Today I lost my best friend in Munich to what I hope are the greener shores of Ireland.

He can not be replaced. I will miss you, brother man. Love.

Last week, I came across a semi-circle of construction vehicles surrounding Odeonsplatz. In the center was a stage floating on a sea of orange.

I parked the bike and headed in for a closer look. Over the P.A. a man gave a speech in an Eastern European accent, pausing occassionally for an audience member with a crackling microphone to shout back from the midsts of the crowd. He was no heckler. It was choreographed, like the canned responses of a catholic mass.

Above the crowd in the shadows of buildiings older than my country, banners sprayed with Russian troops go home or Viktor Yushchenko is the heart of the Ukraine swayed in the wind. Orange was the colour du jour. Most people held orange balloons, or atleast an orange itself. A man who I think must be famous in some village stood and gave a rousing rendition of the Ukrainian national anthem.

Then young girls dispersed wax torches throughout the crowd, who now huddled around common flames as we patiently waited for our torches to catch fire. Then we headed down the street shouting Russia go home, before breaking into a slow, moving, almost mournful song. The sun moved behind th earth, only torches now, a sea of orange, our faces aglow, we the people marching the cobbled streets, a moment of history that was not really mine.

Over the protests of a protectective mother, I gave my torch to an empty-handed Ukrainian boy.