In the dappled shade of the manicured trees, the free-wheeling strains of Stephan Grappelli jazz tumbles over a small crowd. Relieved to be out of the white, July sunlight, they sit back in green metal chairs, their tapping feet raising small clouds of white dust.
I find pockets of tranquility as well: a quiet side street, and a sandwich bar with a few sidewalk tables; the sanctuary of La Madeleine, where the organist is practicing for this evening's recital of Mozart's Requiem; the 
green refuges around the Tour St. Jacques and in the courtyard of the Palais Royal; the startling exhibit of Evard Munch's journey from realist landscape painter to "The Scream" at the oddly named Pinacotheque; the quiet corner of a Quai where a young couple share earbuds and dance a languid tango to their own private music.
It is the quiet corners of Paris that I prefer, the green spaces, smaller museums and narrow back streets that give me at least the momentary impression that I am Parisian and that this infinitely beautiful city, this epitome of sophisticated urban design, is mine. That I belong here.
Place St. Jean is a formal, tranquil Parisian park proudly tucked between the eastern tip of the Ile de la Cite and the impressive gothic tracery of Notre Dame. After a day of wandering the beautiful streets of the Right Bank, I've paused in this peaceful little space to listen to a relaxed, young quartet of musicians entertain an eclectic audience of tourists and Parisians. Around me, slim young lovers in skinny black jeans, lean against a plane tree linking fingers and swaying in unison to the music; 
corpulent tourists in colourful shorts try to discretely select camera angles without bloking the views of others; a little boy, a blond putti in blue, tears around the dusty white court looking for sticks to use as swords; older women in conservative skirts and tailored jackets, their hair tinted and coiffed in a proper style, sit with their handbags on their laps and lean in to exchange observations.
corpulent tourists in colourful shorts try to discretely select camera angles without bloking the views of others; a little boy, a blond putti in blue, tears around the dusty white court looking for sticks to use as swords; older women in conservative skirts and tailored jackets, their hair tinted and coiffed in a proper style, sit with their handbags on their laps and lean in to exchange observations. It's a perfect end to a meandering day. My sole objective had been to watch Paris at play on a warm July Saturday. And there was so much to see. The courtyards of the Louvre and the Tuilleries saturated with camera-happy crowds from around the world; the quais of the Seine remodelled as "Paris Plages", teeming with strolling crowds, watching and being watched by others stretched out in imaginary-vacation mode on wooden beach chairs on truck dumped sand beneath boxed palm trees; shoppers laden with their afternoon spoils squeezing by each other along the broad sidewalks of the Rue St. Honore and Boulevard de la Madeleine.
I find pockets of tranquility as well: a quiet side street, and a sandwich bar with a few sidewalk tables; the sanctuary of La Madeleine, where the organist is practicing for this evening's recital of Mozart's Requiem; the 
green refuges around the Tour St. Jacques and in the courtyard of the Palais Royal; the startling exhibit of Evard Munch's journey from realist landscape painter to "The Scream" at the oddly named Pinacotheque; the quiet corner of a Quai where a young couple share earbuds and dance a languid tango to their own private music. 
It is the quiet corners of Paris that I prefer, the green spaces, smaller museums and narrow back streets that give me at least the momentary impression that I am Parisian and that this infinitely beautiful city, this epitome of sophisticated urban design, is mine. That I belong here. 
