I feel like if I blink, I’ll miss something here in Paris, we are moving so quickly, the pace frenetic at times. The week has gone by in such a blink as well (if I were to further that metaphor).
I wonder how this will all sink into my head, my psyche–I know that the color red has just been amplified in my eyes these days–something about the color red, here in gray but beautiful Paris (a testimony to its beauty–really, what can look so pretty in gray?), is incredible and becoming. Red flowers in windowboxes, the red signs of the metro, red awnings…all against a deep metallic colored sky and black ironwork and creamy white building facades. And Parisians (when you can spot the rare Parisian in August) don’t wear anything but black.
And then there are all the windows of all the homes in these towns, with the inhabitants occasionally hanging out the windows, watching us as if we’re characters on a television program. Old men, old women, possibly homebound during a workday…and then there’s the man above, taking a cigarette break on his very narrow balcony, looking at the world from above. I looked at him and thought, “Just like a writer viewing his story.”
I’m tired yet stimulated, my body doesn’t know what time it is, sometimes I don’t know where I am, and so I feel like I’m sleepwalking in a wonderland. Sunny Beaune, in the Burgundy countryside, feels like a dream, and now I’ve segued into another dream set in Paris. Nevermind London, which has become foggy already in my memories, even though we were just there a few days ago–was that a dream? And yet, here I am in bed, about to succomb to more literal dreams.
Tomorrow we hustle over to London on the Eurostar train through the Chunnel…and then we’re bound for home. Home! Another town looms ahead.
(and as soon as I hit London–I realized red a big color there, too–the red doubledecker buses, the red phone booths, the red guard uniforms at Buckingham Palace…! Though somehow, London is not so gray as Paris).