I did it again. But this time, I was officially allowed to, as I was divorced, and having an affair was permitted, especially in Paris. So, on a gloomy February day, I got on a train from Lyon to Paris. A few hours, two coffees, one cinnamon roll, and 5 km later, I was about to fall into the warmth of the one who never disappoints.

I walked, feeling butterflies in my stomach as I approached. I entered, and after a few minutes—and a child’s-level French conversation later (on my side, bien sûr)—I opened the door, and there it was. My room. 105. The jazz radio was playing a duet by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, and the half-open window revealed a glimpse of those grand buildings on the other side of the street. For a moment, I regretted having made dinner plans an hour and a half later, as I would have loved to stay in the room, reading and listening to the jazz radio.

Returning late at night, it took me one hot shower and a good ten minutes of face procedures before I fell into the bed, hiding my body beneath all those pillows. The radio was still on, as Diana Krall sang, followed by Melody Gardot. I debated with myself whether to open the chocolates left on my pillow, and in the end, I did, since we didn’t have dessert at the restaurant. It was midnight, but I didn’t care. I was in love again, and I could experience this love affair like no other time.

Sometime in the middle of dreaming that I had my own champagne house, I opened my eyes. It was 7.30 a.m. After a glass of my warm water, I switched on the coffee machine and made black coffee, still half-naked, watching it slowly drip into that beautiful ceramic mug. I got back into bed, opening the window a bit more so I could see the dark sky change to morning blue, and stayed there. I had no plans. I would get up later and slowly enjoy the breakfast that had stolen my heart previously, but for a moment I stayed right there. In the bed. Still sipping my coffee, I daydreamed about that espresso I would take at my breakfast, piece by piece, eating nuts from granola while waiting for the coffee to arrive. I think that morning and the next one were my longest breakfasts in years, as I just sat there, taking notes of places I would visit during the day, while sipping coffee and generously buttering my slice of sourdough bread, eating it with cheese on the side. People came and left, but I was still there, enjoying every moment, every bite, every sip.

I left for a day’s walk around the city, occasionally dreaming of how I would return to my room, sit on the floor with my back relaxed against the bed, and look outside the window while drinking verbena tea. I did just that in a pause between my walk and dinner, feeling like I was somewhere outside the city. The serenity of the place, the jazz radio, the dimmed lights made it all feel so unreal that I began to wonder if I was really in Paris. A few hours later, after a chat with the host at the restaurant (whom I had bonded with over a shared, desperate desire for honey the night before), I stood in the shower, letting the water wash down my 20 km walk. I was still eating the chocolate left on my pillow that day, and then I fell asleep.

I opened my eyes to Paris, still dark and gloomy, as it is in February. And it was again 7:30 a.m. I got back into bed, a coffee cup in one hand and Duolingo in the other, and tried to study, though I dreamt of the things that could have been but didn’t happen. At the breakfast hall, I was once again the longest-staying guest, enjoying coffee, granola, and the biggest sunny-side-up egg I had ever had. Packed, an hour later, I left my room, but I wasn’t sad, as I knew that eight hours later, I would be back—just before catching the train. And I did. I even managed to get a cup of chamomile tea just in time, as it started to rain an hour earlier. I left the Hotel Grands Boulevards. This love affair came to an end, but just for now, as I knew I would be back.