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.

June 3: France - Paris (Dimanche)

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.

June 2: France - Paris (Samedi)

Breakfast in Paris is unhealthy. Beautifully unhealthy. Espresso follows espresso. Croissants caked in butter, rip and tear with delicate ease. Pain-au-chocolates melt in your hands on point of contact. Soft creams of goats cheese can be folded into crunching envelopes of bread with a single press of a flat knife. I almost wish I smoked cigarettes to complete this affront to cholesterol. I sit back in my cane chair and give an audience to the ringing silence in this little apartment. A handful of fresh flowers smile back at me. They sit in a small, fat pink vase, which in turn stands on a small fat Moroccan table, which I love. It has a intricate iron carving around its black girdle, and a heavy clay table top that is patterened with Moorish mosaic. I get up and open the windows. The coolness of morning breathes in. Across the Rue, on the building opposite this apartment, sunshine creeps over the giant mural of Marilyn Monroe (the Warhol version) painted there. How wonderfully uncomplicated Paris is.

To walk around the guts of any city is to discover what that city can really offer. In a bus, or taxi, train or tube you miss much. You aren't able to experience the chaos and charisma that street life can spark. You restrict your own vulnerability to being a stranger in a strange land, pushed and pointed at, distrusting and disorientated, nervous but not showing it, acting tough with eyes wide front. There is so much fun to be had being at the mercy of a map. Looking out for street names. Experiencing the panic of being lost. Dawdling here, surging there. Trusting that all will come good in the end. Knowing nothing can go wrong. As I powered my way (perrine-speed mark 4) up the Boulevard de Magenta I was offered everything from help, a home to let, hashish and a hand-job while waiting for the traffic lights to change colour as I crossed the spaghetti junctions outside the Gare du Nord.

In the north of Paris is the towering suburb of Montmartre. Perched at the top of a gradual hill this was once the mecca of Bohemia. The walk is taxing but worth it. Flights and flights of stone steps lift you up past flanking apartments, onwards and upwards. The views of the city of Paris from Montmartre seduced many of the heavyweight artists that are now revered; van Gogh, Renoir, Picasso and Dali. Once there, narrow streets run out of sight, over hills, around corners and off on their own trains of thought. Trees and creeper vines kiss and caress the flat facades of the houses here. Windmills spin their sails when the breeze blows in. Shops are full of reproductions of famous paintings. Some sell original works. Many artists are sold here in the small shops and galleries. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get a bit of oil on canvas for a fraction of its worth.

The main attraction in Montmatre is the Basilique du Sacre Coeur. This chalk-white monument of immense size and Byzantine beauty leaves one breathless when standing toe-to-toe with it. Even from many parts of the city, the sight of the Sacre Coeur makes you want to stop and stare. The giant cream dome is visible for miles. Three arches invite you into the darkness to visit. Two emerald guardians on horseback keep a permanent watch as you walk underneath. Inside the Sacre Coeur there is a heaven of space filled only with endless silence. Giant, circular stained-glass windows twinkle and flash as you pass by. All around the main alter are smaller places of worship, subtle chapels often filled with flowers and the silent prayers of kneeling people with tears running down to melt on the cold, stone floor.

I am sat on one of the many stone steps oustide the Sacre Coeur with bright mid-morning sunshine burning my face. I'm squinting. This helps blot out the stream of tourists who are haemorrhaging out of rows and rows of excursion coaches that alight opposite. In clots and clusters they flood past me and into the silence. The whole of Paris is spread out in front of me, hiding underneath the veil of a mist that was borne of the night-before. The cold and rain has gone, replaced with sunlight. Many of the Parisien landmarks are revealing themselves. I can see the two towers of the Cathedrale Notre Dame through the fading mist. I can see every rooftop of every home. For some reason a friend pops into my mind, and I recall a postcard he sent me from Croatia several years ago. In it he said that he was so happy there that he was never going to settle for second best in his life ever again. To my knowledge he never did. Travel can do that to you. Allez, allez, allez.

June 1: France - Paris (Vendredi)

What can be said about Paris? Paris, Paris, Paris. A name that speaks for itself. A name that has come to mean so much for so many different people. A city that manages to love itself without any hint of vanity. A city that manages to appreciate its suitors, lovers and friends. A city that has a warmth, a human side, a streak that is rough, tough sometimes brutal, and yet always finds time for a smile, even half a wink if you look close enough. Paris is a city that is in continuous evolution. Streets and Boulevards are named after those who were once part of her life; now gone, still appreciated and never forgottern. You get the impression that this is why Paris will always be one of the world's greatest cities; nothing is cast in stone here, nothing is set in its ways. Paris is free and she will always be free because she is always herself and she knows who she is.

The sheer size and scale of this city is breathtaking. The thought and deliberate care that must've gone into the planning of this place is almost as amazing to comprehend. What wonderful minds thought up such wonderful dreams and visions to add to this spellbinding collage of architectural beauty and grandeur. The creation of art and beauty is everywhere in abundance. If the fruits of any would-be artist is penuary and scratching a living from a garret, then why not enjoy the experience in somewhere like Paris; there can be no better place. Everywhere you look Muse is ready to whisper something to you. You begin to sense an awareness here that the true essence of any artist is to create something beautiful, to add something, to advance on an idea, to make something last forever... and how do you do that? How can you make your own work, ideals and ideas stand up and last that long to become timeless? The answer is yours to find in Paris.

Just as beautiful are the women. Even more-so, if you care to be biased. Every shade, every shape, every colour. Stop wherever you like, on any street and take time to watch the women walk by. You could never waste any second doing this. The women here are like dark chocolate - soft, smooth, edible and far more alluring to the palette than the milk variety. One bite and you know what sensations would melt in your mouth. Clicking heels chatter over cobblestoned Rues and Boulevards. Giggles and laughter rise up from the shadows of narrow, empty squares and coil themselves upwards like the corkscrew staircases in each of these small apartment blocks. The facades of which reach up with such severity you wouldn't have time to spell vertigo. Every man should experience Paris at least once in his life, just as every woman should experience diamonds.



Friday evening and I'm sat in a cafe just off Rue Rambuteau waiting for a friend to arrive. It's just gone eight and the dripping drizzle has made the pavestones outside the Forum des Halles shine with the wet. The red neon sign of the Cafe Au Pere Tranquille reflects on the floor with the puddles there. People and pigeons are passing by. Everybody is cooing. The coolness of tonight's air is kind, perfumed by the sweet smell of pipe tobacco, smoked from a table behind me. Three women walk past this cafe. All three belong to three different groups. All three walk the same direction. All three wear identical pink scarves. The bells of Notre Dame Cathedrale are slowly drifting up the Seine. In another hour darkness will come to this part of the Latin Quarter. And by that time the Seine will no longer be the colour of absinthe.