Goodbye Old Europe, Hello OBI

After taking a walk yesterday and being horrified to find a patch of our local forest being stripped of its trees, and then finding a little further along the path a new cinderblock house going up that arrogantly wrecks the quaint view of several old stone houses, I thought of this "essay" I wrote a few years back for some friends who were hesitant to travel to Europe with their children.


There is no better time to take your children to Europe than when they are young. My fondest memories with my son, Preston, will always be the months we spent in Europe: trying new foods, tramping across battlefields, riding trains, exploring beautiful beaches, and our many pilgrimages to the Parisian toy store, Nain Bleu. Preston’s now a six-foot-three teenager, and still we reminisce about our European escapades. As a result of sharing this strange adventure in foreign lands, a special camaraderie develops between parent and child, weaving a colorful tapestry which bonds us closer together.

One memorable adventure was the autumn evening that Preston, age eleven, my teenage helper, Kelly, and I were lost in southeast Belgium without a hotel reservation. I insisted on driving from town to town in the forested hills looking for a “quaint” village in which to sleep. But I couldn’t find one that fulfilled my idyllic vision. Granted, the trees were bereft of leaves, the summer flowers were gone, and perhaps my view of the villages through which we passed was jaded by the onset of winter. As night fell, Kelly and Preston anxiously voiced the unpleasant thought that we might be forced to spend the night sleeping in the car. They suggested that I not insist upon finding a “quaint” hamlet. To calm them, I agreed to seek a hotel in the next village down the road.

While not as drab as the other villages we had seen, the next town we happened upon would not have made anyone’s list of Most Beautiful Belgian Villages. However, the downtown appeared vibrant and bustling with many people, a hopeful sign that the place had value. More importantly, for an American, this town had a hotel which was listed, indeed featured, in my guidebook. To our chagrin, this guidebook forgot to mention that the hotel lobby was filled with large, dusty, tropical plastic plants, a revelation which incited me to ask to see a room before I handed over my credit card. The room was no more enticing than the lobby. Even the desperate duo of Preston and Kelly didn’t want to lay their heads on those beds.

Making our escape, we spotted an older inn across the square. I suspected that at one time, it had been the town’s grand hôtel as it was of good size and situated at the center crossroads of the village. Now, it was haggard-looking, especially in comparison to its neighbor, the proudly elegant town hall, the former chateau of a bishop who was guillotined in the Révolution. Since this establishment wasn’t “featured” in the guidebook, we were justifiably frightened to enter. Not having many options, we marshaled our resolve and marched towards our fate.

We were not surprised by the no-frills ambiance when we walked through the hotel’s doors. Looking around, a strange feeling overcame us. We slowly began to believe that perhaps we had entered one of those mysterious sci-fi time warps. You see, we had inadvertently lost our way in the Ardennes where the Battle of the Bulge had taken place during World War II. Hence, the reason for the lack of quaintness in the area; many of the villages had been destroyed, and those townspeople who remained had hastily and inexpensively rebuilt. This town, however, seemed to have remained intact; and, as we would discover, nothing about this old hotel had changed much since the war.

The lobby served double duty as the ancient proprietress’ living room. She sat in an overstuffed chair petting her cat and watching television. Crocheted doilies, books, magazines, and mementos covered the tables. A welcoming blaze burned in the expansive fireplace. Family photos kindly looked down from the mantel. She smiled, delicately raised herself, turned off the television, and slowly walked to her command post situated behind a dark walnut counter. A hutch of artfully crafted cubby holes stood watch behind her, repositories for the mail and keys of the guests. There was a bell on the counter to summon a bell-boy who didn’t exist any more. Everything resembled a film noir movie set.

I didn’t ask to see a room. I suppose I was charmed by the woman’s cherubic smile. She didn’t accept credit cards, so we surrendered our passports into her outstretched hand. I inquired about restaurants and she suggested we eat in the hotel’s restaurant. Surprised that this small hotel had a restaurant, I agreed that we would. She wrote our names in a large black reservation ledger and then signaled that we should follow her to our two rooms. Our entourage made its way via a creaky staircase which wound up to an equally creaky and dimly lit hallway. The carpet runners were worn threadbare. Our hostess unlocked our rooms with large skeleton keys, opened the drapes, and waited for our comments. We assured her that the rooms were satisfactory. She smiled and left us. Preston promptly tested the springs on his squeaky iron bed.

At dinner, the three of us were the only customers in the restaurant. This lack of patronage unsettled us. We quietly discussed the probability of getting good, fresh food in a restaurant that has no customers. I assume that the proprietress must have called in the cook and the waitress especially for us, forcing them to leave their warm homes to make dinner for three wayward souls. There was no way a profit could be realized from serving us that night, for the food was ridiculously inexpensive. I tried to make up for this incongruity by tipping well. The food wasn’t remarkable, but it was good.

While we cannot remember what we ate for dinner, I am certain that we will remember our visit to that hotel as one of the more transcendent events of our lives. Lining one wall of the restaurant were black and white photos of this little town taken on the day it was liberated by the United States Army. The streets were thronged with American soldiers and Belgian citizens. With wine bottles clasped firmly in hand, they smiled broadly as they hung off army trunks and tanks, reveling in relief that the Germans were vanquished.

One photo had captured Ernest Hemingway, dressed in battle fatigues, eating where we were now dining. He had come with the troops as a war correspondent for Collier’s Magazine. The three of us were excited to discover the minor role our dilapidated hotel had played in the grand history of the world. I can’t help but think that the old proprietress consciously presented us with a great honor that night: to open her restaurant, so that we could understand the immense kindness and consideration she felt for us three lost Americans.

I’m crying as I write this, surprised that this strange, unplanned night is so emotional for me. My 11-year-old, World War II-fanatic son, was able to go back in time and have the ghosts of that long ago war touch him in a way that is probably impossible now: because he’s older and jaded, because the elements that existed to give him that experience have disappeared into the vast forgotten minutiae of history. After dinner, Preston insisted on sitting in the lobby with the old woman. He just wanted to be near her: this breathing, fragile link to the searing, world-altering history he had seen in the movies and read in books. Preston sat across from her, enveloped by a feather-stuffed chair, his cheeks made rosy by the glowing fire. He now held the cat. For a brief moment, he was back in 1945, listening to the clock tick, and waiting for the arrival of the soldiers who would rescue him.

In the morning, with my barely adequate French, I was able to piece together that, during the war, the proprietress had lived and worked in the hotel with her husband and his parents. Now, only she remained, caring for the place the best she could. She’s probably dead now. Perhaps the hotel isn’t there, or if it is still a hotel, it has been renovated, because I doubt that any modern owner would be interested in keeping those old iron beds and worn carpets in place, even if Ernest Hemingway had slept there, ate there, drank there, and treaded the floors. Happily for Kelly, Preston, and me, we had the good fortune to wander in that night. And for the admission price of two rooms at $25 each, we were treated to one of the most sublime human experiences: having our souls touched and warmed by a dying ember of history.

The women who served our dinner returned to provide us with breakfast. For this meal, we were joined by an elderly American couple from Michigan who had arrived at midnight. The man pointed to the photos on the wall and proudly told us that he had been one of those soldiers thronging the streets. He had always wanted to bring his wife back here to tour the town that had welcomed him so warmly. He had decided to finally make the trip because his health was failing. It wasn’t Lourdes he wanted to see. The object of his loving pilgrimage was this magical little town nestled in these battle-scarred mountains. Kelly and I left Preston at the breakfast table with the old soldier discussing long-ago battles, while we packed for our trip back to Brussels, via another famous battlefield, Waterloo.

We Americans believe that Europe will always remain the same: quaint, historic, elegant, romantic, mystical. But the sad truth is that day by day, the Europe of which we dream dissolves away. A window shutter needs replacing and instead of having one handmade, the European buys a mass produced shutter at their equivalent of Home Depot. Mass production is the enemy of “quaintness.” Our modern, efficient world doesn’t have much patience for an old woman who runs a hotel with a vacancy rate of 85%. The people who lived in Europe when it was truly different from the United States die off every day, and so that tinge of the exotic fades into a lost past. The European youth wear Nike shoes and Gap clothes. They wouldn’t be caught dead in lederhosen or a beret. The colorful “extras” which populate our drives through the European countryside and our village strolls vanish each day into the all-encompassing multi-national corporate maw.

Time continues its inexorable course. My teenage Preston would rather hang out with his band and his girlfriend. Traveling with Mom has no allure for him now. This year, I’ll go by myself to France with my husband joining me for part of the trip. Preston and I will always have the European adventures of his childhood; and when he reaches manhood, perhaps he will tell his own children of the moment in history when he and their grandmother traveled back in time to World War II.