Notes from...Paris
48 hours in the City of Light. And Love.
These notes were written in February 2023. My book, a family local travel guide, snappily titled 237 Ideas for Stuff to Do and Places to Go in Kent with Kids, had just been released. I was distracted, excited, giddy and in love.
While Em maintains her shuteye, I’m slowly stirring here in the magnificent splendour of the City of Light, and Love.
When it costs more to get from Maidstone to St Pancras than it does to rail into the heart of Paris from London, you know something’s amiss. So, here we are, another chance to uncover this glorious city and see things anew.
A late night arrival had us dashing across town to dump our bags at what seems to be a very pleasant and welcoming Hotel Maison Malesherbes before heading across the street for Parisian Blondes and Aperol Spritzes.
Our first stop this morning will be the Musee Louvre, for da Vinci, Caravaggio, Delacroix, et al. Before that, croissants. And plenty of them.
***
The disorientating toll of Saint Augustin, the enormous church outside our window, suggested a 5am wake up. But it was already 8. Not wanting the night to end (a theme that would continue here in Paris) has given me a thick head. We stop at Paul’s round the corner and fill up on croissants and pain au chocolats, Em trying to summon her best GCSE French to order. She wins a latte. I’m left with the world’s milkiest tea.
Looking nothing like the one out of Bill and Ted, the bronze statue Joan of Arc watches us make tracks down Boulevard Malherbes. We’re only ten minutes from the Louvre. There’s time for Em to buy yet another beret and some pressies for the kids. We both pass comment on the vendor’s quite brilliant round-rimmed glasses that suit him perfectly. He rewards us with some repartee. He tells us that he’s not long returned from Senegal, and that Bayswater, of all places, is his favourite pocket of London.
The Louvre is a real treat. Constantly aware of its majesty, the building copes so well with the throng of culture savouring visitors. Of course, we’re all here to see Mona Lisa. It’s small. And, really, it is just one amongst many great portraits here.
Two pieces really got me. Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, and Veronese’s Wedding Feast at Cana. Both had me pouring over the detail and marvelling at the scope and scale and light and beauty.
A few hours later and we emerge into the sun drenched Jardin du Carrousel, legs worn, bellies rumbly. The weather is being kind so we stroll across the Seine in search of Cafe du Marche, a recommended lunch spot (thanks Rich and Victoria).
After, we stroll more. We drink lots. And talk even more. After that, things get a bit blurry (but I can just about make out an Uber back to the hotel to freshen up, more drinks, a search for a pizza restaurant and a 2.30am finish).
***
A short walk from the hotel and the imposing Galleries Lafayette and still-smart Forum des Halles invite us to spend big. I save my money instead to part with the world-famous Shakespeare & Co. My newly purchased copies of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and DeLillo’s The Silence would later be lost forever, mistakenly left behind by my future drunken self in a bar somewhere in the shadows of the Centre Pompidou.
At lunch, my mind wanders back home to Uncle Alan’s funeral. I’m sorry to not be there and remember him with everybody else. He was a lovely man. Em’s late work colleague is also being remembered today. Life is precarious. And we must live it well.
We get our steps in, heading to the Eastern, scruffier suburbs, past the gold tip of Bastille (the scene of Em’s marching band days, apparently), to the Insta-friendly Rue Cremietier. Even here, on the city’s fringes, beauty is everywhere.
We pit stop near Le Pont d’Austerlitz before meandering romantically (is there any other way?) through the glorious Jardins des Plantes. Paris is punctuated by a FaceTime call with a smiling Pheebs. She’s gone blonde, and is very excited about it.
The Latin Quarter doesn’t disappoint for people watching, Leffe drinking and cake munching. I want to remember the bar we staggered into so that we can return one day. But I can’t.
The art housed by Centre Pompidou is as interesting as it is infuriating. Chagall and Kandinsky - and the building itself - aside, there’s little to light the fire here; I want to like this place more than I do, but much of the collection leaves me cold or feeling nothing at all.
On the top floor we have a reservation at Georges for great steak and good wine. The view across town, a scaffolded Notre Dame and twinkly Eiffel Tower dominating, has Em getting totes emosh. We both feel very lucky, for loads of reasons.
As the cool kids arrive and the DJ spins increasingly louder music, we ask for the bill and go downstairs, out into the cool February air. There’s time for one last drink (and for me to leave my bag of gorgeous books under the table) before calling on Uber once more.
We shall see you again soon, Paris.