The Bridge of Europe
27 April 2009, 5:17 p.m.
48° 34' 23.49" N, 7° 47' 55.38" E
As we get closer to the village of Kehl, the B28 highway follows a little river—I figure it must be a tributary of the Rhine, except that it looks more like a canal, sometimes even a drainage ditch. It’s the kind of waterway that the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers would love: dredged, routed, measured and rationalized. But as I drive beside it, the little river keeps pulling at my mind, and now I think no, it’s not rational at all, here it looks as if a giant child has pulled his finger through the soft earth. I imagine an immense soil-encrusted finger, soon to be licked clean by the immense tongue of a giant slobbering dog. The little river’s name? I have no idea. I see a sign or two, but I think better about asking Bruno or Lambert—the signs might mean “No Littering” or “Fishing Only for Senior Citizens” and I don’t want to accumulate any more American Idiot points this afternoon.
Then we veer left, heading toward France. Around us sprawls the industrial fringe of Kehl—rail yards and warehouses. Next thing I know we’re crossing the Rhine—on a dreary old causeway that must be the Europa Brücke/Pont de l’Europe. The Bridge of Europe. For a symbol of peace, reconciliation and unity, the bridge is very utilitarian, even boring—it looks like it was rebuilt in a hurry at the end of World War II, which it probably was. There’s another bridge, though, one of those soaring Calatrava-style spans—looks like it’s just for bicycles, pedestrians, maybe—a few hundred meters to the south.
And just as I expected, the border crossing itself is clear sailing! It’s like driving through those new tollbooths outside Chicago, where you don’t need to stop—except it’s even easier, because you don’t need that thingy...
But then I see that something is wrong.
Burned out buildings.
Police tape.
Armed troops, with sub-machine guns, guarding some workers who are boarding up smashed windows.
“What the hell happened here?” I say.
“The anti-OTAN riots,” says Lambert. “I think you call it NATO.”
“Don’t you watch TV?” says Bruno. “A couple of weeks ago. The Black Bloc anarchists set fire to the custom house during the summit.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say. I pull over to the first parking spot I can find, the first spot that isn’t under armed guard.
“C’mon.” I say. “You mean there were riots—buildings burning—right here—at this symbol of European unity?”
I don’t care how stupid I sound—I want to know.
“Like I said,” says Bruno, “How did you not see this on TV? Did you even know your president was here?”
“Well, yeah, sure… ” I say, “ ...I mean I knew he was in Europe. But I kept turning off the TV—it was all about Michelle Obama and Carla Bruni—their clothes, their make-up, their hair, whether they really got along or not... ”
“American TV is fottutamente stupida, how you say, fucking stupid.” Once again, a female voice comes from the wayback seat. I look back. Now that we’re parked, I can safely turn my head. Bertha has taken the Duke of Lower Lotharingia out of his kindersitz and holds him defiantly in her lap.
“I read all about it in a magazine,” says Bertha. “In America you have the second-stupidest television shows in the world.”
For some reason that pushes my buttons—I mean you’ve gotta have a source for an outrageous opinion like that—and I’m about to say something, like And just where the hell did you read that?
But then I think no, not now, not here. Not on this bridge with burned-out wreckage all around.
Next episode: Selva Oscura
For the impatient:
Buy ebook, audiobook on Amazon
Buy paperback on Lulu
Or just wait for the next episode…
Share this post