A few days ago, I returned from Paris, in my eyes the ideal form of any city and not because of its perfection but Paris' unapologetic beauty which grabs hold of you and your soul and won't release you. However, one rarely struggles when under this Parisian spell, instead you surrender your heart, to beat in accord with her pulsating rhythm.
When one arrives within the centre of her heart, the trembling of the metro below is felt, one can smell the aroma of the Parisians' electric cigarettes and can sense the euphoria of those who have come to pass through her streets. Besides the grandeur of Paris' buildings and the streets on which they lay, I fell in love with the city's greatest artery - the Seine and the life based around its banks. The Parisian life is enhanced by the forever lingering melody coming from each street corner produced by musicians and artists alike who have flocked to the city, making Paris a timeless muse for the creators of beauty.
I once read that an ideal is an impractical form or even a vision of one's imagination, in that sense Paris faithfully confirms this thesis of idealism, as she is in no way practical, her structures, her streets are all in fact an impractical vision of her creators, all raised for the sake of beauty !