I had planned to blog about my recent trip to France—too much cheese, pastries, baguettes, and chocolate truffles. But then, it would be what everyone writes about Paris, Bordeaux, and the like. If my arthritis medication didn’t make alcohol off limits, I could also describe the multi-reds of Bordeaux and the indomitable café drinkers braving cold and rain to huddle outside to smoke and vape with their too strong coffee or wine. lastly, I could write about mushroom hunting in Normandy, a very French thing to do…or best of all, write about my time with MeyMey* celebrating her birthday.
Instead, I’ll write about the fear permeating my European friends’ thoughts and fears. The polls and news from the USA predicted a red wave that would create a political tsunami. Trump was announcing a run for president in 2024, and everyone agreed that Biden was too old to hold back the tidal wave. I started to consider not returning home. I had voted early before leaving for France, but maybe I would indefinitely delay my return to the States.
My friends, all well-traveled, up to date on current events, and mature, had declared Western democracy dead and Ukraine unable to defend itself against Woland, (the devil from Master and Marguerite), aka Putin, if Trump gets back in office.
However, the election did not hand Trump and his cronies a landslide; in fact, anyone with sense would consider him irrelevant and treat him as such. Although I must say that a street-fight, smack-down between Republican wanna-bees is an interesting prospect—which I hope does not describe the Democrats upcoming campaign cycle. (Move aside President Biden; help mentor a new leader.)
So, I came home. I am back to work, back to boxing, back to voting (we have a run-off on December 6 in Georgia,) and back to trying to navigate being eighty.
*For more about MeyMey read A Pilgrim’s Journey in The Fourth Moment: Journeys From the Known to the Unknown