I stepped off the train and walked outside heading for Boulevard de Sebastapol. The air was noisy, dirty, foul. The obvious thing to do was turn back and go home but I would have missed the one thing I came for. What a strange place. Paris to me is a bewildering mixture of ugliness and beauty. A bit like a
Martinu concerto - brashly discordant, to put it nicely. Or raw and just plain offensive, to be blunt. But if you let it in, let it penetrate your skin deeply enough that it evades those instinctive attempts to fend it off, its touch can be surpisingly intimate and compelling. There's a chaotic mixture of textures that individually are so varied and sensual that the whole experience is vivifying in a way that's hard to explain. A cacophony of many brilliant butterflies dancing in a sunlit shower of falling needles. No, that's a stupid metaphor. Hardly an apt description of Vera. Enough with metaphors! While there are many beautiful elements to Paris, Vera is all that matters. I had better focus my thoughts if I'm to maintain my sanity until I see her.