After a decade, I’m still not sure whether I’m a Parisian girl at heart who keeps leaving, or a foreigner who simply keeps returning, but Paris had me from the start. I love the whole city, from the multi-cultural 18th arrondissement to the chic 16th, from the hip Bobos of the Bastille to the grand old dames cruising the 7th with their pampered lapdogs… but my favourite area has to be the Marais, not least because I find myself living here again, for the third time in ten years.

Situated on the Right Bank of the Seine, this area spans the 3rd and 4th arrondissments and to me is the best area for walking and witnessing Paris’s true cultural melting pot; from the Jewish area surrounding the pedestrianised Rue de Rosiers, to the many cool gay bars to Chinese area in the 3rd arrondissement. Not least it’s one of the few areas in Paris that was not ‘Haussmann-ised’ – and still retains the fascinating flavour of Medieval and Renaissance-era Paris.

Photo: cc. Flickr/draket  – rue de Rosiers at night

The Marais means The Marsh; and the now glamorous area was reclaimed from marsh land in the 12th Century and eventually became much a much favoured piece of Paris of French Royalty; from Henri IV to Louis XIII…. after the devastation of the French Revolution, 1789, this Bourgeois area was deserted by the social leaders of the day…. that is until the Sixties, another era, ironically, of revolution, and one that saw the area enjoy a revival in popularity that has barely abated since.

Highlights of the area:

Rue des Francs-Bourgeois: Housing some of the coolest shops and boutiques in Paris as well as numerous Renaissance-era buildings the street has a less than auspicious background, having been named after the poverty stricken people who were housed here. Today this is the place in Paris to do your weekend strolling, shop til you drop (this is one of the few streets with shops open on a Sunday) and stop at one of the numerous bars or cafes for a thirst-quenching verre du vin or cafe au lait. Some of my favourite shops here are Diptyque (I’m a candle addict), Paul & Joe and Barbara Bui… thank God for Mr Mastercard (I never leave bed in Paris without him).

Photo: cc. Flickr/edsel_ – Crêperie Suzette, 24 rue des Francs Bourgeois

Place des Vosges: To me this is the most beautiful square in Paris, if not the world; it was built for King Henri IV in 1605 (completed in 1611) and was then called Place Royal….. much later, given the twists and turns and political drama of French history, the square was re-named Place des Vosges in 1800 by Napoleon in honour of the Vosges department; the first to pay taxes in France. The name was then changed back to Place Royal in 1815 then back again to Place des Vosges in 1870 for good! The square and its surrounding buildings today remain as captivatingly breathtaking as they were  centuries ago.. the area has been the stomping ground of such historical greats as King Henri II, Catherine of Medici, Cardinal Richelieu (he had a statue for King Louis XIII erected in the centre of the square – it was destroyed during the French Revolution and replaced in 1825) who lived at number 21, and the legendary writer Victor Hugo who lived at number 6 on the 2nd floor where you can now visit to see where he turned out such classics as The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Les Miserables. There are romantic restaurants and galleries aplenty surrounding the square; but expect to dig deep into your purse to enjoy the luxury of this fabulous location. Not cheap but worth it.

Photo: cc. Flickr/fredpanassac – 6 Place des Vosges

Holiday Goddess Reader Comments:

“The Marais is my favourite part of Paris too. I love the Fragonard store which sells their hand-embroidered travel bags – all written in French – and their tiny pots of perfume balm, with pictures of the Eiffel tower on the front. And I really love the fact there are two Metro train stations close by. I would never stay anywhere else.’
Edie Pascale, Melbourne, Australia

Jane de Teliga dives into a chic store where the proceeds go to children in Madagascar.

Full of thronging crowds, the hottest shop in Paris is merci. Visiting on a weekend, I fight my way past le tout Paris into the courtyard with its cute little cinquecento car bursting with merchandise. In a rambling old factory on the boulevard Beaumarchais in the very hip third arrondissement, you’ll find an amazing multilevel space bursting with designer goodies and designer labels, anything from light bulbs to vintage clothing, from lampshades to perfumes. Plus it’s got a great café in the basement and a flower shop (by famous French florist Christian Tortu) in the foyer.

But merci is no ordinary store. It is in fact the 21st century super chic version of a charity shop. Founded by Marie-France and Bernard Cohen last year after they sold their legendary children’s wear label Bonpoint, merci is their way of giving. After the costs are met, 100 percent of the profits go to impoverished children in Madagascar, one of the world’s poorest nations.

My visit to merci, one year after it opened in 2009, coincided with the very popular launch of a special range of Liberty print merchandise, a design collaboration between the London store and merci, which had droves of chic Parisians queuing (not their natural inclination) to purchase. That’s a lot of mercis channelled to a very good cause.

As this seems to be all about children, why not check out children’s store Bonton just down the road. It’s a newly opened store and very much following the merci mode, with many levels piled high with adorable kids clothing, quirky toys, a photo booth and kiddie hair salon. Even if you have zero interest in kids, this is worth a look just for the retail concept and for great gifts at all prices.

While on the kiddie trail a friend, with toddler in tow, took me on down the boulevard towards Bastille, to a charming toy store Filament, which is full of knick-knacks that kids and kidults alike would adore too. Hard to pin down this quirky store, without a working website not even an address card, as the owner admitted with a sheepish shrug, Filament is one of those places you just have to hear about. A train chuffs around the cluttered window, through piles of toys and you’ll see stacked up a wall their own line of super cute leather baby shoes. What could be smarter than baby’s first shoes bought in Paris.

As you’re in Marais and in walking distance, why walk to the Place des Vosges, the most beautiful historic square in Paris. Once upon at time, when my sister’s children were little, she was castigated by the guardian for allowing her baby to put his little feet on the grass. Nowadays they have loosened up a little and in the summer allowed one grassy portion where you can actually sit on the grass and allow your children to run around. In winter, though this patch of grass is roped off with a sign, which always makes me smile, about the lawn being in ‘repose’. At least in summer one can say merci for small mercies.

merci
111 boulevard Beaumarchais
75003 Paris
tel: +33 (0)1 42 77 00 33
www.merci-merci.com

Bonton
5 boulevard des Filles du Calvaire
75003 Paris
tel : +33(0)1 42 72 34 69
www.bonton.fr

Filament
10 rue de Lesdiguieres
75004
tel: +33 (0)1 42 09 81 83

http://www.flickr.com/photos/heyrocker/3748126806/ CC

Go green, go chiconomy class, save a fortune and enjoy the ferry from England to France. By Holiday Goddess Editors.

Our first tip is to go on a weekday, not a weekend or public holiday. Our second tip is to squeeze into the calmest, warmest off-peak days you can find.
But if you can manage all this, then walking onto a ferry from England and walking off in France is a wonderful experience.

It’s also ridiculously chiconomical. Fares begin at £19 and if you pick up a newspaper offer or special promotion, you can sail for the price of lunch.

Connect to your ferry stop by train from London, if that’s your hub. But if you’re on the UK coast anyway, remember you’re halfway to Europe anyway.

The best deals are for you and your friends en masse. Pack out the car, split the cost. And remember, the luggage allowances are incredibly generous compared to those parsimonious deals with budget airlines.

Fares are available to Ireland, Belgium, Spain and Holland too. And we really like the free guides to download at http://www.directferries.co.uk

There may be parties of schoolchildren on your boat. It may feel a little odd to realise you’re travelling sans flight attendants. But seriously, if you haven’t tried the ferries from England to Ireland and Europe, you’re in for an unforgettable experience.

The mini cruises to Europe (well under £100) are also worth a look.

When you have only one morning to go shopping in Paris, best not to find yourself at a 2am lock-in at your favourite Parisian friend’s local – in this case, Mon Chein Stupide (1, rue Boyer 75020, 01 46 36 25 49) – the night before. And best not precede that with a visit to his beloved neighbourhood restaurant, the comfortingly unpretentious, seriously produce-driven, and Michelin-starred Bistrot des Soupirs (49, rue de la Chine 75020, 01 44 62 93 31). There will be conversations about birth, death, love, war and Gil Scott Heron; your glass will never be empty, life will be impossibly sweet. Then you’ll wake up.

My Mamashelter bed was large and very forgiving, and with the sound of teeming rain and a great stonking hangover urging me to stay put, I wrote the morning, and my shopping lift, off. After ‘lunch’ at the Rose Bakery (46, rue des Martyrs 75009, 01 42 82 12 80) – nothing like a crumble and a jug of custard to help a sore head – I had my legs sugared at Cinq Monde – much more relaxing than a wax, as a calf massage is part of the process.

Then to the wonderful Institut Du Monde Arabe, in a valiant attempt to plough through at least a few hours of research before I headed across Ille St Louis to the right bank, the metro and pre-dinner nap back in the 20eme. But on the way ‘home’, as fate would have it, I missed the turnoff to the Pont Marie metro station and before I knew it, found myself outside cult sandal shop, K.Jacques (16, rue Pavée, 01 40 27 03 57). Then there was no turning back, the Marais sucked me in: Bensimon (12, rue des Francs Bourgeois, 01 42 77 16 18), Comptoir de Cotonniers (33, rue des Francs Bourgeois,01 42 76 95 33), Vanessa Bruno (100, rue Vielle du Temple, 01 42 77 19 41), Claudie Pierlot (Blancs Manteaux 9, rue des Blancs Manteaux, 01 44 78 03 33) and L’Arstisan Perfumer (‎32, rue du Bourg Tibourg, 01 48 04 55 66‎), all within a Chablis-addled amble. The 10eme’s APC and the Anne Valerie Hash aside, here was my shopping list writ large.

The fates seemed to want me to shop and I was in browsing heaven, but I was in no state for change rooms. Despite a final detour, a long, lustful wander and a cup of tea at the beautiful and oh-so right-on Merci (111 blvd Beaumarchais 75003, 01 42 77 00 33), by the time I found another metro station, I carried but two modestly sized shopping bags. One from Petit Bateau, with the obligatory dozen knickers for my daughters, the other from American Vintage (10 rue des Francs-Bourgeois 01 42 77 98 73 ), a label I first spied in Marseille in 2006, and whose endless riffs on the t-shirt theme have now fortunately found their way into the wider world.

The American Vintage bag contained the twin scarves – long, meltingly soft twists of cotton – pictured above. Why two? In grey and, well, grey? There are, as the cliché goes, many shades of grey; in the parlance of conte crayons, I chose one that was cool, another that was warm. (Or perhaps, recalling the urban bestiary of Paris, there’s a pigeon and  a mouse.) They’ve both since kept my chill-prone neck warm during many a flight and through the ever-shifting equinox weather of Melbourne, New York and Oslo. One or the other will go with everything I own, and I’m never quite as anxious about potential loss as I’ve got back up. And while there’s a host of similar pieces to be had, these carry both the insouciance and a particular attention to detail of their Provençal makers.

Teamed with a cream APC tunic, the warm one  kept my décolleté modest on my early morning flight south to Tunis, while the cool one got its first outing later that very evening. On the way to find a medicinal onion soup, my friend and I made an unscheduled stop on a windswept corner. A (largely female) crowd had gathered to watch a couple of strapping young pompiers liberate a wayward terrace umbrella that had been blown into the top branches of a very tall tree. Neck wrapped tight in my new scarf (and looped into messy pussycat bow, because it was, well, Paris), I was able to stave off the unseasonable cold while this slight but charming episode came to its happy conclusion. And what a cinematic one it was, the day’s inky clouds suddenly receding as the umbrella was retrieved, the firemen’s muscles flexing beneath sodden t-shirts, gold helmets glinting in the last rays of the setting sun.

Andreina Cordani borrows a bike, and a speedboat – and goes oyster hunting.

© Andreina Cordani

The great thing about the little fishing town of Marseillan is that it makes you feel like you’re the only person to have discovered it. I defy you to sit in one of the harbour restaurants, watching the yachts cruise in and out while you dine on super-fresh oysters produced five minutes up the road, without feeling just a little bit special.

It’s not teeming with hotels either, but the newly-refurbished apartments of Port Rive Gauche make the perfect long weekend hideaway. They’re achingly stylish – all white washed wood floors, simple designer furnishings and endless, calming sea views from the balconies. There’s also plenty of handy amenities including a dishwasher in each apartment, and a luxurious bath or shower room containing lovely organic beauty goodies, which are also available at the mini spa at the top of the building. Heather Riddoch, the manager, is friendly, enthusiastic and bursting with ideas on how to spend your time. There are bikes to borrow, and she’s happy to help organise any local trip. She arranged for me to go out in a speedboat to explore the local oyster beds and swim in the bay.

© Andreina Cordani

Although to be honest, I spent most of my time on the balcony with a book lying open in my lap, staring at that horizon…

For more info: Suites at Port Rive Gauche start at from €130 in low season bedroom apartment www.garrigaeresorts.com

Getting there: Marseillan is 55 minutes drive from Perpignan, or an hour from Carcassone

Emma Killick translates second-hand shopping in France.

© Knud Nielsen / 123rf.com

Everyone knows about “antiques”, but in France there are actually many different sources for second-hand goods. They’re designated differently and below is a general guide for looking for furniture, homeware, clothing, jewellery, toys, knick knacks, and those items you’ve never thought you needed but it turns out you do.

ANTIQUES: These are the most expensive. They are most often permanent shops, but will sometimes drag their wares out to a local village square to entice the tourists. Sure, you’ll find some treasures in there, but mostly you’ll overpay.

BROCANTE: These can be permanent shops or a special market. In the summer, some shopkeepers will dust off their stock and take it to local towns. These brocante markets are usually held on a Saturday and Sunday (you’ll see them advertised in the surrounding area with posters usually stuck to phone poles, street lamps, and so on). Their permanent shops are often advertised in a similar fashion, only perhaps the signage has been upgraded from a fluoro piece of paper to a plank of wood.

For a more reliable way to find the brocante markets, see www.brocantesfrance.com with a link to www.brocabrac.fr where you can type in the department you are in (a two digit number) and it provides a list of upcoming brocantes and vide greniers. If you click on the name of the town, the site will then give you a map.

DEPOT-VENTE: a warehouse sale, invariably very dusty, but if you like hunting around in the dark, this is for you. At my closest depot vente they have everything from ten-foot high armoires, to hundreds of old doors, vats of beautiful tiles, the French equivalent of Belfast sinks, marble topped cabinets with loos hiding in the bottom cupboard, and an old Citroen or two that look as if they haven’t moved since the war.

TROC: Literally meaning “to barter”, these are shops that take things on consignment. The range here is the most extreme and you have to be patient because sometimes all you’ll see is complete junk but other times wonderful gems hidden between the used Ikea desks.

VIDE GRENIER: This means “empty attic” and is the equivalent of a car boot sale or garage sale. They are usually on a Sunday morning, more frequent in the summer. These are the most varied, and you need to get there early to spot the good stuff – I recommend arriving by 9 a.m. If you don’t get there until mid-morning, all you’ll find is rusty fans, tatty baby clothes, and a plethora of My Little Pony toys. Lots of brocante owners get their stock from these vides. Prices vary widely because sometimes you’ll encounter professionals with a stall. Always negotiate.

See www.brocabrac.fr for a listing of upcoming “vides.” www.vide-greniers.org is also decent, but the brocabrac site is easier to use.

MARCHE AUX PUCES: Literally meaning “flea market”, it is frankly hard to discern the difference between these and vides, but they are worth checking out. Use the same brocabrac site to find the ones nearest you.

Emma Killick guides a foodie’s tour of Toulouse.

Toulouse at Sunset © Guillaume Dubé

Many heading to the south of France bypass the cities, but if you’re arriving by plane or train or picking up a hire car, I definitely recommend at least a quick stop in Toulouse. This historic city is young and vibrant, in large part due to the University of Toulouse, one of the oldest universities in Europe. The centre is 15 easy minutes from the airport or five minutes by metro from the train station. Whenever we are picking up friends from the airport, we always squeeze in a trip to the market or a meal before heading out into the countryside.

Here’s what you can do if you’ve got a day set aside, or even just a couple of hours:

MORNING: The daily market at Place Victor Hugo is mind blowing – all the meat, fish, cheese and pastries you could ever want. All of it is sumptuously displayed (so much so that I was almost tempted to buy a fillet of horse meat …). All the fruit and vegetables are just outside the covered market and more is to be found on the nearby Boulevard de Strasbourg

Place Victor Hugo, Ground Floor
Tuesday to Sunday, 6am-1pm

LUNCH TIME: Head upstairs from the market (the entrance is on the outside, under the covered walkway) to the mezzanine where there’s a narrow row of half a dozen restaurants. They’re all very friendly and very good, and they expect you to walk down the row and peruse the menus. All of them are supplied by the market below and guarantee fresh, tasty fare. We love the Le Louchebem (French Pig-Latin for “butcher”).

Get there by 12:15 at the latest as there are no bookings taken and the place gets packed.

Place Victor Hugo, First Floor
Daily 11.45am-3pm. Closed on Mondays.

EVENING: Enjoy an aperitif on the Place du Capitole. The square is vast, with the enormous town hall and opera house on one side and beautiful rose-bricked buildings on the other. Great for people watching and admiring the effect the changing light has on all the beautiful buildings. Many cafes spill out from the covered archways opposite the Capitole. The service can be a little Parisian (i.e. aloof), but worth suffering through for the atmosphere.

Next, head to Place Saint-Georges for dinner. A ten-minute stroll from Place du Capitole, Place Saint-Georges is a small, leafy square accessed by several narrow, medieval streets. In summer all the restaurants in the square have tables set up outside. It makes for a great atmosphere, and gives you a good view of all the gorgeous buildings surrounding the square. Unlike small French towns, late dining is readily available. There are a variety of restaurants and cafes here – everything from crepes and pizza to extensive gourmet menus. I recommend the following:

Traditional with great service and an extensive wine list:

Restaurant Emile. 13 Place St. Georges
05 61 21 05 56
www.restaurant-emile.com

They are known for their cassoulet and fish stew. We had a fabulous starter of herring tartar that was tasty and beautifully presented. On the expensive side, but a worthwhile treat. Making a reservation is recommended.
Young vibe and reliable food and service:

Van Gogh Cafe 21 Place St. Georges
05 61 21 03 15

Their summertime terrace comes complete with sand underfoot, which is nice and cool and feels a little as if you are on a volleyball court (high heels not recommended). The atmosphere is warm and friendly, which is partly due to the beautiful building and furnishings and partly due to with the staff. We gobbled all our food and the servings are uncharacteristically large (you could share one cassoulet between two).

The joys of Monoprix – and Puss In Boots in the Poulet Vert playground.

Paris is magical, obviously. For lovers, for gourmets, shoe shoppers, people watchers and art freaks – but what is less well known is that Paris is also magical for children.

Even the most accessible children’s activities there have that unique Gallic style. No plastic, no batteries required, definitely no logo. It all looks as if it has been set up by a lifestyle magazine.

But to make the most of the magic of being with a child in Paris, you will want your kid to look like the impossibly chic and adorable local ones.

Here’s how to achieve both within easy walking distance.

How to Play Like a Real Parisian Kid

On a Wednesday afternoon in the Jardin du Luexmbourg, an elegant oasis just beyond St Sulpice in Saint Germain, my then two-year old daughter had her first ride in a pony and trap, along a sandy avenue between pollarded plane trees. This was quickly followed by a ride along the same route on a donkey called Gelt. Dear, gentle Gelt.

It was early October and shafts of sunshine cut through the orange leaves, the sound of hooves dulled by the still air. The general scene greatly enhanced by the marvellous Frenchness of the other little children; all cute haircuts, pouty lips and clothes in muted colours… But we’ll get to that later; first, the rest of the park.

After saying goodbye to Gelt, we headed for the tiny and ancient carousel, where the children sit straight-backed on exquisite little horses, holding javelins with which they spear brass rings held up by the fearless operator.

Then there was just time to let off some steam in the Poulet Vert (Green Chicken) playground, fabulously equipped with slides, swings and bouncy animals on springs, before catching the next show at the nearby puppet theatre. Puss in Boots retains its charm, we discovered, even if you don’t catch every word of the dialogue.

From there we headed for the round pond right behind the splendid white stone Palais du Luxembourg, which houses the French senate, where you can hire little wooden yachts to sail. Or, if you are a rather weary parent, you can flop on a handy metal chair and turn your face to the sun.

How to Look Like a Real Parisian Kid

Now for the shopping part. With that infallible Gallic logic, at the south west end of the Jardin du Luxembourg, an uncommonly pleasant statue-enhanced walk from the pond, is rue Vavin – a whole street of childrenswear shops.

It kicks off with a branch of Jacadi on the corner of rue d’Assas. This upscale kiddie chain is not as chic a proposition as Bonpoint or Tartin et Chocolat, but the price tags don’t make you spontaneously vomit, and you couldn’t find a better source of classic children’s clothes.

After buying a perfect pink and white gingham party dress with a detachable stiff petticoat, or a little coat like the one Prince Charles used to wear, you may want to take a small detour down to 83 rue d’Assas , where you will find a branch of agnès b. enfant, to express your child’s more edgy urban side (although your gorge may also rise here at the prices).

Then back to rue Vavin and the best thing is just to look in every shop – there are too many to list here, all of them great in their own way for clothes and shoes – and of course the only underwear you can possibly put your child in, at Petit Bateau.

Also look out for the tights and socks by the brilliant French make Doré Doré, which come in wonderful colours with fully-fashioned heels and toes. You can get ribbed socks which are wool on the outside and cotton on the inside and don’t tourniquet the tiny leg, imagine that. (Jacadi have them, but if you miss them here you will also find them in department stores.)

But the real secret to getting your offspring that enfant Français look is a haircut – and the perfect place for this is Au Pays d’Oscar, right on rue Vavin, where they sit in little red castles to have their hair snipped into an adorable Madeline bob, or Tin Tin crop. For more information, the website is at http://www.aupaysdoscar.com.

Practicalities

Odèon is the easiest Metro for the Jardin du Luxembourg. If you want to shop then hit the park, go to Vavin and work back. They are on the same line.

The pony rides, carousel and puppet theatre are open on Wednesday afternoons and weekends, but remember: SHOPS ARE NOT OPEN IN PARIS ON SUNDAYS!!!!!

Monoprix

Finally, here is my real secret for achieving that chic French kid look, on the cheap: Monoprix. It’s a supermarket, but the childrenswear ranges are to die for.

On my last visit I picked up bundles of ribbed polo necks made of organic cotton, in the most heavenly muted shades of mauve and brown – which exactly matched ribbed Doré Doré tights I had already bought. These all worked back with velvet knickerbockers and corduroy butcher boy caps.

The clothes are great from babywear up and very reasonable, although it does depend what they have in on the day, as turnover is very quick on the good stuff.

For this reason, I usually hit Monoprix several times whenever I am in Paris and my favourite branch is on the corner of rue de Rennes and Boulevard Saint Germain.

Expect to queue – we always have. It’s worth the wait…the tea menu is a work of art and you can choose from traditional blends like Darjeeling, to the finest Chinese tea. The French love little cakes and pastries and Mariage Freres has a groaning table of them. For more see mariagefreres

Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Nobody knows about these except the French, but twice a year, locals put on their own neighbourhood sales. June and September are usually the best months to turn up. For details, visit http://www.videgreniers.org

Maria Vrisakis stocks chic babywear, Prada and the best of vintage French in her shop, and speaks Australian (tres bon!) to you too. Nearest Metro is Temple. Visit http://www.marielouisedemonterey.com.

Craving noodles or a little ramen? Go to Rue Ste-Anne, where you’ll trip over Japanese visitors looking for the same thing. Nearest Metro is Pyramides. Try Higuma, on the strip at 32 bis, rue Ste-Anne, 1st.

Shopping: Collette (www.colette.fr ) is pure, hip, sleek and most happening Parisians will tell you it’s the coolest store in Paris; Open now for eleven years and located at 213 Rue St Honore, Paris 75001, Collette’s modern three level store boasts some of the best collections of designer clothing, make-up, gadgets you didn’t know you needed, a bar, a café,  a magazine stand and even their own music compilations which are played all over the city in all the right places. Those in the know in fashion rate the store highly and you can easily pass an afternoon there in shopping bliss maxing out the credit card.

Pampering: Hair stylist Louis Bester (www.louisbester.com) is just a short stroll from the Collette store so make yourself an appointment with one of the best independent hairdressers in Paris. Louis, a mischievous and charismatic native South African has based himself in Paris for many years. He works from his lovely studio home in the 1st arrondissement where you can get personal service in a relaxed environment.  Louis is the first choice for Parisians who know where to find him, from models and actors to those just wanting one of the great new looks he’s known for.  Contact him on  +33 612730983  or info@louisbester.com and book ahead as he’s a popular boy!

Cocktail hour: You’ve shopped at Collette, got yourself a sleek new haircut or colour from Mister Bester and now, of course, you’re headed for a champagne cocktail to show it all off Paris-style at Murano Urban Resort (www.muranoresort.com), 13 Boulevard du Temple, Paris 75003. Murano is a space age four star designer boutique hotel consisting of 52 rooms and suites, a bar, restaurant, three swimming pools (two of which are private), a spa and privileges and luxury service at every level. The bar at Murano Urban Resort is rated in World’s Best Bars and is currently THE place to hang out in Paris. Oh, and avoid riding in the hot pink fur-lined lifts if you’ve sampled too many of the 100 vodkas on offer – but if you do make it to one of the suites, remember you can only get in by having your fingerprint scanned. Beam me up Murano!

French women may not get fat but Australian women in France do, or at least this one did.  When presented with the world’s finest cuisine, blessed with a Michelin star or three, it’s impossible not to open wide and let it all in.  Calories when consumed overseas don’t count, right?

Chefs the world over covet the Michelin star – it’s the Oscar of the restaurant world, a recognition of premium talent for those who spend their lives slicing and dicing.    Get one of these and start planning your retirement villa in the Caymans.

Michelin stars are awarded annually and published in the Michelin Red Guide, the bible for gourmands the world over.  First published in 1900 by Andre Michelin, a founding brother of the Michelin Tyre company, the Guide was designed for road trips, offering advice on car maintenance, lodgings, restaurants, even the location of public toilets.  For the next twenty years it was given away free and covered only the French region of Europe. In 1920 the Michelin brothers started charging for the guide and in 1926 the star rating was introduced to measure the quality of cooking in listed dining establishments.

Today the guide is written for twelve countries with New York City and San Francisco introduced in 2005, the first cities outside of Europe.  Inspections are anonymous, once every eighteen months, and restaurant entries are not paid for, ensuring unbiased reviews. 

Last year I was a Michelin virgin, untouched by the world’s most rated cuisine.  You never forget your first Michelin experience.  Mine was with twins, Jacques and Lourent Pourcel, brothers in arms behind the helm of the kitchen at Le Jardin Des Sens, a two star Michelin restaurant on the outskirts of Montpellier, in the French region of Languedoc.

Sons of wine growers, Jacques and Laurent opened the restaurant in 1988 and were bestowed with three Michelin stars ten years later.  They’ve since dropped one but who’s counting?  Le Jardin, translated means the garden.  The restaurant is part of a thirteen-room intimate hotel and is walled by glass on one side overlooking a theatrical horticultural masterpiece.  Diners are placed on clothed tables, mezzanine style to ensure all have a full view of the backlit landscaped foliage.

It’s a restaurant that delights all five senses, built on a fantasy world of the imaginary where the garden becomes the dining room and vice versa. Service is impeccable with a flurry of waiters, busboys, sommeliers and the like floating between tables ensuring no glass is left half empty, no table left with crumbs.
For once in my life I’m not on a budget and choose to indulge on the Les Jardins degustation menu of “sense and discovery” an eight course meal sprinkled with caviar, langoustines, truffles, foie gras and sole interrupted by palate cleansing champagne sorbets served up in twee little cones.

There is, of course, the obligatory French cheese trolley wheeled up with great flair and laid down with gooey cheeses inspired by musty caves and moldy dark rooms.  By course three I am floating on a gastronomic cloud of sensory pleasure that I don’t want to end.  Thankfully there’s another five courses to come.

The brothers opened a bakery and pastry shop to complement the existing restaurant.  Saveurs Sucrees provides carbohydrates for lovers of baguettes, pain au raisins and the like year round while the Atelier de Cuisine (Cooking House) offers cooking courses with the great chefs.

Now the directors of the Pourcel Group, Jacques and Laurent head up the Pourcel Bros Café and Bistro in Tokyo, the Maison Blanche in Paris, the T’able Augusta at Augusta Villa in France, Wsens in London, D’Sens in Bangkok and Resto Eighteen in Shanghai. All this expansion no doubt supported by their Michelin credentials.

But Michelin stars have not been without controversy. Many in the culinary world claim stars lean towards restaurants in France and those outside of France that serve French cuisine.  No one knows the identity of the Michelin reviewer, criteria is rigid and based on cuisine on the plate, not interior décor or service meaning spectacular food can be served with a grimace, not a smile. Then there’s the case of French chef, Bernard Loiseau, who killed himself when told his restaurant may lose one of his three Michelin stars.

Gordon Ramsay’s first Michelin star put him on the world culinary map and inspired a television series (The Angry Chef), a host of cook books and a chain of Gordon Ramsay associated restaurants in key capital cities around the world.

Michelin darling, Alain Ducasse has his name on some of Paris and France’s best dining establishments including Spoon, Food and Wine and the self titled Ducasse restaurant.  His consulting name has been put to hotel restaurants in Hong Kong and New York ensuring wait lists for his menu.

The end of the meal at the restaurant that started my Michelin madness, Le Jardin Des Sens, and I have an extra dining companion, a roll of flesh now overflowing from my unbuttoned trousers.  I have dubbed it my Michelin tyre and given it three stars.

For more information visit the website Le Jardin Des Sens, Montpellier, France.  www.jardin-des-sens.com.
The eight course degustation menu will set you back around 170 Euros without wine. If you’re staying, then Sofitel Antigone in Montpellier is a ten euro taxi ride from Michelin paradise.  The signature My Bed ensures the sensory bliss continues long after the last mouthful of wine. Visit  www.sofitel.com

Running away to live in France this year (following a lifelong dream to live in Paris) was so scary that I had to ease into it by pretending I was on holiday. And where does everybody in Paris go (the city is so strangely closed during August) but the South.

Before I had even become a Parisienne (does anyone ever become one or are you only born to it?) I headed down to the South. Not to the glamorous Cote d’Azur. I had no desire, nor the tan and definitely not the bank balance to be hanging around Saint Tropez with dodgy squillionaires in big boats.

Instead I went to a rocky mountaintop in the Cevennes in the province of Languedoc Rousillon to a tiny village where my sister, her husband and two boys hide out in their ruin for months during the summer. And to ease into French life I took my youngest daughter Madeleine, 23, an ideal travelling companion, as she is a delightful and very funny human being. (This is an unbiased mother’s opinion). Also she speaks French. (Pragmatic mother’s decision).  This is a major step up from my pigeon French which mines the remnants of schoolgirl instruction, and is overlaid with years of tourist terms and a good dash of Italian when words fail me.

We caught the very fast train (TGV), which takes so much less time than driving, from Paris to Nimes. After about three-and-a-half hours of very comfortable rocketing through the countryside  you find yourself in the heart of one of the best preserved Roman towns in France. (You must book as it is all assigned seating. Economy is fine but go easy on the luggage because it is a struggle to find space for it.)

In Nimes you find an absolute jewel of a Roman temple, right in the main square, directly opposite a very snappy contemporary building designed by British architect Sir Norman Foster that houses the city’s art museum. Nimes also boats one of the most intact Roman amphitheatres that has been in constant use for centuries. One hot summer night, we all went to see Bjork sing her crazy magical songs in the arched amphitheatre where gladiators once fought to the death.  A bit of fashion trivia too – Nimes is also the town where label Cacharel originated.

The Cevennes hasn’t changed much since Robert Louis Stevenson that intrepid traveller and writer rode through on donkey in the 19th century. Mountains as far as the eye can see are covered with forests and dotted with little villages. The resistance fighters were known to hide out in the mountains of the Cevennes too.  Les Cevennes is  also the place for walking and the French have hundreds of randonnees (trails) marked throughout the region. The randonnee are marked by tiny slashes of bright paint across tree trunks in a clever and simple system that guides you to take the right turning on the right path.
  
Proper walkers /randonneurs wear sturdy hiking boots and multi-pocketed camping gear in sludgy colours. They carry long high tech folding walking sticks and slung around their necks they have big maps in plastic sleeves, which makes them look like giant kindergarten kids on a kindy excursion.

My sister Sarah, when walking, wears her unique boho artist’s attire of white 19th century cotton petticoats, striped jackets or pants and ancient Prada Mary-Janes with a beaten-up sunhat. She looks like something from a Monet painting as she nimbly picks her way along dappled paths, with me panting behind her in a more pedestrian combo of velour tracksuit pants, long sleeved shirt, baseball cap and pumas. (And I’m the fashion writer!)

After the healthy life of the mountains, Madeleine and I picked up a rental car in Nimes (right inside the station) and drove off into the hills of Provence, the neighbouring province. French rental cars seemed only to come in manual, though, so not only was I driving on the wrong side of the road – but also driving a manual.

For a week I bunny-hopped, stalled or stopped dead (as some local driver heartstoppingly hurtled straight towards me) and constantly veered alarmingly to the wrong side of the road. – all of which sorely tested my daughter’s normal good humour. She took to shrieking “MUM you’re driving on the wrong side of the road!” or “You’re too close to my kerb!”

Gradually we worked out a code whereby she squeaked a little sound to warn me of my driving transgressions. And so I drove in my alarming fashion and she issued bat-like squeaks, across the hills of Provence.
 
First stop for a lunch break (or fright break) for both of us was the idyllic town of St-Remy-de-Provence (every well heeled Mosman housewife’s dream… Native Sydney dwellers know this as the suburb where French provincial style reigns supreme). Saint Remy was just as you imagine a Provencal village to be – picturesque and very hot with avenues of plane trees and charming shops full of Provencal textiles and embroidered lavender sachets. 

Our destination in the Alpes of Haute Provence was a chateau near the Gorges du Verdon (a sort of French Grand Canyon) I had once read about in Travel and Leisure. It sounded completely unmodern and unpretentious (in a chateau kind of a way) and just what I was looking for. Getting closer though I was starting to get worried after driving through a spa town (Greoux-les-Bains) full of tourist buses and then through deforested hills that look like they had recently been napalmed. So turning over the final hill into the little town of Esparron de Verdon beside a clear unnaturally blue lake was something of a relief.

It was love at first sight at the Chateau d’Esparron. A monolithic oblong of a building punctuated by rows of 18th century windows and shutters, attached to a medieval tower fluttering a flag. A water trough and running fountain sat beside the huge wrought iron gates. Entering through grand doors, huge polished flagstones wound up to our room, which looked out over huge plane trees onto a hot field with a grazing white horse. Just a few rooms are rented out in, the warmer months, by a branch of the de Castellane family, who have lived in the Chateau since the 13th century.

In the baronial breakfast room sunflowers, real rather than fake, sit in a vase on a table by the window that faces an enormous fireplace. Lunches and dinners have to be taken in the village of Esparron de Verdon in a few little cafes and restaurants filled with French holiday makers.

There we rented a wonderfully silent little electric boat and took it out into the middle of the lake and dove into the crystal clear water freezing but fabulous. (As an Australian however you never escape that niggling and totally irrational fear of a shark coming up to tear you limb from limb.) Apparently the vast lake is manmade rather than natural, the result of damming, which may account for the eerie colour.

In the chateaux we climbed to the top of the tower and looked out over the village or lay in the hammock and read or did nothing but watch the chickens peck their desultory way around the garden. If this is your idea of a holiday then go to website www.esparron.com or www.provenceweb.fr and look up Chateau d’Esparron. (Reluctant as I am to pass on this information).

France is a story to be continued…I’ll write more for Holiday Goddess next time.

For me, the sense of smell is entwined so tightly with imagination that the two are inseparable…even today, whenever I smell Vetiver by Guerlain I’m reminded of a summer in Greece when I was seventeen, and more specifically, a lovely French man who, for a few months, became intoxicated by me…but more than the man himself, Vetiver reminds me of the first time I understood the effect a woman can have on a man.

Since then perfume has had a powerful effect on my memories and sense of place. Patchouli and orange oil when I headed for India searching for adventures and Miss Dior on the flight I took from Thailand to Sydney to start a new life in Australia. Tendre Poison is the vintage black fur coat I bought at the Paris flea markets when I’d moved to France and was beginning yet another new chapter of my life.

I’ve discovered some of the smaller boutique perfume houses in Paris over recent years, each one with its own unique smells and sensations. I love spending time browsing in stores such as Annick Goutal (www.annickgoutal.com), savouring every spray, drinking in the vision of beautifully presented bottles, potions and lotions.
Creator Annick Goutal was a concert pianist who rebelled against a career that was mapped out for her and went into modelling. She later worked with perfumers at Robertet to develop a fragrance for a face cream then finally found her true calling; by 1980, she was ready to launch her own fragrance line. Annick Goutal passed away in 1999. Since then, her daughter Camille has continued to develop new fragrances with perfumer Isabelle Doyen.
Shopping at Annick Goutal is an experience that conjures up the glamorous shopping experience of Paris past and I adore walking out of the store swinging that gorgeous little cream and gold Annick Goutal bag, tied with a ribbon and holding a new perfume that will, in years to come, remind me of new times in my life.
Diptyque (www.diptyque.com) is another heady favourite of mine; from perfumes and aftershaves to candles and body lotions, buying something at Diptyque is an event rather than just grab, pay and run. Founded in 1961 by three friends; including a painter and a set designer, Diptyque originally produced printed fabrics, but in 1963 they introduced a line of now near-legendary scented candles and there are now over 50 in the product line. Then in 1968 Diptyque began producing their first fragrances – and the rest, as they say, is perfume history.
A newer discovery (though not a new perfume house) for me is Nicolai (www.pnicolai.com) which I came across by chance when wandering throught the 7th arrondissement in search of breakfast. It’s a tiny store with the lovely Rebecca taking you through all the perfumes, aftershaves and candles the company create. I walked out with some strikingly fresh smelling Geranium room spray and oils having totally forgotten about breakfast.
For a totally unique and exclusive perfume experience at 14 rue de Catiglione is JAR, a practically unsigned perfume boutique (www.jar-parfums.fr) established by Joel Arthur Rosenthal (JAR), a talented New York-born, Paris-based jeweller.
You enter JAR and walk into a room where everything is a calming deep shade of lilac, from the carpet to the chairs. In the centre of the room is a table where several perfume-soaked chamois are covered by glass bell jars. Joseph, a charming Parisian who manages the shop, won’t tell you anything about the overwhelmingly strong and unforgettable perfumes; the philosophy at JAR is that you smell and you decide for yourself which scent you’re attracted to.

You don’t need to know the ingredients or follow trends by knowing all about the perfume and who wears them. Perfume is still about seduction and mystery at JAR. The perfumes aren’t cheap but they are totally unique and so intensely concentrated you only need a dab or two.

L’Artisan Parfumeur (www.artisanparfumeur.com) is a another French perfume house with boutiques all over Paris, alhough the brand is now sold all over the world in upmarket department stores (as well as having its own flagship boutiques in cities such as London, Tokyo, New York and Milan). The real pleasure, though, is in going to one of the stores in Paris and indulging your senses Gallic-style with the wide range of heady scents.

Established in 1976, L’artisan Parfumeur is one of the leading French perfume houses and after spending over two hours in one of their stores recently, I can understand why. I’ve whittled my choices down to three favourites but still can’t decide which I want most.

The Different Company is another piece of perfume heaven – it was created by Jean-Claude Ellena, the infamous French perfumer who has created fragrances for some of the biggest perfume houses in France. He established The Different Company before joining Hermès. His daughter Celine now creates for The Different Company.

Some personal favourites:

Gardenia Passion and Songes by Annick Goutal
Olene Eau de Toilette by Diptyque
Premier Figuier and Fou d’Absinth by L’Artisan Parfumeur
Bois d’Iris by The Different Company

When you’re looking for a new perfume take one thing into consideration – time. Plan for it; take a day to wander slowly around Paris (4th, 1st and 7th are perfume-packed arrondissements) and take your time in each boutique. Choosing the right perfume is about bringing together all your five senses but using your sixth to decide which one is right for you. And only in Paris would a parfumeur treat an endeavour such as choosing perfume with the sense of great respect and reverence it is truly due. After all – you’re not just wearing perfume, you’re creating memories.

A women who doesn’t wear perfume has no future – Coco Chanel

Living in Paris in the Marais for a year just recently, made me fall in love with the Marais but not just the usual fourth but also the third arrondissement. Here, for all the Holiday Goddesses, are some of my favourites places to go in my local ‘hood. Here fashion and food, my two loves, meld to create a Parisian haven of deliciousness.

The Marais 3rd and 4th arrondissement -

The third arrondissement in Paris is the grungier and now more interesting end of the Marais while the fourth is a major tourist attraction and very busy on a Sunday. Here all the boutiques are open if you want to go clothes shopping on a Sunday, unlike the rest of Paris, which shuts on Sundays due to stringent trading rules.

The Marais is full of fascinating streets, superb food stores, great cafes, and wonderful little boutiques; the better known labels are in the fourth while the newer cool designer names and mixed label boutiques are springing up like mushrooms in the third.

Walkabout in the Marais -

For orientation, start down near the river and walk up through fourth arrondissement and into the third. You can’t miss the Hotel de Ville, the ridiculously ornate pile that is the Paris City Hall. There you’ll find the big department store BHV. Clothing selection is nothing to write home about but the basement hardware floor is source of absolute fascination. Wander up Rue des Archives you can have some soup or a tartine (slice of bread with topping) at Le Pain Quotidien – it may be a chain but it’s a good one and they bake great bread.

Walk up until you hit rue des Francs Bourgeois – then turn right and you are in the heart of the Marais, where you can cherry-pick through a continuous stream of clothing boutiques from Gerard Darel, Barbara Bui, Les Petites and so on.

Fantastic museums housed in wonderful buildings are also just here, including the Musee Carnavalet with a lovely garden and the austerely beautiful Musee Picasso. Or walk to end of Francs Bourgeois to the most beautiful square in Paris, the historic Place des Vosges (which has horrendous art galleries under its beautiful arched walkway) and also a lovely garden in the centre of the square.

If  you want to head up out of the more touristy area go back along Francs Bourgeois and turn up rue Vieille du Temple (walking away from the River). French label Zadig et Voltaire have a store on the corner.

 If you want to turn the other way, you’ll hit the historic Jewish district in rue des Rosiers and falafel shops vying for your attention. But that’s another whole story well documented in guidebooks.

So walk up rue Vielle de Temple and pop into Paul and Joe’s little sister label or pass by Jamin Puech who have made handbags into an art form. Visit the store of cool Parisian designer Vanessa Bruno and many other cute boutiques such as optical shop les lunettes d’also. At the charming cobbled junction of Vielle de Temple and rue de Poitou you’ll find Abou d’abi bazar (good for less expensive French labels) Opposite check out French brand APC.  On the corner is the multi label boutique Shine, full of Marc Jacobs and Chloe.

Keep going up rue Vielle de Temple and you hit rue de Bretagne. On corner is hip bar Le Progres with its laughably rude waiters. Now for foodie heaven – turn left when you hit rue de Bretagne, the street, where a hidden treasure awaits called the Marche des Enfants Rouge. A covered market it is stacked with little stalls for eating such as Moroccan, Japanese, French organic and the crepe maker who makes rare appearances creating delicious organic crepes.

Over the road go to Café Charlot, which has been jumping with cool people ever since it opened about a year ago in an old Boulangerie (baker’s shop). They make a great French version of a burger (lovely and rare) and good fries. For sweet tooths try the pastries at La Fougasse on rue de Bretagne.

Refreshed, now you can hit the shops again. Round the corner on rue Charlot is Plagg a small boutique specialising in little know Danish and Swedish designers or wander up Rue de Saintonge parallel which has a lots of chic boutiques, including French designer Isabel Marant. Opposite is Dolls which stocks Danish designer Malene Birger. And just on a corner near Saintonge French shoe designer Estelle Youmeda.

If you are a vintage lover walk to the left around the Carre du Temple an old market building and find the charming Marie Louise de Monterey owned by Australian girl Maria, who has also just created her own vintage inspired pieces. Good Italian food can be found at restaurant Les  Vitelloni where you can sit outside in summer.

Now it’s time to head back down towards the Seine. Go down Rue Charlot and for an inexpensive designer hit, turn off rue Charlot into rue de Poitou and browse L’Habilleur which stocks lots of knitwear and left over bits of Paul and Joe at mark down prices. Don’t expect friendly service as you are barely tolerated but there are some good pieces for both men and women.

Go towards the end of Rue Charlot and there, if you have a taste for tailored sixties couture style (and a bank balance to match), visit the private atelier of designer Martin Grant (Paris based ex Melburnian) and buy something really beautiful to finish on a high note.

 
 A few of my favourite addresses – a quick A to Z:

Café Charlot
38 rue de Bretagne
75003 Paris
0144 54 03 30
 
Dolls
56 rue de Saintonge
75003 Paris

Estelle Yomeda
4 rue de Normandie
75003 Paris
01 44 59 80 33

Isabel Marant
47 rue de Saintonge
75003 Paris
01 42 78 19 24

LHabilleur
44 rue de Poitou
75003 Paris
01 48 87 77 12

Marche des Enfants Rouges
39 rue de Bretagne
75003

Marie Louise De Monterey
1, Rue Charles Francois Dupuis
75003, Paris
 01 48 04 83 88  

Martin Grant
10 rue Charlot
75003 Paris
01 42 71 39 49

Plagg
41 rue Charlot
75003 Paris
01 42 78 37 60

Shine
15 rue de Poitou
75003 Paris
01 48 05 801 0

Vanessa Bruno
100 rue Vielle du Temple
75003 Paris
01 42 77 19 41

Alexandra Billington’s relationship with Paris is strictly personal, and it all starts at The Shakespeare & Company bookstore on the left bank.

Right now I’m sitting in a café in New York thinking about Paris and remembering the first time I was sitting in a café in  New York thinking about Paris, under quite different circumstances – wondering whether that city was the answer to my big problem.

It was several years ago. I’d been living in New York, working on a couple of films as an intern, trying to write, but was too heartbroken over someone to concentrate on writing. I had to get away from everything that reminded me of the man I’d met and fallen in love with in New York, and get some perspective on my feelings. And so desperate was I for perspective and distance, that when a friend based in Sarajevo working for the UN invited me to stay, I didn’t hesitate and used the last available bit of credit on my bank card to buy a non-refundable airline ticket to Sarajevo, flying via Rome and Paris.

My reasoning was that there were people in Sarajevo who had been through far worse things than heartbreak, and maybe meeting them and hearing their stories would cure me of this terrible sadness that left me just wanting to drink wine and weep. I also wanted to give it one last chance with the man in question as I’d broken up with him via a rather dramatic letter I had couriered to him (so melodramatic!), never heard from him again (wonder why!), desperately wanted him back (Oh God, women and the wisdom of hindsight)… and knew he was in France. So I emailed him to say I’d be in Paris on a certain date and perhaps we could meet again one more time and talk. I said I’d wait for him at a bookstore on the left bank… it was The Shakespeare & Company bookstore; the infamous beautiful, musty, dilapidated old bookstore by the Seine that is straight out of a scene from Oliver Twist – you’ve got to give me ten points for being a histrionic romantic with that choice! I promised him I would be there no matter what. So now I had to do this.

A week or so later the troubles in Kosovo broke out and every news channel was covering the terrible stories of bombings and civilian casualties, but I had to leave New York because on top of everything else, my damn visa was up… so I boarded the plane, ignoring well meaning friends’ concerned pleas that I should go to Porto Rico instead. But no, perspective was calling. And I, ever in search of drama in my life, had to go to a warzone to get it.

I landed in Paris on a wet, cold April night where I was to stay on the sofa of a friend of a friend. I turned up to the apartment, wet and bedraggled. The friend of the friend was so welcoming to me I nearly started weeping again. I stepped into a living room where the lights were low, candles burned, and smiling people were draped over sofas drinking champagne. I felt completely out of sorts… but everyone in that room that night was as warm and welcoming as my host – and to this day are all good friends of mine – but I’m digressing.

Next morning I ventured out, oversized sunglasses hiding my red eyes, armed with the address of the bookstore, a map and more courage than I’d had to muster in my life before. I was praying the man in question would be standing outside the bookstore, as desperate to see me as I was him.

As I walked through the wet and chilly streets of the 3^rd arrondissement where my host lived, I looked around at the buildings, the people, the overcast sky and felt, strangely, like I was home – it just felt ‘right’ to be here. My heart was as heavy as lead but there was the stirring of something else in there too…. I just couldn’t explain or describe the feeling.

After what seemed an age I finally got to the book store; terrified of seeing him, terrified of not seeing him.

I opened the door to the bookstore and a clanging bell heralded my arrival. It was like stepping into another era. I found a nice spot amid the haphazardly stacked piles of books and sat down … and waited… and waited. People came and went, staff gave me strange looks, a dirty, balding cat, probably thinking by now I was part of the furniture, climbed on my lap and settled in for the afternoon. All I could hear was the gut-wrenching clanging of the bell every time the door opened, the ticking of several clocks and the audible pounding of my heart. I was sure everyone else could hear it too. This was hell. But somewhere inside, the objective, cold writer went to work and I realised how wonderful this experience was – an adventure of the heart.

So you’re wondering how it ended? He never came. Never even emailed to say he wasn’t coming. He wasn’t special. And I wasn’t special to him. But none of it really mattered, the only thing I was aware of was that awful pain in my heart every time I inhaled.

I walked out of the bookstore shellshocked. I had been so very certain he loved me. Had he just changed his mind? How fickle a thing is the heart? By now it was night and the rain was coming down hard. I walked by Seine, found a bench to sit on and sat there in disbelief for what seemed like hours, but was probably only one, thinking that getting to Sarajevo was my only hope of getting over this. As I sat there, two lovers passed, not young, not beautiful, but they radiated something beautiful; they couldn’t stop looking at each other and smiling, couldn’t let go of each other’s hands and despite the cold and rain they were happy as hell.

Not much about Paris here you’re probably thinking, but actually it’s all about Paris because I didn’t get to Sarajevo (the airports had been closed down) and I stayed in Paris for several months. Over the course of a balmy spring and lazy summer, I must have walked every inch of the city armed with my note book, stopping here and there for coffee and wine, feeling my heart heal just a fraction more each day.

I met lots of interesting people, and each had their own tale of love and loss and as I listened to their stories, I didn’t feel so alone in my own sadness. I wandered around museums, galleries, I sat in cafes, watching people pass by, and I wrote and wrote and wrote as if my life depended on it. And it probably did. Paris was the only city in the world I could imagine being at that time.

September – and the rain – came. It was time to go. I took a last walk around the city and found myself standing, once again, by the Seine in that same spot I’d stood shellshocked months before. I suddenly realised I wasn’t the same person… and I hadn’t waited in that bookshop for a man. I’d waited there for me. And what’s more, I’d do it again.

I took a deep breath and this time there was no more pain in my heart when I inhaled. Then that feeling I’d had on my first day in Paris came back. I was finally ready to recognise it; it was Hope. My time in Paris had given me that.

So this story is all about Paris… if you’re going to be heartbroken anywhere, and every one of us is at some time in our lives, Paris is the only place to be. She won’t give you advice, she won’t tell you where you went wrong or try to distract you with cheap, noisy entertainment. She’ll just surround you with her grace and beauty and let you be. And the perspective from there is perfection.