Paris, Labor -rising sun
There is an hour in paris, around 6:28, depending on the season, in which the city begins to open up and emits, as if it were an alien object, a magnetic radiation that forces, day after day, Month after month, year after year that passes, to wish to see her be born again.
At that time the streets open, As the light takes off from the dark on the urban horizon and, If it is spring, The parks deploy their odors to newly watered bush and the gardeners plant and start, And the Luxembourg Garden guards are already uniformed about to open the gate.
If it is winter, The light takes longer to personify and almost always does it behind some veils of citizen mist with a delicacy worthy of encyclopedists and bohemians, Trasnochanters and literature seekers, romances, brushstrokes and torments, fragile delicacy of navigators of sixths, solitudes and coffee.
He ran very early to leave behind some loves that had left him behind him
My friend Olivier, that ran very early to leave behind some loves that had left him behind him, He said that at dawn, to 5:50 eg, SENA did not move, nothing moved in this city still, if not for some ducks that perched on the waters and for the shadow of their legs when running.
As the day is getting up, Paris It is filled with delivery, of buses and the least resistant to the abandonment of the temperate pleasures mornings, that leave with the skin strap of the municipal pools or the stairs of their apartments run over to join the flow of the outdoor life, disheveled, with half a body dotting in the arms of the sheets, of lovers or warm rain of the first shower that has already stopped falling.
The sun, o are halo, They barely exceed the horizon and subway cars already swarm in that underground world where expressions are decided, effluviums and auras of citizens of the outside world. The day is ascending and the crowds are compacted in bus stops and starbucks tails, In traffic lights and rer bills.
The day has started. If work continues in meters, colas, Office and wait yellow transport and faces. If it is a holiday, If we are tourists, If we have presented our resignation, There are other things to do.
Paris, Holiday -rising sun
One day, Let's put for example a temperate Sunday, We wake up early, The morning is cloudy, The companies planned for sunset, lovers, The pools, The enveloping sheets were tomorrow or yesterday.
There is a cafeteria on the island of San Luís, In the Esquina of the rue des Deux Ponts that Da al Pont de la Tournelle Donde el Sol, or the resol, They shoot their flat and wide rays early along the golden bar passing through the green chairs, old, to the end of the end. The lords are nice, The tarts, Despite the quality of the island's boulangeries, Chewing texture and a pleasant harinaceous flavor, The uncomfortable chairs, The peace atmosphere. From the sound of the spoon and kitchen that are heard in the lowercase cafeteria.
Where the kangaroos live in the shadow of a family of low trees
After breakfast in the small and green cafeteria, With the spots of the Sun in the book and the sticky rumiar of the cups in the accents, one can cross to the Arab Institute and bring to JUSSIEU to, Following that street, go out to Balloon Physics Institute and enter the garden des plants through the side door, Where the Menagerie begins, where the kangaroos live in the shadow of a family of low trees. The garden at that early hours is full of nature and there may be some inhabitant early in the noise of Buffon, sitting in his chair, In the middle of Central Avenue, Looking at its pleased life. They say it was a Juerguista, A womanizer, a nice one and on top of a brilliant naturalist.
Leaving the gallery door of evolution, leaving the mosquée to our right, If we follow the rue censier we can cross monge, pass in front of the Church of St Medard and reach the market of the rue moufftard that on Sundays opens a range of colors of tangerine cars, Flowers with petals, Smell of cross, A man with some newspapers and the growing supplies of neighbors who armed for breakfast on Sunday go down to buy bread, to smell colors and try pink wines on the slope that uploads markets to the Plaza de la Contrescarpe.
In the rags of the requin chagrín that takes a lonely whiskey
And from there we can gallop until Pantheon, in whose tombs it is cold, and go down the Street of St Genevief to the Maubert Mutualité market or stop at the secret gardens of Ecole Polytechnique or, even more secrets, in those of the mysterious hotel des large ecoles in the num 75 from rue Cardinal Lemoine. From the square we could also enter the entrails of Hemingway, In the tears of the Requin Chagrín bar that takes a lonely whiskey by oting the horizon or in the green library of Café Contrescarpe.
We could, even, leave behind the melancholy and the literature of nostalgia and fly to, simply, Continue walking without penalties or lost paradises, Without sleeping pains or screams. Walk on the hands in the pockets. Navigate, other, knowing that the city lets us choose our own layout, knowing, without knowing it, Because it comes from inside, What Paris has many Parises, and that, within each, There are infinite combinations, encouragement and gait To walk in the morning without more.
