ZOE RITA BARCELONA

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Zoe and Rita decided to spend a weekend in Barcelona.

The two had met on a study exchange in France, and had become close, sharing an interest in fantasy novels and romantic notions.

Zoe was completing her bachelor's degree in European history, which had brought her to France in the first place. She was set in her ways, and had decided on her path for the next decade. Rita was studying law, but was unsure of her future in the subject, and would often talk of a life of travel. Yet, when it came to the subjects of art and of living well, both Zoe and Rita were of one mind. 

They met for breakfast at a hostel, where they planned the day's events and surreptitiously took a few small loaves of bread from the breakfast spread, hiding them in Rita's purse for their lunch. 

In the morning that followed, Zoe and Rita drank in the artistic treasures of the city, capturing photos of each other in Parc Güell. Inside the church of Sagrada Familia, they conversed deeply and in hushed tones about the beauty and splendor of the architecture. Both of them were in awe of the light streaming through the basilica's windows - which seemed to have an ethereal quality; and Rita, who could not suppress her exhilaration, held tightly onto Zoe's arm as she gazed upward. 

The evening was balmy, and the girls found themselves in a small square watching a Spanish guitar player from the stone steps of a church. Rita was smitten, and chatted with Zoe about the beauty of the player, while Zoe poured over the map, deciding on the next destination.

It turned out that a nearby hotel had a rooftop pool, and Zoe had no problem convincing Rita to sneak through the lobby into the elevator and up to the top floor, where they then admired the sunset. 

In the streets below them, the city was preparing for a warm night, and laughter and music could be heard from a distance. The next few hours for the girls were a whirlwind of dancing, drums, chocolates sampled from La Boqueria, and at nearly midnight the two settled down to dinner over wine. While walking home, they stopped by a fountain and reminisced about the day, the small streets and the balconies, the performers and about people at their hostel.

Their parting the next morning was sorrowful, as, with its charm and indescribably beauty, the city of Barcelona had brought the girls closer together.

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SACRÉ COEUR AT SUNRISE

 

ON IMPRESSIONISM AND THE STUDY OF LIGHT

“Work at the same time on sky, water, branches, ground, keeping everything going on an equal basis... Don’t be afraid of putting on colour... Paint generously and unhesitatingly, for it is best not to lose the first impression. ”

— Camille Pissaro

The impressionists studied light - the way it falls, the way it illuminates, and even the way it hides and shadows. They studied a thing that is ever-changing the world around us. From the time the sun rises, to the time it sets, the light it gives off is subtly changing our environment. To capture these changes, impressionist painters worked outdoors, focusing on tone and colour at the expense of drawing and composition. 

Claude Monet knew that the light of the early morning was one of the most beautiful: haloing all those things it touches, and sending pink shivers into the sky.

Therefore, what could be more special than getting to see Paris at first light?

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ON SUNRISE AND PARIS

After listening nicely to my mother's worries about dodgy metro stations at 6:00 am, I flew out the door and onto a metro carriage (which was quite safe and full of commuters actually). The sun had not yet peeked out of her bed-covers, but I knew she would soon be waking and I wanted to be at the very tippy top of Sacré Coeur for that wonderful moment. 

Exiting the metro car, I hauled-ass up 200 or so stairs, then, urged on by a pink dawn ahead, I raced through the cobbled streets to the back of the Sacré Coeur. 

I cannot tell you how beautiful it was, seeing the day sweep over that pink and grey mass of Paris laid before my feet. 

Each small apartment was flecked with gold: the light from thousands of windows twinkling out into the darkness. And I could hear all the noises of a city preparing for the day ahead - dump trucks rumbling in the distance, and the clickety-clack of vendors opening their doors. A smell, of baking bread, wafted along from some nearby boulangerie. And I shared this scene with only a few pigeons and some bundled up travelers. 

Suddenly, flaring above the horizon, the sun graced the world with her presence. She sent her rays into the church too, casting shadows of colour and pattern on the stone walls from the windows. 

It was one of those times when I felt overwhelmed by the sheer wonder of it all.

LEFT BANK PARIS

THE FLÂNEUR

You know, French people have three words for walking (actually, I may be wrong here, they probably have way more than that, sadly I only know three).

The first word, marcher, describes the kind of walking that will get you from point 'a' to point 'b'. To walk this way is to make long, purposeful strides towards a designated point.

The second word is promener. Where to marcher is to walk with a destination in mind, to promener is to walk for the sake of walking itself. It is to enjoy the walk, and to ramble a little - possibly get a wee bit lost. The final destination is not as important as the journey itself. 

On a completely different level is the flâneur....

The flâneur, he turns walking into an art form, (trust the French!). The flâneur is the person who observes the way the light falls; the paving of a crooked street; the smell of bread leaking from the nearby bakery. He walks, hands in pockets, watching the crisp air in front of his mouth form into clouds...

MY PHILOSOPHICAL ROAMINGS

I think the difference between a promener and a flâneur is their perception of time.... A person can go out for a walk in the park with the simple aim of walking in itself, yet their mind can be elsewhere: they may be thinking of what is for dinner, or maybe going over yesterday's events, or even worse - they could be recapping that movie they saw last month. This person is hardly going to notice that the first buds are growing on the trees, or that the puffy white clouds are reflected in the puddles at their feet! In contrast, the flâneur is living in the moment, every moment. He or she is really living the walk. 

MEMORIES OF A FLÂNEUR

...ON THE LEFT BANK OF PARIS...

A crowd of eager faces around a busker and his piano accordion.

Three small dogs with red leashes vying to gain their owners attention.

Yellow tulips wrapped in paper.

The translucency of green grapes at a market, lit by the early morning sun.

The smell of bread still fresh from the boulangerie that morning.

A young woman feeding sparrows from the hollow of her palm.

The echo of my footsteps in the church of St Germain des Prés, and a moment of stillness as I contemplated the coloured shadows made by the stained glass. A feeling of being enveloped in silence. Shafts of light piercing the gloom in an unearthly manner, and revealing swirling dust motes.

Then a different kind of silence, and reverence, found while gazing at the Delacroix paintings in the church of St Sulpice.

The sweet perfection of a pastry creation from the nearby Pierre Hermé. A concoction of rum-soaked-cake and lemon cream, eaten on a freezing wooden bench.

Noticing that the bench was accumulating a small collection of stickers from the Pierre Hermé take home boxes. Feeling a sense of connection with the unseen strangers who had placed them there.

Walking in and out of small stone courtyards lined with topiaries, simply to see what was inside.

Enjoying the bleak winter sun in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and people watching. A circle of teenagers playing handball, and a man sitting in a green chair by the fountain.

Looking up at row upon row of fairy-lights, strung between close housing in the heart of the Latin Quarter.

Watching the light fail from a seat in a cafe, where I mopped up the remains of a particularly rich boeuf de bourguignon with the table bread.