Hotel Esmeralda by Jamie Dunford Wood

The one star Esmeralda is the perfect manifestation of what we all dream a Paris garret hotel to be, its one failing is this respect being the replacement of the chain-smoking Parisian ogre with a soft-spoken Spaniard behind the desk. The first things you notice are the flea market collectibles in the intimate lobby, and the second, the array of wallpapers up the staircase, put up, it seems, some years ago, so just now attaining that patina befitting the garret. Walls, ceilings - everything is covered.

There’s no elevator, of course, so you need to be dextrous in the extreme when you meet your neighbour with the backpack on his way down to check out. The doors to the rooms are down short, cramped corridors with wonky floors, and are of stripped wood recently returned from the acid bath. On the way to your own room you pass worryingly small cupboards with beds in, but hopefully you will have booked one of the 10 or so rooms (out of 19) that have bathtubs and overlook Notre Dame, because this is the garret view to die for. Naturally the rooms are basic, with more idiosyncratic wall-papering and wonky floors, but the furnishings from the flea market and the ancient beamed ceiling add a touch of class, and the main rooms in the front are of a decent size. The bathtub looks old and worn, but at these prices who cares, and in any case when lit by cheap candles the wood paneling surrounding it will start to glow, helping transform your loved one into your fiancé if she is not already your wife. Breakfast is taken in a cubbyhole behind reception and served by the old hag we had been waiting in vain for, from a grubby but somehow charming galley kitchen, so all’s well after all.

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