How to be alone in Paris
I hope you like people watching.
Keep a book with you, find any excuse to people-watch from a café’s terrasse. Voilà: the thought of being alone in Paris doesn’t sound so scary anymore.
Just try to ignore the nonstop P.D.A.
It’s in the “most romantic city in the world” that I understand the paradox of proximity. I’m perpetually pressed against strangers on the subway – or navigating streets so crowded I can barely see the sidewalk – by myself.
Monday morning, and Paris submerged me in its rhythm of overcrowded isolation. The city is excellent practice for what I imagine post-grad life could look like: a broke 20-something in a big city with friends scattered all over the globe – grieving the convenience of living two feet away from people I would otherwise see 24/7 on my condensed college campus. (Unless I end up in New York City, then that’s basically Duke 2.0).
Thank goodness I’m pretty comfortable in my own company. That, and I have an endless inner monologue that won’t. shut. up. Overthinking tends to keep me pretty busy.
On Tuesday, I headed to campus to collect my final exam grade for my “Geopolitics of the Middle East” course. I showed up to an empty classroom having misread my professor’s email. She was handing out grades the following day. I consulted my Paris bucket list and decided to visit Sainte-Chapelle, a nearly 800 year old church by Notre Dame.
I ducked underground and stepped into a busy train car. A young woman kept glancing at me. Staring is less socially taboo in Paris, but still, this felt excessive. The next stop was hers. She bounded onto the platform, thrusting her phone in my face while doing so. I barely registered the words she typed on her “Notes” app.
Tu es très jolie.
You are very pretty.
I barely had time to mouth merci before the doors slammed shut, sending me hurling towards the next stop. The metro system’s automated warning about pickpockets chirped overhead, a reminder to be wary towards strangers. Fermez bien vos sacs et soyez vigilants en utilisant votre smartphone… I hugged my bag closer to my body.
On Wednesday, I took a solo day trip to Brussels, Belgium. My classmate who was supposed to join overslept. And then remarkably, I missed my train despite arriving half an hour early.
The station was tucked into the Charles de Gaulle airport, and when I asked the security guard if I was in the right place, some combination of being misdirected and miscommunication had me waiting in the wrong place. Alas, at 8:02 a.m., the train I was supposed to be on left without me. Apparently all I needed to do was descend one flight of nearby stairs.
Why yes, I did start crying!
Once my teary interlude ended, I bought a ticket for the next train. Three hours later I made it to Belgium’s capital. I can confirm the waffles are good.
My flâneur – what Parisians call their aimless strolls – has progressed tremendously from the alone time. I often head towards a cafe in a futile effort to be productive. More often, some clothing store will intercept me, and I’ll inevitably end up rifling through racks. It’s always a relief when the store doesn’t have my size, then I don’t have to debate spending more money.
And as time tends to do, the weeks fly by, and it’s Sunday again.
On a recent one, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of my host mom’s daughter (my host sister ?!). It was a quarter ‘til noon, and I had just woken up. In French, we call that having a grasse matinée, or “fat morning.” It means to sleep in extremely late.
I pulled on the first pair of pants I could find and tried to flatten my hair to hide the fact that I went clubbing until 4 a.m. the night before. (Ah, the duality of woman.)
I had met Danielle’s daughter, Fadia, before, but it was my first time meeting her nine-month-old son, Marin, and husband, Charles. They live in Bordeaux, about a three hour train ride from Paris.
As I’ve shared throughout the semester, I got exceptionally lucky with my host family. Danielle prepared moules frites, and still slightly nostalgic for an American Thanksgiving, I baked an apple crumble cheesecake. Marin is a smiley bundle who recently learned to crawl. My host mom introduced me as Tata Gabrielle, or “Auntie Gabrielle.”
Usually I hate Sundays. They’re synonymous with stress and impending to-do lists. But in Paris, Sundays are delightfully slow and cozy, keeping the homesickness at bay. I let the warmth of the afternoon hold off the city’s loneliness for a little while longer. I’ve never been a tata before.