Yesterday in Burgundy, it was, in a word, wet. If jack-o-lanterns had been out grinning the night before, there was no sign of them. Gray skies, puddles, the first skeletal branches, and lingering green pressed in on all sides. It was cold enough for the fleece-lined Sorel’s I’ve been dragging around the globe with me for years. Wanted to give you a look, and a moment of quiet accented by your own breathing and the slap of your rubber soles on the wet road.
Country textures please me. Delipadation. Log piles. Weathered wood. Boarded up doors, and window panes sealed with plastic. Here and there, order, dignity and elegance. Everything, in the end, has the beauty of a found object. Our existence seems less invasive here…here, things grow up around us. It’s up to us to fight back the weeds, but we always sort of fail. That is the beauty of this place.
[If you liked this Street Tour, you might enjoy seeing its opposite: The Street #1: Via Palermo, Milan.]