The fields of Saxony, south and westward, are yellow. Bright golden yellow, the flowers of the rapeseed are furiously abundant as a sea of yellow whose shores are the green of the grass, the trees, and everything else.
As far as the eye can see, sometimes, stretching off to the horizon, even at 100+ kph…
As we headed west, rolling along smoothly towards what would become a wasted trip to Brussels (That is a story saved for another day — let’s just say, I’m glad I read Kafka and understood it), the three dominant colors were blue, green, and yellow. Crossing the occasional river, passing by the small towns with their claims to fame along the way, showing ever more photo-ops for later dates.
Arriving at night, well after sunset and in the darkness, one has a very different sense of a city… so the first light of morning can seem a little strange, even when encountering an old and familiar face:
… they watch over the comings and goings of those who visit fair Bruxelles. Toute á l’heure, Tintin et Snowy.
And à bientôt, to all of you. Stay tuned.
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