Paris for The Slow Weekenders: a Friday-to-Monday weekend

Lime trees in rows, a fountain and the arcades around it; a bench by Buren's striped columns and an hour of watching nothing happen.

A spa in the stone cellars of an old townhouse, an hour's massage with the house oil; book the last slot and float out to dinner.

A brasserie of 1900 with mosaic floors and brass rails, sole meunière and a tarte Tatin, the waiters unhurried on purpose.

Breakfast under the arcades of the oldest square, a mille-feuille with the coffee and the pink brick catching the morning.

Monet's water lilies in two oval rooms built for them, with benches in the middle; twenty minutes of sitting is the whole visit.

A late lunch on the terrace in the Tuileries, Italian plates and a bottle of rosé, the tower visible between the trees, nowhere to be after.

The 1920s hammam of the mosque, tiled rooms of rising heat and a scrub on the marble; check the day, as women and men alternate.

Couscous royal and mint tea in the mosque's courtyard under fig trees, the pastries counted by the plate, the afternoon unplanned.

Across the street, the botanical garden's alleys and the warm 1830s glasshouses of ferns and cacti; benches in the alpine garden.

The thick African hot chocolate under the belle époque ceiling, a Mont-Blanc beside it, the morning taken at the pace of the chocolate.

Open on a Monday: the Cour Marly horses under glass, Napoléon III's apartments and the Dutch rooms, one wing only, ninety minutes, then out.

Leather banquettes and a library at the back, opposite the Louvre's colonnade, a long lunch with the newspaper before the airport train.