I have to say, despite the number of basic white girl memes about Paris, it really is a magical place. Last year I went again with a small group of girls to be photographed by The Alicia Bruce and afterwards was “stuck” in between that leg of my trip and a mediterranean cruise with Shaun from Barcelona.
Despite how much fun it would be to make 2 back to back transatlantic flights, I decided the best option was to spend my week solo in Paris, discovering the city and in the process, myself.
The move happened the day after the girls left. I remained at Hotel Henriette for a full day, the first part of which I laid in bed, staring out the window, contemplating how scary it would be to look like an asshole with my limited french to a bunch of busy Parisians who have better things to do than to help some idiot American stumble through her french phrase book.
Seriously, when people talk about social anxiety, the best way to put things in perspective is to drop yourself in a bustling foreign city and only know basic greetings and the words for phallic vegetables. I was TERRIFIED. As someone who gets along pretty well and actually LOVES being alone in a city back in the states, the thought of fitting into a lazy, entitled American stereotype terrified me.
That and getting hit by a rogue vespa.
And yet, got myself out of bed, put on my shoes and ventured out into Paris by myself, trusty little french phrase book by my side.
If you put headphones in and walk through the city, Paris is just like any other metropolitan area in the world. The signs may be in a different language, but crosswalks and sidewalks and pigeon poop is all pretty much the same (except they coo in french, obviously). It also, in my opinion, makes you look like you can’t be bothered by anyone, which also totally fits within the french aesthetic.
So I popped in my headphones and sauntered (just kidding I hobbled like Frodo and the gang through part 2 of their journey to Mordor) up to the 5th arrondissement. Secretly hoping everyone assumed I was a local. I went past the coffee shops and scarf boutique and just kept walking until I found a suitable spot for a late lunch.
If I could remember the name, I would absolutely tell you but I don’t remember. All I can tell you is I stood in the square sweating nervously looking at all the different equally french, equally magnificent options and selected the one with the quietest corner and most handsome waiters.
I truly just wanted an espresso but I felt like an authentic french person would get some baguette and cheese. And frankly, I’m always down for a baguette and cheese. So I ordered the cheese plate, a decanter of water and an espresso.
Just as I started to meander through my french book and realized my energy just wasn’t focused well enough on learning it, a few musicians began setting up their instruments in the square. I sat there on this breezy April afternoon in one of the many magical Paris squares, eating the best cheese & baguette, simple arugula salad with balsamic and sipping an espresso. It was delightful.
After I felt I had spent enough time lingering at the cafe, I paid my tab and headed across the square to the little ice cream shop. The sound of the street band sang me over and little Parisian children played tag and made makeshift backup percussions with the lamp posts while giggling and chattering in the sweetest little french accents. I snagged a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of pistachio (classic, always) and sat on a little concrete stoop and watched the band perform.
With a belly full of dairy products and a heart full of jazzy local Paris music, I proudly walked the blocks back to Hotel Henriette while only barely using Citymapper to navigate.
En route I popped into a little boutique and picked up some loafers and a mustard yellow purse. The shop girl being so lovely and sweet, it made me glad to stop.
When I arrived back to my hotel, I realized how far away I had actually traveled as the sun was beginning to set. The bread, cheese and fig jam had long since worn off at this point so I was ready for my first official solo dinner in Paris.
I google a ton of walkable places, but walking in a pair to a local dive bar is incrementally less frightening than walking solo so I opted for the closest thing open on a Monday night.
I stepped into the little restaurant down the street, still armed with my french book. The middle aged gentleman behind the counter loudly and warmly laughed with some patrons who were obvious regulars if not even family. He gestured for me to sit wherever and I slid onto the end of a bench at a little cafe table.
As I went to sit down, I realized the large black mass on the bench was an old black cat. I pet him gently to see if he would stir. Apparently old, fat black french cats also cannot be bothered. So I slid him gently a few inches to my left and squeezed in next to him, again to which he seemed not to even recognize he was displaced.
I sat down and tried my best terrible french, the owner/server/chef/bartender was very understanding and as he was weaving in and out of tables came over took my order and suggested a wine pairing.
I sat there waiting for my meal, feeling silly reading my french book in a french restaurant next to a french cat so I put it down and switched over to my phone to check Facebook or Instagram or some other soul-sucking task. The owner stopped at my table and in a brilliant broken english said carefully, “The world can wait, enjoy this life.” Which basically isa proverb I’m going to get tattooed on my body. Not one to disobey the wise old teachings of a 21st century Sam Malone, I nodded, sat my phone down next to me looking for Tache (the fat black cat) who had seemed to wander off, searching for the guest who just received the tenderloin in hopes they were in a sharing mood.
I ate my dinner quietly, observing the few other tables around me, catching a glimpse of Tache every now and then, polished off my wine and requested the check. The french Sam Malone sent me off into the night with a flyer for a local art exhibit. He offered no further prolific anecdotes, but I’m certain he’s still dishing out some haricots verts, pouring great cheap french wine and laughing boisterously with the guests.
The following morning I was a bit more adventurous. After having touched base with the local RTS chapter, I made plans to grab coffee with a girl named Keemia, a health & wellness guru ex-pat from California. I caught an UBER to the 4th, just above Notre Dame in the Marais and stood on the bridge watching the boats, businessmen and joggers pass by.
I headed to Le Peleton Cafe and was greeted by the fabulously stylish Keemia in her parisian striped pants at the equally as stylish grey, white and yellow cafe. I ordered a dirty chai and we sat outside getting to know each other.
We perused Le Marais a bit and decided to take a little stroll along the Seine as the sun had come out and was beaming down happily on the stone warming everything. Keemia taught me a little bit about the french history she knew around us and explained the architecture, lore and history of the buildings.
We went further in Le Marais and made a stop at L’as Du Fallafel. An apparently famous fallafel place I had walked by several times previously and never stopped. We each ordered falafel and indulged and walked to place des vosges to continue basking in the warm sunny day and observing all the people bobbing around looking like they were straight of a Georges Seurat painting. We chatted and people watched until it got too hot then walked over to Amorino for ice cream.
I informed Keemia, who now felt like an old friend for having spent the day with me, that I had to check out of my hotel and transplant myself somehow to the 11th and my pied a terre. Being the angel she is, she volunteered to come with me and even helped me load up my gigantic heavy suitcase into the UBER.
This apartment was a bit interesting, my instructions were to head to the cafe/bar on the corner and ask the bartender for the keys that Marie left for me. Sheepishly, I asked the handsome, busy bartender for the keys and we made our way around the building to the entrance. After searching fruitlessly for the elevator we realized that my apartment was up 5 flights of stairs on the 6th floor and I would have to haul half my body weight up the spiraling staircase that seemed to go on forever if I planned on sleeping in a bed and not the cold tile lobby floor. Of course, sweet, wonderful Keemia who weighs almost as much as my suitcase helped me lug the monstrosity of clothes and shoes up the stairs, stopping at every landing to catch our breath. We made it to the top and I found myself in a little piece of heaven. Next time on the blog.
