Last time I was in Paris I’d hoped for a marriage proposal. It wasn’t to be

“Bonjour madame!” I say excitedly after running through the phrase repeatedly in my head. My big smile starts to dim when I realise the French customs officer is clearly a dashing monsieur. My teenagers are laughing, especially given the unsolicited advice I’d handed out on the plane about the importance of trying to speak French in Paris.

Jessica Rowe with her now-husband, Peter Overton.

It has been over 20 years since I’ve been in the City of Light. The last time I was at Charles de Gaulle airport I was holding my boyfriend’s hand, hopeful that he would propose to me in the world’s most romantic city.

Over the next week, at every bridge we walked over, every church we stood in front of, every cafe we sat at, I was sure this was the moment. However, one cafe we weren’t allowed to sit at was Les Deux Magots. We smiled at the maître d’ and I attempted to ask for a table for two. He shrugged his shoulders, pretending it was fully booked, and gestured for us to leave the near empty restaurant.

Later that night, as we walked up the grotty steps of the Champ de Mars-Tour Eiffel metro station, I held my breath convinced that my well-organised man had left the best until last. Tilting my head beneath the soft, starry, sparkling light of the Eiffel Tower I looked lovingly into his eyes…

Alas, it was not to be, and I didn’t return to Australia with a ring on my finger. My now-husband Petee, usually a fan of the predictable, later explained that he wasn’t going to do the clichéd proposal. And now here we are, so many years of joy, tears and laughter later, returning as a family of four, excited to be showing our teenage daughters why we fell in love with Paris.

It’s still dark as our taxi heads towards our rented apartment. The driver dodges a traffic jam of cyclists as I point out the River Seine, and then we spy the flying buttresses of Notre-Dame cathedral.

Here we are, so many years of joy, tears and laughter later, returning as a family of four, excited to be showing our teenage daughters why we fell in love with Paris.

JESSICA ROWE

“Keep calm, Pussycat,” says Petee as I do my best to recite a potted version of my high school art history class about this masterpiece of Gothic architecture. I’m still in tour guide mode, talking about the arrondissement we’re staying in, as we squeeze up the narrow stairs with our cumbersome suitcases.

When the girls pull back the velvet marigold curtains of their bedroom, there is Notre-Dame again. The soft, pink morning light shows the scaffolding still in place as artisans work painstakingly on the restoration.

“Mum, I can’t believe this is our room – I don’t want to leave,” says Allegra. And Giselle is already reading the list of recommendations she has from her great aunt, who lived in Paris for many years.

Our precious days all begin the same way. Despite not usually being an early riser, I wake up in the dark and walk to the local boulangerie, wearing my purple Willy Wonka-style overcoat over my pyjamas, teamed with a green faux-fur bucket hat and sturdy boots.

The young woman behind the counter doesn’t raise an eyebrow and smiles patiently while I falteringly order two almond croissants, two pains au chocolat and a baguette. The croissants leave a warm, buttery imprint in the white paper bag and we eat them while gazing at the cathedral outside our window.

My eagerness to speak French is not matched by my skill. One of the residents of the apartment laughs when I greet him with “Bonsoir!” as we head out for dinner. He explains in English that Parisians are usually not so enthusiastic when they greet one another. But his warmth is worlds away from the aloofness I’d experienced at the cafe all those years ago.

On our final day in Paris, Giselle and I get up at sunrise to line up for La Sainte-Chapelle, a 13th- century Gothic chapel. Our breath catches as we step from the narrow, stone spiral staircase into the upper chapel. No one else is here as we gaze upwards, dizzy from the kaleidoscope of stained-glass, light and colour filling the space and our hearts.

As we leave the city in the morning light, Allegra and I silently weep as we say goodbye. “Au revoir, Paris. You’re forever in my heart,” says my eldest daughter. And as I squeeze her hand and look across at my family, I know this place has cast its spell on all of us. And there is nothing clichéd about that.

Get the best of Sunday Life magazine delivered to your inbox every Sunday morning. Sign up here for our free newsletter.