“Nor is there a single Paris,” writes John Baxter in The Most Beautiful Walk in the World.  

“The city exists as a blank page on which each person scribbles what the French call a griffe — literally “a claw” but more precisely a signature; a choice of favourite cafes, shops, parks, and the routes that link them…”

Later he adds,  “In a way that isn’t possible with London or New York or Berlin, one can speak of “Colette’s Paris” or “Hemingway’s Paris” or “Scott Fitzgerald’s Paris,” or your own Paris. We all go through a siilar process: finding the only cafe, the perfect park, the loveliest view, the most beautiful walk.”

This is our last night in Paris. Tomorrow we take the train south. But right now, I’m writing this from our room at the lovely Hotel Cervantes. My legs are flat out in front of me on the bed, because,  although Paris may truly be full of beautiful walks, one has to actually walk them.

My feet are doing that puh-poom, puh-poom, pounding thing where all the blood seems to be buzzing like it’s been microwaved on high. But in just these few days I feel like I’ve added more memories, like perfectly preserved pressed flowers; each moment tucked carefully into the pages of my journal.

We’ve taken in some of the sights, but more importantly, we’ve created our own little neighbourhood here in the 8th arrondisement.  We are far enough away from the center to feel less touristy (helping reduce the cost of some of our coffees and dinners) but still only a short Metro ride from all the major Paris sights.

Last night we found a little restaurant in the nearby Place de Clichy. We picked it the same way we usually do; based on whether there were gorgeous aromas emanating from the kitchen, whether there was a suitable buzz of happy people, and by the general mood and lighting of the room. So far, it’s been a winning formula.

Like all French restaurants we were seated quite close to the other  diners. We were soon talking to Mary. An American, she had been coming to “her neighbourhood” for years, first with her husband, and now as a sixty-year old widow, she still made the trip to get her French fix in her little part of Paris.

“I love all my regular restaurants,” she said, taking another bite of her duck and sipping from her glass of Gamay. “I come for a few weeks each year, though this is one of my shorter, one-week trips.”

Unlike Mary, we haven’t been here long enough to declare this our neighbourhood. But we’ve given it our best shot. Having been to Paris a few times now, neither of us were very interested in rushing to line up for everything on the Paris-in-Ten-Minutes Itineraries.

Instead, we’ve enjoyed strolling for hours, sitting in cafes and practising our few words of French and randomly connecting with others.

But today we lined up for my favourite church in Paris. Unlike the big names (like Notre Dame) the 13-century Sainte Chapelle is rather diminutive, but its Gothic beauty and intense stained glass is like nothing else I’ve seen. Some of the painted walls are a deep indigo with gold fleur-de-lis. It reminds me of the deep blues and golds deep inside some of the Egyptian tombs…ethereal.

We waited in line with a lovely American couple.  They were on a whirlwind trip. They’d just spent three days in London and were now taking in the next three days in Paris. We talked for almost an hour as we worked our way toward the entrance. He talked about how he was practising the art of slowing down.

“It’s hard. We see people sitting in the parks, and we want to do that too, but we’ve only got three days and we’ve got this list, and we don’t know when we’ll be here again.”

“But…” he took a breath, “I’m learning. I’m starting to realize these trips aren’t just about the sights, but about the people you meet and connect with.”

He smiled. It was a big smile. “These are the important things you remember.”