Février. The days growing longer but still threatening snow. We took the train from Frankfurt bundled into coats, scarves, the wrong seats set right in our sorry mix of German, English, French. Suitcases bumping cobbles, gray skies; our hotel sunny yellow, its courtyard still filled with green and breakfast elegant on spindly tables—croissants, café au lait—we could have been a painting. Sleet at the Eiffel Tower, rain on the Champs-Élysées and a tea-shop for warming. Lights winking on in the dimness, jardins, musées. We pored over maps, streets radiant, curving, narrow, grand, the river and all its bridges, names hopelessly garbled in our cold laughing mouths. How it never translated to street level; how we felt glad to wonder, to tell ourselves, now we are here.
Gave me shivers, brought me there and left me in the rain-soaked street (my own recollection) in sweeter times, when we took it all for granted – except the being there part. Beautiful and fitting ode to a beautiful place.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, such visuals! Specially this, “names hopelessly garbled in our cold laughing mouths..”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. I am not sure whether I like this prosy look, but I couldn’t make my lines behave, so just went with it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think it works well.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is a such a clear picture of a complicated day with all the emotions unspoken, comfort, exhaustion, wonder, disappointment —
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, complicated and wonderful. And the uncomfortable parts get washed away by the good memories and the wonderment.
LikeLiked by 1 person