Since I saw her for the first time, she had always drawn my attention. She was a street accordion player in Riga, the capital of Latvia. She sang a song to her accordion, but it was more like she was shouting. By no means could she be said to be a good singer. She often stopped singing halfway, and muttered "no, this is not what I like to sing." Somehow I felt attachment to her, and I began to greet her when I passed by her on the street. One day, she told me that she was from France. I was not sure if it was true, but it was not important for me. Her eyes showed me her passion, sorrow, anger, and love. When I heard her singing voice from somewhere in distance in Riga, I silently thanked to that. Maybe she sang a song not to people, but to the old beautiful city. I hope she is still singing (or shouting) on the street of Riga today.