Myles Away: Paris, The Third Act
By the time I reached Cannes, the pace had shifted. Gone was the stillness of Avignon - in its place, a city electric with anticipation. The Croisette shimmered like a runway, each passerby part of a living tableau. Cameras flashed, linen danced in the breeze, and every glance hid behind a pair of oversized sunglasses.
Impeccable suite at Hotel Pilgrim
My return to Paris was marked, once again, by a shift in temp - no longer hushed like Avignon or buzzing like Cannes, but a surreal glow: electric, yet soft. The city was warm with late spring light, and I arrived on the TGV from the Côte d’Azur with just enough left in the tank to make a night of it.
The base for this leg: Hotel Pilgrim, a quiet marvel in the 5th arrondissement. With its minimalist design, brushed metal accents, and hints of Brutalist charm, it was a perfect coda to the week. The rooms were compact but exquisitely appointed - a reminder that good design needs no excess. The location was ideal, the breakfast rich and satisfying, and the staff disarmingly kind. It didn’t scream luxury. It whispered it.
A stroll along the Seine
That evening, I walked along the Seine. The cityscape played like a private soundtrack - just the river, the light, and my thoughts. I had escargot and a chilled Sancerre on a quiet terrace before falling under the spell of Crazy Horse, where my world turned crimson and gold. The show was a fever dream of feminine power and precision, somewhere between hallucination and haute couture. Paris as performance, distilled.
The next morning unfolded with a more personal rhythm. I followed an itinerary from my cinematographer - a Parisian in spirit, if not by birth. He had mapped out a day not of monuments, but of moods. First stop: the Jardin du Luxembourg, where sunlight dappled green chairs and children pushed sailboats across the fountain. Then, pastries and café crème at a corner patisserie, the kind where the glass case gleams like a jewelry box.
At the Musée d’Orsay, I drifted from sculpture to canvas to Art Nouveau armoires, discovering artists I’d never heard of but somehow already loved. There is something deeply intimate about falling for a piece of furniture. You don’t look at it. You live with it.
Laterover Hugo spritzes with a designer friend from Dubai - fresh off a project on the Champs-Élysées - we spoke of antiques and contemporary style, the tension between story and sleekness, and the way Paris does both without apology. From there: a walk through the Louvre, past winged gods and forgotten kings, and then on to Belle Époque, where an industry producer (with one foot in art and the other in AI) shared wine, steak frites, and dreams of cinema's future. We ended the night at Bar Hemingway, Oscar Wilde’s old haunt — the ice cold martinis barely outshone by the ghosts in the room.
On my final day, I wandered without agenda. No checklist. No rush. Just instinct. At Souleiado, I picked up a pair of swim trunks — the only souvenir I needed to prepare for summer in Los Angeles. Objects with soul. One last plate of escargot, and then it was time.
Norse Airways Business Class was, in a word, impeccable. Cool linen pillows, quiet luxury, and the kind of service that feels like friendship. I sat beside another filmmaker — we spoke in half-finished sentences and full-hearted ideas. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I opened my notebook and began a new screenplay. Not about Paris. But because of it.
This was a finale. This was a beginning. This was Paris. GR8T
Images courtesy of Myles Yaksich
