Beans, Baguettes, & Boulogne

Parc Montsouris in an ethereal collage of silhouetted bole, fowl, and flora.

Feet aching obscenities and water peeved with thirst, I was fairly lost at this, the hour of sunset in the Bois du Boulogne. The swaying threshes of the weeping willow seemed illogically comforting, akin to the comfort of gently caressing the hairs of a lover’s head with the most infinitesimal surface finger friction. At these romantic musings the bum came into vision; realizing the wood’s transformation into prostitution central was nigh, I gingerly tucked the moment away for a delicious winter daydream, and huffed away compass arrow determinedly pointed home.

A unit of mottled, Dalmatian-spotted mallards skims across the edge of the Grand Lac in the Bois du Boulogne. Neither mother nor ducklings harboring agenda, they encapsulate sangfroid as I meanwhile click into storage a risible photo tally.  

Dazzled by the sleek modernity of the Oslo Opera House? Scaling the roof of this cleverly pedestrian-friendly structure, you are next hit with a vista of the verdant Norwegian fjord in its unbottled luminosity. Consider that the place offers free bathrooms in a city that obdurately shuns the concept, and you are practically tethered. 

Lap up these reversed vantage points, each wholly beatific in their watery burnish, from the lake emptying into a river bisecting west Vigeland Park.

I relished this refreshingly sprawling copse of Vigeland Park, loitering in its elevated stillness juxtaposed with diaphanous shouts of children playing downhill. As I bent down to pocket an extant medallion no doubt from bygone nights of rowdy libations, I was reminded mementos are not monopolized by photography. Nay indeed.