In France in February, there is no fragrance of lavender. In the afternoon in Paris, walking along the Seine River, the air seems to be drained. The clearness and darkness of the sky are ambiguous. The pigeons flutter their wings wantonly, and spread the leisurely warmth. Castles, river banks, parks...
The banks of the Seine were filled with guys like wooden boxes, but they turned into stalls after opening.
It was neatly filled with old books, handicrafts, cigarettes... So, the wind on the Seine had a heavy smell, which was very European.
Outside the Louvre is always overcrowded, but it is not my topic today. Without booking any itinerary, the meaning of travel is probably that you can stop traveling at any time. Passing by Paris in a hurry, leaving too many unfinished traces.
In the bustling crowd, between the shoulders of each other, food is the "wing" of the Champs Elysees, drifting over the Eiffel Tower and passing the Arc de Triomphe
The Eiffel Tower, a flock of pigeons circling past, drew an elegant arc in the sky, and the cold air was full of winter confession.
