Arriving in a new city and feeling like an out-of-my-depth ignoramus is hardly a novel concept for me. I’ve made something of a career out of it. But Paris raises the stakes. Perhaps it is the shame of sliding my passport to the hotel check-in staff – dressed without explanation in the same shade of purple as Barney the Dinosaur – then watching their faces fall as it becomes apparent that Monsieur French can’t speak a word of French.
Probably I’m paranoid; definitely I’m jet-lagged and perhaps not ready for the kaleidoscopic fever dream that is Le Grand Mazarin, the latest five-star hotspot in the hip and historic Jewish quarter, Le Marais.
Come morning and my equilibrium is restored. This hotel is gorgeous. My third-floor room has a tapestry canopy above the bed, bedside lamps shaped like fern fronds, whimsically painted wardrobes and a perfectly petite balcony overlooking a medieval cobblestone street that’s so narrow I could just about reach over to water the pot plants on the building opposite.
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