The Paris…Review?
After indecision in the airport grocery store, Akira and I get into an Uber outside ORY clutching two bottles of white. The driver doesn’t speak English or Spanish, and we don’t speak French—but that doesn’t stop Akira from whipping out her public school education in an attempt to communicate with him in the city’s language. Despite her broken sentences, he speaks to us in full, complex ones. And, every two minutes, Akira chimes in: “Sí, I mean, oui.”
At last, we arrive at a set of double-doors. We are greeted by a classic French design and a blue-painted metal before a beaming Lilli appears. In true Parisian fashion, we head upstairs to her flat and immediately break into the airport wines, giggling all the way through. We stay up for several hours and converse about whatever it is we converse about; the long day of travel is no excuse.
We plan to get up at 9 but it ends up being more like noon. While, yes, we should be maximizing our time and using up every last minute, we unconsciously agree that the day will be all the more pleasant if we are well rested—and by we, I mean me. Let the girl sleep and let the girl write and you will have the happiest friendship there ever was.
Today we plan to head to the third arrondissement, lined with vintage shops that carry the designer of our dreams and the prices of our wildest fantasies (meaning, slightly less than they would have been in the states). We unanimously agree to pregame this outing; for me, it was to lubricate the process of forking over my hard-earned money for some couture. Upon further reflection, I don’t think I need alcohol in order to do that. We sit in silence on the Metro.
My excitement is validated when a beautifully-balayaged dog greets us as we enter the first shop. I try on some Gucci and swoon over the Dolce display, but leave empty-handed. Lilli tells us how much she loves this store, and how she took Jaiden a few weeks prior.
In the shops that follow, I find a pair of Dolce & Gabbana pumps for a mere €110 (€105 since I followed the curator on Instagram). They have a puffy ripstop detailing—but not in a picnic blanket kind of way. They are chic and Parisian and probably too high for my liking. I buy them in an instant.
We light up some Vogues despite my distaste for cigarettes. Something about their thinness makes me suddenly interested and I tell Lilli I want one to myself. We stop at a cafe called Le Progrès and do a three-way split of meals. Wine accompanies, obviously.
Later we aggressively pregame in Lilli’s kitchen alongside her three roommates and a friend from the program. We get deep, as girls do, and finally leave for the Metro around 12. The line for Silencio is long, and we wait in it despite being ticket holders. By the time we get close to the front, the birds are chirping. Luckily, we made our own party in the line that hugged many corners.
Saturday comes quickly and we engage in some American-in-Paris activities: the flea and a smash burger restaurant that Lilli’s roommate had eaten at a few days prior. I almost buy a pair of “Dior” slingbacks but the vendor doesn’t have a means to authenticate, so, regretfully, I put them back on the rack. He assures me they’re real because he is wearing a Givenchy sweatshirt and because he has a friend who “loves Dee-aurrrrr” but gained weight and can no longer fit into it. She sold it to him in bulk at a reduced price hence his vast collection. I tell him that’s wonderful and follow his shop on Instagram despite my lack of purchase.
At dusk we bring Akira to the Eiffel Tower and eagerly await 9:00 for the famous glittery sparkle. “You always hear it’s going to be so incredible that you kind of expect it’s going to be underwhelming,” says Lilli, “but it actually is as exciting as people make it out to be.” We splurge at a fake-fancy restaurant, as Akira calls it, and swing-dance with old men at Caveau de la Huchette. I postgame with a Nutella crepe, a conversation with a group of boys whose friend is hunched over a stoop, and a motivational speech to a friend who is dealing with a breakup.
Returning to a city for the second time brings a unique feeling. You kind of feel like a local, despite the Parisians wanting you to feel quite literally any other way. The pressure to see all the attractions is gone and you can act in accordance with your own desires. You can drunkenly hit the designer thrifts and waste three hours in line for a club you’ve already been to. You can go to a flea on the outskirts of the city and eat American food. You can leave the jazz bar early because the day’s been long.
If I wasn’t tight on travel plans, I would return to Paris for another weekend during my time abroad. I would go every weekend; I feel weirdly connected to the place despite its unwelcoming nature. I always remind Lilli I’d be right there with her this semester if I hadn’t wanted to achieve Spanish fluency. But, my dear readers, I ask you not to fret. Before you know it, I will probably be living in the Latin Quarter, in an overpriced studio, dating a man who is almost too good-looking and who writes poetry. I will smoke Vogues and read Vogue and badger contributors at Vogue when I run into them at the Fashion Week shows I mooched an invite for. I will live this lifestyle for a few years before I decide I miss my beloved New York, where I can never stay away from for too long.