I took my mother to Normandy for a couple of days. My brother's friend Sybille has a countryside house there and I thought a bowl of fresh air and change of scenery would be beneficial to my mother - we thought that my father would also come but understood that he would enjoy a much-needed little break just by himself. My brother had already been spending some time there with Mathilde and their son.
We ordered a taxi to drive us to the Gare Saint-Lazare train station. My mother has barely gone to Paris in the past few years, except for the occasional lunch or dinner in the 13th arrondissement's Chinatown.
"Oh! Jardin des Plantes! Rue de Rivoli! The Louvres! ..." My mother still could recognise those Parisian landmarks. She was as excited as as little child. "It has changed so much... I remember when..."

The journey to Normandy was smooth. Conversation was in a loop: Where was father? Where did we go? Where was home? Finally we reached our destination, a small town in Normandy where my brother was supposed to pick us up. A little visit to watch Vũ An riding a poney, then back to the house where we rested and prepared dinner. My mother played football with her grandson, we played cards and other games, we read stories for him, had long walks in the area. The landscape, if not strikingly beautiful was very calming and peaceful. 
I don't know whether we will have other opportunities to go out of Paris like this again.
My mother kept asking about father. She now barely spends any time without him. Being in a strange house, out of her familiarity must have caused some disturbances. Nevertheless she seemed happy to be with her two sons and enjoy extended time with her grandson.
To me, that is priceless.



      

Waltzing back in time...

An afternoon stroll at the Jardin du Luxembourg. The month of August in Paris is particularly delicious for whoever stays in the capital, as most Parisians have left town for their summer holiday. 

The afternoon was already quite advanced - five o'clock, the light is at its most beautiful. My ears caught the sound of music playing from the other side of the garden. I slowly walked towards it - it came from a gazebo where I could distinguish silhouettes of people dancing. The music playing was a waltz. Waldteufel, perhaps... As I came closer to the gazebo, I realised the people, especially the women were all clothed in the 1900 style. The gentlemen didn't all make the effort...It was so delightful to watch. For a moment, the 21st century vanished and I was transported to a scene from a Jean Renoir film.        

The neighbours upstairs seem to be passionately in love... It's a concerto for two shaggers every night. And blimey, does the lady have some pipe... Die Königin der Nacht...

A very pleasant evening with my dear friend Alo Paistik, that I like to dub my 'blond Viking god' - to his greatest embarrassment. He is to begin a new PhD in Berlin about some obscure documentary filmmaker (obscure to me, that is). The everlasting student - I don't know how many he will do in his life... über-brainy he is, but also excellent and handsome company!
The deadly combination.

Last night again the neighbours were making love, violently, happily, noisily... Their moaning was echoing throughout the whole street!

Un grand moment de solitude...

Summer in Paris

Ulysses and I just finished our first song together, entitled Summer in Paris... Actually, no, those are the opening words, the real title being Sacred Paper, which I never seem to register. It started with Ulysses scribbling down a text, then asking me to improvise something on the piano. Within thirty minutes, we came up with sufficient material for a song. I wrote down the musical sketches I had done and handed him the sheets. The next two days were spent trying out various combinations until Ulysses was satisfied. He was very excited about writing a song and wrote down the final version for the music score, a full day in front of his computer trying to figure out how to use a software. He is so excited about the process that he is already developing ideas for a second song. Just a few more days before he goes on holiday in Savoy to spend the month with Benoit and his family... Time is running out!

I have enjoyed every single minute spent in Paris. Three weeks have passed now, true, enjoyable and relaxing holiday for me. I see my parents every other day - at least I try to keep the rhythm. My mother is well. The Alzheimer's disease hasn't progressed too much. Her conversation can get stuck in a loop...

Monsieur Engel

Mr. Engel had been our neighbour since my family moved to Saint Maur some thirty-two years ago. He was a mechanics, always there to offer help to anyone who'd need it. He enjoyed that. I remember him, a tall and slightly hunched brown-haired man, his eagle-beak nose and soft, clear eyes. I also remember his young son who was the sexiest man on the street when I was a young teenager. 

Mr. Engel had been in depression for the past year. His wife as well apparently, since the day her little pet dog passed away. From what my father told me, she would barely talk to him and would seldom leave her house. He tried to endure the silent treatment but his state of mind deteriorated. He would still be very glad to give a hand to anybody who'd call for him, despite his old age and declining vigour. That was his outlet.

Then it happened. Three weeks ago, he shot his wife and shot himself afterwards. It was brutal. We all miss him. My father is devastated. It is the second suicide on the street after Mr Laurent, his neighbour, whose house is exactly opposite my parents'. He hanged himself a few ago. Depression too. 

But we must and will remember the gentle man who was always so happy to come and help. Engel means angel in German.