We'll always have Paris.

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Easter Wednesday, 27 April 2011. 

Our last morning in Mondaye.  Blue skies with puffy white clouds.  Pack up.  Sweep my floor. 

Our last Mass in Mondaye is ad orientem.  A painting of Christ breaking bread with the disciples at Emmaus on the column facing me. 

Our last meal in Mondaye is orange-colored pate, cidre, sausages with dijon, lentils, and fromage blanc stirred with fresh chopped pears. 

Frater Maximilian, why have you been describing the food so often this trip? 

Because these people are French, and they have a reputation to uphold. 

Frere Julien drives us back to the Bayeux Gare. 

2:41pm.  Board the train, leave the station.  The train goes by Liseux, so we plan to get off there for a couple hours before heading on to Paris. 

A fellow boards at Caen, says he's reserved the seat I'm in.  Okay.  Pull my luggage off the rack.  A gentleman is getting off the train, offers me his seat across the aisle from fr. Alan.  The first fellow sees that we're two together, and moves to the newly empty one, so that my confrère and I can sit together.  End result, we're exactly back where we started.  Musical chairs. 

Sleepy cows ruminate on green hills. 

3:15 pm.  Isn't this train supposed to stop in Liseux?  No, from this point it's a direct line to Paris.  Rats.  I ask the Little Flower to pray for my mom as we whiz by.  We can see the church tower.  A few children are running back and forth down the train, being childlike.  Insert spiritual metaphor here.  Oh, well.   We'll always have Paris.

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Gare St. Lazare again, Metro to Champs-Elysees, a short walk to the hostel on Rue Francois 1er 10.  

A room for two, we get our key cards and a stack of sheets.  Room 13.  It's small, simple, and clean.  

At 6 pm we walk to a deli, buy some sandwiches and salad, come back to our room for supper.  

The Assumptionists who run the place have a Eucharistic Holy Half-Hour at 7 pm. 

Chapel in the basement, square and modern with black blocky benches.  

The secular-clothed priest exposes the Most Holy Eucharist in a monstrance on the simple altar.  No singing.  Eight young men.  Silent prayer.  

7:30 pm.  Simple benediction by the priest in lay clothes.  He reposes the Blessed Sacrament.  

Back in Room 13, we plan our schedule for the next day.  

I type up some of these reflections.  

Frater Alan writes letters.  

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Easter Thursday, 28 April, 2011. St. Louis Marie Grignion de Montfort.

7:30 am.  Breakfast downstairs.  French bread, butter, coffee, milk, o.j.

We can store our luggage here for the day while we see the city.  

A half-hour brisk walk along the Seine. 

There's the Eiffel Tower, looming out of the fog!  

Riverboats.  Morning traffic.  Overcast.  

A memorial statue to Thomas Jefferson, US President and Ambassador to France. 

A bridge with golden pegasuses.  Pegasi?

St. Michael statue.  

The island.  

The Cathedral of Notre Dame is smaller than I expected, but very nice.  We're a little late for 9 am Mass, but in time for the first reading. 


The high altar has a Benedictine arrangement, but the two young priests are offering Mass on a table in the carved wooden choir.  Simple and neat liturgy in French. 


Beautiful stained glass windows are the most notable thing about this lovely little cathedral.  I don't see any hunchback.  Frater Alan says he comes out in the afternoon. 


Several side chapels are reserved for silent prayer, keeping an otherwise touristy church religious.  Thanksgiving for mass.

A couple blocks down the island, standing in line to visit St. Chapelle.  We're half a block down the line, which quickly extends even farther.  

Right next to the Palace of Justice.  Isn't that where they condemned priests to the guillotine?  

Doors open at 10:15.  A friendly doggy barks bonjour.  We get in at about 10:45. 


The lower chapel is brightly painted in blue, gold, and red.  The ceiling is a field of golden lilies on blue, like Premontre.  A shop inside sells trinkets.  Well, it's not used as a chapel anymore.  


The upper chapel takes my breath away.  


Light.

The entire upper half of the upper chapel is an almost continuous stained glass window, sparkling like heaps of gems or like rainbows in fountain spray.  

The ceiling is a painted starry sky. 


The floor is crowded with people looking up.  

Saint Louis had good taste.  


Cool.  Do we have time to see the Louvre, too?  


Leave the island by the bridge to the north, turn left along la Seine.  


Walk down the river, see the wrong side of the Louvre, continue around, enter the piazza.  Do they use the word piazza here?  Well, a plaza, then. 


A line of would-be art critics winds around a great glass pyramid.  No, we don't have time.  Perhaps there's another way in?  An attendant says yes, there is, and it's a shorter line.  Go down the stairs.  


We finally find the stairs, which lead down to the Louvre shopping mall.  Yes, there's another line to get into the museum.  No, it's not shorter. 


Whereas it is now midday, and we have a schedule to keep, shall we eat in the food-court here?  Lunch in the Louvre.  Pizza with four French fromages.  


I'll mention here that I used the toilets only for the sake of being able to say Louvre-loo.  Do you, too, need to use the loo in the Louvre?   

Sorry.  


Walk through the park to the Tuileries Metro, which we take to Charles de Gaulle.  Buying one jour Metro pass was a very good idea.  The subways here are the best I've seen.  They go everywhere.  They're on time.  They're frequent.  


At Charles de Gaulle we exit to the surface only to see Napoleon's Arc de Triomphe.  Rather like the triumphal arches in Rome, but much bigger. 


Because we have a pass, it costs us nothing extra to go right back into the same metro station, and ride to Trocadero. 


Climb to the surface for a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower above the Champ de Mars.  The tower is painted brown.  Why does that surprise me?  Did it used to be a different color?  Stroll across the bridge, under the tower itself.  


No time to stand in line for the elevator, but we touch the west foot, just to be able to say we did.  We did.  


Walk through the Champ de Mars to Ecole Militaire, whence we take the metro to Sevres-Babylone.  You might think we should have gotten out at the Rue du Bac station, but that's at the other end of the street from what we want to see.  


At this end of Rue du Bac is the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal.  We arrive just before the doors open at 2:30 pm.  

A group of Brazilians is waiting outside, so we go around the corner to the church of St. Vincent de Paul to pray at his tomb for a few minutes.  Did you know that you could climb the stairs behind the altar and kneel right next to him?  


Back at the Miraculous Medal chapel, the earlier pilgrims have begun Mass in Portuguese.  

I buy a couple small packs of medals in the shop, and then visit the chapel.  So I can say these medals were in the chapel where She appeared.  

The bodies of St. Louise de Marillac on the left and St. Catherine Laboure on the right.  

The heart of St. Vincent. 


A bunch of religious sisters about the place.  


We take the Metro then from Sevres-Babylone to Abbesses.  We should have taken it to Anvers.  


From Abbesses subway we climb the seven thousand steps, wending our winding way through some kind of portrait painters' market, to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur de Montmartre.  


The original center of perpetual Eucharistic adoration is celebrating the 125th anniversary of that work until the 1st of July. For 125 years continuously, there has always been someone praying to Jesus here. 


A holy hour before the Eucharistic Lord, intending to gain the Jubilee Indulgence.  3:45-4:50 pm. 


Sanctissimo Cordi Jesu Gallia Poenitens et Devota et Grata.


Amo Christum.


Dilexit me et tradidit semetipsum pro me.


In finem dilexit.


Domine tu scis quia amo te.



Totis visceribus diligebat Christum Regem.


And St. Michael's banner:  Quis ut Deus?


Light one large candle for our confreres, sisters, families, friends, benefactors, and all who have asked our prayers.  


Down the front steps, through the gray drizzle, a lovely misty view of Paris below. 


Finally, a chance to use those umbrellas we've been carrying.  I feel strangely at home here.  


With our final hours in France coming, I think I've fallen in love with this beautiful country and its wonderful, friendly people.  God bless France.  


Pass through busy markets to Anvers Metro, ride the subway to Champs-Elysees. 


The Assumptionists unlock our luggage, and we take the metro straight across town to the Bastille.  

All I want here is to go up top and see that there is, in fact, no fortress or prison left there.  It's true.  It's gone.  A green column and a golden, naked male angel mark the spot where Dr. Manette spent eighteen years in solitude.  


The Pass.  We can get right back on the Metro without worrying about tickets. 



We arrive then at the Bercy Gare at 6:30 pm.  The train leaves the station on time at 6:54.  

The Happiest Place on Earth

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Easter Tuesday, 26 April 2011. 

After Morning Lauds and Breakfast, we take the Twingo out southwest across Normandie. 

Mont St. Michel. 

Like an act of primordial creation, it rises out of nothing. 

A marvel of Gothic engineering. 

Today the sea does not cover this carpark.  Oh, good.

Tourists by the truckload.  I thought we were going to visit a monastery? 

Crowded busy shops in narrow streets, reminiscent of nothing so much as Disneyland. My heart sinks. 

Audioguides and tour groups.  This used to be a glorious Abbey.  Yes, they are talking in the church.  Imagine it as it used to be. 

At noon, a monk enters the Church to prepare for Mass.  Follow him to the sacristy, back to the sanctuary.   

As religious brothers in black and sisters in blue begin Mass, and Church suddenly becomes quiet.  The people sit and follow the Mass.   I'm happier now. 

Two priests, a deacon, four lay brothers and seven sisters.  Thirty or more lay faithful in the pews.  We two canons.

Tourists still circulate in the back, but quietly.

Most of the brothers and sisters squat on the floor rather than sit in the choir.   

After Mass, the brothers invite us for lunch in their quarters.  Silence.  One monk reads aloud something in French.   

Salad of grapefruit, oranges, tomatoes, chives; meatballs wrapped in leaves; tater-tots; carrots cooked with raisins; dense unfrosted chocolate cake.  Very nice. 

Tea on the terrace, suspended between heaven and sea.   

On this side of the mountain, the air is quiet, and the view is forever.   

The brothers glow with easter joy.  

In broken English, French and Italian, we all converse about our religious life and apostolate.  

Contrary to expectation, it actually is possible for these brothers to live a monastic life here in this tourist site.  It is still a place of authentic pilgrimage. 

Au revoir, open a door, step out into the sudden noise and chaos of Disneyland.  Was that a wardrobe or a looking glass?  Porta Coeli.  

Brave the crowds back to the car, which, as promised, is not underwater.  

Look back one last time.  An eternal proof that faith moves mountains.  And perhaps even our hearts.  

Monasteries, after all, are the happiest places on earth.  

Break 100 driving home.  In kph, it's not quite so impressive. 

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9,238 White Crosses.

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Easter Monday, 25 April, 2011. 

After Morning Prayer and Breakfast, the canons of Mondaye kindly lend us a Renault Twingo for the day.  We drive  north and west to the coast, to a spot that the locals all still call Omaha Beach. 

The museum, simply and tastefully arranged, welcomes us with displays of equipment of the Day, illustrated by photos, quotes from soldiers, and video footage. 

The gray sea, covered by a low thin haze, and a paved footpath winding down through brush and low trees to the beach.   

A few groups of people walk or ride down the sand on sail-powered wheels.   

The only sound is the sea washing in and out. 

Reach down and touch the sand. 

Put my hand in the English Channel. 

Look back to the land.  The door opened, and they saw that.  It could be a spot on the Pacific Coast back home, in Oregon or California.  Wide sandy beach with a few pebbles and shells, sloping gently till it rises quickly into a green bluff, leveling out behind, a gray-blue sky above.  Today a U.S. Flag flutters above the trees. 

Climb back up the trail.  Slowly.  What was that climb like? 

A lookout point; turn right.  A family passes, walking the other way.  Hello.  They're Americans.

People are always here, but it's never crowded. 

9,387 headstones in perfect square rows on green lawns.  Every state.  My home state.  And on some: Here rests in honored glory a Comrade in Arms known but to God.  1,557 MIA. 

Trees trimmed into cylinders.  Two great flagpoles march at the head.  Pale lily-pads in a black pond. 

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis. 

Drive away in silence.

A little further down the coast is a seaside cliff called Pointe du Hoc.  The remains of a concrete bunker buried in the earth.  

 In contrast to the cemetery, it's buzzing with curious tourists.  Peer down the cliff.  Holy smokes.  That'd be hard enough to climb on a nice day with friends at the top helping you up. 

South inland, we get a little lost trying to drive back to the abbey; we're late for the noon mass, coming just at communion time.

For lunch they have a special treat for us.  An "American barbecue".   

An outdoor charcoal grill in the backyard.  Sausages & steaks with homemade herb butter.  Potato salad.  Strawberries with cream. 

One confrère tells us the story of Mondaye Abbey being liberated.  The Bayeux region suffered about a month of fighting following the initial landing on St. Norbert's Day.  Some nearby villages changed possession back and forth several times.  He points to the east-facing refectory windows.  On 10 June the Germans escaped through those windows as British soldiers entered the front gate.  In the cloister, the British heard some noise coming from the cellar window and were suspicious.  So the prior, hiding down there with the other canons, shouted in his best English, We are French!  No one was killed, except the dog. 

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Monday afternoon.

Bayeux Cathedral is Gothic built on a Norman foundation.  We explore the small musty crypt, which is the original Norman church; William the Conquerer was at its consecration in 1077.

From here, we walk just a couple blocks down to where the Bayeux tapestry is kept.  Carry an audio guide which relates the story illustrated in graphic detail of William's preparation and invasion of England in 1066.  The 70 ft. tapestry is the medieval equivalent of a major motion picture.   

Although the characters seem a bit cartoonish, the level of detail is really impressive.  Which way the wind is blowing, how different classes of people dress and interact, the horses being horsey. 

Drive a few streets more, and visit the British War Memorial: Nos a Gulielmo Victi Victoris Patriam Liberavimus.  Perhaps anachronistic, as many British are themselves descended from those same Normans. 

The British Cemetery across the road holds commonwealth soldiers of various nations.  The headstones tell also their names and divisions, which seem mostly to be based on where in Britain they're from. 

Back to the Abbey for Vespers and Vigils/Office of Readings for the next day. 

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Easter in Normandy

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After Saturday lunch (shredded carrots, followed by chopped cauliflower and whole hardboiled eggs cooked in a casserole dish with a thick creamy sauce and sprinkled with cheese), my confrère and I take an afternoon walk around the Abbey to pray the rosary, litany, and Saturday consecration to the Madonna.

How lovely is thy dwelling place, O LORD of hosts!

My soul longs, yea, faints for the courts of the LORD; my heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at thy altars, O LORD of hosts, my King and my God.

Swallowtail swallows do find a nest in the outer walls of Mondaye Abbey, cousins of the squaretail swallows who nest in the walls of the abbey church back home. Their local variation of habit only illustrates the sound pluriformity of their order. But even these have been seen in California, in the golden apse of the Basilica San Juan Capistrano.

Blessed are those who dwell in thy house, ever singing thy praise! Selah.

Blessed are the men whose strength is in thee, in whose heart are the highways to Zion.

As they go through the valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools.

They go from strength to strength; the God of gods will be seen in Zion.

O LORD God of hosts, hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah.

Behold our shield, O God; look upon the face of thine anointed!

For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand elsewhere. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.

For the LORD God is a sun and shield; he bestows favor and honor. No good thing does the LORD withhold from those who walk uprightly.

O LORD of hosts, blessed is the man who trusts in thee!

--Psalm 84 (RSV)

3 pm.

A peaceful afternoon to prepare for tonight's vigil.

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9:30 pm. At least twenty young servers in white at the front of the statio, all male. Not a female altar boy in sight.

Silent procession to a circle around the Easter fire in front of the basilica. Six feet in diameter, three feet high, with flames soaring eighteen feet into the still evening sky. Our wool choir capes serve now to guard against the heat.

The people's chatter dies down as Fr. Abbot, vested in a white gothic chasuble with green collar, begins.

Alpha at Omega.

An older server braves the inferno with a two foot taper to retrieve a flame for the easter candle.

Boat Boy, the youngest altar boy of them all, follows close on the thurifer's heels, eager to offer incense to the Risen King.

Lumen Christi. Deo gratias!

The midnight cavern of the Abbey Church is pierced by the single small flame rising in its heart.

Lumen Christi. Deo gratias!

Like the common good of a people, which is not diminished by being shared, the flame spreads from priests to all Christians, growing and making visible the Church.

Lumen Christi. Deo gratias!

Pontifical attendants, bearing miter and crosier, the next smallest after Boat Boy, sit on the stone step at the Abbot's feet.

Which of the possible readings will be proclaimed? Like the Little Flower, we choose all!

The polyphony I heard practiced earlier was for the responsories to the readings.

Gloria in excelsis Deo! The ancient Latin chanted in a familiar tone, I'm able to sing out now full voiced. Fiat lux! Jubilant bells ring from the tower of the Mountain of God (Monsdei) to tell all of France, Christ is risen! In the full electric light, I can see clearly now the full congregation of all classes and ages in Normandy, gathered in the bright night to worship their God.

The cantor begging of the prelate permission to finally say the “A-word” after the end of our forty days abstinence.

Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

He is risen indeed.

The baptismal font blessed, asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor.

The Eucharist as on every Sunday. Every Sunday as on Easter.

The Parisot organ sings for the cherubs who dance around it.

Back to the sacristy.

52 liters of hot cocoa.

Past midnight.

Bonne nuit. Bonjour.

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Easter Sunday, 24 April, 2011.  Eight months till Christmas Eve. 

7:30 Lauds. Alleluia. Breakfast. Alleluia.

A low fog under a bleu sky.

The church bells ring merrily from 10:30 TO 10:45.

11 AM Mass of the Day that the Lord has made.

During the alleluia before the Gospel, a number of people, unable to contain their Easter joy, break into random, unrhythmical clapping.

Frater Alan & I have been asked to join the schola in singing the Vidi Aquam. Yay!

The mitrifer, moved by enormous devotion to the prelate, or rather to the priesthood of Christ, kisses the miter repeatedly, and then even puts the tip into his mouth and nose.

The assisting priest incenses the altar while the Abbot sings the preface.

A visiting priest from the Austrian Abbey of Geras cleanses the vessels at a table behind the altar.

The cross borne correctly facing the celebrant.

The sweet odor of flowers on the country air.

The fog has lifted.

12:30 pm.

A visiting seminarian asks me whether the liturgy here is the same as at my own abbey. It is very similar, but at St. Michael's we use much more Latin chant, and at St. Martin's they use much more polyphony.

Blackbirds laughing from their holes in the wall.

1 pm in the refectory. Spanish wine and chips.

Cider, small meat pies, lamb with beans, green salad, various cheeses, red wine, pear pie made of the fruit halves baked in custard in the piecrust.

6 pm. Paschal Vespers—in French!

Kyrie eleison. Procession to the choir.

Piano & flute duet after the short reading: instrumental interlude.

Procession to the baptismal font. When Israel came forth from Egypt. Asperges.

Magnificat.

Return to the sacristy. It's nice & big, but the floor is rather lumpy. The warp-floor.

7 pm. Optional supper of leftovers.

8 pm Compline.  Alleluia!  

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Tenebrae at Noon

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Good Friday. In English it's good, in most other languages, Holy Friday.

The Office of Matins, or “of Readings” during the Sacred Triduum is called Tenebrae, “shadows”; here in Mondaye (Mons Dei, “The Mountain of God”), it's sung at midday, in French, with lovely polyphonic responsories. The Lamentations of Jeremiah themselves are chanted in Latin according to the ancient tone. Today the minor doxology is suppressed, even at the ends of the psalms. St. Mark gazes down on me in choir; his pensive lion watches for trouble in the nave.

If I haven't written about the food today, it's because there's not much to say, except that it's vegetarian, not very interesting, and there's not all that much of it.

Chemin de Croix autour de l'abbaye. The Way of the Cross in the neighborhood of the abbey. 4:30. Frater Alan & I are conscripted to carry the cross from the first station, in front of St. Martin's Church, to the second station, in the parking lot. Pious families. Gentle sunshine. Acres of green onions. Yesterday's altar boys blowing dandelion fluff at each other. Meditation on Our Lord's Passion. Mustard yellow fields. White and black milk cows curiously inspect the herd of people passing by. Rolling farmland to the horizon. A young couple follow the cross hand in hand. A six year old sits in the grass picking at scabs on her knees. An energetic gentleman with a cane in one hand and a rosary in the other. A troop of teenage girl scouts in blue. The altar boys flicking yellow dandelion heads at each other. A mockingbird proudly performs his repertoire for us. Priests in purple stoles follow at a distance, listening and absolving. Two and a half hours; we're back at the abbey gate.

Celebration de la Passion du Seigneur. 8 pm. Silent procession in choir capes. Kneeling and prostration. The dialogue Gospel spoken in French. Father Abbot on a red cushioned faldstool.  Simple Roman-style exhibition of a single large wooden cross; adoration of the same. The reproaches in their typically elegant French polyphony. On the front of the altar, a painting of the Thirteenth Station.  Arrival of the Lord from the altar of repose. The priests, all vested in red chasubles, administer communion. Silent recession.

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Samedi Saint, 23 Avril 2011.

Something strange is happening—there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep.

7:30 am Lauds sung in French.

Delicious is: Bread and butter and jam, each fresh and warm and local, a bowl of hot coffee with milk, the April morning sun on your back in a silent refectory.

I can't see them, but some of those girl scouts are practicing more French polyphony near my window in the guest house.

A yellow-jacket rips wood fibers from the windowsill.

Tenebrae at noon.

The bridal chamber is adorned, the banquet is ready, the eternal dwelling places are prepared, the treasure houses of all good things lie open. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for you from all eternity. 

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Mandatum in Mondaye

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Holy Thursday afternoon. The summer refectory, ceiling to floor windows facing east, bare wooden tables, stools to sit on. Are we in France yet? Bread, cheese, wine, the famous local cider (a must in Normandy) and quiche.  And above the Abbot's chair, a wall-sized painting of the Last Supper. 

Following ancient tradition, the evening Mass of the Lord's Supper replaces vespers. My confrère and I are given heavy white woolen capes to keep us looking cool and feeling warm. These would never catch on in California. Well, maybe a couple times a year in late December-early January. We could make them a Christmas octave custom. I'm getting distracted.

A legion of white-robed altar boys of summer camp age leads the procession into the church with thurible, cross, and torches. Outside, the 18^th century basilica of St. Martin is surrounded by steel scaffolding—they've been fixing the roof recently. But inside is beautiful stone with green and red marble trim.

One of the great things about being a canon is being thrown into liturgical things at a moment's notice. Folks rightly assume that canons ought to always be the experts in matters liturgical. So, my first good look at the inside of the abbey church is from the perspective of a procession down the center aisle at the beginning of Mass. This is also a parish church, and full of faithful Catholics of all ages. They do, in fact, sing.

Bow to the massive main altar, sit on stools in the sanctuary. The altar boys' sisters are just outside the sanctuary, singing. Fr. Abbot at the altar, his two assisting deacons are concelebrating priests, vested, like him, in conical white gothic chasubles with blue trim and gold fleur de lis. Mass and Gospel sung beautifully in French. I do miss a bit the customary chants used for this mass in my own Abbey.

The people in the nave all kneel for the consecration of the sacrament. The canons in the sanctuary, including those not yet ordained, which is a bit odd, stand. I suppose they're asserting the fact that the professed frères already pertain to the clerical state. Although I disagree with their interpretation, I conform. The Americans haven't come to Normandy to fight an uphill battle. This time.

Thuribles. Procession to the altar of repose in the left transept of the Assumption. Nocturnal adoration. Ainsi, vous n'avez pas eu la force de veiller une heure avec moi?

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Vendredi Saint, 22 Avril, 2011.

A good night's sleep this time. I'll need it for tomorrow night.

Lauds at 7:30 am. The choir stalls are good and big. French, French, French.

The abbey is hosting a family retreat this weekend with separate activities for each age group. A very good idea, I think.

Women with babies discuss Very Important Matters.

Fish-scale skies.

I've been told that the giant circular stone planter outside my window was an ancient cider press. Normandy is famous for apple cider; it gets too cold for their vines to compete with the south.

A dozen fat birds on an old stone wall.

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Two dreams accomplished.

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18 April, 2011, 2 pm.

M. Francoise Marie, a donatus of the Abbey, is driving us to Avignon to see the Palace of the Popes. In our Order, a donatus is a kind of lay associate who lives and works with the canons, similar to an oblate in other Orders. We park at the diocesan building inside the walls, a few blocks from the cathedral and palace. The old diocesan building is now a museum, so they had to build another modern one, with caged birds in the foyer.

The Palais des Papes is shining in the early afternoon and bustling with tourists. I won't repeat the whole audio tour. The narrow windows for archers are cool.

The view from the tower. Island, Rhone, castles. Pine forests stretching for miles. That bridge only goes halfway out.

The people are friendly or indifferent. It's funny. In America, where there's high church attendance, folks don't know what we are. But in Italy, France, Europe, where no one goes to church, they all know, because they know their history.

Gardens. The cathedral is very small. A baby waves at me.

Rue Jean Henri Fabre. Two teenage girls, Bonjour, mon Pere!

A group of hikers with backpacks in the woods.

The two towers of Abbaye St. Michel de Frigolet welcome us back. The Jewel of Provence.

In the cloister, outside the sacristy:

Praetereundo*cave

ne*sileatur*ave.

6:30 pm.. I can understand the Gregorian chant parts of vespers, and sing out with confidence. Not so with the French. So my active participation is much greater with the Latin than with the vernacular. I'm just sayin'.

Did I mention that the choir stalls are made for men half my size? My shoulders are squeezed so that I kind of snap into place when I sit, & it's hard to move my arms.

The salad may be put on the table first, but that doesn't mean it's the first thing served. You have to wait until after the soup. Remember that.

Ratatouille! No, really! Well, some kind of cooked vegetable thing. I'm calling it ratatouille.

Melting Brie is a nice way to finish off a meal. I hope frater Bruno is reading this.

A million thanks to Fr. Patrice, our Angelus.

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19 April, 2011. I completely forgot yesterday that it was my birthday. Honestly. I must be getting old. 31.

5:15 am. Leaving Frigolet as we arrived, in the dark. Our last view is of the two towers, the full moon setting behind them.

6:01 am. Boarding the train from Avignon, heading west.

6:10 am. On the train toward Montpellier. Lots of folks boarded the almost empty train with us. Still sitting in the station. What's the hold-up? Oh, here we go.

6:30. First light in the sky. The toilettes are cleaner than on the Italian trains.

6:39. Nimes. Pretty light. There's a fire station with bright red trucks. Rumbling toward the golden moon as it sinks lower into the west.

BTW, I brought a laptop to type this, but I'm often taking notes with pen & paper, typing them later. Internet access is irregular, so I'll post when I get the chance.

Uh oh. The train to Toulouse is going to be retarded by 15 minutes. That means we'll probably miss our next connection there. I guess I'll get some coffee.

Cappuccino and croissant at a table on a second story balcony of the train station. Fr. Alan's gone to find a WC. The French say toilette, but also write WC for the sake of the anglophones.

7:30 am.

The morning sun behind me gilds the hotels & shops of Montpelier. A Mediterranean breeze ruffles a pigeon as the day begins for Frenchmen on the streets below. The cappuccino scalds my mouth, as always. When will I ever learn?

7:40. Now the train is going to be an hour late. Map. Narbonne! A train for Narbonne will be here in 8 minutes,which is heading in the same direction. Where's frater got to? Here he comes. Are you ready to live dangerously?

7:50. We're on the train to Narbonne, which takes us halfway to Toulouse. If nothing else, our original train will probably stop there on its way. Probably.

8:03. The blue Mediterranean shines to my left, flat as a camper's bunk. Ships moored at the docks.

8:06. Sete by the sea. Some kind of inlet or bay on the right, a pink village on the farther shore.

8:12. White birds stand in wetlands of the bay on the right, the flat sea stretches to the horizon on the left. A college-age boy and girl silently listen to headphones.

End of the bay, or whatever it was. The train lurches side to side as we slow down into Agde.

8:30. Acres of vines, like little green 7s. Bezziers. Railway stations get spraypainted graffiti here, too.

8:40. They do actually check tickets occasionally.

Narbonne WC: The 50 cents must be paid before use of the WC. Thank you for your comprehension.

Now what? A TGV train leaves for Toulouse at 9:50. 3 euros for the upgrade to this fast train. A 6-man cabin all to ourselves.

Riding backwards, green hills, vines, pines, fields, half clouded sky.

The nicest ticket lady in the world works at the Toulouse train station. Our original reservation to leave for Paris tomorrow would have required a Bordeaux layover, and gotten us to Paris at 11 pm. She changed this to a direct train leaving tomorrow night with reclining seats, getting us to Paris Thursday at 7 am. And she gave us a 6 euro refund, citing the fact that now we were reserving only one train instead of two. We had only asked her if we could change it on a hunch. Figured we'd have nothing toulouse. Sorry.

So now we're heading west from Toulouse. Just prayed sext, angelus & rosary together. Due to arrive at our next destination about 2 pm.

At 1 pm: snowcapped mountains rise beyond green hills to the south. The Pyrenees on the Spanish border. I'm facing backwards again, so they're on my right: flat farmland, wooded hills, jagged mountains, fluffy clouds. On the other side of the train, all of France.

When will I ever learn to trust Divine Providence? This must be part of the hundredfold promised to those who are consecrated to God. Immaculate Mother of God, I trust in you.

A mother with children sees us on the train. Oh, are you Premontre? Oui, oui! I know Frigolet, are you Frigolet? No, we are Orange in California, je suis americain. She is happy.

Tunnel. Tunnel. Tunnel. 1:30 pm.

Children laughing in the next cabin.

They go for fancy brick work around here.

1:35. The station in Tarbes.

Lourdes! At 2 pm we step off the train into the gare (railway station) of the city of Bernadette. A free city map at the info desk features a dotted line from the gare to the grotte, as though they know why we we're here. Should we try to walk? Outside the station on the curb is a citybus stop marked in blue. Three teenage boys in what looks like 80s American grunge slouch on the bench. I know from their dress that they're not Americans, but Europeans.

A family—how do you phrase this?—an Indian-British family from London walks over to await the same bus. The parents' speech sounds more Indian, the children's more British. They've been to Rome and now to Lourdes; only their little boy knows French, so he's their guide and translator. He seems to take this task with a certain pride and sophistication.

Le Citybus runs a simple loop from the gare to the shrines to the hotels. All of the buildings we pass seems to be shops. Candy, toys, wine, jams, clothes, kids' clothes, ladies' clothes, hats. Closer to our goal, these give way almost exclusively to “religious goods”. Catholic kitsch. Mama mia, some of it's tacky as anything. The best have to be the plastic Mary-shaped water bottles with a blue screw-off hat/cap.

Having eaten nothing all day but a croissant, we decide to lunch first. Yes, I'm a little ashamed that I didn't run straight to the grotte, but it's almost 3 pm now. Trusting in the Divine Mercy, we walk over to a tourist trap called the Little Flower Cafe, or something like that, decorated with shamrocks. Presumably the founder or owner was Irish, or just marketing to that crowd. Sidewalk table across from the gate to the shrine area, folks of all nations passing by, conversing, smiling, enjoying the sunshine. A mural across the street with the town's most famous daughter and two popes: J.P.2 and his first successor. Tomatoes, fromage, anchovies, fries, bread. Good enough, but nothing to write home about.

By 3:30 we're entering the Porte St. Joseph, guarded by its stone patron. WC to the left, info booth to the right, triple-decker basilica straight ahead. Gaggles of pilgrims everywhere. Their chatter turns to prayer as we wend around to the right of the church, the famous faucets flowing from its foundation.

The Grotte. The statue of the Madonna standing where she stood, faithful Christians kneeling, standing or sitting, a priest in alb and stole leading the rosary in French, a stream of pilgrims passing by him to touch the stone. Two white canons stand blinking. This is a good opportunity to renew our consecration to Mary.

Besides visiting my Premonstratensian confrères, I had two dreams for this tour de France. One of them is now accomplished.

Two candles in the chapel of the relics of St. Marie Bernarde Soubirous, in thanksgiving.

At 4:15 we assist at Mass in French in the Uppermost Basilica. I am the Immaculate Conception. All nations. Europeans, Americans north and south, Africans and Asians. The preacher says something about the Mercy of Christ.

Amy Beatrice of Gabon asks for prayers. 

5 pm at the citybus stop by the Porte St. Joseph. A gypsy boy rudely insists on being given something. Within 15 minutes we're being driven back up the hill to the gare.

The 6:11 train back toward Toulouse, but we get off at the Tarbes station at 6:30. M. Jean Jacques, a donatus of the Priory of Laloubere, is there to meet us. All of the canons are at the Cathedrale Notre Dame for the Chrism mass, so I've been sent to fetch you. Besides, Jean Jacques is the only one who speaks English.

He drives us to the Cathedral, not far from the gare, and we arrive at the Chrism Mass just before the blessing of the oils, one of which will be used in ordinations. At the very beginning of our journeys on Saturday, I had asked St. Joseph to take care of all of our connections and make sure we got everywhere on time and not let us be stranded anywhere. Now I'm beginning to feel like he's making fun of me. This timing of events is a little too perfect.

A beautiful Cathedral, the bishop using the main altar under the red marble and gold baldechino, the urns of oil are brown and green stone jars. The Chrism Mass is packed, standing room only. Several young folks in their 20s and 30s stand in the back with us. I'm starting to be able to sing along with the French hymns.

7:30 at the priory, Jean Jacques gives us a tour before the priests return from the Cathedral. The house was built as a sisters' retirement home and bought by Mondaye Abbey a few years ago. The church is strangely proportioned, with a circular domed nave and a low rectangular choir recessed out behind the sanctuary, but they've made do in as traditional a manner as they can. Symmetrical candles frame a crucifix on the altar. A mourning dove, just like the ones we have in California, sighs on the roof.

They have several guest rooms, and are happy to host confrères of the Order. Our rooms are shown to us. I see snowcapped Pyrenees out my window.

At 8:00 the canons invite us to a clerical cocktail party. If you don't know what that is, don't worry about it. Suffice it to say that eight men without any one common language were able to have a unified, intelligent and enjoyable conversation for about an hour in mixed sentences of Italian, French, English and Latin. We moved from the sitting room to the refectory at 8:30 for supper. A vegetable soup (I discovered later that it had contained asparagus), followed by ham and bread, and fromage blanc (yogurt) for dessert.

To bed at 9 pm.

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Wednesday 20 April. 7:30 am morning prayer entirely in French. It has a certain simple elegance.

Breakfast is the European standard of coffee, bread and butter. If I haven't mentioned it, it's worth noting that these French monasteries all serve coffee in what we would call cereal bowls.

In my room I open the window to gaze upon the mountains again. A honey bee shivers on the windowsill; I pet him gently and he flies home. Three military helicopters buzz past my window at 9:51. The birds are twittering.

The conventual mass at noon. French with Roman Canon, Latin Sanctus.

Lunch is coleslaw weighted heavily with carrots, followed by baked breaded fish and rice.

The confrères of Laloubere generously offer us the use of a car for the afternoon to drive to Lourdes. Just take a left out of the priory, another left at the lights, where you'll see a roundabout; follow the direction to Ibis, and go straight ahead until you get to Lourdes. The directions are perfect. I hope we'll be able to follow them back as well. Is that the car? No, we just passed a rubbish pile burning.

Here we are, Lourdes for the second day in a row! According to this street map, there should be public parking around here. We circle the downtown twice before we figure out the parking meters. We fortunately find a spot by the Gave just up the hill from the Basilica. Everybody remember where we parked.

The thing to do first is buy some jugs and bottles, and fill them up. That way, we can just leave them in the car while we visit the rest of the shrine.

Water is heavy.

Frater Alan also buys a Lourdes baseball cap.

Confessions in all the major languages, and a few minor ones. A chatty English priest wears a white stole over a purple shirt. Words of absolution. Say your penance. Trust in Jesus.

Sorry, I can't bless your rosaries; I'm a frere, not a pere. I will, however, show up in a few Asians' vacation photo albums.

We buy a big candle to burn in the Grotte itself, for the intentions of St. Michael's Abbey, all the confrères, nuns, their families, and benefactors. My family, too. We pray for each individually, as many as we can remember, and trust our angels to add any that we accidentally left out.

Betty asks prayers for Mary, Gracie, and Collin. A few drops threaten rain to come.

The only way we possibly made our way back to the priory was through the miraculous guidance of St. Joseph and our angels.

Vespers at Laloubere, entirely in French. After supper, we bid a grateful farewell to the canons, and Jean Jacques (he visited Orange, California about seven years ago, Fr. Jerome might remember) drives us to the train station.

Night train to Paris. 10:14 PM. Because it leaves after seven and arrives the next morning, it only counts as one travel day on our Eurail pass. It's dark and quiet.

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Thursday, 21 April, 2011, 6 am. The palest pink out the right hand windows.

6:30. Walls cream or stone-faced. Roofs colored rust. Salmon skies.

7:15. I have now accomplished my other dream. I have earned the right, for the rest of my life, to say, “We'll always have Paris.”

Like natives, we take Metro 10 to Metro 12 to Gare St. Lazare. Breakfast at Starbucks by the station.

8:45 train to Caen. Daphne and her sister laugh and play in the corridor. Mama shushes, grandpa smiles. It's amazing how well those kids speak French! Throw their hands up, Ole! Spanish, too, apparently.

9:25. The greenery like a wall to their right and to their left. Fields, farms, forests.

9:45. Evreux, Normandie.

10:15. That was the biggest, cleanest, most modern WC I have ever seen on a locomotive.

Fields of canary yellow flowers.

White moo-cows lie in the grass.

Daphne and her family get off at Liseux. 10:30.

Caen train change. 10:51. We step off and our connection to Bayeux pulls right in front of us. 10:59. Perfect timing. Again. 

11:14. Frere Julien is there to meet us at the Bayeux gare. His English is limited, but we all know what's going on, so we pile into the car and twenty minutes later are at Mondaye Abbeye.

We're shown our rooms in the guest house, and then whisked off to pray sext in the abbey church at noon, followed by a festive lunch.

Other guests here include two Marist brothers from Scotland.

The abbey computer room has web access, so I can update the blog and check email.  Hey, someone wrote me a birthday greeting!  Thanks! 

For anyone paying attention, Lent is over now, and the Triduum has begun. I'm tremendously glad to be staying in an abbey for these most holy days. We begin with the celebration of the institution of the most holy Eucharist and accompanying priesthood.

Life is never boring. Just start paying attention. 

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Je ne parle pas francais.

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Palm Sunday Mass was in the big neo-gothic basilica, vibrantly painted in blue, red and gold. Literally of the church, figuratively of the liturgy.

Palm Sunday vepres are in the smaller, older L'eglise Saint-Michel (XII siecle). French with Latin hymns, antiphons and magnificat, much like at my own Abbey, except that here in Frigolet they sing cantor vs choir rather than choir side to side. The office is tres bien, more elegant than at the generalate in Rome, but simpler and with less Latin than in St. Michael's in Orange, Ca.

There's a hot water radiator built into the choir stalls! I looked down at my feet, and there it was, painted brown to almost match the wood, running the length of the choir, invisible to the nave. Between the cozy warmth at my feet and the arched stone roof, it feels like a bear cave. 

Lundi, 18 Avril 2011.

Matins & Lauds in the St. Michel church at 7, more vernacular French than yesterday. With my Latin and Italian, I can understand enough to follow the prayers, but the pronunciation....

Continental breakfast...right. Coffee with milk, french bread with butter and jam. It does seem so far that all the bread here is what I would call french. The sky is blue, the birds are singing, the green trees are crowding around the abbey.

Fr. Alan & I confer about our travel plans for the next few days.

The Abbot wants to show us around their renovation project.They're restoring an old wing of the monastery, currently unusable, to be able to house their growing community.  Why does this problem seem familiar?  Workmen are busily hammering away, and Pere Abbe can indicate where the new entrance and rooms will be.  We're most easily able to communicate in Italian.  Ironic.  They hope to be able to move in from their current cramped wing within about two years.

Cloister courtyard at noon.  Sun, olive tree, old stone well.  Lizards, wasps, flies.  12:10, a very loud bell shatters my head.  Is that for prayers or for lunch?

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Two guys, two countries, two weeks, one rail pass.

"April 16: The Sixteenth Day before the Kalends of May.... At Nevers also in France, Saint Marie Bernarde Soubirous, virgin, who was born to a very poor family in the town of Lourdes, and while still a girl experienced the presence of the Blessed Virgin Mary Immaculate. Afterward, having taken the religious habit, she lived a hidden and humble life. And elsewhere many other holy martyrs, confessors, and holy virgins."

We're now on the train for Torino, left on time at 6:15 am. Due to arrive at 11:03. But that's just a transfer. Adventure awaits.

Sailing backwards, the rising sun to my left.

It took us an hour and a half to get to Florence.

Good.

Oh, look, there's another one.

8:40. Bologna. It's getting more crowded, Frater & I have to sit next to each other now.

9:45. Milano. Most people get off

No internet on the train.

Arrived on time in Torino 11 am. Porta Susa.

But where's the bus which we're s'posed to take to Lyon? That way. I can't see anything that way, except city bus stops. We walk in circles. We wend our way back to the train station. There's a help desk. The Pullman for Lyon? To the right, past the taxis. We come, we find a little sign, extraurbane. That must be it. It's really right next to the taxi stops. It looks like any other city bus stop. A few francophones converge on our position. Is this the Pullman for Lyon? they ask. Speriamo di si.

The bus fills with those who've paid full price tickets. We have to wait for them. What if there's not room for us? Then we'll be stuck in Torino. Oh sweet angel. There's barely room. A Frenchman moves to another single to allow us to sit together. Very kind. Merci. You're welcome. 1 pm.

If there hadn't been room on this coach,we'd have had the next 24 hours to go and see the basilica of the shroud. There're always pros and cons.

Crowded bus. Pranzo of warm panini and water. Clear vision of mountains ahead. Tunnel. Mountains. Tunnel. Valleys. Tunnel. Mountains. The border of France at 2:30 pm. A Gendarme inspects passports. We're in. Down into the valleys of southern France. By the clear blue skies, modern paved roads, brush covered hills, we could be back in southern California. I guess I can stop speaking Italian now.

17:10 on the nose we're at the bus station in Lyon Part Dieu. The railway station is obvious across the road. The railway station is rationally organized. I can see where the ticket booths are, where the help desk is. Do I need a reservation; does this schedule count as one? No, no, your Eurail pass is sufficient, just board the train. We buy fresh sandwiches parisien for our supper on the train. A prompt departure at 6:25 pm. Bound for Avignon.

Another power outlet on this train, but no internet. I wonder when I'll be able to post this?

South. The afternoon sun is not in my face this leg. The locomotive's shadow rustles through the brush.

The almost full moon rolls along the crest of the hills, trying to keep pace with the train, until it hits a thicket of windmills. Valier-sur-Rhone. 7:20 pm. A little girl in a pink coat holds her mother's hand and skips.

Montelimar, 8:07 pm.

The sandwiches are made of ham and butter. The bread is good. Is all bread here french bread? If you get french bread here, it's french french bread, says Frater Alan, and at McDonald's they serve french french fries.

I can now say I've been to the other Orange. For all of two minutes. Didn't even get off the train.

The train is almost empty by the time we reach Avignon at 9:10 pm. It's dark. Frigolet said they'd send someone to fetch us from the station. A handful of teenagers is loitering in front of the station, talking and laughing. They seem friendly enough. Don't kids have anything better to do on a Saturday night than hang out in front of the train station?  Better leave well enough alone. Right in front of us is the gate of the wall surrounding old Avignon. If we were to walk straight ahead, we'd soon see the palace of the popes. Let's wait for our ride, we don't want to miss him.

A car drives up at 9:30. Father Patrice is delighted to see us, etc. He wants to show us the palace of the popes by night before driving down to the Abbey, and we're happy enough.

Every street is Avignon seems to be one way, and many are only as wide as the car itself. Every parking spot is taken. It's a beautiful little city. At 10 we finally park next to the palace, and walk up the stairs. There it is. Big and beautiful and papal and closed for the night. But I've seen and touched it. What's with the elephant standing on its nose? A small dog fetches a ball, a kid sails by on a bike.

Through the forest to the Abbey, I can't see much of it. Into the guest house; keys, schedule, directions.

To bed at about 11.

Abbey bells. Breakfast of bread and butter and coffee. 8:30.

Do you have a hot iron for me to press my habit? The confrères don't do their own laundry, but they find an old contraption in a closet. A metal pedestal covered with switches and lights and cables and tubes, with a hand iron attached to the top. I'm sorry, this machine is very Italian. We laugh. Ironing on a bedsheet-draped sacristy table.

Could you two help to serve the conventual Mass this morning at 11? Of course, we're acolytes. 

We end up being pontifical attendants.  Liturgy: French, with Latin Sanctus & Agnus.  A full church.  Today is Olive-Branch Sunday.  I don't see any palms.  

Oh, yes, you can use the internet in the library.  Merci!

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