Paris holds the key to my heart

For me, there is nowhere quite like Paris.

For others, it is merely a city of dirt, smoking and spit.

But… these people are wrong.

I moved to Paris when I was 18. Maybe I was in love with the idea of Paris, the city of romance and lights, or maybe I was just young and impressionable. Either way, I fell head over heels.

It was January when I first arrived, and a particularly cold January at that. I spent days flitting from one famous place to another dressed in my red wool coat. Eiffel Tower, tick. Arc de Triomphe, tick. Musée du Louvre, tick. Notre Dame, tick.

Once I’d acquired all the necessary tourist ticks, I began to really marvel at the city itself. At the architecture, at the narrow cobbled streets, at the islands, at the history. I began to look at each arrondissement as its own little community. Then I started watching the people (sounds creepy, but I assure you it was more ‘poet’ than ‘stalker’). I would stroll into coffee shops, order my café au lait and croissant (basic, I know), and sit by the window to watch the world go by. That’s what Paris would smell like to me, and still smells like in my imagination. Strong coffee and buttery croissants.

Later, I would discover different, tourist-free haunts that became part of my new life. One day whilst walking by Hôtel de Ville, I’d turn left by Centre Pompidou and find myself on a street full of vintage shops with clothing racks on the street. I’d browse for ages before buying at least one oversized checked flannel shirt and a pair of Levis denim shorts. The next day, I’d stop over at Île Saint Louis for raspberry and rose ice cream from Berthillon even though it was winter, before getting the metro to Abbesses to walk amongst caricaturists and accordion players. I’d find myself walking down Boulevard Montmartre to go to the old-fashioned cinema Le Grand Rex, in Lizard Lounge cocktail bar in the Le Marais, or at Grands Boulevards in O’Sullivans where I found my job. All the while attempting to appear très chic, when I was more like très lost.

But after a while, that didn’t really matter. I took comfort in the grandiose architecture and quaint cobbled streets, because Paris felt like my second home, and always would.

Cringe. But true.