Dateline-Paris, ca. Xmas 1972 One of the rare times that I stayed in Paris for the Xmas-new year break. A dreary and depressing place if you ask me, filled with people pretending to be happy and wishing to be merry. Ho! Ho! Ho! Shopping at the clignancourt flea market with my mother. She turned out to be a tough bargainer for a pea jacket that I wanted. Weird conversation about death. Several days later, my parents go out for a Xmas Eve frolic with our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Waldberg. I refused to go out that night. I can only take so much parental company. My father wakes me up around four in the morning. They were in a serious car crash around the pont saint-Michel. He escaped with some scratches. My mother did not fare so well. She had been thrown out of the passenger seat holding the dog, Sardi, with her right arm. Her head struck the window, she must have fallen on her right arm which broke in three places. Sardi made off with a broken leg. Lucky puppy! My mothers closest brush with the great reaper. Her neighbor at the hospital was a distinguished guest whom the Mossad had blown up in his apartment, Fatahs rep in Paris, Mahmoud Hamchari. Or so she recounted. He took several weeks to die while my mother walked out arm in sling, glam as ever.
Posted on: Mon, 22 Dec 2014 12:24:42 +0000