Hôtel Adèle & Jules

Getting out of bed has never been my strong point. Getting out of bed at 5am to catch an early train to Paris, when you haven't packed and you finished the emergency stash of gin at 2am, makes it more traumatic. But, St Pancras is a civilised station, Eurostar has a civilised boarding process, and our fellow passengers are a civilised bunch. And, I’m heading to hip Parisian stay, Hôtel Adèle & Jules – très civilisé. However, we’re off to a less civilised start; weary from the early hour, my fellow travellers and I snooze. When I wake, there are slumped bodies, each seemingly tranquillised, heads lolling in rhythm with the racing train. What the scene lacks in je ne sais quoi, is replenished with reassuring comfort. I’m enjoying myself already.

We pull into graffiti-pocked Gare du Nord. It’s winter in Paris, but for January the weather holds. It's crisp and clear as we step into a café, order a croissant and stir ourselves with double espressos. A further 15-minute walk later, we arrive at Hôtel Adèle & Jules, down a quiet, cobbled cul-de-sac.

The entrance to 'Adèle' is an exact copy of the entrance to 'Jules' (no that's not a euphemism), the two 19th-century buildings comprising the property. Were we seeing double? Even the good-looking reception staff are smiling doppelgangers. Here's the oddity – the hotel’s twin buildings are an exact copy of each other, right down to identical design and decor. They’re separated down the middle by a – slightly inferior – flashing-neon-signed neighbour, also a hotel. Despite this, two for the price of one is an excellent deal here.

In a city where hotel rooms are snug at best, our Parisian Superior room is surprisingly spacious, with prettily clashing pops of colour; its highlight is the perfectly Parisian double doors that open wide onto a narrow balcony. While brushing my teeth, I’m delighted – if a little startled – to lock eyes with a neighbour opposite, a sophisticated Parisian who’s acting out the perfect cliché: reading Le Monde, cigarette in hand. He’s obviously just getting on with his Saturday, now unfortunately interrupted by my blatant voyeurism. I hastily retreat as Colgate dribbles down my chin.

Lunch beckons, so we stroll to Richer, a stylish dining spot we'll recommend to everyone we next need to impress. It’s easy to create an imaginary film scene out of those around us, all are worthy of the camera lens. Next, we happen upon a Chopin-playing pianist positioned in the middle of the road, a bystanding elderly Parisian is as delighted as us, exclaiming, ‘C'est Chopin, tu vois? Chopin!’. We nod in amicable agreement. Parisians don’t have the most welcoming of reputations but that proves to be a misconception. Free Chopin and friendly chatter… Gracious, it’s not even 3pm!

We’re soon in Montmartre, looking up at the Sacré-Cœur. The crowds don't distract us from the view, but the view doesn't distract me from my vertigo, either. Notwithstanding my height-induced reticence, €6 to climb the domes is a bargain (despite my brusquely pushing aside a kissing couple 60 metres up, to clutch at the stone wall. Sorry romance, needs must…)

Back on terra firma we pound more cobbled pavements and bear south, aided by an energy burst from an excessively beautiful and complex, layered bundle of chocolatey pâtisserie perfection. For the love of crème anglaise, it’s good; all the better, they’re stickily devoured on a bench, using our fingers, like the student selves we haven’t shaken off.

Back at hotel HQ, we buy our queue-jump tickets for the Musée d'Orsay at reception. Skipping a line is smugness incarnate, so we dive straight into room after room of Monet and Manet, Pissarro and Cézanne, then join the crowd behind the enormous outward-facing clock, from where you can spy Sacré-Cœur. Two days, two views, each a beauty. Romance isn't far from Rodin it seems; we turn a corner and almost trip over a lady eager to grapple with her homme. The urgency with which she pushes herself onto him is alarming; she almost straddles him, leaning in for a serious snog in the slightly stark hallway – in a museum, at that… Crikey Paris, you really are a ‘love fest’.

We continue to Art Nouveau, then pause as my plus one discovers a lump on her leg. There’s no time for swollen limbs – crêpes, red wine and baguettes must be savoured before the day’s done. But – phew – it’s no medical panic, just a pantalon malfunction: hastily pulled on before dashing to breakfast, they have last night's pants stuffed down the right leg. The incongruously highbrow setting makes this all the more hilarious – we’re still chortling back in our room.

Breakfast is an informal, plentiful affair. The menu isn’t extensive, but the well-stocked buffet satisfies. With the light pouring in from the roof lantern above, this is a pleasant way to start our last day in Pigalle. We cross the city to the unbeatable treasure trove of the Merci store, cram in another crêpe, and double back via a glass or three of red at bar Royal Beaubourg. Then, it’s time to head north and home again. That early start is a distant memory, but it’s absolutely proved worthwhile.