Paris, Day One: Is It Obvious
We're American?

Three days in Paris.

I’m not much of a traveller; it’s technically by choice, but I would argue it’s mostly due to financial necessity, being a 29-year-old hospitality worker in America who lives alone.

So, when I am fortunate enough to travel, I always feel a little more connected to others. Not necessarily the world, because, my life, unfortunately, is not on a path similar to Bourdain or Rick Steves. More so that, after I return from a trip, I have the ability to say “have you been to…?” And then I feel as though I can empathize with others’ excitement and reminiscing of thier own trips rather than pretend I’ve drunk wine in France just because I’ve studied Bordeaux. I would also like to be able to contribute some type of conviction for others who maybe have not traveled much either. Maybe, like me, the stories and images of another country will allow them to feel there is another world out there, and give them some courage – more so than hope – to travel, so they can one day continue the chain of “have you been to…?”.

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My family and I arrived in France August 12 at about two in the afternoon, and headed for Rue du Montmartre, Paris.

Our introduction to the city was that of ‘guess the foreigner’. From the airport, our Uber driver drove the Parisian streets as if he had calculated the risks of each turn and swerves made by himself and the other cars, and strategically played his hand. Suppressing nausea and fear of crashing was easy if one simply looked out the window, especially if that one was a tourist. Erected high and lining the narrow alleys, there is more history preserved in 10 buildings on a single block than there is in most of the United States. But should the U.S. desire the optics of maturity, wisdom, and romance, I would suggest constructing with French limestone and every three feet affix quaint terraces with iron railings, and chiseling whimsical patterns into each. In place of modern windows, widdle wooden shutters of powder blue and pastel turquoise to protect from the sun's rays. As a visitor, I can only imagine that to open them every morning must feel like a parade of people below cheering for your having escaped a life of gloom and anxiety. Terracotta shingles are a nice touch too.

One only needs an imagination and open mind to admire a city from a car window. To consider the types of characters, so many years ago, who sauntered the streets and painted them rouge, or to fathom the mindset of artistic greats who searched for the best outlets for displaying their intimate outlooks on the world. And likely which drug to consume next.

Present day residents peddled about the streets, and I searched for a woman wearing pastels to be carrying a baguette – no such luck. But that stereotype would be replaced by the mass number of people chain smoking.

We arrived onto Rue du Montmartre. Our driver, who did not speak English, kindly allowed us out of the car before requesting we pay him in cash for the bill we had already paid when scheduling this drive. He guessed the tourists correctly, and proved that the house always wins.

But we were in Paris, and I, at least, was ready to be swept by the art, espresso, and croissants that have heavily shaped our considerations for this state.

The red door to the apartment building in which we were staying was an easy landmark, but not an outlier on the cobbled street. Paris was colorful in character – which I would discover more of later – and also in hue. There is no HOA to contractually define aesthetics in order to mold all the would-be-oblong shops into perfect cubes. Bright yellow walls of petite cafés were illuminated by the sun through gracious windows. Four brasseries occupied the 500 meters of street on which we are staying, with Lebanese restaurants, grocery markets, and clothing stores wedged into different pockets of space like a finally-tuned game of tetras. It appeared, due to the lack of congruence between each shop, that every brasserie and business was placed where it could fit, and the rent has always been paid on time, and that is all that has mattered.

A sweaty man named Otto walked to us wearing an unclipped bike helmet and elastic material that squeezed his body. He spoke English very well, and I could tell that the loft he rents out is likely mostly to Americans or English speakers.

To the third floor, he guided us up the stairwell, which was designed for a fit European. We twisted and squeezed, breathing becoming pleas for air and rest, especially as the congested heat slowed its attempt to escape the hall the higher we climbed. But with much sweat and anxiety, we made it to rest after 12 hours of traveling. Should we not be exhausted – our necks and backs stiffened from the plane’s seats, and our bodies layered with dried sweat, a new coat now added – the loft would be pleasant. French jazz would soothe our souls through the walls as the patisseries that spiderwebbed about Paris would add us to the list of their submissives with their buttery scent. But we could not be swayed by anything at the moment. As a family, in our fatigued state, we could only consider how everything was much smaller than assumed, and we were most definitely tourists, playing that we are open-minded. In reality, we would have preferred a space made for Texans. But at least there was AC.


A short siesta of showers and connecting to wifi for the first time in hours. I played Jazz music – ‘si tu vois ma mere’, by Sydney Bechet  –  to feel like I was in the movie ‘Midnight in Paris’, and it would have worked better if I had had a glass of Sancerre or Aperol spritz in my hand.

Not a five minute walk from our less-than-palatial loft was a strip of brasseries on Rue du Coquillière. Six of which shared walls as they bent around less than a city block in length.

POPPY was our first French restaurant experience.

Picture in your mind a French café. Don’t alter your image in any way. That was what POPPY – and every other brasserie on the block – looked like. Round tables with one foot of space between the other begged us to be thin. The chairs were wicker and each table had an ash tray in the center.

“Bonjour,” my family attempted in stuttering French. The server did not speak English, but we managed to order successfully.

I believe when in another country – or anywhere new for that matter – it is important to try all that you are not accustomed to. To not strive for the English-based menu, and to use your limited understanding of the native localisms to decide which dish you will eat. It adds a bit of levity to the experience of travel, and each decision becomes a bit of a mystery that will lead to a surprise – maybe not always the most pleasant of surprises, but if we were attempting for always pleasant, we would stay at home.

I know little French from my four years of failing French class in high school, so I was the most equipped of my family to pretend I knew what I was doing. I ordered a truffle croquet, not knowing what it was. Turns out it is a staple for the French and is like the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had – made with focaccia, every bite is so flavorful you wonder why it’s only 10 euros. I paired it with a glass of Petite Chablis, simply because the bottle had the word Chablis on it and I’m always on the hunt for a Chardonnay that will change my mind. A charcuterie for the table and spritzes all around, and all was devoured in 30 minutes.

We would have eaten faster had we been in America, I believe. But the French have a way of manipulating the energy of the surrounding atmosphere. Time moves the same, but you’re never in a rush despite what you may have to do. You realize that wherever you are heading next will still be there whenever you get there. I acquiesced more easily than assumed, and finally understood what a toxic relationship is like – retrospect that you deserve better and have always deserved better.

But this was still a busy city. In three days, when I’m in the countryside in Avignon, we’ll see how much I can actually handle slowing down.