After spending our last several Paris trips sampling the grand hotels: the Ritz, the Plaza Athéneé, the Meurice, Bristol, Crillion, and of course, our favorite, the George V, we have decided to partake in a far more Parisian affair: the Esprit St. Germain. Tucked along the Rue St. Sulpice, this quaint hotel still exudes luxury, but gives one the feel of actually owning a grand pied-a-tier in the heart of St. Germain des Prés. The 6th Arrondissement imbues a sense of Paris perhaps better than any other (much more about this later).
I could blog about this city forever. If you are planning to follow along with us the next few weeks, please, dear reader, have patience. I will do my best to give you at least a smidgen of enlightenment each day, but, alas, I too am awestruck and overcome by my muse – Paris. Sitting here on my own personal balcony, watching the sun set over the Eglise St. Sulpice, the final rays off the golden star topping the aging dome, a gentle warm (but without the Savannah infused deathlike humidity) breeze in my hair, I could almost weep with happiness (or maybe it’s just the combination of the residual pre-trip ativan, peri-trip ambien, and “rough-air “ –politically correct but still freaking scary turbulence- additional ativan, plus who’s counting glasses of champagne – hey it’s Paris after all, and, god-love-them, it’s complimentary at this hotel – now I really am crying tears of joy).
Any way, before your can say, run-on sentence, I will leave you with one airplane travel trip from my husband. Never wear designer jeans, no matter how loose and comfy they may seem, if they have large buttons on the rear pockets. After eight hours on a lay flat seat, I think my husbands butt is permanently dimpled. Well, it’s off to Carrefour de l’Odeon or Rue de Buci for dinner, more tomorrow.
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