But WE Are Luckier 

In one of our first trips abroad, we met a young man on an overnight train trip from Nice to Venice.  The train ride was eventful.  First, our tickets for a sleeper car specified men-only occupants—that was a problem.  Stan said the train company got it wrong but . . .this was long before Google and online ticket apps became helpful as they are today.   A grand fiasco ensued for a while, but a friendly young father on holiday with his wife and kids, intervened, swapped cabins with us, and all was finally well.  There were more issues with the train ride, but we’ll save that for another day. 

Over a bottle of wine we shared with the young man who saved us, we watched the lights of coastal towns and Monte Carlo glitter in the night as we rode by.  Toward the end of the bottle, we waxed philosophically.  I began to tell the man, the postmaster of Nice, that the quality of a person’s life has as great a deal to do with where and when he is born. . . . little more.  A person could be born in Nigeria with many barriers to success, in contrast to those born in Norway, where wealth and education are almost guaranteed.  A soul emerging as a mortal in Congo has a far less chance of having health, nutrition, and shelter in life than a person born in Canada.  In short, some people are born on 2^nd base without ever coming to bat, and some are born with two strikes. A person’s skin color, gender, and birthplace often determine inherent advantages in life or lack thereof.  The postmaster got it. 

I went on to say that we, Stan and I, feel lucky to be born white and in the United States with all its freedoms, diversity, and opportunity.  The postmaster listened to me carefully, then thoughtfully added, in his charming French accent, “But WE are luckier.” 

Stan needed a haircut.  Getting a trim in a foreign country is always a gamble.  Borrowing from Forrest, “. . . you never know what you’re going to get.”  We randomly popped into a shop yesterday and voila!  We showed the young barber a photo of Stan with his hair the length he liked and tried to explain that he did not want to be buzzed, just a trim would be fine.  A nice teenager in the shop offered to translate; he said he spoke a little Anglais.  While Stan was getting his curls tamed and trimmed, the helpful young man and I chatted, me in my 10^th grade French and he in is 10^th grade English.  We talked about where we are from and where we are going.  I found out a little about him.  He asked if we like Orleans, which is where we are now. He was quite surprised, even a bit appalled, to hear that we like it.   Orleans is one of France’s oldest and prettiest cities, but for young people, I think it is a bit small and confining.  He was fascinated with my story about our no longer working and simply traveling with no maison to return to when we go home.  He wanted to know about our previous work and how we are able to travel the world. 

Things led to things. I told the overnight train story to this young man, who most likely has never traveled as far as Lyon or ever been to Paris.  He nearly fell out of his seat when he heard that a Frenchman might consider himself luckier to be born French than American. 

That young boy told me with his eyes that he feels a little trapped in his small town and longs for a bigger life, no matter how charming and quaint this French town might seem to me.

About this part of the country, the three largest cities north and east of Marseille have only just over 100,000 residents each.  Most towns have only 30,000 to 40,000 people, but they are enchanting, enticing, and very old; some were founded around 700 years BC!    While Paris is the world’s most dazzling city in France, one thing is sure: the entire country of France is blessed with beauty, corner to corner, up and down.  The countryside is like a panoramic display of color and shapes, with vineyards, mountains, rivers, hilltop and valley villages, rocky bluffs, and vibrant fields of potatoes, poppies, corn, wheat, and lavender.  Like driving through the big sky country of Montana or the green Buffalo River bluffs in Arkansas, one is often inspired to remark in France, “This is pretty country.”

This part of the world is old.  In 1940, while hiking, some teenage boys and a dog found a hole in the ground.  It was the opening to an undiscovered cave containing walls of prehistoric drawings 22,000 years old.  We had a chance to visit this place, Lascaux, in France’s Dordogne region.  Access to the cave is tightly controlled.  We waited our turn for a guided trip inside.  We walked only a few meters to enter, and wham!  The sight was staggering, chilling, almost breathtaking.  There, bigger than life, were drawings of cows, bulls, horses, aurochs, and elk; some hint of movement as if running, some hint of injury; in one scene, a horse seems to be falling from a cliff.  Sadly, although the cave and the paintings looked real, it was all a replica created by skilled artists. Using computers and digital cameras, paintings were recreated in exact scenes, proportions, colors, and hues. 

The original cave has 600 paintings covering its walls and ceilings.  After its discovery, Lascaux became a very popular spot for explorers and visitors. Even though painted with mineral substances, humidity and carbon dioxide from people’s breaths took a toll and caused deterioration to the paintings, destroying this rare glimpse into the lives of prehistoric man.  The original cave was closed to the public in 1963. In 1983, an exact, truly exact replica of the cave was created, which allows visitors to imagine being in the original cave, discovering the frescoes without destroying the original.  The real cave and its hidden paintings are just a short distance away; they were created by our ancestors, the Neanderthals . . .  really tall people who looked very much like us 20,000 years ago.  What were they trying to say?  Were the animals thought of as gods?  Was this a sacred place?  Were they painted as a token of thanks to their god?  Or were they simply people who loved to paint animals? We shall never know. 

Visitors are not allowed to take photographs of the cave replica as it too must be preserved, but the Lascaux museum showcases another set of replicas that can be photographed and shared. 

To imagine work done by human beings 22,000 years ago is mind-boggling, but the Chauvet Cave in southern France holds even older cave paintings, the oldest in the world, 32,000 years old.  

Since leaving Marseille, and in addition to seeing the Lascaux, we spent a few days in the medieval town of Sarlat-de-Caneda.  We made day trips from there to other nearby towns and villages.  Can one ever tire of seeing stately castles and chateaus hundreds of years old and not wonder what life might have been like then?  Can one ever be bored with a visiting town built into the sides of a steep bluff overlooking clear running streams, or be not be amazed that the ancient stone buildings are still useful today as homes, shops, and restaurants?  Or is it too much of a good thing to simply relax on the balcony of a small apartment, gazing at the ancient, enchanting town of Orleans and its lovely Loire River?  

Stan and I have often proclaimed that we are in love with Spain.  We are, and we may live there someday.  But France . . . . oh France!  I may never get over you.

Stan and I may not be luckier, but we are indeed lucky.