Left for Love

Parisians are cold, haughty and unhelpful. Oh, and did I mention intolerant of anyone who comes from outside Paris, let alone France? Everyone says it, so it must be true, right? On my short experience of the city, however, I couldn’t disagree more. Hauling an oversized bag, containing a year’s worth of clothes, shoes and paraphernalia, through the Paris métro should be an absolute nightmare. However, at every flight of stairs I reach (and there are many) I have offers of help. As I stare blankly at a map on the wall, trying to work out which line I have to take to get to my hotel, a busy-looking woman of about my own age stops dead and asks, with a smile, if I need help. A taxi driver, on getting stuck in traffic and finding out that I only have €10 on me, takes me as close as he can to the door anyway, despite the fact that it leaves him €3 or €4 out of pocket. Cold? No. Haughty? Far from it. Unhelpful? Couldn’t be further from the truth. Intolerant? Well, if laughing at my accidental use of Italian words and correcting them with a friendly grin is intolerant then yes – but I’d say, on the whole, that the myth of the Parisian personality is just that: a myth.

At Paris Nord, I drag my bag to the taxi rank rather than attempt yet another change of métro. It’s been a somewhat circuitous crossing of Paris. An hour or so earlier, as my sleeper train pulled into Bercy, I realised that nowhere had I written down the address of my hotel. Ah. I know it’s somewhere near Nord train station, as I’d booked it for that express reason, but further than that I’m a bit lost. Thank god for mobile internet, is all I can say. Striking train operators on the RER haven’t really helped my journey either, but I’m within distance now. Lugging my beast of a suitcase across the road to the taxi rank I smile at the first cab driver and attempt to speak French properly for the first time in about 10 years. Astonishingly, I manage not only to make myself understood, but also to flabbergast him when I reveal that I’m English. Ha! This probably has more to do with my inadvertent slips into Italian than my flawless French accent, but no matter. We chat away happily as he drives me to my hotel. In the first of many such conversations that I will encounter over the next couple of days, he expresses shock when I tell him I’m here alone. Really? No boyfriend or husband? But Paris is the city of lovers! It’s almost sacrilegious to admit to being single in this city. He decides, with a wink, that I will find someone here. I laugh and concede. Perhaps …

I can’t say that I’m looking for a lover, but Paris is going to do its damnedest to find one for me regardless. A man walks past me the following day as I wander along the Left Bank in the sunshine. I see dark hair and long limbs, and smell delicious Armani aftershave. Usually that would be the end of it, but this is Paris, where every woman gets to be in her very own Impulse ad at least once in her life. As he passes he glances at me, then stops and asks for directions with a lazy smile. I shrug and tell him I don’t know Paris. No matter – it was, of course, only a pretext. I don’t think I’ve ever been chatted up quite so deftly in my life. Once again, there is shock and amazement that I could even *think* about coming to this city on my own. He falls into step with me as I walk towards Notre Dame, which is where I’d been planning to go. Are you from Paris? No? You’re English? But it’s impossible! An Englishwoman who speaks French? It can’t be true! 20 minutes later, Notre Dame is far behind us, we’ve crossed the Seine, and we’re back in Le Marais. Catching me by the arm, he takes off his sunglasses and gives me a dazzling smile. I love Englishwomen, you know … I start to giggle and he grins disarmingly. I must see your eyes! Take off your sunglasses! I obey, laughing, and he mock-swoons. Come for a drink! You can’t possibly leave me now! Regretfully, however, that’s exactly what I have to do. He tells me, with a cheeky wink, that whenever I come back to Paris I must call him up. Just dial 0033 Gorgeous Parisian, OK? He kisses me on both cheeks, murmuring sweet nothings all the while, and I head back to my hotel, giggling like a schoolgirl. I may not have seen Notre Dame, but I’ve been romanced by a Frenchman on the Left Bank of the Seine. I’d say that’s worth missing gargoyles and pigeons for any day of the week.