“It is snowing!” he’d texted, an hour before I got on the train. “Du chocolat chaud alors pour le dîner,” I’d texted back. Some three hours later, we were grinning at each other through the crush at Gare du Nord, then the scooter ride, stockinged knees exposed to the winter night, and home to a bowl of Nesquik, saveur choco noisettes.



Maybe there are no words to talk about Paris. I could tell you about the Saturday snow, and I could tell you about the roast chickens and the cheese displays at the market. I could tell you about Adrien coming over to play backgammon. About Hector and the Petit Robert. About Marc, and kirs cassis, and the utter charm of the Librarie Forgeot.



I could tell about the Portuguese brandy, and black coffees out of yoghurt pots. About the fig éclair at Fauchon, about fancy sandwiches and a religieuse à la rose at Ladurée. About the crêpes, maybe—une salée et une sucrée; or about the chocolate tasting at Pierre Marcolini. I will tell about this last one, actually—only that I thought we were going to get one of each, but Gab said, because he is wise, to get four of each.



Oh, I could tell about Gab and Olive and Yaya and Gigi and Fab. About Benjamine and Nadja. About Elaine and Bob and Sascha. About Boris and Christel and Fabienne, and the fury in the night. I will tell about this last one, actually—only that I was offered cocaine, and that this had never happened to me before. It was at the moment that the music stopped, of course, also the moment that everyone happened to stop talking. “Uh. Did you just ask me if I wanted some cocaine?” I said, into the sudden silence. “Yes.” “Um. No? Thank you?” “Okay.”



I could tell, I guess, about the fashion photographer who wanted to take my picture, or about the baker down the street who invited me to Tunisia to ride a camel, and to meet his mother. “La prochaine année vous venez,” he said, and handed over a sweet chouquette.



I could tell about hours spent reading in the hammock; about Milo curling up against my back, at five in the morning, like comfort and safety. Ronronner, to purr. I could tell about the party, late night in the Nineteenth. And actually, I will tell about this last one. Paul knew someone who knew someone, and somewhere behind the big iron doors there were running steps and screaming, and no one could hear us banging to gain entry. Inside, finally, there was a ping-pong table in the shape of a country, and three girls dancing to “Hey Ya”. There was paint spilled on the concrete floors, and a large, filthy tarpaulin hanging from the ceiling. The deejay kept crashing his iBook. La traquenard, a trap.



There are all these things I could tell about, but I don’t know that any of them could really tell the story of Paris. Because how to talk about the spicy, burnt smokesmell that infuses everything; or about the sharp, waking wind as we scooter through the streets; or about all the words that remain unsaid between us?

I was quite miserable, in quite an unexpected way, coming back to London Wednesday night, even with everything I know is good here. The rain was starting on the skylight sometime ’round midnight, and I was on the phone with CC, and she said: “Maybe you could go to Paris once a month.” And the rain was still coming down ’round one in the morning, and the room was spinning, I was so fatigued, and still I was on the phone with Maud, and she said: “There is a Eurostar ticket on the SNCF Web site for seventy-five euros.”

Here. I will tell you this. The only way to come back from Paris is to get a return ticket illico presto. December thirty-first, party of the year, and we’re gonna be dancing, in Paris.