I miss …
The top of the Spanish Steps in Rome. I met Alex there- just left of that middle lamppost to be precise. I remember. Perched atop the wide banister, legs dangling carelessly over a nasty drop, the mint-green dome of the Vatican glowing against a peach-colored sunset as hundreds and hundreds of black birds wheel overhead in lazy aerial ballets. The sound of jazz floating from the rooftop terrace of a nearby hotel. Vendors tossing spinning toys into the air, hot pink and fluorescent blue flares competing with the subdued shades of a darkening sky. No photograph can truly capture the arresting and timeless grandeur of the view. My love affair with Italy began on the Spanish Steps.
The lookout from the Sacre-Coeur in Paris, especially at night, when the mosque-like church looms behind you like a pale ghost, and all of Paris is spread before you like a wide blanket of earthbound stars. I lingered there on my birthday with my friends in the early morning when the area was utterly deserted. What an incredible feeling to run up the hundred steps to the summit- to breathe in the sleeping city, its monotonous skyline effortlessly dominated by the elegant Tour Eiffel- and feel as though Paris is wholly yours.
The terrace of my friend’s flat in Amsterdam, with its unique and haunting view toward the Ij and Sint Nicolaaskerk. The panorama is not expansive and is actually more-than-half eclipsed by wings of the building to either side. It’s like peering through a keyhole and catching a fleeting glimpse of some otherworldly beauty, framed by cranes and wholly unimpressive structures that somehow do nothing to diminish the scene’s inexplicable allure. I was never able to cross that platform without stopping for a breathless moment to marvel at the view. Even if I lived there, I don’t think I’d ever be immune to that silent charm, capable of resisting that secret beauty.
The lookout from the Sacre-Coeur in Paris, especially at night, when the mosque-like church looms behind you like a pale ghost, and all of Paris is spread before you like a wide blanket of earthbound stars. I lingered there on my birthday with my friends in the early morning when the area was utterly deserted. What an incredible feeling to run up the hundred steps to the summit- to breathe in the sleeping city, its monotonous skyline effortlessly dominated by the elegant Tour Eiffel- and feel as though Paris is wholly yours.
The terrace of my friend’s flat in Amsterdam, with its unique and haunting view toward the Ij and Sint Nicolaaskerk. The panorama is not expansive and is actually more-than-half eclipsed by wings of the building to either side. It’s like peering through a keyhole and catching a fleeting glimpse of some otherworldly beauty, framed by cranes and wholly unimpressive structures that somehow do nothing to diminish the scene’s inexplicable allure. I was never able to cross that platform without stopping for a breathless moment to marvel at the view. Even if I lived there, I don’t think I’d ever be immune to that silent charm, capable of resisting that secret beauty.