One of the many perks I’m grateful for in Basel is being able to access much of Europe by train, and quickly. Speeding over hilly French countryside at 300 kmh, Holly and I remarked more than once how lucky we felt to be able to hop a train to Paris, just for the weekend, to see Sturgill Simpson.

On Saturday morning at 10:30, Holly and I boarded a train from Basel to Mulhouse, disembarked, got on a new one from Mulhouse to Strausbourg, and then boarded a TGV that delivered us at Gare de L’est around 3:30pm. Not too shabby!

We walked 20 minutes to our hotel, located in the charming Montmartre district. (Note: I’d stayed in this area once before, my first time in Paris, but I do not recall the hotel being as nice.) Half of our walk took us down one long promenade whose sidewalks were crammed with mannequins of all sizes wearing tuxedos and dresses of every color you can imagine. We were in some kind of wedding district, until we turned left near a Popeyes and arrived at Hotel Gerando. Named for a French philosopher of Italian descent (according to Wikipedia), he was influential enough for our rue to be named after him, too. Trés impressive!

Train travel is lovely but somewhat tiring, so we relaxed in our tiny room. Holly opened the tall balcony windows and let the early spring breeze carry Michael Jackson’s greatest hits from the bar across the street into our room. The forecast warned of heavy rain and localized flooding to begin around 6, so we made our way out to a cocktail bar called Classique.

True to its name, Classique was classy, with a handful of tables clustered on the sidewalk outside and a dim interior whose walls looked fashionably old. With rain on its way, we opted for inside seats and were shown two stools at the bar, nearly the last available real estate inside. We had barely shrugged out of our raincoats when the sky outside darkened so quickly it was as if someone had thrown a curtain over Paris. We couldn’t see the rain through the windows, but it was obvious from the sudden surge of customers at the door and the raindrops in their hair that it was coming down.

“What luck,” said Holly as we scanned the menu. We decided on two spicy margaritas.

“You must order food with that,” explained the bartender. “All the drinks on that side of the menu, you have to order food with them.”

While the oysters looked tempting, we opted for a safer cheese plate. The cocktail was delicious, and came with a large ice cube that the barman shaved into a V using a small knife and then branded with a metal stamp that must spend its time soaking in hot water, as steam seemed to stream up and the ice cube melted a little before he threw it back into the ice box and then added it to the cocktails. As I said: very classy.

The cheese plate was decadent – the soft one was especially delicious, though I forget the name…maybe a fromager d’Affinois? – and while we could have stayed for another drink, the show began at 8 and it was nearly 7. Time for dinner.

Holly had scouted out some cool restaurants near our hotel, so we headed back in that direction. The rain had slowed to a trickle by the time we exited the bar, leaving a watery sheet all over Paris’ cobblestone streets, which softly reflected the early evening lights. Our restaurant options narrowed down to a place called Sauvage, which was heaving with people and looked dim and inviting, or its empty next door neighbour, a Lebanese restaurant called Le Chouf, whose sole worker sat alone tapping on his phone.

Holly summed it up perfectly: “I bet the ambiance is better there (Sauvage) but the food is better there (Le Chouf).” Le Chouf it was!

And we didn’t regret it. We sat at two stools facing the window so we could people watch as we ate. Holly ordered tabbouleh and falafel, and I ordered a grilled vegetable wrap. Paired with crisp, fresh beer and not very expensive, it tasted delicious and was served quickly. Once again, we seemed lucky. As soon as we were served, a trickle of people entered the restaurant and the lone employee was suddenly quite busy.

From there, it was on to see Sturgill Simpson! A four minute walk, Le Trianon theater towered over the sidewalk and looked stately and majestic. Then we realized we’d walked into the wrong theater. As we stood on the stairs and an usher tried scanning Holly’s ticket, I wondered why the upstairs was bathed in purple and blue strobe lights and blasting thumping house music. This seemed a strange vibe for Sturgill.

“Wrong concert,” said the ticket scanner. “Yours is next door.”

Back on the sidewalk, we walked a few more meters, and there was Le Trianon. Still stately and majestic, with glimpses of twinkling chandeliers through its windows. Holly had told me earlier that its interior also featured steel from a Pavillon crafted by Gustav Eiffel in 1889. We found this at the bar after the show.

Holly searched for coat check while I stood in line waiting to buy us some beers. It was a long line, but it moved fast, and it seemed filled with Americans. We were about 6 people from the start when my watch flipped to 8pm and a roar erupted from the concert hall. As Ian had promised, Sturgill and his band took the stage at exactly 8pm. No opening act, no faff. I love punctuality and efficiency.

Holly and I sidled in at the edge of the crowd, but as the concert went on, we made our way further and further into the middle of the floor. What a show. The energy on stage was wild and the crowd gave it right back. Whenever he played a fast tempo, everyone danced or bounced or stomped so much that the floor seemed to bounce beneath our feet.

“I think it’s because we’re on the second floor,” Holly guessed. I had a flashing vision of all of us bouncing too hard and suddenly falling through the floor, but then I calmed myself. Surely Sturgill Simpson is not the bounciest artist they’ve had here. The theater was grand. There were statues and carvings and beautiful, ornate balconies above us where people sat or stood dancing and waving their beers around so that occasionally, those of us below were misted by Carlsberg. But that was OK. Everyone was in good spirits, hollering and shouting along with the music, and when there was a quick lull – and I mean quick, because they basically played for 3 hours straight without resting – the occasional French person called out, “Sturgill!” pronounced “StewrJIL!”

Sturgill Simpson lived in Paris for a while after spending time in Thailand, and his album Passage du Desir was partly written during this time. He had a few words to say about how amazing Paris is, before remarking that this was the last show in his European tour and maybe he’d “get wild.” Everyone else went wild at that, thinking maybe he’d play past 11pm and into the wee morning hours. At 10:30, he finished his last song and said good-bye, and within seconds, the house lights were on and stage crew were removing the instruments.

It was one of the first live shows I’ve been to in a long time, and man was it worth it. Holly and I stood in another line to get our coat checks – this one began at the top of the staircase and ended at the bottom – and then went for a nightcap to a cool little beer bar around the corner from our hotel. By the time we got to bed, it was nearly 1am – very late for the two of us.

I’d entertained ideas of an early morning run around Mont Martre, but decided sleep was more important. Why early, you ask? Well. Our breakfast plan for Sunday involved our favorite Parisian breakfast joint, established back in July when we were here for the Olympics (a blog post I never managed to write). Parisian pastries, you think? Perhaps a tiny espresso and a croissant?

Mais non! Our favorite breakfast place is called Holy Belly and, we think, is staffed by Americans. HolyBelly was a 25-minute walk from our hotel and opened at 9am. We knew from the summer that a line forms outside and if you’re not in it by opening, you’re waiting. We arrived just before 9 and already the sidewalk was full of people.

In front of us, an older man who sounded American complained to his traveling partners. “I’m not a fan of long lines. I like brunch, but not that much.”

Ahead of him, a younger man turned and said, “Don’t worry. This line goes fast. Everyone standing here now will get a seat. It’s deep in there. I know about how far down the sidewalk they can seat, and we’re all good.”

Indeed he was right. Everyone was quickly ushered in and Holly and I were directed to the back where we ordered two drip coffees (le sigh) and delicious breakfast (savory pancakes and scrambled eggs with halloumi and hashbrowns). We were hoping to swing by Mamiche for their delicious Vienoiseries but they were closed, so we headed to a cafe liberté instead. Helpfully, our waiters at HolyBelly advised us not to buy pastries in a place that has a fuschia exterior, and explained that while Liberté was a bit Scandinavian, it was still worth going to.

Holly and I left with paper bags filled with pastries. This is another perk of train journeys: you can pack a hot sauce, 9 pastries, and a box of macarons in your suitcase and not have to worry about weight or being over the liquid maximum.

We said one final farewell to our neighborhood, walking by Sacre Couer, and then Holly decided to check her phone to see where Le Passage du Desirs was. Lo and behold, it was a 4 minute walk! So we journeyed over and snapped a few selfies before deciding it would be better to just re-enact the album cover. Holly stitched the photos together artfully on the train journey home.

We hadn’t been in Paris 24 hours when we headed back to Gare de l’Est, but we were awake for most of the hours we were there and it felt like it had been a very solid amount of time. Our train back was faster to Basel (Paris to Strasbourg, Strasbourg to Basel). Sunny countryside streamed by. We sat back in comfy chairs, nibbling on Pain de Suisse and reveling in the joy of a charming French weekend.