and was not completely finished until 1345. The impressive, humbling edifice is famed for its stained glass, and attracts 13 million visitors each year, more than even the Eiffel Tower or the Louvres. Although I had already visited the church in 2007, I was still staggered by its grandeur. This grandeur was heightened as they ushered visitors out and turned off the lights to the exhibits for the beginning of evening vespers and Mass. Complete with clouds of incense and the Latin chants of the choir, the stately basilica is all the more incredible when clothed in the ceremony and celebration for which it was designed.
My next stop was to meet up with Thomas Vignal, a native of Paris and one-time exchange student to UPEI. Having met on the plane from Montreal to Charlottetown, I was the first Islander Thomas has met on his trip, so it seemed fitting to be able to spend a few hours with him and his mother during my first full day in France. He met me at the steps of Charles Michel metro, a short walk from the apartment shared by him and his mother. We spent the evening enjoying a magnificent meal prepared by his mother, and talking about everything from great sites to visit in France, to old memories at the Wave. I was especially thankful that the cheese Thomas' mother served after the tremendous meal was, mercifully, mild enough to suit even my unsophisticated palate.
As I laid down to sleep, more or less on schedule for my new circadian rhythm, I tried not to psyche myself up too much for the following day, one that would take me north to Arras and my new home for the next three months.
"Do you like McGill Law?" a lady beside me queried in French, gesturing towards my red McGill hoodie. "Ummm. It's alright." I replied, mustering as positive a reaction as I could in regards to the institution that had helped facilitate much of my aforementioned tedium. We talked about McGill, Montreal, the French language, Acadians, PEI and so forth, as the line slowly snaked towards the sole customs officer. France may have the most ridiculously lax customs process that I have ever seen. After barely looking at each passport, the guard stamped his approval, and each traveler was unleashed on France on their own recognizance without so much as a bag search, metal detector scan or even a question. After a train ride and a crash course in the metro system, I stumbled into St. Christopher's Hostel, claimed my bunk bed, and effortlessly slipped into sleep.
At 5:00 the next morning, however, I was deep in the throes of a bout of jet-lag, and was strongly regretting my mid-day nap. The smell and snores emanating from my bunk mate below certainly didn't help either. Relief from my insomnia and headache finally came at around 6:00 and after two hours of sleep, I promised myself that I would stay awake all day and try to reset my circadian rhythm as soon as possible. I spent the morning reading up on Vimy Ridge and the Battle of the Somme, before falling asleep by accident for a couple hours in the afternoon. At around 17:30 I headed out into Paris to visit Notre Dame and meet up with a friend.
Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris towers over the edge of the Seine on the Île de la Cité in Paris. Construction of the French Gothic Cathedral began on the former site of the first Christian church in France, Saint Etienne, in 1163 and was not completely finished until 1345. The impressive, humbling edifice is famed for its stained glass, and attracts 13 million visitors each year, more than even the Eiffel Tower or the Louvres. Although I had already visited the church in 2007, I was still staggered by its grandeur. This grandeur was heightened as they ushered visitors out and turned off the lights to the exhibits for the beginning of evening vespers and Mass. Complete with clouds of incense and the Latin chants of the choir, the stately basilica is all the more incredible when clothed in the ceremony and celebration for which it was designed.
My next stop was to meet up with Thomas Vignal, a native of Paris and one-time exchange student to UPEI. Having met on the plane from Montreal to Charlottetown, I was the first Islander Thomas has met on his trip, so it seemed fitting to be able to spend a few hours with him and his mother during my first full day in France. He met me at the steps of Charles Michel metro, a short walk from the apartment shared by him and his mother. We spent the evening enjoying a magnificent meal prepared by his mother, and talking about everything from great sites to visit in France, to old memories at the Wave. I was especially thankful that the cheese Thomas' mother served after the tremendous meal was, mercifully, mild enough to suit even my unsophisticated palate.
As I laid down to sleep, more or less on schedule for my new circadian rhythm, I tried not to psyche myself up too much for the following day, one that would take me north to Arras and my new home for the next three months.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
There Is No Such Thing As A Stupid Question. Usually.
While the pages of The Quid are consumed by the Cégepian inferiority complex and a debate over the shortage of social conservatives, I find that each day I walk into this building something about one of my classmates amazes me. Everyday. Since September I have met students who speak myriads of languages, come from a multitude of cultural backgrounds and whose lives prior to McGill Law include everything from acting to police work, from working in refugee camps to fashion design. Being in complete awe of these classmates has more than a few times caused me to wonder what the hell the Admissions Committee was thinking when they let me in.
And yet, despite such an abundance of diversity, somehow everyone seems absolutely blown away with the fact that I am from PEI. If there is such thing as a positive stereotype, I have certainly been the victim of one over the past few months: “I love people from PEI!”, “My parents were there in 1982!”, “I’ve always wanted to go to PEI!”. The twelve-hour drive from PEI to Montréal has brought me closer to being a foreign-exchange student than I’ve ever been in my life.
By the questions I get on daily basis, it is obvious that the knowledge most students here have about PEI is limited to the ‘PEI Potato Marketing Board’ decision, so I figured that a poorly written article in The Quid would be better than nothing. So here is a crash-course on P.E.Islandology. These are all actual questions that I have been asked.
“Do you know Anne of Green Gables?”
Actually no. She is, in fact, a fictional character, and her stories are set in the early 1900s. So if she were real, she’d be dead.
“Is Anne of Green Gables a bigger deal on PEI than it is everywhere else?”
Actually, Anne is a lot bigger in Japan than she is anywhere else: thousands of Japanese tourists flock to PEI every summer to see Anne’s (fake) house and watch her (fictional) musicals. It is a pretty big deal on PEI though, at least economically. Dozens of my friends have played Anne, Diana, or some other character in some capacity at some point in their life. This total immersion in Anne culture explains in part the angst that myself and a lot of us Islanders have for her.
“Can you jog around PEI in, like a few hours?”
Eff sakes. By area, PEI is about 11x the size of Montréal. Depending on how heavy your foot is and on how well you know the speed traps on the Trans Canada, you can drive from tip to tip in three hours, give or take.
But you would be right if you guessed PEI has a small population. The most recent census sets PEI with a population of 139,818 (139,817 now that I’m gone).
“Why the hell does PEI have four seats in the House of Commons?”
Good question, seeing as with that population, PEI is only slightly larger than a city like Trois-Rivières. After refusing to join Confederation (after a meeting about Confederation that we hosted), we figured we’d shop around, maybe join the States, build an insolvent railroad and I guess whatever else they used to do back in 1870 (growing potatoes would likely be a good guess). But then John A. and the other Upper Canadians came down for another visit, and among other things, promised to assume the colony's debt, basically buy all the land on PEI from absentee landlords and give it to us, build a bridge (or use ferries until the bridge was built in 1997) and to give PEI what is probably the most ridiculous disproportionate representation in Parliament. Not exactly a hard sell. So Islanders said “To hell with this,” (a common Island phrase) “why work if we can get it all for free?” (also a common Island phrase). The Island has been drawing pogey and equalization payments ever since.
“Is there much ethnic diversity on PEI?”
Not unless you include species of trees as ‘diversity’. Ninety-nine percent of PEI’s population is of European descent. In the absence of racial tension, Islanders have adapted by having the Catholics make fun of the Protestants and the Protestants make fun of the Catholics. Then collectively we all make fun of CFAs (come from aways). Upper Canadians are a favorite target of ours, as some Torontonians in the Faculty have already found out from me.
“How are Islanders different from Mainlanders?”
Well that’s a bit more complicated. We all grew up being subjected to the same fads, watching the same TV and listening to the same music as everyone else (we just got them six years later than the rest of you did).
There are some differences of course. Dialect for example. My parents ‘warsh’ clothes instead of washing them. My Dad wears short pants in the summer. When we were kids, they bought us ‘kitbags’ to carry our books in, and when there is ice on the driveway it is ‘slippy’.
There are some paradigmatic shifts as well. The concept of ‘open bars’ that is so prevalent here in Montréal would be completely lost on most of my friends and family. No one is stupid enough to advertise ‘free alcohol’ at any event on PEI. None of the bars have a capacity of 139,818 anyway.
When it comes to politics, there are only two options PEI: only one person who wasn’t Liberal or Conservative has been elected, ever. And your last name and hometown is usually a good indication of how you voted. Seriously.
I also feel that PEI has a good hold on old-fashioned, family-oriented community-ness. I mean, I am sure there are strong communities all across Canada, but the Island seems unique. The bar scene, for example, is a million times different on PEI than here in Montréal. Stumble into any one of the thousands of bars here and you’ll run into the same bunch of non-descript douches and ditzes who scowl and push and curse at you, often in a language you don’t understand. Stumble into any of the five main bars in Charlottetown and you’re suddenly at a party with a ton of your friends: the kids you went to elementary, junior and high school with, undoubtedly some family and that cute girl that was in your first-year History class. Sure, there are drawbacks if you have a penchant for macking randos on the dancefloor and therefore seek anonymity, and sure, some fights break out now and then, but it’s all a lot less serious. No one is going to get knifed or anything.
PEI is the kind of place where anyone who can comes home for Christmas and for at least a few weeks in the summer. It may sound a little morbid, but people keep informed by listening to the obituaries on the radio every day. In my mind, that’s how it’s supposed to be: you are welcomed into the world, spend your life among, and are bid farewell by you friends.
So go ahead. Call me backwards and backwoods. I’d trade a thousand CN Towers for a good bag of potatoes, a day at the beach, a night of camping and a few beer with friends at a PEI bar.
And yet, despite such an abundance of diversity, somehow everyone seems absolutely blown away with the fact that I am from PEI. If there is such thing as a positive stereotype, I have certainly been the victim of one over the past few months: “I love people from PEI!”, “My parents were there in 1982!”, “I’ve always wanted to go to PEI!”. The twelve-hour drive from PEI to Montréal has brought me closer to being a foreign-exchange student than I’ve ever been in my life.
By the questions I get on daily basis, it is obvious that the knowledge most students here have about PEI is limited to the ‘PEI Potato Marketing Board’ decision, so I figured that a poorly written article in The Quid would be better than nothing. So here is a crash-course on P.E.Islandology. These are all actual questions that I have been asked.
“Do you know Anne of Green Gables?”
Actually no. She is, in fact, a fictional character, and her stories are set in the early 1900s. So if she were real, she’d be dead.
“Is Anne of Green Gables a bigger deal on PEI than it is everywhere else?”
Actually, Anne is a lot bigger in Japan than she is anywhere else: thousands of Japanese tourists flock to PEI every summer to see Anne’s (fake) house and watch her (fictional) musicals. It is a pretty big deal on PEI though, at least economically. Dozens of my friends have played Anne, Diana, or some other character in some capacity at some point in their life. This total immersion in Anne culture explains in part the angst that myself and a lot of us Islanders have for her.
“Can you jog around PEI in, like a few hours?”
Eff sakes. By area, PEI is about 11x the size of Montréal. Depending on how heavy your foot is and on how well you know the speed traps on the Trans Canada, you can drive from tip to tip in three hours, give or take.
But you would be right if you guessed PEI has a small population. The most recent census sets PEI with a population of 139,818 (139,817 now that I’m gone).
“Why the hell does PEI have four seats in the House of Commons?”
Good question, seeing as with that population, PEI is only slightly larger than a city like Trois-Rivières. After refusing to join Confederation (after a meeting about Confederation that we hosted), we figured we’d shop around, maybe join the States, build an insolvent railroad and I guess whatever else they used to do back in 1870 (growing potatoes would likely be a good guess). But then John A. and the other Upper Canadians came down for another visit, and among other things, promised to assume the colony's debt, basically buy all the land on PEI from absentee landlords and give it to us, build a bridge (or use ferries until the bridge was built in 1997) and to give PEI what is probably the most ridiculous disproportionate representation in Parliament. Not exactly a hard sell. So Islanders said “To hell with this,” (a common Island phrase) “why work if we can get it all for free?” (also a common Island phrase). The Island has been drawing pogey and equalization payments ever since.
“Is there much ethnic diversity on PEI?”
Not unless you include species of trees as ‘diversity’. Ninety-nine percent of PEI’s population is of European descent. In the absence of racial tension, Islanders have adapted by having the Catholics make fun of the Protestants and the Protestants make fun of the Catholics. Then collectively we all make fun of CFAs (come from aways). Upper Canadians are a favorite target of ours, as some Torontonians in the Faculty have already found out from me.
“How are Islanders different from Mainlanders?”
Well that’s a bit more complicated. We all grew up being subjected to the same fads, watching the same TV and listening to the same music as everyone else (we just got them six years later than the rest of you did).
There are some differences of course. Dialect for example. My parents ‘warsh’ clothes instead of washing them. My Dad wears short pants in the summer. When we were kids, they bought us ‘kitbags’ to carry our books in, and when there is ice on the driveway it is ‘slippy’.
There are some paradigmatic shifts as well. The concept of ‘open bars’ that is so prevalent here in Montréal would be completely lost on most of my friends and family. No one is stupid enough to advertise ‘free alcohol’ at any event on PEI. None of the bars have a capacity of 139,818 anyway.
When it comes to politics, there are only two options PEI: only one person who wasn’t Liberal or Conservative has been elected, ever. And your last name and hometown is usually a good indication of how you voted. Seriously.
I also feel that PEI has a good hold on old-fashioned, family-oriented community-ness. I mean, I am sure there are strong communities all across Canada, but the Island seems unique. The bar scene, for example, is a million times different on PEI than here in Montréal. Stumble into any one of the thousands of bars here and you’ll run into the same bunch of non-descript douches and ditzes who scowl and push and curse at you, often in a language you don’t understand. Stumble into any of the five main bars in Charlottetown and you’re suddenly at a party with a ton of your friends: the kids you went to elementary, junior and high school with, undoubtedly some family and that cute girl that was in your first-year History class. Sure, there are drawbacks if you have a penchant for macking randos on the dancefloor and therefore seek anonymity, and sure, some fights break out now and then, but it’s all a lot less serious. No one is going to get knifed or anything.
PEI is the kind of place where anyone who can comes home for Christmas and for at least a few weeks in the summer. It may sound a little morbid, but people keep informed by listening to the obituaries on the radio every day. In my mind, that’s how it’s supposed to be: you are welcomed into the world, spend your life among, and are bid farewell by you friends.
So go ahead. Call me backwards and backwoods. I’d trade a thousand CN Towers for a good bag of potatoes, a day at the beach, a night of camping and a few beer with friends at a PEI bar.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
...And now for something completely different: Une Session à Québec
"Ryan!"
It was like déja vu. An early morning wake-up in my sister's living room.
"Ryan!" Ugh. My eyes adjusted to reveal my sister standing beside the couch.
"Ryan, it's ten after 7:00." She said.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 6:55.
"WHAT?"
"Oh, I mean ten after 6:00."
And so began another long day.
By the time my plane began its descent into Québec, the lack of sleep, as well as the glasses of wine and beer from the night before, were beginning to catch up to me. As I dozed on and off and thought about how I was going to live out of two bags of luggage for the next four months, that age-old question slipped back into my mind: ""What the hell am I getting myself into?"
Well, first of all, I was getting myself into a semester of French as a Second Language courses at L'Université Laval in Ste. Foy, Québec, just outside of the capital city. Laval has over 37,000 students, studying everything from Philosophy to Languages, Dentistry to Medicine, and the Languages Department in la pavillon Charles-de-Koninck was to be my home for the next 15 weeks. After landing at Jean Lesage Airport, I hopped in a cab and arrived outside my dorm, la pavillon Alphonse-Marie-Parent, at about 11h00 on Saturday January 12th.
Suddenly I was and eighteen year old all over again, signing in to residence for my first semester at a new school in a strange land. After getting all my stuff packed away, I slept away most of the day on my sheetless bed, and, waking up around 18h00, I decided to check out the nearby mall and to buy some essentials for my room. Like sheets. Of course, no one had told me that the Québécois shut 'er down at 17h30 on Saturday nights, which seems ridiculous. I mean I know that Confederation Court Mall kicks mall rats and prostitots out at the same time, but that's, well, Charlottetown.
L'Université Laval is connected underground by a 15-kilometre network of tunnels, which makes walking around in the winter a lot less of a pain in the ass. And so, even though I had classes in Koninck on Monday and Tuesday, by mid-week I still had no idea what the building actually looked like from the outside. As we started courses we were placed in different levels based on preliminary testing, but some of the placements were messed up, leading to a confusing week for everyone in the program. I somehow started in the 'Débutant' group, where we working on phrases like "Hi, my name is Ryan. How are you today?" (In French, obviously), all of which I had done in about, oh, Grade 2. By the end of the week I was up in 'Inter-Avancé', the most advanced class. Though I'm still not sure if I belong there, you have to admit that's pretty good progress in the language in one week. Haha.
In the class I finally ended up in, there are only three other Canadians, the rest of the class being mostly made up of Thai, Chinese, and Spanish-speakers from various countries. One of the other Canadians and I, along with a bunch of other residents have become the unofficial drinking team of the program, which has been a lot of fun, but which has also taken its toll on the studies, and perhaps also the health, of each of us. We represent a variety of provinces from across Canada: Scott Pickup - Nova Scotia (Or Republic of Cape Breton... and yes, Pickup is his real name), Gillian Irving - New Brunswick, Luke Moyer, Laura McDougall, Debbie Lobbezoo, Barbara Ciochon - Ontario, Sara Lechasin - Manitoba, Tammi Viney - Alberta, and Kirstie Bagshaw - British Columbia. The main topic of discussion is making fun of each other’s pronunciation of different words (I apparently say 'peanut butter' wrong), and sharing regional sayings (Pickup's "Not dat bad... not dat goood, but not dat bad." is an oft-repeated example). Our Mexican buddy Gerardo Sistos Sescosse hangs out too, but his regional diction is in a totally different ballpark.
Designating a different room for pre-drinking each night, one soon notices that the thermostats in many of these rooms are set way too high. The residence has over 900 rooms, and each series of three or four have one shared thermostat, with one lucky resident given the power over the heat of all the rooms within his immediate vicinity. For some people, well for me anyway, this is a problem when it is -22 degrees outside, because there are a lot of Franco-Africans on my floor who like the keep the temperature set at a balmy 30+ degrees all the time. More often than not though, we drink in Tammi's room, first of all because she has candy, and also because from there you can see all the action going on outside. One night last week, for example, four cop cars rolled up with campus security, followed shortly by a media SUV from TQS. Another night, no less than six cop cars sped into the driveway, with an ambulance following close behind. I don't know if some serious shit is going on in Parent on a regular basis, or if there is very little action going on in the rest of Québec. Either way, I don't wander around when the cops show up, just so I don't get caught up in a shoot-out or something.
There is a lot of interesting stuff going on in Québec this year, as it's the 400th anniversary of the city's founding, which adds to the usual Carnivale de Québec, l'Hôtel de Glaçe, and the Red Bull Crashed Ice competition. There is literally too much to do, but so far we have been taking in as much as possible, and enjoying as much as we can without freezing our faces off. One of the big misconceptions that I was wary of before coming here was the idea that les Québécois are rude. I have not found this to be the case at all. If anything, I would say they have been more polite than most people back home. They politely say hi and bye as they get in out of elevators. As far as I know they don't talk about you behind your back or make up rumours about you. As a perfect example, on the third day of school I was stopped in the tunnel by a girl, and I had no idea who she was. She introduced herself as one of the sisters of the kids from the Explore program that I worked with last summer on PEI. She recognized me from Facebook pictures and offered any help that I may need. Now, I would say it takes balls to pick out one student out of 37,000 that you sort of recognize from your sister's pictures to introduce yourself to some random.
Of course once they discover that you to be an Anglophone, all bets are off. Haha.
It was like déja vu. An early morning wake-up in my sister's living room.
"Ryan!" Ugh. My eyes adjusted to reveal my sister standing beside the couch.
"Ryan, it's ten after 7:00." She said.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 6:55.
"WHAT?"
"Oh, I mean ten after 6:00."
And so began another long day.
By the time my plane began its descent into Québec, the lack of sleep, as well as the glasses of wine and beer from the night before, were beginning to catch up to me. As I dozed on and off and thought about how I was going to live out of two bags of luggage for the next four months, that age-old question slipped back into my mind: ""What the hell am I getting myself into?"
Well, first of all, I was getting myself into a semester of French as a Second Language courses at L'Université Laval in Ste. Foy, Québec, just outside of the capital city. Laval has over 37,000 students, studying everything from Philosophy to Languages, Dentistry to Medicine, and the Languages Department in la pavillon Charles-de-Koninck was to be my home for the next 15 weeks. After landing at Jean Lesage Airport, I hopped in a cab and arrived outside my dorm, la pavillon Alphonse-Marie-Parent, at about 11h00 on Saturday January 12th.
Suddenly I was and eighteen year old all over again, signing in to residence for my first semester at a new school in a strange land. After getting all my stuff packed away, I slept away most of the day on my sheetless bed, and, waking up around 18h00, I decided to check out the nearby mall and to buy some essentials for my room. Like sheets. Of course, no one had told me that the Québécois shut 'er down at 17h30 on Saturday nights, which seems ridiculous. I mean I know that Confederation Court Mall kicks mall rats and prostitots out at the same time, but that's, well, Charlottetown.
L'Université Laval is connected underground by a 15-kilometre network of tunnels, which makes walking around in the winter a lot less of a pain in the ass. And so, even though I had classes in Koninck on Monday and Tuesday, by mid-week I still had no idea what the building actually looked like from the outside. As we started courses we were placed in different levels based on preliminary testing, but some of the placements were messed up, leading to a confusing week for everyone in the program. I somehow started in the 'Débutant' group, where we working on phrases like "Hi, my name is Ryan. How are you today?" (In French, obviously), all of which I had done in about, oh, Grade 2. By the end of the week I was up in 'Inter-Avancé', the most advanced class. Though I'm still not sure if I belong there, you have to admit that's pretty good progress in the language in one week. Haha.
In the class I finally ended up in, there are only three other Canadians, the rest of the class being mostly made up of Thai, Chinese, and Spanish-speakers from various countries. One of the other Canadians and I, along with a bunch of other residents have become the unofficial drinking team of the program, which has been a lot of fun, but which has also taken its toll on the studies, and perhaps also the health, of each of us. We represent a variety of provinces from across Canada: Scott Pickup - Nova Scotia (Or Republic of Cape Breton... and yes, Pickup is his real name), Gillian Irving - New Brunswick, Luke Moyer, Laura McDougall, Debbie Lobbezoo, Barbara Ciochon - Ontario, Sara Lechasin - Manitoba, Tammi Viney - Alberta, and Kirstie Bagshaw - British Columbia. The main topic of discussion is making fun of each other’s pronunciation of different words (I apparently say 'peanut butter' wrong), and sharing regional sayings (Pickup's "Not dat bad... not dat goood, but not dat bad." is an oft-repeated example). Our Mexican buddy Gerardo Sistos Sescosse hangs out too, but his regional diction is in a totally different ballpark.
Designating a different room for pre-drinking each night, one soon notices that the thermostats in many of these rooms are set way too high. The residence has over 900 rooms, and each series of three or four have one shared thermostat, with one lucky resident given the power over the heat of all the rooms within his immediate vicinity. For some people, well for me anyway, this is a problem when it is -22 degrees outside, because there are a lot of Franco-Africans on my floor who like the keep the temperature set at a balmy 30+ degrees all the time. More often than not though, we drink in Tammi's room, first of all because she has candy, and also because from there you can see all the action going on outside. One night last week, for example, four cop cars rolled up with campus security, followed shortly by a media SUV from TQS. Another night, no less than six cop cars sped into the driveway, with an ambulance following close behind. I don't know if some serious shit is going on in Parent on a regular basis, or if there is very little action going on in the rest of Québec. Either way, I don't wander around when the cops show up, just so I don't get caught up in a shoot-out or something.
There is a lot of interesting stuff going on in Québec this year, as it's the 400th anniversary of the city's founding, which adds to the usual Carnivale de Québec, l'Hôtel de Glaçe, and the Red Bull Crashed Ice competition. There is literally too much to do, but so far we have been taking in as much as possible, and enjoying as much as we can without freezing our faces off. One of the big misconceptions that I was wary of before coming here was the idea that les Québécois are rude. I have not found this to be the case at all. If anything, I would say they have been more polite than most people back home. They politely say hi and bye as they get in out of elevators. As far as I know they don't talk about you behind your back or make up rumours about you. As a perfect example, on the third day of school I was stopped in the tunnel by a girl, and I had no idea who she was. She introduced herself as one of the sisters of the kids from the Explore program that I worked with last summer on PEI. She recognized me from Facebook pictures and offered any help that I may need. Now, I would say it takes balls to pick out one student out of 37,000 that you sort of recognize from your sister's pictures to introduce yourself to some random.
Of course once they discover that you to be an Anglophone, all bets are off. Haha.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Half-Assed and Clueless - Across an Ocean
The next morning Meghan and I heisted on our backpacks one last time and lugged them across the huge bridge towards the cruise dock in Barcelona. After going through some security checkpoints, we boarded our ship that would take us across the Atlantic: The Legend of the Seas.
This ship is a Royal Caribbean-owned, offshore-registered cruise ship in a huge fleet of luxury liners. It was certainly a sight to behold. The ship had 11 floors, with a 7 floor-high atrium, and with grand marble staircases with glass elevators spanning the distance between. The ship has an internet café, coffee shop, library, study, two pools, spa, casino, fitness centre, photo gallery, hundreds of rooms, 7 bars, a huge cafeteria, and an 1000-seat restaurant.
Basically everything is jammed in there along with about 2000 old people who will go home and describe the ship like I just did (perhaps with not so vivid a memory), and all of it seemed so gloriously meaningless. This ship has no real purpose other than to cart old people around and sell paintings and photos and internet and phone time ($0.50 and $7.95 a minute, respectively) to their captive audience. It was truly a monument to Western civilization. Luxuriously cruising from poor country to poor country, blissfully ignorant to everything else in the world. Imagine living in an impoverished country and watching a five-star hotel pull into the harbour every other morning, discharge a bunch of rich tourists, who come and haggle about the price of whatever trickets you are trying to sell, and then as you go home to feed your family, the tourists sit up on deck eating all-you-can-eat dinners as their hotel sails off for some other 'exotic' location. Imagine what that would do to your view of the world... and of the people of the West. But I digress.
After some guy died on our ship while in the Canary Islands, we headed out across the ocean, mostly hanging out with our table mates from the dining room; Les and Zoiey, a fourty-something couple from Britain, and Ed and Linda, a sixty-something couple from the US. We partook in a lot of trivia games during the journey, but the majority of our time was spent on the deck in the sun, reading books, or eating. The days at sea themselves were quite uneventful, but it was a good oppurtunity to reflect on the past month. Those five days at sea were really the culmination of my trip, allowing me to read the books and think the thoughts that were hard to get through while we were jumping from train to train and checking in and out of hostels.
One might say that the thought of being 2000 kilometres away from the nearest land and that the ocean floor is seven kilometeres below the bow of the ship is quite unnerving, but what I can certainly say is that the colour of the ocean in the middle of the Atlantic is so beautiful that it is hypnotizing. At first it looks like a black but after looking at it for a moment, you will see that it is actually a deep deep blue, and even as I stared at it, I could hardly believed that such a colour could exist. It was in view of this water and in the presence of absolute solitude (save for the other 1999 people on the ship) that, in many ways, my journey concluded.
I asked myself at the beginning of my trip: 'Why does one leave their home?' It is quite obvious to anyone who knows me that I am comfortable among the people I know and within a community where people know me, but over the span of the two months abroad, I realized that sometimes, one must see for themselves that the world is more than a sum of its parts. That for its beauty, nature reveals most of herself in its variety. That human kind is most gifted in its rich cultural mosaic, and that we share in our own cultural experiences not by insulated ourselves from all others, but in understanding that societies naturally complement the amazing aspects of one another.
One must also travel to understand that beauty exists in many forms, and that everywhere and everything is beautiful to someone, somewhere. Stare at a captivating landscape or at the world's most amazing masterpiece for long enough, however, and the colours will meld, and the lighting will become unremarkable, even commonplace. And so, one must step back, re-focus, and realize that just as the people of the netherplaces of the world are incredible and beautiful, so much more are the captivating and amazing people that we care about, the same people who, over time, have come to seem commonplace.
In that, upon seeing the immensity of the world, one must come to understand that the incomprehensible size and scope of the world does not make one insignificant, but instead, highlights the careful and beautiful intricacies of life and creation, wherever it is found.
For all their adventures and experiences, travel is as much about coming home and seeing it anew. My trip affirmed for me one thing in my heart: there is no place quite like home.
This ship is a Royal Caribbean-owned, offshore-registered cruise ship in a huge fleet of luxury liners. It was certainly a sight to behold. The ship had 11 floors, with a 7 floor-high atrium, and with grand marble staircases with glass elevators spanning the distance between. The ship has an internet café, coffee shop, library, study, two pools, spa, casino, fitness centre, photo gallery, hundreds of rooms, 7 bars, a huge cafeteria, and an 1000-seat restaurant.
Basically everything is jammed in there along with about 2000 old people who will go home and describe the ship like I just did (perhaps with not so vivid a memory), and all of it seemed so gloriously meaningless. This ship has no real purpose other than to cart old people around and sell paintings and photos and internet and phone time ($0.50 and $7.95 a minute, respectively) to their captive audience. It was truly a monument to Western civilization. Luxuriously cruising from poor country to poor country, blissfully ignorant to everything else in the world. Imagine living in an impoverished country and watching a five-star hotel pull into the harbour every other morning, discharge a bunch of rich tourists, who come and haggle about the price of whatever trickets you are trying to sell, and then as you go home to feed your family, the tourists sit up on deck eating all-you-can-eat dinners as their hotel sails off for some other 'exotic' location. Imagine what that would do to your view of the world... and of the people of the West. But I digress.
After some guy died on our ship while in the Canary Islands, we headed out across the ocean, mostly hanging out with our table mates from the dining room; Les and Zoiey, a fourty-something couple from Britain, and Ed and Linda, a sixty-something couple from the US. We partook in a lot of trivia games during the journey, but the majority of our time was spent on the deck in the sun, reading books, or eating. The days at sea themselves were quite uneventful, but it was a good oppurtunity to reflect on the past month. Those five days at sea were really the culmination of my trip, allowing me to read the books and think the thoughts that were hard to get through while we were jumping from train to train and checking in and out of hostels.
One might say that the thought of being 2000 kilometres away from the nearest land and that the ocean floor is seven kilometeres below the bow of the ship is quite unnerving, but what I can certainly say is that the colour of the ocean in the middle of the Atlantic is so beautiful that it is hypnotizing. At first it looks like a black but after looking at it for a moment, you will see that it is actually a deep deep blue, and even as I stared at it, I could hardly believed that such a colour could exist. It was in view of this water and in the presence of absolute solitude (save for the other 1999 people on the ship) that, in many ways, my journey concluded.
I asked myself at the beginning of my trip: 'Why does one leave their home?' It is quite obvious to anyone who knows me that I am comfortable among the people I know and within a community where people know me, but over the span of the two months abroad, I realized that sometimes, one must see for themselves that the world is more than a sum of its parts. That for its beauty, nature reveals most of herself in its variety. That human kind is most gifted in its rich cultural mosaic, and that we share in our own cultural experiences not by insulated ourselves from all others, but in understanding that societies naturally complement the amazing aspects of one another.
One must also travel to understand that beauty exists in many forms, and that everywhere and everything is beautiful to someone, somewhere. Stare at a captivating landscape or at the world's most amazing masterpiece for long enough, however, and the colours will meld, and the lighting will become unremarkable, even commonplace. And so, one must step back, re-focus, and realize that just as the people of the netherplaces of the world are incredible and beautiful, so much more are the captivating and amazing people that we care about, the same people who, over time, have come to seem commonplace.
In that, upon seeing the immensity of the world, one must come to understand that the incomprehensible size and scope of the world does not make one insignificant, but instead, highlights the careful and beautiful intricacies of life and creation, wherever it is found.
For all their adventures and experiences, travel is as much about coming home and seeing it anew. My trip affirmed for me one thing in my heart: there is no place quite like home.
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