How on earth did I end up spending three weeks in Paris during one of the most crisis-ridden periods of American-Franco political relations? Trust me, it wasn’t by choice. Mere opportunity. My husband Lew was dispatched to France late January by his employee’s immediate need for his presence in the City of Light. For five weeks. No way was I going to let this opportunity slip by me without taking advantage. Not only had I never been to Paris, I had never been to Europe.

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It’s not as though I didn’t want to go, just never had the opportunity or financial flexibility. Not one of those lucky ones to have experienced “Junior year abroad” or whatnot. I was a strictly commuter-college student and the traveling I managed was due mostly to an over-active imagination. And reading lots of Keats poetry. He never traveled much either but appreciated it thanks to others’ reportage.

So with that background of ignorance, I took my (mostly forgotten) high school French, a week’s worth of clothes (to be recycled, natch) and two weeks into Lew’s “sentence,” I was there, all agog and ready for some Paris delights. Who knew it would be during all the wrist-slapping and verbal jousting by the various heads of states of the world? Let’s just say it wasn’t the best time to be An American In Paris, but it wasn’t the worst. In my humble opinion the worst was about 50 years ago. In fact, aside from the crummy, damp and cold weather, the people were as warm as they could be. Considering their ethnicity. Which, by virtue of their (deserved) reputation, is typically chilly on a sultry August afternoon anyway.

But still, it is a gorgeous city, breathtakingly so, and I would go back in a heartbeat. Preferably without thoughts of duct tape and plastic sheeting hanging over me like a painted ceiling, thank you. The three weeks were unforgettable, thanks to serendipitous happenstance and situations. For example, I was privy to some exquisite hotels, thanks to a variety of stories I was working on. And my favorite (the Park Hyatt Vendome) brought me a new best-friend who happens to be a Parfumeur. Blaise Mautin, the hotel’s personal go-to-guy for fragrances in the bathroom amenities, is an amazing artiste on the verge of celebrity.

How many Parfumeurs make house calls? Or in this case, hotel calls? Leave it to the French to take anything even remotely sensuous, like shower gel, as seriously as we take our morning Starbucks brew.

Not only did Blaise create the Park Hyatt’s unique scents for the lotions, hair stuff and bath gels, he’s helped launch the hotel’s “Signature Scent.” We had so much fun schmoozing about his fascinating profession, he ended up being my personal guide and friend during the rest of my time in his city. Remember this name --Blaise Mautin (with a name like that can’t you just picture him on one of those romance novel covers?) because not only has he just been featured in Vogue and other trendy mags, he’s about to be discovered big-time by some New York honchos. (I swore I wouldn’t spill the news yet.) Plus he’s gorgeous, sweet and adorable! And he and Lew met and enjoyed each other’s company, so it was a win-win situation all around for me.

So as I was busy walking the amazing Paris streets (in a touristy way, of course) on my quest to get to know the “real” Paris, I was listening to conversations all around me. And trying to avoid the dog evidence. What’s with that? I heard it was a problem, but it was like trying to avoid cracks in the sidewalk.

Every neighborhood (arrondisements) has its own personality, but the conversations everywhere centered around Iraq and America, and I decided to keep a low profile regarding my native country. Not that I felt as though I was in danger, but I was typically cautious anyway. That happens when you’re a New Yorker and it came in handy.

I had written down a few standard sentences (translated by one of my editors who happens to be French) including one that said something like “I’m proud to be an American, but don’t agree with all of my government’s policies.” Just in case. I never actually uttered the words, but the day of the huge anti-war demonstration (which they call “manifestation”) I was taking a tour of the Catacombs. An interesting, albeit spooky, tourist attraction that is a virtual cemetery with all the bones neatly on display. You can’t make this stuff up. So by the time we re-surfaced, the manifestation had wended its way past us. But the anti-American sentiment lingered in the air like some dangerous scent. And not a good-sexy-dangerous scent, like something Blaise might be working on.

The uneasiness about being on the brink of war made for nervous conversations every day I was there. Usually initiated by my Parisian friends, I must add. “Is your President going to bomb Iraq? Do you really think there will be a war?” asked everyone I spoke with. Heated discussions would generally ensue en route to a café. Come to think of it, every conversation or stroll always ended up either in, or heading towards, one of those ubiquitous little eateries the French love to hang out in. They invented the hanging-out-in-cafes-drinking-thick-black-coffee-way-of-life, and while I appreciated and enjoyed it, I frankly don’t get it. Maybe because it was rainy and freezing cold most of the time I was there. Which is probably why the museums were so attractive. Don’t get me started on the Louvre. Or the Musee d’Orsay. Unless you really want to know.

Naomi Serviss is a freelance entertainment/travel writer whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Newsday, Daily News, in-flight magazines, Caribbean Travel & Life and About.com’s Spa Site among other outlets.