Moods Ageing out TEXT Patrice Leconte Not so long ago, I was sitting at a café terrace, near Les Halles, where the Forum draws a huge and entertaining crowd of disparate, colorful people. At the table next to me there was a guy in his sixties with a thin mustache, thick neck, the perfect curmudgeon, sipping a glass of white wine, like me. A rather pretty, cheerful girl with a delicate voice was singing a Joan Baez song in front of the terrace as she played guitar. When she finished, she began making her way around to collect tips. When she reached my neighbor and held out the paper cup, the man scowled, crossing his arms firmly as if to clearly indicate he had no intention of digging around for any coins in his pockets. “A small coin, sir, for the young singer?” “Certainly not,” the man muttered without even glancing her way. “I hate young people.” Not pressing the issue, the singer moved on, demoralized by the appalling grouch—who was not yet done, it seems, as he turned to get me to weigh in: “Don’t you agree?” I obviously had no intention of agreeing with my cranky neighbor, so I asked him why he didn’t like young people. That set him off on a long rant that he must have repeated a hundred times: “Because they just do whatever they want, they talk too fast and they know everything about everything even though they don’t know anything about life.” After a few moments of silence, I ventured to ask: “Weren’t you ever young, sir?” “Yes, of course. Why?” “No reason.” Just then, three carefree adolescents sped by the terrace, hair blowing in the wind, balancing on electric scooters, while my neighbor looked on with a scowl, forgetting he’d not always been old. Go, guys, go! 28 .htlaeh ruoy ot lufmrah si esuba lohoclA .noitaredom ni knirD