Remember my acute melancholy two weeks ago? Well, Paris, I have good news! No, it’s not that I have finally managed to squeeze every penny out of my existence to get that brand new Burberry trench coat, which I have. Neither it’s that I have scored not gold or silver sandals but gold and silver in one pair (Gucci has launched its sale in the US two weeks ago – thank you, my American blogger boo for lending me your address) in case I get a regular dinner invitation at le guide Michelin restaurants. It’s not about all the different deniers of Wolford black tights I’ve recently collected either.

Two weeks ago, I had started spinning my head around. Because nothing can crush a dream such as a Paris dream, something must happen or be done. Broke and blue, I decided to do something – English rain has nothing on my persistence! I worked on my trust in me again, in the power of dreams, my dreams. They came into my life for a reason. I smiled and took a naked mirror selfie in my study-cum-guest-room and felt fabulous again.

That was an important start. Then I stared at my wardrobe, at about 50 boxes of designer shoes and made a list of 10 pairs (plus those squeezable pairs) I would take with me to Paris and a list of a very few pairs I would let go. I took photos of those few pairs with my new amazing compact camera, Canon M3, which fits in my mini Gucci Dionysus bag and put them on eBay.

And then something happened. My shoes sold incredibly quickly and buyers paid within seconds. So I booked an autumn course at Cours de Civilisation Française de la Sorbonne, followed by an apartment search 24 hours a day everyday until I have seen everything on every website and can tell if a flat has a bath or a shower just by looking at the cover picture. This time my bedsores have more meaning than ever.

Dealing with French estate agencies, I found that they are not aggressive at all compared to their English counterparts, who’ll ring you every five minutes as soon as they get your number, just to check if you’ve had lunch and a think about the property. I don’t want to say they’re rather slow, but I lost at least three apartments that I really liked in the process because of the way they communicate (I sound antsy, don’t I?) But, hey, finding a home has something to do with destiny, and I was destined to find my last-minute favourite.

I won’t tell you where exactly, because I want to be a hedonic recluse, but suffice to say I will live a few steps away from La Seine (left bank) and Notre-Dame in the oldest district of Paris for three and a half months. Too many hints? I will tell you everything at the end of my stay. Although the rental price says “luxe” compared to other flats in the 5th, 6th, and 7th arrondissements, it is fairly simple. The studio is rather poetic and that’s perfect. And, as my psychic friend says, who needs a bath in Paris when you can be watched sitting outside drenched anyway! It has two big windows overlooking an ancient non-mainstream tourist attraction and a charming street, all my favourite bookshops are within walking distance and, most importantly, it is available! So I rang the estate agent every five minutes to ask if he’s had lunch and done something about my reservation request – never give me your phone number. Got what I wanted within a day, now I am in direct contact with the owner, en français!

Where did I learn my French? À l’Université Vestiaire Collective, of course. That’s where I recently bought (in three instalments) my Chanel brooch and Saint Laurent black cape. That’s also where I learned my “bien cordialement”, which impressed my landlord – it’s basically what you say after you made a sadistic offer on an item.

My apparently publicly respected landlord (thanks, Google and Facebook search) has already said bienvenu à Paris in his response to my email, so I am officially there: people watching from my first floor windows, studying langue et civilisation françaises in the best place five days a week, sitting outside in a restaurant while chatting with a smoker standing on the street who’s asking how my magret de canard is – never bleu enough, drinking wine all the time because it’s cheaper than tea, missing my bath in England, trying to write while listening to my Paris playlist without having to worry I will miss Paris.

For those who have contributed to my playlist, your big kiss is coming your way. As for you who want to join my current mind journey in Paris, I’m offering you my new playlist. Just search ‘imagined paris’ and follow it on Spotify – I was made their new playlist cover star this week because of it, by the way! I don’t know what that means, though. The playlist is rather random yet comprehensive and I promise you it doesn’t involve La vie en rose (I prefer my 9-euro windup music box version). If you’re not on Spotify, ah well, invite me to tea at Claridge’s and I’ll hand you the list (hurry before I’ve actually left England).

Et voila! Bien cordialement!

je t’embrasse,

d.o., le 14 juin 2016

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