Catching my breath in Paris

September felt like a long month — and I needed to escape London. The Spectator had just been sold — and while the transition from one editor to another brought excitement, it was also exhausting for everyone. Paris felt like the perfect retreat. And of course, the Eurostar is the fastest — and most enjoyable — way to get there from London.

A friend of mine lives near the Gare du Nord, and as she was in London for a night, I borrowed her keys, jumped on the train and arrived in Paris as evening fell. Alone and hungry, I made my way to Les Deux Gares, a stylish hotel nestled between Gare du Nord and Gare de l’Est. Designed by Luke Edward Hall, whose aesthetic is unmistakably English, the restaurant inside is quintessentially French — and superb. The wines are, naturally, all natural.

Autumn had painted Paris in shades of gold and amber. The next morning, after a deep, much-needed sleep, I stepped outside through the powder-blue door (French doors surpass English ones) to find the sun shining and the air crisp. The door clanged shut behind me, the sound echoing through the quiet street.

I wanted to visit a church and found myself in the church of Saint Laurent on Boulevard Magenta, where parishioners quietly arranged wooden chairs and lit candles. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting reflections across the stone walls. In the church garden, a few resilient pink roses clung to their stems as fallen leaves swirled around them.

I confess that it wasn’t a scholarly impulse, but after the church visit, I was ready to shop. I wanted to head home with presents. My son, Caspar, turns two in November, and Christmas is just around the corner. The French excel in making toys and children’s clothes that are neither expensive nor plastered with gaudy logos or cartoon characters. Monoprix is the place to go. It’s technically a supermarket, but they sell everything from Liberty-print coats to dolls that smell of vanilla.

That evening, I checked into the Shangri-La Hotel, where I had been invited by one of its PR personnel. It is not an offer one declines. The hotel was originally a palace, built by Prince Roland Bonaparte, the great-nephew of Napoléon. It is in the 16th arrondissement, right across from the Eiffel Tower — ironically, when the Tower was built it was considered an eyesore, so some of the most ornate rooms are on the other side of the building, facing the street rather than the Seine.

Times have changed. Now the hotel’s view of the Tower is a prized feature for guests. During my stay, the king of Cambodia was in residence in the top suite. The Cambodian flag fluttered alongside the French one, marking his presence in Paris for a Francophone convention. In the lobby, his entourage mingled alongside a Japanese bridal party.

The Shangri-La is home to Shang Palace, Paris’s only Michelin-starred Chinese restaurant, and I dined there alone for lunch. My companions were a copy of Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo and a glass of Pol Roger. I suspect Rooney might not approve of the Champagne pairing. Nor would she probably approve of the decadent meal. It began with crisp ice plant salad, a blue lobster dumpling and sweet and sour foie gras. Peking duck then arrived, followed by Normandy beef in king-oyster mushroom sauce, Brittany turbot steamed with ginger and spring onion and brown rice with lobster and asparagus.

At the next table, an American couple asked head chef Tony Xu (who hails from Chengdu in China) for a photo. He agreed, and to my surprise, the woman pulled her Ray-Bans from her head, pressed a button on the side and captured the moment. I hadn’t seen this kind of gadget before, but it felt oddly fitting in the Shangri-La. Perhaps this is the future: no more fishing our phones out for every snap.

Just around the corner from the hotel is the Museum of Modern Art, a hidden gem far less crowded than other Parisian institutions. The collection is impressive, featuring works by Matisse, Picasso, Modigliani, Sonia and Robert Delaunay and André Derain. I had forgotten how much I loved Raoul Dufy’s vibrant paintings. His exuberant scenes of city and country life were exactly the antidote to the gray abstractions of Georges Braque, whose somber tones evoke the mood I had come to Paris to escape.

The next morning, Paris was cloaked in rain, with the tip of the Eiffel Tower lost in the clouds. But never mind. The view still lifted the spirits. The trip ended with oysters, scallops and steak tartare at Le Stella, a cozy neighborhood bistro, and a peaceful train ride home. I returned to London feeling fortified and grateful that Paris is always just a few hours away by train.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s December 2024 World edition.