I love Paris. It's a central city without skyscrapers, with long vistas full of impressive buildings. It's the glorious avenues of apartments, not too high, each a facade of balconies, ornamentation, window gardens, cats and old ladies. Shops at street level, quirky and independent.
The maze of lanes in the Latin Quarter, the bookshops, the pastrycooks, the piano shops; all fascinating, all delicious to various senses.
A gallery in the Louvre, the ceiling eighty feet above the floor, the awe as you look up.
The young woman buzzing along on a Vespa, hair escaping her pink helmet, but not a molecule out of place. She is elegance, joy and love.
The cars "touch-parked" along a rue. The flower sellers, the book barrows, the four monks in blue robes whose voices filled the whole interior of Notre Dame with Gregorian chanting.
The jaw-dropping hurley-burley of the traffic around the Arc de Triomphe. The soaring excitement of le tour Eiffel, the sublime feeling of afternoon coffee under dappled shade in the Tuileries, the most expensive brownie in the world at midnight on Sunday on the Boulevard St-Germain.
A man strolling back to his apartment, a baguette with the end bitten off poking out of a long paper bag. A swarm of schoolchildren, each cuter than the last. A pair of lovers entwined on a bench.
The grand buildings, the people who live beside them, the utter movie magic of the whole experience with a hundred icons ready to leap out of an alley and burst into song. We may never have been to Paris, may not speak a word of French, but we know the place from books and movies and songs.
My Mona Lisa by
skyring, on Flickr