We lived in Paris once.
*****
On the central island, ÃŽle Saint-Louis.
It wasn’t for long, perhaps just six months.
On the Rue Saint-Louis en l’ÃŽle, opposite Berthillon, behind an inconspicuous door, a small stone passageway led to our fairytale apartment replete with stone walls, high ceilings, oil paintings.
It felt like a small annexe of a castle.
No electronics, no television, no phone. Certainly no mobile phones.
The pompieres would train outside our window every morning before the nearby boulangeries roared into life.
Each day we would work, explore, play.
Jardin des Plantes, Jardin du Luxembourg, Alcazar, jazz bars, cafes, friends.
I don’t remember climbing the Eiffel Tower, though that must have happened.
I don’t recall prioritising museums, though we must have been to them all.
It was a time of young love, long walks into the evening, discoveries, and chance.
*****
It wasn’t until some ten years later, in 2014, that I took my first photo in Paris, this City of Monuments.
Returning for meetings, but with our young child now in tow.
We retraced old haunts, ate ice cream at Berthillon, dined on the Eiffel Tower, joined the crowds at Montmartre, and saw a more architectural side of the city.
It was the first time we’d paid attention to the landmarks, the buildings, structures, and the urban landscape that provide the backdrop to so many stories.




