Warsaw – a chilled out city

Cream of asparagus soup in Kaiser, Warsaw

I woke later than usual, purely because I didn't have to get up early. A late breakfast followed (cereal, yoghurt, tea, fresh fruit) and then I checked out, leaving my luggage with the concierge. The woman on the front desk gave me an umbrella because it was raining a little bit outside. I took it and strolled out of the hotel towards the old town, past Buddha, an Indian restaurant that I've enjoyed twice in the space of three days.

The journey took no more than 20 minutes and I popped my head around a few shop doors en route, checking out an antiques shop that sold military coats and gas masks and typewritters from a bygone age. I looked at a few clothes shops for women. My route took me back up the main street in search of a decent restaurant for lunch. I had time to kill before catching my flight to London Heathrow so I figured I might as well chill out.

It's funny how wherever I go around the world everything is so samey, especially in Europe, but everywhere really. Budapest or Bucharest or Berlin or Warsaw or Amsterdam or Dusseldorf, it doesn't matter where I am in the world, there's a sameyness about it all; cities follow an established format, like countries do, so there's a bike share scheme (check); there are restaurants with umbrellas outside (check); there's an obligatory church or two (check), a main square of some description (check), a monument of some sort (check), global brands like Starbucks and Costa (check on both counts) you know what I'm saying. In fact, where the latter brands were concerned there was an abundance of Costa Coffee outlets, most of them known as Green Costa Coffee. Once I remember flying for something like 10 hours to Calgary in North Western Canada and when I got there I found a Claires Accessories. It was a very depressing moment.

Grilled chicken with vegetables at Kaiser

I'm very choosy when it comes to restaurants, but I eventually stumbled upon Kaiser at Chmielna 24, a pleasant-looking restaurant with outdoor seating and a chilled vibe generated by laid back jazz music. Despite the rain earlier on, the sun had broken through the clouds as I took a seat, having noticed something about an asparagus festival. 

Kaiser is a pleasant restaurant, not too far from the Sheraton where I have been staying since Tuesday. All is good. I've just enjoyed cream of asparagus soup and a glass of Rioja. In fact, I've just ordered another one while I await my main course of chicken with vegetables – including asparagus.

Rather annoyingly a huge dust cart is disturbing the peace. I'd been enjoying the laid back music and generally chilling, but now the music is being drowned out by a Scania P270 and it would be nice if it just drove away and left Kaiser in the chilled out state it's been used to over the past 30 minutes. But no, life isn't that simple.

The waiter just offered me a cushion to sit on and I declined his offer; you see, I'm sitting outside on a wicker chair, but it's fine. Now the dumpster has gone and my food has arrived. Life doesn't get much better than this.

The food was top notch too: perfectly grilled chicken breast with boiled potatoes, carrots and asparagus, nicely arranged on the plate. I've just ordered apple pie with vanilla ice cream and a cinnamon coffee, although it was tempting to order another glass of wine.

The sun is out, at last, and I've just weakened and ordered another glass of wine. I mean, why not? It's a beautiful day, there's a laid back jazz playing, I've had a couple of good days and I've got time to kill before my flight home. The coffee is great and the apple pie is on the way.

This is truly wonderful. Warsaw is a laid back place and it's, hold on a second, the apple pie has now arrived and, like the main course, it is well-presented. There is an ample slice of pie surrounded by fresh strawberries, raspberries and blackberries alongside a small dish of vanilla custard and a serving of vanilla ice cream, not forgetting strawberry coulis. It's all too much for yours truly but I'm loving every minute of it.

Apple pie with vanilla ice cream at Kaiser

In fact, if you ever find yourself in Warsaw, visit Kaiser and stay in the Sheraton Hotel too. You never know, you might bump into Damon Albarn of Gorillaz and Blur fame. Alright, I didn't bump into him, but I did see him across the street in a Polish restaurant, sitting outside with some of his band mates. Both Blur and Gorillaz are amazing and if you've not listened to anything by Gorillaz then you're missing out.

My day got even better. After lunch I strolled back to the hotel to retrieve my suitcase and then I considered taking the train to the airport. The receptionist told me it took around half an hour and the train station was about a 10-minute walk away. There were trains, she said, at ten to the hour and twenty past, but in the end I figured it would be best to simply jump in a taxi, which I did, and on the way there I listened to Howard Jones on the radio, "I won't let the sun go down on me..." and found myself getting confused with Nik Kershaw's excellent "Wouldn't it be Nice". I'm not sure of the exact title, but it's a great track and, as I queued for the security and all the hassle of taking my laptop out of my bag, I tried to sing the song to myself, initially gettting it mixed up with the aforementioned Howard Jones track, but eventually getting there.

I wandered aimlessly around the airport killing time before the flight. I can't recall how many circuits I made of the terminal building, but it was a fair few. Having eaten a large meal I couldn't be bothered with sitting in a Costa with a Millionaire's Shortbread and a mug of tea so I just strolled about, getting increasingly bored. But my boredom turned to elation when I boarded the 1815hrs BA flight to Heathrow and discovered a virtually empty plane. I had a window seat in an Exit row and nobody in my row, so I ordered a sandwich, two of those little bottles of red wine, a paper cup full of English breakfast tea and a bottle of mineral water, all for around £13.

The flight was smooth and bathed in sunshine all the way over, and I found I was even more chilled out than when I was sitting in Kaiser eating chicken and drinking Rioja.

By the way, check out Gorillaz' Stylo by clicking here.

In Paris, pretending to be in the secret service...

Room 507 – too many pillows again...

The last time I was here in the French capital was January 2013 and now I'm back after a relatively smooth journey on the Eurostar from London. I was on the 1531hrs from St Pancras International, sitting in seat 51 and reading Paul Auster's New York Trilogy. I can't pass judgement on the book yet as I've only just started it, but it's a promising yarn, I can tell you that much.

At this stage in the proceedings I think it only right to warn you: I am a complete and utter cock. Whenever I travel, while I like to think that I'm some kind of government agent on a special mission, a man who can tell the time just by looking at the sun, even when it's cloudy, a man raised by wolves who sleeps with his eyes open and is more important to global security than Jason Bourne and James Bond rolled into one, the reality is something completely different.

With my casual air, I breezed off the Eurostar at the Gare du Nord in full spy mode: head down, but aware of those around me, ready, should it be necessary, to engage a lone wolf Jihadi in mortal combat. I am, of course, a black belt in origami. I can make a paper dog with one hand tied behind my back and blindfolded.

I loitered for a while on the station concourse, wondering whether to take a taxi to the hotel or jump on the metro. The latter was my preferred option as it meant I could carry on the spy fantasy, pretend I was being followed by somebody from the Romanian secret police and barge my way through from carriage to carriage, pushing innocent passengers out of the way in my attempt to escape until my only option is to run into the tunnel itself where, no doubt, I'll a meet a down-and-out who turns out to be from the CIA and knows a safe house.

I put my suitcase on the counter of an information booth, unzipped it and took out my travel documents. I needed to check on the address of the hotel, give them a call and see if it was possible to catch the metro. This I did and in the process I discovered that it was possible. I put my travel documents in my lightweight briefcase, pulled my suitcase off the counter... and, because I hadn't zipped it up after opening it, I deposited the entire contents (shirt, trousers, lap top, camera, various leads, underwear, socks, the lot) on the floor. It made such a din and turned the heads of those who previously must have been thinking 'wow, this guy must be with the secret service, I bet he can tell the time just by looking at the sun'. But oh no. This guy is, quite simply, a complete and utter cock, somebody not to be trusted with sparklers, let alone small arms and plastic explosives.

A hotel room with a hallway...not bad, eh?

As a loud cheer went up and was followed by some applause, I stood there, utterly humiliated, wondering what to do. There was only one option. With an awkward smile I bowed to my audience and then self-consciously set about gathering my belongings together, stuffing them back in the case and making a hasty escape. How embarrassing.

Once on the metro, my neck still feeling red and tingly with humiliation, I decided just to stand there and not even bother about the Romanian secret police. I changed from line four to line seven, jumped out a couple of stops later and then trundled my way up the road, dragging my troublesome suitcase behind me as if it were an unruly toddler on the first day of school term.

After about five or 10 minutes I reached my hotel and tried every locked door before I found the ostentatious main entrance where I was greeted by a cheery porter who carried my suitcase to the reception area. I went through the usual procedure of checking in and was eventually given a key card and told to make my way to the fifth floor and room 507. The porter carried my suitcase, but having only small change in my pocket, I didn't furnish him with a tip. He didn't seem too bothered and besides, tips aren't claimable on expenses. Perhaps I should have told him that.

These days when I check into a hotel I'm always thinking about those pesky jihadists. What if they turn up later on, all guns blazing? How the hell would I escape? Well, in the case of room 507, with great difficulty. While it is possible to open the window, I'd have to be anorexic to get through the thin gap as the window refuses to open more than about five inches. Outside there is a ledge, which I could easily walk along, even though it's five floors up from street level, but the whole thing is academic, unless I smashed the window and if I did that then the jihadist could follow me. What's the good of that?

It's 2030hrs and I need some dinner. There's a restaurant downstairs and I've been given a piece of card that entitles me to a 20% discounted meal. Well it beats pounding the streets looking for somewhere decent, but ending up in a restaurant with a silly name, like Hippopotamus (I've done that before).

Tonight, Josefin, definitely...

I've just eaten in the best hotel restaurant ever; well, the best since the Hyatt Regency in Irvine, California back in 2013. First, the service – faultless. Then the food – amazing. Things can't get better than this, surely?

Banke is a boutique hotel. It has to be because it's full of quirky this and quirky that, slightly loud furniture and fittings and a hip vibe that I rather like. The smell of burning incense followed me wherever I went. Well, not in the public areas, but in the corridors, in the lifts, it was there and it was kind of pleasant. The corridors were a bit dark, but that was all part of the X-Files chic of the place – the room numbers were somehow projected on to the walls by the side of the doors. Fantastic.

Qua, qua, qua, qua quirky – facing the strange

I moseyed on down to Josefin, the hotel restaurant on the ground floor opposite a noisy bar and part of a rather splendid – and slightly over-the-top – galleried area that embraced the front desk and the elevators. But wow! What a restaurant. And what amazing service too – thanks to the waitress who was called Alice. The menu was fantastic too. Starters – branded here as 'foreplay' and followed by the 'flavours of the sea'. Well, hasn't that always been the case?

I opted for cooked ham with peppers and followed by roasted cod and an amazing Tahon Rioja and then I made the mistake of ordering dessert (a long French name, but it involved a pear and sorbet and some kind of bakery item with cream). The mistake was the accompanying cocktail, but I still managed to finish it and then I thought I ought to take some air. It was getting late, but I decided to walk further along the street, all the way to a shop that sold electric bikes – it was closed. An electric bike is the equivalent of an electric rowing machine – why bother if you're not getting any exercise?

Another humiliating experience...
It was gone 2230hrs, but there were a few people about so I walked along the Rue La Fayette for roughly 30 minutes (15 minutes each way) and then retraced my steps to the hotel in the spitting rain. And then, once more, I made a complete fool of myself. This time it was back at the hotel. The aforementioned galleried and ornate reception area is also very dark and when an employee of the hotel, wearing a silly hat, greeted me, I took my eye off the ball (taken aback by his ridiculous appearance) and managed to trip over a step that I should have seen coming (it was around seven or eight inches high). I stumbled spectacularly, but somehow managed to remain on two feet.

Hastily I made my escape, into Schindler's Lift and away from the source of humiliation. And now, at almost 2330hrs, it's time for bed.

The view from room 507, Hotel Banke, Paris – a wonderful hotel

During the night I awoke, first at 0345hrs and then again at 0705hrs. The room was miles too hot, I realised, blaming the heat rather than the rich meal on the fact that my pulse was up and my mouth was dry. I'd been having fretful dreams too. One involved meeting a former work colleague by a babbling brook and simply chewing the fat; another involved holding a baby and then finally I was in a hotel corridor, it was painted white, brilliant white, and I was making my way to room 207. It was fretful because I had meant to check out some time ago. When I reached the room a chambermaid with one of those trolleys full of soaps and clean towels told me I couldn't go in. She spoke in French, which I couldn't understand, but I told her that all my stuff was in the room. For some reason I was topless – first naked, now topless, what's going on? She pretended not to understand me and then, with a smile, started to talk English in an American accent, as if to say 'only kidding'. At that stage I woke up and it was just past seven in the morning. Better get some breakfast...

Postscript...

The Banke Hotel was so good, I thought I'd provide the contact details for the Josefin restaurant in addition to the link for the hotel, which appears earlier in this post.

For a related post, click here.

Josefin
hotel Banke
20 rue la fayette - 75009 paris
Tel: + 33 (0) 1 55 33 22 22
http://www.derbyhotels.com