The light is different in Paris. Even at 10am it appears the city is still waking. The air fills with a milky, warm yellow glow and the buildings begin to perch at a rhythmic pace, standing side by side through the shortened days. Dusk turns the arrondissements into deep, gray-blue canals. Damp and cozy as the locals dip in and out of bistros and boutiques.
It’s not like this in New York. The buildings are always alive, piercing the air above with their concrete and metal frames. During the cold winter months, New York beams a piercingly bright, cyan sky. Deceptive and unbalanced, energized and crisp.