When I was 22 I spent most of my year abroad as a language student in Paris. I lived with one of my best friends on the Rue de Rosiers in the Marais, the third arrondissement which is typically considered both the arty and Jewish quarter. We lived next to L’As de Falafel, which soon became our lunch staple. By the end of my time here, I could have been a Paris tour guide – I knew every museum in the city from Montmartre to the Rive Gauche and used to march my visiting boyfriend, family and friends around the tourist sites as if my life depended on it.
© Getty ImagesFinding French friends
It wasn’t long before my flat mate and I decided that we ought to make an effort to make some French friends, so we dug some contacts out of my address book. A week later we had our first dinner party in our bijou flat, with middling success. Thankfully we were French literature students so we knew a thing or two about Voltaire or Balzac – but the conversations were serious and intense and seemed to revolve around the 16th century.
In 1997, I attended Le Bal de Debutantes and, at just 17, I was the youngest debutante in attendance and the only person not allowed into the nightclub afterwards. I also featured in a copy of HELLO! magazine in December 1997.
© Getty ImagesBut the true success of the event didn’t become apparent until later when I managed to track down my “cavalier”. He was very friendly and showed us the fun side of Paris. From his flat near the Arc de Triomphe, he provided us with light relief and bonhomie, regaling us with outrageous stories. He was also the only person who ever complimented me on my leather trousers (it was December). We were taken to the best bars and haunts across the city. While Paris is renowned as the most romantic city in the world, it felt stark in its winter light and slightly standoffish, unlike our new friend.
My Emily in Paris moment
After a period of babysitting (which cost more on Metro fares than I was paid), I did some work experience for a Public Relations company; the experience made Emily in Paris look tame. It was fun but stressful and I recall being scolded for not using an English person’s proper title – apparently it was the undoing of an entire charity ball.
© Alamy Stock PhotoThough I didn't explode the electrics in my apartment building like Emily did, it was nonetheless fairly eventful. My experience of the City of Light was far from warm or inviting; it was a place where a winter wind whipped round the eerily pale squares, driving me back home.
© Sybilla HartFast forward 25 years
Earlier this year, my old Parisian flatmate sent me a photo of her standing with my god daughter on our old street – I didn’t feel any pull to return. There were other cities I was itching to revisit, such as Florence or Rome.
Paris, it seemed, wasn’t ready to give up. In June, I was invited back again for a family birthday party. I was in no way excited at the prospect of going back – other than for the party itself.
Timing is everything
It wasn’t long after arriving that I was eating my summer hat. The City of Light was transformed; suddenly true to its word. Bathed in the golden glow of the season, everything had miraculously changed. It was Paris in high summer – and I realised I’d never seen that before.
I stayed with my family at Le Grand Mazarin hotel in the Marais, an urban maximalist hotel that was all at once eccentric, pretty and whimsical. It was a stone’s throw from my student flat and we ambled down the River Seine in the lee of Notre Dame where those seeking solace from the heatwave swam in its (now clean) waters.
A family love affair
My children seemed to love Paris; dashing around sun-soaked squares, peering up at the Eiffel Tower in wonder and swimming in the mosaic pool, gazing at the fresco painted by Jacques Merle on the ceiling. Later, we shimmied up the Champs-Élysées in the heat, and rode down the Rue de Rivoli in an air-conditioned taxi.
© Sybilla HartBack at the hotel, we had cocktails in the Boubale bar while the younger ones sipped pear and peach juice and the teenagers drank Matcha Glow. The children then gorged themselves on Yiddish cuisine inspired by the owners’ Ashkenazi grandparents, who had lived just two streets away from the hotel. We tried the potato pie that goes by the name of “Like a Jewish wedding” and finished off with Mahalabia – an orange blossom panna cotta with rhubarb and pistachios.
The golden light of the city only disappeared from sight past 10pm, when the children fell asleep after a day spent chasing the Parisian sun. It was a million miles away from the Paris of my youth – and all the better for it.
How to book it: Rooms at Le Grand Mazarin cost from £421 per night including breakfast.
Sybilla was a guest of Le Grand Mazarin. All hotels and experiences have been independently reviewed by our expert writers, who are usually hosted on a complimentary basis, but this never affects our review process.
