Last night, I found my self outside past 10 pm walking around Paris, scrambling through crowds, and ambling in empty streets taking photographs. I did this for about an hour and a half.
En route towards the Eiffel Tower, my closest neighbouring monument, EarPods safely cozied into my minuscule ears, and leather jacket swung over my shoulders over my long stripped dress. Hair still damp from my shower, I set foot in a warm city climate that would inevitably induce my thick dark hair to puff up like a lion’s wild mane.
Scrambling through the crowds of tourists, I walked by the eiffel tower, and through the Parc du Champs de Mars, which was finally open to the public for the summer. The sun was fully setting. People were picnicking on the grass, drinking wines and beers, and eating pizza (I assume not EVERYONE was eating pizza, but how funny would that be?), sitting on picnic blankets watching the Eiffel Tower glow in the night’s starless sky.
I strolled through the residential neighbourhood streets. Passed the ‘Le café du Dome’, where Fitzgerald, Hemingway and their clan spent many hours drinking champagne and whisky, and where F. Scott would infamously down a whole bottle of wine, all before dinner. And I just ambled forward, without really worrying where I was going, because I knew as long as I could spot the Eiffel Tower, I would have no problem finding my way home.
The streets were dimly lit, but lit just enough to see your steps and a few tens of meters ahead. There was very few people walking around. Just a man in his 50s walking a dog, a few girls on their way to a party, and a gang of six friends in their mid 20s, unlocking their bikes and cycling away.
I stopped twice, to photograph flowers in florists’ window shops. The second flower shop was on the corner of a small street. It had a little café where people were sitting at small tables set up on the sidewalk, and gave a dead on, nearly emblematic view onto the Eiffel tower. A french man took a picture of an elegant blond woman in her 40s before the luminous monument. Out of their way, I just stayed behind them a few feet away, taking pictures of a bunch of beautiful flowers including peonies, as a man in the café on that same street watched something at afar.
Then I headed back home, the light of the Eiffel Tower guiding the way. At Eleven PM, I heard people gasping with awe and amazement, as I was walking along the Seine. I turned my head, and saw the Eiffel Tower glittering with its million lights. That was another time I stopped to take a picture. I had trouble focusing my lense on the glittering lights of the Eiffel tower, and then realised I preferred the pictures where the lights were just blurry, luminous bubbles, mysteriously shinning at afar like a lighthouse on a distant shore.
When I regained the stairs before the Musée de l’Homme, a group of people were slow dancing to music under the dark sky, despite being surrounded by a crowd of people. I wondered for a second how any one could participate in such an intimate activity as slow dancing while being surrounded by an un-intimate amount of people. But found it sweet and romantic none the less, and came to the conclusion that I would probably enjoy it, too.