A Gen-Z in Paris
Oui oui! Eating a croissant with pigeons, melting my glasses in a sauna, and walking around the Louvre in the aimless ignorance of an American in France.
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The first time I encountered French was through a flatmate of mine in Lund, Sweden, a small town I lived in for a year during a study abroad program. She always said “merci” whenever I did something kind or held the door open for her, and I wondered, for almost the entire year, why she was begging for mercy whenever I did something nice. I thought that it was a cultural difference, that French people showed gratitude through humility, through asking for forgiveness, as if a stranger doing something nice for them was so good of an act that they should say they were sorry instead of thank you, because no one deserved such kindness.
My relationship with French continued to not exist well into my time in New York, where I mispronounced the luxury brands that I wore after finding deals in thrift stores for less than fifteen dollars: “gi-ven-chee” instead of “ji-von-shee” (Givenchy), “car-tier” instead of “car-tee-ay” (Cartier), “jack-aymus” instead of “jack-eh-moo (Jacquemus), all of which my friend Jaclynn corrected me on with grace. So it is no surprise that I am now wandering around Paris, with little to no information on what I am looking at, continuing to mispronounce the major sights, “loo-ver” instead of “”loov” (Louvre), fighting for an ounce of peace within crowds afoam with the bright screens of phones ready to take a million pictures. When I looked up the weather in Paris, it was 74 degrees fahrenheit, perfect for picnics and tank tops and shorts. Now it is in the 30s, freezing and cloudy and full of rain, and I am the one asking for mercy.
The day I went to the Louvre I treated myself to an “adventure day,” taking off work and walking around the city with the intention of seeing the Eiffel Tower and eating a Parisian meal somewhere warm. First I beelined to a bakery to try a real croissant. The croissant, though buttery and crisp, was cold, and every boulangerie I walked into had no place to sit down. I ate the solid pastry on the street with a flock of pigeons at my feet inhaling the flakes that fell with each bite. Pigeons were the first friends I made in Paris.
The Eiffel Tower, though ridden with construction for the 2024 Olympics, was undoubtedly beautiful, contrary to the 1 star reviews I’ve seen on TikTok. After walking around the parks that surrounded it — green corridors that felt more like industrial freezers — I retreated into the first restaurant I found with a Google Maps rating of over 4.7 stars, leading me to one of the worst meals I’ve ever indulged in: an overcooked chicken burger with french fries that transported me back to the frozen aisles of Safeway. Bad meals are a part of traveling, you are bound to have one at some point, however, I have started to feel that some point becomes many points when you are traveling around certain parts of Europe.
Prior to heading to the museum, I walked to the gym for a quick workout and a visit to the sauna, the hot box capable of melting away a layer of disappointment from a tiring day, and, this time, the coating on my glasses, which I took in with me by mistake. Heading to the Louvre, I could barely see a few meters in front of me. Everything was a bit fuzzy, as if I were seven drinks in. I laughed at the image of myself stumbling around one of the most famous museums in the world, unable to see a thing.
I walked around an ocean of people gawking at old paintings until I found the only thing I really wanted to see, the Mona Lisa, which roused in me not passion but the feeling I get when the item I ordered at a restaurant arrives the size of a healthy snack instead of a proper American meal. She was small and plain, perhaps perfect for the appetite of an art history major, but underwhelming for that of an ignorant tourist. I preferred her obese printout on the side of the museum that advertised the world’s favorite girl as far as the eye could see.
All of this brought me to the verge of an ungrateful conclusion that I had feared I might share with the several TikTok creators I saw commiserate about Paris in weeks prior: I hate this city, I never want to come back, it is cold and boring and gray. I wondered what it was I was doing with my life, putting myself in random places in Europe just for the sake of being there, of having been there, instead of spending time with my friends and my partner and my family in the places I knew I loved. I thought it was silly that I planned an entire trip to see Belgium, Luxembourg, and France after traveling to Europe for work just because it seemed silly to return to Mexico so fast. There was nothing about any of these places that interested me aside from that I’d never been to them. What was here? White people. White food. Expensive accommodation. I considered buying an early ticket home or shaving my hair or finding club friends and doing M and staying out until 6AM. And then the sun came out.
A warm ray fell on my face and the lens in my brain changed from micro to macro. Possibility spread through my veins like the blue between the clouds in the sky. I am in Paris! Oui oui! The power of the sun is undeniable.
There is one Parisian stereotype I have found to be false. It hinges on the idea that Parisians are mean, cold, inhospitable towards anyone who does not speak French or operate at a certain level of speed. On the contrary, I found kindness in every cafe, bar, and restaurant I entered. Everyone laughed and smiled when I’d tell them I wasn’t sure what to order, as opposed to snapping onto the next customer (which is something I remember seeing in some Netflix show, maybe the two episodes I watched of Emily in Paris before wanting to die of cringe). When met with a smile, people here smile back.
And, of course, there is the bread. I realized that I am not a croissant or pain au chocolat girlie, but I am a bread girlie. Being able to purchase a fresh and enormous baguette for one euro is a dream, and the cheese at the grocery store (three euros for a big wedge/circle of brie) is phenomenal! Also, the wine is cheap. All of which is to say that, although Paris was not my favorite place, it has the staples for a good life: Nice people, cheap wine, and good bread and cheese.
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Your favorite capybara ~ AKA Travis Zane
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