PARIS, FRANCE — Art, culture, cuisine. The realms of Camus and the Can-Can. The Moulin Rouge, the hazy candlelight of Notre Dame and the alabaster white of Sacre Coeur. Bienvenue to the the Right Bank.
The Right Bank of the Seine; traditionally the realm of the already-haves, the high society, the nobility. But as you move between the wide boulevards of the 8th Arrondissement and the winding, climbing, charismatic streets of Montmartre, one thing is true: borders blur.
Our headquarters were located in a tiny (try 200 sq. feet) sixth floor loft under the roof of a classic tenement building near Pigalle.
In the evenings we’d meet Ian and Sarah along the designer-lined Champs-Elysees; in the mornings we’d wake to the clatter and chatter of the bohemian quarter.
Two entirely different worlds, but at the core, both quintessentially Parisian.
Flying buttresses and gargoyles be damned, the true beauty is finding just the right splash of light through the stained glass or watching the flicker of tea lights in the vast stillness.
Back in Montmartre, we explored the hauntingly beautiful cemetery.
The moss cloaked mausoleums, the linden tree lined walkways, the etched names and falling leaves — truly an apropos place for some of Paris’s most famous citizens to while away eternity.
In a light rain (when it drizzles, right?), we made our way up to Sacre Coeur to catch a peek of Mdm. Eiffel in the distance.
We whiled away the last couple hours at Cafe Fermi in the bustle of Pigalle. A last sip of crisp vin blanc, a last savor of this city that surprises, teases, sings like none other.
There’s never enough time in Paris — and yet, that’s just what keeps you craving, needing, waiting for more. Au revoir… for now.