24 Hours in Paris
Notes on Solo Travel
6:30 p.m. - We are on our fourth, no, our fifth glass of wine. A Grenache, Syrah 2023. From the Rhône Valley of France. It is delicious, like every other wine we’ve tried tonight, but don’t ask me anything else about it because I am a lightweight if nothing else, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you the finer details. Next time, I’ll take notes.
6:35 p.m. - This wine tasting is taking place in the basement of a bar in the Marais, an area of the city which at different points in history has been home to the aristocracy, members of Paris’ Jewish population, and more recently, the LGBTQ+ community.
Sitting at a long table, there are about twenty of us from all over the world, though mainly the U.S. and Europe. We make small talk and drink on.
7:00 p.m. - I learn a few things about reds, which are my favorite. First, find a white surface, tilt your glass, and take in the color. Maroon, maroon, maroon. Oh, this is going to be good. Then, move your glass carefully, so the wine swirls. This releases oxygen that leads to stronger fragrances. Take a deep breath through your nose and notice what you notice. For example, I notice that this is going to be good. Finally, sip.
And sip.
And sip.
I was right. It is good.
7:15 p.m. - I find myself on a long walk across the city with a group of strangers. I am simply going wherever they go, which would be romantic in different circumstances, but I should warn you this isn’t a story of romance.
This is the story of being a fifth wheel.
Because I think representation matters.
7:14 p.m. - Let’s back up a minute. Why are we walking nearly an hour to a restaurant when Paris has taxis, Ubers, buses, and a metro?
In short, South Carolina. South Carolina is the answer.
Let me explain further.
There are two couples.
The first couple, which I will affectionately refer to as Couple Numero Uno, are from Spain and celebrating the woman’s birthday. In the last year, she’s lived in Sweden for work and now Paris. She’s just turned 24. That sounds like one hell of a year to me.
The second couple, which I will affectionately call Couple Number Two, are from South Carolina and are enjoying their first trip to Paris. The last time they were in France—Nice in the south—they got engaged. When I told them the name of my hometown—not the closest city, but my actual hometown—they knew it. I was immediately comforted by their Southern drawls.
My dear South Carolinians are, uh, hesitant to use the metro. Let’s put it that way.
So, we walk.
7:37 p.m. - All that wine we drank is starting to wear off.
7:41 p.m. - Almost stepped in dog shit.
7:56 p.m. - I am absolutely certain this is not the first time I’ve asked Couple Number Two what day they arrived in France, but I am also absolutely certain that any answer they give is going to feel like brand new information.
7:57 p.m. - Last Wednesday. It was last Wednesday.
8:03 p.m. - We arrive at the restaurant. It’s packed. While we wait to talk to someone about getting a table, the man from Couple Number Two says quietly to his fiancée, Hey, you look beautiful tonight. I feign interest in the menu to give them their private moment, which is now sullied by the fact that I’m sharing it on the internet. Oops.
8:04 p.m. - The host sticks only half his body out the front door and tells us we need a reservation. He is then absorbed back into the dinner madness.
8:11 p.m. - The second restaurant we try tells us, maybe four people, but not five.
8:12 p.m. - OOF. OOF.
8:13 p.m. - Briefly contemplate jumping into the Seine. Decide against it. Mostly because I’m not sure which direction it is.
8:14 p.m. - Couple Number Two remark that it doesn’t matter where we eat because every restaurant in France is great! Couple Numero Uno respond, Well, I guess tonight we are going to prove you wrong.
8:15 p.m. - Maya Angelou once said, People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. And the restaurant we finally settle on, well, it makes me feel resigned, bored. Decorated in trendy, cheap decor and almost entirely empty, I feel like I’ve been to this exact restaurant hundreds of times in my life, mostly in gentrified areas of the U.S.
8:30 p.m. - The man from Couple Number Two asks the waiter for a cappuccino to start out. Our waiter makes a face, Before dinner? The man sighs and answers patiently, Yes. The waiter says, After dinner. The concept of ‘the customer is always right’ apparently doesn’t exist in France. I’d be more off-put by this if it wasn’t for the fact that I happen to agree with the waiter this time and not the customer.
I’m still waiting for the day when the expression changes to simply ‘Diana is always right’ but that day hasn’t come yet. Maybe this mindset it why I’m single.
8:31 p.m. - Eh, probably not.
8:45 p.m. - Couple Numero Uno insists we try the foie gras pâte, and then immediately warns us that it won’t be good. Here, that is.
8:50 p.m. - The waiter brings the foie gras over with some warm bread. Couple Numero Uno were right to warn us.
9:00 p.m. - The waiter asks Couple Numero Uno if they need an extra plate since they’re sharing their food. As he’s setting down Couple Number Two’s shared meal, he asks them the same question. A moment later, with a smile on his face that tells me he was the class clown in high school and he’s very proud of that fact, he sets down my croque madame and asks me: And do you need a second plate too?
I deadpan, No, but thanks for throwing that in my face. I then wonder when exactly this country stopped using the guillotine and if boring jokes are a severe enough offense to warrant the use of one.
1977.
And, no, unfortunately not.
9:02 p.m. - I ordered a croque madame. He brought me a croque monsieur. But I am easy-breezy and the waiter did bring us the correct bottle of wine at least. A Sauvignon blanc because the birthday girl likes white wines. So, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m easy-breezy because after all, the waiter is always right.
9:03 p.m. - I realize I can’t remember when Couple Number Two arrived in France. I ask again.
9:04 p.m. - Last Wednesday. It was last Wednesday.
9:05 p.m. - We eat. We talk. We share stories about South Carolina. And Spain. New York and South Korea. We laugh often. Couple Numero Uno confide in us their dream of owning a house in the Spanish countryside. Couple Number Two tell us they plan to get married outside in the spring surrounded by Live Oaks. I think of home again.
Though I talk a lot, I don’t confide anything because no one asks.
9:46 p.m. - Couple Numero Uno shares the macarons they made earlier in the day with us.
10:21 p.m. - South Carolina finally gets his cappuccino.
10:35 p.m. - We pay for our meal. Outside, I ask everyone how they’re getting home. Couple Numero Uno are taking the metro and so am I. Couple Number Two says they’ll walk or take an Uber.
I can tell the woman is curious about the metro and a little embarrassed to be avoiding it. Personally, I suspect it’s the man more than the woman who is ‘hesitant’ to use it. I decide to push. “You guys can do this, I promise.”
She jumps at the bait. “I have the app. How does it work?”
On the street corner, I walk her through it and help set up her fiancée phone, so that he’ll be able to pay too.
It’s worth noting that I had trouble my first day of this trip navigating the subway. Or rather, I had trouble navigating the stupid ticket machine that claimed to dispense tickets but then, apparently just for me, insisted its only use was to reload already purchased metro cards.
I’m in an enemies-to-lovers romance with all technology on the face of this earth. It’s been 26 straight years of the enemies phase, but I have faith we’ll get to the good times soon.
Actually, I don’t have faith. But regardless, I share this to say there’s no shame in being confused by public transit, especially in a foreign country, and especially especially if you were raised in suburban-American car culture.
But also, if that’s you, respectfully, get over yourself.
We think travel is about snapping a picture in front of the Eiffel Tower or coming back home with a good story to tell, and it is those things. But it’s also about learning something new, accepting the headaches that come along with trying to get somewhere.
10:40 p.m. - We realize my metro station is in the opposite direction of the rest of the group’s. I look Couple Numero Uno in the eyes and make them promise they’ll make sure my sweet South Carolinians get home okay.
They promise.
I say goodbye.
To be honest, as I’m walking away, I am happy to be free of them.
10:41 p.m. - I send my friend back home voice notes of my whole night, which—believe it or not—are even more detailed than this blog post.
11:01 p.m. - Arrive back at my hostel. An older woman is in the bed above mine. She says bonsoir before going back to sleep. I immediately crawl into bed and don’t get out again until morning.
11:03 p.m. - The lady above me snores.
12:05 a.m. - As I’m falling asleep, I wonder how long it’s been since Couple Number Two arrived in France. I guess I’ll never know.
5:32 a.m. - I wake up. I suspect due in part to the fact that the lady above me can’t get comfortable and keeps tossing and turning.
5:36 a.m. - I hear the switch of a machine being turned on and realize this weird pipe that’s been hanging down from the bed above me belongs to a sleep apnea machine. The sound of labored though steady breathing fills the room.
5:37 a.m. - Feel vaguely guilty for being grumpy earlier about the snoring thing.
5:43 a.m. - Eventually fall asleep again.
9:32 a.m. - Wake up.
10:03 a.m. - Walk down the street from my hostel to the nearest grocery store. I pick up some bottled water, a package of brie, and a small container of blueberries, which cost about as much as I imagine the Palace of Versailles is going for these days.
10:12 a.m. - Walk to the nearest boulangerie. The lady working the counter is the same as yesterday. She is beautiful and aloof and—I suspect—impossible to impress. But she lets me order in French (Je voudrais un croissant, un pain au chocolat, une baguette, et un café crème, s’il vous plaît.) and doesn’t even roll her eyes when I give her the wrong change.
10:15 a.m. - The nice thing about solo travel is that you can create any kind of routine you want. For me in Paris, my morning routine has been to sleep in, go to the bakery, and spend the morning planning my day and writing. I suppose this works for me for a couple of reasons: First, I’m a night owl, which means it’s very hard for me to do anything but slow mornings. And second, having a routine makes me feel like I live here. It makes me feel like I’m not just passing through.
10:16 a.m. - Drink my coffee and marvel at the croissant I’m eating. So buttery. So flaky. It’s a little hard to describe the impact a croissant can have on your outlook on life. I suppose that’s why the French invented them: To counter-act the dread you feel when you wake up the fifth morning in a row to cloudy, gray skies.
11:00 a.m. - Text friends and family back home, start writing for the day.
1:00 p.m. - Eat lunch. Brie, baguette, blueberries.
1:30 p.m. - Pop into a bookshop.
2:10 p.m. - Arrive at Père Lachaise Cemetery. Immediately walk passed the guy handing out maps because I think I have to pay for it.
2:12 p.m. - Realize the maps are free and hustle back down the stairs to get one. He smiles like he knew I would.
2:13 p.m. - Wander the cemetery. There’s ivy growing up trees and autumn leaves everywhere. Some of the graves are newer and well-maintained while others are covered in moss. Generally speaking, it’s a beautiful, spooky place.
2:14 p.m. - Put on my headphones and start playing Joni Mitchell’s album Blue. I love this album, but I’ve especially appreciated it on this trip. She wrote most of it while on vacation in Europe. I particularly like her song ‘California’ on the record. The opening lines are: Sitting in a park in Paris, France / reading the news and it sure looks bad / they won’t give peace a chance / that was just a dream some of us had. To me, it’s a song about missing home while traveling & also being deeply disappointed in that home. I can’t think of a single reason in the world why that message might resonate.
2:45 p.m. - Decide I should probably find Oscar Wilde’s grave and discover on my map that Gertrude Stein was buried here too. Two days ago, I read an article about Stein in The New Yorker, my reading material for this trip because it’s not difficult to carry around. I figure I should see her grave too now that I know a little about her.
2:55 p.m. - Stop into a public restroom. Immediately regret it.
3:01 p.m. - Sit down on a bench because I’m tired of walking already. Discover on my map that I’m nowhere near Gertrude or Oscar.
3:23 p.m. - Find Stein’s grave. Snap a picture.
3:26 p.m. - Find Oscar Wilde’s grave. About ten-or-so people are clustered in front of it. There is a glass railing around it with a sign requesting that people do not deface the grave by writing on it. This makes me feel sad. I don’t take a picture.
3:30 p.m. - Eat a pain au chocolat.
3:45 p.m. - Pop into a random coffee shop because I feel inexplicably drawn to it. Turns out it’s an Argentinian coffee shop. Many people are speaking Spanish. Read about Carol Burnett in The New Yorker.
4:35 p.m. - Leave the cafe and head for Printemps, a massive department store in the city.
5:01 p.m. - Arrive at Printemps via metro.
5:03 p.m. - Navigate to the highest floor of the building in search of the wine bar I went to in 2017. I discover that it’s since closed down, but there’s a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city.
5:04 p.m. - Out of the goodness of my heart, I offer to take a picture of the couple who is attempting to take a selfie together.
5:05 p.m. - Like clockwork, the man offers to take a picture of me. He is what folks on the internet might call an instagram-husband, and he takes photos of me from every conceivable angle.
5:10 p.m. - I go down one floor and find an open restaurant. I’m seated outside. My view of the city is mesmerizing. Paris has so many incredible feats of architecture throughout the city, and from my vantage point, I can see the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe, the Pantheon, and the Opera House. Plus probably hundreds of other landmarks that I don’t know because I’m not Parisian.
5:15 p.m. - I order a glass of wine and onion soup.
5:25 p.m. - My food and drink arrive.
5:35 p.m. - A couple appear at a table beside me seemingly out of nowhere. They are in love, only coming up for air to take a drag of their cigarette or refill their wine glasses.
5:38 p.m. - The sun sets.
6:00 p.m. - The tower glitters to announce a new hour. I raise my glass as another night begins.