The floor of the subway shifts through the tunnel as I sit by no one and hold my suitcase from rolling. I’ve spent all day traveling and now I’m finally here.
I ascend the thick steps of the Place du Colonel Fabien metro station with my suitcase and backpack and come out to a warped cobblestone roundabout and see the green lights of my hostel across the way. It feels like space bending before my eyes how the road rises and falls like waves. In the center of the roundabout I notice a park with no lights and shadow-like bodies on the curb and on the benches smoking self-rolled cigarettes to balance their drunkenness from many cans of beer. The white compact taxis roll through the circle and tilt slightly to the right.
After cutting across the roundabout to my hostel on the opposite side I check in and head upstairs. From the concierge and other residents in the lobby I can tell that Paris is going to be a young and diverse crowd.
When I walk in my room I see two girls cuddling in the same bed, a squirrely French man reading on his phone, and a cute girl with long hair the color of honey folding clothes beside her bed. They all look at me when I walk in and wonder where I’m from. I say bonjour to the two girls in the bed and they say bonjour in return. I say bonjour to the young woman folding clothes and she smiles and says hola. I lock up my stuff then go to the bar downstairs and order a glass of wine. It’s a smooth and wonderful wine that meets my mood perfectly. With each sip I feel like drinking more until the wine in the glass is almost gone and I consciously slow down. A man with glasses and long hair comes over and asks me where I’m from and what I’m doing in Paris. I tell him it’s a long story and he tells me he has time to hear it. So I tell him, ‘Well, I met this woman,’ and he stops me and says, ‘Isn’t that how all the good ones start?’ We talk some more and I soon find out that he has his own business and travels the world; and casually let's it be known that he’s been to over a hundred countries. ‘So what do you learn?’ I ask, ‘After traveling around the world?’ He scratches his head and responds, ‘What don't you learn?’ Then continues on about the Swedish word Lagom and how in English we don’t have a direct equivalent; but essentially the word means happiness in balance, being content with equilibrium and finding perfection in imperfection.
After our conversation runs out I return upstairs with a head full of knowledge and wine. The two girls that were in the same bed from earlier are now wearing lingerie under trench coats with high-heels in-hand as they leave the room barefoot. I crack the window to let in some fresh air and can hear the life of the city outside.
My first morning in Paris I order petite déjeuner in a maroon and gold café called La Vielleuse. I sit at a booth and eat a flaky croissant and drink an espresso out of a small white mug with a small silver spoon and small white plate. The coffee is light and toasted perfectly and lingers sweetly at the top of my mouth. It’s so petite and delicious that I order another. I think of ordering another croissant, too, but choose instead to remain light for my walk to the tour Eiffel.
The sky is blue and featureless and the sun is bright over the city. The morning is brisk and cold in the shade but warm and refreshing in the sun. Most people wear long overcoats that leave their legs exposed from the knee down. I walk until I start to feel cold, then run until I am out of breath, then walk again until I’m cold. I walk and run, walk and run, all the way down to the tour Eiffel.
Along the way a band of brass musicians play music on the front steps of Palais Garnier. I listen as they play for a gathering crowd with their silver and gold instruments shining in the light. They perform under the gold busts of Beethoven and Mozart and other influential composers that sit in the high windows of the Academie Nationale de Musique and look over the bright and level plaza. Until they finish their repertoire of songs I stand and listen, taking in the city of Paris.
I start to feel low on energy so I stop inside a yellow and white madeleine shop. I order a café allongé with a dark chocolate madeleine. The young woman and man behind the counter convince me that the matcha-cherry flavor is their newest and best so I order one of those, too. Each bite I’m enthralled by the softness and freshness of the madeleine cookie and the subtle flavors that grace my tongue. I sip them down with my café allongé and it truly is a delicious treat.
Expecting to have to walk a ways before catching a glimpse of the prestigious monument, I’m in shock when I leave the madeleine shop and see it before me across the plaza. The further I walk into Place de la Concorde the more I can see down the length of the tour Eiffiel and the higher it rises into the air. I take a seat on a cement stump, relax my shoulders and stare, feeling humbled and proud.
After moments of gazing I intuit my way closer. I cross over the Seine and stop along the stone rail and watch the back currents of the barges as they glide slowly over the water. I commence walking to the tour Eiffel and for a while I lose my way inside the labyrinth of pearl white residences until I pass under a floral shop’s awning and see the tour Eiffel rise to life over the buildings. I walk up as far as I’m allowed without having to pay to go further and facetime my parents from the bottom of the monument so they can see their son can find his way around Paris. Afterwards I enjoy the green lawn in front of the tower and listen to soft piano music as planes pass over the monument in the blue sky. A vendor approaches me and asks me to buy a bottle of wine; and I do. He gives me a bucket of ice and a cup and I pour out some wine and settle the bottle in the ice. After the bottle is nearly finished I walk back to my hostel and when I finally lie down my feet are exhausted. Later that night I check my phone and see that I walked twenty-six-thousand steps.
In the morning I wake up and do some writing in a café. When you sit down and order in English they look at you funny but when you pull out a notebook and start to write they treat you with respect. When I come to a good place to stop I put my notebook away and think, Hell, since I’m in Paris I might as well go to the Louvre. So I take the metro from Place du Colonel Fabien to Palais du Musée Louvre and it’s much better than walking. I pay 1,90 € one-way and I’m there in ten minutes. My feet thank me.
When I arrive at the Louvre I wait in the first line I see. I want to ask around if I’m in the correct line but have qualms about speaking butchered French in public. So I wait in the long line and when I finally get to the front the man turns me around and points to a different line and tells me that is the line I need to be in. I think, Well, at least now I know which line I’m supposed to be in.
So I go and wait again in back of another long line. I wait patiently and creep forward slowly as the line moves up. Five minutes into waiting in the new line a lady asks me if I have a time-slot on my ticket. ‘Twelve-thirty,’ I say, and she disappears to the front. I think nothing of the encounter and continue to wait patiently and quietly as the line creeps forward. I wait another twenty-minutes before the lady returns and tells me, ‘C’mon, there’s another line we should be waiting in for our time. You’re twelve-thirty, right?’
“Yes.” I say.
“Okay, then come.”
So, again, I follow her to the back of another very long line. This time it takes thirty minutes before I finally make it to the front and take the stairs down under the glass pyramid of the Louvre.
Four hours later I breathe and step with mankind’s finest art in blurry memory. Though, my favorite part of the museum is the walk after through the Tuileries garden and sitting on the fresh green lawn and thinking of nothing as you feel small and stare up at the Arc de Triomphe.
The next day I take a walk along the quai of the Seine with the touching breeze and shiny gold statues in the distance. After I work up an appetite I meet a friend at the Marché des Enfants Rouges. Another day in Europe, I think to myself as I pass the straw-weaved baskets and wooden crates of green vegetables and shiny, vibrant fruit. At first being so far from home feels new and awkward but with each new day comes more familiarity, relaxation and ease.
French is tough. When you’re in a place where you don’t speak or understand the language you can feel a bit inferior. It’s a check to the pride and I think that’s good. It forces you to listen and observe with great attention and detail. And truth be told, body language is the one true language. A smile, subtle gestures, honest eyes — those translate anywhere you go.
Anyway, I walk to the local food market and meet up with the cute girl with long hair I met in the hostel. She’s from Michoacan and last night we shared a few soft kisses before bed as a polite way of saying goodnight. We had spent the day together and, well, it was only us in the room. Earlier that same day we had met at a bistro down the road from the hostel and ordered déjeuner. I had the filet mignon and she the onion soup with bread and brie. Before the sun went down we walked to the Pére Lachaise cemetery and hiked the windy cobblestone paths lined with vines and sculptured mausoleums. It became eerie as night crawled up and we lingered around the graveyard. When it closed we walked over to Belleville Park and climbed the long hill of steps to look over the city. We could see the flat rooftops of Paris stacked along the hills and the green field with the tour Eiffel. After the sun went down the tower began to sparkle under shimmering lights and at the very top a rotating spotlight called to the clouds.
So we are in the market together now sharing baklava and mint tea out of a stainless pot and small glass cups before she leaves back to Barcelona. It’s a fine and sunny day in Paris and the people seem fastened to their style of life. After the market we walk to Catedral Notre Dame and have an espresso as we stare at the two high walls and spider-web center of the castle. A French woman sings a lovely ballad and we walk over to listen. We leave a tip in her hat then walk over to a glass stand on wheels with a man selling crepes. She orders the traditional lemon-sugar crepe and lets me have a few bites.
The lifestyle of Paris revolves around food and drink. Anything you taste is exquisite and it seems even when they’ve perfected the recipe it somehow gets better. The tables are very small and you sit very close to other people and eat with elbows tucked in. It’s truly a fine culture of gourmet food and drink at all hours of the day.
My first three days in Paris I drink the truest espresso of my life, eat to my hearts pleasure in bistros and cafés; visit a French bakery and eat a fresh baked eclair, try the softest madeleines, enjoy real filet mignon, sip many café au laits paired with croissants and pain au chocolates, taste a lemon-sugar crepe and sadly don’t drink enough wine. Truly the French don’t need outside food or drink. They have all the simple yet gourmet culinary magic they’ll ever need at home.
I’ve noticed it’s always a personal sense of pride figuring out the subway system in a foreign country. Taking the same transportation as the locals makes you feel at home when you figure it out. Most importantly it makes the entire city accessible at an affordable price. You’re in charge of getting yourself to your destination and not some driver getting there for you. It forces you to pay attention and be aware. In an Uber you can close your eyes and still arrive at your destination. Taking the subway forces you to keep your eyes peeled. Nothing makes you feel more like a local than taking public transportation.
The streets in Paris are mostly narrow, single-lane roads cut frequently with crosswalks and stop lights. Cars, buses, scooters, vespas and bicycles all travel along the same cobblestone roads. The small narrow streets don’t permit speeding so people walk and take scooters and ride bikes just as much as they drive. The culture is walk until you want to rest, then stop in a café for an espresso and croissant. It’s an honor to be able to experience such an old and rich culture by myself. I find myself wandering the streets, alone under the statues, trees and lights, falling in love with the city.
It’s another luscious and beautiful morning in Paris. I have my café allongé and morning pages and plate of fruit. “I could live in this moment for eternity and nestle in the heartbeat of France,” I write. I feel gripped by and filled with joy. I revel in knowing this is a precious experience, and simply want to be awake for it. The more I come back to conscious breath the cleaner it falls into place.
It’s my last morning in Paris on this week-long sojourn and it has been a classroom of culture from the Renaissance-inspired architecture to the quick, smooth language, chic, casual fashion and simple, fresh cuisine. My first day I walked through the streets to behold the tour Eiffel. I’ll never forget the feeling of accomplishment I had seeing the iconic landmark for the first time. I gazed in awe for hours.
The next day I went to the Louvre and stood before humanity’s finest and most profound artwork. And what a treat it was! Forever will I be inspired from the art in the Louvre. Secretly, it’s a wild dream of mine to have something framed on the walls inside that historic battle fortress. Perhaps an original manuscript to a great piece of literature . . .
I also had the pleasure of beholding, grand and in person, Palais de Garnier, Catedral Notre Dame, Paris City Hall, Shakespeare and Company, Oscar Wilde’s grave and the tour Eiffel, sparkling in the foreground of an orange and blue sunset.
I also met a girl from Michoacan and she was very nice to meet.
It’s early on a weekend morning and all the travelers are downstairs eating with their luggage pushed against the same window discussing where they’re traveling to next. I just finished my café allongé and had the warmest, freshest croissant of my life. It took me a while to buy into the croissant culture but now I get it. The warm buttery aroma you get when you pull apart with your teeth the closed front end of a croissant, and how the inside forms together and melts into a warm ball of bread as you chew—that is how a croissant should be.
I can see myself returning to Paris for another decadent blur. I easily had a wonderful time. The diversity here is up to par with Manhattan, so everyone is welcome, and if you speak French, anyone may call Paris their second home.
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