Turning 30 in Paris

Notes from the city of light

You take a solo trip to Paris for your 30th birthday because the idea of it feels right. You aren’t sure if you’re going to love it as much as you love the idea of it. It feels so cliché, you think, but remember most clichés hold some truth.

When you arrive at your Airbnb, you enter a door code that leads you to an open courtyard. It reminds you of the one Celine leads Jessie into in Before Sunset, one of your favorite movies.

Your home for a week is a small studio flat, owned by an older French woman who usually lives here by herself. It comes with a breathtaking view of the neighborhood, the tip of the Eiffel Tower peeking over the furthest building you can spot. You’re immediately reassured that this trip was the right decision.

You watched Frances Ha a week prior and promised yourself you won’t sleep through your first full day—your actual birthday—but you fight the jet lag and surrender to a nap. You wake in time to walk through the neighborhood in a dreamlike haze, purchasing shampoo and basics for your stay, then grab a spot at an outdoor table and order Escargot and wine. It begins to lightly rain and your server asks if you want to be moved inside. Non merci, you say, and he adjusts the umbrella as you continue to just be.

You’ve always loved observing, and this may be the best city for people watching. Each bistro’s outdoor tables and chairs face the sidewalk for this exact purpose. The woman next to you smokes three cigarettes before you can finish your first glass.

The air feels different here. Less congestion, more light. French chatter is all around you, and you only know a few words and phrases, but it doesn’t bother anyone like you’ve been told it would. Whoever said Paris was an overrated city was wrong, you think to yourself, and you spend the next couple of days feeling yourself floating around it, swept up in the scenery: the wrought iron balconies, tall windows, baguettes in the park. A calm collection of beings. A precise detail to aesthetics. No one in a huge rush.

You read about the history of women walking in cities, and you happen to be on the Paris chapter. “A culture that does not walk is bad for women,” the author, Lauren Elkin states.

You text your aunt who briefly lived here and studied at a cooking school where Julia Child was a partial investor. You send her photos of French butter and you have in-depth conversations about its superior taste.

You realize your Airbnb is within walking distance to Victor Hugo’s apartment, and although you’ve never read Les Misérables, you love the musical enough to visit it. French kids are on a field trip as you walk through the free museum where the famous writer lived with his family. The apartment overlooks Place des Vosges, where people are sitting in the grass next to elegant fountains. Kids play in stone sandboxes.

It’s early evening you’re on your way to a wine and tapas bar when a French man approaches you on the street and asks you out to dinner. You’re flattered but unsure if this is a meet-cute or a waste of time. You’re used to being the direct one with American men who are not as clear about what they want, and as you walk away, you wonder if you’ll regret it.

The next morning you hop out of bed and quickly shower so you can make your way to Shakespeare and Company before the line to enter gets too long. You walk across a bridge over the Seine to the famous bookstore you studied so often for your literature degree to find no line. You buy a keychain that reads, “Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise,” and an iced Americano.

Next on the agenda is Musée d’Orsay. There’s a whole floor dedicated to impressionism, and you hold back tears as you look at Monet’s Waterlily Pond. You remember learning about it as a twelve-year-old in art class, and now you’re here.

You end your day with another solo meal outside, fixed on the golden hour glow and peacefulness that encapsulates the city. In such a romantic place, it feels right to be alone.

You are now thirty and in Paris.