In Paris they call it grey, but it never is. It’s ore. It’s aluminum and iron. It’s silver and gold. It’s lace. It’s a mille-feuille and a mousse. It’s a meringue, a nun, an old man with emphysema. It’s a pigeon.
November skies in Paris are like that. Hard and supple, fluffy, austere. They wear their sadness with poise.
What I mean by ore is that it’s ancient, layered. It’s from way before homo sapiens sapiens. And also, it’s solid. You can build things with it. You can bend it and make bridges, cultures, streets where alchemists and construction workers sit together at a terrasse to argue about the meaning of life.
What I mean by lace is that there are holes, and love, and hard work put into it. It’s delicate but everlasting. Also, the sky in Paris is a woman, sexy, irreverent. She’s seen it all but she’d rather die than fall for cynicism. She seduces instead.
What I mean by they wear their sadness with poise is that in Paris, grey skies don’t ever have to apologize. They’re trend-setters. They have nothing against sunshine but let’s face it, Jean-Paul Sartre wouldn’t have written Being and Nothingness in Santa Monica.