A new routine
I’ve finally started to fall into a good routine in Paris. The initial overwhelm and chaos has faded. I (mostly) know my way around the city. Tuesday dinners are now reserved for Taco Tuesdays. A restaurant five minutes from my apartment offers one-euro tacos. It’s a deal, especially in Paris.
I found a movie theater near my apartment that has now become a part of my weekly routine. On the humid days when none of my friends are in town, but I don’t want to be stuck in my apartment, I buy a ticket and see a movie.
It’s weirdly comforting. There are cultural norms that feel so different compared to the U.S. Do I just sit down at this café or do I have to ask for a seat? Do I have to ask for the check? But at the movies, I know what I’m doing. I slip into the silence of the theater and find a place in the back row on the velvet seats.
Sometimes I go with a friend, and we whisper between previews. Sometimes I go by myself and enjoy the silence of the experience.
The movie selection is not ideal. Most of the movies are in English, but most of those aren’t my taste, such as loud action movies or the newest Disney film. So I see movies in French. The theater is tucked in a more residential area, so they don’t cater to tourists and don’t offer subtitles.
Instead of an enjoyable, calm movie experience, it’s a crash course in French. I sit straight up, with my eyes squinted and try to pick up every word. I get by for the most part. I hear phrases that I hear on the street and silently take note of new words.
Outside of the movie theater, I tried to build a version of Paris that felt like mine. To be honest, the first arrondissement, with the Louvre and the tourist crowds, stresses me out. Everyone walks slowly, someone is always yelling and I’m always convinced that someone is trying to pickpocket me. I visit when I have to, and otherwise I stay far away.
Instead, I found little gems and corners of the city that feels like hushed secrets. La Felicità became one of my favorite spots – a place I found in early May on my third day in Paris. Picture an old train station turned into a vibrant food hall. Within days, this place soon became my friend group’s spot for everything: early morning study sessions, late night karaoke or a reliable dinner.
La Felicità also turned into a social hub. Everyone would meet there before heading out. They also host weekly bingo nights, where you play with coffee beans as markers instead of plastic chips. It’s cute. The guys making the pizzas always make small talk with me and make me smile.
I’m also a big fan of the Marais neighborhood. On weekends, it’s my ideal spot for a solo adventure. My perfect afternoon consists of thrifting and getting a coffee, and the Marais is the best place for that. Thrift stores line the streets. The baristas have cool tattoos. Every person walking past you looks like a supermodel. “I will never be as cool as anyone here,” I joked. It’s hip. It’s young. It’s artsy.
This is the Paris that I’ve grown to love: the bingo games, the thrift stores where you weigh your jeans to pay and the quiet walks back home from the movies. In a city so far from Michigan, finding pockets of familiarity feels comforting.
A weekend away
The French had a national holiday for Ascension Day, which meant there were no classes on Thursday or Friday. A long weekend off was the perfect opportunity to explore somewhere new.
My close friend and I booked tickets a few days in advance and plotted out our ambitious itinerary. I packed my backpack, slung my tote bag over my shoulder and left Paris. I was heading to Amsterdam for two nights and then Brussels for another two nights.
I survived one train, two FlixBuses and two hostels. It wasn’t glamorous. I lived off a bag of granola and devoured cheap fries from street vendors.
Amsterdam was not what I was expecting at all. I heard all the stereotypes about Amsterdam: the sex, the drugs and everything in between. I was mildly scared.
But the city was clean, safe and gorgeous. I had never seen anything quite like it. The narrow buildings were charming, and the canals were romantic. The tune of bikes passing by were the soundtrack to the city.
I did all the touristy things. I had fries, sat on the canal, visited the Anne Frank House, marveled at the art collection in the Rijksmuseum and explored the picturesque streets.
My favorite thing in Amsterdam was the Begijnhof. It’s a historic courtyard tucked into the busy city that once served as a sanctuary for Catholic women. Single women lived here and prayed in peace. You enter from a small street, turn a corner and suddenly, it’s quiet. It feels like you left Amsterdam entirely.
The Begijnhof still operates today. Tourists (including me) gawk at the beauty of the space, but many forget that it still remains a residence.
I saw an older woman sitting by her window, wrapped in a shawl and sipping her tea. I started crying. It was the most wholesome thing that I had seen in a long time. After weeks of hectic chaos – including catcalling, loud sirens and confusing metro stations – this little moment of peace hit me hard.
“I think I should live in the Begijnhof,” I sobbed.
Brussels was next on the itinerary. I also did all the touristy things. I had fries (again) and saw the Mannekin Pis. I also decided that I prefer Belgian fries over Dutch fries.
Amsterdam did me good, but Brussels did me dirty. I was excited to visit a French-speaking city. In Amsterdam, I stumbled around my words and panicked when ordering. But coming to Brussels meant that I could order my food in French at least.
Brussels was not at all what I expected. The city felt more industrial and less lively than Amsterdam. Maybe I just did all the wrong things. In my defense, I researched and listened to people’s recommendations. Honestly, I really tried the first day to do the city justice.
By my second day in Brussels, I was exhausted. My FlixBus to Brussels left at an ungodly hour in the morning. I had walked too much. My body was defeated.
So I gave up on being a tourist. I had a nice hearty meal and found a sauna. It was healing. I didn’t even try to check anything off my list. Maybe that’s the lesson here: you can be a tourist and do all the touristy things, but sometimes you have to slow down. Amsterdam showed me beauty and peace. Brussels taught me the importance of rest.
Vive la France!
Paris Saint-Germain (PSG) won the Champions League on a Saturday night. For context: someone described this win to me as the equivalent of the American Super Bowl. It’s a big deal. Football (soccer) is a religion in Europe, and when PSG won, Paris exploded with celebration.
I wasn’t even in Paris when it happened – I was in Belgium, post-dinner and post-sauna, miles away from Paris.
My phone was going crazy. My friends were flooding the streets and joining the celebrations. The Champs-Élysées and essentially every street of Paris were flooded. Fireworks were going off, people were chanting and the metro system was shut down.
Things got so bad that my school sent out an emergency alert system. They warned us to stay off the streets and told us the locations where riots would be the most intense.
“So helpful that our university sent out the best locations to party at,” someone joked in the group chat.
Some of my other friends, still in Paris, stayed at home. Even in our quiet residential area, full of elderly couples and tiny dogs, it was intense.
It wasn’t all pretty. Someone I know got tear gassed. Someone else woke up with mysterious bruises. My friend of mine took a girl on a first date to the riots. If nothing else, it’s a great story.
My elevator isn’t working. My friend (who will remain undisclosed because I am not a snitch) popped a bottle of champagne in the elevator during the celebrations. In his defense, this was an accident – he meant just to take the foil off on the elevator and then pop the cork on the street.
However, an accident ensued around midnight. The cork flew off inside the elevator. A whole bottle of champagne flooded the elevator.
I’m not entirely sure of what happened, but here’s what I know: the elevator has not worked in over two weeks. Every single person in my apartment has been forced to climb the stairs. The walk up to my sixth story with two arms full of groceries is not pleasant.
I can’t be too mad. It’s a funny story. The small amount of French patriotism I have for PSG’s win overrides my frustration. At least I’m getting a good workout.
Back in Paris
I caught a 5 a.m. Flix Bus back to Paris from Brussels. I somehow managed to sleep most of the journey. I’m also proud to announce that my French is functional on only three hours of sleep. A kind, older couple sat across from me. When the bus randomly stopped somewhere in the French countryside, they explained to me what happened in in soft, whispered French. I sat there with my arms crossed, eyes weary and fully understood them. No Google Translate to save me, but just me and my foggy brain hanging in there.
Returning back to Paris felt weirdly comfortable. I knew my metro stop and the walk home. I knew the code to my apartment. I knew the exact route to my favorite grocery store.
That night, I had dinner with a friend who had stayed the weekend in Paris. It happened to be bingo night at La Felicità, so obviously we went.
The next morning, I visited my local boulangerie. I have a shameful confession to make: I have not had a croissant yet. I have been in France for over a month, and I have not tasted the most iconic pastry. I know that sounds blasphemous, but there are just so many options of pastries. I haven’t even heard of some of these pastries before. Ordering a croissant feels like picking a nude color at the nail salon: classy, but I’m looking for variety.
I’m also allergic to almonds, and French bakers love almonds. Almonds are everywhere. I have been treading very carefully and avoiding any suspicious pastries. I have finally memorized all the needed vocabulary and now know what names to avoid. Next time, I might go for the croissant. Maybe I’ll try a new quiche. Either way, I’m happy to be back in Paris.
