As we were walking down some steps on Montmartre, I saw through the narrow window of a small theater that two musicians were performing. Performing or maybe rehearsing, since there was no audience. I gave it a second and third look. An old thin Parisian man walking behind me said in a mellow voice, clear English with an acceptable French accent, it’s a theater. I answered, yes, but are they performing? He said, yes. But nobody is watching. They don’t care. They are the kind of musicians with talent and not much care for others’ opinions. They perform in very small places, you see. They don’t make money out of it. And they don’t care. Where are you from? Are those your parents? I said Beijing, to avoid unnecessary explanation of where exactly my hometown lies on the map of China, and yes. He went on to talk about the amazingness of the Chinese medicine and I, or we especially my parents for that matter, should take advantage of the amazing Chinese medicine because they are natural and without the chemical toxic of the Western medicine. I nodded hesitantly. My parents were ahead of us, now standing across the street to wait for me, smiling but didn't know why. So are you from here? Yes, I am an artist. I make portraits, on Montmartre, you know? Yes. He looked across the street and added, take good care of your parents. It’s very important. One day they will no longer be there, and you will be very sad. The gaps between his teeth were black from smoking, but that didn’t affect the seriousness of his statement. They are waiting for you. Remember to take care of them. I said thank you. I didn’t know why, either.
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