The Cradle of St. Vincent

PARIS (Aug. 11)--I’m not really a morning person. As a matter of routine, I like to ease into my day after a couple of cups of coffee. Each day on this trip so far, we’ve had to be dressed and ready to go by 8:30 a.m. Under threat of having the tour bus leave me behind, I’ve been punctual.

I was afraid to sleep last night. I had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. in order to meet the group at 5:30 in the lobby for our departure to Dax, France, Vincent’s birthplace. We took a motorcoach to the train station, where we traveled first class by high-speed train to Dax. It was extremely comfortable. The views from our windows are of scenic French countryside as we head to southern France. It’s supposed to be absolutely stunning where we are going.

DAX, FRANCE (Aug. 11)—We arrived in St. Vincent’s birthplace at about 11:30 a.m. after a long, but extremely comfortable ride in first class seats on the high-speed train. Our driver Joop Timmers met us at the train station.

You’re probably wondering why Joop didn’t drive us down. We took the train from Paris in order to make good time. Joop had to leave a few days before with the motorcoach because French law prohibits him from driving for more than a certain number of hours a day. That approach would not have worked for our schedule. (I only explained that because I knew you would be wondering.)

We immediately headed for St. Vincent’s hometown. The first stop was the elementary school St. Vincent attended, which is now a law office. The town of Dax has a strong Basque influence especially in architecture because the Basque were known to dominate the area. The town also is known for its spas as the waters of Dax have healing powers. Too bad we didn’t have time to bask in the healing waters there.

As we strolled through St. Vincent’s hometown, we couldn’t help but notice how clean and perfectly paved the streets were. Dax, which is in the southwest corner of France, happened to be preparing for a huge festival called Feria de Dax, which I understand is as wild as Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I think that’s all I should say about that right here. (It’s that bad. That’s probably why our group didn’t stay in a hotel in town over night.)

So we continued walking until we reached the local police station, which at one point was where the Franciscans had a friary and St. Vincent supposedly lived there for a while. He also lived in the residence of Monsieur de Comet, a relative, according to the Rev. John Rybolt, C.M. The home was located nearby on Rue de Sully, and St. Vincent lived with monsieur while he was about 12 years old and a student. He may have been given room and board in exchange for tutoring the children of monsieur, according to Father Rybolt.

He reminded us that St. Vincent wasn’t always an elderly man. “He was a guy, too, like everybody else,” he told us. Like other young men of that time, he must have gone to parties, attended bull fights, and enjoyed hanging out with friends. “He undoubtedly enjoyed a good time, even here in Dax,” Father Rybolt said.

By the time our group broke for lunch, we were pretty hungry. A group of us had a simple lunch at a little storefront café in town. My lunch consisted of a delightful petite brie sandwich on a sesame and onion baguette and cost me a whole Euro. It didn’t have tomatoes or anything—it was just brie and bread, and it was divine. I had a bag of chips and a Coca-Cola light with it. But I didn’t have dessert. I think that’s the only meal so far where I didn’t. It’s not because the café didn’t have nice desserts. It did! I was just exercising some will power.

After lunch, we got back on the bus to head out to St. Vincent’s birthplace, also known as Le Berceau de St. Vincent de Paul (Cradle of St. Vincent de Paul). On the church square by the large oak, where St. Vincent kept his father’s flocks, is the house where Vincent was born. It wasn’t what most of us expected. It was quaint and yet stunning in its elegant simplicity. Of course, the original house was no longer there, but the house was entirely reconstructed and some of the wood from the original house was used.

What struck many of us was the size of his house. We expected it to be smaller. We had the idea that St. Vincent was poor and the son of peasants. Judging by the way that spacious, two-level house looked, his family did OK. His parents owned animals or cattle. Scott Kelley, assistant vice president for Vincentian scholarship, put it best when he said, “If you have title to property, if you have cattle and if you have access to education, even by today’s standards, you’re probably in the upper half of the world’s population.”

It would have been nice to spend some more time there on such a gorgeous sunny day. A number of colleagues commented on how peaceful the place felt and how nice it would have been to just hang out on the lawn. But we also understood that we had a lot of places to see. Our last stop was the church where St. Vincent was baptized. Just outside of the church, I met Kathleen De Maesschalck, a pilgrim from Gent, Belgium, making the journey to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, by bicycle. Click on this video if you would like to hear her discuss her experience.

Exhausted after another long, but fascinating day, Joop drove us to the town of Pau where we spent the night at the Hotel Continental, a Best Western hotel, at 2, Rue du Marechal-Foch. The hotel was totally different than the modern, upscale Novotel Gare de Lyon we had been staying in Paris. Both were comfortable, but the Hotel Continental is all about old French charm. My room had extremely high ceilings, antique furnishings and two sets of tall doors that opened out to a little balcony. I slept with the doors wide open.

P.S. We had dinner in the hotel restaurant. The food was very good, but the room was so warm that it was uncomfortable. We dined on quiche as an appetizer. The main course was something tasty that was either beef or lamb on the bone (I honestly don’t know which, but it was really good) with a delicate but savory tomato sauce served with petite white potatoes. Dessert was an apple tart. Compared to all of the other desserts we’ve had so far, this one was just OK. That’s probably because I was traumatized this morning at the train station in Paris when I bit into an apricot croissant that was masquerading as an apple croissant. I hate apricots, and it was terrible! It took a while and an espresso to get that taste out of my mouth. Did I mention yet how much I love, love, love espresso?