Big Little Tale

At the Dallas Museum of Art, King Tut’s treasures are packed up to go to San Francisco. At Southern Methodist University, all the Etruscan antiquities are on their way back to Italy. In the Dallas Morning News, the headline on Jacqueline Floyd’s column said, “I’ll forever treasure my day with stuff of Tut.”

In my mind, memories of both exhibits are already beginning to fade. However, one item in Ms. Floyd’s description of her visit to the museum brought back vividly a encounter in Paris.

As Ms. Floyd reported, “. . . ancient funerary rites called for removal of and separate packaging for the liver, the heart and each lung. . . ‘That is so GROSS,’ a spellbound little boy next to me breathed ecstatically.”

“GROSS!” this little Texan said. And I remembered Paris.

My first trip to that romantic city was not the way I had envisioned it. I went with my 13-year-old son, David. We spent one whole day at L’Invalides, going through all three floors of two buildings of France’s military museum. Entering a vast hall we were transported back to the Middle Ages by a magnificent collection of knightly armor. Across a wide lawn in the other building, one floor was devoted to Napoleon. We saw all the paraphernalia the emperor carried with him as he led his armies across Europe: his tent, the fitted trunk containing his toiletry articles (silver basin, razors, combs, crystal bottles, etc.), his uniforms, and his saddle on his stuffed horse. My 13-year-old son was impressed.

After gawking at all that, David and I went into the round chapel where Napoleon is buried. In the rotunda we looked over the marble baluster into the crypt where Napoleon’s body is concealed in an ugly red stone sarcophagus. Then I turned. In four directions around the rotunda – how else can I describe the four corners of a circle? – were side chapels containing marble caskets of other dignitaries.

I took out my green Michelin guide to identify the persons buried there. A woman approached and asked me – in French – who was entombed in the chapel we faced. I stumbled to say, “Le frere de Napoleon.” Then I realized her accent was no better than mine. The accent sounded German.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.
“A little,” she said.
“The brother of Napoleon,” I said, and then added, “Are you German?”
“Yes,” she said. “Are you English?”
“No. American.”
“American? From what city?”
“Chicago.”
“Ah! My daughter lived in Chicago.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bamberg”
“My son and I were in Bamberg last week. A very interesting city.”
“You take a trip around Europa?” She made a circular gesture with her hands.
“Yes. I have another son, stationed in the Army in Frankfurt. We visited him. Now David and I are seeing more of Europe.”
“When I visit my daughter in Chicago, we make a trip around the U.S. We go to New Orleans.”
“A fascinating place!”
“We go to Padre Island.”
“Padre Island? That’s in Texas.”
The German woman’s eyes grew wide as she exclaimed, “Texas is GROSS!”

I wanted to laugh but tried to keep a straight face. When I tell this story, most Texans don’t get the joke. The woman meant no insult. In German, “gross” means “big.”