A small twisted scrap of burned red white and blue

She just watched an American flag burn. She’s holding a melted twisted strip of stars and stripes that she rescued from the ground.

It was a Saturday walk with a friend to catch up about vacation, the holidays, families, and life in general. As they turned a corner window shopping they heard the ever present roar of crowds echoing the shouts of a megaphone. France – forever full of protests and people practicing their right to expression. They wandered closer to find a barrage of flags and signs demanding support and justice in Gaza. Gaza Gaza nous sommes tous avec toi! Paix! Israel Assasine..Israel Terrorists – the signs blazoned against the shadows of buildings and the sun setting and the cars honking at the blocked streets. They followed the protestors, sympathetic with the cause of Gaza, not sure if they supported every message that was shouted in French and Arabic, but wanting to be a part of the general outcry of objection against the humanitarian crisis in Palestine. At the center of Nantes they stopped with the mass that was growing more and more irate, moving to the edge to witness what would happen next. As people begin to disperse with their children and friends, several small groups of men gathered together to burn Israeli and American Flags. Using small paper fires to start an inferno, she watched the red and blue melt together to the shouts of triumph. She watched the men hold up the fire as a smoky symbol (of what she wasn’t exactly sure) and then witnessed others spit the fire out.

She is confused. It was the first time she ever saw anything like that up close. She doesn’t know how to feel.

Chaos on the street...but the music plays on

After a long overnight train ride across France and Italy in a car with a beautiful and comedic family from Pisa.
After three days of roaming Rome (pun intended sorry) seeing coliseums and pillars, white statues, eating incredible hot crispy pizza covered in exotic toppings, making friends in a youth hostel, drinking great coffee every time a bathroom break was necessary, walking the Spanish steps, watching nuns scurry across the streets and within the Vatican, waiting two hours in the cold and rain to be elbowed in an irate Italian stampede to meet closed doors that would have lead into the Sistine Chapel, after the best hot chocolate, throwing wishes on coins in fountains, observing caricatures, and a meridian line, another train ride, a leaning tower, a hidden keith haring mural, a Japanese wedding, another train ride, after that, then, they arrived in Florence in time for New Years.


At eleven o’clock on the 31st they left their run-down old one room hostel and took to the streets, passing by the train station, beautiful blackened churches, reaching the town square in time to see the orchestra start to play. Beethoven’s organized structured and majestic strings and woodwinds perfectly juxtaposed against the small explosives that rocked the cobblestone streets of the city – echoing every twenty seconds from a different alleyway.

At ten minutes to midnight they left the music to go to the river where they watched fireworks and their reflections in smoky skies. Three two one – champagne bottles popped on cue, glass was smashed, people shouted and kissed and wished strangers a Buon anno.