Paris in Blue

An intimate sunrise over the Seine

Paris at dawn: the city before the hustle and bustle

A ragged sigh woke me, and I opened my eyes with the strange sensation of having been dreaming. Outside, the light was timidly beginning to filter through the curtains, hinting at a new day over the city. I jumped up, wanting to see Paris in silence, before the tourists and traffic took over every corner.

I showered quickly, as if the water could erase my laziness and free me up to hurry. I didn't think about breakfast; however, the aroma of freshly baked bread and butter rising from the bakery on the corner followed me to the door, beckoning me like a spell. I crossed the threshold and the fresh air caressed my face, damp, with that scent of wet stone that Paris has after dark.

I put on my hat, adjusted my coat, and walked with firm steps along the cobblestone streets of the Île de la Cité. My shoes tapped in an almost musical rhythm, accompanying the murmur of the Seine that flowed parallel, reflecting the first light. The sky was turning a grayish blue that would soon turn pink, and in that moment the city seemed made just for me.

I had already dreamed of those scenes: in SabrinaHarrison Ford and Julia Ormond embrace on one of the bridges, wrapped in that dreamy blue of Paris, with Sting's music as an invisible backdrop, "In the Moonlight." And there I was, alone, on a bridge in Paris, wrapped in the same blue, from gray to deepest. A certain melancholy surrounded me; the only thing I was missing was someone to hug.

The gargoyles of Notre-Dame emerged from the darkness like motionless guardians, and the distant bells reminded us that time was also awakening. I paused before the deserted and solemn façade, and felt I wasn't simply looking at a cathedral, but listening to centuries of faith, prayer, faithfulness, and hope.

I continued walking toward the Pont Neuf. The oldest bridge in Paris seemed to float on the water, wrapped in a delicate mist. A lone boatman sailed slowly, his figure silhouetted against the fog like a 19th-century print. I leaned on the railing and took a deep breath; the cold moistened my eyes, or perhaps it was the excitement of being in that unrepeatable moment.

The city was beginning to stir. A cyclist sped by, a window opened, letting out the soft music of an accordion, and the smell of freshly baked croissants spread like an invisible river. Paris was awakening, and I was certain I had seen it at its most intimate moment: stripped of noise, surrendered only to the gaze of the early bird.