The hotel terrace is covered with tiny chestnut flowers. White and pink, they are everywhere. Before you can sit at any table, you have to clean it together with the chair of your choice, but the table gets covered with flowers again in only a few minutes. Protecting your drink becomes your only concern. Having completed their job, the flowers are useless to the trees. The insects are gone, too. The sexual orgy is over for this season. Chestnuts will appear soon enough, and they will grow at a clip. By the end of the season, they will cover the terrace once again, this time with many a loud bang. One cannot but be impressed with the trees. And a bit disappointed, too. All the hoopla is for naught. Both the flowers and the chestnuts are utterly useless. And so are the leaves, the branches, the trunks. Unbeknownst to the trees, the terrace is covered with thick concrete. At best, the chestnut trees offer you a useful metaphor about your fair lot.