Paris: Doing it by numbers adds up to a great weekend
The key to a successful weekend in the French capital is to take it arrondissement by arrondissement. Don't even think about tackling the city in one go. Sankha Guha plunges into the troisième with the express purpose in mind of avoiding the obvious sights at all costs
Published: 30 October 2005 by Independent.co.uk
I have to confess that I no longer think of Paris as a destination. Eurostar has done this to me. Spending le weekend in Paris seems an absurd idea - it is too big, too grand, too intimidating for such a small trip. So I am on the train with the emphatic purpose of not visiting Paris. I am headed for the 3rd arrondissement and some of its suburbs. My intention is to return without having clapped eyes on the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Notre Dame or the Champs d'Elysées.
There is plenty in the 3rd and neighbouring 11th to keep a casual weekender occupied. Le Marais, as the area is known, is no longer the insider's secret it was. The arty bohemians and gay early colonists who transformed the area in the Eighties and Nineties have become the establishment - galleries have replaced studios as rents have spiralled upwards and pushed real artists and small crafts out.
The shops on the Place des Vosges and surrounding streets still offer the front of cool. But you have to be a pretty well-heeled aesthete to afford the designer duds and fashionably kitsch "antiques". The word from my Parisian friends is that if you are looking for the funky, the edgy and the truly "now", then go north. Not too far, mind.
The Murano Urban Resort opened just over a year ago in the Boulevard du Temple, just south of Republique. The concept of the boutique hotel is a late arrival in Paris, so the decision to site this one in the north end of Le Marais is a clear indicator that the area is upsizing.
It is late - about half past midnight - when we arrive. Despite the hour, the duty manager is puppy-dog keen to show my partner, Lindsey, and me the shiny new hotel's plus moderne features. The entrance lobby is a statement of intent, with some peculiar sculptures lined up against one wall - they look like piles of mirrored-glass boulders. "Murano glass," says Joseph the duty manager reverentially.
The all-white lounge is dominated by an endless white leather Chesterfield, which has taken the concept of a sofa into stretched-limo territory. Behind it, in a long horizontal recess, gas flames flicker from a bed of white pebbles. This has an alarming effect: people reclining elegantly on the sofa look as though their heads are on fire.
The passage from the lift to the rooms is so dark you can't see your feet; the management insists this too is a design innovation. I think the fuse has blown. Then, there is no key. Joseph demonstrates how the lock takes your fingerprint and once you are registered with Interpol, you may gain access to your room. The lock absolutely rejects Lindsey's proffered index finger, but her thumb is deemed fit.
Technophobes need not apply: we need a manual to operate the room. The lights can be adjusted a thousand and one ways to reflect the colour of your mood. Every flick of the switch is accompanied by an obedient whirr from servo motors that rearrange the gels. It's impressive and theatrical. The sound system is so futuristic that it has no obvious controls - I presume you just have to think the instructions and it reads your mind. But I will not be bullied by such an aggressive display of futurism, so I ask Joseph where I can plug in my iPod. He is forced into a minor Gallic shrug and admits the hotel has a shortcoming. I suspect he will disappear into the back office to mortify his flesh with something sharp.
There is nothing effortless about the Murano - everything screams "I have been designed". All the usual suspects are here - bath by Starck, sinks by Alessi, TV/Stereo by Bang & Olufsen - all shorthand in hotelese for Design with a capital D. The soft furnishings are white. The shag pile is white, the curtains are layers of white organza - one layer is furry, another is appliqué check with petals. So much whiteness leaves me feeling a bit untidy. I am an intrusion, a rogue element in a perfect white world.
The room is obscenely, shamelessly lush. The bed is firm and yielding at the same time, the headboard is composed of two giant overstuffed cushions and the linen is crisp, clean and - of course - white. The hard part of this weekend is going to be tearing ourselves away from such luxury and tackling the dirty pavements outside.
The area has a long association with the Knights Templar, who bought up large chunks of Le Marais in the mid-12th century. The Quartier du Temple takes its name from their presence and is a reference to the now demised citadel they created in this part of Paris. Within the citadel, artisans were exempt from the city's trade laws and, as a result, the quarter developed a tradition of commerce and small industry.
The Haut Marais has not been gentrified out of its old traditions. Entire blocks of the rue du Temple are dominated by wholesale shops selling nothing but costume jewellery, and the once thriving leather industry is hanging on by its fingernails at the Carreau du Temple. The Carreau is a graceful Victorian edifice of wrought iron and glass, which stands on part of the site of the old citadel and is, these days, a rather forlorn market for cheap clothes.
Annie Pasquel is one of the straggle of traders still doing business here. Her "Confection pour dames" look like they belong to another era, and she remembers the heyday of the market in the Sixties when hundreds of traders would crowd the space she now shares with maybe a dozen other die-hards. There are plans to turn the Carreau into an arts centre. Roland, at a neighbouring stand, sells leather coats and snorts in derision at the idea - "Like we need another arts centre!"
The area is resting - no longer in gainful employment and looking for a new gig. The signs of transition are here; a very chic brasserie called Guillaume has arrived in rue de Picardie, opposite the market, and a quick stroll in the back streets reveals other newcomers, including a specialist DJ shop. The trendsetters are circling.
For the moment, though ,the quarter is a beguiling mix of decay and resurgence, of living history and entrepreneurial experiment. Both of which are represented at the pocket-sized Marché des Enfants Rouge off the rue de Bretagne. The entrance is tiny. Created in 1615, it may be the oldest market in Paris, but you have to be in the know to find it.
Enfants Rouge is an arcane reference to a medieval orphanage that stood on or near the site, where children were required to wear a red cape or gown. The market was nearly lost in the Nineties, when it was shut for six years and was targeted by developers, but the municipality revived it in 2000.
The result is a bit like London's Borough Market on a mini scale. This is not your average street market, but a rather self-conscious, pricey one. Traders offer speciality foods, including organic and gourmet produce from the regions; an arty photographer has set up shop on one side and a trendy wine bar called l'Estaminet occupies the other end. Unlike the Carreau du Temple, this market is feeling its way to a new beginning.
The near future of the Quartier du Temple is likely to resemble the Canal St Martin, a few minutes' walk away. The canal was created in 1825 as a short cut for river traffic, but is now colonised by Bobos (beaux bohemians). An array of seductive bars, restaurants and funky fashion boutiques line the canal and the ambience is dress-down, comfortable and child-friendly - baby boomer territory.
Approaching the rue des Récollets, a parade of shops in pink, apple green and yellow catches the eye. The first is a fashion emporium, Antoine et Lili, an extravagant splash of complementary and clashing colours - it proves difficult to dislodge Lindsey who is fluttering from rail to rail in rapture. The last shop is a café tricked out in cushions and trays bearing loud acid prints - the white chocolate and raspberry tart is every bit as zingy as the décor.
People stand on the arches spanning the canal to watch a party-barge decked with balloons stepping down through the locks. The canal descends into a tunnel a few hundred yards further south beneath the boulevard Richard Lenoir.
The Hotel du Nord stands on the east side of the canal, an understated riposte to the parvenu invasion of colour on the other bank. The interior is constructively dilapidated, an old zinc-topped bar, original 19th-century white-brick tiled walls, and grey and white diamond check floor. An elegantly bored-looking clientele of thirty-somethings is doing what they do best: philosophising and swirling their smoke over Sunday lunch. Everyone is dressed in suitably muted hangover clothes. A dramatic solo piano drifts from the sound system. We could be protagonists in one of those art-house French films full of intense silences and melancholy voice-overs.
In fact, Hotel du Nord was the eponymous inspiration for a doomy film made by Marcel Carné in 1938 - something to do with young lovers and a suicide pact. They must have lost the plot entirely because sitting there with the autumn sunlight streaming through the picture windows, life seems pretty good. The feeling of wellbeing only intensifies when the food is served: a rare rump steak with a tart wine sauce and a spinach salad with runny goat's cheese. It's as simple as it is perfect.
Paris is best enjoyed when it is not trying too hard - and when you as a visitor aren't trying too hard either. On the Eurostar speeding back to Waterloo, I reflect that the nearest we have been to a 24-carat "attraction" is the Pompidou Centre - and that was only glimpsed from afar. We have barely scratched Paris. Mission accomplished.
My best cup of tea
If you think of tea as the quintessential English tipple, think again. Thierry Damée, the owner of Altea, 41 Rue de Charlot (00 33 1 42 77 71 00; alteavegetal.fr) shows us the way it should be done. There are 150 teas and infusions on offer, including Thierry's own exotic blends such as Pear Yoghurt Vitamine C or Trésor de Incas. It's enough to tempt even a non-tea drinker like me. Excellent for presents.
My best restaurant
Despite being virtually in the shadow of the Pompidou Centre, Le Hangar, 12 Impasse Berthaud (00 33 1 42 74 55 44) has remained a hidden gem because it is located in a cul-de-sac and is invisible to the hordes clambering around Richard Rogers and Renzo Piano's landmark. The best dishes are the starters and desserts; try the aubergine ravioli, the lentil soup with foie gras and finish with the mi-cuit de chocolat. Last Saturday I could not detect a single foreigner among the diners.
Alas, travel writers cannot keep a secret. You will need to book.
My best shops
The district is full of wacky and wonderful shopping opps. Calesta Kidstore, 23 rue Debelleyme, is for fashion-victim parents rather than their sprogs, with cute designer knitwear and art toys, such as scary doll Shag, scarily priced at €121 (£82). They'll also enjoy Robopolis, 107 bd Beaumarchais - a huge shop devoted to the idolatry of all things robotique.
The author travelled as a guest of Eurostar and Murano Urban Resort. Eurostar (08705 186186; eurostar.com) has up to 16 daily services from London Waterloo and Ashford International to Paris; return fares start at £59. A double at the Murano Urban Resort (00 33 1 42 71 20 00; www.muranoresort.com), starts at €350 (£250), room only.
