When I was younger, I would walk for miles and miles with my dad around neighborhoods in New York City. We would usually wake up early, make some breakfast, take the short train ride into the city and then be off. Typically starting with a museum, we’d often wind our way downtown. Though we often had a vague destination in mind, such as a restaurant over here or a shop over there, it was much more the wandering and discovering that I so enjoyed.
I thoroughly believe that once you can navigate yourself around New York City comfortably, you can find your way in any major metropolitan area. It was with this idea that I braced myself when I learned that my friend could not make the trip to meet me in Paris. I would be in one of the largest cities in Europe, completely alone, for three days.
My first reaction was obviously sadness, considering I would not see one of my best friends perhaps until I returned to the states. However, my second reaction was sort of surprising. I was expecting trepidation or even a bit of fear at traveling alone, but it did not come. Instead a feeling of great excitement crept in.
I must preface this experience with several facts about my relationship to Paris. As I’ve unabashedly exclaimed previously, I adore metropolitan areas. I’ve visited London, Florence and Los Angeles, but never Paris. Since I was in high school, I’ve had a map of Paris on my wall and I took six years of French before college. The French culture seemed like an elusive and magnificent realm just out of my reach for so many years. I knew the sites and neighborhoods but had never actually visited. When my flight from Edinburgh landed, cruising just out of sight of the Eiffel Tower, I was actually the first one off of the plane.
Yet, with any travels, obstacles are inevitable. The first arose with my Airbnb situation. Several days before my departure, the host of the Airbnb had contacted me with some “quirks” about the flat in which I would be staying. The first was about the neighborhood, which apparently was one rampant with prostitutes and sex shops. However, I had sort of brushed off the warning after consulting with a European friend, chocking it up to the laxer approach to sex for which Parisians were well-known.
Upon arriving to my destination, I checked my address twice. Three times. No, this was it. At the entrance to the building, in which my flat resided, stood a five-prostitute sentinel. With a blush and a brief bonjour, I sidled past and walked down a dark, narrow, winding corridor. Before the staircase to my flat, I glanced through a doorway to my left, which revealed quite a boudoir-y entry. Ah, yes, it was a brothel. Fantastic.
And so, after seven flights of stairs to my flat, I realized that it was time to contact my host. Thank you, Airbnb, but no thank you.
After some quick changes and a jaunt across town, I found myself in a charming and incredibly safe hotel. Shoutout to dad for, once again, coming to the rescue.
Despite the minor setback, I’ve found Paris to be everything I expected and more. The avenues, the food and the people. It’s a surreal experience to finally see the things that you’ve been dreaming of seeing for so many years.
I’ve also had to remind myself more than once that I’m traveling alone. I’ve had so much freedom, curiosity and ability to roam that I sort of can’t imagine experiencing this city any other way for the first time.
However, my challenges as a solo traveler were not over yet. On Sunday night, I had the bizarre experience of feeling extremely chilled yet simultaneously sweltering. I forced myself to walk down to the Trocadero to see the Eiffel Tower, in all its splendor in the evening, but retired to my room soon after.
Last night, I made the quaint discovery that I had a fever of 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Lovely. After sleeping no more than two hours, Monday was nothing short of a struggle. Pickled by ibuprofen and throat lozenges, I made my way slowly, very slowly, to the Musée de l’Orangerie, and through the Tuileries Gardens.
Being ill in such a beautiful city is incredibly frustrating, especially for someone who craves a speed of approximately 110 miles per hour at all times. Yet, I found that when I was tired and out of breath, I would find a bench and people watch for half an hour in the plaza of the Louvre, or pull out my book next to a small pond in the gardens. Today forced me to slow down and to savor this magnificent city.
Hopefully my traveler’s woes have completed for my spring break escapades. Italy is up next, and I haven’t even had a glass of wine in France yet. Advil, get to work.
