Returning now to my hazy and sepia-toned European memories. Another country I recall, with great fondness of course, is the nation of Franchia. Franchia, land of arches. It is fascinating to see how other cultures live, shaking you out of your locked-in Night Valeian ways, and Franchia is a prime example. To see a culture that doesn’t even have any people, a country with no population, just ancient stone arches, hundreds of square miles of arches, intertwining and leaning against each other. The wind hollows through the narrow alleyways as the lone traveler, camera in hand, explores the vast, empty cityscape. One doesn’t need to be able to speak another language to be able to try your hand at communicating inside the borders of Franchia. Merely call out ‘Hellooo?’ after long silent intervals, and hear your call echo back from the depths of the knotted, crumbling arches, unanswered. The beauty, oh listeners, of intercultural exchange.
Of course, despite the fun times I had curled up with a blanket through the long nights of Franchia, looking up at the stars in a haze of cheap wine, no visit can last forever. Eventually, I became convinced that I was not alone in the labyrinth, that somewhere among the arches was a beast, stalking me. I would stand still for hours, listening to that wind, searching for the slightest sound of movement off in the distant halls of arches. I fled Franchia, running desperately for the border, finding dead end after dead end before, heart pounding, I crossed into the next country and fell to my knees on the grassy hill of the countryside, the arches having stopped completely at the border. And I swear, listeners, I swear that in the moment of crossing, I felt a single claw graze against my back. I swear, I felt the endless wind of Franchia turn hot and wet, the breath of the beast inches away from my neck. So visit Franchia, but, you know, watch out for the monster that I may or may not have only imagined.
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