I'll admit it: Paris and I have our off days. I don't like her meteorological mood swings, or the way a good portion of her street plans were built on a triangle. But I just can't stay mad at her on sunny days.

I have another admission: I am very much tied to smells. I know a boy who used to reeke of b.o. and cigarettes. It wasn't the most tantalizing of smells, but it was his, and every time I smell that specific melange, shall we say, I think of him. But I digress.

Today as I walked down Faubourg St. Honore on my way to the salon at Les Tuileries, the sun was shining, old women in silver eyeshadow and pink lipstick were passing by, the water rushing in the gutters was sparkling, and everything smelled the way it did the first time I was here when I was 14. Also a lady was walking her yorkshire puppy, which had barrettes in its hair. Put a fork in me, Paris; I'm done.

So it's goodbye Rachel Hunter, hoodie-wearing-loose-leaf-tea-drinking-liberal-arts-student, and salut Rachellllllle hUntehr, errand-girl of the 8th arrondissement. The diamond encrusted Dior bikini for your 18-month-old is no longer on display, but fear not, for Miss Sixty is helping to fill the void. You know, the void you feel when no toddler swimwear is sufficiently sexually suggestive. And Lanvin Homme has replaced their clown mannequins with mannequins that have cardboard boxes for heads. Will someone get me a job at Hermes, already? I was born to be in this business.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go use this press badge of mine to get some free champagne and hang out with some gallery owners.

This photo appears courtesy of the Liz Turner Estate