The Longest Day

Last night a gigantic soiree marked the summer solstice here in Strasbourg. By nine revelers clogged the streets; traffic was brought to a standstill. Every Doner Kabop stall along the Grand Rue sprouted speakers bigger than doghouses to provide well-amplified music guaranteed to hasten the inevitable deafness of old age. Men, women, children, and large dogs danced in the streets to the erotic throb of beats imported from Africa to the Middle East, from Strasbourg to El Lay. The Gods were well fed with smoke from sausage-grills and portable wood-fired ovens belching Tarte Flambee, Alsace's favorite snack fitting  in somewhere between pizza and quesadilla on the international food scale.

The people had taken over Strasbourg; not a corner of Strasbourg, not a police delimited segment of Strasbourg--but the whole of the central city. The night was theirs; for the ears and eyes it was a movable feast. African drummers hopped from the tram and set up shop in the Place de la Republique, a stone's throw from the giant movie screen set up outside the Opera providing a diva's impassioned aria fading gracefully into the modern beat rocking every corner of the overcrowded Cathedral square, where the clogged throng brought us to a standstill. Seeking solitude, we turned back to follow the ancient meanders of a quiet alleyway, eventually discovering a miniature Israeli Orchestra, the sweet sadness of the violin solo providing counterpoint to the raucous beat heard moments before. You should have been here.