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The election here, from over there Leaving It All Behind?By Rick Horowitz
I remember exactly what I said. "Look," I said, "I'm going to be out of the country for the next two weeks. I want this whole mess sorted out by the time I get back." So now I'm back, and was the whole mess sorted out? Hardly. (Sordid, yes, but not sorted out.) True, the end is getting closer every minute -- in fact, it's mirror-under-the-nostrils time for a certain Tennessee Democrat -- but it's still not over, not quite. And it certainly wasn't over while I was away. In fact, it was hard to avoid catching the scent of it in London, and even in Amsterdam. It's not as if I pop over to Europe at the drop of a chapeau, you know. It's been years since I was there; it could be years before I go again. Did I absolutely have to have my vacation polluted by election news oozing across the ocean? Striding through Piccadilly Circus, for instance -- could I really appreciate all the double-deckers and neon when newsstand after newsstand had the latest Florida court rulings scribbled on their teaser boards? Or darting among the throngs of shoppers in Regent Street -- could I still concentrate on the latest British fashions when the candidates' frantic maneuverings stared out at me from countless front pages? Fielding a well-meaning question from a clerk near the Underground stop -- "Have you selected your president yet?" she wondered -- could I still summon the energy to make my way to the West End to enjoy the latest offering by Andrew Lloyd Webber, or the revival of a classic by Harold Pinter? And what about that comedy troupe parodying the complete works of Shakespeare -- was the evening even vaguely salvageable after one of the cast inserted into one of the Bard's masterworks the previously unnoticed words, "I want a recount"? Joining two dozen American college students for a Thanksgiving dinner of fish and chips -- could I be properly thankful, realizing that thousands of miles to the west, crowds were working themselves into a lather over dimpled chads? Finding myself inside St. Paul's Cathedral in time for evensong, the soaring spaces suddenly alive with the magnificence of boy-voice -- could I let my heart float free when Dick Cheney's arteries were clogged? Or waiting in a quiet stairwell at Heathrow Airport, one of only eight people in the place, and one of the other seven was Paul McCartney -- could I savor the perfection, the sheer Brititude of the moment while Al Gore and George Dubya were on another continent, trying to corner the market in American flags? Then it was off to Amsterdam, where the local newspapers were in Dutch but the hotel TV carried the BBC (and the CNN) -- and where the candidates' pictures were recognizable no matter what the language. My problem was exactly the same. I could take a boat ride along the canals, or stroll the Damrak munching on frites with mayonnaise from a paper cone, the way the natives do. I could ramble down narrow alleyways, or marvel at exquisite buildings centuries old. I could lift a glass of frosty Dutch beer with a foamy Dutch head, or hop aboard a tram, or spend an afternoon gazing at a wall of Rembrandt, at roomfuls of Van Gogh. But could I enjoy it? Could I truly enjoy any of these things knowing that back home, my fellow citizens -- good and decent Americans every one of them -- were entangled in turmoil and beset with confusion? Are you kidding me? Posted 12/5/00. Lively
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Rick Horowitz