Quaismodo would be impressed were he to return now to the cathedral that he inhabited as Victor Hugo’s beloved and maligned hunchback. He would immediately feel at home within the stone walls and wooden frames of the towers of Notre-Dame. Yet the cathedral has also changed and brightened since he knew it as Hugo’s fictional bellringer in the 15th century. There are new elements and much has been restored over the centuries, including its most recent restoration from the fire of April 15, 2019. But I imagine that Quasimodo would be enthralled as we were as we climbed the southern tower, examined gargoyles and chimeras, took in the extraordinary view, stood before the great bells, and descended through the northern tower.

As you would expect, the 360-degree view of Paris is well worth the effort of climbing 424 steps, despite the chicken-wire enclosure from which we take it all in: the city’s rooftops and monuments, church towers and spires, river and bridges, and the spire of Notre-Dame itself rising right before us.

The view over the city isn’t all that makes this visit worthwhile. There’s more to the new climbing route than the grand view. Quasimodo would be in awe to stand face to face, as we did, with the cathedral’s two great bells or bourdons, though these aren’t the ones that he so loved to ring: the 6-ton bourdon Marie, cast in 2012, which sounds a do, and the 13-ton bourdon Emmanuel, cast in 1686, which sounds a fa. The latter is France’s second largest bourdon after the 18-tonner known as La Savoyarde at Sacré Coeur Basilica, the church that we see on the hill to the north.

In bringing the hunchback to life on the page in 1831, Hugo also called for new life to be breathed into the then-dilapidated cathedral. Over the ensuing decades, appointed architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc honored that call by leading a massive restoration while also reimagining missing or degraded elements, taking liberties here and there. The tower route gives a close-up view of several of the 54 animal and demon chimeras that he and an assistant designed. Those that were heavily damaged during the fire of 2019 have recently been replaced with copies, as has Viollet-le-Duc’s spire of 1859. Even if none of these were known to Quasimodo, we are tempted to do as he did and “spend whole hours crouched before one of the statues in solitary conversation with it.” But visitors today don’t have such luxury of such time when visiting the towers.

My own climbing group, comprised of journalists specialized in cultural heritage, had the enlightening pleasure of touring the towers in the company of Viollet-le-Duc’s current successor, Philippe Villeneuve, chief architect in charge of the restoration and reconstruction of Notre-Dame de Paris since the fire.

As we rose, he steered our eyes to various eras and elements of construction and major restoration. The current restoration work in response to the fire will likely continue through 2028, he said.

Even without Villeneuve’s insightful company, you’ll see along the way two major markers of his conceptual work. First, the massive oak spiral staircase, partially in double revolution, that Villeneuve designed for the passage from the second landing to the medieval stone staircase in the tower. Villeneuve’s staircase was shaped and puzzled together by an exceptional band of carpenters in Normandy. Throughout our visit, he sang praises to the dedicated, high-level artisans he’s worked with over the course of the restoration. As he points up to his work, a glimpse of the peak of the spire tatooed on his arm peeks out from beneath his sleeve.

Second, from the top of the south tower, you’ll look out to the real spire rising from the roof. It’s crowned by the flaming golden rooster—symbol of France and of the resurrected monument—that Villeneuve himself designed to replace the fallen, damaged rooster that has now been placed in one of the chapels inside the cathedral. On this national monument belong to the State, not the Church, the rooster crows above the Cross. View the full spire, accompanied by bells, on the 15-second video below.

On the way down, we glimpsed through windows “the forest” of oak beams, cut from throughout France, that form the roof beams. They replaced the medieval forest where the fire originated before consuming it into the night before the eyes of the world.

No more than 26 visitors are allowed to start the climb per 15-minute time slot. Contrast that with the lengthy queue down below leading to a shoulder-to-shoulder shuffle along the cathedral floor. Comparatively, a visit to the towers, culminating with the grand view (even if limited to 5 minutes), feels semi-private, nearly exclusive.

All that’s required is a timed ticket, to be reserved in advance, at a cost 16€ or free for under 18s and adults with the Paris Museum Paris or the Passion Monument pass. While you needn’t be a high-level athlete to climb the 424 steps to the top, do be aware of your own limitations before undertaking the endeavor. The winding staircases include some narrow passages less than 18-inches wide as well as low sections where someone over 5’10” or so is well advised to watch their head.

Along the way, there are levels to pause on, where one can learn a few historical tidbits on information panels about the towers and the bells. There is no elevator. There is no WC. Families are discouraged from bringing children under 6.

Timed ticket to the towers of Notre-Dame should be reserved only through the official site managed by France’s Center for Historical Monuments. Even free tickets require reservations.

From great heights in architectural history to great heights in culinary history

Epilogue: From great heights in architectural history we crossed over the Seine to great heights in culinary history as we pursued our conversation with Philippe Villeneuve at one of Paris’s other celebrated tours, La Tour d’Argent (The Silver Tower). That’s the famous gastronomic institution with the stunning view of the Notre-Dame’s chevet, the portion of the cathedral that radiates in an eastern flourish. Even with the crane and scaffolding that remain on that side of the cathedral, the view from the upper-floor restaurant is a sight for well-heeled, well-fed eyes. We, however, settled into the bar on the ground floor, where we were entertained and informed by Villeneuve’s insightful, cutting, wit-laden accounts of these past seven years of restoration—the wonder, the toil and the beauty of the work on the one hand and the egos, the politics and the back-stabbing on the other. Listening to his vision of architectural and decorative triumphs and failures and to his expression of emotional zeniths and nadirs, the current guardian of the temple seemed to embody both Viollet-le-Duc and Quasimodo. His thirst was quenched with water brought not by Esmeralda, however, but by a polished server from the Tour d’Argent.

As a further treat, André Terrail, owner of the Tour d’Argent made a gracious appearance. While the restaurant is heir to a history that begins with the creation of an elegant inn on this site in 1582, Terrail is heir to the celebrated restaurant that his grandfather, also named André Terrail, purchased in 1911. It was then a ground-floor restaurant, raised to the top in 1936. The Tour d’Argent has now developed into something of a “village,” to use the current Terrail’s term, with its restaurant, its rooftop and ground-floor bars, its grocer next door, its bakery across the street, and beside that its rotisserie. There’s even an apartment with the fab view that can be rented for the night (1800€).

Despite the Tour d’Argent’s visual affinity for Notre-Dame, I’m not promoting it here as the natural extension of a visit to the towers, however many Michelin stars its restaurant may or may not receive in a given year (in 2026 it has 1). Nevertheless, one’s got to go somewhere after the extraordinary experience of climbing to the top of the cathedral, and it might as well be somewhere that’s also earned its place in Paris history and lore, someplace accessible, if not to Quasimode, then perhaps to the likes of Victor Hugo, Viollet-le-Duc, Philippe Villeneuve, and yourself.

© 2026 by Gary Lee Kraut

Also read Notre-Dame: An Interview with Witnesses to a Dazzling Restoration

The post The Quasimodo Climb: Visiting the Towers of Notre-Dame de Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

What an incredible place! And what an endearing owner!

There are only three 2-top tables at this dinner-only bistro run by big-hearted Mamie, which is French for Granny or Nan. Six seats in all—maybe seven or eight if Mamie feels like rearranging something, but don’t count on it.

Mamie (Susanna/ZouZou) grew up in the business. Her parents had run a café. So had her grandparents. At 16, she went to work at Bouillon Chartier (rue du Fbg Montmartre) and stayed there for nine years before moving on, eventually operating her own bistro. A shady landlord, she says, led her to quit her previous address. She and her husband, Christian, a fireman-cum-chef, then stumbled upon this place, formerly held by a certain Germaine for 50 years. They took over in 1990 and named it for the sand/desert roses (roses des sables) that Christian collects, some of which can be seen in the window. Christian is now unable to work due to ill health, so Mamie runs the place herself, as a one-woman show, preparing dishes in a miniscule alcove kitchen, taking orders on a slip of paper, bringing drinks, serving dishes, cleaning up, and adding up the bill on the paper placemats. She chats as she works with those capable of chatting in French. I was the only one in that category on a recent evening.

Since few Parisians would be willing to stand by a restaurant door at 6:30pm in the hopes of getting a seat when the owner first slowly opens the curtain and the door at 7, and since few would wait around without knowing when the second or possibly third seating will begin, La Petite Rose des Sables attracts foreign diners. Come alone and you’ll be seated with another solo diner from who knows where. Groups in odd numbers may be split up. Anyway, the place is so small that you may be talking with everyone else before long. Chinese, Korean and English turn out to be the main languages of her guests, though Mamie doesn’t speak any of those. No matter. Good old-fashion patience and gestures will suffice.

Upon arrival, Mamie pours guests a small glass of sangria as a welcome aperitif and tears open a small packet of potato chips as the appetizer. Don’t care for sangria? Mamie (she often speaks of herself in the third person) will bring something else. The three or four dishes of the menu are simple enough to understand. That evening there was a chicken dish, two pork dishes, and beef bourguignon, served with rice, fries, or coquillette elbow pasta (kids’ favorite in France), and/or salad. It’s simple, long-stewed in big pots, hearty and filling. Dessert (whatever Mamie feels like serving—meringue, a slice of pie), mint tea and a shot of alcoholic punch are included for 12€-16€80.

The food isn’t rave-worthy, yet when combined with the surprisingly limited seating, the personalized bistro decor (photographs, gifts from clients, and plaques with heart-warming sayings, along with the checkered tablecloths and curtains), and especially Mamie herself, La Petite Rose des Sables deserves kudos for existing at all.

When we entered, Mamie warmly announced that we could only stay for an hour or an hour and a half so that she could turn the table, but she wasn’t actually watching the clock. If you’re happy, it appears, she’s happy. She even gives out gifts (I got a pair of Paris socks) and willingly poses for photographs. We stayed for two hours despite my efforts to pay so that others could come in. “There’s no rush,” she said. “I have plenty to do before they come in anyway. Have some more punch.”

It would be easy to dismiss all this as Tik-Tok touristy since the bistro primarily attracts non-French visitors. Mamie doesn’t seem to mind that her clients of today are not her clients of 20 or 30 years ago. She nevertheless treats everyone like a local—a local who’s a bit slow on the up-take.

It would also be easy to dismiss the place as not being a bistro in the strict sense of my purist friends because it has neither an active bar counter nor opening hours beyond meal time. But no other term fits for such a personally decorated setting where one enjoys inexpensive, long-stewed dishes, and the grandmotherly kindness of Mamie.

A surprising bistro find that’s been here all along! And when it’ll be gone, it’ll be gone.

La Petite Rose des Sables – Chez Mamie. 6 rue de Lancry, 10th arr. Metro République or Jacques Bonsergent. No reservations.

Cash and credit cards are accepted but not mobile and contactless payments. She places tips in a piggy bank resembling a camera, saying it’s “for the grandchildren.”

© 2026, Gary Lee Kraut

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We first met in the Luxembourg Garden where I was sitting by the small Statue of Liberty after my morning class at the Alliance Française of Paris. It was the fall after graduating from Ohio State and I was now ready to make something of myself though I didn’t yet know what. My parents were pleased that I was continuing my education. I was studying French at the Alliance and pastry-making at the Ferrandi Paris cooking school.

I’d bought myself an exquisite chocolate éclair on the way to the park. After creating an Instagram post of a selfie in which I’m holding up the éclair like the statue her torch (Statue of Delicious #paris #thelife #frenchpastry), I sat down nearby to enjoy the pastry with the intent of then studying the passé composé of irregular verbs.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle,” he said. I looked up. He had lovely little brown eyes and smoothed-down brown hair, greying at the temples.

“Bonjour Monsieur,” I answered.

He lifted his palm toward the chair beside me and asked if it was occupied. Understanding his request more from his gesture than from his words, I removed my notebook and purse from the seat so that he could take the chair. Instead of moving it further away, he sat down beside me. He excused himself for remarking but said that he detected un petit accent.

“Je suis américaine,” I said.

“Amay-we-can,” he echoed with a scrunched smile without parting his thin pink lips, then, immediately switching to English, he added, “your accent is very char-ming. Do you know why we have a Statue of Liberty here?” he asked.

I did not.

He said, “But you should because you are Amay-we-can, so I will explain to you.” And so he did, as he would teach me much else, with intense, informative, endearing condescension, before concluding, “You have so much to learn.”

On our first date, the following evening, he took me to a wonderful little bistro, where a surly waiter served us a nice house red. When he told me again that I was charming, I felt myself blush. He called me his Mona Lisa because my name is Liz. I called him Bruno because that is his so adorably French name. When I told him that I would like to try the French onion soup, he said that was for tourists and he recommended instead the bone marrow, telling me that there was a sincerity to the presentation and sensuality to the texture. I marveled at the way used adjectives to describe food and accepted his suggestion. He ordered the pâté for himself, which he ate with thick chunks of sourdough bread. Then chicken supreme for me and andouillette for himself. We shared profiteroles for dessert. He wiped the chocolate from my lips with his napkin.

Afterwards, we walked along the Seine, where he lit a cigarette, and when it was finished, he flicked the butt into the river then turned and kissed me as the Eiffel Tower sparkled as though on cue. His breath tasted of a mix of cigarettes, coffee, wine, intestinal sausage, and a breath mint. It was a beautiful spring evening in Paris. I remembered the old song. He took my hand and we walked on, eventually reaching my chambre de bonne in the Latin Quarter.

I had only had sex with boys my age before, so this was different. He was 20 years older than me and knew not only what he wanted, as did the boys, but how to please. I was glad that I’d shaved that morning. After making passionate love, he opened the French window to smoke as I lay naked and mostly satisfied beneath the sheet. Leaning against the wrought iron railing, he blew rings out toward the zinc rooftop across the courtyard.

If you crane your neck to the right, I said, you can see the top of Sacré Coeur.

“Socray Core,” he repeated, mocking the way I pronounced it, then he stepped toward me and brushed his hand against my cheek and said that his Mona Lisa had a charming accent. He said that he would help me with my French, when it improved, but for now it was best to continue in English. He told me that since I was new in Paris it was natural to admire “Socray Core” from the window but that a real Parisian looks discreetly into the windows across the courtyard to watch people undress, and he pointed to a woman across the courtyard and one floor below who was removing her blouse.

He then told me that his wife and children were returning from vacation the following day, but he would be available on Wednesday afternoon.

“You’re married?” I ask, redundantly.

He waved away both the smoke and my question. He said that he and his wife were now old friends and stayed together only for the three children, so I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head about it. I ignored my mother’s voice in my head and thought, When in Paris…

Every Wednesday afternoon at about 5 o’clock (known here as 17 hour), he came up the stairs to my 7th-floor garret bearing gifts, either a pastry to die for or chocolates from what he said was the best chocolatier in Paris or a bottle of wine that he knew all about. Occasionally he would show up late, saying that he was stuck in court, and tell me that though he’d had a long, tiring day he couldn’t let a week go by without seeing his Mona Lisa. His Dior cologne arrived even more exhausted than he did, so several weeks into our relationship I asked him to shower on arrival. He said that despite man’s intelligence and ability to build great cities such as Paris, we are animals and should not fear our natural odors. I handed him a towel and reminded him that I was not born in the same den as he. He laughed and said that he would do anything to please this pretty lady.

He taught me many things. He taught me how to wear my hair and how to tilt my beret just so. He told me which exhibitions to see and how to appreciate movies without happy endings. He always left by 7:30—I should say 19:30. He called that a “reasonable hour for a lawyer.”

We rarely went out to dinner after that first time. He said that we had all we needed right here. The pastries and chocolates weren’t good for my diet but they were great for my Instagram.

We had plans to go to Deauville one weekend while his wife and children were visiting his mother-in-law in La Baule, but he texted me to say that his daughter was sick so we would do it another weekend. When I texted back to tell him that I was already waiting for him at the Gare Saint Lazare, adding an angry emoji, he texted back a reminder that he’d told me about his family responsibilities from the day we met and that he was the one with sick child, so I shouldn’t be a selfish about it.

The following Wednesday he brought me a gift as an apology. In a box bearing the name of a fancy shop on the rue Bonaparte in the Saint Germain Quarter there was a beautiful lavender scarf with a Galeries Lafayette label. He showed me different ways of wearing it, before lightly tying my wrists together with it while we made passionate love. He continued to teach me things, such as how to read the label of a bottle of wine and where I must go one day in Provence and when cherries are in season and why the Americans did not like the General de Gaulle.

In July, he told me that his wife and daughters had gone to Bormes les Mimosas for the summer and that he wouldn’t be joining them there until the end of the month, so we would have more time together over the next few weeks. “More time” ended up being two Mondays as well as the usual Wednesday. I suggested a weekend in Deauville but he said that there were too many lawyers in Deauville in summer. Instead, he said, it would be his pleasure to take me someplace nice for dinner on Wednesday. I’d been living in Paris for nine months by then so I knew right away that the bistro he’d selected in the Latin Quarter was unexceptional; it had only a 4.3 rating on Tripadvisor. But I was intent on enjoying myself. I’d checked out the menu online and asked AI what wine would go best with foie gras and pike quenelles, which I intended to order, and with whatever offal he might, and was told Pouilly Fuissé. So I proudly suggested that as we ordered. Instead, he asked the cute and efficient waiter for a bottle of a Sancerre red, telling me that I would understand the subtleties better with time. The young waiter nodded as he said, “Oui monsieur.” It took little time to discover that the Sancerre fell flat with my order. When I asked if he wanted to split an order of profiteroles for dessert, he said that I should profit from them (that was his profiterole joke) myself while he went outside for a smoke and to call his children. In his absence I chatted with the cute, young, efficient waiter, whose chestnut brown hair that fell adorably over his espresso eyes. He complimented me on my French and agreed that Pouilly Fuissé would have been the better choice. When he delivered the profiteroles, I asked him to take my picture with them. He sensed that Bruno and I were not married. He said that a man should not leave a charming young lady like me alone at the table. I agreed, and when he efficiently asked for my Instagram, I agreed to that and asked for his as well. His name is Pascal.

Pascal tells me that he adores me, and I feel the same. We’ve been together for three months now. He’s got me listening to rock from Brittany and using French slang, like kiffe for like and ouf for great, though we mostly speak in English. I’ve got him listening to Taylor Swift and wearing deodorant. We’re looking for a two-room flat to move into together. He supports my ambition of giving pastry tours to tourists while writing a book about how a girl from Ohio became a true Parisienne, illustrated with some of my Instagram photos, which he never fails to kiffe. When I tell him my dream of opening a donut, cupcake, cruffin and cake coffee shop that I would call Morning Liza, he says that would be ouf. I haven’t told him that my father runs the largest car dealership in Ohio, nor that I’ve been seeing my old lover on Wednesdays.

But I don’t have to think about the latter anymore because I told Bruno yesterday, after we made unimaginative love and while he was smoking by the window, that I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore because I was moving in with someone.

“A boy?” he asked, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth.

“A man,” I said.

He stubbed his cigarette in the flower box. He said that this—the two of us—hadn’t been working out for a while anyway because I was too much of a child and that I shouldn’t call him anymore, and anyway, he’d met someone more beautiful and mature, a real Parisienne. He then turned to look out the window, first to the right for brief glimpse at the top of Sacré Coeur then to the windows down below. It crossed my mind that I could push him over the railing then tell the police in perfect French, using the passé composé, that he jumped out when I told him it was over. But he’s taught me so much over the past year that I’m actually grateful to him. Anyway, I’d rather have the pleasure of watching him leave my apartment angry and forlorn, the way he likes movies to end. For myself, I still prefer a happy ending.

© 2026.

Cliché, a Paris Love Story by Lainey Harper. Lainey Harper is the pen name of a writer who’s leaving the dream.

The post Cliché, A Paris Love Story appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

It gives me a cheap thrill to think that you’d start reading this article in order to discover—with admiration or contempt—which towns and cities in France limit their cooperation with the national government in enforcing immigration laws. You might be imaging a bistro where lawless lefties confront national thugs. Or a wine region where baguette-wielding winegrowers are protecting grape-picking Syrians and Somalis against soldiers in riot gear. Would you then be inclined to visit such a place? Or would you immediately despise it?

How exciting to think that a travel article of mine could be read with admiration or contempt. But at the risk of disappointing anyone, and of ruining my chances of this piece launching a lengthy Reddit thread, let’s have another look at that title.

Villes Sanctuaires en France, the network in question, translates as Sanctuary Cities in France. The words align. But the concept does not. There are no trumped-up stand-offs in these towns and cities. French authorities have indeed stepped up operations to net undocumented migrants and would-be immigrants who’ve overstayed their visa, including a few gently reminded post-Brexit Brits. But round-ups, deportation and resistance are unlikely to occur in the peaceable destinations in France’s Villes Sanctuaires network. What makes them like-minded is a different kind of sanctuary.

Here, sanctuaire refers to a sanctuary in the sense of a shrine, “a place in which devotion is paid to a saint or deity,” to quote Merriam-Webster. Villes Sanctuaires en France therefore brings together villages, towns and cities in France that have shrines—Catholic, at that—that can be visited by the general public.

But wait, wait!

Before clicking away because candle-lighting pilgrims are less Instagrammable than baguette-wielding winegrowers, let me tell you one of my favorite aspects of travel in the secular nation in France: You can just as easily visit these sanctuaries and shrines for the heck, the fun, or the creepiness of it—I do—as you can out of a sense of spirituality, hope or devotion—others do. You can visit them, as I do, out of pure curiosity, out of an in interest in history or architecture, and to observe how people visit shrines. Or don’t visit the shrine at all when in these sanctuary cities, because the municipalities mentioned here also pay tribute to the gods of beauty, construction, gastronomy, wine, nature, even meaning, whatever that may mean. And here’s the best part: respectful as we must be when visiting a shrine that doesn’t speak to us spiritually, we don’t have to fake adoration, because blasphemy is not a crime in France. Praise be!

For the 18 municipalities within the Villes Sanctuaires network, the shrine or sanctuary is only half the picture. The site’s pious handlers work in tandem with local tourist officials, who also seek to promote other aspects of tourism within the municipality and in the surrounding region. Each member-municipality tells a different story in which the spiritual retreat or Catholic pilgrimage site or otherwise sanctified structure can lead to explorations regarding other heritage sites, gastronomy, wine, hiking, and nature—or vice versa.

France today is a secular state not a Christian or Catholic country. Its culture is a mixed bag that doesn’t stem from the history of a once-dominant religion. Yet the history of Christian, particularly Catholic, dominance in France has left major physical markers. Among them, a fascinating, photogenic and/or curious variety of heritage sites that the traveler is invited to encounter. Christianity’s religious and political history in France also includes a record of harms, dangers and abuses that are also worth examining. Thankfully, one is no longer forced to or expected to honor religiously inspired historical sites or the shrines of these sanctuary cities in specific ways, yet all are accessible to visitors whatever one’s views. By contrast, travelers are highly unlikely to visit a synagogue or mosque or temple if they don’t identify with the associated religion. Even travelers who do identify rarely visit those, whereas the vast majority of non-Catholics visitors to France will enter a church. Think Paris’s Notre Dame Cathedral.

Pilgrims and wayfarers, reverent and irreverent

For the purposes of this article, let’s use both portions of Merriam-Webster’s definition of a pilgrim: 1: one who journeys in foreign lands: wayfarer. 2: one who travels to a shrine or holy place as a devotee.

The Villes Sanctuaires en France network was created in 1994, not as a direct promotional tool so much as a way for municipal tourist officials and overseers of shrines and sanctuaries to exchange information and learn from each other regarding the welcoming of religious and non-religious pilgrims. Only recently, in December 2025, did the association hold its first organized press workshop.

The event took place in Paris at the religious guest house attached to Sacré Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. Entrance to the hotel is from behind the basilica on a street named for the Chevalier de la Barre. The chevalier was a nobleman who was arrested then tortured and executed in 1766, at the age of 20, because he vandalized a wooden crucifix and failed to take his hat off when a religious procession went by, along with other impious, blasphemous acts. He immediately came to be seen as a secular martyr for the Enlightenment against the dangers of religious intolerance of Church and its bedmate State. Laws today sanction those who incite hate and violence, whether with respect to religion or other matters, while the Chevalier de la Barre remains a symbol of the right to irreverence with respect to something some consider sacred.

It isn’t at all ironic that the street near the Catholic holy site is named after the ill-fated young fellow. Instead, the street was baptized in honor of la Barre at a time when Sacré Coeur was under construction, during the political tug-of-war between Catholic and anticlerical forces in France. While the church rose with one vision of French society, the naming of the street and a statue to la Barre (located in what is now a dog park nearby) were intentional reminders of changing social priorities.

Together, the street and the church, the young nobleman and the devout pilgrim, the charming grey cobblestones and the massive white dome, coexist today as attractive reminders of how travelers—whatever kind of pilgrim they may be, whatever reverent or irreverent thoughts they may have—can experience, learn from and share it all.

The Sanctuary Cities network naturally plays the spiritual card in promoting tourism—unless it’s the tourist card in promoting spirituality—but these villages, towns and cities needn’t be seen as religious destinations alone. Whether you consider yourself a religious pilgrim or a wayfarer in a foreign land, or both at once, or sometimes one, sometimes another; whether you’re a theist (aficionado of a god that does or doesn’t act on human affairs) or a nontheist; whether you go in for blasphemy, heresy, dogma, or the smell of incense; whether you consider yourself spiritual or not; whether you wish that this article had been about deportation or resistance, now that you’ve come this far in, stay with me as I present the 18 current members of the network of Sanctuary Cities in France.

Municipalities in the Sanctuary Cities network vary from world-renown destinations to little-known village.

Among the most famous of these Sanctuary Cities is Lourdes, a town of 13,800 whose shrines attract 3 million visitors per year. Lourdes is primarily known as a spiritual destination relative to sainted Bernadette Soubirous (1844-1879), who is said to have had 18 sightings of Mary from February to July 1858. Personally, I’ve little curiosity about Bernadette herself, but the spirit moves me to visit Lourdes soon so as to witness the Bernadette phenomenon up close and because Lourdes makes for an excellent starting point for exploration in the Pyrenees. There’s a visitable fortress just above the town. A funicular goes to the summit of the Pic du Jer. Further from town, another funicular goes to the even more impressive summit of the Pic du Midi, and there are numerous trails for hiking expeditions in the region. (Stay tuned for my 2026 Lourdes article.)

The photogenic tidal island of Mont Saint Michel is another major destination among these Sanctuary Cities.

While you don’t need to carry an all-knowing deity in your thoughts to be curious about the place, I encourage all travels to delve into the fascinating religious, architectural, technological and geopolitical history of the site, whether through reading or by hiring a specialized local guide, even if only to understand the successive eras of construction on the mount, culminating with the 13th-century portion known as “the Marvel.” I suspect that, unlike visitors to Lourdes, only a small percentage of the millions who come each year to Mont Saint Michel is aware that the mount maintains an active Catholic community—the men and women of the Monastic Fraternities of Jerusalem. In the village and hard to spot among the souvenir shops and pricey omelets, the House of Pilgrims is a sanctuary for visitors who seek churchly hospitality.

Nevers, population 33,000, is located on the edge of two major travel and touring routes and receives relatively few foreign visitors. It’s on the inner edge Burgundy but without vineyards to draw wine travelers, and it’s the starting point for the 415-mile Loire by Bike route but cyclists largely pedal along paths further downstream. Religious pilgrims, however, know Nevers as the place to marvel at the body of Bernadette of Lourdes. Why aren’t her remains in Lourdes to greet the 3 million visitors there? Because Bernadette of Lourdes joined the Sisters of Charity and lived her short life as a nun in Nevers, where she died at the age of 35. Personally, I’m not planning a trip to Nevers just for that, though I do soon expect to take in the embalmed sight. I’ll also check out the Ducal Palace, have a peek in at the earthenware museum, find a potter to visit, and seek out a lively bistro or good restaurant. I enjoy the sense of discovery of exploring a bypassed town with an eclectic mix of offerings with an eye to encountering something or someone that sparks my interest. (Again, stay tuned for an upcoming article.)

Further south in Burgundy, Paray-le-Monial’s Sacré Coeur (Sacred Heart) Basilica represents Romanesque architectural splendor to Catholic and non-Catholic visitors alike. The former may specifically come to embrace their sense of the Sacred Heart. It was in this town that Margaret-Marie Alacoque claimed to have had three visitations from Jesus from 1673 to 1675, revealing his heart and its meaning to her on the third. The basilica therefore welcomes a significant influx of religious pilgrims. They may or may not also be gastronomic pilgrims, interested in Charolais beef. Charolais is common in much of France but the massive Charolais breed of cattle has its origins in this region and is named for the town of Charolles, eight miles east.

Spirituality needn’t be the main draw of a town or city in the sanctuary network. Wine can be the magnet, at least it is for me when I think of Cahors, which stands out in the wine world as the primary home for malbec in France. Whether you prefer your wine blended, blessed or 100% malbec, or don’t drink at all, no visitor venturing this deep into the country would skip the city’s key heritage sight: the 900-year-old Saint Etienne (Saint Stephen) Cathedral. Within the bowels of the cathedral awaits the Holy Headdress, venerated as the supposed head covering placed on Jesus as he was wrapped in a shroud for burial. Some will stand before it in awe and adoration. Others will raise an eyebrow, shake their head, and think “Oh, the things that people will believe.” But all visitors check it out. Beyond the malbec, the cathedral and the old town, it is the House of Pilgrims at the convent of Vaylats that gives Cahors sanctuary status and provides hospitality for hikers on the Way of Saint James of Compostela.

Sometimes the distinction between religious and non-religious pilgrim-tourists is blurred because they’re all following the same path. That’s the case at Rocamadour, one of the most visually stunning of these Villes Sanctuaires due to way the village hugs the canyon wall. Rocamodour is just over an hour’s drive north of Cahors or east of Sarlat. Visitors of all stripe climb the 216 steps to the sanctuary, then gaze upon the Black Virgin, a little statue with a large reputation.

Brive-la-Gaillarde, just over an hour’s drive north of Rocamadour, is better known for its rugby team than for its caves of Saint Anthony of Padua. But there it is, a sanctuary dedicated to the patron saint of all things lost and found.

Many trains to Bayeux and the D-Day Landing Zone of Normandy stop in the sanctuary town of Lisieux. Looking out the window as the train approaches the station, you see an immense basilica on the hill, its architecture inspired by Paris’s Sacré Coeur. The basilica honors Thérèse Martin (1873-1897), better known as Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. I’m not suggesting that any but the most Teresian travelers take time from their brief tour of the Landing Zone to visit Lisieux, but it’s nice to know what you’re looking at as you pass by on the train.

Teresa’s sainthood marks much of the lower half of Normandy. Her devout parents, the canonized couple Louis and Zélie Martin, lived in Alençon, and their shrine there brings that town into the fold of Sanctuary Cities. Alençon is, however, better known in knitting circles for its lace-making history, as presented in its Lace Museum.

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer’s annual pilgrimage in May attracts Romani from throughout Europe and tourists from far and wide into the Camargue Regional Park. Yet for most visitors, it’s the natural sensations of its marshes and bottomlands that set the Camargue apart along the Mediterranean.

Most foreign travelers would be surprised to learn that the Loire River, which evokes royal chateaux and easy-going biking along its east-west flow, starts deep in an off-track area of southern France and builds up strength on a northerly flow. Le Puy-en-Velay, population 19,000, in the Haute-Loire (Upper Loire) department, is the first city along the river’s course. Its geographical location and the presence of an ancient shrine to Mary earned it a major place on the map for medieval pilgrims arriving from the east and northeast on the Way of Saint James. Le Puy’s Notre-Dame Cathedral, its monumental statue of Notre-Dame de France, and its nearby volcanic chimney topped with a chapel round out its major Christian sights. But a foreign traveler is unlikely to come here unless interested in exploring the striking natural surroundings of this former volcanic region.

The sanctuary village of Souvigny also has a remarkable Romanesque church, along with the history of the first house of Bourbon—Bourbon as in future kings of France not corn whiskey. Souvigny is a 15-minute drive from the city of Moulins, home to the National Costume Center.

Then there are a handful of more obscure sanctuary villages and towns in the network: Lalouvesc, a remote village in Ardèche; Ars-sur-Formans, which sits quietly between the Beaujolais vineyards and Lyon; Cotignac in the backcountry of Provence; Sainte-Anne-d’Auray in Brittany; Vendeville near the northern tip of France, and La Salette, at nearly 6000 feet in the Alps. Non-religious pilgrims visiting the sanctuaries and shrines there will especially find the opportunity to commune with nature in various shapes and forms in the surrounding area.

See the official site for this network of sanctuary cities for more information about the shrines, sanctuaries, and points of interest of all kinds in and near these villages, towns and cities.

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

The post A Traveler’s Guide to Sanctuary Cities in France appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Not that “obvious” had stopped her from buying a dozen Eiffel Tower keyrings from a Senegalese tchotchke seller at Trocadero. At least she then had something for everyone on the field hockey team. But she still needed gifts for her three best friends. Larger Eiffel Towers? That was my immediate suggestion. Her response was beyond “obvious.” She lifted her eyes, heavy as bowling balls, and rolled them my way to convey the message “How could you possibly understand my life?”

I understood her life well enough to know that well-timed pastry stops would keep the souvenir conundrum at bay for a time. It had been easy enough on day one to say that she’d surely find something in the next neighborhood we’d visit but first she just had to try a spectacular chocolate éclair. But the Latin Quarter, the Saint Germain Quarter, Montmartre, the gift shop at the Louvre, Rue Saint-Honoré, and the Champs-Elysées had all come and gone, and the sweet distraction of pastries, crepes, chocolates and macaroons now barely lasted beyond the final bite.

Here we were on day three, their last day in Paris, and the need to find the perfect Paris memento for her friends had reached fever pitch. She would never go anywhere with her mother again. If her mother had any friends of her own, she’d understand. Her mother, Paris, the entire world had all conspired to make her miserable. She spared me in her diatribe other than to sigh loudly every time I spoke.

The woman was doing everything in her power to stay calm, mixing reprimand with sighs of her own with ignoring the girl, and confiding in me that her daughter had had a “monthly visitor” the other day. A few times that morning we’d stepped into boutiques so that the mother could soothe herself by caressing the sleeves of high fashion, only to be pulled from her fantasy by the sound of her daughter declaring, “That’s ugly.”

Finally, I said aloud what I’d been thinking all along. Actually, I’d already said it on day one, when neither mother nor daughter was ready to hear me then. When I’d said it again on day two, during our visit to Galeries Lafayette, the mother had paid attention and said, “Listen to Gary, he knows.” To that, the girl spat back, “He doesn’t know my friends.”

I was now about to give it one final try. I’d been biding my time for the past 30 minutes of misery until we were just several steps from the shop I had in mind. I consider good timing one of my best qualities as a guide and I was prepared put that to a test. We turned onto Rue Vieille du Temple. I stopped in front of the Labonal shop, positioning myself so that she would see the shop window. I steeled myself against an eventual rebuff. And I said it again, in a gentle, inquiring tone: “How about socks? French socks.”

“Everyone has socks,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

“But not everyone has French socks,” I said. “I bet your friends don’t, and they’d love them. See all those chic women and girls walking around?” Good timing again, three cheerful young women were strolling past us on the sidewalk. “They’re all wearing French socks and tights.”

I pointed at a colorful pair in the window. “Look at those. They have a little French logo on them. You and your friends will be the only girls at school with French socks. It’ll be like your own private club.”

She actually looked. She wiped her tears. She raised her chin to a sock on display and said, “That one’s cute.”

We went in. We came out, bearing gifts, happy. I knew the perfect place nearby for ice cream.

10 French Sock Brands

Nothing says “I strolled through Paris” like tri-color socks (blue, white, red) or a discreet French logo above the ankle or on the toe, or much more that you’ll find in the ten Made-in-France brands that I’ve selected here.

While so much textile manufacturing has moved overseas in the past 40 years, France continues to produce a surprising amount fun, funky, chic, sports and workaday socks and hosiery.

I’ve selected a mix of well-known, lesser-known and little-known sock and hosiery brands that will add a hop to your step, or a loved one’s, when you get back home. Some of these brands also extend to underwear and other knitwear. Several have their own shops in Paris and elsewhere. Those and the more widely distributed brands can also be found in department stores and sock shops. Still others are largely only available through the brand’s website. Orders from overseas are likely to be cost-prohibitive, so order them to be delivered to you in Paris. In all cases, be sure to look for Made in France or Fabriqué en France on the label.

You’ll find your French socks and underpants vocabulary at the end of this list.

Labonal

The brand of the shop of my happy tale above makes good quality socks for men, women and children with a mix of lively designs and solid colors and a variety of fabrics. Labonal Pulse is their brand of sports socks while La Frenchie by Labonal is a lower quality range.

They have a number of branded boutiques and reseller displays throughout France. In Paris, the Labonal shop in the Marais is located at 11 rue Vieille du Temple. That shop also sells Garçon Francais briefs, described below, along with other French-made knitwear. Labonal is one of a handful of shops selling made-in-France products in the area. On the nearby street Rue du Bourg-Tibourg, L’Appartement Français sells sock brands Broussaud, Bonpied (1 pair purchase = 1 pair given to the homeless) and Royalties, along with other French textiles and footwear. Labonal, based in Alsace, celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2024. Their factory, which can be visited, is just off the picturesque Alsace Wine Route in Dambach-la-Ville, midway between Strasbourg and Colmar.

Bleuforêt

Bleuforêt is a major brand of French-made socks and tights made by Tricotage des Vosges on the opposite side of the Vosges Mountains from Labonal.

Though not luxury products, the Bleuforêt range includes some excellent quality socks using pure and blended fabrics, including cashmere, silk and alpaca, known for comfort rather than fantasy, with many solid colors. The Vosges area of northeast France is historic home for the knitwear industry that began to dry up in the 1970s before this and other companies rekindled the knitwear flame in the 1990s. The company also produces some underwear. The brand is sold in many stores including their own. Among their Paris locations, there’s a tiny shop at 20 rue des Francs Bourgeois in the Marais, and another at 101 rue de Rennes in the Saint Germain Quarter.

La Chaussette de France (LCF)

Troyes, the former hosiery capital of France, 95 miles southeast of Paris, once employed up to 25,000 people in the knitwear industry. The town’s Musée de la Maille, Mode et Industrie tells its rich hosiery history. Despite the decline of textile production throughout France, Troyes has managed to hold out with about 3,500 employed in the industry. (Troyes is also known for its factory outlets.) LCF is especially noteworthy for its sporting socks—running, hiking, skating, cycling and mountaineering, and most particularly skiing, with a variety of graphics and colors. LCF is the sock brand of the Manufacture Tismail group, which has been knitting in Troyes since 1961. Among other places, some LCF products can be found in Paris at Au Vieux Campeur, a mountain and hiking specialist with shops concentrated in the Latin Quarter.

KlaK 

KlaK used to be call Sorry or Not Sorry, which derived that playful name from its message socks with half of the text above the heel to the left and the other half to the right. The messaging, mostly in English, continues under the catchier brand name KlaK. For example, Just + Married (perfect for the Paris honeymooner), Girl + Power, I ♥ + Apéro (for those who celebrate wine o’clock), Best + Friend, Need + Love, Sexy + Runner, Champagne + Please and Need + Coffee, among others. Founder Alice de Guyenro says that she launched her products in 2019 in her own image, as a shy gal daring to draw attention to herself, or at least her feet. Her products are most in black and white. The full range of KlaK socks can be read and purchased on her online shop, which also indicates the locations of physical shops that carry KlaK.

Label Chaussettes

Xavier Sauzay and Guillaume Deniau date their interest in entering into the sock trade to a semester abroad in Asia, where they discovered the popularity of socks as fashion in Shanghai, Seoul and Taipei. Returning to France, they also noticed that the Made in France textile trend was then underway. At the age of 26, they launched Label Chaussettes in 2019. Their brand has two major elements: on the one foot, cheery and colorful socks designed by artists, and on the other, logo socks for which they partner with such brands as La Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow processed cheese), France Rugby, Asterisk, Monsieur Madame (Mr. Men), and the French Navy. Their socks are made in the Limousin region of France, specifically in the factories of Broussard Textiles, a major player in Made-in-France socks. Broussard also produces for Slip Français and Klak, among others, including their own namesake brand.

Garçon Français

Garçon Français means French boy, so this is a brand for the boy or man in your life, or, guys, for yourself.

Socks represent a small portion of the brand, but here you can match your briefs for those special occasions when showing a bit of ankle is just the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Impress and attract Francophile friends in the locker room with Garçon Français written above your ankle, at the base of your foot and on your waist band. Founded by (Mr.) Vicky Caffet, the brand is headquartered in Troyes and knitted 20 miles northwest in Romilly-sur-Seine, a town whose sock manufacturing stretches back to the 19th century. As many on this list, a visitor will primarily find the socks through their direct internet shops, though French resellers, indicated on their website, can also be found throughout France. In Paris, Garçon Français briefs and socks are both available in the Marais at Les Dessous d’Apollon (Apollo’s Underwear), 8 rue de Moussy. The brand’s briefs (not socks) are currently sold in the Labonal shop noted above.

Berthe aux Grands Pieds

If you’ve ever strolled in the Luxembourg Garden in Paris and admired the statues of Queens of France and Illustrious Women on the terrace above the central basin, you may have noticed among them a certain 8th-century Frankish Queen Berthe (Bertha or Bertada in English). She was the wife of Pepin the Short and mother of Charlemagne. More importantly for this brand, she is said to have had one foot larger than the other (or perhaps a clubfoot), earning her the nickname Berthe au Grand Pied (Bertha with the Big Foot or Bertha Broadfoot).

Someone was bound to use that for a brand of socks, and that someone is Régis Gautreau. His company makes playfully sexy and chic socks, tights and tabis. While primarily a women’s brand, Berthe aux Grands Pieds also has attractive collections for men and children. Here’s an idea for a single souvenir from a London-Paris trip: BAGP’s men’s or women’s “God Save Berthe” Union Jack/The French Queen socks. BAGP has its own shop in Nantes, a tiny boutique in Passage Pommeraye. Additionally, the BAGP website indicates the addresses of resellers in Paris and throughout France, including at shops operated by Manufacture Perrin. Manufacture Perrin, located in southern Burgundy, is the producer of BAGP socks. Founded in 1924, Perrin also knits for La Chaussette Française and Le Slip Français, among others. The factory can be visited.

Missegle

Rather than coming from the world of finance or fashion, as some of those noted above, Myriam Joly, this company’s founder, comes from a rural farming background. She raised a troop of angora goats for their mohair for a decade before turning to producing high-comfort textiles with natural fabrics—mohair, merino, yak hair, camel hair, organic cotton, silk, mercerized cotton—for socks (nearly half of sales), as well as sweaters, scarves, gloves and bonnets.

Durability, sustainability and comfort are Missegle’s watchwords rather than high design. Myriam created the company in 1983, at the age of 26, and is still at it, though her son Gaëtan now oversees the operation. In 2007 she bought a knitwear workshop in Burlats, 50 miles east of Toulouse, deep in the rural department of Tarn. Missegle is one of only several workshops in France to loop-stitch by hand to create seamless socks for happy feet. Though not all of the natural fabrics come from the region (e.g. yak hair from Mongolia), Missegle production is firmly planted in the region, with the dyer and spinner workshops within 12 miles of the knitwear workshop. Other than a shop at the workshop site, Missegle products are only available online.

Le Slip Français

“Slip” means briefs and “français” means French, so underpants in French flag colors are naturally the flagship products of Le Slip Français, a Paris-based brand founded in 2011 by Guillaume Guibault. While primarily an underwear brand, the company also produces sock. Le Slip Français products are widely distributed, with over 150 resellers throughout France. It has branded boutiques in Paris, Nantes and Toulouse. The Paris boutique is located in the Marais at 137 rue Vieille du Temple.

Kindy

Kindy is an old brand for rather basic cotton socks that has been in and out of bankruptcy over the past decade but continue to sell French-made socks with little French flags above the ankle. The company is headquartered in the village of Moliens, between Amiens and Rouen in northern France. While the French-flag socks are made in France, not all Kindy products are. Be sure to check the label.

Your French socks and underpants vocabulary

Socks = chaussettes
Ankle socks = socquettes
Tabi socks = chaussettes tabi
Knee socks = chaussettes hautes
Stockings = bas, collant
Tights = collant
Underwear = Sous-vêtements (for all); lingerie (for women)
Briefs = slip (typically designating underwear for males)
Panties = culotte (typically designating underwear for females)
Boxer shorts = caleçon
Long johns = caleçon long

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

As mother told daughter, “Listen to Gary, he knows.” Planning to travel with your beloved teen? See here.

The post Made in France: Socks, the Gift That Saved Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

If you look closely, very closely, at the masonry above the arch of the Gate of the Dead at the Roman amphitheater in Saintes, you can make out a fine line that indicates where a mason stopped his work for the day.

Unless a sign is eventually placed there, you won’t find the exact spot on your own. And even when Karine Robin, head of the archeology department for Charente-Maritime, points to and explains her discovery, I can’t be sure if I’m seeing the line or imagining it through her enthused description. I lean closer. Yes, there it is—eureka!—a trace of thrilling triviality within a Roman ruin in a bypassed town, shown by a proud and passionate archeologist. Astounding!

The minutia of the archeologist’s discovery and her vivid explanation light in my mind a spark that begins to illuminate the course of 2000 years of history, from a mason’s day in about 40 AD to the crowds who filled the amphitheater over the next four centuries or so, then the crumbling of the Roman Empire and the gradual transformation, dismantling and degradation of the amphitheater until archeologist began to study the partially buried structure in the 19th-century and now its fine-comb examination by Karine Robin and her team who have been investigating the site and restoring its remnants along with the National Institute for Preventive Archeological Research (Inrap).

That something so seemingly inconsequential in my own life—evidence of a Gallo-Roman mason leaving work for the day—should suddenly make a 3½-hour train ride from Paris feel worthwhile is in itself extraordinary. Often, the greatest reward of sightseeing isn’t a sight itself but the sparks that light in the mind when an informed person enthusiastically gives it context and teaches you how to look at it.

Would you go out of your way for that?

Probably not. You’ve already been the Colosseum in Rome, you say—impressive indeed. And to Arles and to Nimes, you say—yes, wonderful towns to visit. Me, too.

The Arena (Amphitheater)

Then what more can you find here when in fact far less remains of the cavea or seating area and far less of those wide passages that allowed for crowds to enter and exit? I scan the ruin. I listen to our guides. Those passages, we’re told, are called vomitories. Hearing that, a new spark illuminates the connection between the Latin spoken by Roman masons and emperors and the food poisoning I may have gotten from a 3-star Michelin restaurant several years ago. Like Helen Keller by the water pump and the tree, I want to the learn names of things. Those arched passageways to either end of the amphitheater are evocatively called the Gate of the Living (Porte des Vivants), on the eastern side, opening toward the city, and the Gate of the Dead (Porte des Morts), opening to the then-countryside to the west. It’s on the occasion of the restoration of the latter that Karine Robin has discerned the mason’s fine line. No, it isn’t only men who are intrigued by the history of the Roman Empire, though it could be that men are more susceptible to Roman sparks.

We’re visiting what is locally referred to as “the arena” but is technically speaking an amphitheater, i.e. a theater with seating on both sides. Not that I’ve become a connoisseur of Roman architecture in the past hour, but the traveler learns such things on site, and more: about the amphitheater’s religious, political and entertainment functions for a location population invited to witness wild animals in a hunting show in the morning, executions at noon, gladiator fights in the afternoon.

And there they are, on the theater floor today—gladiators! We go over to speak with them—well, the men in our group do. They aren’t real gladiators but strong and knowledgeable reenactors who perform here in summer. They present their shields and daggers, their metal helmets and leather padding.

There are no combats this afternoon, but we’re drawn in by their accounts of the lives of the trained fighters of ancient Rome. Today’s friendly gladiators now take evident pleasure in deflating our greatest sense of a gladiator fight: that it all ended with a life-saving thumbs-up or a deadly thumbs-down. We could have Googled “Roman hand signals” for details, but learning from reenactors who share their passion and knowledge right here on the theater floor makes think that I might have been a bit overdramatic yesterday when I complained to a friend about taking the 6:48am train from Paris.

Then, just as I’m enthralled by an account of the glamorous and dangerous life of a hall-of-fame gladiator, we’re told that (Christian) Emperor Honorius prohibited gladiator combat in the year 404.

I look around at the grassy, rocky bowl that surrounds us, not to imagine the last of the cheering crowds but take in the pleasing view of sheep grazing on slopes that once held seating for up to 15,000 spectators, the town’s entire populations, all welcome, seated according to social status. And I sense the end of this amphitheater as a venue for the thrill of executed justice and violent entertainment. I sense the dismantling of temples, the surrounding of the city by ramparts, the rise of the Visigoths, the Sack of Rome.

Would you go out of your way for that?

I didn’t think so. But if there are remnants of a Roman amphitheater there’s got to be more to see in Saintes.

The name Saintes might lead you to imagine that the presence of a mother lode of Christian relics or a history of pious devotion, perhaps some memorable martyrdom. Though a certain Saint Eutropius was (for some, is) indeed venerated here as an early Christian martyr (I’ll get to him), Saintes is instead derived from the name of the Celtic tribe that inhabited the region at the time of the Roman invasion with Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars and far before the evangelization of Gaul. They were the Santoni. Under Roman rule, the developing town was given the name Mediolanum, or Mediolanum Santonum to add the term for its inhabitants. (Similarly, the Parisii were the pre-Roman inhabitants of what would become Paris, a town the Romans called Lutetia or Lutetia Parisiorum.)

Mediolanum/Saintes developed just beyond a sharp bend in the Charente River. The town is now somewhat removed from major routes through France, hence the 3½ train from Paris with a change of trains at Angoulême. On the map below, you have to zoom in above and Bordeaux to locate Saintes along the Charente between Cognac, 17 miles to the east, and Rochefort, 24 miles northwest.

Two thousand years ago, however, Mediolanum held a proud place on the map of Gaul as capital of the large province of Aquitaine. Here, the east-west Via Agrippa, the route coming from Ludgunum (now Lyon), met the north-south route through Aquitaine, a sign of the town’s geographical and political importance.

The amphitheater is testimony to the town’s prominence early in the Roman colonization of Gaul. Completed in about 40 AD and dedicated to Emperor Claudius (41-54 AD), who had been born in Lugdunum, its construction predates that of the Colosseum of Rome by about 30 years and that of the amphitheaters of Arles and Nimes by 50 and 60 years respectively.

Bordeaux would take over as the capital of Roman Aquitaine in the 2nd century, leaving Mediolanum with a secondary role, then less so as centuries passed. Saintes is now a part of the vast region of New Aquitaine, whose capital is Bordeaux. Its current population is only 27,000 (56,000 with the metropolitan area), less than double what it was 2000 years ago. Its inhabitants are called the Saintais and Santaises.

The Arch of Germanicus

Even before the construction of the amphitheater, Mediolanum bore the proud markers of a Roman town.

Its first aqueduct was already supplying water, and a second would soon be added to provide a more abundant supply to the growing provincial capital. Remnants of these can be seen at their sources in the countryside 6-7 miles outside of town. Fascinating as they may be, it’s likely that only a diehard explorer of antiquity with a vehicle will inquire the route at the tourist office to seek them out.

Every visitor to Saintes, however, takes a walk along the river to see the Arch of Germanicus, built about 18-19AD. (Also, the tourist office is close by.) Originally constructed at the point of arrival of the Via Agrippa, the arch was the entrance gate to the bridge crossing the Charente into the heart of Mediolanum. The double-arch gate honors Emperor Tiberius, his son Druus and his adoptive son Germanicus, yet Germanicus gets sole reverence today since his name is the most legible of those inscribed along the arch’s crown.

In 1843, the arch was displaced 150 yards from its original position as the bridge and waterfront were modified. So it now stands isolated and out of context, diminishing some of its aura. Nevertheless, as we stand by the river with a full view of the arch and learn from Cécile Trébuchet, a dynamic local guide, how to interpret its blocks and inscriptions, visiting Saintes feels less like a detour and more like an arrival. It also inspires a wiki read about Tiberius and the imperial gang of 2000 years ago that later sends me down the rabbit hole of Roman history from which I eventually emerge with the sense that the same gang is at it today.

A visit to the town’s Archeology Museum, right nearby, seems like the natural next step. Unless it’s mealtime, in which case consider the restaurant barge La Batiâ that’s docked by the arch.

Would you go out of your way for that?

Unlikely. Maybe a medieval monument or two will tilt the balance. Three medieval bell towers stand out above the pale red tile roofs of Saintes, those of the Abbaye aux Dames (the Ladies’ Abbey), of Saint Pierre (St. Peter) Cathedral and of Saint Eutrope (Eutropius) Basilica.

The Tomb and Crypt of Saint Eutropius

Saintes’s most unique medieval sight is the basilica’s crypt, a subterranean church containing the tomb on the early Christian missionary and lapidated martyr Saint Eutropius. A site of devotion since the mid-500s, the presence of the saint’s tomb later earned Saintes a stop on the Way of Saint James to Compostella, Spain. The tomb now lies in dramatic simplicity in the heart of a vast crypt of the 11th century. The light, the chill and the musty smell there create a spectacular and eerie atmosphere that flirts between virtuous intimacy and the possibility of eternal damnation, as the most titillating flirts do. It’s open to the public, if you dare enter the gaping mouth of the entrance to the great below. The leafy decorations of its column capitals provide touches of charm that partially alleviate the sense that the end is nigh. But be forewarned: Stand inside alone for more than a few minutes and you’ll either fall to your knees in a desperate plea to be saved or run out in a panic to save yourself. I chose the latter.

The Ladies’ Abbey: Hotel, Church, Music Conservatory

You’d be hard pressed to find a tourist trap in Saintes considering how few foreign tourists venture this way. That point alone can be the attraction as an overnight for the wayward traveler, or for someone suddenly struck with wanderlust, or for a cyclist on the easy-going Rochefort-Cognac leg of the Flow Vélo route. Consider then a peaceful night at the Abbey aux Dames, the Ladies’ Abbey, which is also a highlight for the day visitor.

Founded in 1047, the Ladies’ Abbey, is a successful contemporary example of ways in which heritage sights can be rehabilitated to the benefit of local life, local economy, culture, and visitors. While one portion of the complex is now used for social housing, the central portion houses a music conservatory, an auditorium and a hotel, along with the abbey church. The complex also has an information desk, a boutique, a café and a strange playable musical tent of sorts.

The abbey church remains the medieval centerpiece. Though the Benedictines nuns were sent packing during the Revolution, the Romanesque church was later reconsecrated and continues to hold Catholic service. Fires in 1608 and 1648 led to the rebuilding of the convent buildings in the 17th century. From the Revolution until just after the First World War, the site served as military barracks, housing about 2000 men. Audio guides are available to explore the thousand-year history of the site and to appreciate its recent musical vocation.

In 1972, the tired complex was given new life when it became the venue for a Classical music festival. The former abbey now hosts musical programs throughout the year, culminating in the annual Festival de Saintes. In 2025, nearly 12,000 people attended the 29 concerts performed over 8 days in July at the abbey and elsewhere in Saintes.

Situated between the station and the river, the abbey hotel is conveniently situated for lodging train travelers and bikers.

The 33 bedrooms occupy the former cells of nuns along a hallway on the second floor of the main convent building. Only several of the rooms have en suite bathrooms. Most share bathrooms on the hallway (bathrobes and slippers are provided). That will be off-putting for some, but will add a sense of community to others.

The hotel is not for ladies only, and this is not roughing it. The rooms are comfortable. The architecture itself is the primary décor. The quiet of the immediate surroundings, the history of the place, and the arched stone-and-brick ceiling of the bedrooms inspire guests to sleep the sleep of nuns or soldiers or Classical musicians or tired tourists, depending on what dreams, nightmares or fantasies overcome you. About 100€ per room per night is a reasonable price to find out. The complex is open year-round, however the hotel section primarily operates April to September. The rest of the year it opens only for groups reserving 10 rooms or more.

Other nice lodging options for train travelers or cyclists include Hotel des Messageries, a 3-star by the river and the town center, and La Porte Rouge – The Red Door Inn, a charming B&B in the center. Those traveling by car may also consider Relais du Bois Saint Georges, a 4-star on the edge of town.

The Dupuy-Mestreau Museum

It’s from a side street that we enter this handsome private mansion of the 18th century that otherwise faces the Charente River. In the 19th century the mansion was purchased by Abel Mestreau (1855-1939), a wealthy Cognac merchant and a collector of regional folklore, curiosities and apparently whatever struck his fantasy. He never actually lived here. The Dupuy-Museum Museum is so scarcely visited and the discolored collection is so eclectic that that itself may appeal to those who like feeling that they’ve left main-road travelers way behind.

As much as I appreciate having our guide explain the interest of the various costumes, clothing, regional headdresses (coiffes), paintings, regional artefacts, furnishings, knick-knacks, pottery, jewelry, and what-the-heck-is-thats, I also enjoy wandering around on my own so as to make up stories about various objects, e.g. this gal with the racket; I call her the goddess of tennis. Not unlike visiting Saint Eutropius’s crypt, eclectic regional museums such as this inspire in me a mix of intense curiosity and a desire to flee.

Curiosity got the better of us all. We hung around long enough to see the royalist treasure among the footwear display: a cute pair of slipper-shoes said to have been worn by deposed king Louis XVI during his imprisonment, as he awaited the trial that would eventually lead to his execution. I’m glad I saw them, because that gives me a reason to tell you a Saintes fun fact: Saintes was the birthplace in 1738 of Joseph-Ignace Guillotin whose name lives on in the term for the machine for humane and expedient execution that he championed: the guillotine. An etching of the fellow is among the collection.

Would I advise you to go out of you way for that or does this sound like a far way to go for yet another quaint small town in France?

Still wondering.

Cognac Grosperrin

After all of the vestiges and artefacts that we’ve encountered through the day, we air out our dusty minds with a stroll along the river. It leads us to the offices and cellars of Saintes’s last remaining Cognac broker. As we approach, we imagine barges docked nearby to load casks for shipping when these cellars were first operational in 1851.

Cognac, the town that gave its name to the world-renown double-distilled brandy, is 17 miles upriver, to the east, yet Saintes lies within the cognac grape-growing zone. While most of the major players in the Cognac market are in and around Cognac, the Grosperrin Cognac house, located here, is increasingly known to connoisseurs. Since 1999, first under Jean Grosperrin then, beginning in 2004, under his son Guilhem, Cognac Grosperrin has made a name for itself by purchasing from a variety of sources single-terroir and vintage Cognacs in oak casks, which it then continues to age before bottling and selling at what it deems the appropriate time.

The main cellar, with its old casks and demijohns, most of which are dated and authenticated with official sealing, is an impressive sight in its own right when one thinks of the history (your own, France’s, the world’s) that the dates represent. Then comes the tasting.

I will admit here that among French brandies I never had a taste for Cognac, finding it too harsh for my palate. Before now, that is. Turns out that my impression was based on middling or young Cognacs, the kind best reserved for cocktails or give-me-anything-that-burns digestives. When well-selected fruit is well-distilled and well-aged, it’s an entirely different experience. The same can be said for Calvados (apple) and Armagnac (grape), the two other internationally known French brandies, but I’ve generally been more forgiving when sipping middling versions of those, on the one hand because I’m a frequent visitor to the Calvados region of Normandy and accept that apple brandy is a unpretentious spirit, and on the other because the Armagnac-producing region of southwest France is so enchantingly rural. One reason that I didn’t write about the town of Cognac after a quick visit there ten years ago was that I couldn’t quite wrap my tongue around its namesake brandy. I now realize that I need to go back and try again, because one sip—one spark—of a vintage offered by out tasting guide Maxence le Moulec at Grosperrin and I find myself wondering where I can buy a nice set of crystal brandy glasses. A sip of another and I’m thinking of purchasing a set of leather armchairs. One more and I’m considering looking for an apartment with a working fireplace.

Grosperrin isn’t only a connoisseur’s Cognac. It can also be a Cognac for infrequently imbibing non-connoisseurs who would enjoy splurging for a quality bottle that will last a while, or for someone who already owns a set of leather chairs and crystal tumblers but not the brandy to go with it, or, finally, someone who may never buy a bottle Cognac but wants a sip of local heritage excellence while traveling in the region. Even a sniff-swirl-and-spit tasting may suffice to understand the meaning of carpe diem, as the Roman poet sang. Let’s take this opportunity to recall what the Roman playwright said: “Moderation in all things is the best policy.”

For 7€, visitors are welcome for a tour and tasting. More intense and in-depth tasting tours can be reserved for 45€ and 150€. Advance booking is advised. Grosperrin isn’t the only merchant to go for quality in the Cognac-producing region, but I give them their due for sparking my interest in Cognac.

Is Cognac too harsh for you? Try Pineau des Charentes when in the region. Pineau is a fortified wine of about 17% in which grape juice (white, red or rosé) and Cognac are mixed and aged on oak barrels to create a sweet aperitif, served chilled. Don’t drink? Savor the food stands at the Saint Pierre Market on Wednesday and Saturday mornings.

So would I recommend that you go out of the way for Saintes?

I thought about the question on the long train ride back to Paris. How could I possibly give a generic answer? To each his or her own sparks, interests, imagination and cheap thrills. But don’t readers deserve an answer, a proverbial thumbs-up or thumbs-down or an algorithmic 1 to 5 stars? Was there something special here or was this just another quaint old French town? And if the latter, isn’t that enough?

I thought of all I’d done: I’d met archeologists and gladiators, learned history and words, descended into an eerie crypt, slept in a nunnery, wandered around a bizarre museum, nipped Cognac. Then suddenly, in a spark, I imagined Julius Ceasar, pleased, contemplative and exhausted on his way home from the Gallic Wars that would change the course of history all along this train route. I felt just like that. I came, I saw, I conked out.

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

Read about two other towns in the department of Charente-Maritime in New Aquitaine, Rochefort and La Rochelle.

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When asked to create a Paris itinerary and touring plans for individual travelers, I respond with questions:

What are your interests, hobbies and ages? Have you been to Paris before? Where are you staying? Are you in decent walking shape or have any mobility issues? Do you speak much French? Do you have any dietary restrictions? Do you drink wine? Will you want for shopping (for anything in particular?) or simply stop into boutiques if anything strikes your fancy along the way? Do you have a sense of how much guided time you’d like? What are you looking to get out of your stay in Paris?

Altogether, the answers provide me with information that ensures not only that that my clients won’t be over-walked or over-museumed, under-shopped and under-wined. They also allow me to imagine creative ways to enable them to visit sights, explore neighborhoods, understand history, experience culture, and satisfy their hunger and thirst in ways that are meaningful, rewarding and enjoyable to them.

Many clients will give cursory responses to my questions then cut to the chase, saying:
– We’re not museum people but want to see highlights (definitely Notre-Dame and the Eiffel Tower), or
– We like learning history and seeing different monuments and architecture (and we want good pastries, of course) but want to keep it relaxed, or
– Here’s the list of what my 18-year-old daughter/granddaughter wants to do.

The most common response, however, goes something like this:

We want to visit the main sights without having to wait in line. We don’t mind touring on our own but would like some guidance. We like walking but also want to take breaks. We want local food experiences but don’t need anything fancy. We want to try great pastries, and we are wine drinkers, in moderation. Can you help us?

I certainly can!

If you identify with that request, here’s my nearly personalized itinerary for you, including a selection of major sights, varied neighborhoods, easy-going bistros and brasseries and bars, and GPS-guided audio tours to steer you as you go.

Day 1: Feel the Pulse of the Historical Heart of the City then Stroll Along the Champs-Elysées

Morning
Arrive at Notre-Dame Cathedral by 9:30am (or in any case no later than 10am) to enter with little wait (entrance is free, and stop panicking about a timed reservation!) then walk the length of the City Island on which it stands, past the former royal palace, through charming Place Dauphine, and to the sublime river views as you cross the Pont Neuf (the New Bridge). Next bridge upstream, set out on an essential visit of the central Right Bank with my VoiceMap audio tour Exploring Paris of Dreams and Nightmares: The Dark Side of the City of Light.

Lunch
As you follow that audio tour, sample Paris from any of the many cafés, bakeries and other tempting and tasty eateries along the route. (You can pause the tour at any time.) Or wait until the end of the tour for lunch. Here are three welcoming options within a several blocks of the tour’s endpoint: the uber-traditional, easy-going Bistrot des Halles, the cozy and historic brasserie Le Zimmer, and the upbeat wine restaurant Le Robe et Le Palais.

Afternoon
Stroll the full-length of the Avenue des Champs-Elysées—including visits to the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais and perhaps several shops along the avenue—accompanied by my audio tour The Champs-Elysées: from Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe. At tour’s end, climb the Arc de Triomphe for a sweeping view over Paris (ideally with a pre-purchased, timed ticket or Paris Museum Pass). Then metro over to Trocadero for a fabulous view of the Eiffel Tower.

Evening
Head to a lively neighborhood to raise a glass or two at the joyfully old-fashion and inexpensive wine bar Le Baron Rouge. Prefer a beer? Fishtail around the corner to the character-filled Troll Café. Then stay in the neighborhood spirit for dinner at one of the numerous eateries in the area. Consider L’Ami Pierre, if you dare, for a plunge into Paris bistro life by night or Jouvence for a neo-bistro experience. There are also plenty of pizzerias, cafés and other inexpensive eateries in the neighborhood.

Day 2: Linger on the Left Bank then Meander in Montmartre

Morning
Begin your explorations of the central Left Bank in the Latin Quarter, where student life meets the Parisian bourgeoisie on alluring streets. Peek in at the food shops and stands at Maubert-Mutualité to get a sense of neighborhood market life. Visit the tomb of Saint Genevieive in the beautiful Saint Etienne du Mont Church. Take in the imposing and important Pantheon (avoid the line with an advance ticket or a Paris Museum Pass). Then leave the city streets to take an enchanting stroll with my audio tour of The Left Bank’s Most Elegant Park: Exploring the Luxembourg Garden so as to take part in the lifestyle of the Left Bank that is the Luxembourg Garden.

Lunch
Sample excellent French produce, cheese and more at the Saint Germain Market and nearby bakeries (Maison Mulot, Secco) and pastry shops (Arnaud Larher, Pierre Hermes). Or saddle up for wine and light snacks (call them tapas if you like) at Avant Comptoir du Marché.

Afternoon
Complete your visit of the central Left Bank with a walk through the Saint Germain Quarter, the chic, charming and boutiquey neighborhood that thrives at the heart of Parisian café society. Then head to Montmartre, starting at the metro station Abbesses or Anvers, to climb the hiil to Sacré Coeur before taking a well-earned seat for a drink at the hill’s historic eatery-drinker La Bonne Franquette. Then wind your way down along Rue Lepic all the way to the Moulin Rouge.

Evening
Stay within the atmosphere of Montmartre with dinner at La Mascotte Montmartre for fresh fish and seafood and other fine brasserie fare.

Day 3: Meet Mona at the Louvre, The Thinker at the Rodin, Napoleon at the Invalides, and peek in at luxury boutiques in between

Morning
View Mona and more at the Louvre Museum (get a timed reservation for 10am at the latest and brace for the crowds), then air your mind from your heady art history experience with a noble garden walk with my audio tour The Tuileries Garden: The Royal Walk from the Louvre to the Champs-Elysées.

Lunch
Keep it simple and full of character for lunch at Le Petit Vendôme, a busy bistro where where Parisian joie-de-vivre meets tourist joy-of-travel.

Afternoon
Before and after lunch, go window-shopping in the lap of luxury on Rue Saint Honoré and Place Vendôme. Then head over to the Rodin Museum for an easy-going, sculpture-spotted stroll in the park, along with a coffee stop in its garden café. Enter the museum itself, if in the mood, for a thorough view of Rodin’s work. Then visit Napoleon’s Tomb nearby and, if so inclined, the medieval armor portion and more of the adjacent Army Museum.

Evening
Discover casual, modern, moderately-priced Parisian gastronomy in a neighborhood not yet visited above. Here are some suggestions: L’Oyat, L’Escuella, Aux 2K, Caillebotte, Petit Boutary. Then augment the evening at a jazz club such New Morning, Sunset/Sunside, Duc des Lombards, Caveau de la Huchette.

Be sure to check opening times for all of the suggestions above.

Looking for an even more customized itinerary and personalized touring? Contact me directly for travel therapy by phone and more.

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Three Days in Paris: Your Nearly Personalized Itinerary appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

For most of my life in France, Paris was my compass. I taught at the Nouvelle Sorbonne and Sciences Po and lived just outside the city, close enough to feel its constant pulse. I drew energy from its rhythm, its lectures and cafés, its insistence on momentum. Which is why it still surprises me that my husband Pierre and I left that all behind for a 17th-century château in the Loire Valley. In Paris, my mind was always moving ahead, cataloguing lectures, meetings, errands, and ideas I wanted to explore. Here, there was nothing pressing, nothing urgent, and that empty space made me notice how I thought. Thoughts that normally skittered past caught themselves mid-flight, lingering long enough for me to consider them: memories of my childhood in Australia, music I had been playing, questions about the life we were beginning in this new place. It was strange, unsettling, and quietly exhilarating to feel my mind slowing, stretching, and expanding in ways I hadn’t realized it could.

I became aware of the rhythm of my breathing, of the subtle warmth of the stone under my hands, of the almost imperceptible shifts in light across the château walls. I noticed the crunch of my footsteps on the gravel, the whisper of the wind through the trees. For the first time in years, I could feel the shape of my thoughts as they moved, how they curved and bent around the silence instead of rushing past it. I realized I was paying attention not just to the world outside, but to the inner world that had been quieted by the constant pace of the city.

It was in that stillness that the château first revealed itself—not just its history, its stones, or its chapel, but the way it invited observation, reflection, and imagination. Every carved cross, every moss-softened stone, every mark etched by centuries of hands waited to be noticed. And when I finally looked up from my own thoughts, the fields blurred in the sun, the air thick with the scent of dry grass, the trees alive with birdsong. The silence remained, but it was no longer empty—it was full of possibilities I hadn’t seen before.

What drew us to Détilly wasn’t grandeur but the odd, intimate details that made the place human. The medieval chapel, dedicated to Notre-Dame de la Pitié and Saint Marc, bears crosses carved by the Knights Templar, reminders that this stretch of the Vienne River was once more frontier than refuge. I don’t consider myself mystical, but stepping into that space, I felt its weight. The chapel isn’t solemn so much as steady, a sanctuary where centuries and everyday life meet.

That same sense of continuity shaped how we saw our role here. From the start, we never felt like owners. We are caretakers—of leaking roofs, moss-softened stones, and a story that began long before us. Our Irish wolfhounds seem to know this better than anyone. Ramsès roams the grounds like a watchman, while his son, Aramis Destilly, lingers by the chapel door as if tuned to something the rest of us only half-hear.

Of course, history here isn’t just romance—it’s cracked stone, doors that stick, and roofs that groan under winter rain. Preservation is rarely dramatic; it’s patience, repetition, and learning to live with the slow, uneven tempo of a place that’s seen far more seasons than we have.

At Détilly, imagination rises differently. One afternoon I sat watching light shift across the west-facing chapel door, and from that stillness a scene for a novel took shape—something I never would have found in Paris’s constant rush. Guests at our summer writers’ retreat often feel it too. One, standing beneath the old arch, said she felt “history leaning close, but kindly.” Another, after an evening in the garden, told me she had “heard my thoughts for the first time in months.” I know what they mean. The château doesn’t just provide a backdrop—it participates.

And yet, the château’s voice is just as present in the mundane. The real surprise isn’t that we moved here, but that we’ve come to love the small, daily negotiations: coaxing life from a sulky boiler, finding warmth in stone that holds the cold, and tackling repairs that never quite end. None of this was in our plan, and maybe that’s why it feels so alive. There’s something steadying in that work, a quiet satisfaction that comes from tending to the place rather than simply fixing it. It isn’t about efficiency anymore, but about learning to move in step with the château’s slower rhythm, letting its needs shape the pace of our days—and, eventually, shape us.

Living at Détilly keeps us asking: What does it mean to dwell inside history? How do you make a life in walls that have already sheltered so many others? We don’t have the answers. For now, we walk the grounds with the dogs, patch the roof when it leaks, welcome guests when the season allows, and watch evening light pour through the chapel door.

Maybe that’s enough—to live alongside the past, not only to look at it, with all its imperfections, its demands, and the quiet rewards that come when you stop trying to shape a place and let it shape you.

Château de Détilly, 18 Rue des Fromentaux, 37420 Beaumont-en-Véron, is located near where the Vienne River joins the Loire, 5 miles from Chinon.

© 2025, Grahame Elliott

The post Home in the Loire Valley: Unfamiliar Thoughts at Château de Détilly appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

He’s the man of two worlds, of two revolutions and of two languages.
He’s a fellow who understands the politics of a republic, an empire and a kingdom.
He’s a citizen of France and an honorary citizen of the United States.
He’s Gilbert du Motier, marquis de La Fayette—call him Lafayette—and he’s returning to America for the first time in two hundred years.

Yes, Lafayette is back – in the new series Lafayette in America on Instagram, launched on September 23, beginning with Episode 1: The Awakening in Paris. New episodes will be posted weekly. Follow now as Lafayette prepares to embark on yet another American adventure.

Absurd, intriguing, irreverent, timely and occasionally historical, Lafayette takes to the streets of Paris before returning to the United States, where he reconnects with old comrades, meets Americans, does food reviews, and tries to understand how the country of his dear friend General George Washington has changed over the centuries.

Follow Lafayette in America @lafayetteinamerica now!

Why now?

At the invitation of the United States government, Lafayette made a grand tour of the United States in 1824 and 1825, visiting the then 24 states of the union, where he was celebrated as the oldest surviving major general of the American Revolution and a reminder of the promise of the Declaration of Independence of 1776 and the creation of the democratic republic of the United States of America. Two hundred years later, in 2025, told that he’s needed, he returns on a quieter but no less significant journey, on a secret mission at the behest of unknown figures, accompanied at times by the charmante Mademoiselle Lilly.

Yes, Lafayette is back!

Here are a few images from the upcoming series, filmed and photographed in France and in the United States.

Left: Lafayette tries to go incognito in Paris, yet, once recognized, he gladly poses with fans by the Eiffel Tower.
Right: Lafayette stands by the equestrian statue of his dear friend the General George Washington, a work by the American sculptor Daniel Chester French, on Place d’Iéna in Paris.

Left: Lafayette takes a seat at Les Parisiennes, 17 avenue de la Motte Picquet, 7th arr.
Right: Lafayette reflects on the evolution of the American project as he walks on Omaha Beach, Normandy.

Left: Lafayette with Axel Robb and fellow patriots at Washington Crossing Historic Park in Pennsylvania, with the charmante Mademoiselle Lilly by his side.
Right: Lafeyette and Will Krakower toast the memory of fallen soldiers of the Continental Army at Princeton Battlefield State Park in New Jersey.

Yes, Lafayette is back! Follow his adventures on Instagram @lafayetteinamerica.

© 2025

Learn about Lafayette’s tomb in Paris.
Learn about Lafayette’s relationship with George Washington.

The post Return of the Marquis: Lafayette in America appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

But I’d like you to remove your rose-colored glasses for now as I lead you into the shadows that are the subject of my new VoiceMap audio tour Paris of Dreams and Nightmares: The Dark Side of the City of Light. Along with the charm of its route through the central Right Bank of Paris, this is an unflinching journey through France’s dark past, where torture, assassination and terror are among the building blocks of the beauty that surrounds you.

The route passes major landmarks, vibrant streets, inviting cafés, alluring pastry shops and boutiques, soaring churches, and the playful Stravinsky Fountain, as it reveals both the enchantment of the present and the cruel events of the past.

Watch this video introduction before reading on.

These aren’t ghost stories or legends that I tell; these are historical events that shaped Paris as you see it today. In understanding the terrible building blocks of the City of Light, you’ll gain an important appreciation for how its beauty and brutality have coexisted throughout history.

Here’s one location covered on a tour, a memorial garden inaugurated in the summer of 2025:

The Dark Side of the City of Light now joins my VoiceMap audio tours to the Luxembourg Garden, the Tuileries Garden, and the Champs-Elysées as another of my essential self-guided walking tours to major aspects of Paris and its culture, splendor, history, and life today.

Though VoiceMap is primarily designed to provided GPS-guided audio tour for use on site, I’ve uploaded photos for each of the tour’s locations to allow armchair travelers to fully follow along. So you can listen from your home computer or your iPhone or Android anywhere even if you don’t have Paris plans. Then use the downloaded tour again whenever you do make it Paris.

The VoiceMap Touring App is available from the Google Play Store and the App Store. On your home computer just go to VoiceMap.me. Once you’ve signed up with VoiceMap and purchased the full tour, you can listen to it on your phone, tablet or computer, or all three, on site, on the road or at home.

Even without signing up, you can listen to the first three locations before deciding whether you want to download the full tour.

If, after downloading the app, you don’t land directly on one of my tours, you’ll find them easily by searching “Gary Kraut” in the VoiceMap search block, or by clicking or tapping directly on the author’s page of these Paris audio guides.

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Paris of Dreams and Nightmares: Exploring the Dark Side of the City of Light appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.