notes from paris
I claim I’m too diplomatic to pick favorites. That’s why I hate answering ranking questions (top 5 movies) and don’t know how to decide what’s the best concert you’ve ever been to and do you have a favorite trip you’ve been on. Chalk it up to the Libra in my chart or whatever.
That being said, my week in Paris is probably up there on my favorite trips list, and Mamiche is now a definitive choice for my top croissants shortlist. I often tell people how travel for me feels like an extension of my normal reality (albeit a more idyllic version where I never work and drink lots of wine). So I wouldn’t say this trip was life-changing – it was, however, a really lovely mental break.
Today I thought I’d share something a little more raw-form. When I’m out and about, I don’t carry a journal, but I do record any and all observations in my phone (long live the Notes app). These sporadic notes are the starting place for anything I’ve written and shared, and when compiled into one read: they’re a little peek into how I see the world.
1.
i spent most of my train ride from London chatting with an American family, and we roll into Paris pleasantly surprised by the blue skies (despite a rainy forecast). i had messaged my old classmate Jennifer last week when i realized we would overlap during our separate Europe trips. i have just about an hour to drop off my things and freshen up before making my way over to our designated meeting place. it’s funny how even though it’s been 7 years since i’ve seen her in person, i recognize her right away when when i see her waiting on the corner. i show up in the direction she doesn’t expect me from, her face in visible shock as we hug and immediately jet off to find a dinner spot.
we settle on a restaurant with outdoor seating just up the street and laugh in amazement as the waiter presents the menu on this huge chalkboard, propped up on a chair just for us. after he runs through all the items, we’re still hesitant when ordering our selection of plates, hoping we made the right choices. there’s usually a slight awkwardness when you’re ordering food with someone you’ve never shared a meal with – but it passes quickly, and as soon as he leaves with our order the conversation bubbles up and flows over. we’re running through the list of every major life topic – in the way you only do when talking with someone you haven’t caught up with in a lifetime. the reflection of the sun on the window behind her is distracting me, and i apologize as i quickly raise my phone to snap a photo. all good, unbothered by my table etiquette as she continues on with her thought. we finish the meal, and i search for the nearest wine bar to grab one more drink before she leaves to meet up with her sister.
we end up at this little vibey spot, and the bartender smiles as she sits us down at a tall corner table. we ask for an orange wine, and i admire the vinyl spinning in the corner and the melting candles around us. the atmosphere envelops us in a warm white noise as we continue catching up on life, dating, work, Paris. at some point during our conversation an attractive asian couple gets seated behind us, and as we leave, she whispers to me, oh my God, how hot was that guy? we giggle, hug goodbye, and go our separate ways.
i’ll return to this same bar a week later with another friend, but seated by a slightly less warm bartender. i’ll worry briefly that this could be the negative service experience that ruins my glowy memory of this spot, but when she pours our glasses, i ask what the wine she chose for us was. she turns the bottle toward me. it’s a new one - off menu, she winks at me before whisking herself away.
2.
i’m sitting down at a random bistro not more than 5 minutes from my Airbnb. i took high school French but haven’t really studied it since then, so i’ve barely registered the whole menu before the waitress returns for my order. she asks if i need help translating it. non, uh, i’ll have the beef tartare i blurt out in a panic. i also ask her for a glass of red, whichever one is your favorite, and she promptly returns with my meal and a full glass.
the beef tartare ends up being truly one of my best meals of the trip. 24 hours in and i can already laugh at myself how anxious i was before the trip that i didn’t prepare enough, gathering Paris recs from everyone that had been here more recently. it sounds cliché, but the best experiences in cities like these are only found when you let the streets guide you.
3.
it’s been dumping rain this week, but i’m determined to continue on my route of top vintage stores. it’s quiet in Montmartre this morning save for the sound of rain steadily pattering down onto the cobblestone. i’ve lost count of the stores i’ve walked into by now, but in this one the boy stands up to greet me as i walk in. in my normal routine i’m so used to keeping in my own space – preferring to go around unnoticed – that i forget how friendliness can actually be a norm elsewhere. in fact, every store owner smiles and says bonjour as i enter, merci au revoir as i leave – when the sun starts to fall in the sky, they switch to bonsoir. i suppose it’s in this way that foreign language proves to be more than textbook vocabulary and conjugation, because the expectations of communication are simply different. these customary exchanges are not rocket science, and in that sense it makes it easier to pretend i belong here despite being a visitor.
the day continues on in a positive trend of service experiences. i’m craving a healthyish meal and walk into a lunch spot just down my street, a build-your-own bowl place. the girl patiently explains every single option in English to me, pausing many times to puzzle over how to translate certain ingredients. i thank her for being so helpful and apologize for my minimal French. she drizzles her recommended sauce evenly over the bowl as a final touch and insists i must come back tomorrow, as the special protein option changes daily.
in the evening, i spot this wine bar, drawn to its logo in the window. it’s still pretty empty save for one couple in the corner. when i settle in at the bar, the bartender asks me where i’m from. when i say i’m visiting from new york, she says ohhhh! in excitement. i just went there a month ago for the first time, going on to describe how she stayed with her friend in brooklyn and how she got to see coney island and the statue of liberty. when i ask if she’s the owner of the bar, she laughs and says no, i’m only helping out for today and tomorrow for the normal chef – i’m normally a manager at a restaurant in the fifteenth arrondissement. i’m curious then how she knows the owner, as i observe them trade off tasks seamlessly behind the bar.
one of the other directors at my restaurant is her husband, and he introduced us, and of course now we are friends. she is the owner.
so i sit and watch the owner for a while, outfitted in a bright red polo and effortlessly styled dark hair, that type of chic you simply wish for. as the dinner rush begins, she darts between patrons, swapping bottles in and out as bodies fill in the space. i order another glass as i tap through my Kindle, half listening to the group next to me loudly tell the bartender they’re all from York, England. i listen a little closer to the older woman behind me who speaks in French to the owner until her partner finally arrives and she swaps into perfect English. they’re ushered quickly to a table in the back. i finish my glass, thank the bartender, and leave.
4.
i decide to take the long way home today. i walk down to the Seine to catch the beginnings of a sunset. two girls come up to me and ask if i can take a picture of them, and i follow them to their designated picturesque spot. they’re excited to hear i’m visiting from New York and point at each other, saying she’s from Paris, here, and she’s from Korea visiting. i wonder if they’re pen pals or exchange student friends. i diligently take a bunch of photos for them before continuing on my way, politely refusing their gracious offer to do the same for me.
i prefer walking to music, and i’m listening to my favorite Gracie Abrams song that makes me feel like i’m watching my life peacefully unfold from the sky. i’m crisscrossing across the bridge, no destination in sight as long as the sky is still in sight. tonight, Paris feels like it’s all mine. maybe i’ll share it with someone else one day, when i’m stupidly in love. but right now i’m reveling in this greediness, overcome by one of those movie-made moments when you suddenly feel like anything is possible – with that maybe-we’ll-find-what-we’re-all-looking-for hope, the tomorrow-it’ll-all-make-sense peace. it’s one of those i-can’t-explain things of being human, just like falling in love with someone or something and it’s like they were always a part of your soul. i think to myself i hope to spend my entire existence trying to make art out of this life, and maybe this is why school sciences never stuck easily in my brain, or why i inherited the concept of God with no question, and honestly what’s wrong with wanting to believe there are some things in this world we don’t have to be able to explain?
and this is where the magic of Paris can’t be made up, because just as i’m about to turn away from the riverside and head home, the Eiffel tower lights turn on and begin to sparkle in the far distance. so i keep walking towards the lights for a little bit longer, spurred on by this buzz of feeling infinite..
at some point, i finally turn and make my way away from the water. there’s a crowd leaving a concert, flooding into the streets and nearby metro. i wonder what the show was. a few guys dressed in military-esque uniforms are leaving from another event. i pass by one couple paused on the sidewalk – he’s holding his date’s hand for balance as she swiftly changes out of her tall, glittery heels. another couple flurries past me, and i catch a glimpse of her young, nearly princess-like face. when i turn to get a better look at the two, all i see is her blue gown flowing behind her as they glide off to their next destination.
5.
i took the elevator down hoping to not see anyone. mostly because the last time i ran into another resident, he spoke French at me for what felt like forever as i smiled awkwardly and had no idea what he was saying. to my dismay, as i reach the ground floor, a (different) resident walks in with baguettes in hand. stereotypes exist for a reason, eh? but all he does is hold the door to the foyer open with a bright smile. bonjour, bonne journée!
today i’m headed to les puces, a huge flea market on the northern outskirts of the city. it’s actually my first time taking my metro all week. it’s still kind of early – the streets are quiet. i pass a bookstore on my stroll to the market, its window branding and shelves instantly reminding me of the wealthiest parts of Brooklyn. i hesitate, but plan to stop in on my way back from the market. after spending hours browsing neverending stalls of antique, i return to the bookstore. i’m immediately drawn to the bright and colorful children’s area in the back and spend some time perusing the titles. the store owner asks me in English if i need any recommendations, and we both immediately recognized each other’s American accents.
at the register, i watch her carefully wrap up my book in a smooth brown paper. she asks me where i’m from. new york. without missing a beat, oh, an east coaster! i’m from DC. i ask how long she’s been in Paris and what brought her here. 15 years – and my husband is French, she answers a little wryly. we used to live in the city but we moved up here once we had kids. we love it though, we’re just up the street from the store. she asks if i live here, too. no, i’m just here on vacation, but maybe one day.
she stamps the corner of my now neatly wrapped book. well, i hope you enjoy your stay in paris, she smiles back at me, deftly slipping in a bookmark into the cover fold before handing it back to me.
6.
my friend Jess arrived last night. (it was one of those spontaneous decisions of just book the ticket you know you’ll never regret – and i’m glad to have saved some activities that would be decidedly more fun with a girlfriend.) we wake up determined to make the most of our one forecasted sunny day. i insist that we stop in la grande épicerie to pick up everything for our picnic spread, and we spend over an hour in there, overwhelmed and delighted by the gourmet selection. it’s still a 40 minute walk to our destination and i’m worried the weather will take a turn for the worse by the time we get there. but when we finally arrive, the sun is perfect – the vibes, immaculate. we get set up and slowly consume our charcuterie, observing all the people all around us. i spill some red wine on my shoe. the couple directly in front of us is lying down and making out (it’s the city of love, after all) as two little kids run circles around them. their mom is nearby, squinting into the daylight to paint the scene ahead. even the constant interruptions by guys trying to sell us buckets of alcohol doesn’t take away from the overall reverie. this is one of those times of contentment, and we agree this is everything i’ve wanted in a Sunday, wondering aloud how this is real life.
7.
it’s our last night in Paris. we start at a wine bar Jess loved from a previous trip, and then i suggest another return visit of my own to the little red door (aptly named). it’s a Monday night, so we only have to wait for a moment before we get ushered inside. we hop up onto these laughably large velvet bar chairs. i glance around the room and the decor looks different from what i remembered – these photographs of farmers on the wall that seem a little out of place. yes, our concept has changed since 2020 to be farm to bar they explain as we flip through the menu, a typographic green book highlighting the key ingredient (e.g. basil) in each cocktail. i’m skeptical, but the drinks end up being delicious and clean, the perfect nightcap.
i love sitting at the bar, and it’s one of those evenings where even if we had been given the option of where to sit, the bar would be the clear choice. the bartenders are a lively crew, chatting it up with us and jokingly scoffing when i say i’m from new york. people ask us, what is the brooklyn of paris? it’s the other way around! what is le marais of new york? they keep switching spots, so we get a taste of each personality whenever they’re slinging new drinks in front of us. the only woman bartender finally turns around to ask us where we’re visiting from. when she learns i live in brooklyn, she asks me what my favorite bars are…a question i’m always hesitant to answer because 1) what if i answer “wrong” and 2) new york is so big and 3) i swear i forget any bars as soon as someone asks me. instead of answering, i ask her if she’s familiar with brooklyn, and she says yes, a bit, and smiles to herself as she pours a drink neatly into a small glass. if you’re in brooklyn, she suggests, check out bar americano – my ex boyfriend opened it, say rose from little red door sent you.
People have asked if I ever feel weird talking about my writing in person. The answer is no, it’s not any different than when people bring up my IG… in the sense anything put on the internet is fair game for discussion. But it shouldn’t be the sole way you form your opinion about someone, which is a big topic for another day. :) Sharing stuff on the internet feels like tossing things out into the digital ether, which is fun and limitless but also kind of anticlimactic. I’m sensitive though so only tell me positive things!!! (jk, I honestly just need to find an editor one day for some warranted constructive criticism)
Listening to the Eras Tour setlist. no one talk to me about how I don’t have Metlife tickets for this weekend
Last watched Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret wholesome but mostly made me thankful to not be a tweenager going through puberty anymore!!!
Last read How Much Does It Cost to Live Like This? but never have I ever wished to quantify daydreams in this way…let the people dream a little
What’s coming up? Copenhagen → Nashville (lol, the duality) → Pengyou photo walk on June 17th!