Paris Revisited

Changing lines at Châtelet, I find myself accosted by a young chap in a big blue afro and a pair of dodgy shades. 'C'est le jour de l'an, on s'amuse, on se détend!' he rhapsodised. 'Hop! Hop! Hop! On sourit!' he chides me jovially, but I am tired and hungover, and scowl as I storm past.

I emerge at the Hôtel de Ville to find Paris enveloped in a freezing fog.

Sauntering down towards Bastille – one of the few hardy boulevardiers to brave the cold – the years seem to dissipate in the mist and, through the gloom of the winter afternoon, familiar sights surge to greet me like long-lost friends from a crowd. There's the bibliothèque Baudoyer and the Harmonia Mundi; the dome of the église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis; the little lavomatic that used to gobble up my change and socks; and – round the corner – the solid, sensible, pretty Place des Vosges.

This is my Paris. Mon quartier – from way back when the burly boulanger across the road and the skinny fromager a little further on would turn to address me with an 'Alors, jeune homme…'; when I would grab a falafel pita wrap from the Pletzel on the way home from work, and the occasional box of calissons from Flo; and everyone was still coming to terms with the new funny money that was the euro.

Turning down the rue des Tournelles, I am reassured to find the Bistrot du Dôme still there at the other end, and the twin Bofingers still at the entrance of rue Jean Beausire. But which door? Which door? I can't remember – 1, 7, 13? Behind one was my poky little garçonnière that was home, once – home.