Ile St Louis

When I was told that I am taken to Grasse Institute of Perfumery, I was thrilled because I had two of my dreams coming true at the same time: becoming a perfumer and living on the Cote D'Azur. On the same time, this meant also being far away my boyfriend and leaving behind the privilege to have an apartment at Ile St Louis.

If you ask any Parisian where they want to live, they would say without any hesitation that the most idealistic location would be the heart of the French Capital, one of the two little islands along the Seine, Ile St Louis. Isolated from the city and only accessible via one of the 5 bridges, it is a village on its own. It has all sort of commerces for everyday needs, it has a pharmacy, two boulangerie, a florists, two butcher, a mini supermarket, many cafés and restaurants, bars, bookstores, antique dealers and art galleries. All these present on the island less than one km square.

I was one of the villageois and it was difficult to leave such an ideal place. I remember seeing the Island at the first time: I was around 15 years old and was visiting Paris with my Mother in the frame of an organised trip. I remember smelling the fresh woody-green breeze mixing with the mineral accords of the Seine while traversing the bridge called Pont Marie. Serene elegance was shooting, as if the island was really floating.

The tourist guide explained us that real estate prices are higher on the Ile St Louis than in Manhattan, stars worldwide are queuing to have the chance to buy any apartment. The owners - mostly rich aristocrats from noble French families - refuse to sell their properties despite the fact that they are not living in them anymore. I remember watching a young lady in her Chanel costume crossing the bridge probably going to work and felt envy. Not the one from Gucci. The one that makes you want to exchange your life for someone else's.

Around 12 years later, I became that young lady bursting out of our building heading to work while being photographed by a few Japanese tourist who probably heard the same speech from their tourist guide and believed that I can only be the offspring of royal French family or some Hollywood stars. Ironically, on that day, I was also wearing Chanel, though it was not a costume, it was No 5.

Before I bumped into our future ex-home, I was already over some serious nervous breakdowns due to my experiences in searching for an apartment in Paris. Though my subconscious have deleted the horrible memories in order to conserve my mental health, I remember my shock when an agent wanted to convince me to rent a flat next to Louvre, which had a huge bathroom and a tiny-filthy bedroom, and I can also recall visiting a loft just above the main street of the prostitute quartier.

When I entered the apartment at Ile St Louis, to my biggest surprise, it was clean, it was new and it smelled like freshly cut tomato leaves. I was charmed. As my boyfriend and I were just out of school and had no money, this apartment was a huge luxury we allowed ourselves, but both of us being far from our home country, we have decided to make rather scarifies on anything else but not on the place we would live at.

I soon fell in love with every square meter of the island. And I felt the island welcomed me with opened arms too: I would consider the old fromager as my grandfather, even though he would look at me strictly if I arrived to his shop only a few minutes before closing. I wouldn't miss waving to the cute butcher every morning, even though I usually was seriously late from work. Every rain-less Saturday morning, we would sit on one of the black iron benches facing the Seine and eat baguette just out of the oven, with creamy goat cheese and fresh ruccola salad as breakfast.
It was in the tiny park on the top of the island were I would cry after an eventual fight with my boyfriend, and it was at the nationwide famous Berthillon ice cream shop where I would take an extra scoop of groseille when we came around again.
It was at the bar at the Rue de Deux Pont where I would have my anniversary usually celebrated and it was at the Pont Sully facing the back of the Notre Dame where my boyfriend would take me for some romantic walk and often stop for red berry - mint flavored kisses.

It was in the church St Louis where I prayed when my brother was in the hospital and I couldn't be with him, and it was also there where asked to have enough courage to leave my secure job and become a perfumer.

The last night I spent on the island, just before travelling to Grasse, I went to the most beautiful spot in Paris, to Pont St Louis.
I wanted to hear the last time the accordionist who played chansons françaises every single night between Ile St Louis and Ile de la Cité. He was playing in the coldest winter evenings and the hottest summer nights, or if it was raining cats and dog. Finding him in every weather conditions on the bridge during my first year livin on the island, I knew that he is the most reliable men I will ever have in my life.

On my last way home via that bridge, I have decided to thank him for his music, for making me feel I was really an offspring of a French royal family while listening to his bitter sweet songs. Or just thank him for being there when I needed to dream. I wanted to say good-bye and tell him he will probably never see me anymore.
It was eleven o'clock, I could bite the smell of winter in the air, and it was just the two of us on the bridge. I put into his hat on the floor a few euros bill instead of the coin I usually offered him. Though he was following my movements with his eyes, he heard me saying good-bye, he didn't stop playing, he continued and just smiled at me.
I was walking home hearing the melody fading away and was feeling already terribly nostalgic to Ile St Louis.

Next day, in the morning, I was already on my way to Grasse on the Route de Soleil. Even though the name of the road means the "Sunny Highway" in french, it didn't stop raining during the 12 hour car trip. Thought the next morning I woke up in this new village of mine, checked out the stunning view of my terrasse, already smelled jasmin in my nose in spite of winter time, and I knew that if I thought leaving Paris was difficult, it will be nothing compared to eventually leaving Grasse.