They say clichés exist for a reason. And if Paris is the most overused one to represent love, I’m fine being at the center. There are worse things than waking up to a balcony dripping in geraniums, ordering room service in a robe, and pretending for 48 hours that your life is sponsored by Chanel and Ladurée. Paris asks for surrender — to ritual, to beauty, to that ineffable feeling that makes you believe the Eiffel Tower really is sparkling just for you (and it probably is).
A trip to Paris doesn’t have to be about discovery — as travelers, we are going places to see the sights, experience the things, and partake in what that destination is known for. (Don’t get me started on people who want to “avoid” all the tourist attractions in a destination — they are popular for a reason and you should do them at least once.) But Paris can (and sometimes should) be about indulgence — the kind that makes you roll your eyes at yourself while doing it anyway. There’s a certain liberation in leaning into the obvious: eating too many croissants, snapping a hundred photos of the Eiffel Tower, booking the table with the view instead of pretending to know a better one. Paris rewards cliché with precision. It’s not always about doing something new — it’s about doing it better, or at least with someone you love (even if that person is yourself).
Where to Stay
At Plaza Athénée, the fantasy feels ready made: Dior Spa, red awnings, and the kind of room where the drapes fall like haute couture. It’s Parisian perfection — absurdly polished, decadently romantic, and completely aware of its own reputation. Just try going during December when every single influencer is lined up to snap a pic or video in front of the famous front door. The hotel’s façade is so unmistakable that even locals glance up at it like it’s an old movie star still making cameos. Inside, the service operates on telepathy. Breakfast arrives on silver trays before you realize you’re hungry. Champagne materializes with the same casualness as water. And when you step onto your balcony and see the Eiffel Tower framed just so, you have to laugh — it’s too on the nose, too cinematic, too good. And exactly what you want when visiting the city even if you pretend you’re above it. And as for indulgence — the croissants are indecently large with a ham and cheese ratio borderlining scandalous. The caviar service? Possibly the best in the world with more accouterments than necessary, which makes it absolutely necessary.
The Dior Spa is where reality fully blurs. Treatments unfold with precision but feel unrehearsed. This is not a place you leave thinking: I’ve had it better elsewhere. Soft lighting, quiet confidence, creams and serums that smell sublimely decadent — it’s less a spa than a sanctuary for the well-moisturized — the kind of place where you leave feeling not just rested, but glowing from the inside.
If Plaza Athénée is a cinematic love story, Hotel Balzac is the moody sequel. Just off the Champs-Élysées, it’s quieter, more intimate — the kind of place where you could actually disappear. The rooms feel like secret apartments, draped in velvet and silk, and the bar is the sort of dimly lit spot with dark gilded ceilings that practically demand whispered confessions and expensive Champagne. You will love the entire playlist here, too. Brooding and nostalgic. It’s the Parisian jazz you want, but you’ll know all the words. You half expect to find a poet in the corner, chain-smoking in Chanel pajamas.
There’s a subtle intimacy to it all — the kind that doesn’t need attention but rewards closeness. Breakfast isn’t a buffet. You can sip Champagne on a couch in front of a fire while trying your hand at chess. The concierge knows where to send you for the perfect candlelit dinner or secret vintage spot that you won’t easily find on Google Maps.
When you leave, you’ll bid goodbye as though you’ll be back next week. And maybe you will. Balzac is the kind of hotel that imprints. I’ve been twice this year and can’t wait to go again. It’s the sort of place that you feel instantly comfortable in and connected to.
Then there’s Saint James Paris, the city’s most unexpected love story — part château, part fever dream, all romance. Tucked into a private estate in the 16th arrondissement, the Saint James feels both grand and delightfully offbeat. The exterior resembles a stately mansion straight out of a French period film, but step inside and you’ll find a riot of pattern and personality: patterned wallpaper, sweeping staircases, and maximalist interiors that make romance feel like an aesthetic. Even the library bar looks like it was designed for falling in love (or at least falling into another martini).
What to Do
The thing about planning a romantic weekend in Paris is that it’s nearly impossible to go wrong. But remember the trick is to surrender — to lean into the excess, the effort, the obviousness of it all. Book the table with the view, order the second bottle, wear something completely impractical, and above all, shop.
Whether you’re walking off your Plaza Athenee breakfast or last night’s hangover, walk it off down Avenue Montaigne, past Dior, Chanel, and the rest of the designer crew. Paris isn’t subtle — it’s a stage — and this particular street is its runway.
Pop into Paloma Casile for impeccably made lingerie. You’ll find well-crafted bras, bottoms, bustiers (that we hear are made from Saint Laurent remnants), and some items that teeter on the edge of bondage in the chicest way possible.
In the afternoon, visit the Musée Rodin. It’s quieter than the Louvre, filled with marble limbs and intimate glances carved in stone. Sit in the garden for a while and pretend it’s your private sculpture park. Every couple that passes will think the same thing: Paris was built for this.
And finally, Crazy Horse. Because nothing captures the duality of Paris — its elegance and irreverence, its control and chaos — quite like this cabaret. The women move like liquid. The choreography is sensual, but the artistry is undeniable. Each one more gorg than the next. It’s not about voyeurism. It’s about power, precision, and the kind of confidence that could only be born in this city. Buy the VIP tickets which come with a bottle of Champagne. You’ll love this show so much, you’ll be back again and again (I’ve been four times).
Where to Eat
If you decide to leave the comfy confines of your romance bubble for breakfast you should do it for a place that’s going to serve abundance. At Angelina, the hot chocolate pours like liquid velvet, thick enough to qualify as breakfast and dessert all at once. Over at Carette, in Place des Vosges, the air hums with butter and gossip. Order the tartine and too much jam; linger long enough to wonder if anyone in Paris actually works before noon. And for those who prefer their mornings gilded, Le Meurice serves eggs beneath silver domes and orange juice that somehow tastes aristocratic — proof that in Paris, even breakfast insists on being beautiful.
Lunch should be something perfectly cliché: oysters at Café de Flore or steak frites at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte, where the sauce is still a closely guarded secret. Or pop into Linette’s, right next to the Eiffel Tower, for a bowl of French onion soup and baguette.
Dinner is non-negotiable: Le Grand Véfour, Arpège, or a hidden bistro you’ll swear you discovered first. The wine flows, the conversation softens, and suddenly the whole idea of “romance” feels less like a performance.
Come aperitif hour, Bar Hemingway at the Ritz remains the most delicious cliché in town. The martinis are so cold they could stop time, the bar snacks are elegant, and the lighting makes everyone look a little bit in love. It’s where romance and ritual meet — and where one drink inevitably becomes two.
Paris doesn’t demand that you fall in love; it simply makes it inconvenient not to. You can roll your eyes, but eventually you’ll give in — probably over Champagne. You can try to resist the clichés, but they’ll get you anyway. Paris always wins. And honestly, isn’t that the point?
Featured image courtesy of Eloi_Omella via iStock
