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.
In October of this year, I will turn eighty. I am fully vaccinated and running out of time. COVID be damned! I’ve got my mask, and I’m on my way.
“I wouldn’t change my grandchildren for the world. But I wish I could change the world for my grandchildren.” Anonymous quote.
In my mind’s eye, I imagine an airport terminal full of ostriches clucking and flapping their long necks aimlessly. Or perhaps they’re looking for the sand
There was no relief, no euphoria—only dull shock. I fell asleep. When I awoke fifteen minutes later, or maybe it was an hour, I was disoriented. When I tried to stand, my legs cramped from my hips to my toes. I was dehydrated.
But that day in the museum, it was I who held her hand in mine. It was my hand supporting her, reassuring her, protecting her.
Has anything changed at America’s airports? We wear masks—carts are still not free and America is still not hospitable.
Sometimes it’s just better to take the time to optimize.
Bon appétit. Try it, you might like it. Then again, who knows?
As I try to find inspiration for these blogs and to promote (shamelessly) the release in October of my new book, The Wanderer, I have started to rummage through old travel journals—some dating back fifty years. However, an email resurrected memories from this particular trip and the title of this blog. You might think thatContinue reading “There Will Be a Sign”