Paris at Nightfall Fugue

I took a walk out to see Paris one more time instead of hunkering inside on the mac, didn’t know what for, nowhere really to go; and every step got more beautiful. It was eerie. At first, in Passage Ramey, the filth and detritus of the alley, suspicious guys leaning on a car, then the regular street, then open pizzarias and restos where people gathered, then Ramey came into Clignancourt and there were brasseries, bars, on every corner, sidewalk tables full of voices, of bodies, faces and hands and - people; people talking freely.

I leaned on a pole and looked for a while; then I took a street uphill, and found myself at an intersection I’d photo’d before, or tried to, with the toy-colored round tables in one cafe and three other bistros on the other corners alive again with Sunday night folk - and every step was more imbued with the magic of dusk and of this living city - and I went up from there on Rue Paul Albert and found myself in front of a tableau I despair at describing, an old half-timbered ivy-covered dwelling, opening inwards to angles and shapes, with lights glowing from darkened windows, a deep ruby, slivers of amber, a point of indigo, and there was still daylight enough for the eye to pick up the richness of color on the buildings on both sides and behind; I stood for a long time, and my loneliness imperceptibly faded in the face of this wonder, I knew this city is unmatched in my life; no such scenes as those crowded sidewalk tables were possible anywhere in America on a Sunday night, or any night, and this town has hundreds - hundreds - of such corners with their living cafes - most full inside and out, some strangely ignored - and of places like 17 Rue Paul Albert - then I walked up the street and saw that through the grill - the mosaic of grills - beneath my feet came light, there was a lighted room beneath me - just a grotty utility space but in the dusk and the ambience of the lights around, it was another note of deep effulgence. And took out my notebook and returned to the glowing house to get that street number, not to forget.

And went on up, around the corner, and the basilica was just above - a Ghormangast of a complex - people now, blond girls, up ahead, all around, in flocks, guides speaking in some nordic tongue, and around the corner suddenly colored lights were floating down in the dark blue sky and laser points were sliding off the high facades of the medieval stonework, and there was music ahead, and crowds shifting and interweaving in the half-light, and the skyline of Paris over the edge - tour groups and hawkers of these chem-light parachutes, and a man in a corner with an amplified acoustic guitar - I followed the crowd to see if there was a vantage from which the Eiffel could be seen - on the sidewalk novelty models of her jeweled in multicolored lights - and yes, past a blocking structure, there she was, all luminous and alight. I wound among the crowds to see for a while, then hooked back to look at one of the floating lights that had landed among the kids and launchers, to see it laying on the flagstones almost surprised that it didn't vanish into mist - then gave some change to the guitarist, then retraced toward the darkness, and between two domes I saw Venus like a jetliner headlight against the deepening blue. And I went down past girls in antic photo poses, down past a street with inviting lights back to Rue Paul to re-see 17; for a moment I thought I’d never find it again, still; there it was. Then turned back to check out that street I’d passed, and noticed that beneath me, Paul and its feed-onto street were cobblestones set in expanding arcs, curves on curves on curves, not famous, not a world heritage attraction, just a street open to traffic, but another crescendo of awesome hallucinatory enchantment on this walk - and I took that street past three inside restaurants of warmth and elegance with their people leaning on glowing soft white tablecloths - I had an urge to go in but was already satisfied - I’d notice coming down the stairs from the basilica, it had grown on me as I passed the ancient walls, that the loneliness had transformed on this walk, had turned inside out, and was self sufficiency at last. And at the end of that street, at the corner, I could see down a short block to the cluster of colorful sidewalk bistros I’d passed before, and was glad and satisfied to see them and hear them again. 

And then back by Ramey and Clignancourt, and then along by still-open boulangeries and closed specialty bookstores, and I forgot what street I was on; and venus still between the buildings; and saw an open patisserie with squares of pizza-like panini - I brought one home with a baguette last sunday when all other bakeries were closed but I’d seen a girl coming with a long loaf under her arm in it’s napkin and backtracked her steps to this place - and ahead, the circle, that meant my street, I was a block from home.

The nightfall had built in an unworldly beauty to the summit of the evening star and gently receded until I was here on this dark couch with the screen too bright in front of me and the people in their hundred-and-forty-year-old windows across Rue Marcadet. 

And I thought on the top of the hill, and coming back, and coming in, how would I write this? I couldn’t describe it for the web, even for my best friends it would seem wrong. This one would be for myself. Yes. This one is mine.

But here it is.

It will be a while until the experience of that city sifts down through the cells and finds its level; its comparison with every other place and state of mind; but this is clear: 

Paris isn't illusion. It's a forward point in the direction the human thing wants to go. My days on earth would be thinner if I hadn't been there.