One day I dreamt of snow, lots of snow. The flakes looked like bubbles, and fell to the ground instead of rising to the sky as bubbles do. In the distance, I saw an isolated house, lost in the immensity of this subdued landscape. Then I realised the house was my childhood home. Memories and dreams intermingled and I heard music. As a child in Romania, I was cradled by the music of Mozart and the cimbalom that accompanies the dances of the Dobruja region; as a teenager I discovered the pieces of Chopin and Debussy, indelibly linked with my teachers of that time. As a young concert pianist, my knowledge was enriched by new images of travel. First of all in France, my adoptive homeland, then in Europe, in America, and finally in Armenia by way of China. Wonderful memories of communion with other musicians . . .
I had a dream and that dream became a fabulous reality, a celebration.
As I sit on the sofa in my living room, beside a crackling fire, my friends enter one after the other and come up to me. Some of them I have known for a long time, others are friends made only recently. Glasses are served, filled with a nectar, an ambrosia worthy of the gods. The bubbles loosen tongues, the stories take flight and mingle. The stories told here permit us to share and exchange our experiences. Their lives have sometimes been cruel as well as sweet, but they all continue to vibrate in music, to dance the waltz or the tango.