Paris

Every city has an entrance. Paris, naturally, has several. Ours began on a quiet campsite in Melun and ended beneath the bright red sails of the Moulin Rouge, with enough history, wine and unexpected sights squeezed into one day to fill an entire holiday.

The alarm sounded at six o’clock. The campsite was still half asleep, with only the occasional birdsong and the distant rumble of an early train breaking the silence. Bandit, our faithful campervan, had become home over the past few days, and leaving him behind for a day in Paris felt a little like asking the dog to stay while you went to the pub.

By 7.20 we were on the train.

Thirty minutes later we stepped out into the organised chaos of Gare de Lyon. It’s remarkable really. One moment you’re surrounded by trees and campervans, the next you’re standing in one of the busiest cities in the world with thousands of people somehow knowing exactly where they’re going.

I, naturally, had Google Maps.

“I know exactly where we’re going.”

Dana didn’t even look up.

“Of course you do.”

A short adventure through the Metro, involving surprisingly little confusion, brought us to Hotel du Beaumont, tucked away just around the corner from the Moulin Rouge where we’d be spending the evening.

The hotel was everything Montmartre should be.

It wasn’t modern.

It wasn’t minimalist.

It had character.

Our room felt as though someone had decorated it after reading too many French novels. Deep peacock wallpaper climbed across the walls in rich purples and silvers, brass lamps bathed everything in warm golden light and the glossy black bathroom felt almost theatrical. It wasn’t particularly large, but it wrapped itself around you in that cosy Parisian way that somehow makes you want to stay in… despite the entire city waiting outside.

“We’re only dropping the bags,” Dana reminded me as I admired the room.

“I know…”

Five more minutes.

Then we headed straight for breakfast.

The doors of Au Moulin Normand stood wide open, allowing the smell of fresh bread to escape into the street like a marketing campaign that needed no advertising budget. Warm baguettes lined the shelves, buttery croissants glistened beneath the lights and pain au chocolat disappeared into paper bags almost as quickly as they appeared.

Breakfast consisted of coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and a croque monsieur so perfectly crisp, cheesy and indulgent that I briefly considered cancelling the rest of the day and simply ordering another.

Thankfully Dana intervened before that became reality.

Our first destination was Notre-Dame.

Or at least it was.

The cathedral stood magnificent against an impossibly blue sky, but so did a queue that looked as though it stretched halfway back to England. In thirty-five degree heat there are moments when determination gives way to common sense.

“This is one of them,” Dana said.

I couldn’t argue.

Instead we wandered through the shaded streets of the Latin Quarter, where tiny cafés spilled onto narrow pavements, musicians played beneath centuries-old buildings and every street seemed to reveal another hidden square waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes the places between the famous attractions become your favourite memories.

Eventually we climbed aboard the number 27 bus, quietly congratulating ourselves for spending a couple of euros instead of paying tourist bus prices. The route drifted through the heart of Paris, revealing famous landmarks one after another until suddenly the glass pyramid of the Louvre appeared ahead of us.

I’ve seen photographs of it hundreds of times.

None of them prepare you for standing in front of it.

The enormous glass pyramid rises from the courtyard like something that accidentally landed in the middle of French history. Around it stand elegant Renaissance buildings that have watched over Paris for centuries. Somehow the contrast shouldn’t work.

Yet it does.

Perfectly.

Children chased pigeons across the pale stone. Tour guides waved coloured umbrellas above their heads. Visitors stood balancing their cameras, all trying to capture the same photograph without fifty strangers wandering into the frame.

Including me.

“Can you move slightly to the left?” I asked Dana.

“I have.”

“No… everyone else.”

By now the heat had become properly Parisian. The sort of heat that slows conversations and makes every patch of shade feel like winning the lottery.

We escaped to Café de la Régence, where we found a table looking out towards the passing crowds.

Dana ordered a glass of wine.

I chose a Kir.

There is something wonderfully civilised about sitting in Paris with a chilled drink while the entire world seems to stroll past. Nobody appears to be in a hurry. Waiters glide effortlessly between tables. Street performers drift in and out of earshot. The city somehow manages to feel busy and relaxed at exactly the same time.

It was there that Paris delivered my favourite moment of the day.

Thirty-five degrees.

Not a cloud in the sky.

Everyone dressed for midsummer.

Except one person.

Confidently striding across the square wearing knee-high Balenciaga rainboots.

Luxury designer Wellington boots.

The sort of footwear normally associated with flooded fields and miserable November afternoons in Wiltshire.

Only Paris could make waterproof footwear look like high fashion during a heatwave.

From there we continued towards the Eiffel Tower, walking along the northern bank of the Seine where every bridge framed another perfect view. Boats drifted lazily beneath us, artists sketched beneath the trees and every few minutes one of us would stop.

“Just one more photo.”

I must have said that at least thirty times.

Each time I genuinely meant it.

Eventually we returned to Montmartre, emerging onto Boulevard de Clichy as daylight softened into evening.

If the Latin Quarter whispers, Boulevard de Clichy shouts.

Neon signs flashed above the pavements.

Music spilled from open doorways.

Tourists wandered wide-eyed from one curiosity to the next.

And then came the endless procession of sex shops, peep shows and live adult theatres.

“Well…”

I paused.

“This escalated quickly.”

Dana laughed.

“I don’t think this is quite what Victor Hugo had in mind.”

Within five minutes we’d gone from admiring Gothic architecture and priceless works of art to walking through one of the world’s most famous red-light districts.

That’s Paris.

It refuses to be just one thing.

As we wandered back towards our hotel, the Moulin Rouge’s famous windmill began glowing against the evening sky. Crowds were already gathering outside, dressed in everything from jeans to dinner jackets, all waiting for the same show.

Standing there, I realised we’d travelled from a peaceful campsite in Melun that morning, crossed centuries of history, wandered beside the Seine, admired one of the world’s greatest museums, laughed at designer rainboots in a heatwave and somehow ended the afternoon surrounded by flashing neon and cabaret posters.

Most cities reveal themselves gradually.

Paris throws everything at you on the first day.

And somehow leaves you wanting even more.