There is something magnificent about Paris in the wake of morning. While it’s still dark and the city lights are alive.
It’s in the way my footsteps softly impress on the fallen leaves, their crinkle the only sound besides the wind as it whistles. It’s the elegance of the empty bridges, illuminated by only the lights reflecting off the puddles of rain left from dawn. And in the serenity of every empty footpath, vacant except for the bicycles parked from the night before, its owners still asleep. The half-moon hovers at fringes of the skyline, its silhouette fading with the flicker of the stars.
And slowly, the sky lifts its heavy blanket and shades of deep blue replace the twilight ridden black. And slowly, city bus and green taxi lights decorate the winding avenues. Their drivers sharing in the secrets of the enchanting city. The quiet of the city is marred by the hums of buzzing cafe lights, decorating the empty spaces on every street corner. Backlit awnings billow with soughs of the wind and a new air blows gently through, softening the hard lines of the Haussmann boulevards.
The city is rising from its sleep, warming up to all the horns and quiet conversations of strangers alike at bus stops and metro lines. A new delivery of morning papers sit crisply in the metal caged stands, illustrated with headlines from worldly broadcast of the hours before. And the storekeeper stands outside his fruit stand, looking onto the waking street. And the market tents are mounted in preparation for an honest day’s sale.
The familiar boldness of the deepened hues from the rain stained sidewalks fade to grey at first light. Dew drops dance on the top of parked cars and the roads feel brand new again.
There is something magnificent about Paris in the way the night turns to day, and it feels as if the city never slept at all. As with every stepped in footpath, dignified riverbank, and familiar passage, the city was waiting to share itself again.