Bonjour from the city of smoke trays, corner cafés, and conversations that don’t care if you’re eavesdropping, because every table is turned toward the street like Paris is putting on a show just for them. And honestly? She kind of is.
I finally made it to Paris for the first time, and I didn’t have to do it alone. Two summers ago, while living in California, I met a friend at a hostel in San Diego (shoutout to the universe for making strangers feel like future soul-friends). Fast forward two years, a few Instagram DMs, and a spontaneous “hey, I’ll be nearby,” and I was planning a trip to visit her in France.
Now, I had technically been to France before, a little medieval moment in Carcassonne, but never the capital. And truthfully, I was a little nervous. Paris has a reputation, right? The “rude to foreigners” warning gets passed around like baguettes. But having a local friend by my side changed everything. Paris wasn’t cold or standoffish; it was warm, electric, and absolutely alive.
We only had two full days, but we made them count. Day one started at 9 AM and didn’t end until 1 in the morning. That’s 31,000 steps if you’re counting (and my legs definitely were). We walked through quiet winter parks where the flowers hadn’t bloomed yet, but the architecture? She was in full bloom. Every building felt like a painting. Every block felt cinematic.
Naturally, we stopped at Café de Flore, home of overpriced croissants and even pricier hot chocolate. Tourist trap? Sure. But also… an icon. We sat outside like true Parisians, facing the street (because apparently, chairs in Paris don’t believe in facing each other). We watched the world go by, fashionistas, old men with cigarettes, couples in love, waiters who looked like they moonlighted in French New Wave films. Oh, and yes: every table had a little smoke tray, even if no one was smoking. It’s the ambiance. The aesthetic. The mood.
After our little cliché moment (which I loved), we headed to Musée d’Orsay. I don’t think I blinked for an hour. Van Gogh. Monet. Renoir. It was art history in real life. From there, we walked along the Seine, passed Notre-Dame, and somehow ended up at the Louvre, because apparently we decided to casually conquer every major museum in one day.
The Louvre blew my mind. It’s not just a museum, it’s a palace. I finally saw the Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, which I immediately recognized from the Coldplay album cover. It was surreal. Like standing inside a textbook I used to fall asleep on in school.
We wrapped up the night at Caveau de la Huchette, a legendary underground jazz club that felt like stepping into a time machine. Picture this: live swing music, people dancing like they’re in a black-and-white film, red lighting, saxophones, that buzzing feeling of wow, this is real. It was giving 1950s Paris. It was giving “I might move here.” It was magic.
And of course, I had to pick up a souvenir, one of my little travel rituals. This time, it was a French book about an old man reading love poems. Fitting, right? A book about love from the city of love. It’ll live on my future coffee table and remind me of this chapter I’m living.
I wish I could explain every moment, every laugh, every corner turned, but some trips aren’t meant to be fully captured. Paris felt like a blur in the best way. A whirlwind of butter, beauty, and beautiful chaos. I didn’t journal as much as I usually do. Our schedule was packed, and I was just in it, soaking up every imperfect, delicious second.
On day two, we saved the big moment for last: the Eiffel Tower. I’d seen it from afar plenty of times, my friend’s apartment even had a view, but seeing it up close? At night? When it lit up and sparkled for five straight minutes? That was the moment I melted. I wasn’t experiencing Paris through Instagram anymore. I was there. Fully present. No filters. No distractions. Just me, Paris, and a whole lot of feelings.
Je t’aime, Paris.
Thanks for being better than I imagined.
Love always,
American Girl Meets World
