For them the Continent had still the flavour of the eighteenth century Grand Tour, with perhaps a touch of Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. For them Germany was still the Germany of Goethe; France, the France of the first English settlers on the Riviera; and Switzerland, devoid of sanatoriums and winter sports, the Switzerland of edelweiss, William Tell and the Merry Swiss Boy.
[I] took another sliding step, two, three, hard fur against my cheek, smelled it smelling me….Enough. I stepped away from the hull but kept my hand there and with the other reached across to my shoulder and grabbed. Pulled. Felt it cling to my shirt and skin and a wet sharpness in my cheek, a kiss with teeth, then ripped it away with skin and cloth. A scream in my hand.
I gave it back. They answered from everywhere.
I kept moving.
There in the blind.
Well here I be, and just as happy as an unsteamed clam. The sky is a rather dense gray, of a shade that in Southampton would have me humming “Gloomy Sunday” but here seems just another of Maine’s little miracles. Of course it helps to have it reflected on the bosom of the bay (which would place its cunt somewhere down around Vinalhaven) where for some reason it picks up a faint purplish flush.