The Last Time I Saw Paris

This is a difficult post to contemplate in the aftermath of the attacks on Paris.  Yet, it is all I can think about since I was there only two weeks ago.

Clearly the attackers were already in place and armed with whatever weapons they were assigned to use on the innocent.  I may have shared some space or other with one of them–elbow to elbow in a café, passing on the street, sitting together on a train.

Preposterous to consider.

Paris is one of the most beautiful cities in the world.  It is laid out with wide tree-lined boulevards, many offering biking and walking trails right alongside.

Its ease of moving about, public transportation, and the aforementioned paths, make it an ideal city for tourism.

I was in Paris at the end of October with Lena Lonigro, friend and fellow writer.  This post is from my photographic journal, and I share it with you as a love letter to this most beloved city.

It was overcast, misty, when we headed out for breakfast near the Church of St. Augustine.

Afterwards, we walked back to the Church of St. Madeleine, taking time to catch a glimpse of the Place de la Concorde before entering to light candles and center our minds.      

      

Paris was still shrouded in mist when we left, the top of the Eiffel Tower often completely lost as if in clouds.    There was immense beauty in the softening of edges, which encouraged wistfulness.  It even dulled the normally-golden sheen of Les Invalides.

       

The golden tip of the obelisk from the Temple of Ramses II–sometimes called Cleopatra’s Needle–could be seen even in the fog.  We were in Place de la Madeleine looking back toward Place de la Concorde.

From Place de la Concorde, the Arc de Triomphe was visible, and we took turns with other tourists waiting for traffic breaks to step into the median to snap pictures.

Slowly, the sun began to burn away the fog, and we continued our stroll along the Seine.

     Notre Dame stood out in the distance from our position on Pont d’Alexandre, which we decided was our favorite bridge due to its lovely lamp lights, architecture, and sculpture.

However, there was a certain charm to Pont des Arts, the bridge covered in locks engraved with names and dates of lovers locking their sentiments into posterity even if the weight of the heavy love locks threatens the bridge itself.

And in the park beside the river, a trio of brides posed for photographers, whether real or models, we had no idea.

      

The leaves were so amazing as a backdrop though.

      Onward, into the Tuileries Garden, we drank in the beauty of the Louvre as a focal point beyond the many leaf-littered paths and glistening ponds, as well as some hot mulled wine–known as vin chaud.

       And yes, that is a chandelier dangling from the bubble floating in the water.  Amazing, and the Arc du Carrousel is visible just behind it with the chariot atop.  (The four gilded bronze horses are replicas of the originals taken by Napoleon from St. Mark’s in Venice.  The originals were returned to Venice after Napoleon’s defeat.)

   

While I was posing beneath the arch, facing the pyramid in front of the Louvre, a young man handed his cell phone to a passerby and asked if she’d video something for him.  Then, quietly, he obviously proposed to the woman who started crying and nodding, kissing him as she grabbed him to her in an embrace.

Another lovely young woman approached Lena and me.  She, too, had just gotten engaged but was now alone in Paris as her fiancé was a footballer in Australia.  I snapped her picture beneath the arch as well so she could send it to him to show what she was experiencing in his absence.

        This is another of the glories of Paris.  Personal space isn’t a broad swath, but a narrow sliver.  And people connect, talk, play in the park whether seven or seventy.  I was so intrigued by the game of Petanque being played by the gentlemen above.  And they were not bothered by my obvious attempts at capturing them in action.

      

Aren’t they terrific?

Moving on, we found a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts, another of the city’s treats.  Served to us in a rolled paper cone, we nibbled their sweetness as we strolled toward the Eiffel Tower.

     

The sun was now brilliant on the golden dome of Les Invalides, the place of Napoleon’s entombment, vastly different from the shot of it in the fog.  Gleaming, it reflected the rays beginning to color the sky as sunset approached.    We found a bench and watched the mighty symbol of France as she peeked at us from behind colored leaves.    As dusk neared, we ventured into the fray beneath, passing the kiosks offering souvenirs and refreshments. 

It was a bit crowded there, so we retreated to the bench around the corner and watched her slowly shine for us.

   Marvelous!  The first five minutes of every hour is spectacular with the lights flickering and pulsating.  It was joyous.

But Paris wasn’t finished with her show.  Lit by a full moon, the Seine sparkled and gleamed.  It looked as if the moon had breathed a ripple of golden honey into the river.

      The Eiffel Tower popped a searchlight from her apex, appearing to be looking for Lena and me.  Where had we gone?  Could we come back?

I snapped another picture, the lights from the Pont d’Alexandre now popping with orbs of light like that of the moon.  But we were hungry and growing tired.

  

Kir, wine, olives, duck, roasted potatoes, tarts, desserts….oh my!

   

I am not ashamed to be the person photographing the food, especially when it is presented with such flair, pride, and colorfulness, as only the French can.  And let me tell you, it was a feast for the taste buds and olfactory system.

   

Walking off dinner, we strolled by storefronts of Laduree and later, Fauchon, where we did more than window shop, buying treats for ourselves.        

Then it was back to Hotel Bedford to pack and rest before our early morning flight the next day.

This was just one day, my last day in Paris, the last time I saw Paris.

Emblazoned on my memory, it feeds me as I ache from the terror attacks.  Please join me in keeping good thoughts and prayers for the people of Paris, of France, and all the world as we reel from this heinous act of violence.

Renee Johnson is the author of Acquisition, and The Haunting of William Gray.  She is currently working on a Young Adult novel, while editing a suspense novel which has international flair–an homage to her love of travel and foreign food.  She lives on a farm in North Carolina with her husband, Tony Johnson, and one very spoiled German shepherd named Gretel.