etnobofin

Went for a walk down the river this morning. Paris was gleaming slightly in low November sun. It was all rather lovely, but strangely unmoving. It felt like a morning for climbing a mountain somewhere, not walking beside the Seine.

The people spending their weeked along the banks seemed filled with a sense of obligation, rather than joy. Joggers paced the cobblestones, kids clattered on trottinettes beside the dock for Les Bateaux-Mouches. Tourists were taking endless shots of the Pont Alexandre III: its rather monstrous imperial statuary seems to demand attention, as if its designer could never settle on just creating something beautiful.