I stayed in a basic hotel on my visit to Paris, quite close to the Eiffel Tower. Everything about the place was small, from the room, to the breakfast room, to the corridors.

And particularly the lift (pictured left).

After a particularly long, and quite wet, day exploring Paris, I ventured back to the hotel intending to get a bit of a rest in before sprucing up and heading back out for the evening’s festivities.

I was buzzed in and ascended the first flight of stairs which has a lift at the top, to your right.

I was staying on the top floor, and not taking the lift meant a trek up five flights of stairs. At the lift there was a man with a large bag, waiting for it to arrive. I knew there was no way I could fit in the lift with him and his bag so I had two choices. Wait for him to go up to his floor and for the lift to come back, or take the stairs.

I chose the stairs thinking what’s a little more exercise after having wandered around Paris for the past six hours.

By the time I got to the fifth floor, I was a little short of breath. I didn’t take them slowly, at all, much like my whole trip had been to that stage.

So by the time I got to my floor I stopped at the top of the stairs for a breather.

I could hear a female voice from down the corridor, and could quite clearly make out everything she was saying, such were the paper thin walls at this place. She was crying her heart out to someone on the phone, and sounded quite upset about her life at the present.

After a bit I made my way to my room, all the while being able to hear every detail of her side of the conversation, about her regrets and her desire to be in a different head space.

It didn’t seem right someone would be in one of the world’s most beautiful cities and yet be so miserable.

In my room I could still hear her (not surprising), and after ten or so minutes, and having figured out what I wanted to do for the rest of the night, I picked up an unopened bottle of French red wine. I didn’t have an opener, and as it was my last night in Paris, even if I did I was very unlikely to drink the whole thing that night.

So I wrote a little note. Something along the lines of “you deserve to be happy when in Paris, please drink me :)”.

I sneaked out of the room and placed the note by her door and put the bottle on top of it.

Later, when I was heading out for the night I noticed the bottle gone but there was a piece of paper where I’d left it and my note. Wondering if it was my note, I picked it up:

I left Paris at 5.30am the next morning, glad to have at least made her smile.