TRAVEL LOG
ten October days in Paris
On the first time I visited Europe, where my friends and I ate, stayed, adventured, and everything else along the way.
Travel dates October 5th - 15th 2022
And just like that, I’m writing about my first trip across the pond and to the magical city of Paris, no less. It feels strange to detail a place that for so long I only saw through the other side of some screen, but I guess it had to happen eventually. One of many destinations outside my reach during infancy, it seems Europe has officially gone on to become the first of many global affairs I plan on indulging at the expense of my sworn status as a loyal grounded New Yorker. And believe me I hate to say it, but damn it feels good to cheat. Though I’ll admit I had my doubts about Paris being my first touchpoint across the globe given it’s sustained reputation as home to all things basic and overdone, I couldn’t have been more wrong about this beautiful and historic city of cobble streets and golden sunsets.
It should come as no surprise that among the many things I yearned for ahead of our trip, was this deep desire to nestle up by an open window overlooking the city rooftops, glass of wine in hand and a nearby laptop ready to type. Yet the more I’ve devoted time to writing things up on here, the more I’ve learned of the value that comes from letting things simmer and giving words time. The first night I sat down to write, we had just arrived from a long day of travel and I came to my laptop with little more than pent-up distress. I was tired from getting virtually no sleep in the last two days, bloated from overindulging on bland airline food, and just plain frustrated to be lacking the energy to articulate anything meaningful about my first night in Europe. So of course I fought sleep and propped up in a corner to push out what little broken rhetoric I’d been whispering to myself during the last leg of our flight. Yet again to no surprise, the only thing I could properly muster was how sleep-deprived I was feeling after our seemingly endless trek. That and something about how suspiciously cheap the wine down the street had been.
So I guess it was time to call it a night.
Now, over six months later, I’m propped up in my kitchen, typing up what I hope will be a much more concise detailing of the bittersweet week and a half my friends and I spent lollygagging through the sunny cobblestone streets of Paris. Snuggle up and join along, will you?
And just like that, I’m writing about my first trip across the pond and to the magical city of Paris, no less. It feels strange to detail a place that for so long I only saw through the other side of some screen, but I guess it had to happen eventually. One of many destinations outside my reach during infancy, it seems Europe has officially gone on to become the first of many global affairs I plan on indulging at the expense of my sworn status as a loyal grounded New Yorker. And believe me I hate to say it, but damn it feels good to cheat. Though I’ll admit I had my doubts about Paris being my first touchpoint across the globe given it’s sustained reputation as home to all things basic and overdone, I couldn’t have been more wrong about this beautiful and historic city of cobble streets and golden sunsets.
It should come as no surprise that among the many things I yearned for ahead of our trip, was this deep desire to nestle up by an open window overlooking the city rooftops, glass of wine in hand and a nearby laptop ready to type. Yet the more I’ve devoted time to writing things up on here, the more I’ve learned of the value that comes from letting things simmer and giving words time. The first night I sat down to write, we had just arrived from a long day of travel and I came to my laptop with little more than pent-up distress. I was tired from getting virtually no sleep in the last two days, bloated from overindulging on bland airline food, and just plain frustrated to be lacking the energy to articulate anything meaningful about my first night in Europe. So of course I fought sleep and propped up in a corner to push out what little broken rhetoric I’d been whispering to myself during the last leg of our flight. Yet again to no surprise, the only thing I could properly muster was how sleep-deprived I was feeling after our seemingly endless trek. That and something about how suspiciously cheap the wine down the street had been.
So I guess it was time to call it a night.
Now, over six months later, I’m propped up in my kitchen, typing up what I hope will be a much more concise detailing of the bittersweet week and a half my friends and I spent lollygagging through the sunny cobblestone streets of Paris. Snuggle up and join along, will you?
day one
Having lost a whopping seven hours during our transcontinental shift, we arrived around 3pm local time the same way you might arrive in a place so familiar you can call it home. Quiet streets and empty roads greeted us with such little enthusiasm you’d believe we were no more than mere locals returning home after a calm evening stroll by the seine. A wayward sun lingered idle over the clouds, it’s shadows draping the endless alleyways and creating a perfect setting for the small band of we three to arrive stealthily on our way. One endless 40-minute train ride from the airport and two blocks from our exit station later, we were finally at our AirBnb.
The first thing worth noting here is how incredibly lived-in the space felt. It was as though the previous tenant had simply vanished the night before, leaving everything –clothes, kitchen items, toiletries and makeup, even jewelry– completely undisturbed. Like we were stepping into their shoes and life for the week. And though I’d agree that’s probably not everyone’s ideal housing scenario –you are paying for guest accommodations after all– I couldn’t have wished for a more perfect setup. To feel as though you’ve crashed a close friend’s apartment while they skip town for the week…it’s the type of local experience you only read about in books. (AirBnb Linked Here)
Coming along for the ride, my good friend Sarah –who I’ll spare from any excessive detail as she’s been with me for almost half a decade now and requires little profiling beyond the endless IG stories I’ve devoted to showcasing our continued antics through life in NYC. Satwik, my college roommate who I somehow not only managed to stay in touch with through the years, but eventually grew even closer to post-graduation after he popped over for an impromptu trip to Vermont and we found our way back to each other. And last but certainly not least, Adolfo, a Houston native who I continuously ran into during my four years in college at UT, but never really connected with until a little over a year ago when he stayed in the apartment for –what was initially only supposed to be– the weekend, before he eventually moved in for a couple of months in late 2022. Truly, the happiest bunch I’ve had the joy to travel with in a minute.
We ended that first night with a quick introductory stroll through the neighborhood and perhaps the most unsatisfying dinner of our entire stay. With little but our jet-lagged brains to blame for some last-minute googling land poor decision-making, we’d stopped by a small dinner spot with outdoor seating and ordered a sad combination of bland fish and overpriced Foie Gras (a one and done ordeal, confirmed). Sarah cried and I lost my appetite. Best to just head home and call it a night before our luck could be put to the test once more. I picked up some vino from a local shop on our way back, fought sleep in my aforementioned writing antics, and finally succumbed to exhaustion with no writing to show for my efforts. Day one had swiftly come to an end.
The first thing worth noting here is how incredibly lived-in the space felt. It was as though the previous tenant had simply vanished the night before, leaving everything –clothes, kitchen items, toiletries and makeup, even jewelry– completely undisturbed. Like we were stepping into their shoes and life for the week. And though I’d agree that’s probably not everyone’s ideal housing scenario –you are paying for guest accommodations after all– I couldn’t have wished for a more perfect setup. To feel as though you’ve crashed a close friend’s apartment while they skip town for the week…it’s the type of local experience you only read about in books. (AirBnb Linked Here)
Coming along for the ride, my good friend Sarah –who I’ll spare from any excessive detail as she’s been with me for almost half a decade now and requires little profiling beyond the endless IG stories I’ve devoted to showcasing our continued antics through life in NYC. Satwik, my college roommate who I somehow not only managed to stay in touch with through the years, but eventually grew even closer to post-graduation after he popped over for an impromptu trip to Vermont and we found our way back to each other. And last but certainly not least, Adolfo, a Houston native who I continuously ran into during my four years in college at UT, but never really connected with until a little over a year ago when he stayed in the apartment for –what was initially only supposed to be– the weekend, before he eventually moved in for a couple of months in late 2022. Truly, the happiest bunch I’ve had the joy to travel with in a minute.
We ended that first night with a quick introductory stroll through the neighborhood and perhaps the most unsatisfying dinner of our entire stay. With little but our jet-lagged brains to blame for some last-minute googling land poor decision-making, we’d stopped by a small dinner spot with outdoor seating and ordered a sad combination of bland fish and overpriced Foie Gras (a one and done ordeal, confirmed). Sarah cried and I lost my appetite. Best to just head home and call it a night before our luck could be put to the test once more. I picked up some vino from a local shop on our way back, fought sleep in my aforementioned writing antics, and finally succumbed to exhaustion with no writing to show for my efforts. Day one had swiftly come to an end.
day two
And just as quickly as I laid my head down to let it rest, it was pulled back awake.
Day two had just commenced.
Our first full day in Paris was uncharacteristically slow and lacking of structure, primarily due to our adjusting circadian rhythms and the fact that one of our fellow co-travelers was still making his merry way over from Texas. Not wanting to visit any key neighborhoods or landmarks before Adolfo arrived, we decided day one could be a good opportunity to walk around, do some light shopping, and tire ourselves out enough to fully kick the jet lag out of our bodies. And that’s exactly what we did. We started with a morning stroll through the Luxembourg gardens –a place you’ll likely recognize given it’s splashed all over social media anytime anyone visits– before making our way to breakfast at a nearby spot called Loulou where, I should add for the sake of context, we proceeded to have our second (sadly) unexciting brunch. My guess is that no one here is surprised that much like in New York, Paris is the kind of place where you can stumble inside over-hyped tourist eateries at every corner if you don’t research ahead of time. Thankfully, the food at this place wasn’t nearly as overpriced or under-seasoned as the night before, but it still wasn’t great. Needless to say, we learned pretty early on that snoozing on food searches was not a luxury we could take if we wanted to eat well for the rest of the trip. Game on, Paris. We spent the rest of the evening making our way through the shopping district, entering stores and marveling at the endless count of cigarette-smoking locals. And yes of course, it only took about fourteen hours of French dining before I was a complete bloated mess from the over-buttered pastries and dairy-induced everythings that characterize this picturesque place. But what else is there to do? One simply does not fly fourteen hours over the pond to cosplay a mild-appetite in a city brimming with pastries.
Soon dinnertime approached, and with it the arrival of our party’s fourth and final member. We decided to stop for dinner on our way home, and sampled some of the most unexpected flavors at a small local joint that looked more like a dive bar than a restaurant. We’d originally stopped by a different one in an alley market full of different booths and eateries, but the owner had come out front to greet us and announce they had just closed for the evening. Instead, he suggested we check out his buddy’s joint nearby called Martin (Linked here). Now, it should go without saying that no one knows food like the locals, so of course (and very much thankfully) for the first time since arriving, our meal took our taste buds for a ride.
Modest and crowded as the establishment might have seemed, believe you me they put on a show for the senses. A fresh bottle of white wine split by Sarah, Satwik and I, coupled with an intense round of inventive tastings would keep our palates so busy that I almost forgot to take a peek at my phone and make sure we were headed back to the AirBnb in time to meet Adolfo at the door. He’d texted an hour or so prior to alert us about his flight’s recent landing, so I’d been tracking closely to coordinate joint arrivals. I would also need to remember to order some food for him at some point since most places would be closed by the time he was fully settled in. Slightly more frantic than I’d care to admit, I motioned our server over as soon as we were done eating, and asked if we could rush out the check. Thankfully, she politely obliged and we were wrapped before I knew it. Bellies full, we snuck final bites, sipped any remaining wine, and ran out the door.
Day two had just commenced.
Our first full day in Paris was uncharacteristically slow and lacking of structure, primarily due to our adjusting circadian rhythms and the fact that one of our fellow co-travelers was still making his merry way over from Texas. Not wanting to visit any key neighborhoods or landmarks before Adolfo arrived, we decided day one could be a good opportunity to walk around, do some light shopping, and tire ourselves out enough to fully kick the jet lag out of our bodies. And that’s exactly what we did. We started with a morning stroll through the Luxembourg gardens –a place you’ll likely recognize given it’s splashed all over social media anytime anyone visits– before making our way to breakfast at a nearby spot called Loulou where, I should add for the sake of context, we proceeded to have our second (sadly) unexciting brunch. My guess is that no one here is surprised that much like in New York, Paris is the kind of place where you can stumble inside over-hyped tourist eateries at every corner if you don’t research ahead of time. Thankfully, the food at this place wasn’t nearly as overpriced or under-seasoned as the night before, but it still wasn’t great. Needless to say, we learned pretty early on that snoozing on food searches was not a luxury we could take if we wanted to eat well for the rest of the trip. Game on, Paris. We spent the rest of the evening making our way through the shopping district, entering stores and marveling at the endless count of cigarette-smoking locals. And yes of course, it only took about fourteen hours of French dining before I was a complete bloated mess from the over-buttered pastries and dairy-induced everythings that characterize this picturesque place. But what else is there to do? One simply does not fly fourteen hours over the pond to cosplay a mild-appetite in a city brimming with pastries.
Soon dinnertime approached, and with it the arrival of our party’s fourth and final member. We decided to stop for dinner on our way home, and sampled some of the most unexpected flavors at a small local joint that looked more like a dive bar than a restaurant. We’d originally stopped by a different one in an alley market full of different booths and eateries, but the owner had come out front to greet us and announce they had just closed for the evening. Instead, he suggested we check out his buddy’s joint nearby called Martin (Linked here). Now, it should go without saying that no one knows food like the locals, so of course (and very much thankfully) for the first time since arriving, our meal took our taste buds for a ride.
Modest and crowded as the establishment might have seemed, believe you me they put on a show for the senses. A fresh bottle of white wine split by Sarah, Satwik and I, coupled with an intense round of inventive tastings would keep our palates so busy that I almost forgot to take a peek at my phone and make sure we were headed back to the AirBnb in time to meet Adolfo at the door. He’d texted an hour or so prior to alert us about his flight’s recent landing, so I’d been tracking closely to coordinate joint arrivals. I would also need to remember to order some food for him at some point since most places would be closed by the time he was fully settled in. Slightly more frantic than I’d care to admit, I motioned our server over as soon as we were done eating, and asked if we could rush out the check. Thankfully, she politely obliged and we were wrapped before I knew it. Bellies full, we snuck final bites, sipped any remaining wine, and ran out the door.
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I’m not entirely sure I’ll ever fully understand the memory selection process that goes on inside my head –I forget most things, in case that wasn’t clear– but here was the first of several key memories I collected from that trip. We arrived back at the AirBnb minutes before the carryout pizza I’d ordered for Adolfo was dropped at the door, and I could feel myself almost giddy with excitement to greet him. I didn’t even know what the big deal was. My phone rang mere seconds after I’d set the food down on the table, and with little more than a look, I could tell Sarah knew this was about to be a whole moment. I ran downstairs, pushed through the double french doors in the lobby and rushedly threw the front door open with a swing, its weight heavy with age as it dragged across the checkered floors. Baby boy had finally arrived.
I’ve little time to fully dissect the weight of this moment, but the reality is I’ve just become incredibly grateful for my hispanic connections, especially those of Mexican origin. Growing up close to the poverty line, living through economic distress, lack of access, general privilege, and even homelessness at one point, it often really hits me when I meet people of color who’ve also somehow escaped the shackles of that seemingly inescapable life. Especially for those of us who’ve pushed through similar circumstances, it’s an indescribable feeling when you find yourselves in the wild and realize there’s more of you on the other side. The first time Adolfo and I reconnected over the summer, the weight of our friendship took a second to really sink in. It wasn’t until a couple weeks later that I realized he was someone who really got it. When I spoke about family and the wild split in realities we experienced as I catapulted myself forward with education and strife while simultaneously watching beloved relatives cycle through repeated trajectories, he completely understood. Because he was living it, too.
So of course this moment mattered. Here, in this place that so many of my people I feared might never arrive, was this perfectly placed contradiction, and the kindest sweet soul at that.
I gave Adolfo a big squeeze hello before helping him carry his bags inside, and we stuffed ourselves into the tiny elevator at the end of the hall –fully resolving to fit in the dreaded thing so that neither of us would have to rush up the stairs alone.
Once back inside the apartment, I was warmed to see Sarah setting up for our second dinner. The pizza had been laid out, the lights dimmed for ambiance, and a soothing Parisian jazz played ever so softly on the stereo I’d hacked with a bluetooth adapter only moments prior to running out the door. It was truly the perfect setting.
We ate some, laughed some, and I’m sure I cried at some point… just the tiniest bit.
And just like every other perfect moment in time, it too came to an end. Soon It was time for bed.
I’ve little time to fully dissect the weight of this moment, but the reality is I’ve just become incredibly grateful for my hispanic connections, especially those of Mexican origin. Growing up close to the poverty line, living through economic distress, lack of access, general privilege, and even homelessness at one point, it often really hits me when I meet people of color who’ve also somehow escaped the shackles of that seemingly inescapable life. Especially for those of us who’ve pushed through similar circumstances, it’s an indescribable feeling when you find yourselves in the wild and realize there’s more of you on the other side. The first time Adolfo and I reconnected over the summer, the weight of our friendship took a second to really sink in. It wasn’t until a couple weeks later that I realized he was someone who really got it. When I spoke about family and the wild split in realities we experienced as I catapulted myself forward with education and strife while simultaneously watching beloved relatives cycle through repeated trajectories, he completely understood. Because he was living it, too.
So of course this moment mattered. Here, in this place that so many of my people I feared might never arrive, was this perfectly placed contradiction, and the kindest sweet soul at that.
I gave Adolfo a big squeeze hello before helping him carry his bags inside, and we stuffed ourselves into the tiny elevator at the end of the hall –fully resolving to fit in the dreaded thing so that neither of us would have to rush up the stairs alone.
Once back inside the apartment, I was warmed to see Sarah setting up for our second dinner. The pizza had been laid out, the lights dimmed for ambiance, and a soothing Parisian jazz played ever so softly on the stereo I’d hacked with a bluetooth adapter only moments prior to running out the door. It was truly the perfect setting.
We ate some, laughed some, and I’m sure I cried at some point… just the tiniest bit.
And just like every other perfect moment in time, it too came to an end. Soon It was time for bed.
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day three
Same as before, day three shook me awake long before I could get any kind of meaningful rest.
See, the weird thing about traveling for me is that I don’t actually love the mass shift in routine that inevitably characterizes any trip. The views, delicious food, and endless memories I’m all about… the 180 shift in meticulous structure that I’ve come to so devoutly worship? Not so much. At home, I revel in being able to wake up and set my body on autopilot for the first hour or so of getting ready. My skincare, dental hygiene, hair products, even beauty rituals, have all become so second nature and hassle-free despite how multi-stepped some of them actually are. All of that goes out the window when I travel. Instead, I wake up and waddle around like a half-asleep toddler, helplessly trying to remember where I left what thing and which bag contains this vital other object I so desperately need. It’s just as lovely as it sounds, really. So of course my alarm was set for a crappy 30-minutes before everyone else’s, simply to alott time for one very confused Emiliano to make his way around the space without throwing the schedule completely off-course.
Determined to make the most of our time now that our travel party was complete, we hit the ground running early day three and headed for the Louvre first-thing in the morning. Easily one of my favorite aspects of this trip, Paris can be completely walkable if you make time to get to your destinations by foot. Much like in New York, the city feels well designed for pedestrian traffic, and there’s something happening pretty much every step along the way. We were about a thirty minute walk from the Lourve, and I without a doubt dragged everyone out, no questions asked. Skipping an outdoor stroll through Paris in the fall would’ve been nothing short of criminal. Now, I’m 100% sure this is not the popular opinion, but I will happily share that although certainly rich with history and an overwhelming accrued wealth of priceless artifacts, the Louvre was just not it for me that day. Very much likely because I was starting to feel the full effects of sleep deprivation, but also because getting around once inside really wasn’t the most intuitive experience. The maps are only partially helpful, and most of the time we were just trapped between hoards of tourists and traveling families that pretty much herded us around until we finally decided it was time to head out. And no, unfortunately there was no Mona Lisa sighting for us this time around… the insane lines to see what has easily become the most circulated portrait in history just didn’t seem worth the wait. Done and done.
Next on the list, we made our way over to Sainte-Chapelle, a small historic chapel nestled right in the heart of the city, best known for its outrageously intricate windows of beautiful stained glass. History meets art in this quaint and angelic structure, where the not-at-all-unintentionally-looped Gregorian chants make you feel like you’ve stepped into the tangible divine. The experience feels especially intimate given the small size of the space, making it that much more enjoyable, especially if you’ve just left a place where the exact opposite seemed to be the case. A lovely experience worth checking out if you’re in the area and have some extra time.
Soon after exiting, we agreed our hungry stomachs should be next on the priority list. And once again, we fell victims to the poorly-researched but highly aesthetic foodie traps that somehow continued to weasel their way into our trip. Alas, lunch was served at Brasserie Les Deux Palais (Linked here), a cute Parisian cafe that sat right across the chapel we'd just left and certainly delivered on captivating food displays, yet failed to nail even the simplest of local dishes such as poor Sarah’s under-seasoned French Onion Soup. Oy-vey! Certainly another bust for our tongues...but at least the ambiance delivered. We ate silently, each waiting for the other to strike up some conversation about the day, but ultimately all too tired to formulate anything concrete. I don’t think anyone minded it. I know I didn’t, at least.
As soon as we were out of the restaurant, Sarah pulled up the map on her phone, fingers ready to dictate our next timely stop. And whether it was from the prolonged lack of sleep, frustration with slow-moving tourists, or sheer disappointment from yet another virtually tasteless meal, I’ll never know. All I knew was that I wanted to STROLL.
No more maps for the day! I forcefully declared.
We are going to WALK and if we run into someplace cool, fine. If we don’t then that’s alright too. I just want to see the damn sunset on the Seine!, I barked again before marching off.
We made our way over to the long-renowned river, watching as the sun made it's descent behind the Eiffel Tower in the distance. My favorite time of day at last. And just as quickly as the magic of wandering through a concrete bridge on this iconic city started to settle in, a stampede of tourists flocked in from screen left to do the exact same - how romantic… We hung out only for as long as the sun did, before heading out for a nighttime stroll home –we couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes away and –as I’m sure I’ve established by now– not walking just wasn’t an option.
Just as one might do following a very unsatisfying meal, we set out to redeem ourselves with dessert. Weaving through the tangled streets of the Latin Quarter, we followed our noses to an open bakery window, the sweet aroma of chocolate wafting fiercely through the air. If you know me, you know I’m crazy about sweet bread –it’s never been a romance I can properly pursue in the states given genuine pan dulce is still pretty scarce in most neighborhoods, so I'm always happy to see some in sight– and never fail to go out of my way for a fix. It was a done deal we’d be making a pit stop for a bite. Only later did we come to discover that the place is actually a well-known local’s favorite that went by the name of Aux Merveilleux (Linked here) and has some of the best pastries in the Latin Quarter. Did I tell you or did I tell you that strolling aimlessly is the best way to go?
Sweet bread secured, we made our way back to the AirBnb, stopping only momentarily to retrieve a new fresh set of bottles of buttery Chardonnay.
Same as we did most nights that now blend together as I look back and struggle to fully untangle, we sat around the dining table sharing stories from our favorite parts of the day, sipping wine between exchanged memories and snarky remarks.
Another day here and another day gone, day three had now too met its end.
See, the weird thing about traveling for me is that I don’t actually love the mass shift in routine that inevitably characterizes any trip. The views, delicious food, and endless memories I’m all about… the 180 shift in meticulous structure that I’ve come to so devoutly worship? Not so much. At home, I revel in being able to wake up and set my body on autopilot for the first hour or so of getting ready. My skincare, dental hygiene, hair products, even beauty rituals, have all become so second nature and hassle-free despite how multi-stepped some of them actually are. All of that goes out the window when I travel. Instead, I wake up and waddle around like a half-asleep toddler, helplessly trying to remember where I left what thing and which bag contains this vital other object I so desperately need. It’s just as lovely as it sounds, really. So of course my alarm was set for a crappy 30-minutes before everyone else’s, simply to alott time for one very confused Emiliano to make his way around the space without throwing the schedule completely off-course.
Determined to make the most of our time now that our travel party was complete, we hit the ground running early day three and headed for the Louvre first-thing in the morning. Easily one of my favorite aspects of this trip, Paris can be completely walkable if you make time to get to your destinations by foot. Much like in New York, the city feels well designed for pedestrian traffic, and there’s something happening pretty much every step along the way. We were about a thirty minute walk from the Lourve, and I without a doubt dragged everyone out, no questions asked. Skipping an outdoor stroll through Paris in the fall would’ve been nothing short of criminal. Now, I’m 100% sure this is not the popular opinion, but I will happily share that although certainly rich with history and an overwhelming accrued wealth of priceless artifacts, the Louvre was just not it for me that day. Very much likely because I was starting to feel the full effects of sleep deprivation, but also because getting around once inside really wasn’t the most intuitive experience. The maps are only partially helpful, and most of the time we were just trapped between hoards of tourists and traveling families that pretty much herded us around until we finally decided it was time to head out. And no, unfortunately there was no Mona Lisa sighting for us this time around… the insane lines to see what has easily become the most circulated portrait in history just didn’t seem worth the wait. Done and done.
Next on the list, we made our way over to Sainte-Chapelle, a small historic chapel nestled right in the heart of the city, best known for its outrageously intricate windows of beautiful stained glass. History meets art in this quaint and angelic structure, where the not-at-all-unintentionally-looped Gregorian chants make you feel like you’ve stepped into the tangible divine. The experience feels especially intimate given the small size of the space, making it that much more enjoyable, especially if you’ve just left a place where the exact opposite seemed to be the case. A lovely experience worth checking out if you’re in the area and have some extra time.
Soon after exiting, we agreed our hungry stomachs should be next on the priority list. And once again, we fell victims to the poorly-researched but highly aesthetic foodie traps that somehow continued to weasel their way into our trip. Alas, lunch was served at Brasserie Les Deux Palais (Linked here), a cute Parisian cafe that sat right across the chapel we'd just left and certainly delivered on captivating food displays, yet failed to nail even the simplest of local dishes such as poor Sarah’s under-seasoned French Onion Soup. Oy-vey! Certainly another bust for our tongues...but at least the ambiance delivered. We ate silently, each waiting for the other to strike up some conversation about the day, but ultimately all too tired to formulate anything concrete. I don’t think anyone minded it. I know I didn’t, at least.
As soon as we were out of the restaurant, Sarah pulled up the map on her phone, fingers ready to dictate our next timely stop. And whether it was from the prolonged lack of sleep, frustration with slow-moving tourists, or sheer disappointment from yet another virtually tasteless meal, I’ll never know. All I knew was that I wanted to STROLL.
No more maps for the day! I forcefully declared.
We are going to WALK and if we run into someplace cool, fine. If we don’t then that’s alright too. I just want to see the damn sunset on the Seine!, I barked again before marching off.
We made our way over to the long-renowned river, watching as the sun made it's descent behind the Eiffel Tower in the distance. My favorite time of day at last. And just as quickly as the magic of wandering through a concrete bridge on this iconic city started to settle in, a stampede of tourists flocked in from screen left to do the exact same - how romantic… We hung out only for as long as the sun did, before heading out for a nighttime stroll home –we couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes away and –as I’m sure I’ve established by now– not walking just wasn’t an option.
Just as one might do following a very unsatisfying meal, we set out to redeem ourselves with dessert. Weaving through the tangled streets of the Latin Quarter, we followed our noses to an open bakery window, the sweet aroma of chocolate wafting fiercely through the air. If you know me, you know I’m crazy about sweet bread –it’s never been a romance I can properly pursue in the states given genuine pan dulce is still pretty scarce in most neighborhoods, so I'm always happy to see some in sight– and never fail to go out of my way for a fix. It was a done deal we’d be making a pit stop for a bite. Only later did we come to discover that the place is actually a well-known local’s favorite that went by the name of Aux Merveilleux (Linked here) and has some of the best pastries in the Latin Quarter. Did I tell you or did I tell you that strolling aimlessly is the best way to go?
Sweet bread secured, we made our way back to the AirBnb, stopping only momentarily to retrieve a new fresh set of bottles of buttery Chardonnay.
Same as we did most nights that now blend together as I look back and struggle to fully untangle, we sat around the dining table sharing stories from our favorite parts of the day, sipping wine between exchanged memories and snarky remarks.
Another day here and another day gone, day three had now too met its end.
day Four
Day four ensued.
As might happen during any trip you take where the first couple of days are nothing but frantic, you eventually reach an unmissable point of exhale where everyone kind of peeters out. The mornings slow down, the hype settles a bit, and you start to find yourself in this novel world much less like a foreigner and more just like anyone else. And what better way to convince yourself you're a local than to find one to meet up with?
We started out with a delayed morning wake (for once), heading out around 11 and stopping only until the smell of warm croissants and butter could finally fill our noses. We’d discovered a seemingly popular local bakery on our walk to the Lourve a couple days earlier, but opted to return on a less packed-up day as we were already running behind, and I'm so very glad that we did. Nestled in the heart of a quiet street of local businesses, was this old little bakery titled La Maison d’Isabelle.
Undoubtedly a local favorite, we made it just in time to join the long line that started winding around the corner and patiently watched as the crew opened up. A large shepherd pup lay carelessly on the rain-soaked cobble directly in front of us, his unsuspecting owner studying the menu board up ahead with care. Scribbled on an old chalkboard that lay propped up against the street, none of us thought to bother with trying to decipher the scribblings on the menu, we were only here for croissants after all.... or so we thought.
No less than twenty minutes later, you’d find the whole lot of us four gathered quietly in a row of park benches, scarfing French buttery wonders with little to no breath to spare. You can always tell something is good when everyone eats silently, but especially when it’s me. We laughed and snapped photos, securing a day and moment we’d likely not want to forget. Next up, our scheduled city boat tour.
I always get into these tangos with the universe where for seemingly unending periods of time, the nature of our interactions is almost exclusively in the form of unwavering screech-halting jolts. There’s no ebb and flow, or push and pull. Instead, It’s more like I’m hurling down a mountain, flailing helplessly and dodging obstacles, trying everything to survive. Yet every so often, the tango subsides and I float around in a fleeting state of flow. Things line up, deadlines stretch out, and for a tiny blink’s worth of cosmic milliseconds, everything works itself out. I entered this state at this point during the trip.
For whatever reason, the boat tour tickets had not been market with anything more than a pickup address. The website said something about periodic cycles, but offered little to no insight about when each tour left/arrived, nor anything about how the boat ride lasted. Yet even despite taking the long way, walking leisurely along the seine, I couldn’t for my life explain to you how we managed to show up mere seconds before the hourly (now clarified by the teller) tour left the dock. What’s even more odd, four empty prime middle seats dead center on the top deck. It was like I was Snow White or something.
Adolfo had reached out to a friend about possibly meeting for lunch later that day, and she’d written back during our ride –we’d need to come meet her by 1pm latest. Beyond convenient that our hour-long boat tour had just taken off at noon. Coincidence? I think not.
Though I’m often keen on avoiding cheesy tourist attractions, I have to admit I just love a good boat ride. They’re smooth, relaxing, and if you’re lucky with both the group and guide, can make for quite the soothing experience. We did little more than just glide down the seine with the occasional fun-fact about some bridge coming up ahead, before finally arriving at the Eiffel Tower. It was my first time seeing it close up, and it really was something to behold. Something about the historic weight of getting to see and experience tangible things –in this case, a massive structure with such a powerful footprint on European history– that humans before us left behind always gets me choked up. I observed quietly as we floated from one end to the other. Soon, the boat made a u-turn, and we began our return. It was lovely, all of it really.
Upon docking, Adolfo got word from his friend. She’d come find us in the next ten minutes or so.
It wouldn’t be much longer before we’d be shaking hands with the lovey and ever so vibrant Tania. An old friend from high school, Tania had just recently moved to Paris as she made her way through a European internship program that was placing her at different marketing firms all over France. She’d just about rounded her first month in Paris, and the timing to welcome visitors for a true local’s experience couldn’t have possibly been better.
We strolled towards lunch as Tania filled us in on her latest whereabouts. She’d last talked to Adolfo a clean four or so years back, but her warm and welcoming personality could’ve fooled you into believing they’d never lost touch. I said it before and I’ll say it again, nothing beats meeting up with a local. There’s just something about them.
Not more than a dozen blocks or so later, we had made it to the local gem titled Liza (Linked here), one of my absolute favorite meals throughout the entire trip. A fresh family-style buffet filled with a mix of mediterranean staples, delicacies, and even a couple local creations was laid out on a long wooden table right at the venue’s front entrance. The restaurant is set up in a way that makes the whole experience much more intimate than your average dine, whereas rather than rotating platters around as they get consumed (as happens in every other buffet setup), they only schedule two large groups throughout the day. Restocking the plates only once in the morning and again in the evening, they supply just enough to complete two full rounds for the day. Inherently, the entire meal feels a lot less like an all-you-can-eat buffet, and much more like that of a gathering at a close friend’s place. Once the doors close, the room fills with energy as each table makes its way over to the serving stations, and I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling at how fitting the whole atmosphere of it all felt; Tania had almost instantly felt like a lifelong family friend, and what better way to foreshadow that feeling than by eating in a setting so unlike anywhere else?
We ate until even the air felt unwelcome in our throats.
As does also happen when you’ve felt yourself really at home with someone, several hours flew over in a wink’s worth of time, and before we knew it, we had completely blown past the Versailles palace time slots I'd booked the night before for us to do after dinner. I scrambled through my phone to see what day’s activity we might be able to swap so we’d still have something to do that evening, and thankfully after some quick thinking, we were headed on our way to the Basilica at Sacré-Cœur.
We bid Tania goodbye, and just as quickly as her sweet presence had flooded our evening with energy, she turned the corner and vanished into the maze. Onwards we went.
Out of every stroll I’d romanticize throughout our Parisian stay, the whole lot of the Sacré-Cœur area is absolutely not one of them. I’m sorry. I’m sure it holds some kind of meaning for others who have been before and had a better experience, but at least for me, it was way too busy and a little too unkept. There was some kind of street-fair fully crowding the entire overlook portion directly beneath the church, and if there’s one thing that’ll shoot my crowd anxiety through the roof, it’s giant piles of stagnant bodies looming mindlessly with no sense of direction. There’s a plethora of literature on why people behave the way they do in crowds, and even more so on the phobias these behaviors elicit, but I won’t even get into it. It wasn’t for me, but I’d recommend reading up on the area in case you see something that peeve’s your curiosity. I’m sure it’d worth visiting on perhaps a less packed day, or maybe at a different time.
Before we knew it, the sun had set, and it was time to head on home. Here’s where I’ll plug the importance of traveling with people who have like-minded interests because this particular walk home was an hour’s worth at minimum. And sure enough, we walked. But what else were we to do in Paris if not stroll it’s gorgeous streets and bask in the ambiance of their historic architecture?
It should go without saying that by now I’d completely ritualized the late-night hunt for an open grocery mini-mart (or what we’d call a bodega in NYC) for their light, crisp, and ever so cheap array of endless wine selections. Every night we strolled back to the apartment, I’d scope one out, dip right in, and finish up a bottle (sometimes two) while doing my last bits of writing and pushing through that dreaded end-of-day skincare routine you always tell yourself you'd regret skipping so don't.
On this particular nightly stroll, we stopped by a Mexican restaurant –of all the places you’d imagine we’d end up in Paris– where we couldn’t resist an order of tacos each before continuing along on our way. Another half hour of sweet strolling ensued.
Once home, I threw my shoes off at the front door, and lunged directly towards the wine.
Another day successfully wrapped.
As might happen during any trip you take where the first couple of days are nothing but frantic, you eventually reach an unmissable point of exhale where everyone kind of peeters out. The mornings slow down, the hype settles a bit, and you start to find yourself in this novel world much less like a foreigner and more just like anyone else. And what better way to convince yourself you're a local than to find one to meet up with?
We started out with a delayed morning wake (for once), heading out around 11 and stopping only until the smell of warm croissants and butter could finally fill our noses. We’d discovered a seemingly popular local bakery on our walk to the Lourve a couple days earlier, but opted to return on a less packed-up day as we were already running behind, and I'm so very glad that we did. Nestled in the heart of a quiet street of local businesses, was this old little bakery titled La Maison d’Isabelle.
Undoubtedly a local favorite, we made it just in time to join the long line that started winding around the corner and patiently watched as the crew opened up. A large shepherd pup lay carelessly on the rain-soaked cobble directly in front of us, his unsuspecting owner studying the menu board up ahead with care. Scribbled on an old chalkboard that lay propped up against the street, none of us thought to bother with trying to decipher the scribblings on the menu, we were only here for croissants after all.... or so we thought.
No less than twenty minutes later, you’d find the whole lot of us four gathered quietly in a row of park benches, scarfing French buttery wonders with little to no breath to spare. You can always tell something is good when everyone eats silently, but especially when it’s me. We laughed and snapped photos, securing a day and moment we’d likely not want to forget. Next up, our scheduled city boat tour.
I always get into these tangos with the universe where for seemingly unending periods of time, the nature of our interactions is almost exclusively in the form of unwavering screech-halting jolts. There’s no ebb and flow, or push and pull. Instead, It’s more like I’m hurling down a mountain, flailing helplessly and dodging obstacles, trying everything to survive. Yet every so often, the tango subsides and I float around in a fleeting state of flow. Things line up, deadlines stretch out, and for a tiny blink’s worth of cosmic milliseconds, everything works itself out. I entered this state at this point during the trip.
For whatever reason, the boat tour tickets had not been market with anything more than a pickup address. The website said something about periodic cycles, but offered little to no insight about when each tour left/arrived, nor anything about how the boat ride lasted. Yet even despite taking the long way, walking leisurely along the seine, I couldn’t for my life explain to you how we managed to show up mere seconds before the hourly (now clarified by the teller) tour left the dock. What’s even more odd, four empty prime middle seats dead center on the top deck. It was like I was Snow White or something.
Adolfo had reached out to a friend about possibly meeting for lunch later that day, and she’d written back during our ride –we’d need to come meet her by 1pm latest. Beyond convenient that our hour-long boat tour had just taken off at noon. Coincidence? I think not.
Though I’m often keen on avoiding cheesy tourist attractions, I have to admit I just love a good boat ride. They’re smooth, relaxing, and if you’re lucky with both the group and guide, can make for quite the soothing experience. We did little more than just glide down the seine with the occasional fun-fact about some bridge coming up ahead, before finally arriving at the Eiffel Tower. It was my first time seeing it close up, and it really was something to behold. Something about the historic weight of getting to see and experience tangible things –in this case, a massive structure with such a powerful footprint on European history– that humans before us left behind always gets me choked up. I observed quietly as we floated from one end to the other. Soon, the boat made a u-turn, and we began our return. It was lovely, all of it really.
Upon docking, Adolfo got word from his friend. She’d come find us in the next ten minutes or so.
It wouldn’t be much longer before we’d be shaking hands with the lovey and ever so vibrant Tania. An old friend from high school, Tania had just recently moved to Paris as she made her way through a European internship program that was placing her at different marketing firms all over France. She’d just about rounded her first month in Paris, and the timing to welcome visitors for a true local’s experience couldn’t have possibly been better.
We strolled towards lunch as Tania filled us in on her latest whereabouts. She’d last talked to Adolfo a clean four or so years back, but her warm and welcoming personality could’ve fooled you into believing they’d never lost touch. I said it before and I’ll say it again, nothing beats meeting up with a local. There’s just something about them.
Not more than a dozen blocks or so later, we had made it to the local gem titled Liza (Linked here), one of my absolute favorite meals throughout the entire trip. A fresh family-style buffet filled with a mix of mediterranean staples, delicacies, and even a couple local creations was laid out on a long wooden table right at the venue’s front entrance. The restaurant is set up in a way that makes the whole experience much more intimate than your average dine, whereas rather than rotating platters around as they get consumed (as happens in every other buffet setup), they only schedule two large groups throughout the day. Restocking the plates only once in the morning and again in the evening, they supply just enough to complete two full rounds for the day. Inherently, the entire meal feels a lot less like an all-you-can-eat buffet, and much more like that of a gathering at a close friend’s place. Once the doors close, the room fills with energy as each table makes its way over to the serving stations, and I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling at how fitting the whole atmosphere of it all felt; Tania had almost instantly felt like a lifelong family friend, and what better way to foreshadow that feeling than by eating in a setting so unlike anywhere else?
We ate until even the air felt unwelcome in our throats.
As does also happen when you’ve felt yourself really at home with someone, several hours flew over in a wink’s worth of time, and before we knew it, we had completely blown past the Versailles palace time slots I'd booked the night before for us to do after dinner. I scrambled through my phone to see what day’s activity we might be able to swap so we’d still have something to do that evening, and thankfully after some quick thinking, we were headed on our way to the Basilica at Sacré-Cœur.
We bid Tania goodbye, and just as quickly as her sweet presence had flooded our evening with energy, she turned the corner and vanished into the maze. Onwards we went.
Out of every stroll I’d romanticize throughout our Parisian stay, the whole lot of the Sacré-Cœur area is absolutely not one of them. I’m sorry. I’m sure it holds some kind of meaning for others who have been before and had a better experience, but at least for me, it was way too busy and a little too unkept. There was some kind of street-fair fully crowding the entire overlook portion directly beneath the church, and if there’s one thing that’ll shoot my crowd anxiety through the roof, it’s giant piles of stagnant bodies looming mindlessly with no sense of direction. There’s a plethora of literature on why people behave the way they do in crowds, and even more so on the phobias these behaviors elicit, but I won’t even get into it. It wasn’t for me, but I’d recommend reading up on the area in case you see something that peeve’s your curiosity. I’m sure it’d worth visiting on perhaps a less packed day, or maybe at a different time.
Before we knew it, the sun had set, and it was time to head on home. Here’s where I’ll plug the importance of traveling with people who have like-minded interests because this particular walk home was an hour’s worth at minimum. And sure enough, we walked. But what else were we to do in Paris if not stroll it’s gorgeous streets and bask in the ambiance of their historic architecture?
It should go without saying that by now I’d completely ritualized the late-night hunt for an open grocery mini-mart (or what we’d call a bodega in NYC) for their light, crisp, and ever so cheap array of endless wine selections. Every night we strolled back to the apartment, I’d scope one out, dip right in, and finish up a bottle (sometimes two) while doing my last bits of writing and pushing through that dreaded end-of-day skincare routine you always tell yourself you'd regret skipping so don't.
On this particular nightly stroll, we stopped by a Mexican restaurant –of all the places you’d imagine we’d end up in Paris– where we couldn’t resist an order of tacos each before continuing along on our way. Another half hour of sweet strolling ensued.
Once home, I threw my shoes off at the front door, and lunged directly towards the wine.
Another day successfully wrapped.
day Five
Day Five followed.
Probably one of my favorite days, day Five was the day we set aside to visit the Eiffel Tower and bask in all of it’s tower-y glory. Knowing we’d be running on the slower side of things, we set this day apart as a peaceful time of mostly lounging through different lawns in the area, and picnic-ing around the quiet gardens. We started the morning out with an uncharacteristically bougie brunch at a local restaurant that Sarah had pre-saved before the trip, Inavoué (Linked here). I’m not usually the biggest fan of pricy eateries with tiny portions, but I’ll give this place a pass. The decor was eclectic, the ambiance felt easygoing, and –despite the tall prices– the food actually felt very much worth the price.
It was nice to have a slow day for a change. Without all the last-minute rushing and anxiety-induced Uber-ing, it was much easier to feel like a local who just happened to be out for a stroll. I’d pre-saved key Eiffel photo spots, so we headed there next. To our surprise, that main street you see splashed up and down the Paris threads on Pinterest was absolutely tourist-free… my photo heart was beaming. You could just see where the sun started to peek through the trees, and I rushed to adjust my camera settings, eager to capture everyone around.
Possibly the most dad-like thing I did on that trip, I set everyone up, posing each member of our group individually and making sure everyone’s perfect tower photo was secured. I’ve written about dodging overdone photo spots in the past, and though I’ll agree that’s still very much the case, there are often some key exceptions where I know I just have to cave. This was certainly one of them. We must’ve spent at least half an hour of just pose-swapping and self-hyped selfie-ing before finally tiring out our smiling faces. I dug up the nearest corner store on Google maps, and after a quick gathering of all things vino and treats, we headed over to the big lawn.
For the next hour or so, we basked in the cool weather while snacking on dried meets and cheeses. The air felt light, and the overcast clouds tented our faces with a soft October sun. We grew silent for a bit. I closed my eyes long enough to hear Adolfo quietly snoring to my right, briefly opening them just in time to share a smile with Sarah who had noticed it too. It was too endearing, cheesy almost. But it was perfect, nonetheless.
I let my mind drift.
Our stay was brief, easily under two hours. We left shortly after, at the beckon of a need for restrooms. Walking towards the gardens, we crossed the street that lies directly behind the tower (and subsequently leads right to it), joining the mall of tourists that eagerly posed for their much-awaited Eiffel Tower shots in the Trocadero Gardens.
Seeing as the last portion of our plans had consummated ahead of schedule, we decided to see if we could catch an Uber to the official Paris team’s soccer stadium far off west–undoubtedly at the boy’s request. Stocked with custom jerseys and local gems, the Paris Saint-Germain F.C. store would be closing soon, and we were lucky enough to sprint in with a short fifteen or so minutes to spare. Adolfo was elated.
Patiently as humanly possible, I waited outside with Sarah, both us laughing at ourselves for somehow ending up at the most random place in Paris with a bunch of sweaty soccer-loving boys. The irony isn't lost on me, rest assured. Jerseys secured, we packed up for the night and Ubered back into town for dinner.
We ended the night at a charming little establishment, Le Café des Musées (Linked here). Though most of our dinner spot memories blend into each more every time I look back, this one I most surely remember given it was the place where we sampled one of the country’s local delicacies – Boeuf Bourguignon. A sweet, almost bitter stewed soft cut of beef is served with simmered veggies, and a bed of plushy potato mash to pair. Some red to keep ourselves quenched, of course, and what else could you need? A five star meal in my book.
Same as before, we walked home that night.
Day five eventually found its end as well.
Probably one of my favorite days, day Five was the day we set aside to visit the Eiffel Tower and bask in all of it’s tower-y glory. Knowing we’d be running on the slower side of things, we set this day apart as a peaceful time of mostly lounging through different lawns in the area, and picnic-ing around the quiet gardens. We started the morning out with an uncharacteristically bougie brunch at a local restaurant that Sarah had pre-saved before the trip, Inavoué (Linked here). I’m not usually the biggest fan of pricy eateries with tiny portions, but I’ll give this place a pass. The decor was eclectic, the ambiance felt easygoing, and –despite the tall prices– the food actually felt very much worth the price.
It was nice to have a slow day for a change. Without all the last-minute rushing and anxiety-induced Uber-ing, it was much easier to feel like a local who just happened to be out for a stroll. I’d pre-saved key Eiffel photo spots, so we headed there next. To our surprise, that main street you see splashed up and down the Paris threads on Pinterest was absolutely tourist-free… my photo heart was beaming. You could just see where the sun started to peek through the trees, and I rushed to adjust my camera settings, eager to capture everyone around.
Possibly the most dad-like thing I did on that trip, I set everyone up, posing each member of our group individually and making sure everyone’s perfect tower photo was secured. I’ve written about dodging overdone photo spots in the past, and though I’ll agree that’s still very much the case, there are often some key exceptions where I know I just have to cave. This was certainly one of them. We must’ve spent at least half an hour of just pose-swapping and self-hyped selfie-ing before finally tiring out our smiling faces. I dug up the nearest corner store on Google maps, and after a quick gathering of all things vino and treats, we headed over to the big lawn.
For the next hour or so, we basked in the cool weather while snacking on dried meets and cheeses. The air felt light, and the overcast clouds tented our faces with a soft October sun. We grew silent for a bit. I closed my eyes long enough to hear Adolfo quietly snoring to my right, briefly opening them just in time to share a smile with Sarah who had noticed it too. It was too endearing, cheesy almost. But it was perfect, nonetheless.
I let my mind drift.
Our stay was brief, easily under two hours. We left shortly after, at the beckon of a need for restrooms. Walking towards the gardens, we crossed the street that lies directly behind the tower (and subsequently leads right to it), joining the mall of tourists that eagerly posed for their much-awaited Eiffel Tower shots in the Trocadero Gardens.
Seeing as the last portion of our plans had consummated ahead of schedule, we decided to see if we could catch an Uber to the official Paris team’s soccer stadium far off west–undoubtedly at the boy’s request. Stocked with custom jerseys and local gems, the Paris Saint-Germain F.C. store would be closing soon, and we were lucky enough to sprint in with a short fifteen or so minutes to spare. Adolfo was elated.
Patiently as humanly possible, I waited outside with Sarah, both us laughing at ourselves for somehow ending up at the most random place in Paris with a bunch of sweaty soccer-loving boys. The irony isn't lost on me, rest assured. Jerseys secured, we packed up for the night and Ubered back into town for dinner.
We ended the night at a charming little establishment, Le Café des Musées (Linked here). Though most of our dinner spot memories blend into each more every time I look back, this one I most surely remember given it was the place where we sampled one of the country’s local delicacies – Boeuf Bourguignon. A sweet, almost bitter stewed soft cut of beef is served with simmered veggies, and a bed of plushy potato mash to pair. Some red to keep ourselves quenched, of course, and what else could you need? A five star meal in my book.
Same as before, we walked home that night.
Day five eventually found its end as well.
day Six
I’ll never forget a quote from one of my favorite shows in college, that described the best days of your life as those you never truly plan to encounter. They’re the days you don’t recognize until they’re happening right in front of you. Until you’re right smack dab in the middle of them, realizing they’ve changed you forever. The same ones you replay decades later, longing wistfully to revisit if only for a couple seconds back in time. Those full and unforgettable perfect days.
Day six found me like that.
I’d originally planned for a relaxed noon-ish exit and late morning lunch ahead of our 4:30pm train ride to our next destination –southern port city Marseille–, but seeing as we fudged the schedule and missed our opportunity to visit the Palace of Versailles earlier that week, we decided to squeeze it in before the afternoon train. Brilliant planning, really. Sitting at a comfortable forty-ish minute commute outside of the main Paris tourist radius, it didn’t feel completely impossible, but would definitely take some rushing around to pull off. Especially given our not-at-all-politely-priced Marseille train tickets were non-refundable.
Needless to say, we hurried out early AM, stopping only momentarily to drop our bags at a local CityLocker hub. We’d need to rush back and collect them before boarding the train, but seeing as our AirBnb host was unresponsive about a late checkout the night before, it was the best option we could stitch together. Done, dropped, and en-route to the gorgeously acclaimed gardens of the Palace.
We arrived shortly after eleven, moving quickly through the Palace’s cobble stone entrance as we made our way to the ticketing office. Unfortunately for us, there wouldn’t be enough time to see both the inside of the Palace as well as the gardens, and seeing as the gardens really do open up beautifully with an immense array of hedges and greenery that you can see well from even the front entrance, the choice was absolutely unanimous. Off to the gardens we went.
Words will absolutely fail here as I fully attest this is one of those places you just have to see for yourself. Miles of manicured lawns extend in every possible direction, with golden statues, ornate floral arrangements, and even hidden fountains sprinkled within. An absolute Alice in Wonderland garden fantasy. Towering hedges arranged in maze-like formations guide you along different routes throughout the space, with private pockets and secret rooms opening up at the turn of any corner. Need I say more?
To make matters even more stupid dreamy, we’d arrived in peak autumnal season –complete with golden leaves showering every inch of the opening in a slow and steady glow. The ground crunched around us as we made our way quietly through, and the softest October chill brushed the backs of our necks with ease. I was beyond giddy.
Day six found me like that.
I’d originally planned for a relaxed noon-ish exit and late morning lunch ahead of our 4:30pm train ride to our next destination –southern port city Marseille–, but seeing as we fudged the schedule and missed our opportunity to visit the Palace of Versailles earlier that week, we decided to squeeze it in before the afternoon train. Brilliant planning, really. Sitting at a comfortable forty-ish minute commute outside of the main Paris tourist radius, it didn’t feel completely impossible, but would definitely take some rushing around to pull off. Especially given our not-at-all-politely-priced Marseille train tickets were non-refundable.
Needless to say, we hurried out early AM, stopping only momentarily to drop our bags at a local CityLocker hub. We’d need to rush back and collect them before boarding the train, but seeing as our AirBnb host was unresponsive about a late checkout the night before, it was the best option we could stitch together. Done, dropped, and en-route to the gorgeously acclaimed gardens of the Palace.
We arrived shortly after eleven, moving quickly through the Palace’s cobble stone entrance as we made our way to the ticketing office. Unfortunately for us, there wouldn’t be enough time to see both the inside of the Palace as well as the gardens, and seeing as the gardens really do open up beautifully with an immense array of hedges and greenery that you can see well from even the front entrance, the choice was absolutely unanimous. Off to the gardens we went.
Words will absolutely fail here as I fully attest this is one of those places you just have to see for yourself. Miles of manicured lawns extend in every possible direction, with golden statues, ornate floral arrangements, and even hidden fountains sprinkled within. An absolute Alice in Wonderland garden fantasy. Towering hedges arranged in maze-like formations guide you along different routes throughout the space, with private pockets and secret rooms opening up at the turn of any corner. Need I say more?
To make matters even more stupid dreamy, we’d arrived in peak autumnal season –complete with golden leaves showering every inch of the opening in a slow and steady glow. The ground crunched around us as we made our way quietly through, and the softest October chill brushed the backs of our necks with ease. I was beyond giddy.
We walked into a massive clearing, two rows of trees towering high into the clouds on each side. I heaved a big breath of cold air. Watching the leaves fall in slow motion reminded me of a morning walk I’d taken through our neighborhood a couple weeks back in Brooklyn. I’d been feeling particularly down that day, and remember this odd, almost lazy leaf just plopping right into my hand as I inched forward just in time to grab it. Little more than a slow cupping motion had been needed for it to quietly land on my palm, and I almost screamed because it felt so absolutely perfect. Had anyone been watching? Was I in some kind of movie scene? This clearing reminded me of that.
And before I knew it, I was darting across the lawn, trying to see if I could catch another one here.
It felt so good to cosplay childhood, even if it was for the tiniest bit.
When was the last time you ran around a lawn laughing uncontrollably at the most insignificant things?
I must’ve looked like a crazy person.
…And before they knew it, Adolfo and Satwik decided to join in on the fun.
It found me then, this full and perfect day.
It plays out like a soft vintage film now every time I look back. The three of us running, laughing, trying hard to see who could catch the most leaves. Sarah smiling and recording.
Fully caught up in the moment now, I let the tears well up inside, eyes heavy with mist and gratitude. These are the days that make life worth living, I whispered looking off into the clouds, the wind pushing my tears into my hair. Time would soon be catching up to us.
Without missing a beat, our pre-set alarms announced it was time to be heading out. We’d need to make our way back into the city now if we were going to make that train to Marseille. And off we went.
And before I knew it, I was darting across the lawn, trying to see if I could catch another one here.
It felt so good to cosplay childhood, even if it was for the tiniest bit.
When was the last time you ran around a lawn laughing uncontrollably at the most insignificant things?
I must’ve looked like a crazy person.
…And before they knew it, Adolfo and Satwik decided to join in on the fun.
It found me then, this full and perfect day.
It plays out like a soft vintage film now every time I look back. The three of us running, laughing, trying hard to see who could catch the most leaves. Sarah smiling and recording.
Fully caught up in the moment now, I let the tears well up inside, eyes heavy with mist and gratitude. These are the days that make life worth living, I whispered looking off into the clouds, the wind pushing my tears into my hair. Time would soon be catching up to us.
Without missing a beat, our pre-set alarms announced it was time to be heading out. We’d need to make our way back into the city now if we were going to make that train to Marseille. And off we went.
Now comes the part where I make the fair warning that catching a cross-country train in a foreign setting where you don’t speak the language is not something you want to do on a time crunch. Though making our way back into the city and retrieving our luggage from the CityLocker hub proved to be a matter of simple route, the rest of our trek was far from uneventful.
The first thing we needed to figure out was how to get us, and our massive two week’s worth of luggage across town and into the train station. Pretty simple, right? Wrong. For whatever ungodly reason that I never took time to properly follow up on, the Uber system in Paris is bewilderingly unreliable. Comical at times, but deadly when you’ve just realized that your non-refundable train leaves in exactly twenty three minutes. We each called for a pickup, hoping to prioritize whoever’s driver showed up first, but –as they always do in Paris– the lead-up times kept recalculating to ten, fifteen, and even twenty extra minute increments. Now on the verge of frantic, I decided that hailing a street cab would probably be our next best option. And you better believe my arms were flailing. The first car that pulled around said he’d only take two, so in Adolfo and I went. I shoved our luggage in the trunk faster than you can say pastry and turned only in time to watch Sarah and Satwik grow smaller in the rearview mirror, catching a small glimpse of their very own boarding into a red vehicle before we turned the corner and they were completely out of sight.
When we did finally pull up to the station, a whole four precious minutes ahead of schedule, the next part of our mission impossible took its course. Think Emiliano, I whispered back and forth watching the train listings shuffle on the digital board, desperately looking for our designated train. There! I traced the last four digits and carefully checked the listed platform before sprinting off into the station, Adolfo following closely behind. Once through the platform turnstiles, we needed to find our specific train car in order to access our pre-bought seats… goody. Some large numbers painted outside each cart seemed to indicate the order, but after realizing they repeated over after three, we knew we’d have to look somewhere else for reference. Leaning closer into each cart entrance, I spotted the smallest number listed on an analog, almost microwave-like screen and shouted to Adolfo who was inspecting the cart directly behind. I rushed over to the next and confirmed these small tiny numbers were indeed in ascending order, so we’d finally know which to board. We were almost there. But of course we’d be on cart 16, the last one on the platform, and had just now passed number five… we were going to have to sprint. We jolted full speed towards the tail of the train, my heart pounding with adrenaline, and my head screaming that Sarah or Satwik wouldn’t make it if they didn’t run in now.
I boarded the train with one big leap, shoving my luggage on in with such graceless heaving you might’ve believed the oxygen was scarce. Adolfo followed in shortly after, his athletic build making a mockery of my slouched silhouette. Talk about an entrance, I thought. Call Sarah and check to see if they made it was my next immediate thought. We made our way upstairs to the designated seats, and I stacked our luggage in the storage compartments while shuffling through my phone to get Sarah on the line.
They’re not going to make it. I repeated to myself.
Hello? A loud and confused Sarah answered the phone. A noisy crowd bustled in the background.
Huh?! No I can’t hear you. We made it to the platform but we can’t seem to find the cart number. They just repeat after three! She uttered.
Look at the tiny numbers! I shouted, forgetting I was now inside a train full of unsuspecting passengers.
THE TINY NUMBERS! I screamed once more, before Adolfo tapped my shoulder, slowly motioning that I should keep my voice low. People were staring.
God they’re never going to make it –the train leaves in two minutes. I worried out loud.
Let me see if I can find them, it sounds like they’re close by, Adolfo replied in his best reassuring tone.
Before I even had a chance to fully process what he’d repeated back, he was down the stairs and out the door.
Everyone is going to miss this, and I’m going to be stuck in the middle of Marseille…The thought rang inside my head like a loud echoing clang.
Maybe I should– ...it was too late.
I felt the jolt of the cart thrust forward, my body turning instinctively towards the window to confirm the absolute worst… the train had started its course.
I was stranded with no friends in sight.
Defeated, I took a seat by the window, looking to see if I could spot my abandoning friends down the hall but to no avail. I pulled out my laptop, and quickly set up the wifi to see where I’d be arriving –Sarah had planned so much of Marseille after all. I needed to think of how I’d manage.
Is this seat taken? an arm reached out from behind and squeezed my shoulder with playful force. A now much less graceful, sweaty but smiling Adolfo greeted my gaze. Sarah and Satwik peeking out behind him.
My friends had made it after all.
I let my heart sink in momentary relief before jumping into a full rage about my call moments earlier with Sarah. Why wouldn’t you just shut up and listen! I was telling you about the numbers! I shouted. Satwik motioned I remain calm as other passengers were starting to stare again, and I let my anger fade. They were here, and I guess that was what really mattered.
After some quick adjusting, seat-switching, and charger-swapping, we finally settled in for the ride. Marseille would greet us soon enough.
The first thing we needed to figure out was how to get us, and our massive two week’s worth of luggage across town and into the train station. Pretty simple, right? Wrong. For whatever ungodly reason that I never took time to properly follow up on, the Uber system in Paris is bewilderingly unreliable. Comical at times, but deadly when you’ve just realized that your non-refundable train leaves in exactly twenty three minutes. We each called for a pickup, hoping to prioritize whoever’s driver showed up first, but –as they always do in Paris– the lead-up times kept recalculating to ten, fifteen, and even twenty extra minute increments. Now on the verge of frantic, I decided that hailing a street cab would probably be our next best option. And you better believe my arms were flailing. The first car that pulled around said he’d only take two, so in Adolfo and I went. I shoved our luggage in the trunk faster than you can say pastry and turned only in time to watch Sarah and Satwik grow smaller in the rearview mirror, catching a small glimpse of their very own boarding into a red vehicle before we turned the corner and they were completely out of sight.
When we did finally pull up to the station, a whole four precious minutes ahead of schedule, the next part of our mission impossible took its course. Think Emiliano, I whispered back and forth watching the train listings shuffle on the digital board, desperately looking for our designated train. There! I traced the last four digits and carefully checked the listed platform before sprinting off into the station, Adolfo following closely behind. Once through the platform turnstiles, we needed to find our specific train car in order to access our pre-bought seats… goody. Some large numbers painted outside each cart seemed to indicate the order, but after realizing they repeated over after three, we knew we’d have to look somewhere else for reference. Leaning closer into each cart entrance, I spotted the smallest number listed on an analog, almost microwave-like screen and shouted to Adolfo who was inspecting the cart directly behind. I rushed over to the next and confirmed these small tiny numbers were indeed in ascending order, so we’d finally know which to board. We were almost there. But of course we’d be on cart 16, the last one on the platform, and had just now passed number five… we were going to have to sprint. We jolted full speed towards the tail of the train, my heart pounding with adrenaline, and my head screaming that Sarah or Satwik wouldn’t make it if they didn’t run in now.
I boarded the train with one big leap, shoving my luggage on in with such graceless heaving you might’ve believed the oxygen was scarce. Adolfo followed in shortly after, his athletic build making a mockery of my slouched silhouette. Talk about an entrance, I thought. Call Sarah and check to see if they made it was my next immediate thought. We made our way upstairs to the designated seats, and I stacked our luggage in the storage compartments while shuffling through my phone to get Sarah on the line.
They’re not going to make it. I repeated to myself.
Hello? A loud and confused Sarah answered the phone. A noisy crowd bustled in the background.
Huh?! No I can’t hear you. We made it to the platform but we can’t seem to find the cart number. They just repeat after three! She uttered.
Look at the tiny numbers! I shouted, forgetting I was now inside a train full of unsuspecting passengers.
THE TINY NUMBERS! I screamed once more, before Adolfo tapped my shoulder, slowly motioning that I should keep my voice low. People were staring.
God they’re never going to make it –the train leaves in two minutes. I worried out loud.
Let me see if I can find them, it sounds like they’re close by, Adolfo replied in his best reassuring tone.
Before I even had a chance to fully process what he’d repeated back, he was down the stairs and out the door.
Everyone is going to miss this, and I’m going to be stuck in the middle of Marseille…The thought rang inside my head like a loud echoing clang.
Maybe I should– ...it was too late.
I felt the jolt of the cart thrust forward, my body turning instinctively towards the window to confirm the absolute worst… the train had started its course.
I was stranded with no friends in sight.
Defeated, I took a seat by the window, looking to see if I could spot my abandoning friends down the hall but to no avail. I pulled out my laptop, and quickly set up the wifi to see where I’d be arriving –Sarah had planned so much of Marseille after all. I needed to think of how I’d manage.
Is this seat taken? an arm reached out from behind and squeezed my shoulder with playful force. A now much less graceful, sweaty but smiling Adolfo greeted my gaze. Sarah and Satwik peeking out behind him.
My friends had made it after all.
I let my heart sink in momentary relief before jumping into a full rage about my call moments earlier with Sarah. Why wouldn’t you just shut up and listen! I was telling you about the numbers! I shouted. Satwik motioned I remain calm as other passengers were starting to stare again, and I let my anger fade. They were here, and I guess that was what really mattered.
After some quick adjusting, seat-switching, and charger-swapping, we finally settled in for the ride. Marseille would greet us soon enough.
An hour or so later, I woke up to the speeding hills of southern France rushing swiftly past our window. What a dream today had been. This was one of those moments I could’ve never seen for myself, despite my daydreaming affinities. To be here, surrounded by loving friends, making my way through the literal unknown. Traveling, tasting, and discovering Europe. It warmed my heart.
No sooner before I could gather my thoughts and put pen to paper, the train pulled up to the station.
Marseille welcomed us with a warm dusk in a quiet station.
And so dear friends, we arrive at the break in this piece where I wrap up our golden Paris adventures, you can read all about our three-day stint in Marseille here. Once wrapped, we returned on a late night train for one last night in Paris before promptly heading out the next morning.
It was –as most beautiful things in life that greet us serendipitously are– resolved at last.
Gleefully conscious of the indulgent lengths I’ve taken at liberty here, I’ll be short as I close, promise.
Writing about Paris prior to officially unearthing my long-time silent website felt so deeply important given the milestone I up and decided it represented for my life… It honestly delayed the live link for over a month! But it felt so necessary. I wanted to kick this place off with a piece that not only detailed the world around me as I sometimes experience it during moments of bliss, but also speak to the voice and angle that ultimately authors my work on here. Traveling to this length and in this capacity was so beyond any reality I could’ve fathomed for so long, so touching on the growth, strife, and advancement that ultimately went behind it felt just as important to include. Now, sitting on the other side of it, I’ve nothing but gratitude left to express.
One thing is for sure, I’ll undoubtedly return to this enchanted place of buttery pastries and riverside sunsets. And who knows maybe next time I’ll stay for a while? Emilé in Paris is just a daydream away...
Stay close, the best is yet to come.
No sooner before I could gather my thoughts and put pen to paper, the train pulled up to the station.
Marseille welcomed us with a warm dusk in a quiet station.
And so dear friends, we arrive at the break in this piece where I wrap up our golden Paris adventures, you can read all about our three-day stint in Marseille here. Once wrapped, we returned on a late night train for one last night in Paris before promptly heading out the next morning.
It was –as most beautiful things in life that greet us serendipitously are– resolved at last.
Gleefully conscious of the indulgent lengths I’ve taken at liberty here, I’ll be short as I close, promise.
Writing about Paris prior to officially unearthing my long-time silent website felt so deeply important given the milestone I up and decided it represented for my life… It honestly delayed the live link for over a month! But it felt so necessary. I wanted to kick this place off with a piece that not only detailed the world around me as I sometimes experience it during moments of bliss, but also speak to the voice and angle that ultimately authors my work on here. Traveling to this length and in this capacity was so beyond any reality I could’ve fathomed for so long, so touching on the growth, strife, and advancement that ultimately went behind it felt just as important to include. Now, sitting on the other side of it, I’ve nothing but gratitude left to express.
One thing is for sure, I’ll undoubtedly return to this enchanted place of buttery pastries and riverside sunsets. And who knows maybe next time I’ll stay for a while? Emilé in Paris is just a daydream away...
Stay close, the best is yet to come.
© 2023 Millian