in Paris

The City of Light is breathing this afternoon, like a slowed runner with a hot face. It's about 6:15pm, and a heavy breeze tempers the sun-heat that is still radiating from light stone buildings.

Up until about two hours ago, it was raining here. Gray and moppy. Heavy and sweaty. Teeming and lively.

Now, the clouds have backed off, but even on the side street near Montmartre where my hostel huddles, the scene continues to move. Across the floor-to-ceiling windows, with their minds on other things, walkers bounce, motorbikes whiz, cars zoom - then stop. Halt - start. Speed - screech. Veer off.

There are shutters and windows open above the street. A woman in a purple dress leans languidly over the black iron rodding of one of them, smoking a cigarette. She squints and scowls, and watches the traffic.

The hostel is playing a mix of dance-electronica. Earlier, while I scanned foreign price labels at a place called Darty to find a cheap power adaptor, the store played French rock-rap.

I've only been in Paris a few hours, and already I feel a pace among the livelies around here. It's not - so much - the individuals. Each person seems rythmic, intentional, even slow sometimes, like well-tuned instrumentation. But the group acts together, and the effect is a beat.