Hôtel Saint-Paul

I am lost in the Latin Quarter, somewhere between Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the Luxembourg Gardens. I stumble on the wet sidewalk as I desperately search for my broken, useless umbrella at the bottom of my purse; distracted, I almost manage to get myself  run over by a clunky red Renault.  I hurry across the street, not wanting to disarrange my hair, which I had just spent an hour curling in front of the mirror–in three minutes the humidity would surely defeat my afternoon’s effort. I seek refuge on the protected steps of the Hôtel Saint-Paul. Once sheltered, I search for the broken umbrella in better light and I hear the faint melody of a Scott Joplin rag. I peer through the double glass doors into the hotel and see an older man in a fuzzy brown sweater; he is slightly bald, hunched at an antique piano. On its top rest four tall yellow candles, whose flames appear to be the only light assisting the man in guiding his hands across the ivories. Presumptuously, I enter through the glass doors into a modest entry hall with rust colored walls, earth tiled floors and two wooden high-backed armchairs situated in front of a beautiful arrangement of red flowers flowers. Two young boys in matching white collared shirts and navy cable-knit sweaters pretend to read the Herald Tribune beneath an antique gold chandelier. I am greeted by the concierge, Sputnik, a cat with a British accent; he is wearing a tuxedo, while his assistant, Hugo (who’s French), is a large dog in a gold suit.  They offer me a tour. Glad to be out of the disagreeable weather, and to spare my hair the humidity, I accept the invitation. I follow Sputnik up the stairs as Hugo kindly takes my coat while pointing out the ceiling’s original pouter beams and the 17th-century architecture. The first room that they take me into is a suite; it is small but cozy and well lit. There are two queen-sized beds separated by a round wooden table, ideal for afternoon tea.  The bathroom is marble:small but a decent size for the left bank in Paris. There are a hairdryer, a shower and a bathtub. Sputnik, Hugo and I continue into the other rooms. Each of the rooms is quaint and unique, with charming textured wallpaper and antique furniture from the home of the owners of the hotel. The single room is very small but comfortable, with carefully chosen furniture and artwork. The single’s bathroom is tiny but well organized, with a shower rather than a bath and a tall sink. Hugo makes a joke about Sputnik’s demonstrating the power of the water pressure; I try not to laugh, because I can tell that Sputnik is embarrassed and does not find Hugo funny. Next, we venture into the Double/Twin rooms, which are slightly larger than the single and are ideal when traveling withfriends–this room is available with a double bed or two twin beds.  The wooden sleigh beds remind me of the ones in my Grandma Roland’s antique dollhouse. The bathroom is done in marble: modest in size with a sink and shower with bath option. At last I am teased by a honeymoon suite. I long to lie down and nap in the four-poster bed, but I fear that Sputnik and Hugo will never get me out. The colors in this room are rich and vibrant and the curtains frame a quaint view. The bathroom is the same size as the suite’s. All of the rooms contain a direct telephone line that can be hooked up to a modem (though the hotel expects to be wired for WiFi in 2004), a satellite television, a mini bar and a safe.  Eight of the rooms are air-conditioned. I loose Sputnik and Hugo for a moment, as I cannot tear myself away from admiring this four- poster bed. I think I’ll come stay over the holidays and tell them that I’m a newly-wed. Hugo pops his head in to see if I’m ready, and I follow him down the stairs and into an old wine cellar. The ceiling is high, and I feel as though I’m in a cave lined with stone. It’s peaceful. This space was originally inhabited by monks, and the cellars were then connected by galleries that allowed the monks to travel underground from house to house–My hair would have been thankful for that today.There is a small room with about six tables awaiting tomorrow’s breakfast, to be served between 7 and 11 am. Part of me wishes that I could be here to taste the warm rolls and poached eggs. Back upstairs my tour guides lead me past a charming garden, filled with greens and reds and blues, at the end of the lobby. They then lead me towards the melody coming from the piano in the sitting room, where the man in the brown sweater is still hunched over the keys.  My tour guides leave me here. I enter the room, careful to be sure that I am welcome, and fall into a tall cloth covered chair with arm rests. I lean my head back and close my eyes and dream a little. Only a few moments later I open my eyes to find a small green porcelain teapot steaming by my side. A yellow lab sleeps at my feet, and a plump black and white cat with bright yellow eyesyawns on my lap. I pour my tea and wonderif I’m not just a little bit crazy, or if this hotel is indeed run by a British cat named Sputnik who has a Yellow Lab named Hugo for an assistant. Either way, my hosts are quite charming. Tariffs 2003:Single: 112-128 eurosDouble/Twin: 128-144-158 eurosSuite, 1-4 persons: 174-204 euros Breakfast:Continental: 10 eurosAmerican: 13 euros*Breakfast served from 7-11 am in the breakfast room; breakfast in the bedroom is also available. Contact:Hôtel Saint-Paul43, rue Monsieur-le-Prince75006 ParisTel: 01 43 26 98 64Fax: 01 46 34 58 60Email: [email protected]www.hotelsaintpaulparis.com —Kirsten joins Bonjour Paris from Los Angeles, California where she recently graduated from the University in Southern California with a  BFA in Acting. Last year Last year she co-wrote the book and lyrics to a new pop musical which expects to open in Los Angeles next spring….