Paris in the rain has its secrets, too. You won't see them on the postcards or in glossy travel brochures. People picture Paris shining and glimmering in the sun, café chairs streaming onto the sidewalks, blue skies above. But honestly? The city comes alive when it rains.
I once strolled through Saint-Germain-des-Prés alone a few weeks ago, taking a cheap umbrella from this small, riverside shop. It was that soft rain — not the rain that soaks you, just softens everything. It hushes the city. You see things: cafés radiant with a warmth and brilliance of gold, candles shimmering behind windows streaked with rain, people milling in close over espresso, their voices low.
The Seine was silvery — almost like a kind of brushed metal.
"The sunlight flatters Paris, sure. But rain? Rain shows you her heart."
There's something tender about a city yielding to the rain. Everything slows down. Colors go deeper. Even strangers are a little friendly, ducking together under awnings, and shaking out their umbrellas and laughing.
I took myself to a bakery to get a croissant, still warm from the oven. That buttery smell mingling with that damp, earthy scent you can only experience after a fresh rain. I floated through the river, listening to the gentle drumming on my coat. Every street seemed an old film — somewhat wistful, slightly foggy, memorable.