Perhaps it was the wild boar on the menu that gave it away. Or the way the chef emerged excitedly from the kitchen, white uniform tight and stained, to chat with us after he heard foreigners in the house. The restaurant, and in fact the whole town of Tende, was devoid of pretension and decidedly un-French. Somehow, the unrefined game animal, which may have been tromping through the forest that cloaked the valley below just the day before, found its way onto the menu next to the fromage and paté.
We were two travelers passing through, just looking around for somewhere interesting during the late autumn lull so common to mountain towns before the snow falls. Seated in what may be France’s only existing non-smoking area, we were studying the menu when the chef brought a wood plaque with an old 1992 Boston Globe article mounted on it. It was a review of his restaurant, and quite clearly the showpiece of the place. He clasped his hands together underneath his protruding belly and beamed as we read.
Such a welcome from the French was unusual. We had just driven up along the French-Italian border from Nice and the Riviera, where waiters corrected our grammar and shopkeepers could not be bothered to utter a merci. Conversely, Tende seemed eerily pleased with our presence. For a moment we thought we had unknowingly exited France, and slipped over the border into the care of French-speaking Italians. Somehow this anomaly town called Tende, like the wild boar, had wound up on our plate.
Nestled between the high Alps and the balmy Mediterranean shores, Tende sits like a fickle queen at the head of the Roya Valley, not committing to either climate or culture. The icy Tende river swirls through the town and meets the warm Mediterranean Sea only 40 kilometers away. In autumn, the town is ringed by 2000-meter peaks dusted with snow while stands of larch trees and pine decorate its flanks. The smell of toasty household fires belies the sight of perky reds and purples in flower boxes outside.
Tende’s cultural duality unfurled as we strolled through town. The cemetery´s headstones read both Bertrand and Cacciardo. The living still greet one another with ciaos and bonjours. The postman delivers all of the 2,000 residents’ mail on foot, and squeezes copies of Le Figaro magazine in tiny mail slots of homes hundreds of years old. These dwellings, many of which are approached only by meter-wide passageways, encircle the pink Gothic church of Tende. Inside the church, signs in French and Italian ask you to be quiet. Not that there would be much yukking it up at this time of the year—the autumn silence of Tende is broken only by the hourly bong of the clock tower.
Sundials on the sides of buildings were quieter reminders of time, but of time that passed slowly and deliciously. I imagined one hundred years from now you could still peer in dusty windows of medieval edifices and dip your bucket in the community water fountain. You could get lost in the labyrinth of cobblestone backstreet’s, but then get pointed gently in the right direction. I sensed the old women would forever shuffle along unhurriedly, waving at virtually every car that drove past, and stopping occasionally to chat with its occupants and double kiss their cheeks. Shopping in Tende continued in the traditional fashion; it meant separate visits to the boulangerie, charcuterie, and patisserie, for bread, meat and pastries. The store hours ensured a lengthy lunch and a healthy afternoon nap.
Not surprisingly, this little French town does indeed have its roots in Italy. When the House of Savoie absorbed Tende in 1581, the town became a crucial stop on the Salt Route between Nice and Turin. When the communes of Savoie were rejoined to France in 1860, the residents of Tende were still French speaking and wanted to be included in the reunion. Deaf to their pleas, Napoleon III snubbed the town and left it to Italy. Tende, along with the Roya Valley, was the preferred hunting ground of Italian royalty and presumably their source for tasty wild boar. It wasn’t until 1947 that the peace treaty between the two countries allowed Tende back into France.
Perhaps after Napolean’s rejection, Tende vowed never to become wholly French. Not once were we expected to wear flashy clothes, given wrong directions, or seated next to a middle-aged woman cooing to her dog at the dinner table. No one ridiculed our butchered French. Instead, our hotel owner was concerned if we were comfy, store clerks asked if they could help, and restaurant staff treated us like prized patrons with discriminating tastes. Tende was France as we wanted it to be.
That’s not to say it is undiscovered. In the summer, tourists flock to Tende to access the adjacent Mercantour National Park to picnic, hike and gawk at over 36,000 petroglyph’s from the Bronze Age. Tucked away in the park’s Vallee des Merveilles, or Valley of Marvels, the petroglyph’s attest to the movement of people through the area thousands of years ago as well. Although most of the stone etchings are the garden-variety spirals and cows, one petroglyph in particular commands attention and still lingers in mystery. Dubbed The Sorcerer, it was found on a rock slab at the base of Mt. Bego, and it depicts a human figure whose arms appear to be lightning bolts.
Archaeologists are baffled by the meaning of this mysterious figure that in no way relates to the others. Is it a shaman, a god, a sign of the supernatural? Our hotel owner, Francoise, had a giant print of The Sorcerer hanging in her dining room. She had her own interpretation of its meaning. For centuries, Mt. Bego has attracted violent storms, she said. Ancient people saw this and they were afraid of the mountain’s powers and declared the mountain a sacred site. Then they carved a warning in stone. Now preserved in Tende’s surprisingly sophisticated Merveilles museum, visitors are left to wonder what story The Sorcerer is telling in stone.
These days locals tell their stories at the bar. We stepped into one which also fronted as a café. Old men were clustered around a counter, slurping strong coffee and smoking, slapping one another on the back, and waving their arms in feigned arguments. Their tanned gnarled hands spoke of Mediterranean sunshine and hard mountain work.
Outside, a single crumbling spire that looms over the town tells the best story of Tende’s political tug of war. It is all that remains of a grand 14th-century French château which was ordered by the Italian king to be destroyed in 1692. Tende’s residents, then under the rule of Italy but still allegiant to France, refused to demolish it. Consequently, the town’s neighbors took it upon themselves to bring the château to the ground.
As we finished our wild boar, the pleasant wife of our chef wiped the counter slowly and chatted with us, lamenting that Tende is still being pushed around. The town is still relatively ignored, she said, and lives in the shadows of its resort-town sisters like Nice and Chamonix. She sighed and rested her chin in her hand, saying it is the lack of employment in Tende and attraction of the urban areas that draws the young people away.
We had to agree. Tende could be a youth’s nightmare: a home town locked in time, devoid of the dynamism so prevalent in neighboring cities. Yet for us, it was a lucky find. This town took us in like it was welcoming its children back home.
I was already aware of the intricacies of British culture, having lived in England previously as a history teacher at a rural boarding school, during my first year out of college. But I later moved to the capital city–working toward a Master’s degree in Environment and Development at the London School of Economics–which made that prior experience seem about as exciting as reading VCR instructions. What struck me most was London’s diversity, geographical mix, and relentless pulse.
spoken by statuesque women in fully robed regalia. My local borough (I lived in Herne Hill, near Brixton) equips its police officers with a handbook on how to approach citizens in over 20 languages. Walking from the bus stop to my house, I passed by Jamaicans, Trinidadians, Poles, and Koreans; flags waving and music blaring outside their shops and homes. All of this brought to mind a metaphor usually reserved for my native country: London is truly a great mixed salad. 
There is much less national identity in London, these days, as opposed to, say, during the time of Splendid Isolation–the national flag, for instance, carries very little symbolic value for most Brits, and there is no equivalent to the American “Pledge of Allegiance.” Each nationality retains its own cultural identity, merging seamlessly in the context of the professional world, while simultaneously promoting unique fashion, food, style, and slang that burst and fade in friendly competition. One can symbolically travel the world in London with merely a $3 bus pass and a good pair of shoes.
Further, while mixed-class development projects are now taking root in North America in reaction to the crumbling of inner cities, London, for the most part, avoided this structural weathering by virtue of the tragic and destructive effects of the Second World War. It was not good foresight, but rather the London Blitz, that forced the creation of an urban geography of wealthy and nonwealthy classes well-mixed along the same street. The 1940 bombing by German warplanes was indiscriminate in London, pockmarking all areas of the city with craters where once stood homes and businesses. After the war, the British 
government initiated the “Homes for Heroes” program to house returning veterans, transforming the rubble into massive housing estates that often rise awkwardly above Georgian and Edwardian masterpieces. Over time these individual “council flats” were sold on the market or converted to low-income housing, and now they dot the 
London landscape, even in the poshest suburbs and high streets (shopping areas). Proximity breeds tolerance on both sides, and as a result, the city seems relatively at ease with class differences. Moreover, visitors can walk almost anywhere in London and rarely feel their safety threatened.
All of this contributes to an underlying vibe in London that is unparalleled. At first glance, a visitor may find the city to be a dazzling display of historical sites, facades of the Old World, and relics of the Crown. But with more time and closer inspection, London emerges as that fabled Congo river boat from Conrad’s
classic, Heart of Darkness (which begins on the River Thames, just miles from London)–having stepped aboard, and not knowing who controls the wheel, speed, or direction, we are swept downstream among the jungle’s pulse and intensity, clinging first to the safety of what we know before regaining our will and walking freely through the bright lights, markets, and hushed corners of this great city. It is 
everyman’s and everywoman’s city, and the best way to know it is as such–with a pub on one side, and pub on the other.
London has, for centuries, conformed to its inhabitants and the demands of the country and world, first as a commercial port, then as the political and financial capital of the British Empire, followed by a trying period of heavy industry in the early 20th century, and finally reaching its present-day service- and tourism-based economy. If you do visit London, resist the temptation to take the convenient Tube–the city’s famed subway system. Take the bus instead, at least on your first day. Instead of popping out of dark ferret holes all day, you’ll see first hand how a city of 8 million people, cramped streets, and sparkling greens manages to contract, expand, and breathe with the daily demands of modern life. After a few days in “town” you may be reminded of the graceful words of Samuel Johnson, whose penned prose still seems to emanate from every Soho storefront and Hyde Park hollow: “He who is tired of London, is tired of life.”
During my four weeks in the United Kingdom last summer, I crisscrossed the country and reveled in its history, beauty, and variety. As the landscape changed, so did the dialects, architecture, culture, and food, but I did find one constant. I was constantly plagued by inadequate plumbing. I have friends and relatives who have been to the U.K. I have friends who are British. Why didn’t anyone warn me? Okay, the topic isn’t one likely to come up in polite conversation, but when my family asked me about my trip, I couldn’t help but express my frustration with the plumbing issues I faced daily. The Brits may take pride in their long history, progressive metropolises, and quaint country towns, but there is something to be said for modern convenience where you need it most: in the bathroom. Since my return, when I have had occasion to bring the subject up, I’ve gotten reactions ranging from surprise to a casual shrug as if it was something that everyone knew. For those of you who do not know, please read on…
As a student of World War II, I have been fascinated by what is one of history’s greatest battles, the breakthrough that led to the fall of France in May 1940. Unlike the famous one- or two-day battles such as Waterloo, Antietam, and Gettysburg, there are no monuments or museums to this singular campaign; it is an event the western world would like to forget. But the absence of memorials is, itself, indicative of one thing: this was a battle of movement. I set out to retrace the steps of the soldiers and the tracks of the tanks in this campaign.
The tank was invented during World War I and early models were cumbersome. Early tanks had a maximum speed of roughly 5 miles per hour and crossing a stream presented difficulties because of their weight; country bridges were often unable to support them. At the opening of the Second World War, German tanks were relatively light and emphasized mobility. Many French tanks were heavier and used largely in support of infantry, perhaps leading to the confusion about difficulty of passage. The British invented the idea of unified separate tank corps supported by mobile infantry, but only the Germans put the tactics to use. They tested independent use of tank divisions in Poland, but the French took little notice, even though success in Poland dictated similar tactics in France.
The most important of the intervening rivers is the Semois. The Semois is a meandering river with tight, graceful curves, cutting through almost pristine forestland. This river now provides a place for many to relax on its banks, or play in its water, but at the time, it represented a major entryway into French territory. The Semois is no mere stream and at that point its bridges had been blown. However, the river is extremely shallow in many places, and a shallow ford with a firm bottom could be crossed without bridging. At other points the Semois is considerably wider and therefore even shallower. Driving along the river in the area where the tanks traversed revealed many good crossings adjacent to the road. German sport fisherman had picked out ahead of time the fords with the shallowest, sturdiest bottoms where the tanks could cross without getting bogged down in the river bed.
Commanding the northernmost arm of Guderian’s Panzer corps–before he became an infamous figure in the war–Erwin Rommel’s division reached the Meuse, on the same day as Guderian, but roughly 40 miles to the north, just above Dinant. His route, unlike Guderian’s, did not go through undefended Luxembourg, and Rommel ran into more resistance. But the roads were better and Rommel, himself, was driven like no other division commander. When he reached the Meuse at Yvoir, the bridge had been blown. Rommel went up river (south) to find a crossing. Here, in an area with low river banks, he found an old weir, or low dam, between the shore and a small island at the little village of Houx. The weir extended to the western bank. Rommel promptly got troops across on top of the weir, under cover of darkness. It’s all there today, except that the old wooden dam has been replaced with steel and a foot bridge. As they reached the far side, history books describe the troopers as crouching under the bank fighting off French defenders, but in fact there are no steep sides here and the country to the west is reasonably flat. The next morning, several hundred yards upstream, 
Rommel strung a cable over the river capable of carrying pontoon-supported vehicles. After commandeering another division’s bridging equipment (his had been used farther back) a full pontoon bridge was laid a mile upstream, at Bouvinges, on May 14. Tanks were moved over the Meuse both here and at Sedan.
Verdun is a medieval town steeped in military history–from the Treaty of Verdun in 843, which divided the vast empire of Charlemagne among his warring grandsons; to the bloody battle of 1916, in which an estimated 700,000 French and Germans lost their lives, so that no side clearly won; to the 1984 United Nations declaration of Verdun as an “International City of Peace.” Two principal forts defending Verdun still exist. One in particular, Douaumont, appears unconquerable as it dominates the surrounding terrain. However, not only did the Germans succeed in taking both forts, but the French retook them later (from the easier back side). The limitation of such strongholds under modern conditions would seem to have been demonstrated. Nonetheless, impressed by how long one of the forts held out, the French were encouraged to build the Maginot Line.
