How I Ended Up in Paris (Spoiler: Dior, Crab Salad, and Linda)

Quick Heads-Up Before You Dive In: This is not a curated travel guide, a ranking of “must-dos,” or a place for scathing reviews. This is just me—50-something, compression-sock-wearing, cheese-loving, and a recent cancer survivor—writing about the messy, joyful, occasionally chaotic magic of saying yes to more travel. If you're looking for a polished, professional blog with beautifully written destination pieces, may I kindly direct you to KAX’s main site. If you're into the personal side of it all—you’re in the right place.

It started, as most things do with my good friend Linda, with a phone call and a wildly on-brand idea. She said the Dior and Dolce & Gabbana exhibits in Paris were on her bucket list—and would I come with her?

Important context: I hate shopping and know almost nothing about fashion. But in the spirit of my current say-yes-to-everything era—and because I love Paris and I love Linda (and honestly, who am I to stand in the way of a bucket list?)—I said yes. And just like that, we were going to Paris.

Cut to the morning of the flight. Linda calls to ask if I want her to bring fresh crab for the plane. Crab. On an international flight. I said no. Politely, but firmly. Also, I said nobody else on the plane wants us to bring crab. She was completely serious. If you know Linda, this absolutely tracks.

Traveling with Linda is like starring in a surprise pilot for your own reality show. You don’t know where the day will take you, but there will be speed, laughter, and at least six new friends by lunch. By the time I got to the gate, she’d already befriended both pilots and somehow landed us in the cockpit of our international flight. Like, sitting in the seats. Buttons and all.

So yes, technically my Paris trip began behind the controls of a Boeing 777. Classic Linda.
Anyway. Paris happened. It was magic. Dior, yes. Museums, obviously. Crab salad on an airplane? Thankfully, no. But it all started with one little yes—and one firm no.

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Hôtel Barrière Fouquet’s: Paris Fantasy—Without the Fuss 

After a sleepy flight and a much-needed cappuccino, we landed at Hôtel Barrière Fouquet’s Paris—tucked right where the Champs-Élysées meets understated elegance. This is the kind of Parisian cliché I’m more than happy to indulge. Grand on the outside, warm and quietly opulent on the inside. The lobby hits just right: deep red carpet, gold mirrors, velvet everything, and a scent that somehow whispers “this is Paris” without being overly perfumed or try-hard.

There’s a certain confidence in the space. It doesn’t beg for attention—it just knows it deserves it.

At KAX, we’re always looking for those small, unexpected moments that make a trip feel personal. That feeling that someone is paying attention, even when you’re not. Case in point: Linda and I returned from dinner one night and opened a small box of macarons we’d picked up. We each said we’d have one. Ten minutes later, the box was empty. The next day? A full platter of macarons appeared in our room—no note, no fanfare. Just someone at the hotel noticing. That’s the kind of detail that turns a stay into something you remember.

Let’s talk spa. Because wow. The Diane Barrière Spa is newly renovated and feels like the kind of place where time slows down. It’s intimate, deeply restorative, and designed for people who don’t want to be seen—just cared for. The pool? Quiet, serene, not overrun. 
Their new ice room—yes, a full room filled with freshly made snow—and the sauna setup make this a dream for anyone into contrast therapy. I joked (but honestly meant it) that Peter Attia and Andrew Huberman would be obsessed with the deliberate hot-cold exposure happening here. It’s like a wellness retreat, but prettier—and with better robes.

And the staff—every single one of them comes from a place of “oui,” never a hard no, even when you’re asking for something a little off-script. You feel taken care of, without it feeling overly formal.

Now, you know me—I love a hotel bar. Not just for the cocktails, but for the stories and the people-watching. My husband, Jordan, and I always make it a point to sit at the bar when we travel. Le Marta Paris is a standout: floor-to-ceiling pink velvet (truly, everywhere), moody lighting, and a DJ playlist that lives somewhere between jazz lounge and Paris Fashion Week afterparty. It’s peaceful during the day and just buzzy enough at night.

A few nights in, we made our way to Bar Le Joy on the rooftop. When the weather’s good, it opens up to gorgeous views of the city. A little more laid-back than Marta but still dressed up in that effortless “I just threw this on” French kind of way. It’s the kind of place that makes a 6:30 PM glass of wine feel like an actual event.

Who This Hotel Is Good For:

• Couples looking for classic romance, especially first-timers in Paris
• Travelers who appreciate a traditional, high-touch hotel experience with modern refinements
• Guests who want to be in the thick of it (steps from Avenue Montaigne, Arc de Triomphe, and top shopping)
• Design lovers who appreciate Belle Époque details blended with contemporary art
• Spa-goers: the Diane Barrière Spa is intimate, luxe, and now includes a pool, sauna, and an ice room for those brave enough
• Anyone who values the “always yes” energy—from the front desk to housekeeping

The Dior and Dolce & Gabbana Exhibits: Heather Pretends She Knows Fashion

Even if fashion isn’t your thing, the Christian Dior and Dolce & Gabbana exhibits in Paris are worth seeing for what they say about history, culture, and identity. These aren’t just collections of beautiful clothes—they’re curated stories about Europe’s postwar recovery, shifting social roles, and the enduring power of visual language.

The Dior exhibit, for example, is of course high fashion, but it’s also Paris rebuilding itself after World War II. Dior’s 1947 debut didn’t just bring back elegance—it redefined it. His work reflects a country trying to reclaim beauty, pride, and optimism after years of rationing and devastation. The exhibit also tracks how Dior’s house evolved through different creative directors, each reflecting their moment in time—from Galliano’s theatrical drama to Maria Grazia Chiuri’s more feminist, modern approach.

Dolce & Gabbana, on the other hand, is about deep regional identity. Their work tells a very specific story of southern Italy: its traditions, religion, family structures, and cinematic history. The exhibit highlights how they’ve built a global brand without diluting any of that. Instead, they lean into the richness of their heritage—using fashion to archive and elevate culture.

You don’t need to know anything about the runway to appreciate how both of these houses capture something bigger. They document the emotions, politics, and rituals of their time and place—with the same care a museum might give to sculpture or photography. These shows are about style, yes—but also about storytelling.

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Lunch at Le Tout-Paris: Come for the Altitude, Stay for the Attitude

On our first day, after a few hours of delightful, unscripted meandering—with no destination, no agenda, and no Google Maps yelling at us—we ended up at Le Tout-Paris, the rooftop restaurant at Hôtel Cheval Blanc, perched above the Seine like it owns the view (which it kind of does).

There’s something about walking aimlessly through a city that lets you actually feel it—not just see it. The rhythm of the streets, the way the light hits a building, the little corner cafés that don’t show up on any “best of” list. Sometimes wandering is the most efficient way to get to know a place.

Le Tout-Paris is the kind of spot that feels like the set of a particularly chic French film—brass fixtures, creamy tones, a glassy sunroom filled with natural light, and that breeze that somehow smells like fresh croissants and old money. The terrace, which is supposedly reserved for hotel guests only, is dotted with well-heeled Parisians doing what they do best: looking impossibly effortless while drinking champagne.

The lunch? Unapologetically perfect. Our favorite was the smoked salmon, which was sliced with the kind of precision usually reserved for fine watchmaking, served alongside warm, pillowy blinis and a very confident amount of crème fraîche.

The Verdict: Le Tout-Paris is a must, especially if you enjoy your lunches with altitude, attitude, and a side of caviar. Just don’t forget your sunglasses—and try not to look too surprised when the bill comes (like I did!). As they say, this is Paris, darling.

Lunch at L’Avenue: Come for the Vibe, Stay for the Crab Salad

L’Avenue is one of those places in Paris where you walk in and immediately feel like you’re interrupting a photo shoot you weren’t invited to—but in the best way. The crowd is half fashion, half mystery, and somehow everyone looks like they know each other. It’s a scene, but it doesn’t try too hard. Which is probably why it works.

Now let me be clear—anyone who actually knows me knows I am not a “let’s sit and linger for two hours over lunch” person. But Paris does something to you. Even I can admit there’s something about a lazy, glam French lunch that just hits different. I had to shift from my default American lunch speed—a salad in under twenty—to full-on European mode. I had to tell myself to stop checking the time and just let it happen.

The food was honestly perfect. Linda went straight for the oysters, which were so cold and briny they basically tasted like vacation. I had a crab salad that was light but somehow still really satisfying—the kind of balance you only get when someone actually knows what they’re doing. Also, the baby lettuce…

The Verdict: L’Avenue is one of those places that makes lunch feel like an occasion. It’s buzzy, it’s polished, and it somehow pulls off being both relaxed and dressed-up at the same time. Just a heads up though—don’t save it for dinner. We drove by later that night and it was crickets. Definitely one of those “see and be seen… before 4 PM” kind of spots.

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Dinner at Lapérouse: Come for the History, Stay for the Sauce

There are dinners in Paris—and then there are Paris dinners. The kind you’ll bring up in conversation for the rest of your life. That was our night at Lapérouse.

Tucked along the Left Bank in a grand 18th-century townhouse, Lapérouse is one of those institutions that manages to be both historic and wildly seductive at the same time. It opened in 1766, originally as a merchant’s wine shop, before becoming one of Paris’s first Michelin-starred restaurants (which it no longer holds, but is delicious nonetheless!). Over the years, it’s hosted writers, royals, politicians, and probably a few couples sneaking upstairs to one of the private salons. (You can still dine in those rooms. They’re dripping in velvet, gilded mirrors, and old stories.)

The vibe? Pure French drama—in the best way. Dim lighting, hushed corners, hushed gossip. You get the sense everyone is celebrating something, even if it’s just Tuesday.

And now to the food. I won’t exaggerate (I will), but this may have been the best meal of our entire trip. The bread arrived warm, crusty in all the right places, and a butter so good I wanted to slip it into my purse. We ordered a salad to share—not expecting a salad to rock our world—and we both just sat there in silence after the first bite. Something about the simplicity, the dressing, the crunch. It was almost rude how good it was.

Then came the scallops. Perfectly caramelized, sitting in a sauce that should probably be bottled and sold with a warning label. Each bite was delicate and rich, and somehow still light. I don’t say this lightly: they may have ruined all future scallops for us.

The Verdict: Lapérouse is that kind of place—where time slows down. If you go, dress up. Lean into it. And maybe don’t eat lunch that day.

Dinner at La Mondaine: Come for Fries, Stay for the Dance Party

I was specifically told not to pull a classic Heather and ask for an early dinner rez here (or honestly, anywhere in Paris). So we went full local and booked for 9 PM. I showed up feeling proud, smug even—very “we’re doing it right.” And yet... we were still among the first to arrive.

La Mondaine isn’t just dinner. It’s dinner and. A show, a party, a bit of performance art—all wrapped in velvet and low lighting. You don’t come here to eat and leave. You come here to let the night unfold.

The food? Genuinely great. Classic French, but fun. No ego. And the fries—let me say this clearly—were some of the best I’ve ever had. Hot, golden, perfectly salted, and somehow... chic? I still don’t understand how a potato can feel expensive, but here we are.

Then the curtain opened. Literally.

A plush velvet curtain peeled back and a singer stepped out, voice so strong and beautiful it sliced through the entire room. People actually stopped chewing. The performances weren’t just happening in the restaurant—they moved through it. Sometimes on the stairs between the upper and lower dining rooms, sometimes weaving right between the tables. By the third number, people were dancing. Full-out. Mid-dinner. No hesitation, no shame. It was a full-body “yes” from the entire room.

The crowd was a perfect mix: locals who knew what was up, tourists who couldn’t believe their luck, and a few characters who seemed like they might live upstairs. Everyone was different, but somehow on the exact same wavelength. It felt like Paris had let its hair down—and invited you in on the moment.

We left around 1:30 AM. Not because it was over (it wasn’t), but because we were blissfully full, slightly dazed, and riding that rare mix of total exhaustion and pure adrenaline. A night we hadn’t planned, and definitely couldn’t have scripted.

The Verdict: La Mondaine is not just dinner—it’s a full sensory event. Equal parts supper club, cabaret, and fever dream (in a good way). Go if you want to eat well and be wildly entertained without lifting a finger. Just make sure it’s a Friday or Saturday, book late, and wear something that says “I might end up dancing on a table.” Because you might.

Fun Fact: Foam and Other Mysteries – A Jet-Lagged Deep Dive

Some people get jet lag. I get internet rabbit holes. So there I was, 3:47 AM, lying in bed in Paris, wide awake, and deep-Googling: Why is cappuccino foam in France so much better than in the U.S.?

Because it is. Dramatically so.

It’s silkier, thicker, somehow both light and dense? It sits on top of the cappuccino like it owns the place. It doesn’t collapse. It doesn’t bubble weirdly. It doesn’t feel like a sad latte in a different outfit. It feels like an event.

So here’s what I learned in my jet-lagged, slightly crazed, foam-focused research session:

• It’s the milk. French cafés almost always use whole milk with a higher fat content than what’s standard in the U.S. (Most of us are still living in oat or 2% territory.) The fat gives the foam that velvety texture and helps it hold.
• It’s the machines. Many Parisian cafés are still using old-school espresso machines with manual steam wands—which allow for more control and finer foam. No offense to your Nespresso at home, but… it’s not the same.
• It’s the baristas. They’re trained differently. In France (and Italy, for that matter), milk steaming is treated like a craft, not just a step. They know how to get the temperature and texture just right without scorching it.
• It’s the portion. French cappuccinos are often smaller. The ratios are tighter. You get this perfect little layer of foam instead of a soup bowl of hot milk with a whisper of espresso.
• It’s the culture. No one’s rushing. It’s not a to-go situation. Foam is meant to be lingered with. Which—when you’re not wildly caffeinated and Googling at 4 AM—is kind of the whole point.

So no, it’s not your imagination. French foam really is better. And yes, I have now read three barista forums, watched two milk science videos, and strongly considered bringing a travel frother in my carry-on next time.

Bon appé-foam.