Pleasure in Paris by Georgie

Pleasure in Paris

This story is about my feelings as he takes me by the hand and leads me through some of the most wonderful culinary experiences of my life. A journey of discovery of deep pleasure and many firsts. Pleasure in Paris.


Paris in December, cool, fresh and draped in a soft grey light that seems to gather things closer together securely enveloping the city. The air is crisp and I love the feeling of being back in Paris. I’m not sure how to describe how I feel here. I have always had the sense that life is something that happens around me, to other people; and that I am floating, observing it from above, but am not part of it.


This feeling has begun to lift in the last couple of years for me. I have started listening to my inner guidance more, trusting my instincts and doing more of what feels good. Life at home is better, I am living more authentically, but I still often feel that I don’t fit in the world around me. In Paris, I feel my feet touching the ground. It’s strange, I thought I would feel more isolated not knowing the language but I’ve realise that at home I can speak English but I don’t understand the language of the place.


I don’t speak French but I feel the rhythm of the language of Paris in my soul.


Actually I rather like not understanding French. The written words, the conversation around me, none of it makes sense but I’m relaxed about it, it’s ok, I’m not supposed to understand it. So all I have to do is trust my instincts, feel the energy of what’s happening and I get it. At home none of it makes sense either but I know the words, so I feel like I’m supposed to understand it. So all too often I let all that pretext and maybe imagined expectation get in the way and interrupt me trusting my instincts.


In Paris I feel surrounded by birds of a feather, like minded souls. Creativity and passion are in everything. Everything is not only done, but done beautifully, with love.


At home the rush rush, hurry, hurry of life is about getting shit done quick no fucking around. There is always dissonance in this for me because I am naturally enthralled with the fucking around. I love the creativity of it, whether it’s food or art. I enjoy thinking about the whole experience of it, how all the senses will experience things. When I’m making art it is totally a sensory thing, very tactile. I could never be an artist who wears gloves to keep their hands clean. I have to feel the pigment and the textures of the support under my fingers as my hands move around the curves and angles of the nude I am painting. When I cook I can easily use every pan in the kitchen. I dreamily play with creating my dish only to find myself plating up to my poor patient love a meal at ten o’clock at night.


Sliding into the centre of it all, feeling aligned with who I really am. Magical. I am so grateful that my travel companion, creative partner, best friend is terribly supportive and encouraging of me drifting off into my imagination and wallowing in creative fantasy, as I am of him. We are both creatives and lovers of the pleasures in life, all of it; art, food, wine, travel, culture.