Étretat

“I need to get out of the city,” I said, huffing to my friend, gripping the germ-filled metro pole.

It was true: Paris is a lot. I’ve started to tune out the constant alarms coming from the police sirens. The metro is always loud and packed, especially during my daily commute, which just so happens to be at 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. – the busiest times. I rarely see a park, unless I specifically go for my architecture class.

So when my friend mentioned a weekend trip to Normandy, my ears perked up. We grabbed coffee and got pastry crumbs on my laptop as we booked our train tickets.

“Go to Étretat,” my program director whispered, with his eyebrows raised and eyes wide like he was sharing a secret. “It’s gorgeous, and everyone goes there on the weekends.” 

He was right. Étretat was the perfect weekend getaway destination. It’s a small, quaint beach town on the northern coast of France. People look like they stepped out of a L.L. Bean catalog, and everyone wears stripes unironically. Two dramatic and stunning white cliffs flank the rocky beach. 

I felt like I was stepping into an Impressionist painting. In fact, many Impressionist painters, such as Claude Monet and Henri Matisse, visited this beach and painted this very view. I felt like an Impressionist painter. I wanted to buy an easel and wear a scarf. 

Here’s the best part about Étretat: there’s not a lot to do there. You can hike the cliffs on either side of the beach. You can visit a garden (we didn’t). That’s about it. Everything is within a 10-minute walk of everything else.

We hiked five miles in outfits that made no sense. I carried a tote bag and wore dress pants. My friend wore ballet flats. People with hiking poles and neon backpacks did a double-take at our outfits. My mind was silent the entire three hours of the hike. 

We passed cows in meadows. I saw lavender fields. It was refreshing. I didn’t have to scan my Metro card every time I left my apartment, and there were no loud Metro brake screeches. The soundtrack to my visit was the waves crashing on the rocky coast and the wind blowing in my ears.

There was also zero cell service the entire weekend. I managed to text my parents once by holding my phone up to the air, using Wi-Fi from a restaurant that probably stole my digital information.

“There’s zero cell service here. I’m alive,” I texted.

Being offline meant that I had no access to social media, no texts from friends and no real contact from the rest of my world. As someone who lives by deadlines, religiously reads the news and constantly sends voice memos, it was nice taking a break.

Dinner was easily one of the top ten meals of my life at a place called La Flottille. They don’t take reservations, and you cue on the street. The fish was so fresh that I felt like I could taste the sea, and the salad was simply dressed with only a vinaigrette. I tried not to think about the fact that I was probably swimming with my fish in the same cove earlier that day. 

That night, we spent the night watching the sunset on the beach, sitting on the bumpy rocks and dipping our feet in the water. 

“This would be the most romantic night ever,” I said. But honestly, it was kind of better – just two close friends wrapped up in towels, gossiping about classes. “Too bad we’re both single,” we laughed.

The next morning, we grabbed pastries from a nearby boulangerie and boarded our train back to Paris. Returning to Paris felt comforting but hectic. My usual metro line (line 14) was shut down due to construction.

“You’re joking,” I said. “She can’t do this to us!”

I managed to find my way back home through a few tricky metro connections. I dropped my backpack off at my apartment and immediately went to grab a drink with a friend. I didn’t even have time to charge my phone or change outfits. With a dead phone and sunburnt scalp, I prayed that I was at the right place for our plans. He had spent his weekend hiking in Poland. As two Midwesterners with Polish relatives, we immediately clicked. 

“How was the motherland?” I asked, slightly jealous of his pierogi-filled adventure. 

Turns out, we had very different trips, but both involved a much-needed break from the city. 

Fête de la Musique

Fête de la Musique was one of the wildest nights of my life. Here’s what to know: it’s held on the night of the summer solstice, meaning it’s the longest day of the year. In Paris, the sun doesn’t set until 10 p.m., and when it does, the city turns into a massive festival. DJs and bands line every corner, and people dance on balconies. Imagine Coachella, but it’s free and spread out across an entire city.

All of this to say, it’s total chaos. People pack the streets shoulder to shoulder, and the music drowns out most conversations. Somehow, I was elected the leader of the friend group that night, meaning that I was responsible for navigating a group of nine other people through the madness. At one point, we conga-lined across a street so we wouldn’t lose each other. My mom instincts clicked in, and I was counting heads.

In addition to making sure nobody got lost, I was also in charge of vibes – making sure we were in the best neighborhoods with the best music. Here’s the thing about Fête de la Musique: it isn’t just one massive party, it’s a hundred different ones. Each neighborhood has its own scene and its own soundtrack. I miraculously managed to find the American hits and techno near the Bastille, which got everyone on board. But if you do the night wrong, you end up somewhere too quiet in a sketchy neighborhood with an accordion player and slow dancing.

We started the night on the Seine, where we found salsa, tango and a marching band playing polka. My friend brought out his Rasputin kicks and high-knees. Everyone was looking. No one else was dancing. An older lady took a video on her phone.

Later, we ran across an indie-rock band covering 2000s hits. We sat for ten minutes, then everyone wanted to leave. “One more song,” I pleaded with puppy eyes.

Then they played my song. “Valerie” by Amy Winehouse has followed me my entire life. Ever since I was little, people have replaced Valerie with Mallory in the chorus. It’s similar enough, and somehow, no matter where I am, the song finds me: in the car, at the grocery store or on the Seine in Paris. Suddenly, everyone was pointing at me, yelling my name over the lyrics.

Each corner we turned revealed a new party, a new DJ and a new genre. House music echoed down an alleyway in the Marais. Charli XCX blasted from a speaker on a sidewalk. The city was buzzing.

My favorite moment of the night? Finally getting my crêpe. I have a confession to make: I’d spent over a month in Paris and hadn’t tried one. It felt shameful.

My first crêpe wasn’t a picture-perfect moment in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was at 2 a.m., sitting down on a curb in the middle of a closed-down street, hair pulled back, my mascara was smudged and I was sweaty from hours of dancing. It felt quintessentially fitting. My friends and I smiled at the old guy behind the stand, and he added extra Nutella for us. One of my friends physically moaned after the first bite.

The morning after (let’s be honest, it was the afternoon after), I woke up and went back on Life360 to retrace my steps. I crossed the Seine twice, I passed through seven arrondissements and I walked over four miles. My satin ballet flats were completely destroyed – limp and gray – and I had to throw them away. Also, according to my credit card transactions, I somehow purchased a cup of gelato. 

A note on the French 

“Everyone hates Americans,” I was warned. I arrived in Paris expecting the worst. Parisians are well-known for their distaste for tourists, especially Americans. I was ready to keep my mouth shut, to ditch my bulky neon tennis shoes and to not stand out despite my Midwest friendliness.

Honestly, it’s been quite the opposite of what I was expecting. The French have been super welcoming and even warm to me. Maybe it’s because I make an effort to speak the language, or maybe because I try to be quiet in public. I’ll admit that my demographics, being a blonde, smiley young girl, definitely help. 

“I love your accent! It’s so cute,” Parisians have told me on multiple occasions. Ouch. Okay, my American accent slips some of the time, especially with certain tricky French vowel sounds. But instead of saying something rude, they complement me and seem genuinely charmed. It’s a strange feeling, messing up a language and having someone find appreciation in the effort.

Can I say something controversial? I have a theory that Parisians secretly like some Americans. French culture is famously guarded. Small talk isn’t really a thing here. You don’t ask how someone’s day is going at the checkout. In Paris, I learned to never engage in the American way of small talk unless invited. 

In America, I once went to CVS and a woman helped me pick out a nail polish color. We talked for 15 minutes. I didn’t even ask her for help. The default American setting is to overshare and make conversation.

That’s the thing about Americans: we’re super friendly. You will get unsolicited advice. You will hear about someone’s grandson. At times, it’s annoying. But honestly, it’s not always a bad thing. 

One day, I went shopping at Polène to look at a purse for my mom. After showing me some of the options, the sales associate struck up a conversation with me. She asked what I was doing in Paris, what arrondissement I lived in and what I thought of the city.

Then she pulled out her phone and went on Google Maps, and she showed me the restaurants she likes to eat at and gave me recommendations. Turns out we live in the same neighborhood, just one metro stop away from each other.

Another time, I left the Grand Épicerie with a bag full of fancy cheese and accidentally exited through the wrong door. A security guard stopped me and explained my mistake in lightning-fast French. I asked him to repeat himself in French, and the second time, I understood him and thanked him.

Something must have been off in my accent, because right as I’m turning around to find the correct exit, he’s asking me where I’m from and if I’m French.

“How’s your day going? Are you liking Paris?” He asked.

I then stood in the doorway for the next five minutes, answering his questions. He approved of my cheese tastes and told me to come back soon with a warm smile.

Finally, the ladies at the boulangerie are literal angels in aprons. One of them routinely sneaks an extra pastry into my bag, then puts her finger to her lips like it’s our little secret. I nod back and smile. She smiles back and waves me off.

Yes, Americans can be annoying and loud and talk too much on the metro. But, Parisians seem genuinely curious about my experience here. They light up when I speak French, and they’re happy I’m trying. So despite what you may here about the French, I’m here to defend them; I’ve been met with humor and kindness.

Back in the U.S. 

My dad picked me up from the airport. Detroit looked the same. The Joumana billboards still line the streets, though her lipstick is a bit darker now. 

“Your hair has gotten so much blonder,” he said, ruffling the top of my head.

“I’ve been outside a lot,” I shrugged.

“It’s all about the journey, not the destination, right?”

“You have no idea.” 

Editor’s note: There’s still so much I could share – but definitely won’t – with the audience of The Oakland Post. Some details, including a humbling tale of me throwing up in the gardens of Versailles or who popped the champagne in the elevator, are better left out of the campus newspaper. Instead, these moments will be safely tucked away in my journal and whispered between my friends. Maybe if you catch me on campus and ask nicely, I’ll spill some more.