Paris...

Paris. August, 12th 2005. "Le Montmartre Hotel" room thirty-six, third floor of this astonishing pale-white Romanesque building. The sun had just risen and so had I. The French life got me first in the morning; some strong nice odour woke me up. It was the fragrance of fresh baguettes from the bakery opposite the road. The room was so lifeless but this scent filled my space from corner to corner. The light blue colour of the walls was making a continuous pattern with the sky. Everything was just so harmonious!

A knock on the door and my day was made: "Le petit dejeneur est servi". It was a young voice, a bit weary, maybe not happy to be working in the early hours of the first light. She had a slightly South American accent and a funny walk; while she was walking away, every step was making a barely credible crunchy noise on the floor. I opened the door and lying on the ground, an amazing silver plate was standing there waited to be taken into bed, filled of the most delicious French delicatessen. There was smoke piping out from every single piece of my breakfast. That smoke was creating in front of my eyes some scenes "de la Vie Parisienne". Hot croissants were calling my name to be eaten, the coffee was spreading an incredible aroma into my room, and those baguettes that woke me up earlier in the morning were standing there ready to receive a bite. Before breakfast was consumed it was already time to face the sunny day in Paris.

The hotel was nestled at the foot of Monmartre. It was still the early hours of the morning when I left my room and I could already hear the wooden noises of the easels scratching down the pavement of the square. And then, here they are, standing there in circle, as an open-air gallery, the legendary artists of Montmartre ready to sell their soul for a portion of their art. So many beautiful pieces, so many different arts, so many colours were mixing between those canvases. It was implausible to see how quick those hands were drawing perfect lines and perfect circles, mixing colours and giving something like an unusual shape for me insignificant, a meaning. Every person would stare at those artworks as absorbed in a new dimension where everything around is just meaningless, and all you care about is the art of making, shaping and creating. The music is all around them. As soon as I step out of the square, it opens in front of me another stage of what the world is. An old man is standing there, in the middle of the crowd, playing what it seems like an old traditional French instrument. This is unknown to my knowledge, built up with wooden books; the man keeps turning this wheel giving away a strange but enchanting music, grabbing everyone's attention.

All I was looking for was inspiration. And there she was, in front of me, all by herself, dominating the hill with her glory, she was attracting so many people towards her magnificence. White, every single detail was just so perfect; her shape was giving people a rumour to talk about. Prevailing every other structure was "La Basilique du Sacre-Coeur de Monmartre", one of the most edifying work in the architecture history.

The sound of her simple words, engraved in the stone, fill your heart with kindness, feeling as she is welcoming you in her spiritual world…

Soyez bienvenus!

Pèlerins, visiteurs, simples passants:

Ici, Dieu vous accueille pour donner un sens � votre vie

Ici, Dieu vous attend, pour vous offrir tout son Amour !

Welcome!

Pilgrims, visitors, simple passers-by:

Here God welcomes you to give a sense to your life

Here God waits for you to offer you all his Love!

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Sitting there, on those pearl marble steps, a woman grasped my interest. The oldest hands I have ever seen were moving so fast, knitting a jumper for the little princess who was sitting next to her. In a second, such different generations were combined. The little angel rested her golden head on the old lady's shoulder. It was like watching an episode of Shirley Temple, filling me with cheerfulness and joy. Her eyes were conveying revelation, as mine were, in seeing how much handwork was needed to be done. I could read in her eyes a smile; and could see the bliss already printed on her face when the jumper would be finished and worn.

Once again, the scent of fresh baguettes woke me up from that reverie. Around the corner from where I was, murmurings of people were leading me there; my curiosity was too strong to not reach them. As soon as my body turned east, my eyes could not believe another scene. Fingers pointing in the air, cameras flashing as a celebrity was standing there, a massive number of people was looking at the symbol.

Three-hundred and twenty-four metres of aged iron standing so far away but, in my mind's eyes, so touchable. Colossal, inspiring, splendid, one of the few monuments recognizable throughout the entire world. Outstanding, it seems like a king looking out on its servants from his height. Seeing the Eiffel Towere predominating the Champs de Mars acts as a muse for my thoughts.

Yeah, all I was looking for was inspiration. And there I found it

The colours, the savour, the feelings and emotions that my life experienced at that moment in time, are something that someone could rarely forget.