When I was about seven years old, every Saturday, I used to go to a small music school in the city centre to attend a mandatory music theory group lesson. Usually, my mother drove me there, but once in a while, when she was not available, my father took me there by subway.
After about a 20-minute comfortable ride, we got off at the stop linked to the city’s main train station, and among the numerous exits, my father chose the one that was closest to my music school. This choice was always my source of concern.
The exit was connected to a small shopping complex. As we came out on the basement floor, a loud music pierced through my ears. The floor was full of pop clothing boutiques for late teens and early twenties. The light was dim, and there were many faceless mannequins along the corridor. To make the place even more eerie, not many people were to be seen on the floor. Just a loud music, a dim light and a lot of faceless dummy dolls.
In my wild imagination, I thought that at any minute, some scary person could jump out from behind the mannequins and kidnap me. Running closely behind my father, I kept my eyes wide open, looking around here and there, making sure that nobody was coming at us.
After what felt like a truly long time, we finally reached an escalator that carried us to the ground floor. Bright and filled with light music and shoppers, the place felt like a totally different world to me. As soon as I stepped out on the floor, I heaved a sigh of relief. My father and I would then continue the walk to my music school.