Amsterdam mayor Job Cohen, named for prime minister not that long ago, in front of the Institut du Monde Arabe where I got to spend an afternoon with him while I accompanied a journalist I’ve befriended for Dutch daily Het Parool, and after sipping champagne and having a coupious lunch at another event I had to shoot. It’s a tough job indeed.

Let’s continue with surreal. This image was taken a few steps from the chapel of the previous entry. The path used to be a road lined with houses where 422 people lived; all that remains nowadays are a few stones and signs saying “school” or “farm” near overgrown bomb craters. Expect more in just under two weeks in the regional Dutch newspapers.

I’ll introduce two fresh ones on our theme: fallen soldiers and falling grenades. This lovely spot, tucked away in the gently rolling hills north of Verdun, is where one of the most destructive battles of WW-I was fought. 300 long days and 300 dark nights in 1916 resulted in almost 300.000 dead and more than 1 million wounded. This chapel to commemorate them stands on the grounds where the village of Fleury used to be. Until 1916. Surreal.

It’s unintentionally kind of becoming a theme: falling leaves, falling rain and now falling night, shot yesterday on the magical Pont Alexandre III bridge, just around the corner from our home. I’ll miss fall in Paris when we’ll be living somewhere else this time next year.

The falling leaves drift by the window / The autumn leaves of red and gold / I see your lips, the summer kisses / The sun-burned hands I used to hold / Since you went away the days grow long / And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song / But I miss you most of all my darling / When autumn leaves start to fall

Falling leaves always remind me of the sheer nostalgia that oozes out of this classic, written by Johnny Mercer and performed by numerous jazz giants including Chet Baker, Ella Fitzgerald and Sinatra. Falling stockmarkets do too I’m afraid.

I know what I wrote about autumn but as of 13:17 hours today I officially hate it. Right at the moment Dutch prime minister Balkenende drove through the gates of the Elysee to meet Sarkozy, heaven decided to unleash a torrent of rain and hail onto us, poor photographers, with all the might it could muster. Naturally the sun is shining merilly as I write this.