Paris

It is somehow appropriate that the underground should be run by an organisation calling itself “RATP”, the trains redolent with the odour of rodent urine. Wasn’t it Mozart who compared Paris to a sewer and found that, on balance, at least the sewer served to remove the effluent even if it abjectly failed to reduce the stench. The trouble with Paris is that, like the rest of France, it is subject to the idiosyncrasies and inefficiencies of a Mediterranean nation. However, unlike the rest of France, it is completely devoid of that delectable Gallic charm which somehow makes it tolerable.

I have met any number of Japanese, Scandinavians and Americans who all claim to hate France on the basis of their sole French experience in Paris. I have never been able to fathom the reason for Paris’ reputation as the ultimate romantic destination. It is usually cold, windswept, dirty, noisy and hostile; I concede that Edith Piaf encapsulates the spirit of Paris; she is even more depressing than Leonard Cohen and makes me feel cold, wet and glad I am not French whenever I hear her.

Whilst the food in the better restaurants is undoubtedly amongst the best in the world, it is certainly hyped way beyond its deserved reputation and the plethora of second-rate rip off joints more than compensates for the probability of finding a gem. It is quite impossible to judge a restaurant by its menu (often faked and euphemistic), its prices (inflated to give the impression of being good) or its decor (often inversely proportional to food quality). Without the famous Michelin Guide you will be lost. Even with it you will be confused as, for some obtuse reason, the guide includes street maps of every town in France…except Paris. Perhaps they don’t want you to go or they advise strongly against visiting their cesspit of a capital.