As you can tell from the title, this is honestly my last post about Paris. You must forgive my indulgences; I had a lot of swell tales to tell and photos to flaunt. But I'm done now, I promise. As a token of this promise, I am
immediately, nay,
simultaneously, publishing my next post, which is most definitely not French; it documents my short visit to Dover. Look, it's up right now, even as you read this! But now, to wrap up.
The Luxembourg gardens were lovely and snow-dusted. This was my last day here, and my friend had to leave early on a morning train. I felt strange, at first, slightly overwhelmed and lost; then as I adjusted to my solitude I felt released, selfish, and free. It's impossible to be truly alone in a city anyway. I went wherever I wanted. I spent too long in grocery stores, a hobby of mine that bores most people, I took pictures of ducks and flowers, I got off at random metro stations and ate raspberry
custard tarts in the thin sunlight.
The crypt, where I gazed reverently at the tombs of Hugo, the Curies, and Voltaire, hoping not to encounter any troublesome ghosts.
The Pantheon (its remodelling a few centuries ago was inspired by the Roman monument, thus the confusing nickname) was flamboyantly gorgeous. Every wall was covered in paintings, and surprisingly modern ones at that, although I'm using the more academic use of the word. Most were
Neo-classic in style if not exactly in era, with traces of Impressionism thrown in. Notice the depiction of St Denis,
keepin' on
keepin' on after his beheading: whatever one's personal opinions on the
Legenda Sanctorum, they certainly have given us a plethora of fantastic images.
I think it would be nice to be one of these statues, if one had to be a statue. They are in the middle of the glorious Pantheon, bathed in light streaming down through the interior dome, watching people come and go and noting the regular rhythmic oscillations of Foucault's Pendulum.
And I saved this one for last, as I always save the best for last. Perhaps it's not necessarily my most aesthetically striking picture, or the best composed, but I like the way it feels. It feels like magic, to me, which is hard to capture on film, and rare to encounter in reality. The reputation of Paris (city of light, city of love) is so ingrained in our collective
consciousness that it would be impossible for any mere real city to live up to. But when I stood leaning against the icy railing and saw the city spread itself out like this before me, I felt that I'd been given a glimpse into a perfect world.
As you can tell from the title, this is honestly my last post about Paris. You must forgive my indulgences; I had a lot of swell tales to tell and photos to flaunt. But I'm done now, I promise. As a token of this promise, I am immediately, nay, simultaneously, publishing my next post, which is most definitely not French; it documents my short visit to Dover. Look, it's up right now, even as you read this! But now, to wrap up. 
The Luxembourg gardens were lovely and snow-dusted. This was my last day here, and my friend had to leave early on a morning train. I felt strange, at first, slightly overwhelmed and lost; then as I adjusted to my solitude I felt released, selfish, and free. It's impossible to be truly alone in a city anyway. I went wherever I wanted. I spent too long in grocery stores, a hobby of mine that bores most people, I took pictures of ducks and flowers, I got off at random metro stations and ate raspberry custard tarts in the thin sunlight. 
The crypt, where I gazed reverently at the tombs of Hugo, the Curies, and Voltaire, hoping not to encounter any troublesome ghosts.
The Pantheon (its remodelling a few centuries ago was inspired by the Roman monument, thus the confusing nickname) was flamboyantly gorgeous. Every wall was covered in paintings, and surprisingly modern ones at that, although I'm using the more academic use of the word. Most were Neo-classic in style if not exactly in era, with traces of Impressionism thrown in. Notice the depiction of St Denis, keepin' on keepin' on after his beheading: whatever one's personal opinions on the Legenda Sanctorum, they certainly have given us a plethora of fantastic images. 
I think it would be nice to be one of these statues, if one had to be a statue. They are in the middle of the glorious Pantheon, bathed in light streaming down through the interior dome, watching people come and go and noting the regular rhythmic oscillations of Foucault's Pendulum.
And I saved this one for last, as I always save the best for last. Perhaps it's not necessarily my most aesthetically striking picture, or the best composed, but I like the way it feels. It feels like magic, to me, which is hard to capture on film, and rare to encounter in reality. The reputation of Paris (city of light, city of love) is so ingrained in our collective consciousness that it would be impossible for any mere real city to live up to. But when I stood leaning against the icy railing and saw the city spread itself out like this before me, I felt that I'd been given a glimpse into a perfect world. 
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