miercuri, 9 septembrie 2009
(Mulberry bag, Calvin Klein underwear, Vivienne Westwood dress, Marni bag, Preen dress, Christian Louboutin boots)
Paris cannot be defined in one word. It's a cascade of emotions. The narrow streets that lead to Cafe de Flore. The buttered croissants. The sparkling glasses of wine. The cold feeling born inside Notre Dame. The long, sharp stilettos that dig deep in Place Pigalle, running towards the next client. The red lights and the smoke. The sound of Seine. The drawing made by the crippled old man in Montmartre. An old record by Edith Piaf, played in a room full of cats, owned by your neighbour. The sea of gold in Les Invalides. The most beautiful night in the world, spent strolling on Champs-Elysees. The vintage smell that lingers inside the boutiques in Le Marais. The chic young lady who let the wind blow her bob. The mild song of sorrow, written in Pere Lachaise cemetery. The waiter who smiles bitterly and gives you the most delicious brie u'll ever have. The promiscuous twenty somethings who entered a cornered restaurant in the Latin quarter.
What's the word that reminds you of Paris?
"Some perfumes are as fragrant as a child,
Sweet as the sound of hautboys, meadow-green;
Others, corrupted, rich, exultant, wild,
Have all the expansion of things infinite:
As amber, incense, musk, and benzoin,
Which sing the sense's and the soul's delight."
Charles Baudelaire, Correspondences