The Village of the Martyrs

The atrocities the Nazis committed are legendary, but most of the attention falls on the Holocaust, and rightly so.

One of the atrocities committed by the SS in World War II is almost never spoken of in the United States, but it is something that is still taught in French schools, and it is but one example of many where the Third Reich took out its anger on civilians.

In 1944, near the town of Limoges in Limousin, French Resistance fighters killed an SS officer and captured another. As the D-Day landings in Normandy had just taken place, it was a time of hope for the French and panic for the Germans.

Over the following days, the Germans planned their retaliation for the killing of their officer. That retaliation was played out June 10 in the town of Oradour-sur-Glane.
SS soldiers - including some from Alsace, which had been disputed by France and Germany for nearly a century - rounded up almost 700 civilians and murdered them.

The men were shot at various points in the small town, and the women and children were herded into the church where they were machine-gunned and then burned.

The entire town was razed, with every building looted and burned.

When General Charles de Gaulle saw the city and heard of the atrocity committed there, he ordered the city be left as a reminder of what happened. To this day, visitors can walk the dead streets, passing what used to be houses and businesses, many with signs telling the barest details of the former inhabitants.
The streets today have been cleared of rubble, much of that having been done when the dead were removed a few days after the attack.

One of the few survivors wrote in his memoirs that when the Germans rounded them up, everyone thought it was an identity paper check. They were herded to different locations before a grenade going off signaled the Germans to simultaneously open fire.

The whole town is a moving experience. It reminded me somewhat of Pompeii, but even though Pompeii was ruined and its inhabitants died in their masses, there is one key difference - Oradour-sur-Glane was wiped out by people, not a devastating volcanic eruption.

Walking into the church where hundreds lost their lives, it was hard to imagine what kind of 'soldier' could set up a machine gun and mow down women and children.Bullet holes still scar the inside of the walls, and at one spot there is a memorial to those whom the village had lost in the First World War. In place by World War II, it too is perforated by machine gun bullets as the same enemy visited its hatred on the town.The town's cemetery has a memorial to those killed, with gravestones throughout the cemetery bearing images of "our dear martyrs." At the memorial, two coffers hold the last remnants of some of those who were never identified - charred pieces of bone.

Even though I know the history of many of the atrocities committed in World War II, seeing such a stark reminder of what those numbers in history books actually mean was a moving experience.

Fort Sumter – 150 years later

Charleston, South Carolina, might be home to more Revolutionary War sites than Civil War sites, but 150 years ago, the first shots of the Civil War were fired in the harbor, at a place called Fort Sumter.

The fort was one of the must-see stops on my trip to Charleston in December. As a kid, I had always been interested in the Civil War, and while some of my friends could tell you how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in his career, I could tell you a trained soldier was expected to fire three shots per minute out of a muzzleloading musket, and other minutiae and historical trivia.

Riding a ferry to the fort takes the better part of 30 minutes, and my first sight of it was just a low dark spot on the horizon, splitting sea and sky on a nice day.

The walls used to be much taller, mounting guns that protected the harbor from seaborne attack.

But it wouldn’t be seaborne attack on April 12, 1861, that would eventually lead to the fort’s downfall.

Confederate gunners opened fire from other nearby fortifications after a signal shot that exploded over Fort Sumter. When I stood in the fort’s courtyard, surrounded by ruined walls and the evidence of the shelling and fire that ensued, I tried to imagine what the fort must have been like back then.

Once the fort had been shelled for 34 hours, a fire broke out, and Maj. Robert Anderson, the fort’s commander, surrendered his garrison rather than let it be slaughtered.

Today, visitors can walk around the fort, climb atop the remains and visit the museum inside, which contains numerous artifacts from the era as well as putting the site into the greater context of the conflict.

Since the fort is a national park, it is well-kept, and guides give free talks and answer questions.

Old forts aren’t at the top of everyone’s travel list, and Charleston has much to offer outside of historical sites (though it has plenty of those). However, Fort Sumter was the first battle in a long war that ended up killing more Americans than any other war in history. If you're at all interested in American history, the site is a must-see.

For up-to-date directions on how to get to the fort, click the link at the top of the article, which will take you to the official site.

An Unplanned Arrival

When I was living in Paris, I had a 10-day period in which I had absolutely no responsibilities, so I naturally decided to travel somewhere.

But where?

A lot can be seen in 10 days, and there is still a massive chunk of Europe I’ve yet to explore, so I was surprised at how long it took me to choose a place to visit.

It seemed like everything I pondered was something I could include in another, longer trip.

Spain and Portugal? I already had a trip planned there with my sister when she graduated college, so that was out.

Norway? Aside from being expensive, I envision seeing Sweden and Finland at the same time, and I had nowhere near enough cash.

In the end, I decided to pull out a map and find a place that I wanted to see, but for which I wouldn’t really plan a trip from the States.

And it was such an obvious choice: Budapest, capital of Hungary.

A few hours later, I was in the WHSmith bookstore on Rue de Rivoli buying a guidebook with an inflated price. I booked an EasyJet flight and looked forward to my leaving in four days.

It turned out that I would be arriving on Oct. 23, 2009 – a date that held no significance to me, but means a whole lot to Hungarians.

It was on Oct. 23, 1956 that the infamous uprising started, which ended with Soviet tanks crushing an ill-conceived rebellion and about 2,500 Hungarian deaths.

But Oct. 23, 1989 was a day of celebration for Hungarians, as the country reverted to Hungarian rule for the first time since World War II.

My flight was delayed, so I arrived at my hotel on the Buda side of the Danube rather late, and I immediately ignored the hotelier’s advice and made for Pest, where any demonstrations or celebrations would be going on.

The site had seen some riots in 2008, but if you tell that to me, that just means it’s the first place I’ll stop. It’s a characteristic that helps somewhat with journalism and gives my mother headaches.

The first thing I noticed, as I made my way from the Fisherman’s Bastion to the river, was that the Hungarian Parliament was lit up in red, white and green, the national colors.

This was only my second time behind what was once the Iron Curtain, and I was not expecting to see such a stately building so well-done (and with the front recently cleaned).

I took the metro under the Danube, riding down ridiculously fast escalators to board trains straight out of the communist era, complete with a triumphant horn sound before the doors slammed shut (yes, slammed. I was used to the Paris Metro’s half-shut, bounce back, then fully shut system, and I was glad my arm wasn’t in the way).

I rode the train with other passengers who were a motley mix of stereotypical grizzled Eastern Bloc workmen, older ladies who had seen it all – from the Nazi occupation in WWII to Soviet oppression and finally freedom – along with younger Hungarian guys enjoying the holiday and an unnaturally high percentage of stunningly beautiful women.

When I arrived at the Parliament, I was disappointed to see that there were no big celebrations or demonstrations. I honestly would have been as happy with a cheering crowd celebrating 20 years of freedom as a borderline riotous march in which Hungarians exercised that freedom.

What I found was much more somber.

I walked through a park, past a statue of victorious soldiers to a flagpole. The Hungarian flag flew proudly, but with a gaping hole in the center that made it look like it had been hit by a cannonball from a Napoleonic ship of the line.

I remembered then that during 1956, the rebels had cut the holes in the center of their flags to remove the communist emblems from them, and the flag I looked at 55 years later had the same hole in it to commemorate them. The flag in the photo below is the same thing, but the photo is from several days later in the nearby town of Szentendre.

I stood in silence while a few older Hungarians lit candles at the base of a monument in honor of the fallen.

Nearby, an eternal flame burned in a marble pillar, and the entrance to the Parliament was draped with Hungarian and European Union flags.

I spent some time wandering around and reflecting on how lucky I am to have, through some accident, been born in the United States, where our great civil rights struggles can generally be won in peace at the ballot box, our press isn’t controlled by the government and we can leave if we wish. When I later went to the House of Terror and saw what Hungarians went through, it brought that feeling home.

Over the next eight days I spent in Hungary, I got a good feel for the country, but I don’t think it would have been nearly the same if I had started it any differently.

Verdun

Nothing symbolizes the horror and brutality of World War I for the French more than Verdun.

During the 10-month battle in 1916, French losses were estimated at about 400,000 killed, wounded and missing. German losses were less, at about 350,000, though estimates vary.

The soldiers lived like rats in trenches, constantly enduring enemy artillery fire and attacks. Even sending messages was dangerous, as couriers had an extremely short life expectancy. If they weren't killed by enemy artillery, poison gas, sniper fire or bayonets, the soldiers suffered from illnesses, fatigue and what we would today call shell shock.

Despite how horrific a place Verdun was, I still wanted to visit the battlefield. Understanding the French experience in World War I makes it clear why the country fell so fast in World War II, when much of the population thought that living under German occupation would be a far smaller price to pay than another war, since World War I left one in three French men between 17 and 33 dead.

The town itself is easy to find and is relatively close to Nancy. If you are, like me, interested in history, then Verdun is a must. The town has always been a fortress city, and the Germans and French have fought over it several times.

One interesting aspect of Verdun's history revolves around two French soldiers who served there - Charles de Gaulle and Philippe Petain. Petain was considered the hero of Verdun, and he commanded the French forces there for much of the battle. De Gaulle, who was inspired by Petain long before the battle, was captured at Verdun. Petain would later collaborate with the Germans in World War II and be a figurehead for the Vichy French government while de Gaulle would lead the Free French forces during World War II and emerge a hero, famously marching down the main boulevards of Paris when the city was liberated in 1944 before German snipers had been cleared out.

When I arrived in Verdun, it was cloudy, and the recent rain had stopped. After passing through the fortified gate that guards one end of a bridge over the Meuse River, I came to the visitor center, which was unfortunately closed.

A map near the visitor center showed the way to many of the sites, and after looking at statues and memorials in the center of town, I hopped in my car and drove to Fort Vaux, Fort Douaumont and the iconic Ossuaire.

Forts Vaux and Douaumont played key roles in the battle, and both were taken by the Germans, then retaken by the French. Each is worth a post in its own right, so I'll save that for later.

Wandering the battlefield is possible, but signs warn visitors to stay on the paths. Essentially, they all sum up the same thing: The weapons used in 1916 are still in the ground, and they can kill you just as easily today as they could 90 years ago.

What was once a war-torn moonscape dotted with shattered tree stumps is once again peppered with woods. Between the tree trunks, the reminders of the war are still visible - earth cratered from artillery shells, half-filled-in trenches where men used to live and concrete gun positions that have long since had their weapons removed.

Reaching the Ossuaire, in front of which about 15,000 French soldiers are buried, I was struck by the fact that this plays such an important role in French history, and I don't even remember it being mentioned in my history classes in America - and I have a minor in history from a university.

In the National World War One Museum in Kansas City, Missouri, there is a section on Verdun. Two quotes from the combatants stood out to me when I was there.

"Shells of all caliber kept raining in our sector. The trenches had disappeared, filled with earth. The air was unbreathable. Our blinded, wounded, crawling and shouting soldiers kept falling on top of us and died splashing us with their blood. It was living hell." - A French infantryman.

The second quote is from a German soldier at Verdun: "Verdun transformed men's souls. Whoever floundered through this mass full of the shrieking and dying had passed the last frontier of life and thus bore deep within him the leaden memory of a place that lies between life and death."

The soldiers of both sides experienced hell at Verdun, and the huge Ossuaire, though open to the public and containing displays, is the final resting place of some 130,000 soldiers from both sides who were unable to be identified.

A tower rising from the middle of the Ossuaire is styled in the shape of an artillery shell, and on the way to the top, visitors can see mannequins dressed in period uniforms as well as some of the weaponry used.

The top of the tower affords a view of the battlefield that can't be had anywhere else. At the base of the tower, visitors can watch a short film that explains the reason for the war and the battle itself along with the stupidity - and there's really no other word for it - of that particular conflict.

The last place I stopped was at one of the communication trenches. With its moss-covered, rotting timbers still in place, I could just imagine the hundreds of men who must have passed through it. Communication trenches connected the various trench lines and allowed men to move between them without as much risk of being spotted by the enemy. They almost always moved at night, and the only guidance a man had was to stay close to the man in front of him. There were countless instances of units getting lost, then finding themselves on exposed ground at dawn, where alert artillery observers saw them. Within minutes, they would be shelled and killed.

Verdun, or any battlefield, for that matter, is not the place to go if you want to experience the joie de vivre for which France is so famous. If you want to understand France, and especially its role in the 20th century, however, I think Verdun is a place that must be visited, or at least understood.

A soldier killed Nov. 9, 1918.
For him, the armistice came two days too late.

If you're interested about the battle of Verdun, I recommend Alistair Horne's "The Price of Glory: Verdun, 1916." Written in the 1960s, Horne - a British historian - tends to editorialize a little bit, but the book provides a good explanation for the battle without expecting a lot of prior knowledge of the war.

Elephanta Island

Elephanta Island appeared as a phantom through the haze from our boat as we neared the halfway point of the one-hour ride from Mumbai. The island, named by Portuguese colonists after the huge elephant statue they saw when they first arrived, is home to a complex of caves carved out of rock between 600 and 700AD and is today a UNESCO World Heritage site.

My travel companion, Deon, was visiting India to see his ancestral homeland. His father is Hindu, and Elephanta’s caves were carved by followers of the cult of Shiva, one of the most powerful gods in the Hindu religion.

Once our boat docked, we hired Milind, a local guide. He led us down the pier past moored fishing vessels alive with Indians scraping barnacles and weaving nets to the 120 steps leading up to the caves.

On the way up, we passed through a bazaar of vendors all selling items made on the island and included everything from pearl necklaces and silk paintings to carved fishbone elephants and religious statues. A mischievous monkey stole one vendor’s water bottle and finished it off in a tree.

After paying the $5 entry fee, we saw the mouth of the main cave. It appeared as a square hole cut out of solid rock supported by four pillars reminiscent of Greek or Roman architecture, but distinctly different. Milind explained that the whole cave, along with all of its pillars, adornments, reliefs and details, is carved from a single piece of rock.

Inside, we marveled at the artwork, which is a combination of the Gupta and Chalukyan styles. Enough light filtered between the square stone pillars to illuminate the relief scenes carved in the walls.

Standing in the center of the caves, walking in the footsteps of artists who carved them without machines almost 1,400 years ago was a humbling experience. Gone was the oppressive heat of Mumbai, the constant din of honking horns and hubbub of a city at once too large and not large enough. I traced the outline of a small elephant sculpted into the corner of a pillar and asked Milind about the namesake elephant that used to stand on the island, but which is now in Mumbai’s Victoria Gardens.

“The elephant is a Hindu sign of welcome,” he replied. “The Portuguese didn’t know what it was for.” He then pointed to a panel along one side of the cave. Shiva’s arms were missing, and there was some damage to the flat surfaces as well. “The Portuguese did that, too, with their guns.” I leaned closer and felt the rough edges of a hole made by a musket ball centuries ago, trying to picture the soldier who was a long way from home finding small amusement in a foreign land.

I turned to Deon and saw that he was transfixed by the relief on the back wall, portraying the three-headed incarnation of Shiva – Mahesamurti, in which the aspects of creation, protection and destruction are brought together, each represented by one head. Milind told us it is one of the most powerful in the Hindu religion.
Off to the right was a sculpture of the Seed of Life, which Hindus believe sprouted into the lotus flower and eventually became mankind. It sits in its own room, protected by towering stone guards.

In the courtyard between the main cave and one of the smaller ones, we learned there should be a statue of a bull, which Shiva rode, but it was another casualty of the Portuguese colonization.

Another pair of caves whose stone was too soft for sculpting provided housing for the builders of the main caves. Rather than tour those, which are empty, we asked Milind if we could see his village instead. He readily agreed and led us over a barely discernible trail he said is a local shortcut. It eventually opened into a larger path, and we rounded a corner to his village.

I felt like I was the first foreigner to ever set foot within its bounds, although that is highly unlikely. The first building I noticed was squat and no bigger than my bedroom. It had a brightly colored conical dome rising from one end, indicating it was a temple. A low stone wall set it back from the paved footpath and the other pastel buildings around it. A couple of dogs chased each other in front of it.

It turned out to be the 10th anniversary of the temple’s construction, which is dedicated to a local god. A festival was planned for that night, and a woman at the temple’s door handed us each a spoonful of masalah, a mixture of grits, raisin and butter for eating during prayers, when meat is not allowed. It tasted doughy and sweet.

As Milind led us through the haphazard streets of his village to his house, few people were out. Most were working as guides, selling trinkets at the market or fishing. The entrance to his house was guarded by a yellow lab named Lucky. His father sat on a plastic chair in the corner and greeted us in Hindi.

The house itself was only one main room with a small bedroom, but was floored in beautiful tile and well-kept. Silks hung on the walls, a vibrant cloth divided the bedroom from the main room and a family photograph sat on a shelf to one side.

Milind told us he would play the keyboard at the festival that night. We insisted he play for us, and he eventually gave in. After playing a song on the keyboard, he handed it to Deon and pulled out another instrument for himself. Together they played while I sat watching and taking pictures.

After they finished, we thanked Milind and his father, then headed back toward the pier for the next boat to Mumbai. We left Elephanta Island as we’d found it, a specter in the haze. Only this time that specter represented a new cultural perspective for both of us.

Paris as the seat of the EU Presidency

The European Union has a rotating presidency that changes every six months. Most travelers to Europe probably couldn't care less, but being in Paris while France held the presidency (from July-December, 2008), there were a couple noticeable changes to the city's landmarks.

Far and away the most obvious was the Eiffel Tower. Normally a brownish iron framework lit up at night in standard, yellow-hued lights, the French had decided to use their most famous landmark to advertise their leadership of the EU - by lighting it in blue and affixing a circle of stars to it to represent the EU flag.

I really didn't care for the new look, and I'm happy to say that it is now back to its old self. Had this been my first time to Paris, I wouldn't have felt the same sense of awe upon seeing Gustav Eiffel's masterpiece. To me, the blue Eiffel looked out of place, but I still thought the concept was kind of cool. The French Tricolor would have looked better, but that wouldn't have conveyed the right political message, and it was definitely interesting.

Far more interesting, for me, was what the French did to the Assemblée Nationale. Essentially the French equivalent of Britain's Parliament building or the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C., the National Assembly houses the legislative branch of France's government in a columned building across the Seine from the Place de la Concorde.

What was interesting about the National Assembly was that the French had decided to use it as the canvas to show off Europe's greatest strengths and the work being done to solve some of the world's problems. This was accomplished by two film projectors on pillars on the Pont de la Concorde that faced the building. Blinders set in front of the projectors ensured that one shone on only the columns while the other shone only on the wall behind the columns.

At times, the columns would show different pictures from the back wall, with wheat grass rising on the columns as video of windmills - touting clean air and eco-friendly farming techniques - played to convey the message. At one point, the French Tricolor showed on the columns while the backdrop was blue.At other times, the images were combined to show something as a whole, like Delacroix's famous painting, Liberty Leading the People. A scene from the Revolution of 1830, the painting is considered by many to be the first modern political painting. It celebrates the people rising to fight for their liberty. I'm guessing it was put on the video program to remind people of the turbulent past that is largely behind Europe as it forges into the future.


Oddly enough, Delacroix's painting included Lady Liberty holding a gun, and just about everyone else is armed. Here, however, the French seem to have sanitized the image. Perhaps they aren't all that eager to remember the turmoil of the past.Even though I didn't care for the Eiffel Tower's new look, it was nice to be in France and see what the French did to celebrate their leadership of the European Union.

Napoleon's Tomb

Rising high in the aftermath of the French Revolution, Napoleon Bonaparte, of humble Corsican birth, would rise to lead France's armies to triumphant victories and staggering defeats. He also revolutionized French law and schools. He has long been a hero of France, and his elaborate tomb in Paris is one of the sights that every visitor should really see.

Built at Les Invalides (pronounced "lays on-vah-leed"), the former hospital and retirement home for wounded soldiers, Napoleon's tomb occupies the place of honor in a symbol of the glory of the French military.

Unlike popular belief in some countries (notably mine), the French were historically an extremely warlike people. From the ancient times to the Crusades and the wars they started naming based on how many years they took to fight (The Hundred Years War, the Thirty Years War, the Seven Years War) to the Napoleonic Wars and through World War One, the French have always managed to field an army and mix it up. World War One sapped much of their will to fight for a time, but that does nothing to diminish the rich history of the French military, and Les Invalides is one of the best places to explore that history.

I won't focus on the excellent museums for this post, but will say that they include ancient artifacts, room after room of arms and armor, artillery pieces, tanks, machine guns and hundreds of uniforms. Even if you're not at all into military history, it's worth a quick breeze-through. If you get a museum pass (you really should), it won't even cost you any extra.

Topped with an ornate gilded dome, Napoleon's Tomb was built to resemble the Pantheon, and when it is lit up at night, it would satisfy even the ego of the legendary Napoleon.

Even though he abandoned his armies in Egypt and Russia, the notoriously short Emperor of France was revered by his troops. On his return from his exile on Elba, French soldiers were sent by the restored Bourbon monarchy to stop him. Napoleon addressed them, asking if they would really fire on their beloved leader. One of the soldiers supposedly dropped the ramrod of his musket down the barrel, where it clanged, showing the firearm was unloaded.

Even after Waterloo, the French military adored Napoleon. His mark can be seen throughout the city, in part of the design of the Louvre, the Arc d'Triomphe and, of course, his tomb.

As I walked through the door the first time I visited Les Invalides, I wasn't sure what to expect. The inside of the building was reminiscent of a church, but adorned with military displays and the tombs of other great French military leaders, most notably Marshall Foch, leader of the French armies in World War One.

Walking to the railing surrounding the circular hole in the ground floor, I gazed down on the red marble tomb that holds the remains of one of the most intriguing men in history. The tomb itself sits on a pedestal, which is surrounded by statues of angels. At the base of the tomb is an inlaid wreath of laurel leaves, resembling the emperor's crown. Outside that are the names of his most famous battles, including Austerlitz, Jena and Friedland. They were battles in which he revolutionized warfare, and gave the relatively new French Republic something to rally around.

Rotating displays on the ground floor contain artifacts from the man. The first time I was there, orders he issued to his elite Imperial Guard were under display cases, and diagrams of their uniforms sat nearby. The next time, Napoleon's own gray cloak stood in a case with one of his swords and hats. Most recently, a portrait of the general and some of his personal notes were on display.

I walked down the stairs to the subterranean level where his tomb stands, and I read the names of the battles, recognizing most of them from history books or movies. I looked again at the tomb, and suddenly really wished I could somehow talk to the man inside, who had accomplished so much, be it the Napoleonic Code of laws, revolutionizing the French school system or perfecting the divide-and-conquer strategy, in such a short time.

As I headed out, I stopped to look at Marshall Foch's tomb, with an effigy of him held aloft by poilus (literally "hairy ones," poilus was the nickname for French soldiers in World War One). It struck me as ironic that Napoleon had been such a problem for Europe that an elaborate alliance system had been formed to prevent a repeat. That alliance system had, in turn, been directly responsible for the escalation of World War One, which left one-third of French fighting-age men dead.

Napoleon plays such an important part in French history that his tomb should be at least in the top-15 things to see when you go to Paris. I happen to like it best at night, when the lights reflect off the golden parts of the dome. It is visible from most of the high places in the city, including Sacre Coeur and the Eiffel Tower.

Photo of the week: Notre Dame at Night

This is the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. I took this photo two days before Christmas, and you can just see the Christmas tree in front of the cathedral. Notre Dame was started in 1163 as a result of the debacle that surrounded the blessing of the Second Crusade by Pope Eugenius III, when the previous church was inadequate and led to squabbling and fighting between the French and Italian priests. The squabbling turned into a brawl as each faction argued over who would keep the elegant carpet laid on the floor, and the French King Louis VII was even hit in the face when he tried to break it up.

Built on the Ile de la Cité, the largest of the islands in Paris, the site for Notre Dame was chosen not only for its centrality to the major trade route that was the river, but also for the metaphor comparing Christianity to a ship steering for harbor. The Ile de la Cité resembled the rear of a ship, and the ship eventually became the main symbol on Paris' coat of arms.

The site of the cathedral is not a new one, as a Roman temple was originally built on the same ground. The ruins of that temple, as well as other Roman ruins, can be seen by walking down the staircase located at the far side of the empty space in front of the cathedral.

One of my favorite things to do in Paris is just walk around the center of the city at night. It's perfectly safe, and the monuments, churches and governmental buildings are well-lit, providing for great photo opportunities and letting you know that you're in Paris, the City of Light.

Breaking Tradition

It's been more than a decade since my family first broke a long-standing tradition. Every Fourth of July, my aunts, uncles, grandparents and a few neighbors met at our house for a barbecue, swimming and fireworks in the court. But the summer after my eighth-grade year, we decided we had to be in Washington, D.C., for the celebration of independence.

Since it's been so long, the fog of time has stolen some of my memories, but it was my first visit to the capital, and there are some things you just can't forget about being there - on that day in particular.

Independence Day happened to come at the tail end of a trip through the New England states. We visited Lexington and Concord, in Massachusetts, where farmers first stood up in armed conflict against the greatest military power in the world, and fired the first shots in a long war that would end with 13 free states struggling to form a government everyone could agree on.

A few days later, we were at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and saw the "high water mark" of the Confederate advances into the northern states and where President Lincoln gave the famous Gettysburg Address. Rows of cannon, their bronze barrels now green with exposure to the elements, stand as a silent testament to the fury that opposing sides of the country felt for each other.

In Washington, D.C., we saw the National Mall, with the Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial and all the other sights I had learned about in history classes. A few people waded in the reflecting pool, the same one Martin Luther King, Jr., looked into when he gave his "I Have a Dream" speech at the Lincoln Memorial.

Walking the streets on the Fourth of July, everyone was in a festive mood. Even a homeless man wore an ostentatious top hat of red, white and blue. Another man played patriotic songs on his trumpet. Red, white and blue decorations were everywhere, and it was nearly impossible to find a spot where I couldn't see an American Flag.

If the day had been festive, the night was fantastic. When darkness fell, we were back at the Lincoln Memorial, sitting on the steps facing the Washington Monument. The din of conversation hushed as the first fireworks exploded over the top of the marble obelisk and The Star Spangled Banner was blasted over loudspeakers. When I had been to fireworks shows before, in Old Sacramento and the fairgrounds, I always looked forward to the grand finale. In D.C., the entire show was the grand finale, and it lasted a long time.

I don't really remember what we did after the fireworks show, if anything, and I don't know if that was the last day of our trip or not, but in the years that have come and gone since then, that is the thing I remember most about the trip. We even (randomly) have a Christmas ornament that depicts the scene, complete with lights and fireworks sounds.

Living on the West Coast and not being surrounded by the country's history, it is often easy to forget where we came from. A trip to New England brings the important events in the country's history to the forefront like little else can, and reminds us all that the United States has seen great successes, and great tragedies, but there are always people willing to sacrifice to make the country better, and be they soldiers, politicians, civil rights leaders or just the common voters, they have helped make this country what it is, and will continue to do so in future generations.

Night in the Eternal City

Rome is one of those cities you want to see from the time you’re small. Its very name evokes a plethora of imagery in even the most unimaginative person, and walking streets that have thousands of years of history embedded in them brings a feeling that is indescribable.

Nights in the Eternal City are truly something special. Nominally on a walking tour in our guidebook, my family and I were really on a gelato hunt. Starting from our hotel, we walked a block to the Spanish Steps, where a hundred or so people sat, doing everything from drinking to just sitting – it’s not a wide range, and that’s the great part about Roman nights. You can do nothing and not feel the least bit guilty about it. I watched, amused, as a beer bottle toppled end over end down the steps like a Slinky before shattering on the fifth one.

We dropped by the Pantheon next, which we had visited earlier. Though the pre-Christian church with its impressive dome was interesting during the day, it seemed that the night breathed new life into it. A loud cheer interrupted my thoughts, and I spun around to see its source. I smiled when I saw a throng of Italians congratulating themselves, a few dancing in circles with dark bottles held above their heads. It was the 2004 Euro Cup, and the Italian team had just scored a goal.

Something else about the Italian football (fine, soccer) fans piqued my interest – gelato cups. Next door to the bar where they watched TV, a little gelato stand was doing brisk business. We hurried over to it and ordered heaping cups of their superior version of ice cream. The fiore de leche flavor I had was outstanding.

Gleefully eating the gelato, we wandered around a few streets and narrow alleys, not paying particular attention to where we were. We turned a corner, and there it was.

“It” was the Trevi Fountain. A few quick steps down took me to the cobblestones leading up to it. I had never seen Roman Holiday, Three Coins in the Fountain or any of the other movies that helped make the waterwork famous. The subaquatic lights illuminated the water in the pools as a bright turquoise and reflected off the coins strewn about the lowest level. The god Neptune rode a shell chariot drawn by horses, and the whole effect was mesmerizing.

I bought a beer of some sort from a vendor and then, because the man’s bottle opener was broken, befriended a couple of New Zealanders who assured me they always had an opener on them.

Drinking my beer and talking to my new friends, I joined the rest of the fountain’s mass of spectators, who watched something people have seen for 250 years, but which never gets old.

Tradition and superstition dictate that using your right hand to toss a coin over your left shoulder will ensure a return to Rome. Standing there that night, I scrambled for a coin (OK, I stole one from my dad) and did just that.

I was delighted to return two years later. I tossed the coin again (my own this time), and I can’t wait until I can once more fulfill the promise the coin offered.

The Mad King's Fairy Tale Castle

It’s the perfect castle in the perfect setting. Perched high in the German Alps, Neuschwanstein Castle is the epitome of the fairy tale palace with its beautiful white limestone facades accentuated by numerous turrets and spires. Windows are carved out of every wall and help attest to the fact that it was built as a home, not a fortress.

Standing at the base of the path, I watched a bus loaded with tourists pass me and was glad I had chosen to take the 30-minute hike from the parking lot to the castle. Aside from nearby Hohenschwangau Castle, there isn’t too much else to do. Nor is anything else necessary.

Neuschwanstein Castle towers over the village of Hohenschwangau, which is just a short bus ride or drive from Fussen, where the nearest train station is located. The mountains are dotted with evergreen trees and conceal numerous lakes graced with swans, the royal symbol. King Ludwig II, who ordered the castle built in the late 1860s, was a nature lover, and the views along the hike are spectacular.

I watched the shadows of clouds float lazily over a landscape dotted with villages that, aside from the modern roads, might have looked the same for centuries. The lakes were a rich blue, and all the vegetation was a lush green. When I rounded the last corner and got my first glimpse of the castle up close, I just stopped and stared.

It rose out of the rocky foundation and seemed to flirt with the sky. I knew right then why Disney chose to build the castle in Dinseyland in its likeness. My tour wasn’t for 20 minutes, so I walked around the base of the palace and climbed to its upper courtyard.

From the walls, I took in the same scenery I had seen on the hike up, but I saw it now as Ludwig II would have. For a moment, I let myself pretend it was my realm, and I was overseeing it from my seat of power.

I looked across a gorge at the Marienbrucke bridge spanning a small stream and waterfall. It was crowded with tourists from all over the world, and I realized I was making it into a few hundred photographs. I wanted to walk over and join them, but it was time for my tour.

I found the line I was supposed to be in and waited for the rest of my group to show up. The group in front of me was German. Though guided tours are only offered in German and English, many other options are availably by audio guide, and I heard a plethora of languages, including French, Italian, English, German, Japanese and Spanish.

When enough of us were there, our guide led us through the doors and into the first rooms, which belonged to the king’s servants. With their oak-paneled walls and carved furniture, even they lived well.

The tour seemed to jump around a little bit due to the fact that King Ludwig II died under mysterious circumstances before the castle’s completion, and the building was never finished. He supposedly drowned in a lake with his doctor, but both were excellent swimmers, and Ludwig had many enemies in his government who thought he was squandering resources on his retreat.

Walking through rooms with finery I had only thought existed in Versailles, I marveled at the beautiful paintings and depictions of medieval legends and heroes. Every inch of the interior dripped with elegance.

The throne room was particularly breathtaking. Though there was no throne, the platform for it was flanked by tall candelabras and capped off by a dome on which was a painting of Christ and His canonized kings.

As we walked, our guide related some of Ludwig’s and the castle’s history. The two are equally intertwined with the composer Richard Wagner, a close friend of the king. It was in a letter to Wagner that Ludwig first wrote his concept for Neuschwanstein.

After seeing the rest of the interior, the tour was over and I found myself back in the courtyard. I gazed over a parapet down to Hohenschwangau Castle, which should be seen in conjunction with Neuschwanstein on the combined admission ticket for €17. It’s a sight in its own right, but is outdone by Neuschwanstein.

Aching to see the castle from another angle, I took the short hike over to the Marienbrucke. And stopped. I don’t have a huge fear of heights, but the thought of walking out onto a bridge built more than a hundred years earlier and paved with wood planks made me hesitate. After all, I could see the castle just fine from the solid hill.

But I had to walk out there. It’s where the best photo of the castle’s side is. So I stepped onto the planks and rolled my eyes as they flexed with my movements and those of the rest of the tourists. I stared down at the waterfall farther below me than I cared to think about, and eventually let my eyes rise to see the castle again.

It was so easy to imagine the castle as the setting for any number of fairy tales. That it was real and I was standing, gazing at it took a while to set in. It simply awed me. To me, it will always be the most beautiful building in the world.

---This was first published here in a slightly different form.

For the Love of a Woman

I found myself walking down a narrow, dusty road past armed guards and children hawking trinkets. A camel cart was parked to my right, and the camel eyed me suspiciously as he chewed and bared his teeth at me.

Getting there had been the result of a harrowing ride you can read about here.

But there I stood. I was a short line away from entering one of the most fabled places in the world – the Taj Mahal.

I remembered my first exposure to it in a Scholastic News article back in elementary school. I know that, at the time, I thought, “I’ll never see this.” This was one time I was happy to be wrong.

After a thorough frisking at the security checkpoint, I joined my friends inside the outer wall. Not wanting to rush ourselves, we took photos of the exquisite gatehouse. Constructed from red sandstone with marble and precious stone inlay, it is a sight in its own right. I thought of how many people from a multitude of different places had traveled there since the Taj Mahal was finished in 1653, and the number is unfathomable.

Unable to resist any longer, I headed toward the gate and caught my first glimpse of pristine white marble peeking through the arch, the thousands of precious stones inlaid into its surface only hinting at the detail from that distance.

I walked through the gate, and it was like I had entered another world. Built by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj Mahal is perfect in every way. The turquoise pool lined by trees and full of fountains acts as a permanent red carpet to the fruit of the work of architects representing Persian, Central Asian and Islamic influences.

The main monument, which houses the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, is flanked by tall minarets on each corner. It amazed me to learn that each side is identical. From a distance, the intricate detail above the main arches looked like fine lacework. As I moved closer, I saw that it was really inlaid precious stones brought from all over India and installed by skilled artisans.

Taking a circuit of the monument, I ran my fingers over the smooth marble and tried to imagine what the area must have looked like with thousands of the most skilled craftsmen in the world toiling on the monument a man created to honor the memory of his wife.

Once up on the upper platform, with protective booties securely over my shoes, I gazed across the river to where, had Shah Jahan had his way, a matching black monument would have stood. Intended to house the emperor after his death, construction was never started, as his son managed to thwart what he saw as wasting resources.

Shah Jahan now rests alongside his wife, inside the Taj Mahal itself. The interior of the mausoleum was breezy, as marble screens took the place of walls to allow air and light to circulate through the room. The ceiling stood impressively high, and I thought it was a wonder that it only took 22 years to construct the whole monument.

The tombs of Jahan and Mumtaz sit side-by-side, and Jahan’s tomb has his royal symbol inlaid in precious stones over his head.

Emerging from the tomb back into the garden area, I took the time to look at the mosque, the Masjid, which is on-site and still used on certain days.

Walking around the Taj Mahal again, I paid attention to how the sunlight played on the marble from different angles. I have heard that the best time to see the light’s effect is at dawn, but even in the afternoon the sight is mesmerizing.

As I left, I couldn’t help but wonder what type of a woman Mumtaz Mahal must have been. To inspire such devotion from her husband, she had to have been something special, and I wondered if she would really live up to the beauty of the building she spends eternity in.

Paris Throws a Party

The red light flashed in the elevator. I couldn’t read the French words, but I was pretty sure it said something about overload. Nevertheless, the French operator sat there, expressionless. What the hell, the elevator was made in the late 1800s, so what could possibly go wrong?

Fortunately, nothing went wrong, and I made it to the top along with the very full elevator car. I was shielded from the windows by the mob of people, so when I stepped out onto the viewing platform, the sight took my breath away.

Paris by night is beautiful – especially from the top of the Eiffel Tower. But this wasn’t any night in Paris. It was the summer solstice, and Paris throws a party. Countless small bands were performing throughout the city, at every café in what the French call "La fête de la Musique."

The main event, however, was across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, at the Trocadero. The palatial building was alive with light, resembling the Aurora Borealis with the ethereal effect of moving, multi-colored lights shining through the smoke around the stage.

A solid block of people clogged the bridge, and all vehicle traffic was closed around the concert. Turning to another side, the sounds of the concert still filtered up the 900 or so feet to where I stood. I gazed down the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe, fully lit. On Montmarte sat the proud dome of the church of Sacre Coeur, in the heart of the artists’ district.

As the clock struck midnight, the Eiffel Tower exploded in flickering lights. Thousands of flashbulbs went off at random over the entire surface of the tower. This happened every half-hour for 10 minutes, but it seemed more of a spectacle as I stood atop one of the most famous structures in the world.

Finally, it was time to come down, and I rode the same elevator, with the same warning light and the same undaunted operator. Once on the ground, I wandered through the gardens and fields at the tower’s base. It was Paris as Paris is supposed to be experienced. I was carefree, and nobody seemed troubled or worried. Most people had alcohol, so I joined them and bought a French beer (I know, but I wasn't into wine at the time).

Wandering back to my hotel at two in the morning, I was amazed at how many Parisians were still out. The restaurants were all open and, for the most part, full. I wanted to stay out all night, but I had a train to catch in four hours. I’ll just have to go back next year.