My Big Sister Again

My big sister Carlota just got back from Europe. This is her guest blog.

M. Carlota Baca, Executive Director, NMAG

I have just returned from two weeks in Europe and it was fascinating to see, read and hear the news of our hurricanes, our war and other issues from that distance. I spent some time with a very close friend who lives in Bern, Switzerland and another week with three Santa Fe friends in Nice, France. I closed out my vacation with a beautiful and solitary long weekend in my favorite city in the world, Paris.

Perhaps I can best tell you something about how we are regarded in Europe by telling you this little story. It’s just one little anecdote, but it seems emblematic of so many other encounters I had with so many people I met on this trip. (French, Brits, Czechs, Germans, Swiss, etc). We are told that everyone hates the U.S. or is appalled by its political behavior. I’m not sure that this is true. In fact, I think I am far more appalled than our critics abroad about our government’s diplomatic incompetence and domestic insouciance.

On my last Sunday in Europe, I was in my beloved Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, listening to a youth orchestra. All the musicians in the bandstand were teenagers and they were all wearing very funny and inventive hats, though the music they played was pretty serious stuff….some Beethoven, some Gershwin, and some Haydn. It was one of those lovely crisp days when all Parisians venture outdoors with their children, their dogs and the grandparents.

As I sat on a park bench, reading the Herald Tribune and listening to the music, an elderly French man with a cane approached and gestured at the bench, asking if he could sit. “Je vous en prie,” I said and patted the bench. He was very surprised (and pleased) that I spoke fluent French. I lamented to him that this was my last day in Paris and that I was heading back to the States the next day.

After some general pleasantries about the fine weather and the music, he said in an almost formal way, “Because you are an American, I want to tell you that I am so sorry for all the catastrophes in your country.” I thanked him for his sympathy, but he went on. “The savage attacks of September 11^th, your war in Iraq, and now these terrible hurricanes. It must make you feel like everything is against you. But you are a strong country and you will prevail. We don’t always agree with your government, but we remember The War. I was a soldier then and you saved us from the Nazis.”

When I told him that my late husband’s brother was part of the D-Day landings in Normandy, the old gent reached over and touched my hand and got tears in his eyes. I didn’t quite know what to say or do and I think he realized that we should change the subject. But first, he went to a vendor across the path and got us each a lemon sorbet. What a treat! Then he went on to the new topic.

“I so much remember and love your old Western movies,” he said. “John Wayne, Jeemmy Stewart, Robert Mitchum, Henri Fonda, they were the greats!” (I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hate Westerns.) He went on and recounted to me his favorite dramatic moments in High Noon, El Dorado, Shane, Stagecoach, and Red River, none of which I’ve seen. It was—I have to admit—a wonderful performance and I was riveted to that park bench for 30 minutes listening to him recall even certain pieces of dialogue and their metaphysical significance. Because he was French, of course, the films spoke to him not about saloons and shoot-em-ups, but rather about the Human Condition—its conflicts, its resolutions, its tragedies and its triumphs.

After an hour or so, we stood up and he thanked me for the conversation with a little bow. Then he said again how sorry he was about all the problems we seem to be having in the U.S. He wasn’t smug in the slightest nor did he display any hint of schadenfreude (pleasure derived from the misfortune of others). He was really very sympathetic, especially about September 11^th, about which he was “veritablement horrifié.” We said “Adieu” and he limped off slowly, leaning on his cane. I ambled back to my hotel just a block away.

It was a sweet way to end this trip, chatting with such a gallant old man who loves our movies, is grateful for our World War II rescue, and who is distraught about all the poor people in Nouvelle Orléans. Had this been one of the conversations I had had at numerous dinner parties in Bern, it would have turned into a serious geo-political discussion. But this little chat was just right because it wasn’t too important and because in its own modest way, it was memorable. I’ll never forget that man and that bench will henceforth be my favorite one in the Luxembourg Gardens.

And, I guess I have to reconsider my dislike of Western films and rent a couple of those movies.