One Saturday afternoon, I was sitting on a bench in the Balzac Park. Like every weekend, many people were doing their weekly exercise. Some of them were just walking, others doing bike, and for the most courageous, running between the mud and the flooded pathway. I could easily notice regular and nonregular visitors by checking their clothes and especially their shoes. Some of them wore their boots while others wore their perfectly cleaned and shiny shoes. Some wore denim jackets while others wore yellow raincoats, typical in Brittany. In some aspects, it reminded me the proximity of Brittany, not only by its history but also geographically. During my break, it was quite curious to see not only a familiar raincoat but at least four of them, worn by a young mother and her child on his tiny bike, but also by an elderly couple. The child enjoyed riding in the puddles and was giggling with his mother. Finally, between the annoying traffic sounds and the peaceful sound of the leaves, I discerned a regular noise, like light pats. An elderly man was approaching with his walking sticks, one in each hand, wearing a hat, a pair of glasses dropping from his nose and a long graying beard. He reminded me my grandfather.
