For the past six years of my life I have been moving from city to city and throwing my life into a suitcase.

I have always loved clothes and used to spend my weekends scouring second hand shops and making my own original creations.

These days I keep my wardrobe to a minimum and take a very simple approach to fashion.  I like clothes in basic colors that flatter my body and are comfortable to wear.  I would describe my style as simple, feminine and classic.  Sometimes I just say I’m boring, but classic sounds much more elegant.

With fall about to blow through the streets of Paris I am assembling my simple fall wardrobe, one that travels easily, will take me to Italy in November and carry me through winter with a few added layers.

Here are a few necessities of a fall wardrobe on the move:

You always need a chic scarf to wrap around your neck for added style and warmth.  I recommend splurging on a real cashmere scarf as you’ll never buy another scarf again if you do. I have one black scarf that I wear all year in different ways.  There are a million ways to wear a scarf, and in fall and winter I usually bundle mine around my neck:

Compared to wearing it as a cardigan in summer:

A basic jean skirt and a good pair of black leather boots can we worn with leggings in colder weather, and nylons or bare legs when the sun is still shining.  I like to pair them with simple cotton shirts in fall and sweaters and a long jacket in winter:

A simple vest can add a nice touch to a simple outfit when traveling.  I wear mine with skinny jeans and boots skirts and heels, everything!

Black dresses are key in a traveling wardrobe. I have a short sleeve jacket that I usually belt and layer with a long cardigan when it’s colder:

As well as a cozy sweater dress that I love to wear on the airplane with tights and high heeled boots:

And most importantly you need a good jacket. Long black wool jackets are great for traveling as you can pair them with jeans or dress them up over dresses and nylons when you’re heading out on the town. Add a chic, simple purse and you’re ready to go!

Paris shopping tip: For basics try stores like Zara and H&M.  When shopping at the Galleries Lafayette look for their house brands and names like Avant Premiere that carry well priced versions of the latest fashions.  When on a tight budget look out for Sympa (62, Boulevard Rochechouart) in Montmartre.  This is where I found my jean skirt and stripped Sinequanone top for under 20 euros.

My dad and I took off in the warmth of the morning determined to walk to Puycelsi.

Puycelsi is another hill top town around six hours away. We had heard an incredible nature walk would take us there and were curious to see how far we could make it.

We started on a route marked by a small sign, excited as we walked down a grassy route covered by trees. Our thrill was quickly cut as we came to an abrupt stop at the main road. The signs no longer made sense so we took a left. An hour later and we were still walking down a busy road, wondering where our scenic nature route had disappeared to.

Eventually we came across a beautiful path shaded by trees. The path led to a small country road, uninterrupted by cars. We stumbled upon an abandoned farm house and walked through the old empty rooms, admired the old chicken coop, and dreamed of the beautiful house it could make.

We kept walking until we realized that after three hours we had done a complete roundabout and were at the lake near the village. Oops. We stopped at a picnic bench and dug into some roasted chicken, hard boiled eggs, avocado, bread cheese and trail mix I had packed earlier. Once well fed we called some friends who came to our rescue on their way to a picnic. They drove us to Puycelsi and set us off on a proper nature route. They told us, “Walk until you hit the first small town, it will take you a couple of hours.”

With a big dinner planned for the evening we knew we couldn’t walk forever and took off with this route in mind. We set off through the forest and found ourselves hiking up steep terrain, crossing small dry rivers and practically sliding down steep slopes. We passed a small group of houses part way and decided we should of kept walking. We walked and walked, and my dad said I may need to call an ambulance if we walked much more. I grew worried when his breathing grew heavy and there was no end to the trail in sight.

“You are the fittest sixty-year-old I know,” I said to him. “Sixty-three, if I even make it,” he laughed.

Soon our water ran out and the hills got steeper. We had been walking for hours. The track seemed to go on forever, with no cars or other people in sight. We kept walking. The terrain changed constantly, from bright country roads, to small paths, through forests and eventually to a small mountain top. It was here that we realized we had walked far beyond we had planned, and had actually been going up and down both sides of a mountain. Our legs ached, but it was hard not to admire the glowing sun and the deep valley beneath us as we made our way down.

The bottom of the mountain took us through a tiny clutter of houses, with a cat sleeping on stone steps, an old woman sitting outside on her patio and the smell of cooking coming out of kitchen doors. We continued down to the main road where we decided to figure out where we were. A man stopped working in his garage to tell me we were 2 km from Bruniquel, the next town over. After a good six and a half hours of walking, we attempted hitchhiking, then decided to call my mother to pick us up. Thank god for cell phones.

We made it back alive, with a few blisters and sore calves, and my mom prepared a big roast chicken dinner for a group of friends coming over while we cleaned ourselves up.

We found an old farm house I am dying to take over as my own

Our lovely picnic of roasted chicken, avocado, tomato, bread, goat cheese fruit and trail mix

At the top of the mountain, enjoying the incredible view

A beautiful old stone wall caught our eye

How did we end up going up and down a mountain??

At the end of the hike, exhausted, and waiting to be picked up!

I have taken a small break from Paris and have escaped to the country side.

The past couple of weeks have been emotionally challenging.  I’ve realized that following my dream means accepting the stress that comes with it.

The stress of constantly moving, watching my funds disappear and trying to balance a long distance relationship brought on a lot of tears and sleepless nights in the past couple of weeks.

No beautiful life comes without imperfections.  Just as I accept that I am flawed, I don’t expect everything to come easily.  I’d rather be broke, tired and happy with myself than secure in a job that makes me miserable.

And so the adventure continues.  My book is slowly coming together, I have a job (or three) for October, and I have a place of my own.  I also have plans to meet my love in Italy in November, and my heart rests more easily with this is mind.

The short trip to the South of France felt necessary.  It is good to be with my parents, to have a bath at night, to have country roads to help me clear my thoughts and the colourful markets to feet my senses.

But don’t worry, I’ll be back in Paris soon, that city and I still have a lot of work to do together.

Travel tip of the day: When travelling in Europe Air France has some great deals if you are under 24.  It can end up costing you less than some of the budget airlines, so take advantage while you’re young!

There are few better ways to spend an afternoon than drizzling balsamic reduction over a sizzling piece of baked fish sitting on a bed of sauteed peppers with chorizo sausage.

This Wednesday I took Yeliz on a mini culinary adventure at Atelier des Chefs.  Atelier des Chefs provides cooking classes at a few locations in Paris.  I prefer the Penthievre location, since the others are right inside the Lafayette department stores and far less intimate.

For the price of 15 euros, which is the same or most likely less than your average restaurant, we got to follow the instructions of a chef in preparing our own gourmet meal.  The En Cas classes like this are the least expensive, last 30 minutes, and still provide you with a great meal.

The chef provided us with some great cooking tips, like how peeling your peppers can speed up cooking time and ease up digestion, from how to chop onions without crying (glide into them with your knife) to deboning a filet of fish.

Yeliz and I worked with a lovely French mother and daughter team.  We shared the workload, exchanged cooking tips and ate our lunch leisurely together at the end of the table with the rest of the class.  We were so consumed with talking to each other, that we were still digging in to our moist pieces of fish while other class members dug into dessert.

We left with full bellies and a new recipe to take home to Yeliz’s family.  We hope to recreate the dish in the family’s restaurant so everyone can benefit from our lesson.

I recommend these classes if your French is fluent and you’re looking for a new way to enjoy a meal out on the town.  There are also specialized classes on making macarons, as well as full three-course meals and sometimes cocktail pairing.

On my budget, the 15 euro En Cas menu is just right and enough for me to walk away happy.

The days continue with warm cups of Turkish tea and long walks around Montmartre.

I am uncovering different markets packed with immigrants and clothing, toiletries, food and purses at the lowest prices I’ve ever seen.

Yesterday we pushed ourselves into a tiny phone store packed with Africans, Arabs and Turks to buy me a phone card.  Men call out to me as we walk in and one grabs my blonde hair.  I move quickly and avoid eye contact.  Inside we pay next to nothing for my card and Leyla, my Turkish mother, tells the owner to come for a meal at the restaurant later on.

The streets are packed with discount stores, used phone shops and men selling jewelery and Malboro cigarettes.  A man pushes two packs at me, “They’re cheap!”  He yells, and I keep walking.  Beggars sit along the sidewalk, women in veils, an old woman with no legs yelling out for money, and an old man asking politely for change.  Leyla digs through her purse and gives him 50 cents.  “He is too old to find a job, this is why I give him money, and not the other,” she says.

Footsteps away I explore the tourist side of Montmartre with my young friend Yeliz.  At the Sacre Coeur a young man with a soccer ball does tricks up on a pedestal and climbs a streetlight, ball in hand, with ease.  Tourists take photos and cheer him on.

There are entertainers everywhere and few people without a camera in hand.  I let Yeliz practice using my camera, as she has a great eye and her brother is going to buy her one soon.  We stop in a small gallery, fall upon a beautiful brocante and take photos as we walk.

At night I eat a hearty lentil soup with meat and tear my baguette into my bowl like my Turkish family. I throw in some spices and finish my meal with a strong cup of tea in the kitchen, “You are Turkish now,” they say.

While I’m there the owner of a bakery drops off a box of fresh pizza slices.  Another friend drops off cups of fruit salad.  It is a space of giving, sharing, feeding and love.  The restaurant itself is becoming a second home, and I dream of having my own one day.

Later in the night we sit in the living room drinking tea with family friends.  We watch old family videos until my eyelids are heavy and I sneak off to my bedroom.

I am enjoying uncovering different sides of Paris, and sleep deeply knowing there is still so much more to see.

It’s hard to believe that it has been almost five years since I stood at the Sacre Coeur and a young Turkish girl approached me and invited me to her family’s restaurant.

And now, years later, with a university degree under by belt, I stay up late talking with them in their living room, and fall asleep on a mattress in their small apartment.

They have lovingly put together a bed for me at their place and tell me to stay as long as I like.  “Stay a year,” says the father, “or longer if you like.”

They are more than accomodating and make sure I am comfortable with a fresh towel (with lady bugs on it for good luck), a new sponge for the shower and fruit and cakes I’m to help myself to.

For such a small space you would never know a whole family lived there.  They are between apartments so most rooms are filled with storage, but they are so clean and tidy the place could belong to one Parisian and you wouldn’t know the difference.

Their love towards me is overwhelming.  I am safe and happy under their wing, always well fed, and always with a hot cup of Turkish tea.

The mother tells me, “You eat here, at the restaurant, and we feed you.  Otherwise I am very upset with you.”  I laugh and say thank you, she looks at me and says “I’m serious.”

And so I’m spending my days uncovering Montmartre, from its seedy underbelly of sex shops and drunks, to it’s lovely facade of creperies and artists, to my favourite streets lined with petit cafes and specialty food shops.

My notebook is filling itself, page after page.  I have no internet, and very little time to write privately on my computer, so I scribble away in the middle of the street, or in the corner of La Fourmi with a cheap glass of wine.

At night I find my Turkish family at their restaurant, where I eat stuffed eggplant, hummus, tomatoes and bread.  I watch customers come and go, half paying for the food, the rest family or people in need that they feed for nothing.

Two sturdy Turkish men try to pay mostly in designer purses and sunglasses.  I don’t ask questions.  They make me try on two pairs of designer sunglasses and the Turkish father says that they are mine if I like them.  This family is always trying to give to me and their generosity is outstanding.  I tell them they are too fashionable for me and thank him anyways.

This morning I drank my espresso at the bar beside men taking an early start on their beer drinking.  Now I am fuelled for walking and a trip to the market with my Turkish mother (she tells me I am her second daughter.)

I feel safe, content, and even have the Turkish eye hanging from my necklace to ward off evil glares.  I am in good hands.

• Yeliz

• La Fourmi

I start my day early and find myself sitting up on a bar stool sometime before ten in the morning.

“Un cafe s’il vous plait,” I ask.  The two waiters behind the bar stop talking while one makes me an espresso on a large Italian machine while the other grabs me a glass of water.

First, I use the small spoon to take off the fine layer of foam that graces the top of the espresso and slip it into my mouth.  Afterwards I sip the smooth dark liquid slowly, enjoying the complimentary chocolate covered almond in between sips.

After downing my water I leave my coins at the bar and head to the metro stop where I’m to meet the owner of the cafe I’d like to work for.  It is cold and I shuffle back and forth, watch people rush to their metro and the newspaper agent set up his stand.

I look at every man that passes me and wonder if it’s him.  After 20 minutes a man rushes towards me with a warm smile on his face.  He knows me from my photo, “I thought you would call my cell phone!  I’ve been waiting at a cafe!”

After explaining my lack of phone-something I must take care of soon-we catch up over another strong espresso.  We talk about my working history, my love of food and the difference between North American service and service in Paris.

“I would get fired if I served like a Parisian waiter in Canada,” I explain, “we always ask how the food is, fill up refills and get people their bills right away.”

He tells me that you can’t let the client have everything.  That if you give into their every need, they will eat you instead of their meal.  Parisian waiters have their own charm he tells me.

I quickly feel that working as a waitress in Paris could be right up my alley.  Forced smiles and instant refills were never my thing anyways.

He wishes I were in the city longer, he wants a steady staff, but likes my personality and thinks it could work.  The restaurant opens in October and he will get back to me soon.

I leave him at the cafe with a lightness to my step.  This is more along the lines of what I want to do.  I want to be immersed in city life, a part of cafe culture and surrounded by food, wine and people.  These are my joies de vivres.

Back at the apartment I start to pack up.  I leave tonight to stay with my family in Montmartre, beginning a new chapter in my life and in my guide book.

In between doing laundry I go to a small restaurant nearby I have had my eye on.  I have passed by many times and admired the mixed mediterranean plates on the patio and figured I needed to try it out for research.  A good of an excuse as any, and I haven’t eaten out in days.

The service is Parisian, cold but frank, and my plate of mixed salad and eggplant dips with a warm basket of pita bread do me perfectly.  Afterwards the owner comes out and asks me how my meal was.  I tell him about my book and he smiles warmly, takes my card, and promises to invite me to some parties.

I realize the service in Paris does have it’s own charm, cold to start, but usually with a warm finish, and sometimes even a smile.

• Tip of the day: For a quick breakfast sit up at the bar and order a cafe and a pain or chocolat or a croissant.  Most bars or restaurants carry fresh pastries from a local patisserie and it makes a nice spot to eat.  Otherwise bring your own pastry and order a coffee while sitting outside, the owners don’t usually mind.

Walking down the street with a fresh fig in my hand, its insides sweet and exposed, I stop and stare into a boutique window and smile to myself.

This is what I came here for.  To explore, take notes, put myself in the shoes of the women that will read my guide book and to enjoy the simple pleasures.

Yesterday I broke down.  The grey sky was too much for me.  I went for an interview to work as a nanny, with the most wonderful father and daughter team imaginable, but I knew it wasn’t for me.  As we sat and talked I looked at the other nannies in the park and my heart sank.

I sat in a cafe for an hour afterwards, staring blankly outside.  As convenient as the job would be, the pay is little, and it is something I have done before.  All the heavy memories of my past experience in Paris, of sitting in parks and running after kids clouded my mind.  As different as this would be, I can’t do it again.

I am here doing something that sends a thrill of excitement through my body.  I want to hold on to that feeling and make money doing things that drive that feeling further.  Whether it’s working in a French cafe, cooking or making money off my writing, it needs to make me feel alive.

That evening I called the owner of a new cafe in the Marais, a favourite neighborhood of mine in Paris, to inquire about a job.  I told him I would be here until January and he said that he is looking for people long term.  We hung up.  I choked up.  And five minutes later he called back.  ”I’ll give you a chance.  I can’t promise anything.  Meet we Wednesday morning.”

I slept deeply and late.  When I woke I skipped the shower, tied my hair in a chignon, wrapped my neck in a scarf, tucked my pants into my boots and headed out the door.

I took off on the metro to explore some markets and market streets.  I am neck deep in lists of markets to visit and wanted to get started. The first market I tried to visit was non-existent.  Turns out I got my days of the week mixed up.  C’est la vie.  I kept walking.

Eventually I found myself on Rue Cler, a small market street with great fruit and vegetable shops, lovely cafes, cheese stores and boutiques.  I bought some fresh fruit, and wandered down the street happily with my figs, which I ate as I walked throughout the day.

I found several wonderful boutiques and specialty food stores, even some great second hand stores with only the best designer names.  I restrained myself from a small black Prada purse and a cashmere Givenchy sweater.  I mentally planned a route for my guide book, a great little walk to take after visiting the Eiffel tower.

I spent the rest of the day walking and jumping on and off the metro.  I re-discovered the shopping street and great market area near the hotel I stayed at with my love in January.  I invested in some good walking boots and thick jeans for winter, bought some vegetables to throw into my salad and caught the metro home.

My worries and loneliness are still present, but these are things I have to accept to do what I want to do.  I have chosen a job that has no security, no pay cheque, and no solid hours.  But I’m not sitting at a desk all day.  This is probably the one time in my life that I can take these kind of risks.

I am working towards something and walking down streets lined with markets while I’m at it.  Something tells me I’ll be alright.

• Rue Cler

• Rue Poncelet