LETTRE DE PARIS
Paris, 28 March 2026
My dear reader,
I am writing to you from room 403 of Hôtel Bachaumont, in the second arrondissement. There is a small writing desk against the wall, just opposite the bed, a quiet invitation to stop for a moment. Outside, the window opens onto the inner courtyard of a Haussmannian building. Small balconies line the windows, each with a planter where ivy falls gently over the edge.
It is a little past five. The late light barely reaches the corners of the room. Every few minutes, I hear the métro passing beneath the building. The sound is muted, but the vibrations travel through the walls, the desk, and finally the page beneath my hand. It is a constant, discreet presence. A low, underground pulse. Paris, even when still, is never truly silent.
I have been here for a few days, and the city is leaving me with more nuanced impressions than I remembered. I lived here twice; I left twice. Each return feels like a rediscovery, but one accompanied by a slight dissonance: the city appears intact, yet something has shifted, almost imperceptibly.
This time, what strikes me is a certain intensity. On the terraces and in the streets, the silhouettes seem more composed, more deliberate. Not less elegant, but perhaps more self-aware. Everyone seems to interpret their own particular idea of Paris.
There is something theatrical in it: a coat resting on the shoulders, a prolonged pause at a café table, a measured walk. It isn’t exaggerated, but you get the sense that the city watches itself as much as it lives. At times, Paris feels like a delicate performance, carefully maintained.
I am also struck by the places where the look of a thing precedes the experience of it. The bistros with familiar charm but restaurant prices. The quiet boutiques where you wait at the door, as if the waiting itself were the ritual. Everything remains beautiful, but it is polished, heightened.
And yet, Paris remains deeply moving. It is impossible not to be touched by the architecture, the way the perspectives respond to one another, a continuity that has survived centuries. Crossing the city by taxi, even in traffic, is still the best way to see it. The façades pass slowly, and you find yourself noticing every detail. Paris simply asks to be looked at.
Then there is the intimacy of the language. Speaking French everywhere without thinking. Overhearing fragments of conversation. Catching the nuances, the silences, the inflections. After months in Amsterdam, this familiarity moves me more than I expected. A part of me quietly returns to its natural rhythm.
And, of course, the gastronomy. Bakeries still warm in the late morning, the cheesemongers, the greengrocers. The scents drifting into the street. Here, Paris keeps its authenticity. Even when the prices feel abstract, the pleasure is very real.
Perhaps what unsettles me is not Paris itself, but the distance between the city I kept in my memory and the one I am rediscovering now. Or perhaps it is just my own gaze. Living elsewhere inevitably changes the way you return.
I already know that on Sunday evening, when I head back to Amsterdam, I will begin to miss Paris. The noise. The crowds. That particular density of the streets. Amsterdam will suddenly seem very calm. Almost silent. The intensity of Paris will linger.
Paris is tiring. It is frustrating. And yet, it draws you back. That is the paradox: a city you leave with relief, and miss the moment you step away.
Writing these lines from room 403, with that soft rumble in the walls, I find myself thinking we should return more often. Perhaps for a few days. Perhaps for longer.
Who knows.
Léonce.
PS. I hope this letter might inspire you, one day, to visit Paris, whether for the first time or simply to return. You can find my favorite Paris addresses in Le Carnet d’Adresses. And if you enjoyed this letter, you might send me a croissant. Un grand merci.
