The streets of Paris sang. I arrived on a bright afternoon and wandered with google maps gripped in one hand, my luggage in the other. It was a 45 minute walk to the attic Airbnb I’d booked for a five day solo trip. Having ridden the train in from Montpellier, a short 3 hour trip, I was still fresh and wide eyed. Yet nervous, and shy. It was my first solo trip in France, although coming to France in the first place was as solo as a trip could get. But when I’d landed in Montpellier with my heavy bags and stunned exhaustion, I hadn’t had the time to process my alone-ness. I was shuffled off from plane to bus to train to another bus by the student welcoming committee, eventually landing in front of a dorm room where I quickly passed out on a naked mattress, in desperate need of a working phone, bed sheets, and familiar face.
Fast forward through months of studies, faces that slowly softened into familiarity, and a new phone number starting with +33. My program was on a break, and I had nothing better to do than book a cheap train to Paris by myself. What I considered a solo tip equivalent to practicing breast strokes in the shallow end of a pool. If I really needed to, I could stand up.
My vision of future solo trips stretched much deeper. Dreams of trekking the mountains of Patagonia, braving cooking classes in Thailand, and navigating the steep cliffs and stunning waterfalls of Iceland lapped at the shore of my mind almost daily. The anticipatory thrill of stepping truly out of my comfort zone to explore somewhere new. Taking a train to Paris, when I’d already been living in the south of France for months now? Piece of cake.
My French still sucked, though. Fatigued with translating menus and indecision, my hunger won over any sense of cultural exploration. I slunk into a burger joint reminiscent of a 1920’s American diner. Ordered a burger and fries, and avoided eye contact with my tired waiter, who stood there impatiently while I tried to order.
“Je voudrais un… burger, merci. Avec… fries?” Were they French fries here? I hadn’t considered this until now. I laughed and my neck flushed. I was sweating. Relief was immediate when he finally turned to leave, and I pulled out my pocket journal, detailing the humiliation in messy scrawl across a fresh page.
The rest of the trip went something like this. I wandered everywhere. Over the following days I never caught a bus or used the underground tube. I walked and walked and walked, like Mauro from my favorite novel ‘The Cook,’ who traces the wintery streets of Berlin powered by steaming foils of kebab. I walked and clung to my credit card, using it sparingly towards hot croissants and sandwiches that I ate at the edge of the Seine. I took refuge at outdoor cafe tables, ordering coffees and writing and practicing the language until my head hurt and my hands shook from the caffeine. I watched people. Families heading to the park and young couples on dates. Old men with shoulder bags full of baguettes and artists lamenting in the streets. I stayed in those streets, pulsing with life – singing. In the evenings, I traded coffee for delicate glasses of red wine, and idly considered smoking as a cloud drifted from one table over.
Aside from that first afternoon at the diner, I was approached with unexpected friendliness. A man leaned against the wall outside my cafe, smoke rising from his fingers, and eyed my furious writing.
“What is it about?” He asked, accent thick, eyes hovering somewhat close to curiosity, smoke now pouring out his nose. An artist type. The city smelled of sweet tobacco and acrylic paint. I shrugged. I didn’t really know. A stream of consciousness? My life? Ideas for a novel? The words swam in front of my eyes. I didn’t have a good answer to this question, never have. But I wasn’t about to ruin the moment.
“A novel,” I decided. “About a woman, alone.” It was all I could come up with, and probably the only subject I had any business writing about anyway. Something familiar. I could come up with the minute details of a ticking clock or empty room. Holding my breath. My feelings. The terror restrained to my head.
He looked from my notebook to my face and lingered. The lady from inside said they were closing shop, and I understood her. Finally, some progress with my language studies. It started to rain a few minutes later, and she ushered me back down with another coffee. The man left and I sat under the awning as water washed the cobblestone streets and Parisians ran for cover. A few huddled nearby, and the woman brought them each a steaming little cup on a dish, and we watched the downpour together.
I entered a basement to the pounding bass and garbled lyrics of ‘Les Clopes’, pushed to and fro in a crowd of high schoolers still with backpacks hanging from their shoulders. It was dark and sweaty, and for a few moments I wished someone was there with me, to grab my hand and trade flashes of electric teeth in the blue and purple show lights. But the music sank in soon after, and I forgot about it. I closed my eyes and tried to stay upright. Drinks spilled and the band adorned matching sunglasses and the tiny, sweaty crowd shouted words that made no sense to me and finally I remembered to love it.
That last afternoon was my favorite. Luxembourg Gardens threw me into a state of reverence, every corner presenting a scene more beautiful than the last. A sunny day with flowers just starting to bloom and a gathering of old and young around chess tables. I inched closer, studious. There were some sharks among the crowd. Their concentration palpable. I wanted to play, but didn’t. Next time, I told myself, walking back down the path towards a tiny attic that felt like home. As I quickly packed my things and left for the train station, I though; next time, I will swim further out.