Paris is a Rocky Mountain

Paris is a painting. For more than 2000 years, its population has been adding nuances to it; an endless exhibition open to the world, often depicted, but never adequately appreciated until you’re sitting on a bench by the Seine, sighing as the sun goes down and a Parisian’s dog, off its lead, scampers up to your feet, eager for a scratch, but soon demurs because its owner’s voice beckons. And as it scampers back to its lady, she shrugs her shoulders, admitting that a pup’s mischief is as inevitable as the light city’s penchant to charm you and shock you with its unpredictable presence.

The Rocky Mountains in Utah, as you approach in your rental car on the way to that once earnest film festival, has the same impact. You cannot fathom the magnitude or feel as small as you need to unless you’re staring up at these geological colossuses from their base.

Man’s finest recording technology cannot capture legendary wonders. You cannot appreciate the grandeur unless you are diminished by it.

 

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