What is there to say about Paris that hasn’t been said already? The rumors are true: Parisians strut around with baguettes peeking out of brown paper bags, breathe more cigarette smoke than air, and take politeness very seriously. The city pigeons coo and peck at croissant flakes underneath café tables—nothing new, but in Paris, everything can be viewed through rose-colored lenses. An ordinary pigeon, by virtue of being Parisian, is worth paying extra attention. Random alleyways, through which locals pass without batting an eye, are picture-worthy, because of course, it is Paris.
This spring break, my best friend and I embarked on our first European journey: a full circle moment for two small-town girls who had met in third grade and came to Brown together, eager to see the world. We landed in Paris ready for a week of sightseeing and spending all (and I mean all) of our money—the two markers of a great vacation. My prior research on Paris consisted of watching videos on social media (“10 Things You Should Know Before Visiting Paris!”), asking a French family friend for advice, and, at the suggestion of an author I had met previously, reading The Flâneur by Edmund White. The Flâneur is a travelogue centered around “the Paradoxes of Paris,” seen through the lens of a flâneur: an aimless stroller, walker, or pedestrian who moves through city streets with no purpose, but rather, a sense of adventure. Essential to being a flâneur is a willingness to explore and see where the wind takes you. In this cultural guide, White writes about the history of Paris, from its failed attempt to become a skyscraper city in the ’60s to the scandalous lives of 20th-century French writers and actors. The Flâneur spoke to me as someone who (1) loves walking and (2) admires the little things in life. I began reading it in hopes of embodying this type of traveler during my week in Paris.
Paris’s districts—arrondissements—are numbered one through twenty. Beginning with the first (home of the Louvre), at the center of the Seine River, the arrondissements spiral outward to create Paris’s enticing orbit. In The Flâneur, White writes, “In Paris virtually every district is beautiful, alluring and full of unsuspected delights, especially those that fan out around the Seine in the first through eighth arrondissements.” Upon landing, my best friend and I observe this beauty, noticing the way the sun bathes the buildings in light, welcoming us with open arms. Our first stop is to meet a friend from Brown at the Eiffel Tower—cliché, but even flâneurs must see the city’s heavy hitters before they can appreciate its finer details. Our Parisian adventure begins by navigating the metro and practicing our “non merci” to the vendors selling light-up keychains and bottles of wine at the tower.
Throughout the week we follow a loose itinerary, but in the spirit of being flâneurs, leave room for wandering aimlessly. I begin to think that Edmund White was right—that Paris is best enjoyed when one is open to anything, whether that means stopping at every vintage shop we can find or climbing Montmartre’s hilly cobblestone avenues in search of souvenirs. For breakfast, we have demi-baguettes and pains au chocolat, picking at them while we people-watch from outdoor café tables: a Parisian’s favorite pastime. Our home base for the week is the eleventh arrondissement, which is described as a great destination for food and history enthusiasts alike. In our area, there are cafés and bakeries—boulangeries—on every corner, where we make failed attempts to blend in with the locals. Staying in the eleventh makes me feel integrated with true Parisian life, but I’m sure that our imperfect bonjours and mercis out us as tourists anyway.
On Tuesday, we make the trek to the Sacré-Cœur, up the Rue Foyatier’s 222 steps, our calves and knees burning intensely. The pain is worth it once we get to the top, where we admire a hazy but breathtaking view of the city’s skyline. On Wednesday, in true flâneur fashion, we lack lunch reservations and end up eating crêpes against the picturesque backdrop of Notre-Dame’s French Gothic architecture. The glistening sunlight provides a false sense of security—as we begin to walk off our meals, a sudden hailstorm ensues, prompting us to find refuge in Paris’s most famous cathedral. Thursday afternoon is spent sipping hot chocolate at the renowned Café de Flore and roaming the Jardin des Tuileries. We devote Friday morning to getting lost in the maze that is the Louvre and come out having only seen a fraction of it. These are what White deems the “Major Sights” of Paris, the landmarks that foreign tourists like us eagerly cross off their lists. It’s the moments in between these “Major Sights,” however, that become my favorite. During one particularly open afternoon, my best friend and I amble around the eleventh arrondissement, taking in the neighborhood as we go. We stop along the way for food and eat our lunches on a park bench, surrounded by the unfamiliar sounds of chatty French families. We decompress from the day and discuss tired topics—for us, beating a dead horse is an international activity, and a lot more fun to do in Paris than Providence. On the day of our Notre-Dame-hailstorm debacle, we visit Shakespeare and Company, a historic English language bookstore. Since its opening in 1951, Shakespeare and Co. maintains its legacy as a place for writers, artists, and readers to gather. Inside, the floors creak with each step and the walls are lined with books of every genre, making it one of my most cherished stops of the week. In the fourth and eighteenth arrondissements, we find ourselves drifting in and out of several thrift stores, ready to dig for vintage gems. As flâneurs, we are mostly untethered to concrete plans, which allows us to hunt for as long as we like. At one thrift shop, our hunting is interrupted by a small mouse that skirts around the piles of vintage clothes flooding the floor; the elderly store owner scribbles on his notepad with a tiny dog at his feet, completely unbothered by the rodent’s presence. We laugh at the levity of it all and come out having purchased great vintage pieces (mouse not included).
According to the French study “Paris dans la littérature américaine” by Jean Meral, between 1824 and 1978, there were 200 American novels written about Paris. After spending six days there, I understand why we Americans are so fond of it. Paris has an extraordinary energy that doesn’t seem to be replicable in America—whether it is due to the ubiquity of happy hour or the rich history in its bones, I cannot pinpoint for certain. The café culture, characterized by outdoor seating facing the streets and ashtrays on every table, encourages leisurely people-watching and casual conversation. As a fond American watching people sip mid-afternoon espresso under café awnings, I can’t help but wonder why they aren’t busy at work or rushing to get to their next destination. But, as White writes, “The flâneur is by definition endowed with enormous leisure, someone who can take off a morning or afternoon for undirected ambling…an excess of work ethic inhibits the browsing, cruising ambition to ‘wed the crowd.’” Perhaps all Parisians are flâneurs in spirit, easygoing and unhurried. The sun goes down in Paris and the air becomes crisp and chilly, but this does not stop us from strolling through the warmly-lit streets. We bounce around from bar to bar in search of one open past 2 a.m. and buy liters of beer for €6,50 or shots for €4 (good for our wallets but not our livers). When the days are over, I listen to “Paris” by The 1975 on the metro home, and life feels complete. The song’s chorus rings, Oh, how I’d love to go to Paris again, and I miss the trip before it’s even over.
On our last day, we fulfill our prophecies as classic all-American tourists and flâneurs by first visiting the Arc de Triomphe, then—at the guidance of a semi-Parisian friend—Bois de Boulogne, a lush park on the outskirts of the city. With each step I take in Paris, I admire it more. I wonder if it’s because of the easy romance of it all—the allure of adventure in a foreign country, the friends, the films I’ve seen with this exact background—or the city itself. There is a difference between loving a place and loving the moments you experience there, and for a split second I question which category I fall into. When our last night ends with sitting outside the Place du Trocadero, looking up at the sparkling Eiffel Tower, I realize that it is both the city and the circumstance that have my affection. White describes a flâneur as someone willing “to take up residence in multiplicity, in whatever is seeing, moving, evanescent, and infinite: you’re not at home, but you feel at home everywhere; you see everyone, you’re at the centre of everything yet remain hidden from everybody.” Where better to do this than Paris?
