Holly Ringland

My dearest,

I was four years old the first time the perfume of France filled my head. I grew up in my grandmother’s garden; a tropical awning of blooms tucked behind a mango tree on an acre of central Queensland coast. I remember the smell of dark damp earth at the flower markets and the mouth-watering sweetness of the candy-coloured bells and stars that filled all the vases in my grandmother’s open-windowed house. And I remember the day she came home with a tray of white petals that had the thick creamy lustre of pearls. They reminded me of the pearls she wore every day, rain or shine, gardening or dinner and dancing; the pearls she gave me before I left Australia. She guided my little fingertips over the smooth white skin of the porcelain blooms. These my girl, she said to me, are French gardenia. I buried my nose into their heart and smelled the scent of Paris.

I was remembering this, thinking about those milk and honey days with my grandmother, as I buried myself deeper into my red woollen coat standing in the drizzle on the shores of east England. I stood against the backdrop of the white cliffs of Dover waiting for the boarding gates to rise on the Star of France ferry. The water was the colour of milky green glass and reflected the clouds in a crumpled endless sheet of cornflower blue. As England shrank from my view and I felt my spine tingle with the fire of excitement, I put my hand against the ferry window glass as though I could pull myself towards France faster somehow. I was on my way to Paris, with my oldest childhood friend, to camp on the banks of the Seine and engorge my mind on every boutique ornate foil-wrapped sense-saturating delicacy I had been craving of this city for most of my life.

The drive from the portside town of Calais where our ferry docked (that delighted me with its shoreline polka dotted with seaside umbrellas and windmills) through the countryside to shimmering Paris, was something out of an illustrated picture book. We drove through hills of jewelled green fields set with the honeyed spires of church bell towers and the cobbled terracotta rooftops of whitewashed villages. We found a French golden oldies radio station and sang our lungs out to Johnny Cash and The Big O as we coasted through valleys of villages and hills of wind turbines that reminded me of enormous white paper cranes. And then, after a few hours, we reached the crescendo of what was to be our last hill… we came up over the rise and for a moment I couldn’t see for the golden ball of the afternoon sun. I shielded my eyes, looked to my right and promptly started to wail in an embarrassing half-laugh half-cry kind of guttural way as my hand flew to mouth. There it was, Le Tour Eiffel, winking at me in the afternoon light.

Our campsite was literally set right on the riverbank and overlooked the gypsy tugboats on the Seine decorated with their deck chairs, pot plant gardens bursting with colour and kerosene lamps that, as the sun went down, cast twinkling ripples of candle glow on the water’s surface. My first night in Paris was spent under the stars by the Seine with a can of tequila beer from the campsite supermarket (it is honestly exactly as it sounds – tequila in beer – and made in France!) and wedges of cheese that I shamelessly licked all ten fingers for.

I spent my week in Paris collecting favourite moments, dipping them in handmade French chocolate and arranging them on a silver tray, admiring them this way and that way for their decoration and flavour.

Everything about this city seduced me; the ornate quintessential romance and decadent beauty of Paris is everywhere, it is in everything: the architecture, the language, the food, the fashion, the light. I wandered around the streets opening doorway after doorway in my mind, thinking to myself over and again, so this is where they keep all the light.

Paris is chandeliers and carousels, it is charm bracelets and art nouveau on the foothpath. It is to see and be seen (the cafes have all their seating facing the street), it is midnight suppers (when we dined with local friends, I don’t think dinner was served once before 10pm) of cream and bread and wine. It is red lipstick and black coffee and the violet liqueur of acid jazz on Boulevard St Germain. It is, to me, utter and complete saturating enchantment. And the locals know it, loving their city with justifiable ferocity and eyeballing you a little warily if you in any way behave like too much of a tourist; I learned how to soften my pallet with the little French I know very quickly. A genuine smile never gets scoffed at though and that I managed effortlessly – at one point my cheeks were hurting after involuntarily grinning for days.

Within the first couple of days of arriving, we had walked tens of kilometres around Paris as I collected charms of each famous landmark and hung them in platinum knots from the boughs in my mind: the Arc De Triomphe, Champs-Elysees, the Musee du Louvre, Left Bank, Right Bank, Le Tour Eiffel, Musee du Orsay, Montmarte and Sacre Coeur. My mind and heart ran to catch up from the stupor of disbelief they were each firmly lodged in: I knew I was going to fall under the spell of this place, there was just no way I could have prepared myself for how incredibly intense my bewitching was going to feel. The locals know this, they know about this seduction and riverside vendors offer you every way imaginable to remember your time in their city with their French lit first editions and framed prints right down to handbags, keyrings and tea towels. It’s as though just the name of this gilded city is charm enough to gild even the tackiest of tack.

At the end of endless days, we spent our nights in our camping chairs by the glow of our lantern and the spliced candle light from the gypsy boats on the Seine. Cricket song and the river’s heartbeat filled our ears as we ate out of cans and drank red wine out of bottles. Mostly, I spent our nights borrowing plumes of the lives I had caught a glimpse of during the day, if only for a moment.

I was a writer, living in the Latin Quarter on the Left Bank in a white apartment with a black scrolled iron balcony smothered with pots filled with a shock of blood red geraniums. I smoked thinly rolled cigarettes, wore thick black kohl eyes and when I had writer’s block, I yelled at my friends in the cafe below in a torrent of tumbling French from my open window through which the wind billowed my Chantilly curtains and ruffled the edges of the creamy paper in my old Hermes typewriter.

I was a fashionista living in Montmarte with my lover, an artiste, who was from old money and drove a powder blue convertible Aston Martin. I always wore Chanel when he took me for a drive. He played the trumpet along with his jazz records and I sauntered about in thigh-high stockings and purple cowboy boots. My idea of cooking was strolling down to the boulangerie for dark chocolate Florentines and across to le bon marche for miel yoghourt and blackcurrant juice to make a carafe of kir at home. I may sometimes have felt lonely but knew that in Paris, I was never alone.

I was a gypsy on the road in a tutu and Dr. Martens with my amp and guitar case, my prize possessions. I sang Sinatra to the flocks of tourists on the river and curtseyed deeply whenever the larger gold coins with the silver centres hit the tattered velvet at my feet. I slept in the crystal light of the Palace Louvre and ate for cheap at night in a corner of the Hotel Chartier where the staff were kind to me and let me in with a wink as long as I rouged my cheeks and showed them my change before I ordered my favourite; whole egg mayonnaise, avocado with shrimp sauce and, on a good day, half a dozen garlic escargot.

I slid in and out of these lives I caught snatches of as I explored the city and marvelled at the melting pot of life and culture here.

On my last day in Paris, I took a walk by the river on my own and meandered my way down to the Left Bank where out of the blue, I stumbled upon a glass-roofed green house. I peered through the foggy little windows and the hand painted sign, Le Fleur Marche. I swung open the glass door and walked into the little flower market knowing exactly where I was headed. I ran my fingers along the edges of the pearlescent bloom and slowly lowered my face to its heart. Sure enough, it was the very scent of Paris.

I followed stories of empires and kings, writers and artists, plagues and wars home on the cobblestone streets that night, listening to my footsteps lead me through Paris. I rounded a corner and came upon the open music box that is the Eiffel Tower at night, lit up and twinkling like the facets of a prism caught in the light. I held my hand at my throat and heard the silver tinkle on my wrist, my little piece of Paris I wear now with me everywhere to remind me of the piece of myself I left behind to return again and again and again to pretend to collect. The sunset was gorgeous… of course… the river caught silver in twilight dappled with caps of green and dusky gold. I sat for a while reading until it was time to leave. As I walked away, I remembered the first time I read of Hemingway’s love affair with Paris when I was a teenager and how now, I too could finally take this place with me everywhere I go… for Paris is indeed a moveable feast.

During the ferry ride back towards the white cliffs, I sank into humble silence as I felt tides of inspiration rising in my veins and the feverish excitement building in me for what is now to come. In my wildest wishes as a girl, I could have dreamt this up but never imagined the reality to be mine or for it to be to me what it is. I rested my head against the glass of the ferry window, watching the sun light the cliffs in a platinum glaze. I reminded myself to call my grandmother. I made a mental note to buy new notebooks and ink-tipped pens for class. I thought to myself, my writing days await. And you are with me every step of the way… but still…

I of course wish you were here.

Love,
Holly x

a darkened stormy afternoon in Paris couldn’t dim the glow on my grin at seeing this sight up close for the first time.

a face in the crowd… the marvel and wonder that is the Louvre.

amidst the swarms in Napoleon’s apartments.

little bird in the light… soaring over Paris on a sunny afternoon on the wings of Le Tour Eiffel.