Tuesday, March 07, 2017

Sunset over Paris

I can understand why artists went to Paris. My first night I went up to the roof with a bottle of wine. Everywhere in the hotel it was posted that this was clearly restricted and no one was to go to the roof with a bottle of wine that had not been purchased in the hotel.

In my American conceit I decided if anyone said anything I'd just blink and play stupid foreigner. I'm not above it and it works on occasion. I looked out over the city as the sun set and started to feel something. Not necessarily better but the connection that comes with being in beautiful places. And everything feels better in the dark.

From the roof my hotel I could see Eiffel Tower. This was to be as close to the tower as I would get during my time in Paris. It was as close as I needed to be. The river was flooding during my trip and several regular tourist things were unavailable. None of this interested me, I was in Paris for the artistic life. I could also see Sacre Coeur from my hotel. Between the two, I'm sure I was getting a great view of a fabulous envious tourist light show. And they were both beautiful sights, but these were not the sights that interested me most.

It was the rivers of light that were running down the streets of Paris that interested me. The yellow pale glow coming from the windows, peaking into worlds and showing me that, here, in this place, people lived. There were moments to be captured at each window a story to tell, a scene to paint. I wanted brushes and colors and infinite amount of time. 

Washer woman in her living room bathed in gold and orange. 

The party on the top floor, revelers both happy and sad, emotions that floated across alleys and down from the roofs and the lips and the minds of a thousand people taking to the night. The night is cool, not hot, even though it's summer. The sun is full forever but falls eventually and finally at close to midnight there is enough darkness for me to consider sleeping. 

There was a lushness to living in Paris. Two days would be too short. Too days, given my mood, would be too long. Two days is what I would make of it.


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