When I’ve opened the only window of my studio flat this morning and took in the astonishing view over Paris that the height of a 26th floor can provide I suddenly felt free again. Rays of the end of May sun were washing the gray cement surface of the twin tower in front of me and stumbling down to the square blocks that cover the narrow alleys and the openings that often turn into playground for an army of children coming from from smaller or larger apartments all around. The noise of the street to the left is distorted and than amplified into a low constant humming as proof that life still exists and isolation is nothing but self-imposed. The gray takes me to La Defense, years ago, when I first visited Paris and everything was a mystery asking to be solved and each step was another adventure. The warmth of the sun did not change much, nor its shining or the deep blue of the Parisian sky.

I sipped again the hot dark-brown essence that I love preparing every morning using my very own espresso machine and a grinder for the coffee beans that I find in obscure little shops. I used to add sugar but later on exchanged it for rich milk fat in an attempt of living healthier. It is a ritual that brings joy and a few moments of so much needed tranquility before taking off into the tumult of the never-ending hospital work. Today however is Saturday and I am not on call, and Monday is a national holiday in France, and seen from the little window of my 26th floor studio flat, life is once again beautiful and I can feel the calling of the yet to be explored Parisian streets slowly pouring into every part of me. I almost have the impression that the COVID-19 pandemic never existed in the first place.

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