Paris Tips

Sleep:

BLC Design Hotel 

This is a lovely hotel in Bastille; very airy and clean with decent size rooms (for Parisian standards). The staff is helpful and knowledgeable and the rooms are comfortable and feel so very fresh. There are also some great options for dining nearby. 

Eat:

Le Loir Dans La Theiere (3 Rue des Rosiers, 4e)

One of my absolute favourite Parisian places to eat, drink tea and chillax. It's conveniently located in Le Marais district so you can go there after all the shopping in little chi-chi boutiques.

Sure, this place has been "discovered" by now, but it's also popular with Parisians so the feeling is still authentic. Besides they make the best cakes. If you happen to visit Paris in autumn, make sure you try their chestnut cake. It's to die for. Despite of some negative online reviews regarding friendliness of this place, the staff IS friendly and helpful, but do not go in there barking orders in English. Even a smattering of French goes a very, very long way here.

 Angelina

 I wrote about this particular experience here, so I'm not going to repeat myself too much. All in all, go there once for the experience and return for take out cakes. And make sure you most definitely try their hot chocolates and Mont Blanc.

Shop:

L'eclair De Genie 

I thought I knew my eclairs. In reality, I knew diddly squat. THESE are the ONLY eclairs you will ever need to eat. Ever. And once you start eating them, you won't be able to stop. They're not cheap, but they're worth their weight in gold. My only regret is that I didn't buy more, so make sure you ask for the biggest possible box. In fact, don't stop at just one box.

Kusmi Tea

Kusmi tea can now be found in both the UK and the States, but Paris is where it all started. Hands down, the best teas you will ever have. Buy them loose and make sure you try more offbeat flavours such as Rose Green tea or Almond Green Tea.

De Neuville

Good place to stock up on chocolates, truffles, etc...

I still think UK's Hotel Chocolat is better, but these are not too shabby. Not too shabby at all.

Oui, Oui Paris V

I was hungry so I scanned around to spot a good place to eat. There was a dishevelled looking man sitting at the table in a nearby restaurant, smoking and writing furiously in his well thumbed notebook. Probably a philosopher. Or a writer.

"Look."; I said to The Husband: "He's clearly French. It really doesn't get more French than that. Let's eat here."

"No. It looks empty. I want to eat there."; he said pointing at another place.

"I'm not sitting with the bloody English. I came all the way to France to sit with the French."; I protested.

"But it's a mix of French and English. The place looks good. Come on."

"Oh, OK then."

We sat at the table. There was a group of French youths to the right of us having a philosophical and cultured conversation about Judaism and war. 

"If that was British "yoof" they would be discussing the love life of Z list celebrities. I just love how the French don't do frivolous conversations."

"Yes, yes....let's order already."; The Husband was getting impatient.

The menu was in French.

To the left of us a family of British tourists was painstakingly translating every single item on the menu via their smartphone apps. 

"I'm not doing THAT."; I announced: "It's retarded. We should just order randomly and be surprised."

"What if we order snails? Or frogs?"; said The Husband alarmed.

"We won't."; I assured him.: "I do have basic French, you know."

I beckoned the waiter over and pointed a few items on the menu...soup, polenta and a mysterious meat. 

"I think it's beef.", I said to The Husband reassuringly.

The Brits to the left of us finally finished their 3 hour translation of every single item on the menu and made a daring order of  3 sandwiches (French: LE sandwich).

I rolled my eyes feeling all superior and pleased with myself. Our order is bound to be amazing.

The waiter was smoking in front of the restaurant not giving a flying French f**k, but he eventually brought our food.

I looked at it suspiciously.

"Oh dear, this is not beef. It's...um....it's.....veal.; I was horrified: "We're eating BABY cows!!!! BABY f***ing cows!!!!!!!!"

"Well, better eat it now, otherwise it died in vain. So much for your French, eh?", said The Husband.

 

 

Oui, Oui Paris IV

The Husband and I made our way to the local cafe where bemoustachioed hipster bloke was serving coffee and croissants. Or so we thought.

"Well, we have coffee, but you can't have croissants. The kitchen opens at noon."; he informed us.

It was clear that half of Paris was still nursing their midweek hangovers and couldn't be bothered to get up while the other half did get up, but somewhat begrudgingly, of course.

"Well, we can have coffee here and then go to Angelina's for cakes and croissants. And hot chocolate."; I suggested.

"Are you sure you can cope with all those sugars and carbs you have planned for yourself?"; said the ever so helpful Husband.

"Ah, but of course."

The queue in "Angelina" was long and the service, once you finally made it inside, was brisk.

A very stern and efficient waitress showed us to our table, plonked the menus in front of us and then STRONGLY suggested that we really should have hot chocolate and mont blanc; "House specialty!!!!" 

Being a lover of chestnuts and hot chocolate I followed her order to a tee. Not so The Husband. He actually perused the menu and took some time placing his order. The waitress looked extremely displeased. She clearly wanted us to order what she suggested. 

After bringing our orders, she plonked a Brazilian couple on a table next to us.

"French or English?", she enquired of them.

They spoke neither.

"Good Lord, they're gonna be in trouble with that waitress. They won't even know what hit them. Help them, help them."; I asked of The Husband.

But it was too late. With one skilled swipe of the hand (or should I say paw?), the Gestapo waitress whipped the menus out of their hands and presented them with one hot chocolate each. The Brazilians sat there looking confused.

"They didn't even get an option of mont blanc. Those poor bastards."; I concluded.

 

 

Oui, Oui Paris III

 

I opened the hotel window curtains.  It was raining heavily outside and the day looked miserable.

"I know, let's go to Louvre."; I said.

"Let's. We'll become more cultured."; said The Husband.

"Indeed."

On the way there, we noticed most of the shops are closed or opening very late. 

"Oh, it must be a national holiday."

Once we got to the Louvre, we asked the lady selling the tickets.

"Oh, mais non!", said the lady.

"Oh, so the fuckers are just lazy and stubbornly French. They can't be bothered to work. Fancy that."; I thought.

 

Louvre was full of sculptures taking selfies, sculptures concerned about the size and shape of their ding-a-longs and so on.

I was admiring one such exhibit when all of a sudden I heard The Husband exclaim: "Look at that Brazilian ass!".

I looked at the sculpture I was observing a bit closer. No, it didn't have a Brazilian ass.

Then I saw a girl pass by. She did have a Brazilian ass and sure enough, she was Brazilian.

"You have no shame."; I said to The Husband.

He pretended not to hear me.

We made our way to Mona Lisa. The area immediately in front of the painting looked like the giant fight was going to break out any minute now. People pushing and shoving and all of them taking selfies with Miss Lisa. 

"Do you know what's a selfie?"; asked The Husband unexpectedly and suddenly.

"Doh. Is Pope a catholic?"; I looked at him incredulously.

"I only recently found out about them. Shall we take some selfies?"; said he in all seriousness.

"No. I'm not taking selfies with Mona Lisa and these wild hordes. It's beneath me.".

I marched on towards Dutch masters and he followed.

 

"I need to go to toilet"

"Well, go then. You don't need to announce it."; said The Husband.

The toilet was shut.

"FERME!!!!"; barked the woman guarding the toilet in French.

"I'm beginning to think their favourite word is ferme (closed)."; I said to the Husband.

"Well, they're French. They open and close stuff individually and at random. Or maybe they're all just hungover from all the wine they guzzled the night before. Who knows. After all, they're FRENCH!"; concluded The Husband.  

I wore:

Bag: Rebecca Minkoff

Trainers: Nike

Leather jacket: River Island

Jeans: Mango

Tee: Pop Cph

Oui, Oui Paris II

"The secret to getting a polite answer from the French is to ALWAYS open in French.", I said: "You will also need to apologize profusely for not speaking the language of Voltaire. Then and only then will they grace you with an answer."

"Aham."; said The Husband: "Any other tips?"

"ALWAYS compliment a dog."

"A dog? What if there's no dog?"

"There's always a small dog. This is the French we are talking about."; I concluded whilst avoiding stepping in dog poo on the pavement.

We continued on towards Notre Dame and that wretched "love locks" bridge "Pont de l'Archevêché".

We sat on one of the benches and observed the lovestruck tourists frantically looking for a free space to hang their love lock (there is no space) and then throwing the key into the Seine river believing their love to somehow become eternal after that act.

"Did you know that the city of Paris removes the locks every so often as the bridge wire cannot take their weight and it splits?"

"So the locks are not eternal after all?"

"No, not at all."

"In that case, I give them three months.", said The Husband and pointed at the soppy couple that just "locked" their love onto the bridge.

Oui, Oui Paris I

"Sweetheart, it's time for our annual trip to Paris"; I announced.

"Yaaaas!", he said.

We secured the Eurostar and the hotel; packed our bags and off we went.

Being an anal kind of person, I always make sure that my train seats are facing the direction of travel and have a window next to them in case I feel like admiring French countryside mid snooze. This time was no different.

BUT....

WAIT...

There was a French girl sitting belligerently on my reserved seat.

"This can't be."; I thought.

I double checked the tickets, but there was no mistaking it. A French bottom was nonchalantly perched on MY seat. 

Inside me I was all like "Move bitch, get out the way, get out the way bitch, get out the way. " , but what I actually said was more akin to: "Excuse me, please. Sorry. Did I say sorry yet? Sorry. Awfully sorry to disturb you, but if you wouldn't mind terribly, this appears to be my reserved seat. Sorry, sorry, sorry, a million times sorry."

God, I have lived on this soggy island called Britain for far too long. 

The Frenchie looked at me with disdain and said in that blase way only the French can muster: "Ah, yeah...THIS is my seat"; (she pointed at the seat at the front); "But it has no window. I don't like it." 

"Well, tough titty, biatch. These are the seats I paid for. They're MINE. I want them."....Only..., I didn't actually say that. Instead, I apologized profusely a few more times until the Frenchie finally moved. As she was moving to her windowless seat she rolled her eyes a few times to demonstrate how displeased she was.

I didn't care. I was finally in MY seat rolling towards Paris. 

Postcards From Paris II

Yes, yes...I know...this is a somewhat boring outfit. But, it was perfect for walking around the city as frankly, I could not be bothered to traipse around with stilettos on my feet and I wanted to feel COMFORTABLE.
Obviously, if I had a chauffeur...well...it would be a different story...I'd be swanning around in haute couture.  (Because...if I had the money for chauffeur, I would have the money for haute couture, right?).

One thing I have the money for are macarons. Yay! I love them. They're hiding in that paper bag in the photo above. Nomnomnom!
I bought them from Pierre Herme and they're even better than Laduree ones (and I didn't think that possible); just the right amount of unusual flavours  (olive oil macaron, anyone?) and subtle sweetness.

Oh, the padlocks? They're so called Love Locks. Annoying, if you ask me, but they make a pretty picture. ;)

I wore:
 Sweater: ASOS
Jeans: Zara
Vest top: Splendid
Ballet flats: Sam Edelman

Edit (in Croatian :D):
Za one (a prepoznat ce se...; )) koji su pitali di sam jela pitu od kestena, evo di...cajandzinica (LOL...dal se tako zove mjesto koje servira caj?) se zove Le Loir Dans La Theiere i nalazi se u Le Marais distriktu.
Link
Osim izvrsne pite od kestena, imaju i odlicne cajeve (preporucam onaj od jasmina), kave i druge kolace.
A imaju i udobne naslonjace i fotelje. :D

Postcards From Paris I

So I went to Paris. Mostly to eat.
I've been there many times and each time French food gets more and more appealing. And by food, I really mean cakes. And croissants. And macarons. Good Lord, I will never get slimmer at this rate. Just as well my husband likes his butts on a non-miniscule side...ahem.
Obviously all that eating required a pant that was generously cut in the butt and hip area.
I wore:
shoes: Zara
pants: ASOS
sweater: Charlotte Ronson
vest top-Splendid
rings: Made

Try to ignore my veiny legs and hands. I'm old. I think veins are allowed at my age. ;)

Ah, yeah...CAKES!
The top one is chestnut tart. Definitely the most amazing tart known to human kind.
Look at all this and tell me you would stick to your diet plans. If you would, well, you're a better woman (or a man) than me. Me, I would quite happily gobble ALL of this up. In one sitting.