Welcome to One Night In, a series about staying in the most unparalleled places available to rest your head.

The trouble with visiting a new place is the pressure of what to pick—where to stay, which activities to book, what you want your trip to actually look like. Some of that goes away once you’ve been somewhere a few times, and in my opinion, Paris is one of the best places to revisit. Each time you go back there’s always a zillion things you haven’t done or seen, but it’s still a very easy city to traverse, which makes all of its offerings feel less overwhelming. I am by no means an expert—my French is so bad I had to keep a short list of words and phrases on my iPhone so I could remember to not respond in high school Spanish, which of course did not work—but as this was my fourth trip, I have some facility navigating it all. So for my most recent venture, I decided that instead of leaning into my favorite (literally) old haunts, which is so easy to do in any European city, I’d try to explore some of what Paris has to offer in the realm of more modern design.

Friday

Afternoon: I’ve been in France for a few days already for a sojourn you can read about here, so I transfer hotels, leaving my train station–adjacent accommodation and heading to Hotel Rosalie. I’d never stayed on the Left Bank before, and this newly taken over, renamed, and revitalized modernist spot in 13th arrondissement seemed like a good one to try. Hidden away on a side street right off the Place d’ Italie, the first thing that catches your eye when you enter the quiet courtyard is the spiral staircase winding its way to the top of the building, a striking image. I drop my bags off, getting a quick peek at the lobby, which features mirrored columns, low, rounded vintage furniture, and books devoted to Bauhaus on shelves along the back wall, and head off on my afternoon adventure. I’ve been toting around Baggu’s limited edition Crescent bag in reclaimed leather and am pleased to say that it’s perfect for a day travel bag (and even fits a MacBook Air, sans zipping).

I’ll be visiting Villa Savoye, the Le Corbousier–designed 1931 weekend home right outside the city. Located in the quiet town of Poissy, it’s one of the famed architect’s several projects that dot the Parisian landscape, and certainly one of his most famous. The structure has a long history, which includes its abandonment and fall into disrepair before the state took it over. While most day trips to towns outside Paris to visit any of the many castles, mansions, and other variations on a house are a delightful way to spend time once you’ve seen a good portion of what the city proper has to offer, besides the Villa, Poissy does not have a ton else of interest to tourists. (Don’t come for me residents.) Upon my arrival, I was amused to realize that it’s directly next to a high school (named after Le Corbousier), which meant the grounds surrounding the structure were filled with students lounging about doing homework, chatting, and making out.

Once inside, it’s a fascinating building to see up close, largely because some of its wear and tear is visible, which really sent home the reminder how old the structure is. Sometimes with modernist architecture, it can be easy to lose sight of how momentous the design was when it first hit the scene, since the style has been so widely influential. Winding my way up the ramps that traverse the building, and through the many open-plan rooms, I have to remind myself of the fact that when it was built, women in France still didn’t have the right to vote.

The trip to Villa Savoye is a bit of a schlep for anyone who isn’t a true modernism obsessive, and after the walk and train ride back to Paris proper, I stop at a pub in the Latin Quarter to catch a chunk of the French Open semifinals (or as they call it in France, Roland-Garros). The room is rowdy for Alcarez, and less enthused about Djokovic. After cooling off, I walk back to Hotel Rosalie to actually settle in.

Evening: Once in my courtyard-view room, I begin to appreciate the details of the interiors, which were designed by Marion Mailaender. Unless you’re staying somewhere that costs thousands a night, European hotel rooms are notoriously tiny, and this one is no exception; the queen-size bed, side tables, desk, suitcase rack, and even the closet doors have been carefully measured to exactly fit without an inch to spare. The windows and trim are painted a soothing color palette of deep blues and greens, which is echoed in the floral-patterned carpet by famed textile designer William Morris that cleverly stretches up over part of the wall (and is apparently made of recycled fishing nets). I take a look out of the arched, paneled windows, open to a breeze, and lie down on the classically comfortable bed until I’ve regained enough energy to check out the bathroom. The hotel claims to be focused on the environment, and though the washstand looks like terrazzo, it’s made of recycled plastic. As is the case with most places you’re apt to stay in an old city like Paris, aesthetics tend to lean toward the ornate, but the influences here are decidedly midcentury to modern. Color-blocked tile, round wall pegs, a pop of pale blue on the towel heater, and a leopard print robe brighten up the small space.

I decide I’m too zonked to go out for dinner, plus I want to see more of what the hotel has to offer, so I shower and head downstairs to the restaurant slash garden. This is the real oasis, and what would probably be missed if you stayed here in winter: a verdant space with fringed umbrellas and comfortable Ronan and Erwan Bouroullec patio furniture (some of which is even in the bedrooms too) that’s attached to a funky cafe. I order a two-person cheese plate for one, which I enjoy while reading my book and listening to the chattering of people speaking languages I can’t understand.

Once I’ve told the waiter that no, I don’t need more bread to finish off my plate but thank you so much, I take myself up to the hotel’s so-called “Secret Garden,” which is located on one level of the tiered roof. With more Bouroullec furniture, planters full of herbs and lavender, and vines of honeysuckle, as well as a vintage Peugeot 205 with a full rosebush growing out of it, it’s a well-named spot. The sun isn’t going to set here until 10 p.m., so I settle in with my book and zone out to the sounds of birds and the city, before heading downstairs to watch a little TV—I’m woefully behind on Bravo—and going to sleep.

Saturday

Morning: I let myself sleep in, grab a ham with pickles sandwich around the corner from the hotel, and then take myself to the Frank Gehry–designed Fondation Louis Vuitton, located in the Jardin d’Acclimatation, one of Paris’s museums and parks I haven’t been to. It’s a beautiful if hot day, and the park is buzzing. I’m not a massive Gehry head, or really particularly obsessed with the fixtures of the current show, which is devoted to Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat’s fruitful personal and professional relationship, but am curious enough to explore. It’s immediately fascinating to see the parallels between Warhol and Basquiat’s obsessions with capitalist culture, and how they themselves have been posthumously absorbed into that ecosystem (not to mention their own complicated estates), all enclosed in a building made from the fruits of the massive luxury conglomerate LVMH, run by a billionaire. The building turns out to be (in my opinion only of course!) one of Gehry’s better recent works, designed to look like a ship, with beautiful views of the city and an expansive set of galleries.

Afternoon: After a stop to get some dumplings, my next architecture exploration is the Pompidou, which is holding an exhibition devoted to British architect Norman Foster. The first room is filled to the brim with his sketches, sketchbooks, and photos, while the second room opens into an expanse of models and plans from the architect and his firm’s many, many projects. With a mix of realized and proposed, you get a good sense of how much has come to pass, and how much more could be. I was particularly struck by the line of skyscrapers set up against the window with a view of Sacre Coeur—a sharp contrast.

Nearby, I drop by homewares store Merci to pick up a pillowcase for a friend who burned a hole in hers saging her home on New Year’s Day (unfortunate true story). That same friend described the Merci tote as “the Parisian Strand tote,” and given that I saw one on the subway that same day on the shoulder of a girl carrying a new Kartell side table, I think she’s right. I debate buying a handmade leather bag for myself, but mostly just enjoy looking over the items I won’t be purchasing.

Evening: I take myself back to my hotel room, lay down some more, and then venture out for my last dinner of the trip, at a small restaurant in the Rue Mouffetard, which is full of cute bistros. It finally rained, and the city seemed to be relieved by it.

Sunday

Morning: My last day starts off with a must-have: a kind of onion pancake from the organic market Marché Raspail. While there, I witness a man who appeared to be selling newspapers and flowers begin to cut up melons, fill the insides with wine, and serve them to his fellow stand tenders. Extremely curious! (He was drinking a beer too, so maybe that explained it.) Not curious: how insanely good this galette, which was really more like an onion-heavy latke with (I think) cheese in it, tasted.

Afternoon: I walk over to Le Bon Marché, the iconic department store, of which there are so few these days, and wander through the floors of carefully curated items. One cross over the bridge in between buildings and you’re in the housewares section, with all the new and old stuff you’d love to buy but absolutely can’t afford. Instead, I treat myself to lunch and people watch for a bit before slowly walking back to the hotel to pick up my stuff and call a cab. On my way to the airport, we drive along the Seine, and I look at all I still haven’t seen in Paris. One thing in particular catches my eye—the whole trip, I’d been dying to swim in a pool, specifically one on the river, but couldn’t find one that was open. But there they were, people swimming laps right there! Next time.

Top photo courtesy Kate Dries.

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