War, then and now

Pre-Cannes, I rendezvoused with my good friend, Todd McCarthy, in Normandy at the home of our mutual amie, Florence Dauman, for about a week of talk and table. We had been debating about whether to go west to the WW II beaches, or north to lunch in Deauville/Trouville.

In the end, Flo stayed back—going to Omaha Beach for her would be like a San Antonian going to see the Alamo, and Todd and I drove up to Trouville for a long lunch at Les Vapeurs, a historic bistro across from the grand casino that still serves up a good lunch despite the heavy whiff of tourist trap about it.

As we were nearing the end of our meal, a tall young man and woman sat down across from us. It was nearly four, the restaurant was mostly deserted. The young man was straight up and down as an arrow, short hair, clear blue eyes and wearing an odd T-shirt that said Watergate.

Okay, an American kid, with something of the look of wanting to talk. Tourist banter coming. Against my better judgment in I went and asked what brought him to a joint like this?

“I am soldier in Ukraine,” he said. “This is my wife, Kat. I am on leave. I go back tomorrow. Now we went to Omaha Beach.”

The words of pleasant restaurant banter evaporated. I was down to one word. “Why?” I asked, but sensed the answer.

“I wanted to know what it looked like,” he said. “I wanted to see what it was like, and what they did.” His answer just hung in the air.

Todd and I glanced at each other. And then back at him, then at his wife, sitting there as a couple. They looked at us take in what they were about. Our eyes welled up.

We wished them all the love in our hearts. He nodded. She smiled shyly.

Instead of returning to Flo’s an hour south, we headed west to Omaha Beach. We wanted to know what it was like, and see what they did there.