diary of the morning

it began as a pathetic exhale - a morning-stretch - where the august sun, pert and efficient, shuddered awake without much effort. gray wisps of cloud turned a faint purplish, yes; the pale peachy sky ripened to a deep blush, yes: but it was without enthusiasm. we stood there, disappointed and too full of adrenaline to feel tired, at the window at the end of the hallway, looking out onto the city, our city. "it's light now, it's different, it's paris in the daylight, but it's only five minutes after when it was dark." at night, the crepuscular shadows creep around the closed awnings and, yawning, we pull ourselves in against the chill. at night, the people who walk the streets are ones you avoid. that night, we had kept ourselves awake by drinking strong coffee, reading short stories to each other, and creating a nest of warmth and whispers in my attic room. in the daylight, the people out are the ones who are waking up the city: street-sweepers, garbage-men, the early shift at the cafés.

still standing there, still silent, our eyes followed a swallow as it traced the gray and cobbled skyline. a morning pidgeon cooed humbly and a shadow descended from the pantheon. then, and then, the purpling wisps and the ripening peach sky suddenly drew themselves together in a symphony of gold and blood-red, conducted by the guiding outlines of black and white: the light grew like a crescendo, an orchestra of indigo, sapphire, cerulean, gold and rose, before the copper penny slid over the dome of the pantheon and made this morning real.

as soon as the sun had risen we rushed down the spiral staircase and down to the deserted streets, which we walked down arm-in-arm on our way to the montagne du saint genevieve. the chill had not yet been burned away by the sun, which, though we had seen it rise from our eighth-floor vantage point, had still not awoken the streets of paris. we walked quickly in the cold morning, down rue du montagne to rue des ecoles, to our favourite boulangerie. in addition to it being a's last night, wanting to stretch the limits of our bodies, and all those many other dreamy-poetic reasons, the main thing that kept us awake all night was the promise of the morning's first croissants.

hardly able to contain our excitement, we (literally) squealed with pleasure as we ate the flakes from the fold of the pastries (pain au chocolat, pain au raisins, and two croissants...), still-warm, which we held like small creatures or porcelain bowls. we rushed down rue des bernadins to the seine and we sat on the pont de l'archeveche, behind notre-dame, where we ate feverishly, peeling the morning and letting it melt on the tips of our tongues like butter. it was a revelation, it was pure satisfaction, it was bliss. sitting on the bridge, pastry-crumbs speckling our whole bodies, we let our legs dangle and watched the sun rise again -- a second sunrise over paris -- as it popped over the slate gray apartment buildings leaning over the seine.