Normandy: Why America is the Best

 

America is the best. Still.

 Hear me out before you cancel me.

 

I’ve lived abroad. A bit. And traveled-widely.

I am an unapologetic Europhile with an obsession for French antiques and storied paintings.                         The older the better.

 

I love vintage Bavarian villages preserved from modernity. 

Give me all the terraced vineyards on sloping Spanish soil.

Ferry me to fabled islands inked from Slovene fairy tales. 

 

But when it comes to superior nations, we win.

 

And visiting Normandy for the 80^th anniversary of D-Day was a poignant reminder.

And not just because we saved the world from fascism.

(Though that would be enough.)

 

Now, if you’ve never been: Normandy, France boasts everything j’adore about Europe: Quaint villages laced with charming rustic, stone cottages, adorned by flowering window boxes untouched by time.                 

There, at every winding cobbled turn, history insists on tribute to the Allied sacrifice and victory. 

And I am smitten.

Choosing from the sundry D-Day (week long) events was trés difficle. As was resurrecting my college French.  (Which was more like a bloody massacre of the language.)

 

Re-enactments of the D-Day jumps at the Azeville Battery sounded like this history nerd’s Christmas.  So, you can already see-a fait accompli:  My squad of five strolled a trifling two miles through farmland and the Azeville village to reach the jump site.

 

I rationalized -the march lent authenticity to the event. As did Azeville village which was perfectly preserved since 1940ish. Mainly. 

 

Watching parachutists repeatedly jump from the original bi-planes for over two hours was nothing short of amazing. Like all of my diversely aged children were honestly enthralled.

 

The unicorn prize of the night- however- was meeting two WWII paratroopers who stormed the beach on D-Day. I swooned.  I could have died right then.

 

But I didn’t.

 

In fact, we lived to eat sausages on French baguettes. Followed by French waffles, dripping with caramel beurre sel under a porcelain blue sky overlooking Norman homesteads. 

Vive Le France! 

 

Our pilgrimage to Mont St. Michel the following day left everyone underwhelmed and exhausted due to the 5-mile round trip hike. I mean, an ancient abbey- perched atop a tidal island is uniquely lovely.  Or so I failed to convince everyone.

 

Later that evening, we explored Bayeux. Which I highly recommend.

It’s perfectly charming and perfectly French. Teeming with antique stores and patisseries and champagne, there is little to hate.

Unless you are a gluten-free teetotaler. In which case, skip France.

 

I should note: We had rented this (ostensibly) charming “chalet” on a French farm which boasted sundry chickens, charm and a petite pond.  

*Sigh* 

It was picturesque. Granted. 

But, the chalet was a shed.  More comfortable for a John Deere.  Also. There was ZERO insulation. Which is probably how the monster snail found his way to the toilette. The toilette in which I could barely fit.  #memories

 

On our final day, we ventured to American Cemetery at Normandy. Appropriately sobering and rightfully overwhelming- the breadth and depth of the human sacrifice neatly sprawls in a sea of white cross graves.  Omaha beach beside- keeps faithful watch.

 

When the bagpipes mournfully played Amazing Grace, I was undone. (And I am mainly German so…)  Moved by the sacred tribute to the final sacrifice of these brave men, all the tears.

 

World War II jets trailed the skies.

My kids collected sand from the hallowed beaches.

And I silently prayed we would never forget.

 

Prayers. Answered.

 

Because then, everything stopped. Like literally. All the traffic. Everyone. Everything.

 President Biden's *surprise* trip to forced all cars to the side of the road. For hours. The French were scrambling. All roads were closed indefinitely. Sacre Bleu!  

  

Here’s the deal: The French handle change as well as I handle a caffeine fast. Not great. Yes. Yes. They do SO many things well. But, pivoting and security are not two of them.

 

Thousands of families suddenly corralled to the side of the road in the hot sun for SIX plus hours without water or food. (first world) Disaster.

 

C’est terrible.

 

Finally, I glimpsed an American hero. Apparent by his Hawaiian shirt and command of authority. As I later learned, he was an Army Ranger, unofficially “advising” the French gendarmerie (police) on how to handle this petite security crisis. He corralled his other Rangers into assisting.

 

And we were so grateful.

 

Americans have always been leaders. Even on foreign soil.

 

The other day at the German park, Olivette fell hard from the monkey bars.  She was sobbing in my arms, in pain when I  was approached by multiple Americans. All inquiring how to help. Zero Germans.                     All Americans. Men and Women.  

 

This is America.

We are flawed, imperfect, fallen.

Our croissants are crap. (Hats off to the French.)

 

But, we are leaders.

We are compassionate.

We are helpers.

And we are still the best, most free republic (if we can keep it).

 

I said what I said.

But I think the 209,000 Americans laid to rest in Normandy would also agree.