I was surprised and touched to see
how the Riviera people expressed obvious grief at the loss of our
President. We all had heard news and
seen newspaper pictures of the February Big Three Conference at Yalta and been
a bit shocked to see how fragile the President looked. He, General Secretary Stalin and Prime
Minister Churchill, together with the British and American Fleet Admirals and
the RAF heads met in the Crimea for that second of three Wartime Conferences. Its purpose was to discuss Europe’s post-war
organization. (Our President himself
represented our Air Force since it was still part of the US Army, not a
separate Force.)
I found the emotional openness of
the southern French noticeably different from the constrained emotional
expression of most people in the Alsace-Lorraine area where the lands had
alternated between French and German domination for many generations.
After a hearty breakfast
I began preparing to enjoy the waters of the Mediterranean and sunning on the
beach. The water felt freezing to my toe. I forgot about jumping in and all week never
even got wet. Nevertheless the sun shone
every day and was wonderfully warm.
There were a number of optional trips―to perfume factories, to Nice and
to Monaco—but not for gambling. The food
was superb everywhere and didn’t make me feel guilty for eating off the
country. Our elegant, high rise, very
modern hotel dining room was like eating at the Waldorf in New York.
But my most lingering memory of the
week’s adventure is the day that one of the officers I had met sitting with a
book on the sunny beach suggested that we take up an offer from a local
fisherman to try our luck with a fishing pole on the Mediterranean Sea. Fairly early in the morning the peasant-like fisherman
showed up with a small row boat and nothing but 2 tree limbs about 3 feet long
for fishing poles, each with a line and hook.
With qualms we Americans climbed in and off the Frenchman started rowing
out to sea.
We looked around for bait. “What do we use for bait?” the pilot and I
pantomimed. “Nothing,” the boatman
pantomimed back, shrugging his shoulders.
Very soon, not far out from shore he motioned that we should drop our
lines, only some 2 or 3 feet long, over the boat’s edge. Wham!
Within seconds each of us landed a
fish, each bright colored, but not the same shape, different kinds of
fish. Into a bucket the fisherman
unhooked our catches. Over and over
again we repeated the motions. I’ve
never seen such variety and beauty in fish—every shape you can imagine, each
with its singular pattern of markings.
No gamesmanship there, but such a satisfactory “fishing”
experience! In a short time—maybe less
than an hour—our little bucket was full.
Back at the hotel the officer and I
discussed whether we could possibly eat those little beauties. None was over 7 or 8 inches long or wide,
most even smaller. When we questioned
the chef to see whether he could fry them, he agreed immediately.
Would each of us remember the
shapes of the little beauties caught on our own hook even if the coating fried
them brown? We truly wondered. Only our hearty appetites for fresh-caught
fish, long un-tasted since state-side, saw us through as we bit into those
handsome creatures of Mother Nature.
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