If you find yourself tired of London — the traffic, the transport, the noise, the neighbours, the cost of a cup of coffee — take a break in Paris. By the time the Eurostar chugs into St Pancras you will be back in love with this city.
I’ve never got Paris. Last weekend, for a wedding, I didn’t get it all over again.
The traditional brush-off came early. Our Airbnb had no coat hangers. I asked the hotel next door, in a polite lost Englishman way, could we borrow some?
“Non,” she says, not looking up from her phone. Wait, there isn’t a single coat hanger I could borrow for a night?
“This vil nurt be possi-bler.”
In Paris, I’m regularly made to feel, à la Taylor Swift, that if there is a problem, it’s me. You came to Paris without your own coat hangers? L’idiot.
The taxis, if you can get one, are all driven by nutters. London cabbies may not be to everyone’s taste but I’ve seldom had a cross word with any of them.
In Paris, my taxi driver starts angry and puts his foot down, shouting Merde! Bâtard! at any hint of disrespect.
This is funny the first time. The traffic and most of the driving would get to you, admittedly.
The easiest way to travel is on bike, but that is even more of a life-in-your-hands situation than it is here. Paris has Lime bikes the same as ours, which in fairness are less likely to be vandalised.
As for the nightlife, Paris has always given the impression that there is a great time happening somewhere. If you don’t know where that somewhere is, no one is going to tell you.
For eats, there are a thousand near identical bistros serving up the same old same old. All are worse and more expensive than any Côte Brasserie.
On the last night, I was locked out. I can’t blame Paris for that.
Facing a night on the street I asked numerous hotels for a room, please.
Where was my ID, they said? Locked inside my room, I said. No ID? No room. “I’m in a bit of trouble here. Can you help?” Pffff.
I’ll concede that by this point it wasn’t just they who were surly and irritable.
Back home, I called into the local to rant about all of this. By fluke, there was a lost French tourist. I shrugged a couple of times, then did the right thing.
He was charm itself. So it’s not the people, it’s the place.
It’s London 1, Paris 0 for me.
