One Day in the Life

Yesterday, Sunday, 3rd August 2008 Alexander Solzhenitsyn died.  Curiously enough, I was going to use this title before I heard the news.  My blog was going to be another ramble recounting that particular day in my life, here in deepest France.  Trivia indeed, compared with that of Ivan Denisovich.

My day, more than half a century on from that of the Nobel Prize-winner, seems almost obscenely  privileged by comparison.  It included an unplanned morning spent at one of the local summer 'brocante' markets - a French version of a car-boot sale without the cars; aperos at the Café des Sports in the village, then the inevitable lunch chez Marina as we were not far from her place anyway.

An hour or to to recover then off to an 'American-style' barbecue at 5pm at Jerry's place in celebration of his 80th birthday.  His chocolate birthday cake was similar in shape to an F4 Phantom jet-fighter used in the Korean war; Jerry flew one during that conflict.  Around the time Solzhenitsyn was finishing his book, come to think of it.

A light-entertainment day for us here in our new, warless Europe.  Conversations and events of our day will fade quickly as they are of little consequence.  One image however from last Sunday will remain in my mind's eye - a photograph in a magnificent book Marina had recently taken delivery of, just arrived from Germany.  The book was entitled 'Diaspora' and was a collection of brilliant black-and-white photos of jews and jewish groups in scattered locations around the world.  On flicking through the pages I stopped at one showing four old, gnarled Greeks, forearms bared, their concentration-camp tattooed numbers still perfectly legible.

No further comment necessary.

Mapmaker