“Ah, Paris!” gurgles Van Helsing's Mr Hyde as he stands atop the Notre Dame cathedral. Paris does have a unique air to it, one that I feel lasts about four days before getting fetid. But for those four days, it is magical. The Sacre Coeur glistens atop its hill, and the Eiffel Tower stands erect, presiding over the otherwise flat basin. Sunken in the suburbs are the dark, damp dank catacombs, packed shoulder high on both sides with damp bones, the odd skull looking at you with empty eyes as you shuffle past.
More centrally, there is the Louvre, with the famous glass pyramid lighting the entrance hall. Of course housed there is La Giaconde, better known as the Mona Lisa, but hidden within the halls is an amazing Egyptian wing, one exhibit of which consists of a piece of a temple, shipped stone by stone, to Paris, complete with mostly intact, colourful hieroglyphs.
The size of Paris always strikes me, compared to the sprawling mass of London it feels, and is, much smaller: you can walk from one side to the other in a matter of hours, and for the most part as a tourist the Metro can be avoided, as long as different attractions are planned carefully. For food, there is no shortage of small cafés and bistros, or small shops selling enough to make a good sandwich.
Our favourite place to stay in Paris is Les Trois Cappucines, a small bed and breakfast within spitting distance of the Moulin Rouge. A five minute walk downhill takes you to an area with a few strip joints, two minutes uphill takes you to a run of some very nice small restaurants and the Sacre Coeur.