Throughout my life, one of my greatest pleasures has been to travel without a schedule through Europe, Asia, Africa, Canada (so far). My esteemed colleague’s recent journey to Paris pulled out memories for me that I could not resist sharing with you.

The memories rush in like so many excited children, jostling with each other to be at the head of the queue – “Tell about me first -” “No, me!” “Me!”

Paris – in some ways, a difficult place to visit, because it is so big, requiring good walking shoes and patience with crowds. Paris – beautiful wide boulevards, some of the most magnificent architecture in the world. It is wonderful at any time of year. There is a special spirit to the place, a special sparkle.

My introduction to Paris was when I was travelling by Volkswagen with a friend, from Tuscany to London. I had been living in Italy for some months, over the winter months: my kind of winter – a gentle frost lasting a week in January.

Paris was relatively tourist-free. People travelling in the off season tend to need less guidance. So, the Parisians were relaxed and friendly. Our spoken French was quite fluent, which always impresses them. I promoted the myth that “all Canadians speak both languages, English and French!”

We arrived late in the day and made for a bistro to sit down to a bowl of onion soup, which is a meal in itself and a bottle of red wine. Such bliss. We settled for humble lodgings, cheap and far from lovely, but adequate for our needs as being a roof, a bed and a place to wash. In the morning, we wandered out into the streets, found a café where we ate freshly baked croissants and drank good coffee, while breathing in the early morning sounds and smells of a city – that coffee and bread, the voices of people greeting each other, the call of hawkers with their stalls of goods.

Some years later, during a summer’s career as a tour guide, my weekly routine on the bus that took me and my crew of British tourists from London to San Sebastian in Spain, drove through Paris but did not stop. At the beginning of the trip, having crossed the Channel into France, I would point to every radio tower and call out “and there’s the Eifel Tower!” Great excitement throughout the bus until they twigged my joke. Finally, in Paris itself, there was the Eifel Tower, by which time half of them did not believe me.

Other times, at my leisure, standing in the Louvre before the actual Mona Lisa, I learned again what it is to behold the original when one has seen so many photos and endless copies. Somehow, there is always power to the real thing that can never be replicated. As I gazed into her eyes and found myself irresistibly responding to her smile, I wondered at the magic of di Vinci’s genius. It took me ages to leave her.

Once, in the early 1980’s, I went to Paris from London to interview a highpowered individual and stayed at the Georges V, one of the most prestigious hotels in the world. Well, it was very nice, with my bed turned down for me in the evening, a good night chocolate on the pillow. So loving, so tender. Such luxury encompasses a person in a velvet dream. If politicians come together in such a place to discuss resolving the issues around the poor of the world, it is not much wonder that they make so little progress.

After the interview, I went for a walk and bought myself a perfect wool suit, with brocade trim, in a chic little boutique. I paid lots of money for it and that was really fun. The lady in the shop was extremely polite and pleasant.

In 1997, Paris was the final leg of a round- Europe trip with Colin, Patricia and our dear friend, Lisa. They wanted to go up the Eifel Tower but there was a queue that went on a long way to access it. I dashed up to the front of the line, you know, just to see how things were when, suddenly, an additional ticket booth opened up. Impulsive as ever, I nipped up to the “guichet,” bought our tickets – well, she insisted! – and hurried back to the end of the line, where the others were waiting for me, to invite them to take the trip up the Tower!

We stayed in a self-catering apartment in the Clichy neighbourhood, where all the streets climbed the hills up to the citadel of Sacre Coeur. After dinner one evening, we dropped into a café where there was a piano and they invited Patricia to play for a few moments. The girls, both age 12, had their portraits done by a cartoonist and wondered at the sexiness of some of the posters on the streets.

For me, Paris holds memories of wonderful meals, simple and elaborate. Some were rather reasonable; some were wildly expensive. Either way, it did not really matter. The experience of indulging in the best there is was to the point, not the cost of it.

Tiny restaurants are often run by one waiter, who, like a magician, manages to see to the needs of every table without ever rushing anyone, for that would be an insult – to the patron, the food, the chef and the wine. A waiter in France is an artist, a highly skilled individual.

Large restaurants employ many waiters, who dash back and forth to the kitchen in perfect harmony, like a dance. Everything seems impossibly well organized. Each dish is perfectly presented, as though feeding you beautifully and well matters so much.

To anyone planning a trip to Europe, I always advise paying in advance for as much as possible. Of course, hotels and tours can be booked and paid for here but so can city transportation passes and shows, even gallery and museum passes can be purchased, I do believe. When you spend that fortune going overseas, remember air travel is usually a bore – it cannot be helped. Let it do its job of getting you there and back and then forget it.

Trains are fun, especially in Europe, but going to one great city and stopping there for a few days (or longer!) gives you the chance to drink it in.