Paris: Hotel Matignon (Tuesday 24/10/2017).
I do like nice things but I recognise that I can be a bit parsimonious.
Quite rightly, this is usually enough to disqualify me from making the important decisions that ensure the smooth running of Family Carter.
Clare has her roadmap to happiness and while I may meander the B roads casually searching for it, she always opts for the direct route where deviation is a dirty word.
The result is that we are always well housed and amply fed when we go abroad; were it left to me, the children would go hungry and we would all sleep under a park bench.
But Clare's single mindedness can have unexpected consequences.
Our recent trip to Paris was a good example.
The apartment she booked was on the narrow Rue de Varenne in the 7th arrondissement. It was on the 1st floor of a typically Parisian building; constructed in ubiquitous creamy limestone, the ground floor given over to a café adorned with the statutory awning and the perpetual gaggle of well heeled smokers.
The ornate entrance led to a sumptuously tiled interior and up a winding Haussmann staircase, which followed the path of a beautiful, sweeping helix around an iron filigree handrail straight from the belle epoch.
Beyond the slightly battered front door lay an attractively austere apartment with white walls and engineered oak flooring, punctuated by splendid but eclectic décor. The room width sliding doors framed enormous religious paintings clearly on permanent loan from a church. The fireplace boasted a marble frieze that should be in a museum. The chest high African tribal mask gazed menacingly in the darkness of the night while we all agreed that the mounted horseman in the corner seemed to be watching us.
And all this for €500 to sleep 6 for three nights.
The windows opened onto the Hotel Matignon, which as it transpires, is the official residence of the French Prime Minister. This explained the increasingly dense forest of machine guns that greeted us as we approached.
Through out the evening, the security presence increased. By 7pm, every street was patrolled and as we craned our necks out of the window, the crackle of police radios filled the air and blue strobe lights reflected off the limestone.
Expecting to be turned away, I walked across the road to the main gate in search of some background. 'The Prime Minister is working late' was all the beret gave me but surprisingly I was left to my own devices and so I loitered.
A troupe of feather hatted, sword wielding soldiers appeared and milled around for a while. Someone in a suit rolled out a red carpet on the steps and gave it a thorough vacuum. Several men in short raincoats, appeared next to me with ear pieces and bulging armpits, apparently undecided as to whether I should stay. I shuffled uncomfortably but again, no-one moved me on.
Then there was silence followed by a stream of advance outriders who closed the side roads one by one to smooth the way of an approaching motorcade.
The prime minister appeared from the door and descended the steps. President Abdel Fatteh el-sisi swept through the gates followed by President Macron. The honour guard saluted, the cameras flashed and a bullet proof glass screen slid across the entrance behind them.
From a security perspective, Rue de Varenne must be a nightmare for the Republican Guard to receive dignitaries down. It is a narrow road with little room to manoeuvre and would be easily blocked; Liam Neeson has made a successful career out of reversing at speed down roads like this in budget European rental cars while bullets play havoc with his upholstery.
Apparently, when booking, Clare had to send the money to an account in Turkey so I am a little surprised that we didn't receive a visit from one of the Prime Minister's rain-coats to make sure we were behaving.
Perhaps GCHQ already had it all in hand and the horseman really was watching us all along.
Quite rightly, this is usually enough to disqualify me from making the important decisions that ensure the smooth running of Family Carter.
Clare has her roadmap to happiness and while I may meander the B roads casually searching for it, she always opts for the direct route where deviation is a dirty word.
The result is that we are always well housed and amply fed when we go abroad; were it left to me, the children would go hungry and we would all sleep under a park bench.
But Clare's single mindedness can have unexpected consequences.
Our recent trip to Paris was a good example.
The apartment she booked was on the narrow Rue de Varenne in the 7th arrondissement. It was on the 1st floor of a typically Parisian building; constructed in ubiquitous creamy limestone, the ground floor given over to a café adorned with the statutory awning and the perpetual gaggle of well heeled smokers.
 |
| 7th arrondissement. |
 |
| Our Apartment and a Café (shut). |
The ornate entrance led to a sumptuously tiled interior and up a winding Haussmann staircase, which followed the path of a beautiful, sweeping helix around an iron filigree handrail straight from the belle epoch.
Beyond the slightly battered front door lay an attractively austere apartment with white walls and engineered oak flooring, punctuated by splendid but eclectic décor. The room width sliding doors framed enormous religious paintings clearly on permanent loan from a church. The fireplace boasted a marble frieze that should be in a museum. The chest high African tribal mask gazed menacingly in the darkness of the night while we all agreed that the mounted horseman in the corner seemed to be watching us.
And all this for €500 to sleep 6 for three nights.
The windows opened onto the Hotel Matignon, which as it transpires, is the official residence of the French Prime Minister. This explained the increasingly dense forest of machine guns that greeted us as we approached.
 |
| Hotel Matignon. |
Through out the evening, the security presence increased. By 7pm, every street was patrolled and as we craned our necks out of the window, the crackle of police radios filled the air and blue strobe lights reflected off the limestone.
Expecting to be turned away, I walked across the road to the main gate in search of some background. 'The Prime Minister is working late' was all the beret gave me but surprisingly I was left to my own devices and so I loitered.
 |
The Ceremonial Guard.
 |
Then there was silence followed by a stream of advance outriders who closed the side roads one by one to smooth the way of an approaching motorcade.
 |
| Prime Minister Eduarde Phillipe. |
The prime minister appeared from the door and descended the steps. President Abdel Fatteh el-sisi swept through the gates followed by President Macron. The honour guard saluted, the cameras flashed and a bullet proof glass screen slid across the entrance behind them.
 |
| Macron meets Abdel Fatteh el-sisi. |
From a security perspective, Rue de Varenne must be a nightmare for the Republican Guard to receive dignitaries down. It is a narrow road with little room to manoeuvre and would be easily blocked; Liam Neeson has made a successful career out of reversing at speed down roads like this in budget European rental cars while bullets play havoc with his upholstery.
Apparently, when booking, Clare had to send the money to an account in Turkey so I am a little surprised that we didn't receive a visit from one of the Prime Minister's rain-coats to make sure we were behaving.
Perhaps GCHQ already had it all in hand and the horseman really was watching us all along.
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