Yoga, Paris, and the Waiter With Diamond Ambitions

 

They (the naysayers) told me Paris was not the place to exhale. Too many scooters. Too many stairs. Too many people who appear totally unbothered, emotionally unreadable, and perhaps a bit too composed — a cliche in a place like Paris, where cool detachment can seem like a lifestyle choice. Maybe. 

They were wrong, of course. And not just about Parisians. 

I didn’t need a jungle or a gong bath by the sea. I needed a hallway that smelled faintly of eucalyptus or grapefruit and wood polish. I needed Yin at 8pm, after a long day of walking, endlessly absorbing the city like a true flâneuse, bathing in the crowds (which a lot of times consisted of other tourists), gathering impressions, only jotting them down when I returned to the hotel. I needed the slow and languid stretches, the poses that allow you to get in touch with yourself. 

The hotel was called HOY — translates to Today in Spanish - which is part of their ethos: We cultivate the power of the present moment, the art of living well and eating well.

It’s a slow exhale in a fast city. It's the kind of place, where an artfully decorated flower shop doubles as entrence and lobby. A stone's throw away from the bustling and always crowed Metro station Pigalle, you enter a serene oasis, where between the subtle secent  of blooms the receptionist looks up with calm eyes, as if she’s been expecting you, not just today, but in this exact moment of your life.

I stayed five days. I could have stayed longer.

No one makes a fuss, when are early. Somebody  simply shows you  to a table and offers you a great, if expensive, Chi Latte. You are allowed arrive, catch your breath and have a conversation. 

The waiter who brought me my second glass of Chi, told me — over two minutes or twenty, who knows — that he’d moved from Mumbai to do an MBA in Paris. We talked about his plans for the future to go into the diamond trade. We talked about eveything and nothing.

Once your room is ready (ca. 3 pm), you are simply given a key (an actual key), and a sense that you can stop trying. 

My room was simple — yoga mat, wooden bar for stretching, linen in blue, white and beige that felt hand-washed by someone kind. The hotel’s energy is curated, but doesn't feel performative. You won’t find ring lights or cold-pressed vanity. You’ll find different kinds of tea and an old-fashioned telephone.  

I don’t drink, so retreats often mean negotiating between sacred space and someone’s Prosecco-fueled release. Not here. At MESA, the plant-based restaurant downstairs, dinner felt like ceremony. Quiet joy, not detox pressure. 

The hotel offers daily yoga workshops and classes in a serene, candle-lit infrared studio inspired by Japanese detox techniques.. I did my Yoga-Sessions mostly in the evenings to balance my indulgent Paris sightseeing with self-care. Instead of Power Flows, I opted for Yin. Gentle flow. 

I lay in “sleeping swan” while the city spun outside,  and realized I hadn’t thought about home, my to-do list or the job once. 

I did come to Paris to reset. And it turns out you don’t need a jungle or a detox or a guru. You just need quiet, sometimes. A bit of warmth. A pause.

Five days at HOY didn’t change my life fundamentally, but that wasn't the point.
They reminded me that I already know how to breathe — I just forgot to notice.

So no, I didn’t fly to Bali.
I walked across cobblestones after yin.
I drank tea instead of wine.
I listened to someone who had a dream.
And I exhaled.