The Cyrano is a typically styled Parisian bar, Suited and fitted with olden decorations which dangle and hang uncoordinated and awkward on each wall. The only sign of organisation and intentional planning seems to be in the orderly arrangement of the bottles that sit watchfully, as if the guardians of a true Paris – of a Parisian’s Paris.


Without a doubt, the Cyrano is a place to loiter after a long days work. Conveniently found within throwing distance from the metro, I often find myself there without having ever planned to…..I guess that is the most dangerous kind of bar. And yet, somehow its clientele struck me as not of the professional breed, but neither were they of the blue collar type either – I guess they were both and neither all at once.


The drinks are cheap, though not dead cheap, and I imagine that apart from the regular alcoholic patrons nobody ever strays too far beyond the crooked drunken line. But therein also lay a hostility, as everybody seemed to understand that this is a place of brief visits, where one should wade but certainly not swim. Of course there was nothing overt about these rules, but that said, I was left to my affairs – as I left others to theirs. So word to the wise, come with a friend, for this is not a bar for loners.


And so if what you are looking for is a casual drink among friends, then it is a bar that will happily oblige.




Naniso Tswai
I have travelled afar and aplenty but never before have I met a city such as Paris. In fact, “that Paris exists and anyone could choose to live anywhere else in the world will always be a mystery to me” (Woody Allen: Midnight in Paris). This powerful quote both explains and encapsulates my relationship with Paris. Young, energetic and full of life, almost instantly her cuteness consumes you, coursing through your veins until all you desire is to never leave her embrace. But it is not all catwalk perfections, as despite her elegant demeanour, living here is an altogether different and gritty affair. For the tourist Paris dons her most beautiful frock and flirts an irresistible charm, but were you intent on becoming a permanent fixture, prepare yourself for her invariably coarse moods. She is obstinately and often infuriatingly French. She wears her French mantra, indeed breaths it as if though to do anything else would be an affront to her flag. Even when I ventured into her sprawling contours expecting her personality to become diluted, however I was both relieved and perplexed by the resoluteness of character. She is France at its most unyielding, arrogant and concentrated self, but damn, do I love to love her. I invite you to follow my own discoveries of Paris’s hidden corners and whispered beauties.