People -- 3 hours ago
For years, those in possession of an in-date passport, a little cash on the Amex, a dog-eared copy of a Lonely Planet and just a modicum of curiosity have rushed to Paris for the promise of a daydream: for that moment of revelation in a €44 slap of tenderloin and au poivre sauce; for the hope of pure stillness and love – and, most likely, cliché – as you longingly observe, hand gently in partner’s hand, the iron lace of the tower; for the fantasy of finding yourself in some hushed corner of Le Marais or in the flash of the sun reflecting off the Seine as locals, dressed in their Chloé and Dior, decorate the scene. People want Paris the film set; the Paris of Breton stripes and excellent reds; Paris, the muse for one’s never-to-be-published novel.
Dalí came here, of course, for the surrealists, and Hemingway came for the drink, and Neymar for the lure of decent football, the lights of the Champs-Élysées and the lovely, lovely salary. Owen Wilson paid a visit, too, to feature in the soft and sentimental Midnight in Paris, in which his character, Gil, a Hollywood screenwriter and aspiring novelist, hopes to revive his hopes of literary glory and is, in offbeat Woody Allen fashion, afforded the pleasure to sling back in time to see the city’s luminous Lost Generation heroes. He sees the Fitzgeralds and Picasso, and the more evenings he spends with the past, the further distant he becomes with the present.
It’s at Le Bristol hotel where Gil, his fiancée Inez and his future in-laws check-in for their holidaying, with the 8th arrondissement headliner – a culmination of romance, money, extensive development and a timeless mood that anchors the flamboyance of Versailles style with the uncomplicated, oatmealy scheme of a city residence – appearing as a backdrop in a score of scenes.
The doors here first hurled open in 1925, and it was named so because of the 4th Earl of Bristol, an inveterate traveller whose fondness for life’s soft pleasures was deemed worthy of honouring in several hotels across the world, including this one. The early-century artistic crowd of Josephine Baker, Piet Mondrian, Cristóbal Balenciaga and Elsa Schiaparelli were the initial set of guests to give the hotel its magnetism – much in the same way the Clooneys gave kudos to Venice’s Aman – and, a little later on, Grace Kelly, Mick Jagger and Sophia Loren further confirmed Le Bristol as the bed of choice for the stars and the Good Life.
Across the world, the marquee stays all have their signatures beyond the high-thread counts and Bugattis out front. Raffles has been pouring its Singapore sling – the bright–orange cocktail that mixes in gin, cherry liqueur and a few slugs of fruit juice – for more than 100 years. There’s the pool-floating-in-a-lake thing at Villa d’Este. At Badrutt’s Palace, the facade will forever look like the type of place that’s been replicated from storytime pages. Claridge’s has the checkered floor and high tea, and The Peninsula has the elegant tech that makes you feel as though you’re in a Cupertino headquarters. At Le Bristol, the list of attractions is easy to catalogue immediately. The glass awning and the classic, serifed font above the entryway are perhaps some of the most documented details in the hotel sphere. The foyer, where marble, red rug and tables of intricate floristry are folded softly into one, is precisely the type of place you might hope to see Mélanie Laurent rolling her Rimowa along. And, the heft of the heavy-set key as you remove it from your pocket to the door of your room is one of those tactile sensations that an audiophile must feel when he drops the needle into the groove of a 12-inch record.
Le Bristol, generally speaking, is the ideal room for a certain type of person, someone who likes pleasures in graceful strokes, one who needs little more than slim wooden fixtures, two or three flower arrangements, curtains to draw back and tie some heavy rope around, patterns that bring to mind a Regency painting, and enough mirrors to analyse the Burberry mac from a couple of angles.
The shower pressure is high here, like any good five-starrer, enough to blast away the feel of the day, and the tub is deep enough for two, the bed large enough for sleeping either together or at a decent arm’s length, and there are few other distractions than the TV and the pretty impressive room service menu that showcases roasted scallops and a few bar classics. Depending on where you stay, you’ll be hit with the perfect sight – not a money shot of d’Orsay’s clock, or of the Luxembourg Garden’s avenue of trees, but of a view into the apartments opposite, neatly decorated with the odd mid-century piece and Anglepoise lamp, with sirens bleeping in the distance to remind you that urban life lies nearby, and, if the angle is just right, you’ll see the tower through the gaps of a few rooftops. When it’s past a certain hour, you can catch its beacon twirl through the night, and, for a brief moment, you hope to hear the tantara of a trumpet from a jazz bar somewhere nearby. Whereas the corporate-friendly hotels – whirlwinds of anonymity and monochrome suits purchased off the rail – hit you with seas of screens and constant connection, and the grand-dames can sometimes suffocate you with surveillance-style service, Le Bristol wins you through being its own thing: a Parisian destination with Parisian attraction.
Wandering is one of the great pastimes to enjoy in Le Bristol, too, with its surfeit of pleasures illustrating why it became the city’s first palace hotel. Four Michelin stars live under the roof, and, from Epicure, fashioned as though it were a drawing room from the Marie Antoinette inspo book, you can eat your 9am muesli and look out onto the country-cottage-styled garden, a natural patchwork of hedges and topiaries, climbing roses, loose plantings and Japanese snowbell trees – not exactly an explosion of wild meadow, but not a rigid landscape either. Up top is the pool that brings to mind an ocean liner, a brilliant feast of nautical kitsch from its designer, professor Pinau, the name behind Aristotle Onassis’s yacht. If you leave the soft bubble of the hotel and head 10-minutes eastwards, you’ll be at the slew of boutiques – Hermès, Chanel, Balmain – that bring fashion editors to this part of the 8th.
But, the pull at Le Bristol is that you don’t really want to leave at all.
In Paris, Owen Wilson’s Gil finds complete joy in walking in the rain, taking the opinion that the city is most beautiful in this state. His flittering with the past to escape the ennui of his life – a stagnating engagement, job dissatisfaction – is what drives his narrative, and it’s his readiness to seek out extreme beauty and possibility in the ordinary – novels, nostalgia shops, walks in rain – that aligns the audience to him.
On a balcony at Le Bristol – if you’re lucky enough to cop one – when the locals cycle past on their single gears, the meat suppliers drive to their brasseries and butchers, and as you and the tower sit still among the morning calm – you, free from the boss’s emails; the tower, free, for at least another hour or two, from the tourist gaze – it feels as though all you want to do in life is see extreme beauty and possibility in the ordinary.
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