Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Eshe | Breakfast in Paris

Paris. If there was anywhere in the world Eshe longed to live in—it was here.

From the culture and cuisine, to its sweeping style and delicate filigree, every curb and cornerstone of this glorious city was art. Rolling down the window, Eshe tipped her face to the welcome early summer breeze and smiled.

The smells and senses changed with each corner and she staggered to catch every last nuance. All of it so different from the petrol fumes from black cabs and double-decker buses in London. Shutting her eyes, she drew in those scents, letting her brain absorb and pick them apart.

As the cab breezed past the flower market a wonderful bouquet of cut lilies and palms wafted across the River Seine followed by the sheer deliciousness of fresh baked croissants of the first arrondissements. Quickly interceded by the aroma of cardamom and curry, the foreign smells of the fourth, where oriental spices mingled with couscous and kebabs as the cab neared the Marais.

And beneath those bright layers spices were the distinctive notes of city life. The honey-coloured stone buildings, built by craftsmen and artisans, stood solidly to this day and carried the dank whiff of centuries past, from the cobblestone streets to the shaded alleyways.

Isobel doesn't know what she's missing.

After spending the better part of a week with her in Toronto, Eshe had tried everything she could think of to coax Isobel to come with her to Paris. To get away and see another side of the world. In three years Isobel had kept as close to home as a second skin, too afraid to leave her father for more than a few hours at a time.

So it wasn't so much of a surprise when Isobel turned the suggestion down. She'd blamed the lack of a job and the stresses of bills, but Eshe knew it was more than that though she had to respect Isobel's choices.

"Madam," the cab driver called out as the car rolled to a stop at the forked end of the street. "Et voila!"

"C'est ici?" she asked, checking the address on her phone, she flashed him the screen and nodded vigorously, the bill of his cap flapping over his mottled brow.

"Vraiment. Par la pied," he said, whisking his fingers in a miming motion of 'walk' then followed with excited flutters of his hands marking the width his car to the narrowness of the street.

"Ah, mais oui. Je comprends," she said, letting him know she understood that the rest of her trek would be on foot. Wrestling out her luggage from the trunk and tipping him generously, Eshe discovered the walkway winding around to the building's main entrance. After a few hobbling minutes along the old cobbled streets of the Marais the sandy stone building came into view.

Light slanted over the grey slate rooftops, and muffled laughter wafted up from the cafes below. Weaving through the heavy doors, she entered the quaint building's lobby, the design clean and simple with a bold stroke of red paint on the walls that lent both vibrancy and energy. Eshe slid her palm along the beautiful, sweeping stone curving around an iron filigree handrail. Classic and elegant with all the grand traditions of the belle epoch.

The true hallmark of a building's character was in those well-travelled, slightly uneven steps.

Paris was a city of very few elevators, an intriguing fact most guidebooks failed to mention and often lamented by the beleaguered traveller. But Eshe appreciated the history of the stairs in Paris was as varied and unique as the people who had traveled them.

A work of art with a foundation rooted in tradition when floors were decided by social class. Elevators were a novelty only the prestigious hotels could afford, and the few buildings that had managed to retrofit one in were small, narrow and somehow, to Eshe's mind, dulled the quintessential charm.