More than Tokyo, Rome, or even New York, Paris is a place to fantasize about. It is the Marilyn Monroe of city breaks, the double chocolate cake of destinations; a town that’s dreamed about from bedrooms and office blocks around the globe by millions of people who have never even been there.

Nothing encapsulates fantasy-laden Paris better than the city’s 11 palace hotels. This isn’t just a description, it’s a designation introduced by the French government 10 years ago for five-star establishments that have “exceptional qualities that embody French standards of excellence.” In other words, they are better than your average luxury hotel.

And with multi-Michelin starred restaurants, ornate interiors, and extraordinarily glamorous histories attached, they really are. (They have a price tag to match—an entry level double room in most of them starts at $1,300 a night.)

But what happens when 80 percent of their usual clientele are banned from entering the country? Without visitors from the Middle East, China, Russia, and the U.S., things have been tough for French luxury travel, and when the U.K. introduced its two-week quarantine for all arrivals from France in August, it got even harder. This already comes on the back of a difficult five years. Visits faltered after the 2015 terrorist attacks, and over the past two winters, mass “gilet jaunes” protests have led to violence in the areas where most of these hotels are congregated.

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Closed over the summer for the first time since World War II, Paris’ palaces reopened in a burst over the last few weeks: the Crillon and the Ritz first, followed by the Bristol, Plaza Athenée, and the Georges V. Only the smallest of the delightful dozen–La Reserve with its 40 rooms–has been open since May.

A week ago, sitting on the rooftop balcony of the most expensive suite in the Crillon, I found out what happens to romantic hotels in dreamed-about cities when nobody is allowed to visit them. They try to lure in the locals instead.

The Crillon is the establishment Marie Antoinette would have chosen had she been alive in 2020 and going on vacation. In fact, back in 1774, she took music lessons in the building it is housed in. Sitting slap bang in the middle of Place de la Concorde, the Crillon is absurdly glamorous both inside and out. Unlike most of their other guests, I arrived on public transport, walking out of Concorde metro station and staring, awe-struck, for a few seconds at the building above me. Next to me was a vintage ice cream truck serving Crillon-made ice cream in chic navy blue bowls, and a queue of masked Parisians hoping for something sugary to eat in the Tuileries.

Inside the hotel are Michelin-starred restaurants, an underground pool, bedrooms designed by Karl Lagerfeld and a butler assigned to every guest. But my sights were set on the wrap-around balcony of the Bernstein Suite, which is usually occupied by film stars and royalty thanks to its $24,000 a night price tag, but which was transformed into a sleek bar with a full-frontal view of the Eiffel Tower. It is the sort of place one dreams of getting engaged in, but unusually for anywhere in this landmark-heavy part of Paris, absolutely everyone was speaking French.

The words ‘Bonjour Paris’ were strung up in neon against the back wall, and a blond barman with a topknot was making a series of cocktails based on famous people and places in the city. All were insider references, and at €28 a pop, drinks were noticeably cheap for an establishment where a continental breakfast costs more than double that.

Next to me were four young Parisian women in little black dresses and red lipstick. When the Eiffel Tower lit up for its hourly light show they crowded over the balcony to take videos and upload them directly to Instagram. “We never get to see this version of our city,” one of them explained. “It’s for rich tourists, not people like us.”

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