Somalia / Bosnia Journal 1992

Saturday, November 21, 1992 - Sarajevo.

6:00 AM - The phone rings me out of a sound sleep and a voice, speaking very good English, says, "Wake up call." I thank him and crawl out of bed, splash enough cold water around to make for a serviceable French bath and climb into the cleanest clothes I can scrounge together.

Regrouping at the reception desk a bit later to pay for the pleasure, we compare notes. Phil froze, discovering that he did have a hole in his window after all, and Barbara and Stephanie did OK. Peter too. I slept great for some reason. I mention my surprise at the good English of the person who woke me up. "That was me," Phil says. "I figure if I don't sleep, you don't sleep."

Peter has been trying to find a car for us to get out to the airport in time and hasn't had much success. The convoy is scheduled to leave at 7:45 AM, so we're relegated to standing at the desk, hoping to cadge a ride from some of our news friends who might be headed that way.

Two guys from VIZ News come by. They're heading for the airport and have room for one who's willing to squeeze into their pick-up truck, so I volunteer. The pick-up has some of the protective armoring, double-glass, steel-reinforced doors, etc., but Sean, the driver, says none of that stuff will stop the high powered armor-piercing bullets the bad guys are using these days if they hit you straight on. (Ever hear one of those things you'd just as soon not know?)

Driving through the city in the bright morning light is not pretty. It's everything we saw from the French armored vehicle yesterday, squared. Again, a few people are walking the streets in plain sight, running in some places. Buses wend their way along through the destruction. Wrecked cars and buses line the road. The buildings are ruins. It's horrible.

Turning into the main road to the airport, "Sniper Alley," is eerie. This is the stretch we went through in the APC yesterday. Sean points out buildings that are known to be particularly dangerous the way bus drivers point out movie stars' homes in Beverly Hills. He says most of the journalists who have been killed in Bosnia since the war began were shot here. He points out the place where the ABC producer died.

This is the main road. It links the city with the airport, thence the world. For that reason, the Serbs want it closed. The road bisects the territory held by opposing forces, is in fact the "front line" to the degree there is one. (As if to underscore the fact there is a very loud burst of automatic weapons fire just off to our left. Nothing, apparently, comes our way.) The sides of the road are littered with wrecked trucks of all sorts, jeeps and tanks. One dead tank sticks halfway out of a trench, its cannon aimed at the sky, looking like an ugly, crumpled bug. That this was once a neighborhood is sadly evident. Where children once played, splintered, splattered, gutted houses are now being used as cover for fighters, automatic weapons and tanks (most of which, thankfully, seem to be honoring the cease-fire today).

To enter the airport requires pulling up past obstacles that force you to zig-zag, then to stop at a guarded gate. If the guard here passes you in, the UN tank blocking the road behind him backs away to the side, allowing you room to pass. Once into the area behind the buildings, onto the apron, it is as I remember it from yesterday morning (can it be only yesterday morning?). Sean pulls on down past the offices to the warehouses and stops in front of the second one, where a number of UN trucks stand loaded, ready to go.

No one is about, so I unload my stuff and stack it on a bench by the door to the warehouse. It's cold. Foot stomping cold. Colder now than it was yesterday. Maybe even colder than last night. The sky is overcast, it feels like snow.

A guy comes racing up in a UNHCR 4-wheeler, screeches to a stop, jumps out of the car and starts yelling at people. Sean tells me this is Marc, the UNHCR rep. in charge of logistics and, when he stops yelling, introduces us. Marc is tall, lithe, dressed in tight jeans and a leather jacket. With his great features, wavy dark hair and French accent, he cuts quite a figure. He's not at all happy to see me or learn that he might have guests going on this convoy. "What the hell is this?" he wants to know. "Nobody told me about this!" Before I can even attempt to explain, he yells again in the direction of the trucks, says "Shit!" and turns to the car. Climbing in, he calls to me, "Come on!" So what the hell? Leaving my stuff on the bench, I hop in as Marc screeches out backward, straightens out and races down the pavement toward the gate with the press guys in hot pursuit. "Shit!", he mutters. "Stupid sons of bitches!" Not knowing which stupid sons of bitches he's referring to, I keep my own council. Rounding the corner, evidently not liking what he sees, he says "Shit!" again and races up to the gate. The tank pulls back and we pull out, waving briefly to the guard, zip through the zig-zag, turn into the road and stop. "Shit!" Fuming, Marc sits there for a minute, then pulls around and heads back in the gate.

As we pull back in and turn into a parking area near one of the buildings, Marc is continuing to mutter about the "sons of bitches." Jumping out of the car, he strides into the UNPROFOR commander's office. In a minute he's back and we pull out at a much more leisurely pace, heading back for the warehouse as he apologizes for his earlier attitude.

Evidently, the convoy had been held up by a detachment of Egyptian UNPROFOR troops who had been late, which made him mad. What made him even madder is that they then pulled out without him, without even informing him (perhaps to meet the Egyptians, that wasn't clear) and were now stymied down the road, unable to get past a Serb roadblock (this he had just been told in the UNPROFOR commander's office).

Marc doesn't think much of the Egyptians. Lazy and unreliable, he says. Cost him an hour, miss an appointed time at a checkpoint, people don't get their blankets. "One hour a day for seven, eight days, that's a full day's work missed. Two hundred metric tons of food and supplies doesn't get to the people! Shit!"

By the time we're back at the warehouse, he's calmer, apologizes again. He wasn't, he insists, mad at me. He can handle surprise visits, guests on the convoy. What pisses him off is the stupid Egyptians. "Shit!" He takes me back to his office at the rear of the warehouse, says I can stow my gear there. Heading back we pass piles of blankets, plastic sheeting, bags of food stacked in rows waiting to be distributed. Sarajevo has about 400,000 people, Marc says. UNHCR now estimates 10% of them are slightly malnourished. If supplies are cut off, the weaker ones will be the first to die, some within a week. Buildings are now being stripped of burnable materials so families can have heat. As winter worsens, what will they do? He has heard reports of old people pulling up daisies to eat, digging up roots of trees that have already been cut down so they'll have something to burn. There are two confirmed cases of typhus here so far, he says, twenty in Jajce. "Shit!"

I had thought he was French, in fact he's French Canadian, from Montreal. Very colorful guy. I'm freezing in my down coat and he's prancing around in his jeans and leather jacket cursing the gods, the fates, the Egyptians, the injustice. Inside the back office we stash my stuff in his sleeping quarters (where the big, tough, profane guy pulls a tiny kitten out from under the bed to introduce to me), then he shows me around the rest of the place. In the main office he points out where a mortar round came through the wall. "I was in the bathroom," he shrugs. Another round hit the dining room, but they were all outside working at the time. Part of the job, he infers.

Back out front, Phil and Barbara show up, then Stephanie. Explaining the situation, Marc says he's waiting to find out if the Serbs will let the convoy through. If so, we can go hook up with them. The blankets and sheets are for a Muslim community in the hills outside the city. The Serbs don't want them to get the material, hoping the cold will drive them out. This business at the checkpoint is "bullshit," per Marc. "#@%%$^^& Egyptians!"

Marc has been here for months, "October was the worst." He has signed up for an extension, but only if they'll promise him he can stay here at the airport, where he "knows the tricks." He has developed relationships with some of the Serb officers that allow him to get through the sticky places easier sometimes.

We've seen one or two of the C-130s land with supplies, but now fog has come in so there haven't been any for a while. It's very cold.

9:15 AM - We get word the convoy has been scrubbed. The Serbs won't let them through because they say a bridge is out. UNPROFOR says the bridge can be repaired, so they'll try again tomorrow. Tonight will be a cold one for the people in that community.

Marc says he'll drive us in to the PTT. There's nothing for him to do at the airport since it's fogged in. Because we're supposed to fly out on one of the supply planes this afternoon (if the fog lifts) we leave our bags in Marc's room.

Marc's colorful descriptions are priceless. His accent adds to the charm. Driving down sniper alley he shows us where he was shot. "Twelve times into the front of the car, ping, ping, ping!" Another time they shot out his tires. He lost control and drove off the road that time, he says, and got stuck on some sandbags, which worried him. "You sit still they can boom boom you with a rocket!" So what did he do? He worked the car off the sandbags and "I get the hell out of there."

9:30 AM - Back at the PTT, we're in time to sit in on a press briefing where a French UNPROFOR major gives a run-down of yesterday's activities.

- There was an accident involving a couple of trucks, a breakdown, then some mortars were fired at or near a convoy that was halted for the accident. A repair unit was dispatched to the scene and mortars were fired at it as well.

- Yesterday there were 44 rounds of outgoing fire and 68 rounds of incoming (this referring to artillery, mortar and tank fire, they don't report small arms fire) and was considered a "light fire" day. The western areas of the city received most of the incoming rounds. (There are reported to have been more than 50,000 casualties as a result of shelling since April.)

- There was a report of a possible chlorine gas leak at a power plant near the town of Tusla because of a fire. It isn't known if the fire was caused by an exploding round.

- Peter then tells the reporters of the convoy being postponed. He says the Serbs refused permission to pass because the river is high and they feared the raft portion of the temporary bridge wouldn't hold up under the load.

- In response to a question about fuel in the city, Peter says the UNHCR provides fuel for the city's buses, the bakery and the hospital. They do not have the capacity to deliver wood or coal for people's use.

- To another question he says that a 280 metric ton daily minimum of food supplies is what is needed to maintain nutritional support in the city. That is the goal the UNHCR is trying to meet.

- Because an attempt to maintain an appearance of normalcy seems important to both the citizens and the authorities here, much is being made of the fact that, with the help of the UNHCR, the city has arranged for the first trash/garbage pick-up in six months.

- To another question about pedestrians, Peter says people seem to want to be able to come and go in the city, even though almost all businesses are closed. Some just go to their offices and sit. It is an attempt, he emphasizes, to maintain a sense of order and normalcy in their lives.

Press briefing over, we've got to figure some things out. Because of the concern about flights, we're reduced to making a choice. We don't have time to go back to Oslobodenje and try to find the family we've been told about and still get to the airport for the flight out this afternoon. After conferring, we opt to try to find the family. Barbara had gotten a letter at the UNHCR office in Washington from Senator Al Gore, forwarding a concern from a constituent that she had been unable to communicate with her parents, who live in Sarajevo, for seven months. She fears for their safety, doesn't know if they're alive or dead. Is there anything the office can do? Well, we can try.

On the way, Peter wants us to see a small UNHCR warehouse in part of the city close to where these people are supposed to live, so he arranges for a couple of cars and we set out.

Another drive through the city. One turn our driver takes causes Peter to exclaim that it's been a long time since anyone dared drive on this street in this particular section. I'm not sure how comfortable to feel about this groundbreaking feat.

The UNHCR staff at this small warehouse in the city is made up entirely of locals. Peter is particularly proud of the work they've done in seeing to it that the food and supplies are portioned out equitably, given the pressure they are under from family, friends and neighbors. Taking us out behind the offices, the young woman manager shows us a fairly depleted storehouse and tells us a bit about their work.

- There are 65 public kitchens in Sarajevo. Displaced people or those who for whatever reason can't get their UN rations can get an ID card that will allow them to eat at any one of these kitchens. Food for the kitchens in this area comes from here.

- UNHCR maintains that the 280 metric tons of food per day coming into the city (when they can get it in) is enough to provide the minimum nourishment sufficient to support the health needs of the average person. Bosnian authorities, however, claim that what they're getting only meets 20% of the need.

- Tension is increasing in the city, she says, as people's private resources atrophy, supplies diminish, the cold worsens and the war continues. The prognosis is not good. They will do the best they can.

More goodbyes and words of admiration and appreciation. Their heartfelt expression of thanks to us for coming does little to ease our sense of guilt at leaving. One of the women, after showing them the address we're trying to find, says she's going that way and will lead us. Otherwise, she indicates, we'll never find it.

Mr. and Mrs. Vidic (VID-ITCH), the people we're seeking, seem to live out on the edge of the city in the foothills. Except for the now-routine erratic driving speeds, things seem almost normal as we pick our way along, though that impression is tarnished by the bombed out buildings and torn up cars we pass periodically. Up a fairly steep hill in a residential area pebbled with apartment houses, we finally come to the address. Our guide kindly goes into the building to try to determine which apartment belongs to the Vidic family, or even if they still live here, and we tag along. Phil, as always, has his camera going. Sure enough, three flights up we find a woman scrubbing the stairs who points out the apartment.

Alas, no one is home. What a disappointment! As we came closer and closer to finding the place the idea of actually being able to provide an avenue of communication between these people and their daughter after all this time became very important to us. It became, in our minds, a tangible way to make a small dent in the inhumanity around us. We knock and knock, hearing a small dog barking inside, but no luck. The neighbor woman is wonderful. She immediately understands the significance to Mr. and Mrs. Vidic of what is happening and runs around knocking on all the neighbor's doors, hoping to find them. Finally, she gives up in frustration and asks us into her apartment so we can at least leave a note that she can give them, explaining our mission.

Then, as Barbara, Stephanie and our guide start into her apartment, a couple, she in a housecoat, he in a shirt and work-pants, come walking slowly down the stairs. It's them! They were visiting another neighbor upstairs. Pandemonium, as the neighbor woman rushes out to meet them, in tears, talking a mile a minute. Our friendly guide, explaining what we're here about, also breaks into tears, as does Mrs. Vidic. Pretty soon, we're all standing around in the stairwell outside their apartment wiping our eyes as the reality of it all comes home.

Mrs. Vidic, a round, red-haired woman in her 50s or 60s, with a jolly face and a personality to match, suddenly becomes embarrassed about forgetting herself and invites us all into her home. Mr. Vidic, probably in his 60s, is a silver haired, powerfully built man, strong, stoic, taciturn. You can see he's enormously moved, but says nothing, graciously escorting us inside.

The apartment is clean, neat, tastefully, almost daintily furnished. Exactly what you'd expect it to be. Mrs. Vidic can't contain herself, thanks us endlessly. Mr. Vidic hovers in the background, a sweet, stunned smile on his face. We take a moment, with the help of our interpreter (who certainly had no idea what she was getting into but now couldn't be chased out with a gun), to explain our mission here, the letter from Sen. Gore and our hope to take back personal word from them to their daughter.

Mrs. Vidic listens, eyes brimming, then composes herself and begins to tell us what this word from her daughter, this opportunity, means to her. Shortly she is overcome, as are we all, and can't continue. Stephanie rushes to embrace her and words aren't possible for a while.

Again we pull ourselves together. Mrs. Vidic, with Mr. Vidic hovering supportively in the background, talks about how tough things have been, suddenly gestures for us to come with her. She leads us into the small dining room and points through the door to the smaller kitchen, where there has been some repair work on the wall. A tank fired a round, she says, from the hill across the way. If they had been in either of these rooms at the time, they'd both be dead now.

Barbara asks Mrs. V. if she'd like to write a letter to her daughter. We'll carry it out, she assures her, see that it's delivered. Again Mrs. V. cries, then goes to the dining room table to sit and write.

When she's completed the note Phil, who has been catching as much as he can on his trusty video camera, suggests that they might want to say something to their daughter on video. If so, he'll see that she gets it right away.

Well, it's wonderful. Of course, she's nervous and embarrassed, complaining, as she has been throughout, that she's in her housecoat and shouldn't be receiving guests without dressing, etc., but then she calms herself, takes a deep breath and goes for it. It's almost more than I can bear. No interpreter will ever be necessary for any human being to understand every word the woman says to her daughter. It's one of the most beautiful moments I've ever been privileged to witness. All of us are awash with tears. Then, to make matters worse, Phil asks Mr. Vidic, who has been standing in the background the whole time, if he'll say something to his daughter. I'm gone. If the woman is wonderful, and she was, this man breaks your heart. His simple, stoic, rigidly composed declaration of love and concern to his daughter is the perfect ending to this extraordinary event.

As we're taking our leave, with hugs, kisses and more hugs, I congratulate Phil for the brilliant idea and ask if he thinks he got it all. He says, "I don't know, I couldn't see through the tears."

Leaving the apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Vidic wave us down the steps. As we make our way to the car, Mrs. V. follows, waving, smiling, crying all the way. Once on the street, she points up to the wall where the vivid scar from the shell's explosion testifies to the fragility of their situation.

Back to the PTT. On the way, Peter tells us the story of a Muslim mother and father who were subjects of an ethnic cleansing operation recently. During the attack, with shells bursting around them, they grabbed their children and ran, only to discover after they had run for a considerable distance that they had each grabbed two of their five children... (The sort of story that strikes terror into a father's heart.)

At the PTT, we find Marc still there, yelling at someone on the 2-way radio. "Idiots!" he exclaims. There's a problem with a shipment coming in. What's new? Peter is going back to Zagreb with us, gets his gear together quickly. Marc is heading to the airport and volunteers a ride, so we head for his 4-wheeler.

12:15 PM - On the road again. Once more through the city, a last harrowing race through sniper alley. Is it possible to just get on a plane and leave this place?

Marc insists we fly out with a Canadian crew. Why? "They are the best pilots. These bastards never shoot them down." The French and the Germans won't take passengers at all, not wanting to deal with the headaches - or the liability, I gather.

Once through the gates, we pull up at the office. Marc takes charge, goes behind the counter and makes the right noises with the Danish military who seem to be running the flight operation, and we're in. The next flight in is with a British crew at 1:15 PM. As soon as it's unloaded, they're right back out again. Marc says ruefully, "British! Lousy pilots, but it's OK."

Nothing to do now but wait, so we go back outside. Marc says goodbye and heads back to the warehouse to deal with more idiots. Truly one of a kind. I'll miss him.

Standing here in front of the office the hills across the airstrip are beautiful, now that the fog has cleared. If it weren't for the crack of automatic weapons and the thud of artillery rounds you could invent a whole other story to go with this vista. Winter Olympics.

Peter breaks out some more UN rations and we pick through them, offering a package to a couple of men who appear to be waiting for the flight too. It turns out they're not, having just arrived on the last one, but are instead waiting for a ride into the city. After a pregnant moment the man says hello and I realize he is Dr. Landrum Bolling, founder of the Middle East Peace Institute, member of the board of the Center for International Policy in Washington and renowned humanitarian. We met in the West Bank in 1988. Dr. Bolling is here to see the situation for himself and asks what we recommend, so we're able to steer him to some of the people we've met. Sweet, soft spoken, probably in his 70s, he is one of the great thinkers in the realm of non-violence and international mediation.

Suddenly there's a C-130 taxiing over toward us. I wasn't even aware that it had landed. Goodbyes to Dr. Landrum and his friend and we're told to line up at a certain place on the apron so the security people can check out our bags. As the airplane is quickly being off-loaded we're searched and our bags are gone through. The Danish MP apologizes for all the security, but explains that the Serbs have been "locking on" the planes today and, since there's a high level RAF officer going out on our flight, they're taking no chances. (We'd seen three military officers walking around, inspecting the place. Must be one of them.) Once our bags are cleared they're loaded onto a wooden pallet and transferred into the back of the C-130 by fork-lift. Once again we're told to stand by. The Danish MP explains to us that we shouldn't be alarmed in the event the aircraft uses some evasive maneuvers immediately after taking off. Such as? It will probably go into a full throttle steep climb, causing us to feel a considerable "G" force, then they might do some other things until we get out of range of the missiles. Phil asks, "How long until we're out of range?" "20 minutes," is the reply. Swell.

After just a few minutes we're waved aboard. Climbing in through the back, the C-130 is great. It's like a small warehouse inside. Nylon webbing on the walls of the fuselage holds all kinds of equipment. A system of rollers on the deck enables the cargo pallets to be moved easily. Crewmen welcome us aboard as we climb over stacks of webbing on the empty pallets, step over the one loaded with our gear. At the forward end of the cargo area, aluminum framed seats strung with the same kind of nylon webbing are made available to us. The frame is light-weight, reminiscent of a chaise lounge, but they're securely fastened to the bulkhead and have seat belts that will do the same for us. Looking around I see that one of the crewmen has a ten-speed bike aboard. I point at it, laughing, and one of the guys says, "Hey, you never know when you're going to need a way to get home."

No time is wasted. The giant cargo door is winched up quickly, one of the crewmen passes out ear plugs and we strap in. In very short order we're revving up and taxiing down the strip. It's clearly no-fooling-around time. Without hesitation (it's not as though there's a lot of traffic here, I realize) we make a sharp turn, he gives it the gun and after a very short run-up, we're in the air. Almost immediately, there is a decided shift in the roar of the engines, the nose tips up sharply and we're going up very fast at a hell of an angle! This is exciting! (Especially if one doesn't think too much about the reason for it.)

After a few tense minutes with nothing to do but hang on and consider the possibilities, the pressure begins to ease, then we level off, the noise decreases and we all look at each other and smile, able to breathe again. Crew members get up and walk about, so we unbuckle our harnesses, get up, stretch and take a look. From here, Bosnia is lovely. Snow-capped mountains bisect beautiful valleys dotted with villages and farms. God, it's heartbreaking. Off to one side another C-130 goes by, loaded with food and supplies for Sarajevo.

It's fun roaming around in the open cargo chamber. Barbara flops on one of the stacks of nylon webbing and goes promptly to sleep. Stephanie does the same thing on the row of seats across the way. Some of the crew are reading, others sleeping. Phil, his seat belt holding him up, dozes beside me.

The Brit officer comes back after a while, sits and talks. He's a Vice Air Marshal of the RAF, or something like that. (I was told later he's number two man in the Royal Air Force, equivalent to a four-star general, next in line for the top job.) Interesting guy, very friendly. Wants to know what we saw, what I think.

"The situation is horrifying. We can't just let these people perish. We've got to do something." Agreed, but what can we do? The military options are limited, certainly. "Well, in my view," I offer, "other than to guarantee delivery of relief supplies, I don't think the military option should be our first consideration." What would be? "I think Bill Clinton or Al Gore, more realistically it would probably be Gore, ought to come to Sarajevo. Sarajevo is emblematic of the entire country and because of the '84 Olympics it's better known than the country as a whole. If Gore were to come here it would do, I think, three things. 1) It would sensitize him (Gore) in a way that facts, figures and reports can't to the human catastrophe taking place, 2) it would put Milosevic on notice in an unmistakable way that the world's leaders are in sympathy with the suffering here, a kind of "Ich bin ein Berliner!" statement, and 3) it would set in motion a process of re-evaluation and condemnation on the part of the civilized world that would have teeth behind it. I don't think Milosevic would be willing to continue in the face of that kind of opposition." (I'll admit to feeling a little sheepish about being so bold, but I was tired, frazzled and he asked.) "It's a good idea", he responded. (!!) "I'm somewhat concerned about those who are calling for an all-out military assault from first go."

Thus encouraged, I went on. "Well, I guess I understand that, but certainly we're capable, if need be, of knocking out the guns around Sarajevo, aren't we?" "Yes," he said, "if the source of fire can be spotted accurately, say with laser pin-pointing, that can be done, but there's always the danger of what we ran into in Malaysia. There we found that if you go in and kill one friendly by accident, you've created ten more enemies." "But you would agree that on a limited, selective, consistent basis, there is more we could be doing militarily?" "That is true. Certainly we could protect the convoys, if need be." "And," I pressed, "safe havens for refugees could be set up and protected, should it be agreed that it would be the best thing?" "Indeed."

After a bit more conversation, we said goodbye and he went back to the forward cabin. Interesting man. Heady stuff.

The crew here couldn't be nicer or more considerate of us. Tea is offered around (British, you know), and biscuits.

Saturday, November 21, 1992 - Zagreb.

2:54 PM - Touch down, Zagreb. Mike Keats welcomes us. There is a bit of juggling about which vehicle we can use, then we're off to the hotel. Collecting our bags from Manoel's room turns out to be a giant pain in the ass because he's not there. The guy at the desk simply can't let just anyone go into the room and take out bags, even if we can prove they're ours. Ah, well, at least we can take a shower. Hot.

Later that evening Stephanie, Barbara, Phil and I walk through the cold, clear air to a beautiful old hotel and have a fine dinner at an elegant little restaurant. No gunfire, no bombs, no ruins. It's hard to comprehend where we've been and what we've seen. We're all a bit shell-shocked.

Sunday, November 22, l992 - Zagreb.

It's incredibly luxurious to be able to wake up when you feel like it. Shower and stroll down to breakfast, then back up to pack. Pay the bill and load into the car. Manoel has another person who needs a ride to the airport. Nema problema, except he forgot that we'd have all our bags, so there is hardly room for the four of us, the luggage and Manoel. Turns out he has to race to the airport with us, dump us with a quick goodbye and race back for the other person. Life goes on. For some of us.

1:30 PM - We go out of Zagreb on Lufthansa (my favorite) to Frankfurt, with a connection from there on Air France to Paris. Everything is on time. We're actually heading home! I'm in such as state of discombobulation that I actually checked my bags all the way through to Paris. Phil stalls until the last minute, searching in the Duty Free shop for something, anything to take home from here. Finally settles on a watch. Good thing, the plane is about to leave us stranded here forever.

Sunday, November 22, 1992 - Frankfurt, Germany.

3:05 PM - We arrive in Frankfurt, hustle off the plane onto the shuttle bus to find our way to the transit terminal. Barbara, Phil and I are going on to Paris from here but Stephanie is going to London and from there to New York, I think, for Thanksgiving. (Thanksgiving, my God!) In the hurly-burly of the crowd of passengers going one way and another, we share a quick hug - and then there were three.

Waiting in the Air France terminal, with time to look at a newspaper, the date connects. JFK was murdered 29 years ago today. What a different world it would be...

Also noted, Air France is on strike. Ah. "Most" of the long distance flights will go as scheduled, though, the article assures.

Welcome back.

4:35 PM - The flight to Paris, at least, is going. So far so good.

Sunday, November 22, 1992 - Paris.

DeGaulle is beginning to feel like the old stomping grounds. Through the now familiar ropes I lead Barbara and Phil to the Air France counter for our vouchers ("Oui monsieur, most of the longer flights are going out on schedule. Not to worry." [Most!]), then out onto the bus for the Meridien Etoile.

After checking in we ask at the desk about flight cancellations. The concierge pulls out a list so long it looks like a joke and, after checking forever, pronounces us (Phil and I are on the same flight tomorrow evening to LA) OK and Barbara in trouble. Her flight has been cancelled. Merde. Fortunately, with a couple of calls, she's able to reschedule on another air line into Dulles in the AM.

Later, we meet in the lobby to find a place for dinner. What to eat when we have choices? Phil learns of a Chinese/Thai food place just across the Champs Elysees, so we try that. Not great. We're all a bit spacey anyway. Then a walk in the light rain to the Arc d'Triomphe. Incredibly stirring, resonant, somehow vital, invigorating.

Monday, November 23, 1992 - Paris.

Slept OK, not great. Feel off. Somehow it seems that I shouldn't be able to just walk away from it all so easily. I guess it won't be "easy".

Barbara rings, she's off this morning. We meet in the hall, hug, wish each other well, promise we'll work together to figure out how to tell people what we've seen, done. And then there were two...

Phil has called Del, who is still in Paris, arranges to meet for lunch. It's good to see him. He's full of regrets that he didn't come with us, is also still full of the Africa experience (which seems a hundred years ago, now), can't get straight with it. Somehow, in ways difficult, perhaps impossible, to define, we all know we'll never be the same as we once were.

Del goes back to his thoughts and Phil and I head for the Metro. He wants to find a particular shop where he can pick up a favorite scent for a friend. It's an odd, wonderful time. Two new friends, unknown to each other a few weeks ago, having shared intimate, terrifying, bizarre, hilarious, fabulous, gut-wrenching experiences, now find themselves at leisure, free to wander, look, laugh, joke or be silent, as they choose, in a beautiful, clean, functioning city. No war, no mass starvation, no weeping, fearful, huddled, terror-stricken human beings.

It's something to think about.

3:00 PM - We check out of the hotel and walk over to get the Air France bus to De Gaulle. The bus schedules are a little schizzy too, but it gets us there OK. Checking in, no problem. The flight is still on? "Mais oui, monsieur." The Business Class Lounge is closed, but Phil gets me into the First Class Lounge with him. It's actually going to happen. We wander over to the shop and I buy something to read on the flight. Books, even crappy ones, cost a fortune here!

4:30 PM - They call our flight. It's happening. Phil, courtesy of Universal, goes to First Class, I to Business. It's OK. Actually it's good. We need some time. Two guys from the States are behind me, say hi, want to know if I've been in Paris long. "No, just overnight. On my way home." "From where?" "Somalia and Bosnia." Silence. Then, "God, that must have been tough!" "Yeah." "What was it like?" .... I don't know what to say.

5:00 PM - We take off. I'm going home. Thank God.

How will I ever find the words...?

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