Who are these people? I don’t know. That’s the beauty of people watching. I don’t have to be bothered with the facts of their stories and am perfectly obliged to nibble only on the visible nuggets I glean from my peering.
During my first weekend in Paris, I came across a fanciful group of young people just up the way from the Eiffel Tower. Already high off pistaccio flavored macaroons with eyes blurry from tears that welled at first glimpse of the tower, I had to stop to take pause for an eclectic mass of brightly dressed millennials congregating under the trees. There was intention in the group’s forming yet no visible organizer—just the general awareness that this was the place to be and now was the time.