The room was, in the French description, a “simple.” I had a desk, a bed, a sink, mismatched hangers and a single window that let in some welcome daylight. The only towels were hand towels, and the shower was down the hall, in a locked, windowless closet whose key I had to request at the front desk. It was bad, but neither hilariously bad nor charmingly bad. At least I was well situated, around the corner from the Colonel Fabien Métro stop and walking distance from other neighborhoods.

Because of this, I spent little time in Belleville. Instead, as always seems to happen, I wound up wandering the Marais, the former Jewish quarter that straddles the Third and Fourth Arrondissements and has, in the past 15 years, become home to innumerable galleries and fashionable boutiques. It’s also one of the few neighborhoods relatively untouched by Haussmannian urban planning. The streets remain narrow and chaotic, and feel more so because of the masses of tourists bumbling about.

But though it now defines the beaten path, the Marais still holds, if not secrets, then overlooked  and inexpensive  delights. Chief among them is the Carnavalet, one of 14 free museums run by the city, this one focusing on the history of Paris itself. In a conjoined pair of opulent 16th- and 17th-century mansions, dozens of exhibitions track the city’s evolution, from prehistory (represented by fossilized canoes) to the Middle Ages to relatively modern times (a niche containing Proust’s bedchamber). I was captivated by an 1890 painting of the Canal St.-Martin, looking almost as it does today, mirroring the lights of buildings at night, but also by a 16th-century painting of an anti-Henri IV march by soldiers and priests at the Place de Grève. All around them, everyday city life thrives  men cut wood, repair boats and fight over a pig.

AS I visited museums, I even tried skipping lunch à la Hemingway, who claimed fasting helped him concentrate on the Cézannes in the Musée du Luxembourg  “to see truly how he made landscapes.” My hunger, meanwhile, let me focus not on Cézanne but on the Museum of Hunting and Nature, free the first Sunday of every month. (The Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay and others offer the same deal, which President Obama took advantage of at the Pompidou.) My stomach empty, I explored this strange collection of taxidermied animals, read arcane lore (in late medieval France, I learned, deer had to be hunted nobly, but you could catch wolves deviously) and admired works of contemporary art  like a Jeff Koons puppy  among the stuffed relics.

Two nights in the garret, however, was enough  I was ready to upgrade my Paris life. I moved into the Hôtel des Arts Bastille, a fine old seven-story building with a mansard roof, Juliet balconies, an elevator and, what I was most excited by, ensuite bathrooms. I’d found it through Kayak.com and picked it for its looks (rooms with jaunty orange highlights), location (close enough to Bastille to be accessible, but far enough from the noisy bars) and, above all, its price: 60 euros a night, if I booked for three nights. Compared with the Hipotel, it felt like a five-star.

After checking in, I cracked open the tall double windows that looked down on the quiet street and breathed deeply. The air did not smell like a toilet. There was no hammering from next door. There was absolutely nothing wrong with this place  but maybe nothing truly special, either.

Once I settled into these plusher surroundings, I felt ready to indulge in a slightly better life. The sandwiches au jambon I’d been buying for a few euros from nameless street vendors were great, as were the half-dozen fines de claire oysters I’d consumed at a stand outside the Montgallet Métro (8 euros, including bread, butter and wine), but I’d been dying for a traditional French bistro meal.