Paris was a dream in a mist, perhaps now a misty dream. I was wonderstruck by the becoming of the dre-am. Gothic churches, and god knows what else. Exquisite man-sions built a long time ago. It’s hazy now 18 years on. But even so, it is clear; a mesmerising skyline soaked in mist, cut out from a dream like the coming of magic.

I was on a French government scholarship — bourse du gouvernement de france that I did jack all to earn, but in retrospect I deserved it, for the great time I had.

I lived with my aunt in Paris. She took care of me like I was the heir apparent. Her chic apartment was in the 16 arrondissement; upper crust neighbourhood. She had arrived in life. The apartment had a little tiny glasshouse at the back, and she put me to sleep me with three types of wine, and woke me up with legendary French Pâtisserie. Then she spent big time on me. Took me to the Lido in Champs lyses introduce me to the Algerians whom I made a documentary on.

Pont de Neuilly, where phoopijaan hooked me up, was plush vicinity, fancy shop, restaurants and mansions all the way to the metro; it was a ten-minute walk. I stayed there from the start of October till the middle of December.

My princess aunt took me to Café Deux Magots in Saint Germain Près where all the surrealists hung out, the likes of Luis Bunueil, Man Ray, and Dali Cecil Beaton. And even though Armand Arnaud was not a part of their group, but to my mind, it was he the bonafide star of them all. He was there in the forties. Paris was the Mecca for intellectuals, now for the Elite.

5,000 francs in those days was a lot of sweet candy, for a guy 21 years of age. A cup of coffee was 10 francs, and the price of smo-kes about the same. That dinner with wine was 200 francs, but it was worth it in the name of passion. She, a very simple French girl, was impressed already. She had an apartment in place D’Italie. I only went there once; her child was in a cradle, tiptoed we entered.

I never knew her full name, so can’t find her now, so much for my lack of brightness. But even if I do, my God, I have changed too much, to see Paris like that again in the light of youth and amour. The day we went together to Musée d’Orsay was meat knife on my dream, carving out an overcast day of autumn, me looking dashing in an overcoat and suede boots, which I strutted the streets of Paris with.

She was a bit taller and a shade older, and that made the picture perfect, we were crazy. But it ended quaintly, kind of fading out like the light that gets dark when winter sets in. She used to say, I will show you a Paris that I want you to see, she kept saying it.

When I saw it, I lost my mind and we had a fight. I was scared of loosing her. Then I lost her forever after that lukewarm afternoon, like a distance, like a mystery. My last image of her would have been perhaps with her back to me, sitting on rot-iron bed, with what clothes, I forget. Alas! It was a total eclipse of the heart.

Anyway. There was a tabac, down the other lane. I would buy a packet of Marlboro Lights, for 10 francs. I would take the subway from Nation line from Neuilly to Philippe Auguste and the Vaian was right there.

My college was a quaint little garage that I revisited. We had coffee all the time, and class parties. We were given the best HI-8 cameras to shoot. Jim Morrison’s grave was five minu-tes, but lazy me, never walked up there, some misty evening it would have in the graveyard in Père Lachaise. I could have taken any one of the girls, and left bottle of Jack Daniels.

My teacher smoked so many gaulloises. It was amazing. Evelyn translated the first few classes for me. She was terribly kind. Then there was Chantall who is still there. Gaston was a trip, he did sound for my documentary. Philip was my best friend in class. He took me to these place miles out of the city, to shoot a film on a crippled school, guys playing basketball and stuff.

Sitting on the steps of Montmartre one Sunday, liste-ning to Simon and Garfunkel being strung live, with plenty of beautiful people gathered arou-nd. I felt alone; why didn’t I take Cecilia? Am I an idiot?

In 1990, I visited the first mosque ever, Mosquée de Paris in Place Monge. Turkish style a lit bit, with fountains and gardens. Lots of white, very international far out and exotic, I’d say. It is such a utopian thought to go there as a non-believer and live at my will. But God have mercy on me.

Walking up the subway and looking at a church, there was an exhibition of black and whites, and then we walked down a bit towards Nostradamus. It was an autumn evening; that was nice then but it weighs so much in gold dust now.

Then there was Safia Atba, who stayed miles out of Paris. I remember there were maple leaves scattered outside her apartment building. Gaston and I shot a party with her sensuous cousin dancing like a mad bird, and fellow brothers from Leba-non, Algeria, Syria, Morocco, Tunisia; eating and drinking.

We padded out a lot and shot our film at her place, near Hotel de Ville, listening endless to Peter Gabriel. In time I lost in her, in fact she to I. We never saw again. She took over my last sleepless night, endless jazz bars, making the most of the last Paris then.