It happens to be Paris Fashion Week, and there is a palpable buzz in the city.

Not that I am a dedicated follower of fashion but as I have said previously, I used to design and make my own clothes when I was younger, so I have an appreciation for the work involved.

Plus you can spot a fashion model in civilian clothes at 100 metres – the effortless way they dress and the way they carry themselves, or maybe that’s just how Parisian women are? Either way, I have seen lots of fashion photographers all over the icons of Paris accompanied by models posing, and make-up artists or assistants fluffing and preening. In fact while in Paris, I, being ever fashion conscious (not), have changed from wearing the old trend of ‘backpacker chic’ with my standard jeans, top, sweater, and comfortable walking shoes into trying to look less ‘shabby tourist’ and more feminine.

In fact during this relax time I have had a chance to go through my suitcase and sort my clothes, as I plan to send home my cold weather gear (thermal underwear, gloves, beanies etc) that I’ll no longer need. As well, I always try to travel with a percentage of old clothes, especially when the bulk of my travel is backpacking in the outdoors/ wilderness areas. The benefit is that these old clothes are one of my layers keeping me warm; at the same time no one can see their scruffiness! Then, I can dispose of worn out ones into charity bins and lighten my suitcase in the process, farewelling old clothes that have served me well, some for over ten years.

One of these was my quick-dry cargo pants. They were fantastic easy-to-wear and reliable, with a lot of handy pockets, in Iceland, Peru, and Bolivia. I have lost a lot of weight on this trip so, unfortunately, my cargoes need a belt to hold them up, as they are now two sizes too big with the legs dragging on the floor (which was a major problem on the road in Bolivian toilets of questionable cleanliness). This creates an enormous overhang of gathered fabric at the backside. I wanted a change from ‘Derelicte’ fashion like in the movie Zoolander. The cargoes had to go.

Today I will be visiting Rive Droite or Right Bank among others, the site of the famous Champs Élysées and Paris’ centre for high fashion brands and where many haute couture ateliers have their salons and outlets. But first, the beauty that is the Eiffel Tower.

La Tour Eiffel is an alluring belle seducing all with her charm. I catch a metro  – as I will be walking a great deal today  (19000 steps!) – and emerge just beside her. It is a stunning day and she is transcendent in stature. Aesthetically, she is artistry personified. All passers-by stand and stare. It is difficult not to admire her awesome form and look where you are walking. I pass by the usual soldiers and police and walk through checkpoints where my bag is searched before I am allowed inside the secure area around the base. I am not going up the tower today. I have been up before and that is another story. I am happy to admire from below. Once inside the secure area I gaze upward at the symmetry of her design. I feel a little like I am looking under her skirts.

I pass under and out of her orbit walking toward the Champs de Mars; yet always the eye is drawn back to her. It seems she is everywhere. Pausing outside the UNESCO building and the Army Museum, my destination is the pretty in pink and primped Jardin du Luxembourg – a garden that I have heard so much about and my expectations are surpassed. People gather in small groups. Artists sit in the shade and draw. Couples snuggle in the sun. Water fountains tinkle and statues, each with a passive demeanour, guard their sanctuary.

I pass through the tiny alleys of bohemian Paris with their small cafés and hole-in-wall bookshops; it’s great to see such a thriving bookshop scene here.

Nowhere is love in Paris, the city of love, more apparent than on the Pont des Arts where lovers would attach a lock and throw the key into the Seine to represent their undying love. This practice has now been deterred and a new site set up nearby, but it is still a beautiful bridge linking the Academie to the Louvre, where I pass a man playing accordion. How French!

The unmistakable façade of the Louvre with its atypical pyramid leads me to the Tuileries and the Place de la Concorde where Marie Antoinette, a dedicated fashion trend setter for her time, lost her head.

Past the Grand and Petit Palais, the same vista incorporates the Champs Élysées with the towering Arc de Triomphe like an asterisk on a map.

The Champs Élysées is a busy street! And you can almost get killed taking a photo like the one above, though many tourists attempt it, including yours truly. S’il vous plait, don’t try it.

Not far from the Arc is the suburb of Trocadero  – on the opposite bank from the Tower – and this is my destination to see the Eiffel Tower’s night time twinkling lights display, the city of Paris’ version of the can-can. It is a long wait in my perfectly situated spot for sunset and then the 8 pm lights but well worth it.

I want to see what my phone’s capabilities are with filters. While waiting, I happen to sit near, and chat to, a fashion photographer who is in town for the Fashion Week – she advises me on time lapse videos too. Fun stuff. I couldn’t decide which pic to use so here is my homage to La Tour Eiffel, all of them.

When I leave to go home, I feel pumped as if I had seen all of Paris finery in a fashion show display.

 

My time in Paris is coming to a close. But there is one last jewel she has to offer as a finale. Montmarte.

I cannot sleep in my little flat, partly because the apartment block is situated between two major hospitals and some nights the ambulances seem constant. Later that day, I will send my box of cold weather gear back home. The following day, Europe experiences a cold snap sending temperatures plummeting to six degree nights and twelve degree days. An added bonus is that I get locked out again and my old friend has to come and rescue me by using what he calls “the poor man’s WD40” – oil – to loosen the lock to an alarming degree so that I am worried it will actually completely break off before I leave and it is no longer my problem.

I rise early, before dawn, and make my way in the semi-dark up the hill to Sacre Coeur. It is cool and quiet, and apart from a few early morning risers and joggers, I am alone at the parapet overlooking the waking Paris in the pink light – la vie en rose. Aircraft leave peach-coloured vapour trails that streak the sky like comets. It is magical.

Then the pendulous golden sun emerges and casts an orange glow over the rooftops and chimneys. I stay and absorb the spectacle until the restaurants in Montmarte are open for business, determined by the wafting smell of warm croissants and hot chocolate.

As I sit and eat my last French meal, artists emerge and set up their easels ready for the day, and the true cachet of this city is apparent: Paris is always in vogue, no matter what era, season, or time of day.

Till we meet again, Paris. Oh la la.