A Paris love story – where it all began

A Paris love story; now that is the most likely of stories but how often are they true. I’ve had one of my own and in hindsight, other than an ever so slight element of fate, I’m positive that I willed it to happen due to my histrionic nature and romantic sensibilities. Paris and love, what two things could be more right together. All the elements were there; first trip to Paris – check, a French boy – check, Montmartre as the setting – check, a bohemian hotel off Place Clichy not far from Pigalle – check (ish; not that kind of love story).

I’d met him about a week earlier in London. As the night wore on and we danced and smiled with drunken excitement, we realized that we’d be in Paris at the same time and wouldn’t it be great to meet up while there. His brother lived there, they could show me around; I was caught up in the moment and nodded excitedly never expecting that it would actually happen. What were the odds that I’d met a French mec just before heading off on a solo trip to Paris? Apparently they were stacked in my favour.   

The odd thing about this trip; the first of many and under such perfect conditions, is that I don’t remember much of the city itself. This should have been an experience where my eyes drank, to the point of intoxication, this magnificent city that I’d dreamt about for so long but instead it was oddly practical; at least for me. I’d started a tour of Europe about a year before this trip. This tour was basically comprised of long weekends in various cities. By the time I arrived in Paris I’d already been to Prague, Amsterdam, Brussels, and Barcelona. This may have been why I looked out of the Eurostar window as the train approached Gare du Nord and thought Paris looked like just another European city. I no longer think this but I also know that this idea was not completely erased by the end of my first trip there; I nevertheless just felt I had to go back.

The boy was there as promised and as odd as it is to say; perhaps he got in the way of my intimacy with Paris. Paris became the third wheel. There was a strange ease with which I entered this other person’s life for just a few days; an impromptu picnic on the Champ de Mars, dinner at his brother’s house with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, a joke about the narrow stairs and English girl’s bums which I vividly remember taking slight offense to all these years later, a visit to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and not even knowing it was possible to do that. Cacahuète-Apéritif-Clichy, new and fun (to me) words. At the Hotel Eldorado; lying in bed postcoitus talking and learning more about each other as the sounds of the street at night drifted up to the room.

Experiences are what stand out the most from this first trip to a destination that I would go on to live in and then visit many times over. And isn’t that just like a love story in some way? The way we experience normal everyday things feels different, special, when we’re in love.