Paris - day 1.

My hotel is on the Rue de Rivoli. I chose it because it looks like it's been this way since the 1920's, brothel red and turquoise, intricate patterned wallpaper, old brocade chairs, paintings everywhere and a staircase that wound up to my attic room. The woman at the desk looked like a surly Audrey Tatin. She didn't smile once during my four days staying there. My room was tiny; emerald wallpaper, an oriental wardrobe and a view over the rooftops of Paris, and a single bed which made me feel somewhat sad and claustrophobic. I think it was because I was coming down with a cold. I checked to see if there was a double room available and there was, so off I went to have a chat to Audrey. The room was only available for three nights and Valentine's day was coming up. I was not allowed to have it, even if I moved back to my attic on the last night. She was adamant. She was the first and last non-friendly person on my years journey. Maybe she had no Valentine. Paris is my retro spirit city, I am retro from way back. The cafe I find for breakfast is all mirrors, daffodil yellow tiles, red tables. I order a Croque Monsieur and a noisette, as the French call a Macchiato. I take a photo of myself in the toilet, it's so beautiful; the first of many throughout my trip. It seems the light in toilets filters out wrinkles; a necessity of the mature aged woman.

Then I wander "Alone and palely loitering' as Keats said about La Belle Dame sans Merci, along the Seine which is wild and beige, although the day is shiny with sunlight. I walk until I can't walk anymore and find a Belle Epoque patisserie, with a painted ceiling and beautiful Art Nouveau tiled walls. I have a pate au choux, filled with delicate lemon cream. Lunch sorted. I walk through the afternoon until exhaustion drives me to the restaurant next to my hotel. I have stepped back again in time. The walls are covered with retro ads. I slide into the brown leather banquettes and am attended to by a flirty waiter who appears to have stepped out of the 1920's, dressed in black and white, he asks me if someone will be joining me; the first of many such questions here in France. I tell him I am alone. He is visibly saddened by this fact and can't understand why a 'beautiful' woman such as myself would be eating alone. I am flattered (it doesn't take much) and order a Vermouth with a twist of orange, and the dish the waiter recommended -Moules Mariniere. It comes with chips wrapped in a cone of paper. The steaming mussels are in a chilli, wine broth and the bread is scented with garlic. Another toilet photo and I'm off to bed with my cold.