When you fall in love in Paris, you show it with a lock.
A combination lock, a bike lock or, most often, a plain padlock (hundreds of them) all bearing lovers' names, hang from the chain-link railing of the Pont des Arts, the Bridge of Arts, their keys romantically tossed into the Seine flowing below.
"Without you my life has no meaning," reads the inscription on one lock, in French.
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"Walter and Tammy are engaged," another announces to the world, in English.
It would be easy to skip this humble footbridge with its glittering accessories in the tourist rush toward the historic Pont Neuf or the elegant Pont Alexandre III, but I am in no hurry on my second visit to Paris.
There are no museums on my schedule and no frantic dash to tick off every one of the city's famous landmarks. I have already seen the Mona Lisa, stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower, gazed at Napoleon's tomb and admired Notre-Dame.
This visit is all about enjoying Paris: wandering wherever the mood takes me, sitting in whatever park or cafe looks inviting, and eating as many baguettes, pastries and other wonderful things as my budget (and waistline) will allow.
"A Sleepless Night"
When I arrive, the whole city is talking about "Purple Rain." It is the first weekend of October, so the streets of Paris are especially crowded thanks to the annual Nuit Blanche, the White Night or Sleepless Night, when museums stay open until dawn and organizers promise "amazing and unusual" art installations all over the city.
One of them invites visitors to grab a clear plastic umbrella and walk through a courtyard where rain machines and lilac lights make it feel as though they have stepped into Prince's famous song.
I begin each of my few days in Paris with champagne. It is right there, chilling in an ice bucket in the corner of my hotel's breakfast buffet every morning, not far from the jug of milk.
Guests sip champagne from their glasses as casually as they would coffee from a cup, piling their plates with cold cuts, cheeses and buttery croissants generously slathered with Nutella.
An unexpected warm spell floods Paris with summery light, so I take in the breathtaking views of the city from the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur and set off to explore the hilly, bohemian Montmartre.
Who would have thought that grapes grow in Paris? They bask in the sun on the slope of the Rue des Saules at the Clos Montmartre, the city's only vineyard. Nearby you can try sea bass in a butter sauce at Le Moulin de la Galette, crowned with a small 18th-century windmill, one of the two that survive in the neighborhood.
In Search of a Poster
I take alarmingly frequent breaks to visit bakeries and patisseries.
At the bakery next to my hotel, just off the Champs-Elysees, there are baskets of warm baguettes, both crusty and soft, and display cases full of exquisite sweets that are impossible to ignore.
My favorite: a raspberry-pistachio cake, with tart ruby berries nestled into sweet clouds of pale green cream between layers of crisp puff pastry. Heaven.
Haunted by a poster of the restaurant Le Monde des Chimeres that I have owned for years, I head to the Ile Saint-Louis, one of the two islands on the Seine, where the photograph was taken.
The restaurant now goes by a new name, Mon Vieil Ami, but I am not disappointed. This quiet little island, with its main street lined with boutiques, is enchanting, and culinary temptations are everywhere: "rabbit in mustard sauce," "dark chocolate" ice cream, "rhubarb" sorbet.
Close Encounters at the Place de l'Etoile
For entertainment, I watch the crazy traffic swirling around the Arc de Triomphe.
There are no lanes and no traffic officers here. Cars entering the circle have the right of way, and they burst into the giant roundabout while other vehicles already inside it (moving alarmingly fast) screech to a halt, sometimes with just a few centimeters to spare.
You can hear the honking and see the angry hand gestures as vehicles of every size, from tiny Smart cars to enormous tour buses, try to make their way around the circle with equal determination.
Want to leave the roundabout for one of the 12 avenues radiating out from it? Just cut across diagonally in front of all the other traffic. Watching it is both terrifying and thrilling.
When I ask the concierge at my hotel whether she drives around the arch, she smiles and shrugs: "Of course, you just do it. You just keep moving; otherwise the other cars simply" (here she runs out of words and mimes what looks like cars wildly swerving around her).
Her colleague at the front desk then admits that when her husband drives around the arch, "I just close my eyes."
They tell me that when there is a crash at the Place de l'Etoile, the insurance companies of both drivers always split the bill 50/50. It is simply too hard to work out who is at fault. "But there are no crashes," one of the women insists.
Cheese Heaven
For a traffic-free experience, I head to the Rue Cler, a pedestrian market street near the Eiffel Tower where Julia Child once did her shopping. Here you can sit down and eat or put together a movable feast from the fruit, vegetable and delicatessen shops scattered around the area.
The cheese shop alone is worth the trip: it sells hundreds of varieties of cheese, their collective aroma drifting down the street. You could set yourself the task of trying one cheese a day for a year and still not sample them all.
For now, my time is running out.
Once more I watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle like a glass of champagne at night, when the hourly evening light show draws delighted gasps, sighs and applause from the crowd on the Champ de Mars.
Then I give in and buy a souvenir: a T-shirt that reads "J'adore Paris." I will wear it often.
