The first time I ever landed solo in Paris Charles de Gaulle, I was labeled an ‘unaccompanied minor’ and had the colorful AirFrance Kids tag hanging around my neck; I was 12 years old – a little too old to be fascinated by the lions and the zebras on it. Before I left home, I’d heard my mother on a phone call, chatting away to one of her sisters about my forthcoming trip with an expression riddled with what I could only describe as fear and joy and pride and worry and everything in between. Over the background static, her sister asked, “Has she ever traveled alone before? Does she know how to get to her gates?” – my mother had replied, “No, but maybe she will learn.”
The last time I landed solo in Paris Charles de Gaulle, the lady at the immigration desk asked me, “Do you speak French?” With the little of the language I had in my pocket, and in an accent I had scraped up from Gabonese pavements in the few years that I had lived there, I said to her “non, mais peut-être que j’apprendrai.” She looked at her computer screen for a moment, then looked back up, waited 2 seconds for me to finish my (unbeknownst to me) unfinished sentence, and with a blank face said to me “maybe you will learn what?”
I spent 2 months in Paris last summer, and every new day, I woke up with a different answer to her question – 64 in total. I doubt I will ever meet her again, but maybe, just maybe, she will stumble on this piece one day. And maybe in one sitting, as she reads, she will find answers enough to fill the hole in our conversation that I left empty. Or maybe she won’t.
But dear lady, in case you are reading:
On that first day, after our conversation, I walked through the airport’s glass doors, out into the sun, and there was lesson number 1 waiting for me: that the Parisian summer heat is brutal, and that the sweatshirts piled up in my suitcase that had tipped it not-so-slightly over the edge of 50lbs would be of no benefit to me for the next 2 months. I climbed into an Uber and learned very quickly too that my broken and messy French, just as it had not pleased you, would not be pleasing to other Parisians either – the locals would prefer if I defaulted to English. I arrived at Cité Universitaire and learned that the elevators in your residential buildings are barely wide enough to fit 3 people, or more specifically, a girl and 2 pieces of luggage; from then on, the stairs would become my friend, as did the bottles of Evian I would gulp down after every successful ascension.
Now that I think about it, it seems as if my earlier number was inaccurate because I must’ve learned more than 64 lessons in those first 24 hours. But don’t worry, day 1 was a day of difficulties necessary for me to enjoy the days forthcoming.
On day 2, I learned that the French had made commitments to the environment that they intended on keeping, so I bought my first Franprix reusable bag with pride and brought it along with me in every grocery store I stepped into on days 3, 4, and 5, before forgetfulness got a hold of me and I was roped into buying another one. That wouldn’t be the last time.
From days 6 to 12, I felt like my training wheels had finally been taken off. I was getting on the T3A graciously, finding my way through the crowds onto the tram, sliding my Navigo card onto a scanner and placing it back into hiding, diligently fearing pickpockets. I now knew that there were 5 tram stops from Cité to Avenue de France, and could now practically feel it in my bones 30 seconds before it was time to step off. I had also learned that silence on the tram was the preferred state of motion for the French – Americans giggling at 8 in the morning was a disruption of peace – and so I too, plugged my ears in and gazed out the window, after all, “when in Rome….”
(day 14) At this point I had still not decided on a church to attend, but I did learn a fun fact: over half of the public holidays in France are religious.
(day 17) Roses are red, and violets are blue, but the flowers of Jardin du Luxembourg are of all the colors you could possibly imagine and more.
Dear lady, by day 24 strange sights had become familiar, and every section in the escargot’s shell held some memory for me. I learned that Montmartre was the best place to be on the day of Fête de la Musique, and I learned that Châtelet-Les Halles was my one-stop shop for all of life’s necessities and then some. I had learned how to cross my legs at sidewalk restaurants, people-watch and sip coffee as the 2 hours of lunch passed by. I had learned how to lie down in Parc Montsouris and soak in the sun (a foe now turned comrade) until it set, had memorized the running trails around the 14th arrondissement, and had nailed down the perfect pesto pasta dinner recipe, although mainly, the few finger movements needed to navigate to UberEats were what got me through the nights.
I now knew without thinking twice that I could get off at Denfert-Rochereau on the RER B and be right at the Catacombs – an ode to when Paris was still above sea level. I knew that if I got off 2 stops later, there would be a great ice cream place nearby called GATO, and if I walked down for 6 minutes and took a left, there would be the Pantheon where Victor Hugo lay; if I continued to walk down that street, soon enough I would end up at a comedy club. I knew that if I got off at Palais Royal-Musée du Louvre on Ligne 7, taking Exit 1, I would be right at the least-known entrance of the Louvre where the shortest lines are. But I also knew that many tourists, having discovered that entrance, joined that line thinking they’d scored in the Paris vs. Tourists game, only to realize that it’s an entrance solely for those with reservations. I now knew that next to the line those people stood on, there was an overpriced Starbucks where they would correctly spell the name “Tiffany,” as opposed to “Stéphanie” which every other French Starbucks resorted to. And I knew that whenever I felt homesick, if I hopped on the RER A to La Defense, I would physically be transported to a place quite identical to Chicago – skyscrapers all around.
(day 25) Did you know that the trains stop running at 1 am? I learned that one the hard way: a beautiful night’s outdoor movie screening on the lawns of Parc de la Villette, followed by my friends and I sprinting marathon distances to catch the very last RER C and B that could take us home.
On days 26, 33, and 40, I visited your sites of attraction. I wandered the grounds of Amboise, looked over the river banks and into the tunnel Leonardo da Vinci and Francis allegedly used to walk through. I sauntered through Monet’s garden and saw his lily pond – it was here that I believe I began to truly understand beauty. And of course, there was Château de Versailles, where if I closed my eyes for long enough, I could imagine myself as royalty; I was willing to suck up the tight-ribbed corsets and dresses with diameters many inches too wide, for the experience of the grandeur and opulence the nobility had.