Bordeaux

Bordeaux, to speak of a place dripping with culture. From the windowsills and shutters to each stone lain in the picturesque cobble stone streets, it seems every inch was placed on purpose. Not a single brick cemented in a rush, or just to finish a job. Each detail, of each building, of each block, was scrutinized by someone long ago.

Being here makes you feel like you are in a different century, one where skill and beauty were of the essence, unlike the speed and efficiency valued today. A time when each door was carved particularly for the owners of the estate. Knobs and knockers were symbolic and lampposts were made by ironworking artists.

There is always a faint strum of a string instrument in the distance, as though you are the star of a glamorous black and white French film: the score underneath you as you stroll down the street, linking arms with your lover. Open mouth laughing through ruby red lips, as you stop only to say hello to the bookstore owner on your way to buy fresh croissants.

Looking around I see blue, of course there are many colors, but it all glows pastel shades of blue. I see an endless, cloudless, sky vibrating off of the pale limestone buildings; juxtaposed by the intricate detailing of the baroque trim. It is a combination of natural and manmade that simply waves a nonchalant hand as I swoon under its spell. It has the aristocratic air of a city that is fully aware of its beauty, and has nothing left to prove.

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