An Escape to Arles from Paris

I exited my Paris apartment at 6:29 am, leaving 14 minutes later than schedule, but in time to escape the jackhammer drilling that would soon begin. Unbeknownst to me at booking, my first apartment — before moving to a quieter street near the Marais — was window to Parisian window with a massive hotel under construction off the Boulevard des Capucines in the 1st arrondissement.

It was dark on the streets — there were just some fog lights from construction trucks across the alley and tired-looking workers heading to and from their shifts. I wove through the sidewalks, watching the blue dot move on Google Maps, motivated by the thought of a future full night’s sleep and my coveted reservation at L’Hôtel Particulier.

With a few missteps under the night’s sky, it became obvious to me that I was not going to make this train. I started running towards the metro and down the stairs, quickly scanning each sign that approached, until the real race began as I arrived at Gare de Lyon.

The station was crushed with commuters, the signs were in French and not entirely clear to me so early in the morning, and there was a maze of connecting tunnels to choose among. I spotted the exit that connected to the main line TGV trains and sprinted through the multilevel corridors until my bun tumbled half down, my scarf dragged behind, and I arrived at the platform in an unkempt tangle.

A kind train attendant let me pass the turn style when the bar code on my digital ticket didn’t scan. I remember her light brown pony tail bouncing up and down, as she nodded her head with a sympathetic look, pointed at the train to her right, and yelled encouragingly in French, “Run!!”

My toes stepped on the third stair as the train departed. I found my seat and crumpled into the chair, sweaty, disoriented, and excited for the adventure ahead.

The Dazzling Blue Waters of the Rhône River

The turquoise blue water that surrounds Arles’ city limits was thrilling to see after the four-hour train journey that had been slightly delayed when the preceding train hit a large animal crossing the tracks. I left the station and headed towards a walkway along the coast that led to a quick bite at Café Factory République where I was momentarily revived by a strong espresso, the daily special of roasted salmon with a fresh herb lemon mustard sauce and pommes frites, and the banter of the cheerful owner.

And then it was time for the main reason of my visit — L’Hôtel Particulier.

A Charmed Oasis in Provence

I navigated through the narrow, pastel-framed streets that led to the hotel, came upon the massive black doors of the former private estate, and rang the bell. When the doors swept open, the crisp floral scent of the citrus plants and fresh blooming lilies at the entrance was an intoxicating lullaby to my sleep-deprived state. I stepped in, hypnotized, and not quite aware of all the words being spoken by the hostess, Fatiha, as she welcomed me to the hotel.

She showed me to my room, opening one large wooden door at a time. I was surrounded by white linen and silk, and marble and a bed that looked as inviting as a cloud over your final resting place of choice.

I mumbled my merci beaucoup and au revoir, closed the wooden blinds to the French doors that overlooked the courtyard, slipped into the Hôtel’s white robe, and went to sleep.

Two hours later, I woke up feeling renewed, disoriented, and so happy to be in this cold, tomb-like room hundreds of kilometers away from what at this moment were surely the sounds of enormous slabs of concrete dropping with thunderous booms, as well as ear-piercing horns at the hotel construction site on Rue Danou in Paris. The only thing that could lure me out of this hotel bed was the grand Roman style shower steps away under the high ceiling.

Late Night Dining at Le Galoubet

I emerged from my hotel room hours later — ready to take in the Roman ruins of Arles mixed with Van Gogh’s famously painted cafés. After dinner at Le Galoubet on Rue du Docteur-Fanton, where I had steak, charred on the outside and pink in the center, with a rich, velvety sauce of reduced wine and mushrooms, and more pommes frites covered in sea salt, I made my way back to the hotel ready for my next round of sleep.

Eight restorative hours later, I woke up the next morning, entered the courtyard, and a waiter brought me a cappuccino, a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice, and scrambled eggs.

I stayed in this graceful courtyard with birds chirping around me until the very last minute of checkout awed by the peaceful hotel — actually, 30 minutes after checkout, but I was too sedated by the hotel to notice.

Days’ long sleep deprivation led me to this oasis of calm in Provence, and I will always return to this seductive place, when I need a meditative escape or when I simply need to sleep.

L’Hôtel Particulier
4 Rue de la Monnaie
Arles, France 13200