My love affair with Paris hotels did not get off to a good start. Travelling solo, I was looking for somewhere dirt cheap, so I got a recommendation from an acquaintance for a hotel that a friend of a friend owned. I didn’t quite understand that “hotel” could mean a tiny attic atop a six-floor walk-up in a bad neighbourhood near a railway station, where the porters sat in a room off the lobby gambling all day and night, while all sorts of nefarious people came and went.
At least it was “romantic” in a sleazy way. I imagined myself as the writer Jean Rhys, who specialised in beautiful novels about depressed young women living in attics in cheap Paris hotels. I’ve forgotten a lot of good hotels, but I’ve never forgotten that really bad one.
Sometimes the worst hotel experiences make the most vivid memories. Since then, writing hotel reviews, I’ve stayed at most of the Paris legends, among them The Ritz, Hotel de Crillon, Le Meurice, the Plaza Athenee, Le Bristol, Le Royal Monceau Raffles, the Peninsula, the Shangri-La and the venerable Hotel Raphael. What are they like? Mostly, as you would imagine, very grand, with maids who are dressed better than you are and concierges who can be both as attractive as movie stars and judgmental as magistrates.
I always feel as if I must be on my best behaviour when staying there, which I suppose is a good thing, even though some of their famous guests, notoriously rock stars, are often on their worst. Eye-wateringly expensive.
