We are saying Chaumont out loud because we are going to drive there on Gary's birthday to see the place where he was born, or more accurately, the place where he lived for a little while just after he was born, the place where the United States Air Force base used to be, where his father practiced flying fighter jets, and his mother perfected her baby birthing skills.
As we drive out of Paris the gps unit on the dashboard is telling us to go one way, and the google maps lady in my phone is telling us something completely different. We choose google maps, because the gps unit is merely an acquaintance, and the lady in my phone is an old and trusted friend. It's gray and cloudy and drizzly, and the windows of the car keep fogging up,until Gary punches the air conditioning button, and everything magically clears up, including the sky. The clouds blow apart and we see blue up ahead.
Gary is carrying a picture in his pocket. It's a picture of his father wearing a flight suit, standing on some sort of metal stairs next to, or attached to, the cockpit of a jet. His father has one knee up, with his foot on a rung of the ladder. He looks as if he's about to get into the plane, or has just stepped out. In reality the picture is posed, and he is neither preparing to fly away, nor just returned from a daring sortie. His helmet is tucked just so under his arm. The picture was taken on the air force base we are heading towards, just outside the town of Chaumont, near the village of Semoutiers. We are hoping it is some kind of proof of our mission. We are hoping it says we are not terrorists, or spies, or persons of evil intent, but only people of a certain age searching. We hope that's what the picture says, but the only truly identifiable thing in it is the man, and it really could have been taken anywhere.
It takes nearly three hours to get to Chaumont. We're hungry when we arrive, and it's Gary's birthday, so we walk down a little alley to a restaurant that has a sign outside saying 'Authentic French Cuisine'. Gary orders one dozen escargot. Later this same day, back in Paris, he will order more escargot for his birthday dinner. In Gary's parents' home, tucked into the back of a cabinet, there is a plastic bag filled with giant fake snail shells. I am almost certain those fake shells came from France, and they are eerily similar to the ones that now appear on Gary's plate filled with butter and garlic and essence of snail. Escargot is a long practiced tradition in this family, and we just might be in the vicinity of its origin.
When the ritual of the snail has been sufficiently honored we go out to explore Chaumont. We have no plan other than to walk in the places Gary's parents may have walked. We see a massive medieval church and head towards it. The moss covered door is unlocked, so we go inside. There's no heat, and it feels colder inside than outside. On the altar up front there are real candles burning, and a spotlight clicks on as I walk by. The ceiling is gray and peeling and shabby, which inspires some sort of affection in me. There are no magnificent colored frescoes or gilt covered artifacts anywhere in sight, although some of the alcoves have beautiful stained glass windows. A man in black robes comes in slamming doors, and we hear what sounds like an elevator. The cold is seeping into my bones, so we escape back out into sunlight.
It's Saturday and people are going about their business. The parking lot downtown is full. There are loudspeakers broadcasting music into public spaces. Families are walking with bundled up children in strollers. There are racks and racks of cheap coats for sale under tents in front of stores. Teenagers are glued to their phones. There are kids in out of the way places hanging out and hiding their beers. There are cobblestones and churches, small cars and narrow streets. There are rows of houses with colorful shutters. Old women in black dresses and sensible shoes are carrying their bread home in bags they must use every day. We buy pastries from a small bakery on a side street, and find our way back to our car.
We drive out of town onto a long and empty road that leads us to what used to be the Chaumont-Semoutiers USAF base. There's a set of gates that look old and unused. Between the gates is an empty checkpoint booth. The gates are standing open, so we drive on through. There's a sign attached to a cement column that I later realize says 'no admittance', but for the moment we are feigning ignorance. And even though the terrorists keep attacking France, and the country is on high alert, there is no one here to stop us.
We keep driving until we come to a second gate, and here at last are some fortifications. There are barricades of wire filled with stone and we have to stop. We park in the parking lot that says 'visitors'. There's a young family here. The back of their small SUV is open. There's a father and a mother and a little girl. The father is dressed in camouflage pants and an army green sweater with a zipper up and down the whole front. The wife is young and pretty, with long hair and stylish boots. The little girl has a pink winter coat. It looks as if the wife and daughter have come to visit their military man. The three of them are playing in the parking lot.
We're sitting in our car when the soldier comes over and leans in to ask who we are and what we want. He speaks so little English that when he realizes we're American he calls his wife over to help. A conversation of sorts ensues. The wife is trying to translate. I'm trying to translate. I surprise myself with the French I remember from high school. But it soon becomes clear that the possibility of going on base to take pictures is slim to none. But French military man and Gary keep talking, until finally the soldier walks over to a booth by the gate and goes inside. He comes back out with paper and pen, and asks for Gary's name and phone number. He takes a picture of Gary's passport. Camo man says if we come back Monday we will be allowed on base. But the drive is long, and our days in Paris are short, and we know we won't be back.
We drive back outside the first gate and park and get out.
The view is peaceful and pastoral, and filled with imagined memories.
We stay there so long taking pictures that a new and different soldier dressed in full camouflage comes driving out towards us in a jeep. He's older than the first guy, and his English is worse. But he and Gary still try to communicate, and it's clear that he wants to help. Finally he says, 'follow me', and he takes us back through the open gates and down a dusty road off to the side. We come to a barrier and he gets out and slides a giant pole through a slot and leads us to the back of the airfield. We aren't on the base, but he's taken us to a different vantage point on the other side of the abandoned runways. He seems frustrated that this was the best he could do.
There isn't much to see, but we take pictures anyway, and follow camo man number two back to the gate. And then another jeep pulls up. This time there are two people inside, one male and one female. The female is driving. The male gets out. He's wearing camouflage, and a flak jacket, and has weapons strapped to his hip. Female driver remains in the jeep and watches. Her watching is somewhat intense. I'm sitting in our little black Fiat watching back. I'm beginning to suspect we may have overstayed our welcome.
But then Gary takes out the picture of his dad on the steps of his plane and shows it all around. He's trying to explain his story. New flak jacket camo man with weapons seems to know more English than anyone else so far. He assesses the situation and goes off to the side and calls his superiors, and tries yet again to get us on base. He hangs up and comes back to ask more questions, then walks away and calls someone else. But no one will let us on unless we come back on Monday, which is something we just cannot do.
Most mornings I wake up with the feeling that anything is possible. This sentiment somehow persists, even when circumstances at large, or in my own small family, would seem to be conspiring to convince me otherwise. Sometimes the feeling shows up in unexpected places, like here on this ordinary Saturday afternoon, watching French military camo men and Gary birthday husband man trying so hard to understand each other, there in front of the windshield of our tiny rented car on an all but abandoned military base in France.
In the end we do not get to go through the fortified gates and see the small replica of the statue of liberty that Gary's mother remembers, or the place where his parents' trailer might have stood. We don't get to see mess halls, or offices, or hangars for planes. We are not surprised. Unsettling things are loose in the world. The best everyone can do is laugh, and shake hands, and say thank you, and sorry. And then finally, at last, there is nothing left for us to do but drive away.
The picture that is our proof is in black and white. Gary's father is not looking into the camera, but off into the distance. He is young and smiling and handsome. When you look at the picture it's easy to imagine that later on he'll be drinking beer, or something slightly stronger, with his fighter pilot buddies, trading jokes and insults and stories that are not quite true. It's easy to imagine that later even than that, he'll go home to his young and beautiful wife, and they will sit down in the lamplight of their government issue trailer and eat, or play music, or talk, or just be. And Gary will be there somewhere too, maybe sleeping, or curled in his mother's arms.
But now the picture is put away, and we are back in our car. I type 'Paris' into the gps, and we head back to the city on a clear night, watching the radiant moon rise out of the French countryside all yellow and round and full.
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| Gary in France with his daddy |
