Bill Simons
My sixth floor room overlooks Paris, with its red roofs and penthouse gardens. The random sightlines are an inviting mix. Quite ancient, rather modern – an asymmetrical dance of brick and iron – rose and gray. As my jet-lagged body rises at six, four plump, clearly satisfied doves descend on the low walls of my beige, weather-worn balcony. I write my first notes – rambles and reflections on Roger and grace, Sloane and love.
Steely, unhappy clouds drift low – slow, reluctant and duty-bound to deliver their rain. But now dawn’s serenity is at last punctured by a muffled, almost mean roar. The morning’s first engine kick-starts the day, reminding us of the urban intensity that will soon grip this place.
Paris does soothe – it inspires and forever gives us the sing-song chatter of lovers and the timeless mysteries of the Louvre. Its alleys hold secrets.
But even the most romantic of cities bustles. Here, too, there are lists to be tackled and laundry to be done. Still, it is early. Distant birds, happy and free, offer random delights, then soar. The embracing quiet lingers, but it knows it will soon surrender to the pulse of the day, loud and powerful, filled with intent – the pulse of Paris.
