À AIMER: l’heure bleue

There is one benefit to la grisaille (see previous post): each day it ends with l’heure bleue.

“The blue hour” is the time between sunset and nightfall when the Parisien sky turns the most incredible shade of blue. Ah, but which blue? That depends. Sometimes it’s lapis, sometimes it’s violet, sometimes it’s turquoise with a trace of lavender, but always the hour finishes with the color’s inkiest, deepest grade.

To me, l’heure blue is more pronounced in winter, though I have no proof of this. Maybe it’s just that after hours of slate gray sky, the color and light show seems even more fantastic. As the sun sinks, the clouds part, allowing slivers of orange light to hit coveted fifth-floor apartments before turning the sky all sorts of swoon-worthy blues.

Unlike other cities, Paris’s streets come alive during l’heure bleue, not with people heading home, but going out — for a coffee, to meet someone for a drink, or just to stroll. It is by far the city’s finest hour, so fine that in 1912 it inspired a moody, murky perfume by Guerlain and in 1970, a catchy, upbeat song by the gorgeous singer Françoise Hardy.

In January, l’heure bleue occurs about five o’clock, but by June it will happen around ten. When visiting, don’t dally at a museum or try to catch up on your jet lag during this period. To miss l’heure blue is to miss Paris.