Paris Revisited: A Trip of One's Own

A whim took me to Paris several years ago. The debris from a gut-wrenching divorce and a job layoff lay scattered at my feet, and with no 8:00 a.m. staff meetings on my calendar for the near future, it suddenly dawned on my stressed and overscheduled brain that I could go. Valid passport? Check. Frequent flier miles? Check. Small hotel on Left Bank? Check. It was laughingly easy. For the first time in recent memory, I was going to be unabashedly self-indulgent. As a single mom and head counselor to ten year-old twins, solo pursuits to nourish my soul beyond a bubble bath were scarce. All that was about to change as I boarded the plane.

Pre-trip checklist: read Adam Gopnik’s account of his five years in the City of Light, Paris to the Moon. Buy film for trusty 25-year-old Nikon. Get metro map. Practice high school French on unsuspecting strangers. Sharpen pencil for journal and sketchbook. Buy comfortable yet chic walking shoes. Throw caution to the wind and just go.

Reactions to my impending solo trip fell into two camps: the “that is way cool” bohemian contingent and the “aren’t you scared to go by yourself?” reactionary group. It never occurred to me to be scared; besides, the anticipation and excitement of losing myself in Paris were the only emotions I felt. As for the solo part of solo travel, I expected the occasional lonely moment, but I was going to be far too busy being a bon vivant to notice. As a single, working mother, I craved that rarest of commodities – unfettered solitude.

Hotel du Mont Blanc, my personal base camp in the 5th arrondisement, was ideally situated on Rue de la Huchette – a teeming pedestrian side street adjacent to the Seine and a baguette’s throw from Nôtre Dame. It bubbled and gurgled with revelers all hours of the day and night, but the din thankfully remained on the street below.

The rhythm of my days took on a steady 4/4 beat interspersed with numerous andante movements: up by 8:00, toss a hearty “bonjour monsieur, ça va?” to the Moroccan desk clerk on my way out, cross Pont Neuf and duck inside Nôtre Dame for a moment of quiet meditation and awe before the pilgrims swarmed to the medieval altar. Next stop, Café Cliché for a café crème and a croissant while I consulted my map and planned the day’s conquests. Old haunts from three previous trips called to me like the siren’s song: Musée d’Orsay, Sainte Chappelle, the Louvre, Tuileries, St Germain de Prés, Pompidou, Montmartre – while unexplored frontiers beckoned.

I walked until my legs throbbed, I followed my nose down beckoning side streets, I sat and watched from my café throne – queen of all I surveyed. I reveled in the anonymity and spontaneity of my new-found freedom. I made two pacts with myself: one, the first words out of my mouth had to be French; I could only use English as a last resort. Two, avoid all cafés with menus translated into English. My goal was to experience Paris as, if not a native, at least not a tourist. Much to my relief and delight, no one snickered at my rudimentary French and I was treated with consideration on all but one occasion.

Paris offered me an array of riches for mere euros. One balmy evening I wandered over to Nôtre Dame, bathed in soft light like an aging film star. On the bridge between Ile de la Cité and Ile St. Louis, a string quartet was playing under a full moon. The overplayed Pachelbel’s Canon never sounded more vibrant. I sat on the curb under a ripe moon and hugged my knees and my good fortune. I took an emotional snapshot so I could retreat to this sanctuary whenever the world pressed in.

Another evening I followed my feet to the Marais district past Orthodox Jews in long, black coats and stumbled upon the austere Place des Vosges. I emerged through a time capsule into 17th century Paris as I gazed at Victor Hugo’s onetime residence. The French obsession with order and functionality was nowhere more evident than in this symmetrical enclave. But at the moment I was interested in gastronomy rather than architecture. I circumnavigated the square to evaluate my dining options and happily gravitated toward Restaurant Marc Annibal Coconnas. The chalkboard held the answers to my stomach’s prayers: goat cheese salad, soufflé with lobster and vegetables, figs drizzled with honey and vanilla ice cream, and a 1999 Beaujolais. The warm summer evening seduced me into thinking I was the belle of the ball. Time stood still.

The rest of my sojourn in Paris contained a collection of riches that rivaled Marie Antoinette’s boudoir: the majestic Rubens’ Room in the Louvre, the dazzling windows of Sainte Chappelle amidst the faded Byzantine glory, the eye-popping array of cheeses in the little shop near the Odéon metro stop, the mournful fountain in the Conciergerie where the condemned prisoners washed their clothes before they were guillotined in the Place de la Concorde, and the smug satisfaction of renting a bicycle and asking for directions to Monet’s house in Giverny en français.

Of course this trip was symbolic of my post-divorce life, and I tripped over so many clichés on my way to the Eiffel tower that my knees were skinned and bruised. On the day before I left the City of Light, I hesitantly made my way to 27 Avenue Raymond Poincaré near the Trocadero. I solemnly stood across the street from the flat where I had spent several weeks during the summer of 1980 as a recent college graduate and vagabond with my two roommates. At 21, life was full of promise and adventure. I returned to Paris 23 years later, less innocent, slightly scarred, yet once again celebrating the opportunities of life rather than the limitations. Paris, that grande dame, had extended her hand to me once again. I gratefully accepted the invitation to dance.

August 2002