It is with a heavy heart that I write these words, a total upheaval, a great wave of doubt. Did I do well to come here, alone? Ulaanbaatar, a vertiginous city, its streets disorient me, I walk, lost, and time flows, carrying my worries away. Animals appear like strokes of color — beige, brown, black, sometimes like galloping hair. The yurts rise gracefully in the space, elegant, beautiful, and even the highest mountains of France cannot rival the grandeur of the Mongolian peaks. On the train, I lean out the window, and my breath catches: white clouds seem to unite with the deep blue sky as if in a tender, silent embrace. Is this a dream? Sometimes a river seems to spring from the very heart of the Earth. I will remember their sweet faces, their crescent-moon eyes, their lips, sometimes serious, often light, their hair, black as jet, their tiny perfect noses, and that incredible gift: to teach, to share, to love. Vodka still warm in my blood reminds me of the last evening. Mongolia, my love, thank you for these radiant landscapes, for moments of joy and sorrow, for the encounters that touch the soul