Article# 16

My America

A THANKSGIVING POST: th old coleague, the legendary British journalist and drunk Henry Fairlie, had a favourite story about his long, lascivious love affair with America. He was walking down a suburban street one afternoon in a suit and tie, passing familiar rows of detached middle American dwellings and lush, green Washington lawns.
In the distance a small boy aged perhaps six or seven was riding his bicycle towardshim.
At the end of November each year this restless, contrdictory and simple country finds a way to celebrate itself. The British, as befits a people as ease with themselves, do not have a national day. When the French do, their insecurity shows.