18 November Monday Athens to Roma to Torino
5:05 a.m.: Alarm rings. Awake, dress, pack, shave, coffee.5:35 A.m. : Stuff 2 bulging suitcases, overnite bag, shoulder bag,, cane, spindle, Bea, her purse, Jon, me, into D’s Spitfire.
6:05 a.m.: Arrive Athens East Airport. Check in. Customs. Change money.
6:40 a.m.: Bid melancholy au revoir to Jon. Board TWA 901 to Roma.
7:50 a.m. (Rome time, 1 hr back): Arr. Roma: get baggage, change money, walk to taxi with TWA voucher. Bea falls over her suitcase, bruises knee, limps out.
8:05 a.m.: Taxis on strike. (Welcome to Italy!) Bea limps back and gets Limo voucher.
8:33 a.m.: Limo to domestic terminal. Porter takes bags 10 feet to check in, pay porter 400L (60 cents).
9:10 a.m.: Board Al Italia 240 to Torino— taxi to 9:30— take-off.
10:35 a.m.: Informed of bad weather at Torino— going to Milano.
10:50 a.m.: Descending thru thick soup to tree tops— ABRUPT CLIMB! (We clutch hands, arms, ready to say goodbye. Our flying luck has caught up with us. I love you....
10:55 a.m.: Pilot, "sorry about that": "Going to Torino"— "weather has improved"–GULP & sigh.
11:15 a.m.: Land in Torino— airport bus to center — Free!
11:55 a.m.: Leave bus at bus terminal. Taxi to Fiat— sign papers.
12:30 p.m.: Take car, read manual, discover some small defects.
1:15 p.m.: Drive to find hotel, eat, park— to tourist org.
4:05 p.m.: Park near pension in garage after long drive, getting lost, and a long walk.
5:15 p.m.: Plop in bed for rest. Listen to rain.
8:00 p.m.: Dinner one flight down in pension— fantastic.
10:00 p.m.: Sound asleep. Another quiet traveling day.
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| Torino |
The new phase of our journey has been entered. No more taxis, buses, trains, planes and all the frustrations attendant thereto. We now have a car and have no more troubles, worries or concerns. Except: malfunction, breakdowns, accidents, finding directions, finding parking, paying for gas ($1.80 p.gal.), paying for tolls, theft (our am/fm radio a prime target).
Already we are at each other’s throats: I call her a moron for her map reading; she calls me a suicidal maniac for my driving.
Well, those things must be worked out. The car is beautiful and after we spent the morning repairing the few minor defects on delivery, we bought a thermos, ham & cheese & bread for our trip tomorrow. At this point we are both sick and tired, both physically (my cold & Bea’s knee) and especially mentally: a big hurdle lies ahead— Perhaps the final uncertainty: PARIS. The house at Villeparisis, the reception by the family, the presence of clothes [Bea’s mother was to ship our winter clothes to Paris], the expense.
We suffer with anxieties, together and apart, at times helpless and unable to help each other. A major barrier has always been our alikeness— each unable to be carefree, each unable to forcefully decide, each smothering in his/her own passivity.
Sunday July 19, 1970 3:30 PM
Dearest Mort,
I’m going stark raving mad. I’ve been on this train since 6:30 this morning. It’s hot, uncomfortable & crowded. It doesn’t arrive until 6:30 tonight—three more hours—oh God!
I feel very reflective so this is probably going to be a messy, sentimental letter. The more I am in Europe, the more sure of certain things I become. I realize that I am not an easy carefree person. I take everything seriously and have a very bad social front. That is why I have always felt an outsider—all my life I have searched to fit in.
The French people I meet are obviously different from me. But to my surprise I realize that I am different from the masses of Americans I see and meet; they are a loud noisy bunch who instill their surroundings with American touches, bringing to each new thing they encounter a little bit of America.
I, on the other hand, am totally dumbfounded and awed by the things I see. They enter my very guts—each evening I sit in bed and let my mind run over what I have absorbed that day.
Traveling alone has also taught me something—first and most obvious—that I can rely on myself—a fact I suspected but was not sure of—but secondly, I’ve come to realize how important people are to me despite the fact that there are really few people worth knowing.
(Maybe it’s the fatigue from this long journey or perhaps it’s the miles which separate us) but seriously it’s the essence of you which makes you one of the few rare and worthwhile ones. I miss you more than I can possibly write. I have so much to share with you—when I return I will talk and talk until you cry—shut up. I just re-read what I wrote thus far—it doesn’t seem clear to me either...
[She then related the experience of sitting in a café alone watching a group of Americans conversing cheerfully, ignoring her in the belief that she is "foreign", that is, French. It made her feel lonely, until they realized she was an American and they allowed her to join them. At first, she was relieved, but soon became dejected, because she realized how shallow, smug and resistant to the people and life around them they are.] .. Suddenly it was all clear to me—I like what I am, I wish more people had the sensitivity I have and thank God there is you. In my present cloudy state of mind or perhaps true insight I feel that you have the ability to be at once strong as a man and sensitive as a human—how admirable.Enough sentimental crap for now. ...now that I have poured out my soul to you and have enumerated your qualities—you will write, won’t you?I’m going to be coming back to Cannes and when I ask the little old lady behind the counter of the Cook’s office for my mail, I’m going to be very upset if there is nothing from you.
By the way, I hope you had a very happy birthday. I was sorry that I couldn’t celebrate the auspicious occasion of your aging with you. Traveling alone is really no fun.
Much, much love, Bea.
7-27-70
Dear Bea,
...Today I received the letter you wrote on the train in which you are "reflective." I hope that is not a synonym for "depressed." What you say about liking yourself is good to hear—as we have talked about often—I believe it is the first step toward achieving self respect which is one way to find peace of mind in this life. There are, and will continue to be times of self-doubt and consequent depression, but if there is substance underneath the fits of lonely desperation then those times can be made bearable.
As for me, I feel much as you do—I am realizing more than ever now that I do need you and without you it is very difficult to enjoy anything. It is depressing to realize how slowly the time is going by ... another month before you will be back and if the last month has been lonely, I don’t look forward to August. ...
Please keep writing and keep in mind always that you are always in my mind and that I love you desperately and miss you the same.
Mort.
Mort.
8-1-70
Dear Bea,
... It is difficult without you ... I really can’t say how much ... It sounds trite to even say it, but I love you so that I am thinking of you most of my time awake and while I am going to sleep (and frankly a couple of times in my sleep). During the day, when I stop concentrating on other things, I don’t have to try thinking of you, all I have to do is nothing and you just seep into my mind and take up all the space until I make a conscious effort to think of other things.
You are really insidious, the way you do that to me. ... I’ll save all my urges, creative and others, until you return ... I love you, Mort.
20 November Wednesday Torino to Geneva to ParisAssured the drive to Paris was at most 6 hours, easily done in one day, we began. We left Torino and passed through the Mont Blanc Tunnel by 11 a.m. We were in France, as blissful as could be at the anticipation our drive through France.
Twenty minutes later we were miserable and going crazy.
As we explained to, it seems, 20 mechanics, our Fiat with American specifications has a system whereby it cannot be started without seat belts being secured. A light and a buzzer warn you of your neglect. As we drove past Chamonix over a bump, the red light came on and with it the godawful buzzer.
We tried to stop it, but nothing worked. If it had happened twenty minutes earlier, we would have been fine. On the Italian side, just before the tunnel, was a huge Fiat distributor. But now, going back would mean paying $6 more each way. It seemed silly to return to another country just to repair a car.
We found a garage that the manual called an" authorized Fiat dealer" in Chamonix. A mechanic came out from under a car, wearing blue overalls with logos all over it -- Ferrari, Porsche, even Fiat, very professional looking, even with the obligatory Gauloise dangling from his lip.
Bea explained the problem to him in French, using the all-purpose "Truc" ("the thingamajig") when she didn’t know the French word for some auto part. The French garageman could only stare disapprovingly at our car with its huge black rubber bumpers. "Il est moche" its ugly, was his comment.
At my insistence, she showed him the schematic wiring diagram from our manual. He examined it carefully. I knew we were in trouble when he said a phrase I understood: "C’est tres compliqué" and whistled "Oh-la-la" about the seat belt system.
It was clear we had two choices: 6 hours to Paris with the infernal buzzing, or stop in Geneva and hope a mechanic could fix it there. Bea was desperate to get to Paris so on we went.
One hour with the buzzing driving us batty changed her mind. We detoured, stopped in Geneva around lunchtime, waited for the mechanic to return. This time the German / Swiss mechanic took about 30 seconds to solve the problem – at least temporarily – he simply disconnected the buzzer. We continued on our way, winding through the Swiss Alps, finally getting onto the Autoroute. We arrived in Paris at 9:30 p.m., eleven hours after starting.
Our reception by Lola and Raymond [Bea’s aunt and uncle, who she affectionately always called by the French "Tonton"] was heartwarming and gave us hope of getting to the house soon, along with some fears of the smothering niceness so hard to refuse and to be comfortable with— as with the family in Israel. We spent the night in their apartment on Rue Hermel.
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We did not do much today. Put the car into a Fiat dealer for repairs, went to Hélène’s store, "Sagamore", and Tonton’s, "Fair Play," on Boulevard St. Germain by Metro where they decided our clothes were hopelessly out of fashion and gave B a pair of slacks and also a pair for me because it would have been unseemly not to. Then we went to Hélène’s apartment, met Girard and the children Pascal and Isabel, and returned to Raymond’s apartment in Rue Hermel for dinner. Surprisingly, Hélène called and invited us to come over to her apartment in the Eighteenth Arrondissement, which we did.
6-26-70 2:00 P.M. Paris
Dear Mort,
Well, here I am. This is my first breather. As soon as I arrived I was thrown into French life—a life very different for ours. Paris is very beautiful, old, quaint, charming, crowded and much else. I’ve been running around with Hélène but I haven’t visited much— nor have I spoken one word of English.
Hélène runs a store in one of the most chic areas in Paris. She is really a businesswoman. We have spent all day gossiping. Tonight we are going out somewhere—I don’t know.
My cousin and her husband are going on vacation for the month of July. They want me to go with them. I think I will go—we will go to Deauville and Mont St. Michel and La Bretagne for about ten days—about July 10 or 12. Send mail (please) to me to me ...
We are then going to the Riviera—a little bit everywhere. Then until the end of July you can write me ... in Cannes.
I haven’t written very much about my impressions because I haven’t formed any. I feel confused and very, very lost— like a little kid in a big candy store. And I miss you very much. I would really love you to be here with me— we could explore all kinds of things.
By the way—at the end of July I am going to continue my voyage into Italy—alone....
So, until very soon—
Love, Bea.
22 November Friday Paris
We got the Fiat back from the dealer almost in the condition it should have been when we bought it and parked where we could— illegally as everyone does here— and met with G & H at the Palais de Justice for lunch. We visited several courts and walked through the building and ate our lunch. Back at "Fair Play", I bought a suit, shirt, tie and belt. B was given a blouse and skirt at Hélène’s boutique. Later, we went shopping for food with Hélène and then to her apartment for dinner. Afterward, we went window shopping at the art galleries near her apartment where G & H tried to impress us with their affluence, if not their sense of taste, which is determinedly bourgeois and from our point of view staid, boring and conventional. They are the kind of people who force Bea to whisper: "What I could do if I had their money!" In our running around, we have flitted near the Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel Tower, driven over the Seine and past Notre Dame, briskly walked through St. Chapelle, and past the Elysee Palace, driven down the Champs Elysees, ran past Les Invalides. I am anxious to explore all these new sights which I have heard about all my life.
23 November Saturday Paris to Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis
I am constantly amazed at the fact of our intelligence, sensitivity and general superiority. One who reads this journal may observe the attitude of pioneering fortitude that has permeated our approach. It is a challenge and although we have utilized certain guides (books, maps, the experiences of friends) it has continued to be for us an exploration into uncharted worlds. This is true no matter how many have gone before us.
Thus it was with great pride that we ventured on the road to Villeparisis with only Bea’s semi-senile aunt Clara as a vague native guide. Then, alone together, we returned to Paris, coursed its boulevards and searched out a parking space near Fair Play, then drove to Hélène’s party of frigid little men playing at being grown-ups. Afterward, we found our way back to Villeparisis, despite poor directions from our hosts— in the dark at 2 a.m. We were quite proud at the accomplishment and more than a little surprised, sort of like the way we felt getting Jon’s Big Red to Aghia Paraskevi.
We made it to our bed with no fears except being shot by B’s crazy aunt.
24 November Sunday Villeparisis
The house which we have been given to use is a charming place, with all the conveniences we could have expected in a "summer cottage" as it was described: dishes, washing machine, a locked garage for our new car, and most importantly, heat. It is convenient to Paris, without being too close. It does have several drawbacks. It turns out not to be a "summer cottage" but a weekend retreat to which Bea’s uncle, aunt and their friends come on Sundays.
On this day it was a pleasure I must admit. They came at 1 p.m. with tons of great food: oysters, sausage, ham, and wine, and we joined in a feast after which we drove to Senlis for a brisk 2 hour walk through its forest. They left at 10 p.m. and will not be back until next Sunday.
The second drawback is more serious. They left Clara, Lola’s crazy sister, to stay and clean up. Since Clara’s husband died in World War II, she has been increasingly dependent on B’s uncle and aunt who take cruel advantage of her by using her as a maid and cook and treating her like a servant rather than a relative. They laugh at her and do not allow her to join in their games, like Rudolph, or Cinderella. There are grounds for this: she apparently was never very bright, and has become more vague and prematurely senile. She is 68. It is her job, which she accepts with little complaint, to cook and prepare much of the Sunday feast, then to stay for days washing dishes and linen to prepare for the next Sunday. And so passes her life – and for the next couple of months, ours – if we can take it. 
25 November Monday Paris to Villeparisis to Paris
We slept to 11 today after staying up to watch the Late Movie – it seems that every Sunday night at 11 they have American movies, "version originale." Last night it was "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir" and we succumbed to the tube, having been movie starved for several weeks.
Today we drove into Paris and took the Metro to Place Concorde and walked through the Jeu de Paume. After lunch on Boul’ Mich’ we visited Notre Dame in the medieval dusk, then went to see "The Great Gatsby" nearby, which was a pleasant surprise. After the reviews I had read, I expected a mess, and found instead a fairly good movie, flawed only by some bad performances and a conceptual problem inherent in making a multi-million dollar movie about a great, but thoughtful novel. 6-27-70 12:30 P.M.
Dear Mort,
It’s drizzling, humid and very hot. My cousin is working so I set out by myself. Right now I’m sitting in an outdoor café drinking a mint and seltzer concoction (bright green and a little nauseating to look at but very good to taste). My bill says 15% service not included—I can’t count so I don’t know what 15% of 2.20 is. I guess I’ll just ask him.
I’m on the Boulevard St. Michel—have you heard of it? I’ve just walked along the Quai where all the quaint little bookstands are not quaint but touristy. I also visited the Notre Dame—really exquisite. Are you interested in descriptions of buildings? Well, here goes—it has thousands of fabulous statues, stain glass windows, beautiful carved balustrades (I don’t know if that is a French or English word) and of course, many, many tourists.
Paris is incredibly crowded with people and cars—it’s really a shame—but I guess this is progress. This afternoon I’m going to the Louvre so I will continue this letter later.
6:30 P.M. We just finished eating in a popular restaurant—guess what—Une Pizzeria—very good lasagna. The Louvre is LARGE above all. Filled with so many things—I only saw a few. My favorite is the Winged Victory, marble which is almost living. La Jaconde, the Mona Lisa, is nothing special.
6:30 P.M. We just finished eating in a popular restaurant—guess what—Une Pizzeria—very good lasagna. The Louvre is LARGE above all. Filled with so many things—I only saw a few. My favorite is the Winged Victory, marble which is almost living. La Jaconde, the Mona Lisa, is nothing special.
... It seems that Hélène’s husband, Girard, doesn’t want to go to Brittany, so I’m going alone. I was so afraid of being alone but I’ve really enjoyed the solitary moments I’ve had. I almost feel like an adult.
Tonight we went for a long walk along the Champs Elysees—this is the famous Paris with the Arc de Triomphe. Then we went to a fabulous restaurant. I ate octopus—only because I didn’t know what it was— but it was very good.
Tomorrow morning we are going to a resort town, Deauville—Hélène’s son and her Aunt Clara are there. I’m going to stay two days and continue to Brittany.
...I miss you very much but I think of you often— Love, Bea.
26 November Tuesday Villeparisis
When I awoke, spooky Clara was still here. But by 1 she had gone and we went to the Charcuterie for salami and other stores in the village, including a Poissonerie for two beautiful soles, the Patisserie for a baguette. We spent a lovely drizzly day writing, doing laundry and relaxing in delicious privacy.
For dinner Bea fried the fish in butter and garlic and we ate them with rice, bread and wine. It was the best dinner I have had in France so far and one of the most enjoyable days spent on our trip. It is a shame there cannot be more of them. Tomorrow we go to the Louvre and must drive for dinner with G & H. After dinner we planned the rest of our European stay – trips through July.
27 November Wednesday Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis
We planned to arise early and spend the day at the Louvre. G & H had invited us out for dinner. But no one could accuse us of being rigid planners. We woke at 11 and lazily contemplated a day in bed. Then the phone rang. Raymond was calling to say the Birnbaums, friends of B’s parents, were in Paris from L.A. We should come into town so that we could see them. Without asking me, B agreed. We would be there for lunch, toute suite.
When I was told my schedule for the day, I hit the roof. If accepting their hospitality, generosity and kindness meant having to be at their beck and call I wanted no part of it. It had been the only trouble with Israel and Greece: too many days sitting around waiting for other people to decide what we would do at their convenience. Too many strings attached to such kindness. But B was in a spot. It was her uncle, just as it had been her family in Israel and her friends in Greece. She could not say No.
I pointed out her inconsistency: she says she doesn’t give a damn what they think, yet is afraid to hurt their feelings. But the Birnbaums were going back to LA and had been instructed by Bea’s mom to see how we were.
By 12:30 we had parked on Rue Bonaparte and were in Fair Play. We had lunch, changed money and were told by Raymond that he was busy until 5. So we were stuck with 2 hours to kill— not enough time for the Louvre.
We made the best of it: walked up to Boul’ Mich’, past the Sorbonne, Ecole d’Medcin, Jardins de Luxembourg to the Nouvelle Quartier Latin, an English bookstore, and bought some tour books of France, and a French lesson book for me. We walked back in the drizzle (it really does, "...in Paris ... in the winter").
But now, Raymond decided it was too late to go traipsing to the Birnbaums so we had three more hours to kill until our date with G & H. Bea’s aunt suggested going to H’s and playing with the children, her idea of a good time.
We opted for a film. Unable to make the new Michael Caine, we wound up watching excerpts from Marilyn Monroe’s films re-issued by 20th Century Fox to cash in on the current MM passion in Paris. It was oddly preceded by a silent movie, Fatty Arbuckle, shown without music — very silent and inhibiting laughter.
G & H’s friends turned out to be more fun than G & H and dinner was very good, but the underlying problem of the family and its limitations remains unsolved.
28 November Thursday Villeparisis
It is Thanksgiving day and it is odd to realize that this is a purely American holiday, merely part of one country’s tradition and mythology. It is so well ingrained, advertized and commercialized, we are so well educated and programmed to its universal meaning that I always assumed, without thinking about it, that it was a universal holiday. But in France it is just another day, one which we spent in foggy quietude in wintry Villeparisis. Reading, snoozing and enjoying our day of lazy privacy.
Last night was another with Gerard and Hélène. Being with them is an odd experience. I suppose it is what is meant by viewing another way of life. We have done a lot of that during our trip. One of the avowed purposes of the travel was to break out of our life style which we found lacking in something: maybe an environment of stimulation of growth, though I blush to use such clinical terms. We have viewed several other people who were sufficiently like us to allow us to step imaginatively into their roles and taste their wine. Some we envied, others felt superior to, all we found lacking in the final accounting, for our model.
I guess the trouble is we do not know or cannot define what it is we really want and what we are willing to do to get it. We are naturally indecisive as individuals, and as a pair, we are both lazy and passive. Perhaps answers will come to us. We are intuitive, sensitive, bright, willing to learn and experience. We already have some answers and await, albeit impatiently, the rest.
6-29-70 4:30 P.M. Monday
Dear Mort,
French life is really different. For breakfast we eat some bread and butter with a large bowl of milk and coffee. At noon we have a huge lunch with hors d’oeuvres (all kinds of things I’ve never eaten before). Then since there is no water anywhere—we go to the cafés to drink something. Dinner is a huge affair which begins at 8 and lasts until 11. Then since we’ve eaten so much we take a long walk. I’m sure I’m going to gain weight—will you still like me if I do?
..My French is not bad but it’s getting better. Hélène’s husband Girard is studying to be a lawyer so he asks me all kinds of questions about American politics—most of which I can’t answer, but I bullshit very well.
Last night we went to a restaurant whose specialty is clams—we ate at least 10 different types—things I’ve never heard of—good. I’m anxious to hear from you—you will write, won’t you? I miss you very much. I keep writing you all kinds of little things because I want to share them with you.
How goes with you? How does it feel to work as a lawyer finally? Write me about your cases—What else are you doing besides working—how is everyone? I’m happy to be here but I miss you. ...I’ll talk to you soon (by letter, of course). Until then — I love you, Bea.
29 November Friday Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis The walk through The Louvre’s treasure trove: bits from Greek and Egyptian monuments and masterpieces of painting left us impressed less with the art on the walls or floors than with those walls, floors and ceilings, the facade, staircases, of the building itself. We decided we could live in this city if we found ourselves stranded here.We even found a legal parking space.
30 November Saturday Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis
This is the last day of the 4th month of our journey. One third of the year is gone. I really cannot say something like "Oh, where has the time flown?" Here is my journal to prove how full each day has been. Never in my life have I spent so long a period crammed with so many new experiences ... except for the first 4 we lived together(!)
Nor can I say honestly that I wish it would never end. There are tiresome, lonesome and homesick sides to travel. But I am far from my low point some time ago when I could not see how it would be possible to brave through the year, moments when brinking on returning home and calling it quits. But the house, Paris, the car, have given renewed hope and allowed me to see a possibility for the next 2/3 of a year. There is so much more to see here and to accomplish and I swore I would always try to finish what I start.
Today we recovered from yesterday’s jaunt. It rained all day. In the evening we drove into the madness of Saturday night Paris traffic and had dinner at a restaurant at the foot of the Pantheon with Raymond and Lola. We have yet to have a great French dinner and the eating I must say has not been equal to Greece in which almost every meal was an event – in the special places.
1 December Sunday Villeparisis
Raymond is almost the exact opposite of Bea’s father who is often dour, long faced, and without savoir-faire; of course, Morris is my father-in-law so I may be a little myopic about him, but not I think much. Raymond seems to have that disarming boyish carelessness that makes a man fun to be with. He is mischievous and flirty (the type women love to cuddle) and I have noticed that he can turn on the charm when he wants, which means he is quite bright, making what comes natural to him work for him. Both Morris and Raymond share an open-handed generosity, though for me Raymond has that enviable quality of being able to do what he wants with the certain knowledge that he can get away with it. Is no mean trick to be "cute" at 54.
Raymond and Lola arrived with the Rosenbergs and Max after weird Clara came to prepare, like a retinue of one preceding a royal court. She cleaned, cooked, chopped, set tables. They came in a whirlwind of food and wine. We ate 5 or 6 courses, then rolled our bodies for a 2 ½ hour romp along the canal. By ten-thirty, the court had moved on, as quickly as they had come, leaving Clara to wash dishes and linen in their wake.
2 December Monday Villeparisis
We spent some time today writing letters, going to the post office and mailing them. The postal strike is finally over. We then shopped for dinner. Bea remarked that it is strange to speak the language yet be unfamiliar with the customs, like cuts of meat, costs of vegetables, the metric system (how many servings in 200 grams?), whether the boulangerie will sell a demi-baguette. She has to ask those things and the storekeepers who think she is French because of her perfect French, look at her oddly. Are they wondering: Has she been released from a mental hospital? Is she a spy? We prepared a plan for attacking France in sections, troubled because of the bad weather we will be facing and uncertain of the expenses and time required for each jaunt, but eager to see it out. I think I am nearing the end of my desire to sit still. It is almost time, I am almost ready to get on the move again, at least for short trips.
3 December Tuesday Villeparisis
We both spent a sleepless night, Bea with various aches. I have felt caged up the last couple of days, especially today feeling the urge to do "productive things." I washed the car, made my own breakfast and tried to continue the Wayne story, the progress of which alternately eludes and depresses me. I continue studying my French, but with a growing feeling that it is getting beyond my concentration span. It was just a blue day in which everything seems to be getting out of control and even the smallest irritation, like a radio station fading into static during a nice song, drives the nerves to the brink.
In the evening we waited for the plumber, who Crazy Clara had said would come at 6 or 8, she was as vague about the time as about most things. He didn’t come at all. To top off the day, "A Lion In Winter" which we had been looking forward to as a treat was replaced by a Jerry Lewis movie.
July 8, 1970 Wednesday 11:30 PM
Dear, dear Mort,
I received a letter from you today— it made me so happy I cried (you know me I’m a sloppy crier). I’m happy to hear that you won a case. I hope that you win many, many more— congratulations! No, I haven’t forgotten how to read English but sometimes I have trouble writing it. You know you’re right about the illusion of letters— they do make one feel as if the other person were there— if only for a moment.
Enough—back to the commentaries. (By the way, you realize that I am keeping a sort of journal through you—I hope you enjoy reading it.)
Today I went to the Rodin Museum, a huge two story building filled with his sculptures—unforgettable, fabulous things and since Rodin was such a sensualist, many of the sculptures made me think of you— The Kiss is truly flawless.
At the museum I ran into Robbie and Jon (I told you Paris was filled with Americans). I may go to Italy with them—They were supposed to come over tonight but called while we were out to diner. I don’t know what happened to them.
Thursday 7 P.M.
Well, Jon & Robbie showed up. I’m going to meet them in Biarritz and go to Italy with them. I’m anxious to leave Hélène and my aunt and uncle because they’re driving me crazy with their family talk. Paris is beautiful however....
Soon, Love, Bea.
4 December Wednesday through 6 December Friday VP to Paris to VP
5 December: This night, Thursday, was one of those that one page is just too little to allow adequate expression, or as Bea said, "venting my spleen."
[I always used to tease Bea about her malaprops. She was a master of them, without really trying. English was her third language of many, after Polish and French, later a little Russian, more Italian. She sometimes delightfully mangled expressions, creating new ones, like ""abbarition," an apt combination of "apparition" and "aberration;" or "heart rendering," which more perfectly describes bathos than the cliché "heart rending". It was part of her unique charm. MB 18 June 2002.]
In this case she is right. First, more about pleasanter things.
On Wednesday we went into Paris alighting the Metro a few steps from the Palais de Chaillot in the Place de Trocadero. There on the terrace was the Eiffel Tower straight on, looking like the Verrazano Narrows Bridge standing on end. It is planted in the middle of a grand garden at the other end of which is the Ecole Militaire. Right behind is a new skyscraper, beyond which are the dome of Les Invalides and further away, The Pantheon. We walked to Les Invalides and gaped at the unsubtle grandeur of Napoleon’s tomb, then an hour gaping at the true grandeur of Rodin’s genius. After a stop at UNESCO to get Christmas cards to send to friends in the States, we returned to VP, bought some food which Bea whipped up into another great meal.
Tonight we went to Gerard & Hélène’s again much against my will. This time it was for a "formal dinner" which meant of course suit and tie. When we arrived we were left alone in the salon as usual, though this time it was our own fault for arriving early. The other guests eventually arrived, a man and his wife and another man. I never know the names of the people we meet there because we are never introduced by my name — on 2 continents I am known by Bea’s family as "Bea’s husband" "Bina’s man," or le marie de Béa. The lone man was yet another one of Bea’s cousins.... A remarkable family: so many supposedly killed in The Holocaust, yet zillions of cousins extant to be met around the world. None of the guests spoke a word of English and the conversation ensued and continued for an hour without a single attempt by G or H — who was putting her brats to bed, to translate for me or explain the trend of talk. Bea tried but I soon saw that even if I understood it was the sort of talk I would soon be bored with so I hushed her with a killer look. Dinner then followed with course after course of good food (the very "French" roast beef and potatoes, topped with tarte au pommes—apple pie) and stultifying conversation all in French.
G was very witty in his insufferable way and several times made Bea the butt of jokes which she innocently walked into by trying to join the conversation. She speaks French very well, but there are certain subtleties of language and custom, slang and usage, idiomatic, historical or popular references that one can know only if one is a native. For her interest to learn more, she was punished by G’s droll wit. It was cheap humor made by an insensitive weak and small person at the expense of one who could not defend herself. She could not hope to understand some of the puns; she was a guest and would not— was too polite and decent to— offend her cousin; and her style does not include the barbed wit—she is more the slow burn then kick in the balls type.
I sat there burning because this sort of repartee is my meat. In my own language I would have stripped his flesh in such a nice way he would have felt no pain until he noticed the others enjoying his exposure — though G is such an ass that he probably never would have noticed. But there I sat, bound and gagged by my infantile grasp of French, which forced me to watch this little Napoleon in his armchair, shirt sleeves rolled up with tie loose — while the guests stifled in suit, tie and straight back chairs.
It was quite frustrating. I vowed, like the Israelis: Never Again. This year is too precious to be wasted in boredom among boors.
(6 December: I am writing this on 9 December. As best I can recall, we spent this day reading and writing Christmas cards and posting stamps on them. The glue must have dulled my senses. I made no entry at the time.)
7 December Saturday Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis Today is Pearl Harbor Day and we spent it at Versailles which seems to have some significance I cannot for the moment grasp, unless because my twerped mind associates or confuses it with Bastille Day (July 14) another historic period of upheaval.
The day was gloomy and damp and cold and the golden rooms that have been restored by the French government in a vain effort to recapture the old glories were just yellow paint to me. Even the Hall of Mirrors reflected only the quickly sliding gray clouds; the Chamber of the Sun King was in eclipse.
The "gardens" and vast grounds are magnificently evocative of ghosts on these winter days. The greens are muted and the trees look like systems of blood vessels or superstructures of rusting steel. You can almost hear the rattle of carriage wheels on the cobblestones or the panting of a horse carrying a messenger to the Court. You can picture the puffs of steam from the horse’s nostrils at it cantors down the endless lane of chestnut trees.
We sat on a bench between copies of Roman statues and looked at the fountain of Appollo whose waters seemed tidal as its surface was ridged by winter wind. We felt like characters in an early Truffault or Bergman film or one of those Cold War spy movies which are always set in Eastern Bloc countries in the dead of a black and white winter.
Odd, there are no plaques in the Hall of Mirrors to note the fact that it was used to sign the papers that ended the Franco-Prussian War and The Great War, both disastrous to France and both increasing her spiral away from greatness on the world stage. There is a coldness, a machine like precision to the people that compels a headlong rush to move ahead to the things that are awaiting them. France (like England and the U.S.) has lived with "destiny" as a moving force, a spiritual raison d’etre for so long it cannot now face the lack of motivation of nationhood in a godless empireless world.
During the 50's while living on the brink of atomic war, then in the despair of Vietnam, we began to suspect that our only purpose was survival. But deep within us we doubt that Survival is enough reason to go on. Nixon and his gang stirred the paranoia and dream of destiny and grandeur as the motive for expelling another bogeyman and was exposed as a fraud, like Louis Quatorze and Napoleon.
The world’s insanity never changes: we cry over the price of gasoline in our cars and sugar for our coffee while in Calcutta the 2 kilo a week ration for rice is cut in half in an "austerity program." Yet, no Indians storm The Bastille or set up guillotines. They search instead for glory in an atomic bomb to protect them from their neighbors, the bogeyman who is going to — what, steal their rice ration?
I don’t really understand my mood. It was not all that depressing. Actually it was quite charming, in its silly, baroque (or is it rococo) way. But I keep seeing those skeleton like trees, leafless, still.
8 December Sunday through 9 December Monday Villeparisis
You never know about people. Just when you think you know them they come up with something that shocks the hell out of you. Then too there are dramatic scenes that seem a little unreal.
Raymond and Lola came with the Rosenbergs. Something Bea and I observed last week became more obvious: Raymond and Mme. Rosenberg are playing games – whether they are actually exercising some middle age passion is hard to divine, but they are overt in their flirtations, slight contacts, repartee, double entendre innuendo.
Bea and I would surely recognize it if anyone would because of our own experience.
The problem is, so does Lola. She is a wilful, strong, not very bright woman who is aging quickly and not so prettily while her husband maintains his youthful appearance, ego and vigor. She is dangerous and she exploded today, first sputtering in ill humor directly at Mme. Rosenberg because of her attentions to Lola’s husband, then in a general, stupid, childish display that had her stamping her insistence that the entire group leave at once even though the group was engrossed in watching an amusing film on the tv.
Bea suggests that her aunt’s past reluctance to question Raymond’s wanderings seems a wise policy because that is his nature and his ego is secure enough to walk out on her if pushed. But she is the drive behind their business success, so probably he needed her more when the business was evolving. So she should have made the stand back then. Now she has no ammunition left except that he is getting older and maybe Mme. R, a dumpy, dyed blond with grown children is the best he can do.
Monsieur R is a cultured gentleman who seems ineffectual and blind to the goings on. But he did do a number on "Yin and Yang" and about how he and Mme. R are "complementary" while Raymond and Mme. R are both "Yang." Bea suggests we won’t see the R’s again on Sundays.
9 December: I am studying French and finding the going rough indeed. Never a whiz at foreign languages due to my stunted concentration span for grammatical rules and vocabulary memorization, it is an exercise in discipline that grates on my mind which craves logic and order. Any subject that can be reduced to lists or sequences is one I can master. Languages are full of archaic forms, things done a certain way because of history or just because ... words with random letters thrown in for no apparent reason are impossible to remember ... irregular verbs threaten my own regularity ... syntax taxes my synapses ...
At best, when I end I may be able to express myself with the complexity of a 6 year old French child. If I were to live in a country not of my native tongue, it would be like being mostly deaf or legally blind.
Monday July 6 ‘70 7:30 P.M.
Dear Mort,
...My feet are killing me. I’ll probably be returning to Paris tonight or tomorrow—earlier than I planned, but this will give me several days in Paris without Hélène—there is much to see.
I hope I get a letter from you when I get there—these one way conversations are no fun—by the way I miss you.
12:00 P.M.
Well, here I am again in Paris. I’m sleeping at my aunt and uncle’s tonight. I don’t have the key to the mailbox so I have to wait for Hélène to return before I can get any letters from you—I sure hope you haven’t forgotten me. Have you? It’s really amazing—tomorrow will make two weeks that I left you—they have really flown by for me—Have they for you?
...You know Mort—the only real way to see Europe is a couple in a car traveling around—Are you sure you won’t join me? ... I miss you and love you more. With much love, Bea.
10 December Tuesday Normandy Day 1: Villeparisis to Les Andelys to Rouen
With the intrepidity of Jacques Chartier who left from this area to explore the New World (Honfleur to Quebec: he disregarded New York, in which he saw no apparent worth); with the courage of Richard the Lionheart (which we found in Rouen’s Cathedral, by the way); with the logistical planning that would have earned praise from Eisenhower; we invaded Normandy.
Like the Allies who fought Hitler, we caught the province napping. The weather was superb, sunny and clear, though cold and windy. By midday we had thrust deep into the country, lunching over looking the ruins of Richard’s castle called Chateau Gaillard which is on a cliff over the wandering Seine, protecting the green farms and grazing land.
An hour later we entered Rouen and after some reconnaissance — for parking space and cheap lodging — set up our HQ in a tilting but cute little hotel. We explored our new domain, finding a hole in the ground where Joanne D’Arc was burnt and more construction continuing around the famous Cathedral. We peered into some alleys and nooks. Then the enemy began to awaken. It began to rain. We found our room icy due to a heating failure and we spent $14 for dinner which was as harder to swallow than the food which was quite good.
11 December Wednesday Normandy Day 2: Rouen to Pont Audemer to Honfleur to Deauville to Caen
A day which exemplifies what is good and bad about France and touring.
After a frigid night, we followed the meandering Seine through small villages, pastures and near chateaux, beginning in rain, then hail (the size of marbles) and into chill sun. We stopped in Pont Audemer on the River Risle to lunch at Auberge de Vieux Puits, whose food and hospitality were rated highly in The Book. The food was, the manners were not. When we ordered only an entree, Coquilles San Jacques and Truite de Bovary aux Champagne, the order taker / owner insulted Bea by saying that he made no profit unless we took a full meal and "I suppose you will drink water." All this was in French and Bea was too shocked and embarrassed to let me in on it or I would have insisted on walking out. We ordered a bottle of bubbly cidre and dessert of pear tart with creme fraiche and kirsh liqueur which is what we had intended anyway. But when he returned I found he spoke English and told him what I thought of his style. He called it candor and shrugged it off.
Back on the road, the scenery was beautiful and we stopped to walk around the little harbor at Honfleur, then drove on to Caen, finding a small hotel with another frigid room – the second night where the heating was "malfunctioning" according to the equally cold woman who ran the place.
So there it is: beautiful country, high prices, rude manners, moody weather, delicious food: France in a nutshell.
12 December Thursday Normandy Day 3: Caen to Arromanches Les Bains to Bayeux to Omaha Beach to Pointe du Hoc to Avranches to Mont Saint Michel
"Avec de la patience on arrive à tout."
 |
| Pointe du Hoc (monument) |
While yesterday was trying and stretched our nerves with ups and downs, today was a success from start to finish. We wove through history and scenery as in a dream. The sunken ports of the Allies and memorials on the beaches code named Juno, Sword and Gold where the British landed, the maudlin museum, all evoked 1944. Then we time traveled back to an invasion which went the other way — Normandy to England — 900 years earlier. The Bayeux Tapestry records William The Conqueror’s Norman invasion. Then back to D-Day, walking through the cemetery among the crosses and David stars; and Pointe Du Hoc where Rangers climbed the cliffs suicidally desperate to blow up guns in concrete and steel pill boxes only to find the guns were mostly not there and those that were didn’t work. 
We drove inland as the soldiers did, to St. Lo, across rolling green lush pastures in fog and drizzle, then South until Mont St. Michel loomed out in the bay like the castle in Jack-and-the beanstalk. We found a lovely oak beamed room, walked the ramparts and joined some American photographers who were shooting an auto ad. After a great dinner and conversation we slept warmly. Tomorrow we will explore the town that nestles below the monastery.
Friday, 10:00 A.M. July 3, 1970
Dear Mort,
The waitress just brought me breakfast so while I’m waiting for everyone to get up, I’ll tell you about the last two days.
Wednesday we visited Mont St. Michel. It is absolutely fantastic. It is built on an island which is a mountain. Years ago, one could only get there when the tides were low. Now they have built a road and a parking lot—for all the tourists. The mountain is built on several levels. At the top there is a monastery—not used anymore—except by visiting tourists and in descending order there are small narrow houses built into the cliffs—and prisons (with skeletons still visible) for people who criticized the kings. At the base there is a whole village which has been tranformed into restaurants, shops and hotels and museums—The whole thing is fabulous.
...I keep having dreams about you—I hope you think of me sometimes.
I miss you very much. I love you, Bea.
13 December Friday Normandy Day 4: Le Mont St. Michel
Leave it to us to spend Friday the 13th on a windswept Gothic castle on an almost empty island. In reality the day fought any romanticism by breaking into almost warm sunlight. We mounted the battlements again to view the surrounding dunes at low tide and went further up to enter the Abbey and church. We wandered through the cold bare stone rooms that served as lodgings for pilgrims: kings, knights and peasants. A room for each class with descending pleasantries, of course. We found a guide willing to open a door and lead us up a winding stone staircase to the top of a tower where we looked out on the entire island. He was very nice to do it for us as it is out of season and no tours are being given now. 
14 December Saturday Mt. St. Michel to Alençon to Paris to Villeparisis
This was a driving day, pure and simple. We went straight through to Paris stopping in a few towns long enough for gas and to shop for a bottle of dry cidre which we let slip though our fingers at the inn where we stopped a few days ago. They had bottles on sale but we did not buy at that time, expecting that — since it is the vin de pays — specialty of the region of Normandy — we could get some anywhere. Wrong. We have seen and tasted brut cidre and it is not at all the same. We never did find the sec in any of the towns we passed through as we zipped along the one lane highway that goes all the way to Paris, singing every song we remembered.
At VP the house was ice cold and we sat freezing in our coats, then went out and spent all the remaining Francs we possessed between us on some provisions, including tonight’s dinner.
15 December Sunday Villeparisis
The crew came out again preceded as usual by Clara, who always sets Bea’s teeth on edge with her vagueness, her childish fears and her repeated urgent warnings. She is also getting deaf. In the bedroom under the covers, I heard the door drag close, then her bovine steps and her dish washing, floor cleaning, can opening, cooking.
She left the house and returned twice more to shop and deposit a turkey with the baker to cook before we finally arose from bed. She hides every utensil in "its proper place" and forgets where. In the kitchen she hastily denied she had taken any cigarettes from our package without being asked. One look at the pack we had left unopened made it obvious she had.
We spent the day eating, two meals separated by a two hour bike ride and walk along the canal. In the evening when they left, including Clara, we noticed we were out of cigarettes and were about to go to the store when we remembered that we had spent the last of our Francs on dinner last night.
16 December Monday Villeparisis
We woke up late, both feeling hungover from the Sunday feast, this time turkey. I have not felt his unhealthily logy since we were in Israel where we were likewise stuffed by well meaning family. That kind of love I can do without.
The frustrations of the dreary day were not helped by my bike ride to the bank to exchange money, necessary because on our return from Normandy we had just one franc. It was bitterly cold and rain spattered my glasses. And the bank was closed. And so were the three others I tried.
When I returned with the news, Bea was frantic because we had no cigarettes. And no money to buy any. She even got out of bed and dragged herself out of the house with a few U.S. dollars we still had. When she came back she had 2 packs of Kents given to her by the guy at the tabac. He wouldn’t take dollars but gave her the cigarettes trusting her clean honest looks. For dinner we ate yesterday’s turkey and watched a Fred Astaire movie which came too late to brighten the day.
17 December Tuesday Villeparisis
We awoke to the jangling telephone. It was Gerry Chaleff calling to tell us what we already expected, that he won’t be coming to Paris He is in trial defending some guy who blew up the Pan Am terminal [the day after we left from it!]. But Bea’s neurotic friend Marilyn Ducharme will be coming— Friday, just in time to cancel our planned trip to the chateaux tomorrow.
We finally got to the bank and other business including getting 6 rolls of film back (221 francs worth of temples and camels.) And later got some mail which was very nice.
I got a ribbon for the typewriter and learned to use it in a letter to Ron & Laura. It is a French typewriter and an old one at that with several disconcerting peculiarities like skips, high & low letters, no margin ¶’ing and many letters misplaced. I will type the articles on it but if any editors are fooled into thinking that they are professional I will be shocked.
[I have edited this letter to make it coherent, without the hundreds of typos. 12 June 2002.]
[I have edited this letter to make it coherent, without the hundreds of typos. 12 June 2002.]
15 Dec 74
Dear R&L:
...Since we spoke we have been in Normandy driving for a week ... two great days at the Mont St. Michel. The food was great: fruits de mer, especially moules (which sounds tastier than mussels, and were) and the Mt. St. Michel omelette, fluffy as a soufflé with lots of cidre de bouché de pomme the local firewater. We met some Americans shooting a car ad with the Mont as a backdrop. The photographer is one of the top car ad photogs and is sent all over the world by agencies, this time Y&R. His wife is a model. I am telling you this because they are in LA often and lonely because their home base is Detroit so I took the liberty to give them your number. They are our kind of people: Dick and Susan J.
Today we discovered that Bea’s friend Marilyn is coming Friday for Christmas and New Year’s. If she can, why can’t you? We were going Wednesday to see some chateaux but now that will have to wait until next week or the week after.
The weather here is rather odd. It rains most of the time, a drizzle just like Cole Porter said it does. At times a storm blows in and it rains real hard and it is always cold, like NY in the winter, makes your nose run and your ears are cold but you can still operate.
Paris is beautiful, quite the most beautiful city I have seen with everything that a city should be and have: sophistication, busy-ness, action, tradition, restaurants, shows, places to just walk unequaled by any other city. Its history is right out there, from the Middle Ages at Notre Dame to Napoleon at Les Invalides (never has such a big tomb been built for such a small person) to bohemian Montmartre and student haunt, Boul’ Mich’. It is also a lot of things a city is that aren’t so nice: like dirty, car infested, and very expensive.
...I am writing a travel book spoof I call "Europe on No Dollars a Day." The chapter on Athens called "Doing it the Greek Way" begins with "Stealing a Goat."
Love and regards to all and a happy New Year. Je m’appelle Morton. Et Béatrice.
[Bea added]:
Mort’s French is improving every day, soon he will learn to use the French typewriter properly! Miss you and love you, Bea.
18 December Wednesday Villeparisis
It is time for another of my disjointed discourses. For a long while I have been disinterested in politics except from the standpoint of drama, irony, or comedy: like Watergate.
But my thinking has proceeded so far that now, the suggestion that any party, president, program or trend can make a great difference in my life or the world seems ridiculous. It is not that I have become disillusioned with hero worship (though I certainly have), or that I have turned inward to better myself rather than the world (though in a way I have). It is more a recognition that the world is so complex and diverse, so hopelessly enmeshed in "systems", dogmas, fears and hates that it continues on its way with an inertia that is not directed.
There is a stumbling along without sense, without goals, ideals or beliefs, but merely with momentum. I do not mean fatalism—no great Hand writes the history, rather the hands of everyone on earth hold the pen, resulting in jibberish.
On the trip, many of the people we have encountered have asked me questions about US politics: is Kissinger smart? Wasn’t Nixon only a corrupt politician? Would the US go to war—to protect Israel? My sister Risë wrote to me recently: ""What do you think of Ford’s economic program?" I received the letter in Greece when I was concerned mostly with getting into Athens to see the Acropolis. I didn’t know what the "program" was and by the time I got a "Newsweek" several weeks later, I found it had been rejected for a new program.
I don’t mean that I feel superior because of this feeling, but I used to think it dreadfully important to be informed and aware. But now I feel that there are things and goals that are much more important, lasting and pleasurable.
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