The atelier is on the other side of town in the basement of a very nice but unassuming building, down into the ground we go, lugging the Home Depot branded cardboard box in the narrow twist of the spiral stairs. We say hello and bonsoir to the slim strangers greeting us, air kisses amid a flurry of activity: interestingly dressed people hunched over sewing machines, an imposing figure who is clearly a model walking confidently as part of a casting call, music on a bluetooth speaker. The workshop is more cramped than I expected but it is beautifully unfinished with raw concrete walls and the air is busy and joyful as we start unwrapping all the wearables. Excited, the designer cracks open the door to the rear patio and exhales cigarette smoke that plumes into the deepening night.

One may be afforded many opportunities in a life of doing any kind of creative work seriously and sorting the meaningful ones from the treacherously lame ones may be the single most important skill the artist type person needs to hone in order to survive. Did we fly all this way for something that might be kind of lame? There's always the risk. We know so little of the fashion world, it was simply impossible to know, but Alphonse's clothes are beautifully rendered on the rack and the entire studio's kindness is warm so as we emerge into the evening sidewalk rain we are happy to stroll, happy to take the commuter rail back to our apartment, happy to pop into a cramped brasserie named on our buddy's 300+ list of food recs.

In the morning, still violently jet-lagged, we shuffle onto the Metro to go meet some Internet friends from Scotland. Incredibly, on our way out of the station, we run directly into Alphonse on the stairs. We all gasp and then he remembers: oh hey, Gracelee, we're in Elle magazine today, I just bought a copy to give you, here you go. An improbable hug in the stream of commuters, we ascend with the magazine in tow. "L'artiste Gracelee Lawrence" tickles me to no end.

Our Scottish friends suggested a coffeeshop with unbelievably good espresso that is merely steps away from, gasp, a funicular train that ascends to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. Heaven! I thank them for suggesting it and they confess that they saw it in a targeted instagram ad, but man did the ad hit the target! We chat about their impending family visit Paris Disneyland and the rent in Glasgow and we just want them to keep talking, so soothing and finely formed are their accents. They head for the theme park and we embark on what might be my favorite thing to do in the entire world: walking around a city, we go for hours. Cathedrals, boulangeries, fromageries, etc. In the evening we reunite with GLL's parents and make our way to a more-or-less randomly selected traditional French restaurant around the corner from where we're staying. Perfect vibes, cozy and warmly lit, our own giant jar of cornichons plopped down on the table. The food is great, sweetmeats and tartare are ordered, and with bellies full of unfamiliarly rich food GL and I waddle from a view of the tower to a view of the arch, then we fall deeply asleep.

The third day is dedicated to museums and struggling to find lunch in the 1st arrondissement. Surprisingly sick exhibitions of fashion, the final Monets bloom and bend insanely around the subtle curves of the Orangerie. Later that night we head to a club on the Canal Saint-Martin. At first we think the party is really getting a late start - we arrive an hour after doors open and there's hardly anyone inside, we shrug and order a lethally terrible red wine and an aggressively generous pour of cognac. Warmed to the core we go for a walk along the canal, thinking the party might pickup, but we eventually realize that we had not actually made it inside the venue part quite yet, that is why we never had to pay a cover. Inside it is loud, crowded, and the DJ at the helm plays a heady and bizarrely mixed clash of hyperpop classics and stereotypically European-sounding American pop remixes. When they drop "Levels" by Avicii I am forced to comment that "it's giving hostel lobby." But the two live performers we catch are striking and charismatic and we have a great time, though we leave long before the party peaks, fearing the end of metro service. We bask in the full moon reflected in the waters of the canal and the puddles of the street.

Then I drag the family to mass. A couple of years ago after attending a rave in the woods I told GLL that I felt like I needed something like that more often. I said I wanted, you know, some kind of cathartic gathering with good music and people in community, that I needed it probably, I don't know, like once a week. That's just church, sweetie, is what she said, and I've been thinking about that ever since. One's ears ring so sweetly in the hush of a cathedral, tinnitus and pipe organ harmonizing in a celestial duet, the joint aches and lower back pain felt from an evening out brings one closer to Christ.

Nourished by a buckwheat crepe filled with bacon and raclette I fall deep into an afternoon nap while Gracelee goes and does fashion stuff - I awake to the clanging of bells. We have just enough time to meet up for a screening of "In the Mood for Love" which somehow neither of us have ever seen. It is shown in its original Cantonese with French subtitles so, despite being bowled over by its unbelievably beautiful mood, we completely misinterpret the events of the film and spend dinner reading different summaries out loud on our phones while the violin player saws away, hot club jazz sizzling in the rain.