Once Upon a Time in Paris

I’m not the biggest fan of New Year’s resolutions, but after those two “lost years” during the pandemic where I (a) failed to board a plane, and (b) binge-watched Call My Agent and Emily in Paris, I found myself compiling ten resolutions for 2022 with “go to Paris” standing firmly at number one. The personal effects of consuming these two shows during the pandemic are bountiful: after watching Emily in Paris, I purchased multiple berets in various colours and the same colour (because who doesn’t need two black berets?) along with that vintage-camera phone cover (I am Queen of the Influenced), while Call My Agent revived the dregs of my Leaving Cert French and introduced me to charming colloquiums such as putain. But most of all, watching these shows finally pushed me to stop talking about going to Paris and actually book a flight to Paris.

Unlike some of my 2022 resolutions that are still yet to materialise (there’s still time, right?), I can happily report that I went to Paris for my birthday this year. My expectations were high – and not just from these TV shows – you see, I am writer and I’ve always been under the impression that there are two prerequisites to being a writer: having the ability to string a sentence together and being obsessed with Paris (think Owen Wilson’s character in Midnight in Paris). So you can understand the apprehension I felt when landing in Charles de Gaulle – was this so-called magical city going to live up to my expectations? Bear in mind my expectations have never been described by my friends and family as ‘realistic’.

I arrived in Paris in the morning, too early to check-in, and my friend wasn’t joining me until later. So after dropping my bags off at the hotel, I went out in search of a quintessential Parisian café – if it wasn’t on a corner with those cute bistro chairs, I wasn’t interested. Finding such a café wasn’t hard – they’re literally everywhere. The sun was shining as I took a seat and pulled out my notebook, setting the scene for my first Hemingway moment in Paris. I couldn’t wait to put my French to the test, trying to decipher the locals as they conversed in their sexy accents. But the first thing I heard was “we’ll just have a Diet Coke between us” delivered by a not-so-sexy Mancunian accent, and then a family of Americans started bickering about whether the waiter had seen them ask for the bill. Putain! I had somehow found myself surrounded by annoying tourists (I was the different kind of annoying tourist who considered myself to be a local and above all the other tourists).

I needed to get a croissant in me quick to remind myself that I was in fact in Paris and not in an airport bar. When the waiter finally got to me, he took an unnecessary level of pleasure in informing me that there were no croissants left. At first, I thought this was a joke, but when his gleeful expression was replaced by one of grim impatience, I sheepishly ordered a hot chocolate (I was starting to panic and caffeine is my worry gateway). And the reason I was panicking was because everything I’d heard about Paris from actual real people (not Andréa Martel or Emily Cooper) was true: the locals are rude and the city is plagued by tourists. The sensation I was feeling in that moment is so common that there’s actually a term for it – it’s called Paris Syndrome – a sense of extreme disappointment experienced by those visiting Paris who feel the city is not what they expected it to be.

And when I panic, I find myself in desperate need of a toilet (it’s a condition that is fairly common, just not widely vocalised – I’m just trying to do what I can for anxious pooers here – know that you’re not alone). So, I headed back to my hotel earlier than planned to use the loo, but my room was actually ready for an early check-in (don’t you love it when that happens) and from the second I was handed my key, I was lead out of the dark forest and my Paris story changed its course.

When looking for accommodation, I wasn’t fussed about location, but what I did know was I wanted to stay somewhere that felt like an authentic Parisian apartment (Jeanne Damas’s crib was my blueprint). I thought my best option was Airbnb, but any apartment that matched my desired aesthetic was either booked out or required a minimum stay of one week. And then someone recommended Le Pigalle hotel to me and it was everything I wanted and more. First off, it is a “cool” hotel (think dancing pole in the reception area), but don’t worry, I am not cool (I am a granny trapped in a 33-year-old’s body) and I loved this hotel.

Le Pigalle’s rooms feel like real rooms in real apartments filled with books and artwork and some rooms even have a record player with a selection of vinyls. And we had those dreamy tall windows with a street view. Now I was worried about booking a street-view room – as previously mentioned this hotel is cool, so of course it’s located in the red-light district – and the granny in me was worried about the noise level when sleeping, but I threw caution to the wind and said if I’m going to do Paris, I have to do it properly and so the street view won, and not only was it beautiful but it was surprisingly quiet. To top it all off, the hotel’s lush Le Labo toiletries were in my favourite scent: Santal 33.

Another great thing about this boutique hotel is that it’s only three-minutes’ walk to the charming Place Gustave Toudouze, a lovely little square of restaurants with outdoor seating. We chose to eat at Café Limo for our first night (full disclosure: it’s an Italian restaurant and I might as well be upfront here: we ate all our dinners at Italian restaurants – what can I say, I love pizza and pasta), and while the food was nice, what we loved most about the place was that we were surrounded by locals speed-talking in their beautiful French without a tourist in sight.

My favourite dinner of the trip was at Pink Mamma, an Italian restaurant just around the corner from Le Pigalle. I’d also recommend visiting the Passage des Panoramas, which is a vibrant covered walkway lined with restaurants – we dined at Racines (yes, another Italian). And my favourite lunch was the most delicious (and most expensive) croque monsieur I’ve ever had at Le Café Marly – but the price was worth it, especially for lunch served with a view of the Louvre.

The best breakfast has to be at Bo Man Café (two minutes from Le Pigalle) – yet again I found myself being informed by a waiter that there were no croissants left – I was starting to think that this was some kind of cruel joke that Parisian waiters played on tourists, but then our lovely waiter invited me to go up the street to a local bakery (Le Pétrin de Pigalle) to get some croissants and we could bring them back to the café to enjoy with coffee – this angel of a waiter was a far cry from the croissant Grinch I’d encountered on my first morning.

On the eve of my birthday, my friend and I got all dressed up to grace the halls of the Ritz. I had a list of places I wanted to visit on my trip to Paris and Bar Hemingway was one of them. There was a queue, but it moved quickly, and you realise why it moves so fast when you see the prices on the menu – nobody can afford to stay there for too long (there’s actually a cocktail on the menu that costs €1,500!). The “normal” cocktails were priced at €34 (is any cocktail that costs that much normal?), however, I was looking for a glass of bubbles but could only see bottles of champagne on the menu and I awkwardly had to ask the waiter how much the glass would cost before I committed to the order – he was a gentleman about it and I’m guessing I’m not the first person to have to ask. He informed me it would set me back €28. But I don’t regret it, because you’re not just paying for the champagne, you’re paying for the fresh rose that accompanies your drink, the generously-replenished snacks, the beautifully-designed newspaper menu and the thrill of being in Bar Hemingway at the Ritz. And for a writer in particular, I loved the experience. However one drink was all we could stomach without setting off some epic fiscal guilt and so we said goodbye to Bar Hemingway and the plan was to head to one of the nightclubs near our hotel.

Now you might remember me mentioning that I’m a granny, which means if I’m returning to the vicinity of my hotel, what I’m thinking about is not getting on a dance floor but getting into bed (and I love dancing, but I love going to bed more). My friend and I decided to make a pitstop to our room to change out of our Ritz outfits into something more casual – I was praying that she’d suggest we just call it a night, but thankfully my friend isn’t a granny and had us quickly back on the street in search of a club.

We found ourselves in Le Rouge (just around the corner from Le Pigalle – another bonus point for the hotel – if you’re going to convince a granny to go clubbing you do so with the promise that you will only have to walk a mere two minutes to get to your bed at the end of the night.) And while the staff there weren’t the friendliest, I had a lot of fun dancing at Le Rouge. The building is a classified historical monument, which used to be home to a cabaret club in the 1920s, and the current nightclub has retained the old décor – think Rococo interior with red velvet and mirror panelling. But this club didn’t feel pretentious – I loved how nearly everyone was wearing trainers, and the hip-hop music brought me back to my school-disco days – the whole place erupted in a unified jump when House of Pain’s “Jump Around” came on, and as midnight struck on my birthday, it was the perfect place to dance in a new year.

Of course, there were quite a few shops on my hit list. I finally made it to a Carel store (inspired by the OG that is Alexa Chung), and I visited the Rouje boutique (founded by Jeanne Damas). At L’Appartement Sézane on Rue Saint-Fiacre the knitwear wall is something to behold. We also came across this wonderful vintage store, Kilo Shop on the Boulevard Montmartre, which is the perfect remedy for anyone who doesn’t like vintage stores, finding them too messy and time-consuming – this place is an impeccably-organised two-storey haven of gems.

The store I most wanted to visit was the iconic Shakespeare and Company. Every and any writer will have heard of this place, but you don’t need to be a writer to appreciate it – this bookstore is a special place with a rich history. And while there were more people there than I’d care to share a bookshop with (it’s become a real tourist trap), I could have spent hours under its roof – there are comfy little nooks to relax in and even a piano that visitors can play. Sadly, I only scratched the surface of literary haunts in Paris to explore (all the more reason to return asap).

One other thing I did on this trip, which I will endeavour to do on all future city breaks (if money and time allows) is to spend an extra day on my own. My friend travelled back a day earlier than I did and knowing that I had a solo day at the end of the trip allowed me to relax with my friend without worrying that I wasn’t ticking off my hit list while at the same time I didn’t have to drag her to places that I knew would be painful for her (not everyone likes to spend as long as I do in a bookshop). And it’s because of this plan that I found myself wandering along the Seine embankment at nightfall alone (because I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night – which despite the disdain expressed by Alexander Petrovsky’s daughter in Sex and the City is actually really beautiful), and the incredible thing is I felt really safe in this city at night on my own (which, as a woman in particular, is a rare feeling).

So, would I recommend a birthday trip to Paris? One hundred per cent yes. I had the best trip. Stayed in the best hotel. Tasted the best croque monsieur of my life. Danced my way into my 33^rd birthday. Consumed more croissants and Italian dinners than I’d care to disclose. Oh, and did I mention that a couple of French tourists asked me for directions in French, meaning they thought I was a local! All in all, it was one of those rare occasions in life where reality far exceeds expectations.