My neighbourhood in Paris, Saint Germain des Près has been home to the artistic community of the city and beyond, and therefore subject to movies, paintings, sketches, books, and outright legends. To the point that some of its hallmarks such as Le Deux Magots and Café Flore, in other contexts snobby cafés with more than usual number of Vuitton bags per capita, have become historical hallmarks, tellingly - not only for the tourists but still, for the parisiens et parisiennes. I realise I cannot do justice to this little paradise in Paris in the same way at the famous french writers have, but I after three years of inhabiting here, I cannot help but humbly provide my view of it.

Wondering the perimeter of the 6th arrondissement this afternoon from Saint Sulpice, to Jardin Luxembourg to the gallery district, I couldn't help but thinking that I prefer an attic in the sixth to a stadium in any other corner of the city. Attics in the sixth may be blessed with leaking roofs and crazy hot temperatures in the summer, but equally with an incredible charm of wood beams on the ceilings. And when the tenants of the same attics and appartments in old buildings with no elevators descend the creaking stairs, passing by garbage cans situated in the middle of their courtyards, and the elderly neighbours who seem to spend their life complaining about each other or the concierge (collectively known as 'hell'), they arrive directly in paradise.

Paradise which contains....galleries overflowing with medieval relics, modern art, photographs nestled between designer shops, both much less pretensious than they counterparts across the river. Restaurants with four side-by-side miniscule tables where I am so often tempted to take a cheapter version of the black mud (called expresso here) just to get the flavour of the conversation of the day. Courtyards which range to from chic closed spaces with offices to half ruined and cracked wooden doors, which feature either the name of the resident doctor, or a description of the historical significance of the building. Photo galleries the likes of the new, luminous and innovative Lumas which takes the space of the old Lagerfeld store, which I imagine left to where it belongs more - rue Saint Honoré. Stores which specialise is selling the most banal things under the pretense of being chic: straw hats, socks, baby printed t-shirts, hair-pins.

Note: in any other spot of France, they would undoubtly and promptly go bankrupt, not so in the sixth where everything manages to have its own charm, and therefore survive. Take for instance, this store which seems to sell baby beds and accessories. I couldn't resist taking a picture of this as an example of my point. Looking from the outside in, this place seems to sell nothing, a few funny shaped and crafted pillows and a couple of baby blankets? No, dear friend, I ought to correct you: the store sells dreams and wishes and fuzzy thoughts that over-eager mammas will surely consumer without a second thought. And thus, the charm of the stores of the sixth lives on...


Door to 'little heaven'

For all its priciness bordering onto pretense, the sixth is nothing like its truly chic counterparts - the first or the eighth across the bank, streaming with glitter and tourists. It is neither the grassroots of the third or the fourth, both of course charming in their unique ways. It has the undeserved reputation of being snob, owing to lack of a populist character and some landmarks like the Bon Marché with its service voiturier. And yet it is neither the sleepiness of the sixteenth or the seventeenth with its large buildings and family style living, where one must keep drinking coffee in order to keep awake. The sixth has a character of a young lady, the history of an old man, the structure of a long labyrinth, the style of a fashion house. And yet it is unassuming in its own way.

Perhaps therein lies its charm. The boutique of Yves Saint Laurent in a building with old white shutters reminding passerbys of its history. The chic boutique of famous chocolatier Pierre Herme in a tiny space with a winding queque. The leather bags with prices high enough to make me want to confuse it with a serial number, being seemingly thrown on some ikea looking hooks. And finally its inhabitants, who may be wearing the local supermarket brand at ten euros or the latest Armani dress, and look equally and mysteriosly elegant in both. All that being said, I am guessing you might be started to get bored with my laundry list description, but today, on this fine august day, and despite the general state of closure of everything in the sixth, I felt like delivering an ode to it. Adios.