I can’t lie. Paris still makes me weak. I’m indifferent as the rest of the muttering livestock through the cheap airline trip. Even taking the train from Charles de Gaulle through graffitied cement canyons and banal suburbs I can maintain my bored Gallic sang-froid. But rising like a pale little Irish salmon from the Metro into the sylvan light of the Left Bank, I’m a goner. Scurrying around the antique shops and markets is part of the integral thrill of any Parisian adventure, and you only need a day or two to immerse yourself in its magic.