This has been a quiet trip. My mother was sad, surely worried about my grandmother's health, maybe that is why my father wanted me as her companion, so that at least she didn't pass the night alone in Paris. But it doesn't seem that I've been of any help, because I just couldn't distract her away from the silence, the anguish. Could be the disease of my grandmother the thing that depresses her, or there is something deeper? The relationship between my parents is not going well. Even the strangers notice this. The receptions and dinners at home don't have anymore that warmth and enjoyment from our first days in Prague. Like if the weather influenced, their communication has become extremist: excessively cold or excessively hot, aggressive behavior without contention.
             Last night she didn't want to go outside, she barely touched dinner and went to bed. I had to go walk alone in the French streets. Now I just dropped her at the airport, stiff... It seems that I left there a mannequin with my mother's face. And when she arrives to Mexico tomorrow, that will be today for her, she is going to sink in the fog that surrounds its streets, its people, my memories. I'll be in Prague soon, and everything will turn with the same rhythm, like neither Paris nor Mexico, or any other city in the world existed. Maybe not even my grandmother or my mother.
             I decide to visit the famous Museé du Louvre; it seems to be an obligation for the first time visitor. The thing is that I'm lost and people here aren't of any help. They don't try a little bit to be friendly or helpful. If you try to talk them in English they just ignore you, but why? Do they hate Americans or what? I'm loosing my patience. At last I get to the museum, it's really impressive. I buy the ticket and go down by the escalators underneath the glass pyramid. The space opens to an enormous
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