You can tell you’ve arrived in the capital city of a great democracy when your room boasts a fan, a lift, and a television that actually works-honestly, I felt like I’d booked into Versailles rather than a ‘mid-range’ (Parisian mid range that is…) hotel. I half expected a man in a waistcoat to appear and ask if I’d like my croissant buttered. What absolute, borderline scandalous luxury I’m surrounding myself with. On the flip side, a mere few hundred metres away from Gare de l’Est, Paris decided to remind me that it is, at heart, gloriously chaotic. The first thing I saw emerging from the Métro wasn’t a chic Parisian in sunglasses, but a dead pigeon, swiftly followed by a dead cat. Naturally, my mind leapt to the only logical conclusion: a dramatic, last-stand showdown in a narrow alley, perhaps with Edith Piaf playing faintly in the background. A draw. Very French. The mind, as ever, boggles, and somewhere Foucault is smiling.

The trip from Nantes to Paris was another carefree glide, France continuing to show off its rail network like a smug Michelin-starred chef. Seriously, these TGVs are so punctual and comfortable I’m beginning to suspect sorcery. Back home, the journey from A to B tends to involve cancellations, existential despair, and possibly a replacement bus featuring a man eating crisps too loudly, and spreading most of them on the seat and floor. Here, everything just… works. I also took the opportunity to give my little 120 camera a clean and changed the film- other passengers baffled!

I do, however, need to rethink my hotel alarm settings. The ‘siren’ I’ve got goes off like France is under siege again, and I’m fairly certain the entire building levitates out of bed when it kicks in. It’s effective, I launch upright like a startled mime, but I suspect I’m now known as that guest. I checked out, stepped into daylight expecting the smouldering aftermath of Armageddon post riots and tear gas, but no, just a couple of mildly abused wheely bins. One burnt out, one missing a wheel, like modern art installations titled Riot Chic. French riots even produce artwork. There had been news of celebrations getting slightly out of hand-because naturally, when you win, the best way to celebrate is to set fire to your own street furniture and rental bicycles. Very Gaul. I pictured Asterix and Obelix charging through the streets, magic potion replaced with Kronenbourg 1664, the Romans subbed out for Gendarmes. Though in this case, the Gendarmes seemed to have the upper hand, hundreds arrested, which feels slightly less comic book and more Les Misérables: The Policing Years.

I arrived at Montparnasse around 11am and reluctantly disembarked from the TGV, despite briefly considering just staying on but the next stop beyond the tracks would have been a pâtisserie somewhere near the Place de la Concorde. The scenery on the way had been beautifully, relentlessly flat and green, France stretching out like an endless, well-kept lawn. It certainly explains the need for trains that move at what feel like aviation speeds. France is big. On to battle with the Metro! I’m a bit daft in that I always hope it’s one of the trains with rubber wheels… much quieter and smoother…. And it was!

Dropped my bag at the hotel (merci, as always, to the endlessly obliging bag storage situation) and headed out. Despite knowing Paris well, after a week in the quiet French countryside and provinces I felt like a slightly startled ‘country mouse’ blinking in the big city lights, or at least the expensive shop windows. Paris is always busy, always a bit impersonal, and requires a certain mental adjustment. I find adopting a mildly eccentric facial expression on the Metro helps deter any curious fellow travellers. Works a treat-either that or they just assume I’m practising for a role in Phantom.

Naturally, I’d made the classic Paris error of not booking any tickets for museums. I decided to aim for the Grand Palais for Matisse, but passing through Place de la Concorde I thought I’d just “have a look” at the L’Orangerie queue. There was a Henri Rousseau exhibition on and I’m a fan. “Not that bad,” I thought. In Paris terms, that apparently means “only an hour of your life.” Bargain. Forty-five minutes later I was in and ready to admire Rousseau, an artist I’ve always loved, partly because he was dismissed in his time but persisted anyway. Fair play. Before that, though, emergency coffee and sandwich in the gallery cafe priced, naturally, as if they’d been personally blessed by a Michelin inspector. Eyes carefully averted from the bill.

Then came the main event: the Art Snake. That slow-moving, tightly coiled queue of humanity inching its way around the exhibition. I like to skip a few people after each painting, it gets some great glares through European half moons. Skip queues to get in to your hearts delight, but skip a place in the Art Snake at your peril….Anyway, Rousseau was excellent, worth every shuffle forward. Monet’s Water Lilies, as ever, were stunning. However, what was less inspiring was the surrounding cast of people treating the place like a catwalk. Despite a sign requesting silence and reflection, the room was full of pouting, posing, and full-scale Instagram choreography. Lips out, backs arched, dramatic stares into middle distance, Monet would have designed mirrors if this had been the intention. Each to their own, I suppose, it gets people through the door, but it did feel like many were more interested in photographing themselves “seeing art” than actually seeing it. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, preferring my art appreciation with a side of actual looking. There is also a whole host of other classic artists- Picasso, Matisse, Cezanne to name a few. It’s a great place to go for a few hours… the people watching is performance art itself.

After emerging and briefly contemplating taking up trout fishing again, I wandered into the Jardin du Luxembourg, one of my favourite places in the city. It’s impossible not to feel nostalgic there. As a child, we had family living on Quai Malaqais in the 80s so I used to mess around nearby, aware only in hindsight that they had been neighbours with Paloma Picasso. Missed opportunities. “Oh, do pop round, and I’ll show you my Dads pictures…..” . Imagine that! The little sailing boats on the fountain in the gardens remain delightful.

You can rent one for a few Euros and send it charging across the water like a tiny naval commander, occasionally colliding with canards and then stalling dramatically mid-pond. Honestly, I could spend hours there and often do! I think one day I’ll bring my own Galleon and reenact some great Naval battles…. sinking anything that gets in my way…

From there, I made my way towards the Seine to see the wrapped Pont Neuf. It’s extraordinary, Paris casually wrapping its oldest bridge like an enormous artistic present. Nearby, lines of Gendarmes in vans suggested the city was still on standby for further “celebrations,” post football, so I tactically retreated to the Metro and headed back to check in. I love the eclectic buildings you see along the way in Paris…always a reminder to get looking up.

Dinner was at Bouillon Pigalle, one of my favourite places anywhere, not just Paris, just down the road from the Moulin Rouge. Vast, lively, and still remarkably affordable (for Paris), it captures something of the old spirit: simple, hearty food in a convivial setting. Or at least, that’s the idea. In reality, about 90% of diners were glued to their phones, presumably ensuring their escargots had the correct filter applied. Another Parisian place to be ‘seen’ rather than enjoy? Toulouse-Lautrec would have been appalled, and probably sketched it before scuttling off to the Chat Noir. I also couldn’t help noticing how many people skipped basic pleasantries with staff, no “merci,” no attempt at French. Meanwhile, the couple next to me conducted a passionate dispute over a tarte aux pommes, the apparent issue being one party consuming it at speed without sharing. Romance is not dead; it’s just occasionally eating dessert too quickly. My meal, however, was superb…eggs mayonnaise, pork knuckle, salad, cheese, coffee. Perfection. Naturally, I’m going back tomorrow. Why would I risk anything else?

Tomorrow is a rare treat: no travel. Just a full day to wander, sketch, drink coffee, and attempt to blend in as a Parisian flâneur. Which, crucially, also involves mastering the ancient and noble art of avoiding dog shite on the pavement and tripping over deceased wildlife. So far today, I remain undefeated (just). Long may that continue.

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