Those Memories of Paris...
Paris always carries a contradictory temperament: both romantic and realistic, both classical and avant-garde. Paris in June is especially so, with sunshine that’s neither rushed nor slow, and wind that has a temperature that makes one willing to slow down.
I stayed here for four days. Not long, yet enough to pause on the streets and give myself some moments alone with the city.
Those days, I stayed not far away. Looking out from the window, I could see rows of dark gray rooftops and zinc chimneys. When I woke up in the morning, Paris hadn’t fully awakened yet. The streets were empty, with only the occasional echo of a car passing by. The air was a bit cool, but not cold. I liked going out at such times, walking to the Seine, finding a quiet riverbank to sit for a while, watching how the morning light gradually climbed up the bridges on the opposite shore.
I still went to the Louvre. Not to complete a task, nor did I have particular expectations for any painting, but just wanted to see how that massive space wraps around centuries of human imagination. The museum was very quiet, with tourists taking photos and students sitting on the floor sketching. I walked very slowly, standing for a long time in front of certain sculptures—they weren’t particularly famous, yet made one want to linger. That quiet gazing was my favorite moment.
I went to Sacré-Cœur in the evening. The wind was blowing fast, and the steps outside the basilica were full of people. Some played guitar, others did nothing but gaze into the distance. The city slowly spread out below, and the sky darkened layer by layer. At that moment, I didn’t take photos or speak, just sat there, listening to the wind, the bells, and my heart becoming lighter.
The charm of Paris doesn’t lie in how many surprises she gives you, but in that she’s not in a hurry to tell you the answers. You just need to walk slowly, and naturally you’ll find a small square at some street corner, with elderly people sunbathing and students reading on benches; or a café with only a few seats, with two crooked rosemary plants at the door—everything unintentional, yet real enough.
On the day I left Paris, I walked a lot. From the Latin Quarter to Place de la Concorde, then turned into an unknown alley. I didn’t know why I walked like this, maybe just wanting to remember the rhythm of this city a bit more clearly before leaving.
Four days isn’t long, nor enough to understand a city.
But if cities have breath and expressions, then I think I remembered Paris.
It’s a kind of silence illuminated by sunlight, remaining in the wind, and also in my heart.
