Annie's documenting the events. Tomorrow, a narrative may begin in earnest, but for now, neural pathways are impaired by time change anesthesia, and all I can manage is a dream-like reverie of first impressions. The antiquity and yet contemporaneous relevance of our surroundings fills me with awe. Buildings with variegated facades of plaster and cracks, punctuated by fenestrations framed in shutters and bedecked with flower trays, mini balconies supported by graceful and time-worn scrolls of concrete filigree, slanting rooflines with pipestem flues in outreach to a gray sky, from which falls scattered raindrops that render streets new and old a glistening sheen. Everywhere, the soft murmur of a strikingly beautiful language, from radios, strolling couples, old men gathered drinking coffee under brasserie awnings, while the hustle of city traffic moves improbably through streets, straight here, narrow and curved there, along angled and unpredictable intersections. Through the center flows the Seine, under graceful arches, past moored houseboats of timeless utility, around isles of origin and majesty.
Walking here I feel surrounded by ghosts sailing on the ark of time. Paris is a continuum, and I'm ecstatic to be a part of it now.
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