7:30 on a Sunday morning in Paris is mostly quiet. The streets are deserted, but littered with debris left by the revelers of Saturday night.
In empty cobbled passageways the flutter of pigeons’ wings passing between the roofs is the only sound to join the clicking of my own heels.
At the river, the beeps of equipment shatter the quiet—the street sweepers are swooshing along the curbs. Others are on foot with brooms and hoses, sweeping and washing. The stone embankments of the Ile St-Louis and Ile de la Cité are layered with bottles and paper. But help is at hand and in another 30 minutes there will be no trace of debris.
This time of day the sun is just creeping up the buildings and what will later look stark and white, is golden and pink. I am thrilled to feel chilly after the hot afternoons in the city…
View original post 265 more words