Yesterday was a very difficult day and, honestly, a pretty strange one. We woke up, didn’t eat anything — I was already spiraling because I couldn’t find anything that resembled a healthy breakfast — and we decided to try the “old school” method: walking straight into hotel lobbies and asking in person if they had any rooms available. The idea came after Booking.ca and Expedia.ca showed absolutely nothing left in the city, except places miles away, and we couldn’t understand why.

We got our answer immediately: Roland Garros is happening right now, plus an almost‑final Champions League match between PSG (Paris Saint‑Germain) and Arsenal Football Club, and a bunch of concerts with artists completely unknown to me but apparently very well known to Anna — whom, out of sheer frustration, I didn’t even bother asking who the hell they were. Because of all this, everything was booked, streets were blocked, the metro was shutting down, and the police were on high alert.

So we thought we’d solve our accommodation problem and, at the same time, take the chance to see more of the city center. Simple, right? Except everything had to be done before 5 p.m., when Paris basically pulls down the shutters — closed streets, blocked metro, general chaos. We were completely disconnected from local reality, with no idea what was happening in the city or why we couldn’t find a single free room. Basically, we were those cute tourists who find out everything last.

After several failed attempts to find a solution for our accommodation mess, we somehow ended up in the 1st arrondissement, on a street lined with Chanel, Dior, Hermès, and similar brands. We gawked like professional tourists, spun around like tops from one window to another, and finally, gloriously, reached Galeries Lafayette.

Galeries Lafayette has a story that starts surprisingly small, almost shy. In 1893, two cousins from Alsace opened a tiny haberdashery on the corner of Rue La Fayette. Nothing spectacular — just a few shelves and a lot of ambition. But the area was buzzing, close to the Opéra, with people constantly flowing through — exactly the kind of place where a small idea can grow big.

And it did. Fast. So fast that within just a few years, their modest shop turned into a real phenomenon. And in 1912, they took the big leap: they opened what they called a “luxury bazaar.” And honestly, that luxury still lingers. The Art Nouveau dome, the stained glass, the balconies — everything seems designed to make you look up and forget the rest of the world for a few seconds.

Since then, Galeries Lafayette has become a sort of Parisian temple. You don’t come here just to shop — you come to soak in the atmosphere. To look up, to marvel, to whisper to yourself, “Wow, I’m really in Paris.” It’s the kind of place where the architecture steals your eyes long before the prices do.

So after spinning around like tops between Chanel, Dior, and Hermès, arriving here felt like a small reward. A moment to breathe in a day that had tested our patience. Paris has a way of showing you something beautiful exactly when you need it.

Since we were already thirsty and starving, we went up to the second‑to‑last floor (five in total), where the store has a terrace café — perfect for survivors of shopping marathons and urban wandering. We sat down, determined to eat something and catch our breath.

And honestly, it’s brilliant that they thought of this space. After so much walking, window‑gazing, and climbing up and down escalators, you inevitably end up hungry, tired, and running on empty. This terrace is exactly the kind of place where you feel yourself coming back together — a little corner of pause where you recharge before continuing the adventure.

A bit more revived, we decided to check Booking.com again, just in case. And surprisingly, we found something right next to the Eiffel Tower. We paid immediately — everything looked fine, except our wallet was noticeably lighter.

Two minutes later, though, we got a notification: they were sorry, but the apartment had water leaks and couldn’t be used. The same cursed problem as the place we’re staying in now! 🤬 They canceled the reservation on the spot.

Fine, we canceled too, but… the money? The money stayed blocked. Booking.com holds it for 7 to 12 days, during which we’re left without accommodation and with our budget floating in limbo. At that point, we were already boiling with frustration. 😤🤦🏻‍♀️

And seriously… what on earth is going on in this city with all these water leaks? It feels like an epidemic. Not just apartments — we saw the same thing in metro stations: water dripping from ceilings, walls full of damp patches, everything looking old and tired. At every turn, there’s another strategically placed puddle. Honestly, the Bucharest metro puts the Paris one to shame. It’s cleaner and, amazingly, nothing drips on your head while you wait. Here, you get the feeling the city has a complicated relationship with water — and we landed right in the middle of it.

After stressing out over our money being blocked again, I said I’d head back to our “ghetto,” especially after all the warnings that the football madness was about to start and the center would be completely shut down. Anna came with me, but right then George decided he absolutely had to visit the Paris Maritime Museum.

So the two of us headed back to the apartment, while he stayed behind to follow his sudden inspiration. He told us he’d return later, per pedes, like a true urban explorer ignoring all signs that the city was descending into chaos.

Anna and I made it back to the ghetto at the last second — literally. We caught the metro two minutes before it closed. We hadn’t even stepped inside the room when we started hearing shouting and screaming outside, a clear sign that the crowds were gathering and the city had officially switched to “match chaos mode.” We escaped by the skin of our teeth.

Here’s what things looked like downtown:
https://youtu.be/UVJwzMpM_Hg?is=ndvkT5qoeNw44N7m

And here’s what it looked like in our own backyard:

Last night, Anna and I were standing by the window when, right in the middle of the chaos, a taxi stopped. Out stepped a couple about our age, with suitcases, backpacks, the whole setup — people who had clearly just landed and arrived full of hope for a romantic, peaceful Paris with warm lights and charming streets. When we saw the look on their faces — wide‑eyed, frozen — we burst into tears laughing. 🤣 You could read it on them: “Dear God, where have we landed? Is this the second French Revolution?” Their shock was so genuine that, for a moment, we felt a little less alone in this madness.

It’s almost 4 a.m. local time, and there are still lunatics on the streets, police everywhere, sirens, shouting — the whole package. Paris doesn’t sleep, but it doesn’t let you sleep either.

George made it back safely around 9 p.m. He actually loves this kind of chaos — it energizes him. So instead of running from the crowds like we did, he stopped at a terrace to celebrate with the locals after PSG qualified for the Champions League final.

Here he is, happy, with a drink in front of him, completely in his element while the city boiled around him. For him, it was the perfect evening. For us… just another episode of “Survivor: Paris Edition.”

Tonight, though, we finally managed to book another apartment, and we’re moving tomorrow evening, after visiting Versailles. A small miracle after the madness of the past days. Another full day awaits us, but at least now we have a plan and a direction. Paris has chased us hard, but it hasn’t defeated us.