Truck of Horror

My family is from Nice. This is my summer town, my grand-mother’s food, my great grand-mother’s home when Nice was still Nizza. Nice is the beach for hours, family dinners and cicadas, carte d’or ice creams at 3pm, scrabble, sprinklers to wash the salt of the sea, hours in the cherry tree, sunsets and night time stories. La Promedade des Anglais is the afternoon stroll, the park with the majestic tiger’s statue, the roundabout and the magical hotel Negresco. And now, because of a man’s deep sickness and insanity, it’s also that monster truck, screams, the unwatchable vision of those inanimate little bodies laying on the large curb of the most touristic promenade. How many more bodies does this nightmare evil machine need to devour? How many of my happy memories is the disgusting garbage truck of terrorism going to swallow? Well, all trucks of horror, I understand your message and my heart is bleeding so much tonight, but here is my answer to your despicable gobbling: you can try to steal as many of what makes my life a happy plate, you will never, never, ever stop the growth of the cherry tree.