For the first time in six weeks, I finally have the time to sit down and write for The Oakland Post. In May, when final exams ended, I packed up a suitcase and headed to Paris for the first half of my summer to study architecture.
Let me preface this by saying: I have no previous knowledge of architecture. However, I’ve always believed that I can pick up any skill if I really try at it for a while with serious effort – maybe an optimistic, overconfident American mindset. Instead of sulking about my lack of knowledge in this field, I simply rolled up my sleeves and gave it an honest shot.
My courses have been challenging but also extremely rewarding. Through memorizing the different types of classic columns (Doric, Ionic and Corinthian) and getting ink stains on my hands from my sketches, I have started to finally pick up useful knowledge in urban design. I can now confidently discuss Parisian monuments I didn’t even know existed two months ago.
I’ve seen flying buttresses in action. My days are spent tracing floor plans of cathedrals and identifying the transept and choir. I’ve heard the name Baron Haussman an alarming number of times that I feel like I know him personally. Most importantly, I think the city is gorgeous.
Everyone told me that Paris is one of the best cities to study architecture, and honestly, I agree. One corner, you’re trekking around the medieval expansions of the Louvre, and the next moment, you’re in La Défense, in a modern heaven, surrounded by glass skyscrapers.
Paris is traditional: you’re surrounded by Baroque, Rococo and neoclassical designs that you picture when you think of Paris. The tall Haussmannian buildings tower over you as you cross the wide, open streets.
However, Paris is also modern and evolving. Hip hop dancers fill the open spaces at Bibliothèque Francis Mitterrand. You see tourists, like small ants, creep up the Pompidou Center’s red escalators. It’s been fascinating navigating the juxtaposition between modernity and tradition within the landscape.
However, there’s also a small part of me that’s ready to be done with my courses. The lectures are challenging, and the technical terms are confusing (Frieze? Tympanum?). But I already have this weird feeling that someday I’ll look back on this part of my life as an unexpected, spontaneous fragment of my life in an otherwise very different story.
“Enjoy Paris,” everyone told me in April when final exams were ending. My boss told me this too on the last day of my marketing internship, just two days before my flight. It was a bittersweet moment. I’d spent the last six months of my life working with a marketing team I loved, and I had to turn down an offer to continue working in the summer. I debated the decision. I decided that a marketing job would always be there for me, but Paris wouldn’t.
Bonjour!
My first night in Paris consisted of unpacking my things into my apartment and going grocery shopping. I hung my nice sundresses on hangers and grabbed fresh produce from the corner.
That evening, my roommates and I walked to the Seine for a picnic – just a 15-minute walk from our apartment. We gathered cheese, a baguette, prosciutto and fruit and spent the evening with our feet dangling over the river. Tourists waved to us from river cruise boats. Couples danced the tango. It was quintessentially cinematic.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” my roommate said. “This feels like a dream.”
Moving into a new apartment, especially in Paris, is a strange feeling. I tested out three grocery stores and selected my favorite. I even befriended the guy at the smaller shop. He compliments me on my French and always asks how my day was.
The excitement of being in a new, beautiful city clashes with the reality of everyday life. I do laundry, clean the kitchen and finish schoolwork. There’s a tug-of-war between responsibilities and exploration.
My first week in Paris was a blur of orientation, walking tours and figuring out the metro. I got my Navigo metro pass, and I realized that walking an extra ten minutes to a different station saves me from making a confusing connection during my commute. I found my favorite boulangerie near my school that I now visit embarrassingly often.
During my first two weeks, I did all the touristy things. I conquered the Louvre, walked the Seine and had a picnic at the Eiffel Tower. Then, my bucket list was done. I did all the famous Parisian landmarks and realized that I still have weeks left to just live in the city – no pressure, no rush and time to relax.
A Greek Tragedy
Something extremely ironic happened to me on my first night in Paris: I discovered that I’m allergic to wine. Technically, I’m allergic to the sulfates, to which people say, “Try buying sulfate-free wine,” to which I always reply, “It’s not the same, and it’s too much of a hassle.”
Before coming to Paris, I wasn’t allergic to wine. I never showed any signs of it either.
Imagine my confusion when I woke up with puffy ankles and a swollen face on my first morning in Paris. “This is weird,” I thought to myself. After consulting the internet, I convinced myself that it was from the poor circulation from the flight or the altitude.
Then, it happened again, two times in fact. Both times were the morning after drinking wine with dinner. It wasn’t just a coincidence, and it had nothing to do with altitude. It was definitely the wine.
I felt like I was the main character in a Greek tragedy, cursed to a cruel, ironic fate. I was going to spend the first half of my summer in Paris, allergic to wine.
Wine bars line every street. In many places, it’s cheaper than water. It isn’t just a drink, it’s part of their cultural identity. I was exiled from the drink that defines the Parisian evening.
“Mallory,” my friend said to me, with his arms crossed and a comically stern look on his face. “See this as a redirection.”
“A redirection?” I snapped. “This is not my ideal situation.”
“Just roll with the punches. Try something new!”
“Everything else is so expensive. A spritz is ten euros.”
“Beer is cheaper,” he replied.
“I am not a beer girl. Never have been. Never will be.”
But there I was with the budget of a college student and no other options, so I adapted. Ironically, Paris – one of the wine capitals of the world – was the city where I learned to like beer.
My friend took it upon himself to educate me, and he took his duties very seriously. We tried different places. I figured out what I liked. I learned that I’m a big fan of Belgian beer and anything blonde.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my attitude and stopped mourning. Maybe my friend was right – maybe it was a redirection.
So no, I didn’t have romantic nights with a deep red wine over boeuf bourguignon. I didn’t split a bottle on the Seine with my feet dangling over the edge. But I did learn something meaningful: sometimes all you need is a new attitude and an optimistic friend who knows his way around a beer list.
Everyday life
Life in Paris is slow, exhilarating, confusing, rewarding and magical all at once. The days are long and never the same. I’ve been having two-hour-long dinners while sitting on a terrace, watching people walk by as if it’s the nightly entertainment.
Between my classes, I have a two-hour break in the afternoon. I grab a coffee and a pastry at my favorite café and soak up the sun. My feet face the street, squeezed into a row of tight chairs. I silently take note of what people are wearing as they walk by. Sometimes a friend joins me, and we play our favorite game: French or foreigner? It’s wildly entertaining. Sometimes I go alone and enjoy the silence.
The pastries are heavenly. The boulangerie near my school offers what feels like 300 different options. I’ve made it my personal mission to try something new every day. So far, I’m a big fan of a viennoise au chocolat and a torsade au chocolat. However, I’m also a big fan of any pastry really.
“Drink the tap water here, it’s good for you,” one of my professors said.
Turns out, it’s great for me. My skin is glowing, and my hair has never felt softer. Maybe it’s the water. Maybe it’s the food – the lack of grease in my diet and the surplus fresh produce. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not constantly refreshing my email.
I’m also proud to announce that I have not had any fast food since arriving. My diet consists of bistro classics, pastries and fresh produce from the market. I’m slowly taking up French eating habits. My dinners are much later, and sometimes, if I’m feeling special, I even end the night with an espresso after my meal. My friends have taken up smoking (I have not – don’t worry, mom), but I still stand outside with them and enjoy the ambiance.
Two places at once
At summer camp when I was younger, I always longed for my bed. But here in Paris, that longing never really came. Maybe my life here in Paris, although temporary, is quintessentially perfect. Dinners are slow, rewarding and hearty. The coffee is superior. I’ve traded gas charges on my credit card for a monthly metro pass.
Meanwhile, life back in Michigan continues, and I get daily reminders of my absence. Friends text me to ask when I’m coming back home. I’m getting notifications from a big group chat that’s going up north upon my arrival. Someone’s bringing Bocce ball and teased that I’m morally obligated to win, given the popularity of boules in Paris. My dad calls me when my monthly Vogue subscription arrives in the mail. My friends still mooch off my Amazon Prime subscription and ask for the password when they get logged out, which I gladly give up in the name of friendship.
How is it possible for your life to exist in two places at once? One moment, I’m getting gelato with my new friends, complaining about the exam from this morning and arguing about Brutalist architecture. While sitting on a bench holding my cup of gelato, I get a text from my friends back home. They went to our usual Tuesday bar trivia without me and sent a simple, yet mildly painstaking text, “Can confirm, we can’t win without Mallory.”
No worries – I’ll be back in Michigan soon (mainly to help out with the pop culture clues at trivia). Despite living in what I believe to be the coolest city in the world, a little part of me is still giddy thinking about summer ahead in the States.
My Venmo transactions serve as a breadcrumb trail of plans. I have Tiger’s baseball tickets, albeit nosebleeds, but the good company makes up for it. I have concerts, coffee dates with friends and most importantly, time to relax from the 5 a.m. Flix Buses and late nights in Paris. I’ll soon trade croissants for coney dogs and Parisian café terraces for porch swings and bug spray.
Wish you were here.
