Twenty-one days ago I was tramping through Covent Garden in the rain looking for a pair of Dr Martens shoes. Today I’m sitting half a block from Euston Station packing things up for a move to Portsmouth tomorrow.
A lot can happen in twenty-one days. A good bit more, in fact, than I would have thought possible.
In twenty-one days I’ve walked upon the sacred sand of Omaha Beach and been in St Mere Eglise in the morning hours of June 6. I’ve trod upon the ancient paths of the Roman Fora and seen the city as the Emperors did from atop the Palatine Hill. I’ve seen St Peter’s crypt beneath the staggering majesty of his basilica and rubbed a bronze foot almost worn away by centuries of pilgrims’ touch. I’ve seen the last resting place of Napoleon, Marshall Foch, John Paul II, Galileo, Dante, Michelangelo and too many other shining lights of Western Civilization to even count.
I’ve walked along the Seine in the early evening, stood in Hitler’s footsteps upon the Trocadero, visited King Louis’ bedroom at Versailles, watched Calcio Storica in Florence, and gazed at the Rosetta Stone in London. I’ve seen the Mona Lisa, the Venus di Milo, the Sistine Chapel, the Elgin Marbles and found that I’m really amazing fond of Lippi’s work.
I’ve traveled by nearly every form of conveyance known to modern man. I’ve flown, driven, walked, bussed, taxied, ferried, trained and subwayed. I’ve sailed from Portsmouth to Sword Beach following the path of the Allies. I’ve taken the subway from the Circus Maximus to Mussolini’s Termini Station. I’ve walked from the Louvre to the Ile de Citi. I’ve driven from the British beaches to the port of Cherbourg a damned sight faster than the entire Allied Army.
And to think, there are still seven days to go.
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