Months prior, I found a black and white Audrey Hepburn chapeau that had wire and would fold. Perfect. My Parisian wardrobe will consist entirely of clothes that can roll and unfurl into stylish ensembles, all black and white, of course. I declare jubilantly to Stuart that my new black jersey pants will take me anywhere, from a day of sightseeing and trips on the Seine to the quintessential Parisian bistro. A noir frock (or two), several white T-shirts, black turtleneck, black leggings, a long black tunic, black Birkenstocks for the daytime, silver slides for the evening, and just a dash of silver jewellery. A cute cardigan, and my oh-so-nonchalant Pierre Balmain scarf — a treasured find for a mere euro in a village vide-grenier. I’m set.
The first thing a man usually thinks when he is heading for Paris is, ‘What will I eat?’ Stuart’s packing for Paris reflects his customary laid-back attitude to life. It is expressed in his nonchalant packing style: a couple of shirts, a few T-shirts, a pair of jeans and several pairs of shorts. I have to confess, however, that somehow his casual approach works. I am left wondering yet again about the profound difference in how I view life. How can he not have given the matter of what to wear in Paris endless deliberation? And yet, he effortlessly pulls off what I deem to be the desired look essential for a Parisian sojourn.
At the end of the day, though, I believe that I triumph in the Paris style stakes for, let’s not forget, my esteemed vintage Guy Larouche trench coat, the ever-so-not-contrived finissage touch. Paris, I’m on my way!
Then when we arrive, the weather mirrors the days of cold and rain we have just left behind on the other side of the world. So it is that my carefully contrived sartorial plans are thrown out the window. Or more precisely to the winds, for it is cool, damp and overcast. Our four days in Paris are spent wearing the clothes we travelled in and we are encumbered in our sightseeing with warm coats and scarves. This is not the first time this has happened to us in France. Our Parisian photos show me all in black, but not the noir I fancifully imagined. Oh no. Day after day there are shots of me on the Batobus, outside the Louvre, in the Luxembourg jardins — noir jeans, noir polo neck and noir leather jacket. Does it matter in the end that my carefully planned outfits lie untouched in my suitcase? Not at all. What matters is that we are in Paris and the dampness does not cloud our days at all. And actually, head-to-toe black is very French. One outfit would have sufficed after all.
Everyone falls in love with the City of Lights the first time they glimpse it. And then again and again, if they are lucky enough to return. Paris has a magic, a charm, that is all its own. It is a city beyond compare. How to capture its essence? That has been the quest of artists, designers and writers for centuries. The very boulevards resonate with a palpable air of chic elegance. The joy of Paris lies in the random discoveries; the strolling down petite cobblestone streets that provide a heartbeat glimpse into other lives: the back view of an immaculate French woman disappearing round a corner, her trotting, coiffed poodle the perfect accessory; the quintessential young French lovers entwined on the banks of the Seine; the beribboned boxes of chocolat and the tantalising mounds of pastel-hued macarons. It is the soaring buildings, decorated with gargoyles that have been witness to revolutions and war, the golden light that glows upon them as the day closes. These and more are the moments you reflect on after a Parisian sojourn.
We fall upon our first espresso and almond croissant with sighs of rapture on our first morning, and breathe in the heady aroma of newly baked baguettes. To be in Paris once in a lifetime is wonderful; to return is to be blessed with a sense of beloved reunion. We discover one of the famous Passages — Passage des Panaramas — where we sit elbow to elbow with our fellow diners, at the most petite of tables imaginable in the heart of all that is Paris. We savour our melt-in-the-mouth bœuf bourguignon and crème brûlée, and all the while the fashionable and elegant saunter past us. The artful insouciance of Parisians reflects their bien élevé, an unmatched air of well-bred, graceful stylishness.
The historic shopping arcades are either quirky and run-down, or magnificently restored and brimming with chic boutiques. They are maze-like and full of secret entrances; you could lose yourself in them for days, gazing at the glorious chocalatiers, boulangeries and simply stepping back in time in the labyrinth of passages that date from the eighteenth century. For us, Paris is all about meandering, wandering, exploring. It is a feast in every conceivable way, not just culinary. It is the unexpected turn in a corner that makes you gasp when you peep inside a courtyard in the heart of Paris — the pots of scarlet geraniums, the bike with its wicker pannier propped against a golden stone wall, the cat basking in the flickers of sunlight. It is the old and the new, the modern and the ancient, the juxtaposition and how it all blends seamlessly together to create a city like no other.
An Apartment in Paris
While an apartment in Paris is precisely that, and so like no other in the world, it was nevertheless not quite the one of our dreams. It was, in fact, the site of a grande rénovation. Now, why shouldn’t that have surprised me? After all, is our life not one huge construction site? We renovate at home; we renovate in France. In fact, even when I spent a year living in Istanbul, the year Stuart and I met and married on the banks of the Bosphorous, my flat was on a building site. When I got a job teaching English for a year in a private school, before my departure, I imagined the windows of my Turkish flat would overlook a bustling, lively market that I would slip out to for warm pide bread for my breakfast and Turkish delight in the evening. There would be minarets on the horizon, the call of the muezzin, winding streets full of culture and history. Non. It was a building site in the suburbs far from any cafés or exquisite cuisine. And so it would seem to be the case, several decades later, in Paris.
The surreal adventure starts on arrival. First, I gasp in horror when the concierge ushers us into a petite lift the size of a small suitcase. I step back in alarm and simply refuse to get in. Naturally, Stuart bravely ascends, carrying his luggage, despite the shock of the miniscule lift. Part of my mind is registering how very French movie-like it all is. Have we not all seen the films? The heavy wooden door leading in from the boulevard, the courtyard, the concierge whose door bell you ring,
French Cuisine
Apart from Paris, it is food people’s minds turn to when they head for France. French cuisine is esteemed more highly than any other in the world. It is no wonder that France is the premier tourist destination for travellers the world over. Metaphorically, belts are already loosened when people board the plane, ready for the gastronomic delights that lie in wait. They are not the only things in wait, so to speak … the scales are sure to tip on any traveller’s return home. Temptation lures the tourist round every corner. It is simply impossible to resist.
Just before we leave, I read that delicate, light-as-clouds choux pastry puffs have overtaken macarons in the pâtisserie stakes. That is a fact I am determined to store in my memory bank of not-to-be missed delectable treats. Choux pastry is filled with every flavour imaginable, from the classic lemon, caramel and chocolate, to exotic combinations such as cherry, pistachio and strawberry. They have become so popular in the competitive pâtisserie tug-of-war that some even have a choux du jour, with the filling changing each day.
Once again in the months prior to our departure, the weekend papers are full of features about France. As Paris is the most popular destination when thoughts turn to travel, it is no wonder that France is so frequently highlighted. As always, I greedily devour every article, not the least the ones about the famed cuisine. I am again reminded that at home in Australia, food is not by any means the focus of my life. Step foot in France, though, and everything changes.