Not quite "Night For Day", nonetheless inspired by the breathless insouciance of JLG's "À bout de souffle" ... et voici the six-week souvenir of  "Où est la sortie ?"

This flashback takes place between two subway exits. The first is in Hong Kong, on a Sunday afternoon, May 28, 2006. The starring cast and core crew had just met for the first time over a pre-production drink at the Cat Cafe, and the actress was leaving the locals to head back to Shenzhen. Standing three steps above us, with her back to the mouth of mtr Causeway Bay exit E, she pronounced three last syllables in guise of au revoir: "À Paris."

Exactly one week later, j and I landed in CDG and aussitôt began our parisian sojourn in St-Thibault des Vignes: Meiyingazai's tlc by day, a flash of Tongge by night, and sweetheart bobo to entertain our evenings. Those days we dashed out the door to the bus stop, to the rer from Torcy zone 5 into Paris intramuros for leisurely location research in the arrondissements. We met friends of f, visited sy and renewed with t. We spent an intellectual hour with double_ss + g discussing art and the romantic era at Café Beaubourg. We wandered into the Cité Universitaire and lay on our backs on the grass staring up at the horizonless blue sky. We were introduced to the extended Wan family, all originated from j's homevillage of Ho Chung, to a restaurant in Torcy, to a takeaway near the Gare de Lyon. We gathered at an informal family reunion in a friendly suburban setting hosted by Uncle Wah and Auntie Ming, bbq between neighbourly fences and well-trimmed lawns, salad, steak, strawberry tarte, etorki cheese and a playful black labrador named Princesse. Then, it was time to move on.

h arrived 12 hours late, after an impromptu overnight in Shanghai due to a typhoon in Hong Kong. We met him at the airport, and from then on, we were 3 = h + j + c. That same day, we moved into our studio at 8, rue la Vacquerie, 6/f under the rooftop, vasistas above the turbo-flush toilet and shower, colourful Almodóvar-like interior, fully furnished floorspace, fully booked shelves, 17 m2 to be fully inhabited by the terrific trio. 3 big purple towels hanging over the shower. 3 pairs of shoes crowding the kitchen and blocking the doorways. 3 bodies plus equipment packed into the tiny building elevator whose maximum capacity is 225 kg. Together we retraced our footsteps to previously found locations, then together we wandered off the beaten track and found new ones. And after work, we played: we visited the metro-boulot-expo exhibition at the Grand Palais; we indulged in tea-time pastries and macaroons at La Durée; we delighted in the omnibus "Paris, je t'aime" collection of 18 short films by 21 different directors about the city we all love. But it was only the beginning of our own short-film adventure.

f arrived on the third weekend in June, and so production began. We shot in the studio, we shot on the street. We shot over the river, we shot underground. We got kicked out of cemeteries, scolded by authorities, teased by passers-by and taken for Japanese tv. We shot in the 11th, the 12th, the 13th. We shot "en attendant le bonheur", we closed a school called Comme un Chinois à Paris, we zoomed in on a bud that blossomed into tea. We shot on the pedestrian Pont des Arts, we shot on high-traffic cobblestoned streets. We shot a guy asking f, "Vous êtes du Pérou ?" - twice: the first with the crêpeman at la Bastille; the second with a Frenchman named Rémi. We shot the view from Montmartre at the break of dawn, before the neon lights of a closed shopfront after midnight, through the ruckus of a World Cup post-match win on Boulevard Diderot. We shot an imaginary Indian on grasslined tram tracks, then we shot a Chinese girl lost in the crowds of rue Mouffetard during la Fête de la musique. t was for Tamara, Tat and a takeaway called Délices de Hong Kong.

Meanwhile, we 3 continued to bond in the studio, just as individual roles were distinguished during shooting: j director, h cameraman, c miscellaneous (navigator, sound recorder, interpreter, stage manager, prop gopher, bag watcher, etc). At home, j and/or h cooked breakfast/lunch and/or dinner, and c was the designated dishwasher. Our domestic life was sponsored by Grand Jury, who fed us through production on muesli, fruit juice, guacamole, mayonnaise, mineral water, smoked ham, and even introduced us to tasty terrine de lapin. We used gaffer tape to fix/close anything from our tiny stuffed refrigerator to our morning cereal bag. We recycled paper, plastic and glass. We took home a mysterious antique suitcase found on the street. We listened to Cui Jian's "huafang guniang" in mp3. Some mornings we rushed out the door at 5.30 am to catch the first metro; other days we languished on the bed waiting to hang our laundry from the washing machine. Just once, we spent the entire afternoon and evening at Café de la Danse, listening to rehearsals and photographing a concert professionally lit by sy and musically performed by the "french & fresh pop" band Peppermoon. Such was the soundtrack of our summer ballad.

Jane arrived on the 5th of July, and so we 5 embarked together on the last 5-day stretch. This time, t stood for trottinette. But the performance artist activist also came with her wig, her sunglasses, her earrings, her identity. We made a bright red t-shirt to reflect her provocation: on the back, "same same but"; on the front, "different". We shot the 2 girls in front of Chinese and Korean restaurants, at McDonald's in Montreuil, at the bus stop after dark, in the train all the way to Fontainebleau and back. Then we shot the big scene in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And 2 days later, we shot it again, better. And then we celebrated at Le Bonaparte.

Our last days and nights in Paris were spent saying thanks and au revoir: to our familiar hosts in St-Thibault and Torcy at the trendy Iguana Café; to our friends and collaborators at the artsy Italian restaurant-bar 8 1/2; and to the city of lights, lying on our backs on the Champ de Mars at the stroke of midnight, staring up at the sparkling Tour Eiffel. Then, it was time to go home.

The last exit was in Paris, on a Wednesday night, July 12, 2006. It was just inside the corridor of metro Voltaire sortie rue de la Roquette, where f murmured three last words in guise of joigeen: "À Hong Kong."