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Montpellier was beautiful, friends. I highly recommend it on your next trip through the Provence. From there I hopped on a train back to Marseilles (not so beautiful -- but in parts), and spent one last night at a youth hostel. What should I see there on T.V., but a "hilarious" sit-com episode starring the newly elected (sort of), internationally embarrassing president of the U.S. of A. In this lovely episode, neatly dubbed into French -- which is strange enough in itself -- young George W. breaks into a show-stopping, heart-stopping song and dance routine while joyfully dumping various poisons into a Texas prisoner's blood stream. We're lookin' pretty bad from over there. Not many modern societies are going for this old-school stuff. |
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| But here's something that looks good to medieval and modern people alike. The rolling hills of southern France. Its green mountain tops are dotted with ancient castles, fortresses and churches. Just riding through that area, you can see how much of the architecture of the Old World lives on and colors life in ways you'll never find in the States. |  |
| So
there I was, on my last day back in Utrecht. It was Tuesday and I had a
ticket to fly on Wednesday morning. What was left to do? I wandered through
those old stone streets one more time, looked once more at gardens, canals
and brick alleyways, feeling strangely emotional with the knowledge I may
not see these sights again for a long time.
This is one of the narrower passages -- notice the brick arches improvised to brace the old buildings against each other. |
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| Remember the Internet cafe I showed you back on page 3? Well I went there for one last connection with the world. Checked my e-mail...I was sitting just to the right of where that guy is on the left in this picture..and I noticed, on the silent T.V. screen that hangs in the center of the room, some scenes of -- looked like a fire in New York City. I sent a brief e-mail to my buddy (Friend X), saying, "looks like some disaster in New York. That'll give me something to read about on the way home." When the girl on my right told me what had happened, I couldn't believe it. |  |
| I left there and went down to the coffee shop, where I saw and heard the details. Not much information, just the same incomprehensible facts over and over, with the bigger-than-fiction image of those monstrous towers imploding and dropping a cloud of debris over America's proudest city. I bicycled over to Busse and Sanne's place, and sat for hours in disbelief just watching the same unbelievable news clips, while Busse fed me some extraordinary home-made burritos. I watched the explosions, the people running, the sympathetic statements from politicians all over the world. The best statement came from Holland's' prime minister, Wim Kok. More sincere than you will ever see an American on television, and genuinely compassionate, he concluded his brief statement, "If I were American I would be very sad; I, as a Dutchman, am very sad." |  |
| Needless
to say, I didn't fly home the next day. Nobody flew to America that
day. I spent the better part of Wednesday and Thursday just absorbing the
new state of the world. I bought four newspapers, two in English and two
in Dutch, and listened to the B.B.C., just to see every possible angle
-- but mostly to start believing it.
Then, on Friday, I took one last trip to Amsterdam. When I stepped out of the door in this little neighborhood, I saw Dutch flags on both sides of the street put out at half mast. I was touched. |
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