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Iʼm still flying at four thousand feet when I see it, that scarcely perceptible glow, as though the moon had rushed ahead of schedule. Paris is rising over the edge of the earth. Itʼs almost thirty-three hours from my take-off on Long Island. As minutes pass, myriad pin points of light emerge, a patch of starlit earth under a starlit sky — the lamps of Paris — straight lines of lights, curving lines of lights, squares of lights, black spaces in between. Gradually avenues, parks, and buildings take outline form; and there, far below, a little offset from the center, is a column of lights pointing upward, changing angles as I fly — the Eiffel Tower. I circle once above it, and turn northeastward toward Le Bourget.
Charles A. Lindbergh “The Spirit of St. Louis” (1953) |
