The family along the Seine

The Seine snaked by the grassy park in Puteaux, the suburb touching Paris’s La Defense. We arrived too late to find a free green and white lawn chair, but we were content to sit on the grass under chestnut and maple trees and listen to the long-haired woman singer give a jazz interpretation to the songs of Brel, Lama, Aznavour and Piaf.

We could not help but notice the family next to us of a mother, father and two little red-headed girls. The two-year old sat on her mother’s lap, pouring small amounts of water from an Evian bottle onto a cloth and then washed her face over and over. The five-year old, dressed in a yellow-green sun suit ran up and down the hill between the brick gazebo where the singer and pianist performed and where her parents sat. She joined the singer on the stage along with other little girls.

The mother chatted and laughed with the girls, poured water in the Evian bottle to control the flow of what her younger daughter could do. The father sat in his yellow shirt, his legs outstretched. Although the distance between him and his wife was not much more than two feet, the distance emotionally was huge. They never spoke to each other, exchanged a look nor mentioned the singer.

So often when I see situations like that, I want to go up and ask what is wrong. Of course, I didn’t. It wasn’t a matter of language, but of courtesy, darn it.