I hate cabs in general, so you can imagine the dread when I rolled out of the airport (quite literally, with the suitcase you think is too small), and hailed a Paris taxi.

“Here we go,” I sighed, preparing for a two-hour drive to nowhere with someone who hated my accent. Instead, it was 30 minutes and 30 Euros - exactly the same as a JFK fare - and my chauffer was lovely.

Also, my French isn’t as bad as I thought, which helped.

“Are you going to visit Chanel?” he asked, when I told him I was a fashion writer.

“Oui!” I exclaimed.

“Which of her fragrances do you like the best?” he continued. “My wife wears Chanel No. 5.”

“Um,” I thought, and then I thought how the French don’t say “Um,” they say Uuuh or Errrr. “I like Allure a lot,” I decided. “Allure.”

“Ah yes,” he answered. “From 1996.”

“Egoise is sort of cool, too…” I murmered.

“From 1993,” he shot back.

It turned out, my cab driver knew when each Chanel perfume was launched. Ever.

“But how?!” I exclaimed, incredulous at his memory bank and also the fact that I hadn’t said a word yet in English.

“Ah, I am French,” he answered. “To know Chanel perfume is as natural as knowing the streets of the city.”

Welcome to Paris, I thought, in English. Then I got to my hotel bed and promptly collapsed.

—FARAN