Nancy

I arrived in Nancy for a practical reason. A car sale. Paperwork. A long drive. The kind of errand that rarely leads anywhere memorable.

And then the city quietly proved me wrong.

I booked one night at Hôtel Littéraire Stendhal & Spa, fully expecting to sleep and move on. Instead, I slowed down. The hotel had that rare quality of being calm without feeling sleepy. The kind of place that makes you want to sit for a bit. Read something old. Drink something cold. Let the day stop chasing you.

Nancy does not announce itself. It doesn’t sell the dream. It doesn’t compete for attention. It just stands there, elegant and composed, waiting for you to notice.

The city is compact and walkable, built for wandering without purpose. And then you turn a corner and there it is. Place Stanislas. Perfectly balanced. Golden gates catching the light. One of those places that feels almost theatrical at night, glowing just enough to make you think, well… this complicates things.

Beyond the square, Nancy reveals its other strength. Art Nouveau architecture everywhere you look. Doors. Windows. Curves that feel intentional without being precious. Paris may get the spotlight, but Nancy designed the set and then stepped back.

I wandered without a plan, stopped where it felt right, and eventually landed at Brasserie Saint-Georges for dinner. Alone. Relaxed. Eating like someone who had finally outrun French bureaucracy. I ordered dessert without negotiating with myself. That felt like a win.

Before leaving town, I stopped at Maison des Sœurs Macarons and brought a box back for Denise. That decision earned me more goodwill than most paperwork ever has.

Nancy wasn’t loud about what it offered.
It didn’t try to convert me.
It just let me stay long enough to realize it had been there all along.

If you find yourself traveling east, don’t rush through it.
Nancy rewards the pause.