Paris

Paris is like a watercolor painting.

At the boulevard streets, handsome policemen walk up and down the banks of Parisian trees. The cool breeze brushes the edges of their sleeves as they patrol the historic sites. And as they walk, they look at the herds of tourists re-grouping, following, posing, wondering, staring at the edifice, gaping at the skyline, plotting on the map.

The old lady reappears, with her umbrella held high, a flower perched on its tip. She speaks in English, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese. A group follows, their eyes fixed on the solitary flower: red or green or blue or yellow, whatever colour is their flower; and they are bundled back onto the bus.

The bus rambles through cobbled streets. An open café with French windows hosts tourists and Frenchmen. Sitting at the windows, they sip on their coffees and behold the beautiful city.

The city is covered by the vast plateau of artistic mansions. Mansions, ancient yet stylish, and as tall as tamarind trees, converge at a chateau, or a museum, or a church, or a figurine, or a garden, or a palace. Hundreds of monuments dot the city. These clustered dots are joined by Siene, the flat flowing river that snakes through the breadth of Paris. At the steps of the river, there's a row of stalls selling old books and paintings.

I wonder if the city is more beautiful or the art it has produced.