On Saturday morning I left the residence in Luxembourg for Bruxelles. My lovely train ride through the southern forests of Belgium ended at a graceless capitol city’s graceless terminal, but my good friend, Vonelli was waiting outside in a Citroen Picasso mini-van. We hadn’t seen each other in a good decade and ten years was almost enough to transform us into old men, if we were the type of men to look in a mirror and worry about our age.

“You look the same as ever. It’s a miracle.” Vonelli’s comments were too kind. I weighed a good twenty pounds more than our last meeting in London.

“Same as you.” Other than the whiter beard the art dealer resembled the same man whom I had met with Christa Worthington at Le Privilege in Paris some 30 years ago. He bore his sixty-five years with dignity, then again my myopia blessed my friends with untouched beauty.

We embraced with relief. Many of our friends had retired to the ether.

“It’s good to be in Europe.” It was good to be most anywhere in the world. I had money in my pocket and Nick, my doctor, had cleared me for a long voyage away from the USA. We went back to European History 101; Boston College Fall Semester 1970. It was a blessing to have old friends.

“You look like you’re ready to take on the world.” He knew me from my years as a doorman in Paris. I had been tough as nails back then.

“Not me.” My tough years came to an end years ago. ” I’m a family man now.”

“That may be so, but you’re in Bruxelles now.”

“What’s the best thing I can do he now?” It was lunch time.

“I know a great restaurant. The last true bistro in Sablons. A classic meal. Sausage and mashed.”

“I’m Irish. Lead the way.”

It wasn’t good to be back in Europe.

It was great.

Just like Tony the Tiger said about his corn flakes.

Only with more GGGGGGGs.