Portraits of La Dame de Fer

Paris is a drug. It blurs out the crowd and makes the beautiful, the interesting, the individual stand out. It hollows out the noise till you can hear the electricity in the air. To someone as besotted with the city as I am, the quick tumble of spoken French is quite like a stream of wine leaving the mouth of the bottle to hit the bottom of the wine glass in a soft laugh of red, white or bubbly