Friday
Austin and I arrived in Paris on a Friday afternoon and hopped on a mostly empty coach bus to take us to our train station. The driver spoke French and only angry French when I tried to show him that I was carrying BOTH our digital transit cards in my iPhone -- something the website clearly stated was allowed -- so Austin shelled out Euros while I took my seat and scowled. My patience has worn down to bone in recent months, and I've become one of those dark clouds that Danielle and I made fun of when we got here. Head to toe in black down, barreling against cold winds and crowded buses.
I took one of those Myers-Briggs tests again and for the first time ever scored an "F" in my initials (haha). I've tested at least twice as an INTJ, but this time transitioned (past the 50 percent line!) from "thinking" to "feeling" (INFJ). I chatted with Austin about whether his emotional stability and support has created a safe space for me to actually inhabit my emotional self and not bury it under ration/logic of "If I react then that will cause a reaction in return, so I'm going to pretend I'm OK with things I'm not." Basically, I believe energies try to find balance and the path of least resistance, and in the past I tried to embody a logical version of myself to counteract emotional flux elsewhere. But then I met Austin, an actual chill pill. He doesn't get angry, doesn't hyperfixate, doesn't take anything personally. Listens to me have painful existential crises about relationships and purpose and holds me and says, I understand. It's okay. It doesn't bother me.
On Friday, after we checked into the Hotel le Relais Saint Charles, we walked down to Les Tomettes on avenue de la Motte Picquet and I ordered a squash soup, accompanied by a basket of bread. Mmm after all the travel, the cozy soup was divine, earthy and lightly spiced, just enough sweet. Austin faced the street, I faced him. We talked, as we always do, about living in a European city, the pros (the accessibility, people-watching, architecture, food) and the cons (for me, being in a swarm of people, and living so far from nature). He's always felt more European than American, he's told me several times, something I've never quite been able to relate to, despite being half-European. Do I love sidewalk sitting and coffee sipping, ice-cream licking? Sure, especially now that I've drank a few cups of incredibly good coffee since being in Europe. And, while I love the open roads of the American West for their "freedom", freedom in America is dangerously in question, and true freedom might be more in line with the European transit system that connects you to literally any city you want to visit. Here, you can spend your workday on an ICE and be in a different country by dinner. So, I get it. But when Austin talks about Valencia, Madrid, maybe Paris, I never say absolutely. But I guess I never say that about anything, do I?
Back at our hotel, as Austin got ready for a work meeting, I Googled nearby hairdressers & walked to one less than five minutes away. For ten minutes I lay back in the sink as a pot-bellied French man who only spoke in short bursts of heavily accented English massaged delightfully floral conditioners and oils into my hair. I mmmed a probably inappropriate amount of times and then watched in the mirror as he gave me the haircut a German hairdresser horribly failed at just two weeks before. I've never stood up during a haircut before, but he had me standing and sitting and tilting my head. Happy with the new style, I marched into the nearby mall to celebrate-buy a dinner dress but had no luck. I bought a black belt instead, curled it in my big jacket pocket and shouldered the cold wind back.
I was back at the hotel at 6:20 pm, only 20 minutes after Austin's meeting started. To avoid being on camera, I waited downstairs in the lobby for nearly an hour and then snuck into the room and sat on the floor across from the bed. His meeting lasted until 8, after which our hurried meandering to find food took us down Rue Desaix to In Casa, a bustling Italian restaurant in le 15th arrondissement. We sat in a back corner, snacking on super flavorful bruschetta and then a delectable dinner: tomato-basil eggplant tagliatelle adorned by a scrumptious heap of burrata. Mmm mmmmmm. Yes, Paris, the food!
Saturday
It was a rainy Saturday morning; a slow stream of taillights flickered across the metro rails. Our hotel room was on the second floor, but the soundproofing was so good that the traffic was just a soft noise, not tearing at the ears or tensing the shoulders. As Austin reviewed homework for this online design course he teaches, I tapped away at my laptop, writing what would eventually become this post.
Around 11 am, we met Eva (my assigned French friend when I studied in Chambery in 2012) downstairs in the lobby and then started on our daylong tour. She lives in Lyon (where she showed Sara and me around in 2023 on our France trip) but took a two-hour train ride to meet us, which was wonderful of her! Our tour with her led us along the Seine and past the Eifel tower, then across the bridge to the 16th arrondissement.
We spent 30 minutes in the Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine, hoping to get inspiration for Austin--the reason we were in Paris to begin with: he's doing freelance concept art right now for a 1930s video game set in Paris. The exhibit we saw was cool but seemed to be an artistic re-imagining of buildings and forms rather than historical reference. Austin walked around a lot on his own while Eva updated me about her play that she's been writing now for a couple of years. The play explores women's relationship with childbirth, child rearing, and the decision of course about whether or not to have a child in the first place. The overall theme: the "behind the scenes" of motherhood is just not talked about much, or often enough. I, for one, am abundantly grateful to live in an era where not having a child (by choice) is societally acceptable (barring of course the politically charged conversation about abortion), but there are so many layers of womanhood/identity that still go largely undiscussed.
After the museum, the rain forced us into a nearby bistro called Lulu's, where Eva and I ordered the special of the day (chicken thighs with potatoes au gratin and a side salad) and Austin got avocado toast with an egg. Somehow we got on the topic of politics, and how our country is still so young and has much to learn. After arriving in Europe shortly after Trump came into office, I understand now more than ever why Europeans know so much about American politics. First, American news is everywhere (radio, subway TVs, magazines); secondly, whatever we do influences the world's political stage and leaders. And in the most recent elections, lots of similarities were drawn between America's far-right party and the far-right AFD party in Germany (which garnered 20 percent of the country's vote in the February election).
We discussed getting dessert and coffee at the restaurant but opted to wait until later in the afternoon. So we resumed our walk around the neighborhood, stopping to take reference photos, and then meandered to the Arc de Triomphe. I remember being there in 2012, feeling dizzy and tired from lack of sleep, briefly falling asleep in a nearby park chair. I don't really remember anything else. And maybe that's why I write, because often I feel like I've been a bystander in my own life, and I can recall fuzzy details of where I was or what I did, but ask me what I was thinking or what I took from the experience or how it changed me and I draw a blank. I guess being a tourist in a city feels the same way (and it's why Austin and I hate traveling the way we did in Paris): checking off boxes, walking from street to street, being overloaded with sensation but not the kind that thrills.
After the Arc, we hopped on a train to the Sacré-Coeur. Now that I remember from 2012: drinking wine on the steps at night, listening to people play music, some woman singing Hotel California in platform Mary-Janes. Daydreaming about what my life would be like when I returned back to Nashville, a graduate. I can't fathom time, and all the things that have happened since then, and how it's been nearly 15 years, and 15 years from now I will be 50. The obsession with thinking about time--especially being with someone younger than me--has made me feel particularly emotionally chaotic this last year. What exactly am I doing with my life? I can recall bursts of growth in my 20s, giant swaths of time where no matter what I was doing, something was happening. Things were shifting in my mind, my heart. Nothing was stagnant, despite me feeling more trapped than I'd ever been, unable to choose my future because it was inextricably tied with someone else's. I would never wish for that same kind of situation again, although at the time I remember convincing myself of abundant silver linings. So what exactly am I looking for now--what do I need to feel alive, purposeful, impactful? These are the thoughts I should have explored on the steps of the church, but alas, there were hundreds of people swarming, including slow-walking Americans both regretting and excusing their gelato and bread.
Our treat after all the chaos was a quiet corner of a nearby cafe where we split mango-cream cheesecake and tiramisu. We sat there for more than an hour, talking about jobs and dreams and the nuances between obsession and manifestation, and what happens when you become so obsessed with one outcome that you refuse (or miss!) other open doors. Eva said it's inspiring when people change their life paths (moving jobs, cities, etc.) and flirted with the idea of living her acting dream in LA. Why not? I love conversations where everything seems possible, where there's no wrong way.
We parted ways with Eva on the subway before dinner, and then Austin and I freshened up in the hotel. I was feeling exhausted and hungry and angry at my too-tight blue satin bodysuit but eventually relaxed once we found a restaurant in the Latin Quarter. I could have done without the cold draft from the front door at Chalet Gregoire, but the wine was good and my meal was, too--I ordered veal in a rich white sauce that actually had mushrooms (!) and ate it with bread. As we ate, I looked over at the tiny spiral wooden staircase leading to the bathroom and realized that Europe is totally non-accessible as much as it is accessible. I've thought about this in Berlin too: I've gotten off the train to use the station bathroom only to find it closed, so I walked out to the nearest bakery who told me they don't have a bathroom. How can that be? How do people live in a society where there are only a handful of public bathrooms spotted around town? And then in some train stations there are no elevators or escalators and people have to carry their suitcases AND BABY STROLLERS up and down the steps. It's so strange considering buses have built-in wheelchair ramps and designated areas for handicapped and pregnant ladies.
After dinner, I just wanted to come home and crash, so we watched an episode of Escort Boys, an incredibly well-made and visually appealing French show, and fell asleep.
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