Paris is gold. Tan buildings rise high into the sky, the many stories and faceted windows beautiful but uneven like the butter-brushed layers of carefully baked pastries. Gilded archways, balconies wrought with black roses and delicate patterns built up from large wooden doors that make you feel like an ant.
Paris is glass and diamonds. Sunlight shining, shimmering, reflected from French windows standing proud. Light running bouncing off of car windows from motorcycle doors and glinting off of polished jewelry. The seine, the crown jewel, flows like liquid glass. It throws back twisted memories of gilded bridges, proud houses, museums, trees, and is that the Eiffel Tower in the distance?
Parisians are the people melting the gold, mining the diamonds. The people are a little rougher than the fine-hewn city itself. We scuttle underground in the metro, getting from A to B in the most efficient way. No matter how many warnings I have had about the rudeness of Parisians, I have never had one neglect to hold the door for me (and I return the favor). No, I don't worry about getting mugged in an alley while I am walking home. I am more worried about dying of boredom if I finish my book on the ride.
Paris.
No comments:
Post a Comment