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Paris, Montmartre, Juan les Pins

I was born in Paris — at least that’s what my birth certificate claims with great authority. It even specifies the illustrious Clinique Marignan, conveniently located on the avenue of the same name in the 8th arrondissement. I have no conscious memory of the place, and as far as I know, I’ve never set foot there since. Perhaps they gave me such a warm welcome that they feared a repeat visit would be too emotional.

At the time, my parents lived in a house in Montmartre, right opposite the only vineyard in Paris. I can’t help but wonder whether this was pure coincidence or if my father — a proud native of Burgundy — insisted on staying within smelling distance of grapevines at all times. It may have been a kind of early-life oenological imprinting.

Naturally, at that tender age, I remember none of this. I also have no recollection whatsoever of our house in Juan-les-Pins, a family retreat where we apparently spent holidays after the traditional stopover in Marseille. There, an entire constellation of uncles, aunts, and, most importantly, grandparents — my mother’s parents — awaited us. I am told these visits were essential. I was too young to contest the necessity.

The first home I actually do remember is the one we moved to when I was about four: a house in La Celle-Saint-Cloud. That is where the fog of early childhood finally begins to lift, and the story of my memories truly starts.

La Celle Saint Cloud, the next years

I would be lying if I said I truly remember our move from Paris to La Celle-Saint-Cloud. What remains is more of a vague, foggy impression: flashes of my new bedroom and, above all things, the dreaded afternoon naps I was sentenced to. I also have a dim memory of a hospital bed set up in the living room. I can’t recall my father lying in it for what must have been months, recovering from a nasty car accident that left him with badly broken legs. They were “repaired”—if that’s even the right word—with metal bars that would stay in his bones for the rest of his life.

Life itself must have been sweet, though. We spent a lot of time down South, especially in Marseille and Juan-les-Pins, which probably coloured my early years with sun, sea and the smell of pine trees.

As for school… well, I didn’t attend nursery or the maternelle, as most French children do. Instead, we were sent to Mrs. Bultez in the nearby town of Vaucresson. And by “we,” I mean my cousins Dominique and Sylvie—who were also living in La Celle-Saint-Cloud at the time—as well as my brother Jean-Marc. Mrs. Bultez had a big house, and we spent plenty of time running around her garden, but she was first and foremost a private tutor. She taught us to read and much more.

Thanks to her, I could read at the tender age of five, which meant that when the time came to enter primary school, I skipped the first class—la 11e—and went straight into la 10e, surrounded by boys at least a year older than me. My parents, especially my mother, were immensely proud of this. Whether it was actually a good idea… I’m still not entirely convinced.