June 4: France - Paris (Lundi)

The Cemetiere du Pere Lachaise is one of the world's most famous cemetries, mainly because of those who have decomposed in this part of Paris over the years. Chopin, Marcel Proust, Bernadin de Saint-Pierre, Edith Piaf, Gertrude Stein (and Alice B Toklas) can all be found here with many other Parisiens who shared the same city. Coming here makes you aware of the influence many of these icons can have on our own lives. At the grave of Jim Morrison, a fan stands with eyes closed, crying, listening to the Doors play People Are Strange on his i-pod. The bronze bust of the American singer has gone - missing or possibly stolen. Fans flock here in silence. On the simple tomb of Amedeo Modigliani, the Italian painter, a long stemmed red carnation has been left with a handwritten poem in French. The blue ink has run free in this morning's rain. Someone called Natalie has written on the grave of Oscar Wilde, "The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold, Thank You." The memorial to Ireland's genius glows a distinct shade of pink, due to the hundreds of lipstick kisses that have been placed over the stone angel that watches over him.

Cities give off certain energies and in turn attract like minded spirits to make connections with its source. Being in Paris is like being in a giant sigh of relief. You sense you are able to be who you want to be. Many artists experience frustrations, not neccessarily through the lack of recognition or even success, but instead through the continuous need to defend something they often don't understand themselves, but know it's of an importance. Art is more than a just a hobby to them, and also to those who are sensitive to its influence. When channelled correctly Art has the power and ability to change our thoughts, our ideas, the way we view things. It can alter our universe and the one in which we live.

So how do you thank a city like Paris for all the things she has taught you? The same way that you should say goodbye to a lover. You just leave. Paris will not pine for your return. Paris is Paris is Paris. The same as a rose. Paris manages to love herself intelligently, with a correct measure of self-worth and respect for others, she has a genuine depth which only Paris herself could understand. I suppose Paris is like one of those affairs you never forget. Unapologetic, just meant to be, glad that you came. Both parties will move on and neither will ever forget... nor regret. The thing I love most about Paris is the generosity she shows to her lovers. Everywhere you look streets are named after them. She is proud of her affairs because each one evolved her, and she is always evolving. In this exchange of ardour lies the secret of eternal youth, the elixir of youth - when you are able to endure an endless Belle Epoque.

It's night time at Rue Rambuteau. Almost two in the morning. I'm sitting outside Cafe Au Pere Tranquille once again. Drinking wine once again. God, I could murder a cigar. It's such a beautiful night. All is quiet but things are happening. The clicking wheels of a suitcase are dragged across the Forum des Halles. I just love the how the Latin Quarter can sleep with one eye open. Two Senagalese women share a joke as they walk home. They use long, heavy footsteps, tired almost aching. Jazz pipes out of a bar. An old man passing by bums a cigarette from the table in front of me. Shadows move, black and white hold hands and kiss in the melange of yellow doorlights and the dark. Giant street lamps sift soft creams of buttered light onto the pavement, and a small dog with a black sock in his mouth trots down the street. Paris has left me breathless. Only one other has ever done this to me, and she is far away now. I look up into the thick violet of the night sky. A star shines high above this part of town, high above the skylights and sleeping windows and I smile. Shine on, buddy, and thanks for letting me see this. Bonne Nuit.