There is something wildly confident about booking a 36-hour trip to Paris in between working hours and thinking, “Yes. This will be elegant.”
What can I say it just spoke to me…
It was not elegant.
It started in Gatwick Wetherspoons.
We had “loads of time.”
Which is famously the beginning of every bad decision.
A couple of drinks in and suddenly we’re power-walking to the gate, slightly warm, slightly stressed, pretending this is all part of the chic European city break aesthetic.
Nothing says “refined Parisian weekend” like nearly missing your flight because of a pitcher.
Somehow, we made it.
Paris was officially on.
I fully expected mildly intimidating waiters and subtle judgement for not speaking fluent French.
Instead? Everyone was lovely.
Like actually lovely. Helpful. Smiley. Patient with our tragic attempts at pronunciation.
It humbled me immediately.
We went mid-October and it was perfect. Cold-ish but bright. Proper jacket weather. The kind of crisp air that makes you feel like you’re in a Pinterest board whether you deserve it or not.
We stayed in an Ibis Budget in St Maurice, just outside the centre.
Flights + hotel were £120 each which still feels slightly illegal for Paris.
The room was small but completely fine. Clean. 24-hour reception. They offered breakfast but we skipped it in favour of actual bakery croissants, which felt morally correct.