No Words are Enough

What can I possibly say?  It was late last night and I was watching Arte's (it's a French-German cooperation tv show, no commercials, like PBS in the US) production of The Marriage of Figaro.  I had been looking forward to it all week. Near the end of the opera, the crawl appeared, but in true fashion, I didn't notice it right away.  Then my Facebook page started pinging...I changed channels and the horror unfolded on the screen.

I was unable to sleep last night; like all those ghouls who can't tear themselves away from the scene of an accident, I could not tear myself away from the television.  So I have not been firing on all cylinders today, what with only about 3 hours of sleep.  

I kept to together until I entered the tabac and saw Marie...then I teared up.  The horror, the waste, the evil, the cowardice...I cannot wrap my mind around it.  I don't think I am alone in this inability to process the events of last night.

In many respects France is like one great big small town.  Paris belongs to all of us, even those who reside in sleepy cities, or tiny villages hundreds of kilometers from the City of Light.  Paris belongs to the world by virtue of the more than 6 million visitors who, if only for a few passing hours, walk the cobbled streets and stroll along the Seine, taking memories back home with them.  I understand that all of France and most of the world are stunned and grieving.

So many people have e-mailed me or sent me Facebook messages or sent me Skype messages to make sure that I didn't take myself off to a Death Metal concert in Paris for the weekend.  That scenario would be highly unlikely, but my going to a soccer game is within the realm of possibility.  I am very touched by all of the goodwill. I am safe here in sleepy little Carcassonne, but my heart, my spirit, is very, very sad.