The tower stood in the mist as though it had always belonged to the gray sky. The street was quiet. The cafés had opened, but the day had not yet made up its mind.

A few people walked with purpose. A car passed. Someone carried flowers. Paris was never still, only slower in winter.

You could chase the city to its famous places, or you could wait in a side street like Place de Mexico, where the Eiffel Tower appeared between the old apartment houses without asking for attention. It was enough to stand there a while and let the morning come to you.

That was Paris too. Not the one in postcards, but the one you remembered long after you had gone home.