A man walked by, in heated conversation with someone on his mobile. The calm was broken.
Leaves still rustled in the wind, birds still chirped as they fluttered about, and the air was still warm. I pulled a snack from the grocery bag beside me and slowly ate, mindful of the flavors and textures of each bite. As I ate, I watched the other travel refugees (and some local families) as they made their way through the park. And, when I was ready, I began to make my way back to my hotel.
Dusk was approaching yet I still lingered, exploring another path in the park rather than taking a direct route. After a turn, the lawn and flowers to my right gave way to an imposing hedge. Taller than me, it seemed designed to separate the space I was in from another, so when I saw a small break in the leaves, a shortcut (made by children, perhaps?) to cut quickly from one side to the other, I peeked through.
But what was this?
Landing Gear. Landing Gear?
Mais oui. A set of landing gear (d’atterrissage) encased in glass. I passed through the shrubs for a closer look.
I was in a courtyard, or, more precisely, a courtyard-like space next to the Office de Tourisme. A marker placed at the base of the display indicated the wheels and assembly belonged to the Concorde. It made sense now. The Concorde, long and sleek, the western world’s only supersonic commercial aircraft, had been the jewel of the Air France fleet. It was only natural that this village, offset from final approach, would celebrate their part of that history.
This part of the park was as finely curated as the other side of the hedge. In this space, a series of overlapping squares made up a pattern of lawns, walking paths, and beds filled with flowers or larger greenery, accented with an occasional bench or display. As I made my way through, I passed a series of signs describing regions (departments) in France of historical note and, closer to the building, examples (also encased in glass) of the art currently on display inside. And, off to the side, hidden from the street by a series of hedges, a metal structure that at first sight had the shape of a bird. But it was not a bird.
One sunny afternoon in July 2000, an Air France Concorde ran over some debris during its take-off roll. The metal was flung into the left wing, fuel began to leak, and almost immediately fire broke out. With not enough runway left to safely abort (the A1 highway lies just past the runway’s end), the pilots limped the aircraft in to the sky. But one engine had failed (fire), another was operating at idle (fuel flow), and while the two remaining engines continued to provide power they were both on the same side, causing the aircraft to turn strongly to the left. Despite the efforts of the crew, the situation deteriorated and in the end the aircraft, flames spewing from the left wing, impacted a hotel.
The hotel was flattened on impact, and the remains of the aircraft were heavily damaged by the resulting conflagration. In addition to the 100 passengers and nine crew on board, four persons on the ground were killed. The accident site was two kilometers from where I stood. What at first sight had appeared a bird was a sculpted memorial to that day.
I was suddenly tired again. After an appropriate interval to contemplate the artwork, I returned to my room where I curled up and was soon fast asleep.