The Louvre, from a high school photograph.

I remember the birds. The way their wings sounded like fragile paper against the air. The way they used the air to elevate themselves high above my head.
A memory:

We stood in the square and examined the architecture, the way the angles of the buildings were so unique, so fresh, so frigid and unfamiliar. Our cameras snapped shots of the sight, preserving our moments of viewing this new and astounding place. Around us, people did the same, pointing, snapping photographs, preserving moments.

The Louvre is a maze of history, fingerprints, brush strokes - corridors of glimpses into artists' minds. Walking the halls is like winding through the centuries, a collage of evolving ideas, color schemes, faces.

And yet all I can really remember are the birds. Pigeons, to be exact. the way they would fly through the air outside in large flocks, as if to say We are here. We are now.
They made me want to lift myself into the air - their flapping so loud and ringing so clear above our heads, above the noise of our cameras, our minds, our busy, busy lives.