Some trips begin with careful planning. Others begin with a slightly drunk conversation and a trigger-happy Skyscanner search. This was very much the latter.
The weekend before, I was on holiday when my Godbrother floated the idea: “Why don’t you come meet us in Paris next weekend?” He and his friends were on the last leg of a whirlwind Euro trip, and I had absolutely no good reason not to say yes.
So I booked it. No plans. No real idea of what I was walking into. Just a flight, Google Maps to hand, and a highly questionable forecast.
Friday: Arrival Mode
My flight got in late Friday night, which meant no pressure to “make the most of the evening.” Just a quiet shuffle through the airport, a relatively painless metro ride into the 11th arrondissement, and a quick check-in at the hotel.
The air con worked and was on upon arrival. The shower was glorious. The bed was horizontal. Perfect.
Saturday: Wandering, Cheese, and Mild Sunstroke
I started the day walking aimlessly. Partly to explore, mostly to justify getting coffee. I made a point of not using Google Maps; I find there is something adventurous about wandering the streets of a foreign city without guidance. Eventually, I stumbled across a café on a quiet road and sat outside with the sole aim of having my first Parisian espresso. I ordered (in French). It arrived. It was delicious. I ordered two more in quick succession. I then took my leave and continued my wander. I was getting peckish at this point and happened to stumble upon yet another hidden gem of Paris. A small quaint café offering sustenance, so, naturally, I had to go in. It was beautifully French, no English menu, the whole deal.
Naturally, I attempted to order in French, politely asking the waiter if he spoke English before I burdened them with my broken French. Without missing a beat, he replied in a full-on London accent, “Yeah mate, of course.”
Right.
He smiled. I ordered. The croque monsieur arrived: crispy, cheesy, absurdly perfect. I forgave everything. I didn’t check my phone. I didn’t rush. I just sat there, sweating and occasionally nodding like I was a real local.
After a brief internal monologue about how good bread in France is, I caught the metro to the Eiffel Tower. It was 32°C by this point, and the sun was doing its best to end everyone. I gave the tower the appropriate amount of admiration, attempted to resist the urge to take the same photo as a million other tourists (I failed), and promptly began looking for shade.
I ended up at the Musée Carnavalet, a museum dedicated to the history of Paris. Entry: free. Air conditioning: functional. Visitors: blessedly few.
It’s the kind of museum that feels small until you realise it just keeps going, 17th-century furniture and revolutionary artefacts around every corner. I stayed long enough to cool down and briefly consider learning something.
Then I went back to the hotel for a quick reset before heading out for the evening.
Saturday Evening: A Paris night to remember
My Godbrother and his friends were staying in an attic apartment on the top floor of a walk-up. Sloped ceilings, and a distant view of the Eiffel Tower. Peak Paris. It was the last stop on their Europe trip; for me, it was a reunion and a chance to meet the rest of their crew.
Everyone was either slightly tired, slightly hungover, or both. Spirits were high anyway.
Dinner was a casual spot just around the corner, nothing particularly memorable, except that it involved food, drink, and the sort of easy laughter that usually takes longer to earn. Their easy laughter and genuine warmth made the night feel effortless, better company than I could have hoped for.
Afterwards, we drifted back upstairs for one more round, which of course turned into several.
Eventually, we ended up at a club. Don’t ask me where. It had music, it had lighting, multiple floors, and it had people trying their best on a very warm dance floor.
There was dancing. A lot of it.
Everyone loosened up. Some of us bonded more than others. By the end of the night, names were remembered, inside jokes were formed, and it felt like I’d somehow gone from guest to honorary crew member. Not bad for 24 hours in.
We got back late. Or early. Hard to say. Paris looked blurry and perfect on the way home.
Sunday: Disneyland, But Hungover
Nothing says “excellent decision-making” like a full-day Disneyland trip on minimal sleep. We went anyway.
The journey out was quiet. Energy levels: low. But once inside the park, things clicked back into gear. Our collective instinct was to beeline for the Star Wars rides and they did not disappoint. The queue was deceptively long but well worth the wait as the whole thing felt like being thrown into a galactic shootout in a blackout tunnel with air conditioning. Immersive. Loud. Strangely therapeutic.
We also went on Phantom Manor, which pretends to be a haunted house but is actually a slow descent into an underground ride. The floor didn’t drop, it just politely lowered us into mild unease. Great use of theme. Less great for hangovers, though the darkness was appreciated.
Lunch was at one of the many cafés. Some of the group ordered ham and cheese toasties. Reviews were unenthusiastic. I stuck with water. Possibly the most sensible decision I made all weekend.
Even through the haze of dehydration, it was a brilliant way to end the trip. A bunch of near-strangers from different places, somehow all converging in a theme park outside Paris. Everyone collectively bored of the intensity of the heat. Everyone mildly sentimental. Even the queue times couldn’t ruin it.
Train of the Gods
Getting from Disneyland to Charles de Gaulle should be a logistical nightmare. But instead, it was a 12-minute double-decker train, direct, smooth, cold, and wonderfully efficient.
Truly: the best train I’ve ever taken (relative to UK trains).
I arrived at the airport early, composed, and ready to get back home. Naturally, my flight was delayed, but thankfully only by 45 minutes. Gatwick, as expected, added its own twist: one bus, three trains, and 2.5 hours later than anticipated, I arrived back home just in time to catch my eight hours’ sleep.
Conclusion
This wasn’t a trip of checklists and tours. I didn’t go to the Louvre, didn’t buy macarons, I didn’t pretend to like wine I couldn’t afford along the Seine.
Instead, I wandered. I reconnected. I laughed with new people. I ate one glorious sandwich. I danced. I flew through hyperspace and then quietly glided through the French countryside on a double-decker train.
All of it, from the accidental booking to the café moment to the unexpected joy of theme park space travel, felt effortless in the way only unplanned trips can. Nothing was polished, but everything worked.
Would I do it again? Without question.
Would I do anything differently? Maybe pack electrolytes.
Would I recommend a Paris weekend booked on a whim, guided by nothing but good weather and better people? Yes. And if I’m honest, it crosses my mind more than it should.
Photo Dump
