"Paris", he rhapsodises with impeccable banality, "is magic."
With the kitten-cute gamine Isabel on the one arm and the vamping courtesan VD on t'other, the trio of faux-bohemians set out through the haphazard array of Parisian arondissements. Past battered cafés and not-so-fragrant Frenchmen they demur not in their pursuit of the ever elusive "la fée verte" of absinthe. Seeking perfectibility. Yearning for that perfect moment - that peace that comes only from oblivion.