Why is it that Paris has managed to cultivate so many of the greatest artists? What is here that infuses so much passion in them? At Marais, a small pocket of history in the top right-hand corner of the Latin Quarter, near Victor Hugo's house, is the Musee Picasso. Picasso is a name that is to art what Paris is to life. Both evoke mythologies and wonder. No artist managed to master so many styles in a single sitting as he did. Each time there was a new woman in his life, he changed his direction, re-inventing himself with ease. Harlequins, Roses, the Blue Period, Cubism, eroticism, surrealism, junk sculptures, ceramics, engravings - here was a gift that had no bounderies, no limits, no time to waste. Many of his mistresses feature in the work here; Dora Marr, Francoise Gillot, Jacqueline Roque. Even in an empty house the essence of people's lives can remain alive. 
Across the other side of the Seine, past the ile St-Louis and all along the Boulevard Saint-Germain is the infamous Rive Gauche, or Left Bank. In another era this was centre of the universe, along with the nearby village of Montparnasse; this is where all the big guns came to play together for a little while. Just imagine what ideas sparked into life from the company of Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemmingway, F Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, Guillaume Apollinaire and Jean Cocteau. They created their own world, their flourished in their own universe which is still remembered today in folklore. In fact even the models of artists and photographers were famous. Man Ray's muse, Kiki of Montparnasse, had many a book written about her and the exploits of the Left Bank in the 1920's. Perhaps Les Annees Folles, the crazy years, are best captured in Hemmingway's impressions of this brief hiatus of free flowing ideas, champagne and bare breasts in his book, A Moveable Feast.
Further along the Seine, up towards its source, stands the greatest of icons ever built. What this one tower has come to symbolise in such a short space of time is testimony to its uniqueness. The Eiffel Tower, once derided as ugly, once dubbed a Tower of Babel, has surpassed parochial fame as it is identifiable now by those around the world. To walk underneath this titantic offering of engineering genius is to know what extraodrinary feats of human achievement can be created in this life. How much higher did Gustave Eiffel raise the bar when he dreamt up his little dream? What wonderful things can be created by man when he begins to believe in his dreams. The sheer size of this monument sucks out the very air you breathe when you get close enough. Touch it once and you'll never forget what greatness feels like.
I am now sitting on the right banks of the Seine. Opposite me, over the water, the Musee d'Orsay tells the time of twenty-one minutes past seven. Two huge clocks are above the words, Paris Orleans. It's such a beautiful evening. The sun is high. The Seine flows like Pernod. How tempting it looks. People are jogging past, walking past, cycling past, both on this side and the other side of the river. My feet are killing me - really, really aching and blistered too. But despite that I haven't finished walking. I have to get back to Notre Dame by eight to meet a friend. To hear the bells of Notre Dame is one of life's little rewards. A girl with black hair walks past. The sort you wish you could write a story about. I exchange smiles with her as she walks by. I don't think a city has ever taken me with surprise and deep impressions that Paris has.
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