11:13AM. My room is still dark. The flat is eerily quiet. Did everyone leave? There is no way everyone is still asleep.
An array of circular mirrors line the long hallway leading from my bedroom to the kitchen. If I run my fingers over them, ever so slowly, it is like a myriad of notes, tinging together to make a cacophony of discord - the notes ever so faint, ever so satisfying.
Empty kitchen. To my amusement, I am the first one up.
Off to find some breakfast - Nutella Crêpe number two today, and as an afterthought Mitchee ordered some french fries, man I love that girl.
Nifty museum passes let us skip the long line, dad you are always two steps and a skip ahead. Through the throngs of people, past the iconic glass pyramid, down the marble stairs - welcome to the Louvre.
The stairs are well traveled, the marble treads worn into a distinctive depressed “U” shape by the familiar patter of patron feet.
Putting the Louvre into words is pure languish. Never in my life have I experienced a day more grand. The sweeping photos can never do it justice and distinguishing between reality and fantasy is purely a matter of opinion. You must look up, you must look down, you must look close and you must step back - you will miss something you never even knew existed. The paintings - brushed masterpieces, the sculptures - chiseled perfection, ceilings - cupid adorned, floors - a matrix of magic.
From the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe is a much longer walk then it looks. We didn't quite make it - but the walk was everything one would imagine - pools, manicured gardens - even dead they look majestic. Friendly pigeons, larger then life sculptures, a quaint ferris wheel, handsomely clad lads and dapper ladies doting the picturesque promenade - so chic.
We meandered through a leftover christmas market. Duncan got a sausage, dad some dried mangos and pears, and Mitchee and I some hot cider. The cider was a bit too mulled and could have used a few lumps of sugar for my liking. But it warmed my hands quite nicely, dad liked it and as Mitchee pointed out - I like everything just a tad too sweet.
Soon we tired of the crowds, it sprinkled a bit, but thankfully the metro was conveniently just across the street. A few quick looks at the map, one lucky guess and dad and I managed to get us within a block of our flat. Successfully navigating a new city brings its own kind of joy - a kind that starches your collar, polishes your shoes and makes you stand just a little taller.
Today as we walked I had a smile plastered on my face. A smile that was not tried, fake or chosen. A smile that required no mustering or prodding - but just a genuine upturn of a recently heavy mouth. It felt good, really good.
Stripped down, bare. I just slipped into the must delectable, piping hot bath. Familiar red webs wind across my heat sensitive skin, I can feel my cheeks flush. The smooth water encompasses my tired limbs, wrapping its heavy arms around me, like only a familiar lover would know how. The water laps at my chin, wetting my lips and filling my ears. It is quiet. The kind of quite that only comes when the water is running the world away.
A perfect end, to a perfect day.
An array of circular mirrors line the long hallway leading from my bedroom to the kitchen. If I run my fingers over them, ever so slowly, it is like a myriad of notes, tinging together to make a cacophony of discord - the notes ever so faint, ever so satisfying.
Empty kitchen. To my amusement, I am the first one up.
Off to find some breakfast - Nutella Crêpe number two today, and as an afterthought Mitchee ordered some french fries, man I love that girl.
Nifty museum passes let us skip the long line, dad you are always two steps and a skip ahead. Through the throngs of people, past the iconic glass pyramid, down the marble stairs - welcome to the Louvre.
The stairs are well traveled, the marble treads worn into a distinctive depressed “U” shape by the familiar patter of patron feet.
Putting the Louvre into words is pure languish. Never in my life have I experienced a day more grand. The sweeping photos can never do it justice and distinguishing between reality and fantasy is purely a matter of opinion. You must look up, you must look down, you must look close and you must step back - you will miss something you never even knew existed. The paintings - brushed masterpieces, the sculptures - chiseled perfection, ceilings - cupid adorned, floors - a matrix of magic.
From the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe is a much longer walk then it looks. We didn't quite make it - but the walk was everything one would imagine - pools, manicured gardens - even dead they look majestic. Friendly pigeons, larger then life sculptures, a quaint ferris wheel, handsomely clad lads and dapper ladies doting the picturesque promenade - so chic.
We meandered through a leftover christmas market. Duncan got a sausage, dad some dried mangos and pears, and Mitchee and I some hot cider. The cider was a bit too mulled and could have used a few lumps of sugar for my liking. But it warmed my hands quite nicely, dad liked it and as Mitchee pointed out - I like everything just a tad too sweet.
Soon we tired of the crowds, it sprinkled a bit, but thankfully the metro was conveniently just across the street. A few quick looks at the map, one lucky guess and dad and I managed to get us within a block of our flat. Successfully navigating a new city brings its own kind of joy - a kind that starches your collar, polishes your shoes and makes you stand just a little taller.
Today as we walked I had a smile plastered on my face. A smile that was not tried, fake or chosen. A smile that required no mustering or prodding - but just a genuine upturn of a recently heavy mouth. It felt good, really good.
Stripped down, bare. I just slipped into the must delectable, piping hot bath. Familiar red webs wind across my heat sensitive skin, I can feel my cheeks flush. The smooth water encompasses my tired limbs, wrapping its heavy arms around me, like only a familiar lover would know how. The water laps at my chin, wetting my lips and filling my ears. It is quiet. The kind of quite that only comes when the water is running the world away.
A perfect end, to a perfect day.
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