It could be that in my mind, Paris is one thing and in reality (someone else’s reality) it is another. I move as a tourist, albeit a frequent one. I go from hotel to café to museum, park, or store, I take photos, I eat my evening meal and that is pretty much it. I don’t wrestle with anything. I just notice that the café, museum, park, store and restaurants are awfully good.
And once I have come to the conclusion that Paris treats me well when I am there, I load my cart with other striking images – of the city that has embraced the tiny Smart car (they are everywhere!) and slung mud at SUVs (pranks against big cars are not uncommon), of the superior baguette, the superior style of dress – the city that sleeps less than I do and eats more than I dare to and handles it all exceptionally well.
On our one full day in the city, Ed and I did the usual: ate croissants, walked great distances, visited the newly reopened Orangerie museum, shopped (I shopped, Ed, the anti-consumer, hid behind a book against the onslaught of beautiful things), ate well, drank well and there you have it. The day ended, the camera went back into its case and we travelled home.
Here it is, briefly, Paris from my lens:
on arrival: oysters
shopping, Au Bon Marche
fussying about kitchen gadgets
preparing for a "manifestation"
nibbling on a baguette
so many to choose from
it's the season
the last dessert