I remember my honeymoon in Paris.

I remember the beggar who "helped" people get a taxi, "helped" them in with their folding bikes and luggage, and then wouldn't let the taxi leave until all the occupants had given him money. Much to the other taxis' chagrin. I don't know the French for 'beep, beep' but that is what they cried. That was my first impression of Gare du Nord, Paris, 2009. Fortunately, it got better.

I remember croques monsieur, croissants, pains au chocolat, coupes de champagne, crepes flambees in Weplers, and seemingly everybody walking home in the evening carrying one, two or three French sticks.

I remember, on the walk up Montmartre, watching a man doing his washing up in his front room. There was a sink, washing machine and fridge just sitting at the side of the room. Another house had at least twenty clocks that I could see hanging on the wall through the open window, and another twenty or so on a table through another window.

I remember asking a working girl, standing in the doorway of the Sully Bar, where I could post a post card. I asked in French and she told me in French and the best bit was she didn't even try to speak in English, which most people I came across could and would do. And I posted my carte postale.

I remember that most of the beggars we saw not only had a dog, but also a cat, which upset Margaret a lot, especially as I kept taking pictures of them.

I remember the bicycles that you seem to be able to hire, not that I would have dreamed of cycling in Paris, where the drivers seem to pay only scant regard for stop signs. But there were loads of families cycling all over the place, kids included.

I remember the zebra crossings (equivalent in French probably completely different) at the end of nearly every road, certainly every side street in the area where we were staying.

I remember the accordionist playing to the punters at the Relais de la Butte where we were having a salad on our last night. Paris, at last. The bass player could have done with a few lessons, though.