The Eiffel Tower is a wrought-iron lattice tower on the Champ de Mars, and standing beneath the four splayed feet dissolves the outline everyone knows. You look up into a cage of iron that seems to hold no solid surface at all, only air and lace. Lifts climb at an angle through the legs to three levels, the highest a narrow perch where the city flattens into grey roofs and green ribbons of park. It is hand-painted in a warm brown that shifts from base to tip.
It was built to be taken down. Gustave Eiffel raised it as the entrance arch for the 1889 World's Fair on a permit of only twenty years, and much of artistic Paris signed a furious letter against it. What saved it was usefulness: engineers bolted antennas to its crown for radio and telegraphy, and a structure that could transmit was worth keeping. Assembled from some eighteen thousand iron pieces, it was the tallest thing on Earth for four decades. After dark, for a few minutes on the hour, thousands of bulbs flicker across it.