Omaha Beach 65 years later

I was wandering yesterday afternoon, June 6, among the 9000 white marble crosses and stars of David at the American Cemetery of Colleville-sur-mer, above Omaha Beach, in Normandy. It’s a powerful, solemn place. On this particular day, there were 7000 other living humans with me, some of them D-Day vets, the real VIPs of the day, sporting uniforms and medals, all of us waiting for the official 65th anniversary ceremony to begin. It could have been complete chaos, but, in fact, the “Official Ceremony” was a well-organized event and the overall spirit was of dignity, gratitude and, of course, celebrity-watching. We were seated a LONG way from the stage but video screens were bringing us close ups of the arrivals by helicopter: Nicolas and Carla Sarkozy, Prince Charles, Gordon Brown and, of course, Barack and Michelle. The Obamas were clearly the superstars of the day, but – a big surprise to me – the best speech of the days was delivered by Sarko. His words, in the context of that solemn place and my lack of sleep, brought tears to my eyes. Happily, the rain held off all day. Unfortunately, in the evening, when the thousands of attendees who weren’t traveling by helicopter were all waiting for shuttle buses back to Caen, it started to pour. That return process was, well, a bit of a mess, but really nothing compared to jumping out of a landing craft at Omaha Beach 65 years ago that same day.

What a rollercoaster the last few days have been. You won’t believe what has happened. I’ll give you the short version, but will be happy to fill out the details later in person, on the phone or by e-mail. When we arrived in Normandy, late on Thursday, we drove to the worst hotel (without a doubt) that I have stayed at in over three years of touring. It’s called the Amirauté on the outskirts of Deauville. I’ll spare you the gruesome details but think under-construction Soviet gulag meets 70s disco palace meets Motel 6. It was truly terrible to the point of being creepy. One of my travelers took to calling it “The Bates Motel”. Creepy or not, it was what we had, so we made the best of it. When I finally got everyone settled (around 1 AM), I wrote an e-mail to HQ in D.C. warning of a “thunderstorm of protest” about the accommodations.

We set off Friday morning for a full day of touring that was to include a wreath laying ceremony at Utah Beach and a visit to the Airborne Museum. At noon, just after we had given the travelers free time in the village of Ste Mère Eglise, we got The Phone Call: the Gendarmerie called our guide to say that an elderly Canadian veteran had died the night before at our so-called hotel and the authorities had some reason to suspect H1N1, aka Swine Flu. The consequence was that we were to drive directly back to Deauville where we would all be quarantined until further notice. We, of course, immediately called for help in D.C. but the State Department advised our supervisors that we had to follow the instructions of the local authorities.

Well, you can just imagine how well this news was received by the travelers, fresh from their night chez Norman Bates. The two buses drove back to the Amirauté under full gendarme escort, blue lights flashing, about a two hour trip. Upon arrival, we were greeted by police and public health doctors who informed me that they should soon have the blood test results from the dead man. We later learned that this D-Day veteran had had leukemia and had returned to Normandy to die. But that’s another story...

We served coffee to the disgruntled travelers, promised stronger drinks to come, tried to update them as we learned anything new. Rebellion was in the air.

Then...everything turned around. Around 5:30 P.M., we got the All Clear from the doctors. Just after that, the most miraculous news arrived: the folks in D.C., responding to my alarm and the latest events, had found a way – on a weekend when Normandy was swamped with visitors -- to upgrade us to rooms in the fanciest hotel on the beach in Deauville. Within the hour, the travelers had packed up, taken a short bus ride and were sipping complementary champagne around the pool at the Hotel Royal Barrière. All the frustration and anger seemed but a bad dream from which we had all emerged. When I arrived late to dinner in the fancy dining room (a Tour Manager’s work, it seems, is never done), I received a hearty ovation. I had become, improbably and somewhat inaccurately, the hero of the day.

Now it’s Sunday, late on the last evening of the tour. We’re at an airport hotel in Paris from which most people are flying back to the USA . By about noon tomorrow, I should have seen everyone off. I plan to spend two nights in Paris, three in Nice, then go back to Ruby and Magnolia in Vermont. It will be very good indeed to be home.

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