I’ve never really felt at home anywhere, not even in Philadelphia, where I grew up. Home, for me, is where my bags are, and they are never in one place for long.
The closest I feel to being at home is when I’m in Paris. I first went there a few years ago, and as soon as I stepped off the plane, I felt as if I’d been there a thousand times. It was a weird feeling, as though I’d been looking for this place all my life, and had never been truly satisfied with anything before. It was almost like I’d lived there in a past life.
The first hotel I stayed in was £30 a night. Nobody could fit into the elevator, so it went up and down on its own. I remember opening the door to my room and it knocking into the bed — that’s how small the room was. So I could do little more than sit on the bed, staring at the four walls around me. When I go now, I stay in Le Royal Monceau, near the Arc de Triomphe. They open the foyer door to me and say, “Welcome home, mademoiselle.” The suite I rent was designed by Philippe Starck, so it’s pretty full-on. There’s a piano and a guitar, so I don’t have to rent them, which saves money, and wheeling a piano along the corridors — can you imagine how difficult that would be? The key to my room has “le clé du paradis” written on it — “the key to paradise”. One day, I’ll take someone back there for a liaison and show him the key. There would be no need for words.
Paris is great in summer, but I wouldn’t go back in winter. Last time I went, it was freezing. I had just been to the boulangerie when I slid on the ice. I had a bruise the size of a small planet, and sat there crying until a gentleman helped me up. I didn’t let go of the bread, though.
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The hotel offered to move us to the room above. Why? Because cockroaches can’t climb? I’m like a swallow who heads to warmer climes at the earliest opportunity, and the ocean is always a pull. I love Hawaii — it’s so beautiful and calming. When I was growing up, my mum and I would rent a room at Nalu Kai Lodge, in Maui. It was the simplest of places, run by a wonderful lady called Maria. It had two beds in the room, a hammock out the front and a cute fisherman’s kitchen with a wood counter sloping down to the sink, where we’d prepare our fish supper. In Hawaii, you go out, fish and eat — life’s that simple.
Even though it’s illegal, I’ll often sleep on the beach in Hawaii, just to keep cool and be near the ocean. I love to float on the water, with the fish grabbing at my feet and the turtles swimming all around. I often kayak when I’m there.
I rely on the locals telling me when’s the best time to go out on the water, but from then on, it’s all about intuition. There are times when, for three or four minutes, it’s just go, go, go as you battle through the current. You can’t afford to get lazy, otherwise you’ll end up on the rocks.
The scariest part is when whales come up beside you. It’s exhilarating, but terrifying. I accept the downside of the tropics, too, and have often gone to bed with cockroaches on my sheets. I just say to them, “Now, listen. You can stay there, but if you come anywhere near my body, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” Sure enough, they’re gone by the morning.
What I can’t cope with is when bugs are somewhere they clearly shouldn’t be. I went to Ipanema, in Brazil, on a last-minute deal. As it was carnival time, we took the only room we could find. I was just laying out my toiletries when I noticed a huge cockroach in the bath. “That’s not a good sign,” I said to my friend. “Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly. “Let’s check out room service.” As I opened the menu, a dead cockroach fell onto the floor. The hotel offered to move us to the room above. Why? Because roaches can’t climb?
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There’s a time and a place for both luxury and basic in my life, and my choice depends on what my mind and body needs. Deep down, though, I suppose I prefer to be in the wild, with a sense of abandonment, where I can meditate, write and paint. The only thing that would be missing is my music, but I’ve not yet found anyone who can get a piano into the jungle.
Melody Gardot, 27, is a Grammy-nominated jazz singer. After being hit by a car while cycling in her home town, Philadelphia, in 2003, she was hospitalised for a year. She had to learn to walk again, suffered memory problems and had to wear dark glasses to counteract a hypersensitivity to light. During this time, she learnt the guitar and began writing music. She released her debut album, Worrisome Heart, in 2006. Her new album, The Absence, is out now