While in Paris I am walking, bicycling, or taking the metro to get from one place to another. All have their distinct advantages in getting to see and know the city. In the metro, because it usually lacks a view, I note the people around me.

Many passengers are engaged in solitary activities increasingly dominated by their electronic devices, but books and newpapers remain prevalent and conversations continue to pass the time. The languages spoken are diverse as are the shades of skin. Attire varies. Some seem oblivious of the clime. Some simply catch my eye.

There was a young woman sitting opposite me with a book in hand. What caught my attention was a pink pressed flower lying on the page. I have forgotten the last time I took a flower and did the same. The delicate appearance belied its use as I observed when she got up to exit the train. Its lovely form was marking the place of her page.