Paris Dreaming

by Katrina Lawrence

  In this land of contradictions and opposites — a hexagon of a country that encompasses all extremes of climate — it is arguably the continual tension between contrasts that keeps things balanced, ordered and harmonious. It’s that taking of the serious things lightly, as much as the light things seriously. It’s being as hard on yourself as you are good to yourself. It’s the constant questioning of self, the looking at things from all angles, the relentless search for meaning, that keeps the spirits striving high. (Even those black-garbed furrowed-brow Existentialists were blissful in their own perverse way.) It’s the fact that everyone is an aesthete, but also a philosopher; it’s the importance of a groomed appearance as much as a beautiful mind. It’s that beauty belongs to the young, as well as to the old, to the past, but also the present and future.

  Paris is where I’ve grown up, I reflect, as I sit in Salon Proust sipping my tisane and savouring a lemon-iced madeleine. I watch little girls in floral smocks and long plaits skip by with their parents, their world still a wonderland in a snowdome. Then skulk past the sulky, sooty-eyed teenagers, clad in black and shrouded in confused rebellion. I can’t help but sigh nostalgically over a gaggle of trussed-up twenty-somethings, as sparkly and bubbly as Bollinger. At the table next to me, a woman in her thirties with a diamond flashing from her ring finger nibbles cake while her paramour whispers sweet nothings. Over in the corner, a mother tries to beg then bribe then blackmail her young children to behave appropriately.

  I’ve played all of these roles during my various times in Paris, this quintessentially feminine realm that has been the domain of so many strong females, and that so naturally welcomes women — especially those in search of their inner Parisienne. Australia might be my country, but Paris is my hometown (to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, the American novelist and honorary Parisienne). I’ve come here at every life stage, and have never not felt at home in this city that celebrates all ages, this city that is as delightful in the fresh bloom of spring as she is breathtaking in the sparse elegance of winter. A city for all seasons, she’s also one for all emotions. There’s no better place on earth to either fall in love or mend a heartache, to dance the night away or hunker down with existential angst. I’ve certainly had some miserable moments here, although mostly elated ones, because Paris has given me my purpose to life. She’s my own madeleine, where the past, present and future all suddenly make sense.

  Some people find their place in the world at home, others in an ashram in India or on the sun-bleached coasts of Italy or amid the madness of Manhattan. It was Paris that spoke to me, and taught me the most about how to see the world around me — and myself in it. I’m often lulled into an enchanted calmness when I lose myself in Paris, winding around streets steeped in history, and it’s like my sense of self sharpens into focus, my place in the world falling into perspective. I think about the countless feet that have walked over the same time-smoothed stones, steps heavy with worries about long-gone everyday lives, and I realise we’re but a blip in this universe. It reminds me to enjoy every little second of this precious life. It’s little surprise that the French came up with joie de vivre, the joy of living. Joie de vivre is about indulging not just in beauty and luxury, but also in pure and simple pleasures, such as crunching into a fresh baguette, or chatting about anything and everything over a carafe of house wine as the world rushes by, or strolling for hours on end.

  With each visit, as the layers of history revealed themselves a little more, I delved deeper into the city’s story, ventured further on the city’s streets. The French prize their lieux de mémoire, those monuments and museums infused with historical gravity. But we all have our own personal sites of memory that, like Marcel’s madeleine, are portals to our past. Many of mine are in Paris, of course, like the café in which I agonised over the meaning of life in my university years. From time to time, as I retrace old steps, I notice that a beloved old shop or restaurant has been shuttered up, and a pang twists my heart, but then I realise that the new lick of paint has not erased my recollections — they’re only a pastry-thin layer away. You might not be able to completely re-create a memory, as Marcel lamented, but you can still keep it alive. All you need to do is remember.

  The world might change — and you, too, might continually transform yourself, as you grow into new life stages. You can let the past run away from you, or you can run away from the past. Or you can simply run away. But the past is always there, ready for recall at the click of a button or dunk of a cake or close of the eyes.

  Paris has taught me to revere, not regret, the past, but not at the expense of enjoying the present. She has shown me how to love the good things in life, but also the simple ones; to worship family and friends above all, but never forget my place in wider society; to live to eat; to work to live, and to live within my means; to fight the dreaded groundhog-day life known as boulot-métro-dodo (job, train, sleep) by never being too busy to stop and just be. Because when you exist in the moment, or even a past moment, this is when you have time to reflect, to recalibrate your perspective, to reconnect with yourself, or who you really want to be.

  I’ve always loved that the French don’t slavishly follow trends, even though their fashion industry sets most of them. In the same way, their style of beauty is not prescriptive, but vague enough to be personalised. Abstract in nature, French beauty isn’t weighed down by the concrete. It’s not set in stone, in other words, although sometimes it literally is: in the sculptures, the bridges, the buildings. It’s this all-encompassing, often overwhelming nature of beauty in Paris — at once humbling and heart-soaring — that keeps many women going back, and back to the city. But this multifaceted definition of beauty has also shone a new light on beauty for me, as a writer who specialises in the subject, as well as a woman who is ageing. Perspective, it turns out, is a pretty effective beauty treatment — especially when that viewpoint is Parisian.

  I order another glass of champagne, and salute Paris, the City of Light, of love, of lipstick — and, above all, of life.

  ~ FIN ~

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE FONT

  The hardcover edition of this book is set in Adobe Garamond, a beautifully clean and elegant font that was inspired by the work of the early-sixteenth-century Parisian punchcutter, Claude Garamond. Toiling away in the era of the French Renaissance, Monsieur Garamond was also a star of the so-called Golden Age of French Typography. Back when scribes were artists and printers were goldsmiths, Garamond’s exquisite hand-cut metalwork helped to move the written word from Blackletter (a.k.a. the fierce barbaric font known as Gothic) towards Roman, encouraging the French language to make itself over in time for the grand siècle of the 1600s. In this way, Garamond gave form to the modern French language, and remains to this day timelessly chic. You could, in fact, say that it is the Parisienne of fonts: slim and neat, but with a touch of panache, just as a local might set off her sleek jeans and Chanel jacket with a nonchalant beret. And as for the exuberant flourish that is the italicised Garamond ampersand — — surely that’s the font equivalent of a Parisienne’s swirled-on scarf?

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  They say it takes a village to raise a child. The French say it, too. Il faut tout un village . . . A book being basically a baby (albeit with a sometimes elephantine gestation period), I was blessed to have a particularly brilliant town around me — my own little literary City of Light. So I cannot truly sign off without sending a big bisou and merci to . . .

  Selwa Anthony, my wonderful, kind-hearted, glamorous agent, for taking a chance on me, for holding my hand throughout this epic journey of ups and downs (but mostly ups), and for always having the door open for tea, cheesecake and chats (thanks, too, of course, to Brian and Linda for always being there).

  Drew Keys, for giving me the confidence to push through in those early, slightly befuddled days, when my manuscript meandered around like a first-time visitor to Paris without a map or sunglasses.

  The various pu
blishers and editors I saw early on, who happily gave me their time and constructive advice, with no strings attached.

  HarperCollins. I’m still pinching myself to have such a dream publishing team. I am forever indebted to Catherine Milne, my publisher, for her warmth and wisdom; and to Nicola Robinson, my editor, for her unfailing encouragement, awesome organisational skills, and shared enthusiasm for Emmanuel Macron’s victory (oh, and for letting me squeeze in a few thousand more words). It has been beyond inspiring to work with such lovers of fonts, facts and em dashes.

  Virginia Lloyd, for such gentle and generous guidance at the structural stage of things — for prodding me where I needed to be prodded, and also pulling me back from where I didn’t need to go. This book is immeasurably better for her involvement. Julia Cain, for taking a gilded fine-tooth comb to the almost-completed manuscript, and pushing me to polish things up even more — while helping to control the excess of adjectives like ‘twinkling’ and ‘glittering’ (it’s the beauty writer in me!). Nicola Young, our proofreader, for her awe-inspiring mastery of grammar as much as her appreciation of French culture, and for keeping me on point — as well as en pointe. I could not have wished for a more formidable squad of editors and readers.

  Josephine Pennicott, who first encouraged me to write a book, so many years ago, and who graciously passed on my early manuscript to Selwa, also her agent.

  Sarah Ayoub, for her belief in and excitement for the book from the get-go.

  Clémentine Campardou, for her soul-satisfyingly beautiful illustrations, and for casting her stylish eye over my French vocabulary. I’m so thrilled that her inner australienne got to work with my inner parisienne.

  Yasemin Trollope and Jocelyn Petroni, for sparking the idea for the book in the first place. It is to date my all-time favourite Café de Flore session.

  Kirsten Carriol, Elsa Morgan and Yasmin Boland, my three Parisian graces as much as muses.

  Mija Crasnich, Anna Hamilton and Carolyn Cliffe, for keeping the pompoms fluttering.

  Mum and Dad, for introducing me to Paris, and for always believing that I would eventually reach my ideal destination, despite all the day-dreamy strolling and scenic detours along the way. I could not possibly have better Paris travel partners, nor life guides.

  Andy, for giving me his home office (complete with rose-tinted windows and angel on ceiling), putting up with the various bouts of hysteria and plagues of post-it notes, and for coming to accept that I will never get over my Paris obsession. But, most of all, for his unerring faith in me.

  Noah and Otto, for giving me the ultimate reason to continue to relive the wonders of Paris, that City of Light and life.

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