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| Pencil Sketch Of My Beloved Bag |
Reluctant to leave the place and the subject, I hop from Florence to Amsterdam amidst a plane load of European travellers. Hurtling through space and time at a discombobulating speed, I contemplate the vagaries of the Dutch airline headset and then give up as I try to relax with the airline magazine. Startled by the cover about "pristine" Canada, I flip to the featured article on the joys of "off-roading" in the Sunshine Coast area of British Columbia, a coastline that is northeast of my island home. I suddenly felt exposed. What? Here in Europe? This is interesting? Yes, apparently it was, says the author, such an adventure. The writer waxes on about the Canadian scene where "insanely fertile wombs of mother nature are the stuff fairy tales are made of...." - er, I see, well, harumph, yes, I suppose.
If one lives in the heart of culture on cobblestone streets and where history goes back centuries, and where there is really great cheese, this must all look, well, amazing. I felt protective all of a sudden. Exposed. As if some secret were out. I envisioned an onslaught. Save the ferns. Mumbling to myself, I made a note to visit the restaurant described in the article, The Laughing Oyster in Lund, ere too much time has passed. Here apparently the whales play, the locals have hootenannies, and there are oysters to be had fresh off the beach. Amazing.
If one lives in the heart of culture on cobblestone streets and where history goes back centuries, and where there is really great cheese, this must all look, well, amazing. I felt protective all of a sudden. Exposed. As if some secret were out. I envisioned an onslaught. Save the ferns. Mumbling to myself, I made a note to visit the restaurant described in the article, The Laughing Oyster in Lund, ere too much time has passed. Here apparently the whales play, the locals have hootenannies, and there are oysters to be had fresh off the beach. Amazing.