A Bad Bastille Day In NIce

Last night I was at the 169 with Larry and he said, “Someone attacked a Bastille Day celebration in Nice with a truck.”

“Truck?” Waldo asked on the other side of Larry.

“Yes, a big lorry.” Larry was originally from England.

Waldo whipped out his phone and connected to the internet.

CNN was reporting over 80 people dead.

No gunfire.

Just a big white truck.

A single driver.

“Every day,” moaned Waldo. He was a young man and most of it has been spent under the threat of terrorism. “Every day an attack somewhere.”

“I lived in Nice.” I recognized the Hotel Negresco along le Promenade des Anglais. I had worked at a nightclub on the old port in 1985 and swam in the sea only three years ago. “I know it well. I love that city.”

Sadness swarmed my heart to be replaced by thoughts of revenge.

France had been my home for a good part of the 80s.

Revenge against whom?

The perpetrator of this dastardly attack had been shot dead by the police. The lone wolf was Muslim, but his family said he wasn’t religious.

I ordered a drink and toasted Nice.

The city deserved better.

And so does the world.

Even a world at eternal war.

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