What Paris Teaches You When She’s in a Mood
I should’ve known the weekend was doomed before it began.
Back in June, a buddy from California texted that he’d be in Paris in two weeks. Two. Weeks. We’ve lived here for years, and this was his notice. He was doing some sort of European chest-thumping tour that included running with the bulls in Spain. Of course, we said yes. Because we love the guy and because saying no to a friend you haven’t seen in years feels like bad karma.
Finding a decent hotel in the Marais in July is like hunting for shade in the Sahara. When I saw the forecast — 104°F — I realized it would be criminal to drag two Golden Retrievers across the capital. Their paws would melt before lunch. So we canceled the trip. Hatch was disappointed, but he understood. The hotel, however, did not.
After a polite exchange that turned slightly less polite, they finally agreed to move our booking to October. I took that as a win. Fall in Paris? Cooler temps, fewer tourists, and the smug satisfaction of a resident paying off-season rates.
Three weeks before the rescheduled date, I realized Denise’s flight home from the U.S. landed the day before our reservation. She’d be wrecked. I called the hotel to ask if we could move it one more time.
“Absolutely not,” the woman said. No apology. No pause. Just non.
I hung up, muttered a few choice English words, and accepted our fate. The reservation was locked in. Wednesday through Friday.
Denise landed Tuesday. There was no perfect solution. Coming home first would’ve been crazy, and me driving up a day early just to watch her sleep didn’t make much sense either. Plus, she’d need a night to recover before I rolled into Paris with two dogs and a trunk full of bad ideas.
So we got her a hotel for that first night. Something with a decent pillow and a good bistro nearby. She deserved a soft landing.
Normally, I wouldn’t drive to Paris. The train is faster, easier, and doesn’t involve Parisian parking garages or the risk of losing your will to live in traffic. But there was no way I could wrangle two Golden Retrievers and a suitcase on the TGV.
Sully’s an old pro, but Viggo had a habit of shouting out his last meal in the car. What on earth would I do if he blew chunks on the train?
So the car it was. What could possibly go wrong?
The Dread Sets In
I hate when Denise is away. The house feels hollow. By the time she landed, I’d already spent ten days talking to the dogs like they were coworkers. I think that time alone put me in a funk anyway, oh, and those @#$%^&* moles.
I had a bad feeling. One of those quiet hums in your chest you can’t quite explain. I tried to ignore it. I’m used to chaos. I ran mortgage divisions in America. I’ve survived French bureaucracy. But this felt different, like the air was charged.
I spent the week taking the dogs on short drives to build up Viggo's stomach restraint. He was fine. Not a single issue. I was cautiously optimistic.
The morning of the trip, I loaded the car: luggage, treats, water bowls, two dogs, one nervous driver. Thirty-five minutes from the house, on a narrow two-lane road filled with roundabouts, I heard it.
That wet, unmistakable urp that means your day just changed direction.
Cars front and back. No shoulder. Five minutes before I could pull over.
By then, it was gone. The bulk of Exhibit A had… disappeared.
Viggo had gotten rid of the evidence.
Just a stain where the goods had been deposited. And a sense of dread for the remainder of the trip.
Efficient. Disgusting. We drove on.
Welcome to Paris
I stopped forty-five minutes outside the city because I knew there wouldn’t be many places near the hotel for the dogs to take care of business. I needed them handled so I could drop them and the luggage off in front of the hotel, then go park the car.
When I got back in, like we’d planned, I called D to give her my ETA. She told me there wasn’t really anywhere to pull over in front of the hotel, so we agreed to meet at the parking garage.
What I hadn’t anticipated was midday traffic. The final thirty kilometers took over an hour.
As I got into that part of town, Denise called just as I was about to enter the garage. While trying to explain where I was, I heard another eruption from the back of the SUV. Yep, again. How did he have anything left? Oh right, the evidence tampering…
Into the garage I went. But the gate didn’t open. I’d prepaid for parking with a company that scans your license plate and automatically grants entry. Not today. I grabbed a ticket, knowing something was up. And not just coming out of Viggo.
Down three impossibly narrow floors with ramps that required half a left turn and a short back up to the right before you could complete the level change. I left the car where it was, met Denise on the street, and told her I’d move it later.
She looked amazing, rested. I looked like a man who’d been in a hostage situation. Even seeing her couldn’t shake the sense that this trip had teeth.
The Hotel Interrogation
Boutique hotels in Paris like to “curate the experience.” What that means is: you don’t check in, you’re interviewed.
The clerk, severe bun, sharper accent, asked for passports. I explained, in French, that we were residents. She blinked like I’d claimed to be an alien. Then she asked about the dogs.
“You have two?”
“Yes.”
“Was this mentioned in your reservation?”
“It always is.”
“Can you prove it?”
It felt less like hospitality and more like customs at Charles de Gaulle. After a few rounds of bureaucratic fencing, she accepted my residency card with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a subpoena. But she also wanted me to pull up my reservation information when I got to the room so I could share it with her. Yeah, I’ll get right on that.
We got to our room. “Room” being generous. It was barely big enough to change my mind in. Warm, stale air. Two panting dogs. One over-packed suitcase from D’s trip.
I dropped everything, looked at Denise, and said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this trip. I think it is gonna suck”
She laughed, which helped. But I meant it.
The Garage Ballet
After we took the dogs out, I went back to move the car to the correct garage. I double-checked my parking reservation, and of course I had parked in the wrong one. That was why the gate had refused to open automatically. The right one was, apparently, next door. Two underground garages separated by a few meters and an alternate reality.
I found the pay machine. Out of order. Of course it was. Getting out of a Parisian garage is hard enough with a prepaid exit pass, but when you have to pay at the gate with an automatic machine, anything French can go wrong.
I should have taken it as a sign.
I found the exit ramp, a one-lane corkscrew fit for a wheelbarrow. I started my turn and instantly knew the physics didn’t work.
Backed up. Adjusted. Tried again.
Just then, two cars appeared behind me.
There were like 15 cars parked in a garage built for 500, and these two people decided to leave right then.
Their headlights burned through my mirrors. I could feel the heat rising in my neck, my palms slick on the steering wheel. The air felt thick, the kind that makes everything slightly out of focus, like you’re underwater. Every beep, every echo off the concrete walls came in sharp and hollow.
I wasn’t thinking anymore. I was calculating survival.
Every safety sensor in my Scandinavian spaceship screamed. I had one inch to spare on either side. I took a breath and did the math. The only way out was to pick a side.
Headlight or driver’s door?
I chose the door.
A slow, sickening scrape, like metal sighing.
When I finally escaped the garage, I pulled over and just sat there for a second. My shirt was stuck to my back. I felt like I’d just come out of surgery. Then I looked at the car.
Rear wheel well: tiny scratch. Not bad. In France, that is basically a love tap.
Then I saw the twelve-inch circle of gouges on the driver’s door.
I exhaled the kind of sound you make when you realize the weekend has officially turned into content.
Lost in Translation (and Traffic)
I pulled out of the garage and started following Waze. After fifty feet, the cheerful voice announced, “You have arrived.”
What? I was still practically outside the same garage I’d just left. The one that had just claimed part of my Volvo’s door.
I remembered the correct entrance from my walk earlier. I should have come out of one garage, driven a hundred yards, taken a right, and there it would be—fifty yards ahead. Simple.
But no. That turn was a one-way street. Going the wrong way.
Now Waze was telling me to go straight through the intersection and that I’d be at my destination in eleven minutes. Eleven minutes? It was right there on my right.
By now I’d been gone from the hotel for twenty-five minutes. I called D again, told her how far away I supposedly was, that I’d scraped the car, and that I was ready to snap. Even though the temperature outside was in the high 50s, I had the A/C on Max. My shirt was plastered to my back.
I told her I felt like heading back home to the Loire Valley. She talked me down again.
Eight minutes later, Waze announced, “You have arrived.”
At the exit ramp of the first garage.
I laughed, half hysteria, half surrender, and switched to Google Maps. Halfway back, I realized it was taking me on a different route, but to the same destination. Google had sent me into another maze. I pulled over and entered the address in Apple Maps. A completely different set of directions. Of course.
Ten minutes later it was telling me, “Turn left.”
No. That turn would take me right back to the same cursed street I’d already been on four times. I went straight.
Something snapped. Acceptance, rebellion, I’m not sure which. I didn’t care if I had to cross the river to the wider streets of Saint-Germain. I was done being bossed around by disembodied voices.
Freedom from navigation apps.
Passing that left turn felt good. I had no plan, but at least it was my decision.
I drove a few more blocks. Wait a minute. This looked familiar.
There was the turn to our hotel. And on my left, like a mirage: the entrance to the proper garage.
How the hell did that happen? Three different apps couldn’t find it. I went rogue and here it was.
The gate read my license plate and opened automatically, as if the hand of God had finally taken pity on me.
I was in the right place. The ramps were wider. For the first time all day, it felt like things might actually work out.
The Breaking Point and the Beer
Back at the hotel, I confessed everything: the scratch, the loop, the frustration, the feeling I could not shake. I told Denise I had a bad feeling before I even left. She asked if I wanted to just drive home. I did. But pride is a stubborn thing.
A few hours later, we leashed up the dogs and started walking. They needed to go to bathroom. It had been a while since they had. Dogs and hotels need to stay on a schedule.
Paris in October. That beautiful in-between season when the air cools, the leaves turn, and the light goes gold by four o’clock. We wandered, searching for grass. None. The only green patch nearby was a memorial park dedicated to victims of a terrorist attack. Sacred ground. Not a place for Golden Retrievers to do their business.
We kept walking. And walking. The dogs looked confused. City dogs they are not.
Finally, we found a little corner café, Le P'tit Bistrot, and collapsed into chairs. Cold beer, warm air, no expectations. The first sip tasted like forgiveness.
And then came the food; pure, classic bistro fare. Entrecôte and pommes frites, cooked perfectly. Simple. Exactly what we needed. Around us, only locals. Laughter, clinking glasses, cigarette smoke curling into the air. It felt like fate was giving something back.
D did not love being back in the U.S., and I was somewhere between exhaustion and a straightjacket. Paris was doing what only Paris can do, reminding us that even after the worst days, she still knows how to set the table and make you feel human again.
When we finally left, it was almost ten. The dogs had gone nearly eight hours without using the facilities. These wine-country boys were going to have to figure out that Paris cement can handle one of their bombs just as well as grass.
The Next Day
Morning came soft and gray. The city felt calmer, or maybe I did. We leashed up the dogs and headed toward the river.
Just a few blocks from the hotel, we found it, the perfect spot. A stretch of walkway beside the Seine with space, trees, and enough patches of dirt and grass for the boys to handle their morning business. Relief all around.
It was time to explore the Marais. Maybe we could find some breakfast. We walked for over an hour but could not find anywhere that felt right for a bite. Everything felt out of step.
We decided to grab breakfast near our hotel. It was just breakfast, I thought. Even though the French are not big on petit déjeuner, most places still have omelets. Big mistake.
It ended up being the only meh meal I’ve ever had in Paris. The waitress was brand new and didn’t know the menu. I got the wrong omelet, D’s fries were ice-cold, and my mimosa came in a martini glass with pulp spilling over the sides.
I sat there, sticky orange juice on my hand, thinking, I knew this trip was a bad idea.
We paid the bill, laughed it off, and set off walking again. As we were walking, I remember saying to Denise that even though the trip seemed off for me, and everything that could, did not go the way it should, life has a way of giving you something awesome at the end. At least, that is what I was hoping for.
The dogs were smelling everything, the air warming just enough to make the day feel possible. Paris was still Paris. Beautiful, maddening, impossible to stay angry at for long.
We walked from the Marais to the river, through Île Saint-Louis, across to Saint-Germain, then back by Notre Dame.
By nightfall, we were hungry again. We couldn’t agree on dinner, so we kept walking. Through twisting streets, past crowded cafés, following the glow of streetlights. We were almost back to the hotel when we saw a small patio, soft lighting, and the word pâtes on a chalkboard. Pasta sounded perfect.
“Can we eat here with the dogs?” I asked.
“Bien sûr,” the host smiled.
He led us to a quiet corner with water bowls and space for the boys to lie down. The place was called L’Alivi, a Corsican restaurant. It never occurred to me that there was such a thing as a Corsican restaurant. I don’t know why. But now I am happy that I know.
The staff was kind, the food soulful. The wine tasted like sun and earth. Denise ordered pasta and I got a porkchop with spices I’d never taste before; for each course, I just kept saying yes to whatever the waiter suggested.
Somewhere between the first sip and the last bite, that heavy feeling. the dread, the fatigue, the embarrassment, just dissolved.
The city that had tested me all day was suddenly gentle again.
The Escape
We got up and were ready to bolt by 9:30 a.m. The plan was simple. I would grab the car, park as close to the hotel as possible, maybe on the square that is usually packed with people, and we would load up fast. Flashers on, quick pack, out of Paris before anything else could go wrong.
Walking back to the garage, I actually felt optimistic. The ramps here were much wider than the ant hill I had parked in before. I reached the exit, saw daylight ahead, and then my heart dropped.
To leave, I had to pull all the way to the gate so the sensor could read my license plate. It did. The garage door rolled up. And then I saw it.
The left turn out of the gate was built for a golf cart.
Are you kidding me? Why, God, why?
I had no choice. I had to get out. (And I am never taking a car to Paris again.)
I turned the wheel to the right to line up the angle for the left turn, then backed up a little. Tried again. Two more times. Please, let that garage door stay open, I thought.
I inched forward, mirrors tight to the walls, millimeters on each side. The sensors were quiet now, maybe out of pity. And then, somehow, I was through. No damage.
At the top of the ramp, there was only one way to go, a one hundred and twenty degree left turn. Who designs these garages? Maybe they should bring back the guillotine for them?
I made the turn and pulled onto the street toward the hotel. Of course the sun was at just the right angle to require a welding mask. And of course the empty space on the square had a food delivery truck sitting in it.
What now?
I was about to pass the hotel when I saw D standing out front. I hit the brakes, flipped on the flashers, and we loaded up like a pit crew at Le Mans. She tossed the bags in, wrangled the dogs, and we were gone.
Midmorning in Paris. Life was about to get back to normal.
But what would Viggo do on the ride home?
Restaurant Spotlight: L’Alivi Paris
Tucked into a quiet corner of the Marais, L’Alivi feels like the kind of place you stumble into by accident and then plan your next trip around. Its name means “relief” in Corsican, and that’s exactly what it delivers, a sigh of comfort in the middle of Paris.
Inside, the light hits the old limestone walls just right, and the scent of olive oil, garlic, and lemon drifts from the kitchen. The décor walks that line between rustic and intentional, mismatched wooden chairs, green water glasses, and enough framed art to make it feel like a friend’s living room. It’s the kind of space that invites you to slow down and notice things again.
The menu celebrates Corsican and Mediterranean flavors, with the kind of honest, soulful cooking that doesn’t need to announce itself. My first course was is worth the trip alone; a soft-boiled egg, tomme corse cheese cream, crispy prosciutto ham and green olive oil. It is a common dish, but this night, it was just what I needed. Add a glass of red from Patrimonio, and you’ll understand why Parisians linger here long after their plates are cleared.
Denise's dessert had her swooning like only Paris can. She had a sweet chestnut cake, organic Nuciola, homemade whipped cream. I tasted it too. I felt like i was on the beach in Corsica. Wondering with Napolean had ever left.
There are flashier restaurants in Paris, sure. But L’Alivi isn’t trying to impress you, it’s trying to feed you. And sometimes, that’s the best kind of luxury there is.
L’Alivi, 27 Rue du Roi de Sicile, Paris 4e
Open daily for lunch and dinner
Corsican comfort with a Parisian heartbeat
Until next time.
Thanks for subscribing and thanks for reading.
Paul
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