May 16, 2022. This was my first time in Paris as an adult. My experience as a 5 year old on our European camping trip doesn’t count. All I remember is losing a precious stuffed animal and finding it in the bottom of my sleeping bag after days of grief. This time I would be traveling with my domestic partner, Shawn, and felt a bit cloistered, as I am accustomed to solo travel. I had trepidation about conflicts arising, and hoped it would be ameliorated by the beautiful surroundings. I had found that travel can stress a relationship.

The flight from SFO to Paris was packed. I learned that San Francisco was a stopover on the flight from Tahiti to Paris. The cabin was filled with friendly chatter, with almost no masks in sight. Having come from the Covid-phobic Bay Area, I briefly worried that I might catch something. The fear was quickly replaced by a sense of ease knowing I didn’t need to be frightened of the world. And it was nice to breathe normally. I had waited till the end of boarding, hoping to find 2 seats together so I could stretch out and catch some zzz’s. I was in luck, and had the pleasure of sitting near a friendly French traveler. The night sky looked eery, filled with the glow of the full moon. I chatted with the fellow traveler for a bit, and was surprised when I managed to sleep. I awoke to a kind stewardess offering me a meal I hadn’t paid for. I said as much to the flight attendant, but she just smiled. I hope these were wonderful portents.

May 17. We landed in the late afternoon Paris time. It took hours to get through immigration and customs. I panicked in baggage claim when I didn’t see my suitcase. Turned out it was last on the carousel and had been opened, though everything was still there. A black duffle bag raises suspicions. I found Shawn and we looked for the metro which we planned to take into the heart of Paris, where we were staying in the 4th arrondissement. My bag was heavy, and it was all I could do to hoist it up and down stairs. We alighted the bustling underground train and got off 1 kilometer from our Airbnb, only to find that there was a much closer station at Hôtel de Ville. I was trying to brush up my 3 years of high school French with a refresher course called French with Benjamin. I’d been fluent, though my vocabulary was limited.

After dropping our things at Bourg Tibourg, our Airbnb, we set off to find dinner, walking along the Seine. I like asking locals for recommendations, and I risked irritating Shawn by asking a passing cyclist. She suggested Cerises, which turned out to be a great spot. Our outdoor table gave us a view of the cobblestone street and quaint facade of the restaurant. The food was excellent and we had a nice chat with the neighboring table, a Dutch woman and her daughter who were here for the weekend. What I wouldn’t give for a base from which to train hop around Europe! After dinner, we wandered down winding streets toward the Bastille and along Canal Saint-Martin, where groups of young people were gathered for evening picnics by the water. The city felt so alive, especially with the warm weather—it had barely cooled from the daytime temperature of 88°.

We ended up at Jardin des Fleurs, where people were dancing salsa to the rhythm of live drummers. Boats drifted along the Seine, and the atmosphere was incredible—music, clapping, laughter, and the scent of meals being shared. We sat and watched for a while, then crossed a bridge to Île Saint-Louis and made our way back home.

May 18. Shawn was excited to explore Paris, and set out alone at 6:45 AM. I found him a few hours later at Café St. Regis on Île Saint-Louis. I was excited about finding the boulangerie we had seen the night before near our dinner spot, Cerises. We set off in that direction, strolling through the narrow streets of Village St. Paul toward Bastille. We came upon a striking 15th-century timber-framed building and Bibliothèque Forney, a historic library housed in a grand structure surrounded by the beautiful gardens Jardin des Sens. The medieval chateau and gardens made for a charming scene. The library was open, but the gallery wouldn’t be accessible until later in the afternoon.

We continued exploring and came across remnants of the old city wall and one of the ancient city gates. On Île Saint-Louis, we wandered along the main street, popping into a small candy shop where I admired a beautiful antique canister. We also saw Hôtel de Paume—the last of its kind in Paris. Crossing back over the river, we passed a peaceful garden near a Greek Orthodox church before heading to Musée de Cluny. Before visiting, we stopped for lunch at a small café across from the entrance to Luxembourg Gardens. The food was great—an affordable set menu that included dessert—and the waitress was especially kind.

After lunch, we finally visited Cluny, where we saw the breathtaking Lady and the Unicorn tapestries. Unfortunately, we had to rush a bit since we only had an hour and a half before closing. From there, we wandered through Luxembourg Gardens, taking our time, resting by the fountain, and soaking in the peaceful atmosphere. We stayed until 9 PM before heading home.

May 19. We took it easy and had breakfast again at Cafe St. Regis then visited Saint-Michel’s fountain. From there we took another walk through Luxembourg Gardens, looking for a place to eat. We debated a lot before finally returning to the same café from the previous day. The same friendly waitress was there, but service was slower this time. In the mid afternoon, Shawn suggested we visit the Panthéon. We ended up spending two hours there, completely engrossed. From there, we walked to the Louvre, but it was already closed, so we wandered into the Tuileries Gardens instead. At one point, Shawn walked far ahead, which frustrated me since I was worried about getting separated. Eventually, he sat and read while I explored the Orangerie.

I needed to pee, but everything was closed. Shades of Urinetown. Since museums stayed open late on Thursdays, I hoped to visit Musée d’Orsay on a Thursday to take advantage of extended hours. We hurried toward Petit Palais before realizing that Musée d’Orsay was actually on the opposite bank of the river and made it just in time—bathroom first, then tickets. We only had an hour inside, so we rushed but still managed to see highlights, including an incredible Van Gogh collection and a special Gaudí exhibit. We left at 9:45 PM, then walked toward the Eiffel Tower. The light show was magical. Instead of taking the metro, we walked along the Seine for an hour back home, enjoying the Parisian night. Unfortunately our Airbnb was directly above a very noisy (and smoky) outdoor bar. The racket kept us both up most of the night.

May 20. After another sleepless night, I decided to look for a quieter place to stay. I needed to find a waterpik that would work with outlets in Europe and headed to BHV Marais, the closest all in one department store near us. I also needed a better pair of walking shoes as my feet were already hurting as I maneuvered cobblestone streets. I checked out several running stores and settled on a pair of Altra Torin from a trendy gear store aptly named Au Vieux Campeur. I had spied a tasty looking patisserie down the street and even Shawn broke his gluten fast to try a strawberry and citron tart and an apple chausson. He ended up eating a lot of gluten on the trip but didn’t have the same adverse skin reactions that he did in the states. Could it be due to GMO wheat?

We set off toward a riverside garden on the edge of the Latin Quarter but it was closed till the weekend. Around the corner we spied a colorful tiled mosque with a hammam (Turkish bath) and tea room tucked away inside. It offered peaceful sanctuary and I soaked in the visually stunning turquoise and lapis tiled reflecting pool and tasteful gardens. The narrow streets of the Latin Quarter were filled with a lively charm. Outside a church, I watched some children playing with a balloon as it floated up and escaped behind a fence. And in a special synchronistic moment, we happened upon a café where they were filming Madeline—such a fun surprise!

For dinner, we found a fantastic Lebanese restaurant and ate lamb shawarma while perched on a fountain near the apartment where Hemingway had lived with Hadley—a perfect Parisian moment. On our way back, we discovered a Roman arena, unfortunately closed for the evening. I returned home exhausted but satisfied after another full day in the city.

May 21. I had another tough night, and again woke cranky and sleep-deprived. Despite exhaustion I dragged myself to see the fascinating exhibit at Musee des Archives nationales, formerly known as the Museum of the History of France, was established in 1867 to exhibit archival documents to the public. It was also known as the Museum of the History of France from 1939 to 2006. It’s housed in adjacent 14th century buildings of which a turret is all that remains of Hôtel de Clisson (previously Hôtel de Soubise). I used google lens to translate the curated material, as was necessary in most French museums. It was an exhausting but worthwhile process. While there, the heavens emptied upon the 7 century old mansard roof with thunder and fury, pelting it with torrents. We stayed till 2 PM, then found a lunch spot on Rue des Archives, ordering the filling paysanne salad. From there we headed back to the Roman arena and found it open. It felt cavernous in its immensity. I had hoped to visit Sainte-Chapelle, but the line was way too long. Instead we headed back to the Museum of Natural History and surrounding botanical gardens. I was particularly interested in the Count de Buffon’s medicinal garden and loved the Alpine garden which appeared after walking through a tunnel. The garden has been reorganized by plant families and replanted several times, with some trees dating back to the 1700s. A queue of conference goers snaked around part of the garden. We saw kangaroos and sloths as we passed the zoo, explored a labyrinth and a famous physicist’s lab, and I checked out the geology museum, but it was a too expensive. Shawn wanted to visit the natural history museum, but by the time we arrived, they had a sign saying full for the day. I wondered if that was like timed entry. How could they tell?

There were outdoor kiosks showcasing the French environmental movement, and I took the opportunity as always to refilled my water bottle and use the bathroom. The ecological garden was filled native grasses and other endangered habitats. Suddenly there was loud shouting and a parade of people, singing and waving flags, circumambulated the gardens. Curious, we followed and ended up at a metro stop. We decided to take the subway to Montmartre. As soon as we exited, we were in another world—the majority of people looked of African descent, and most of the stores were textile shops selling glitzy fabrics. We joined the horde pushing up the hill toward Sacré-Cœur. The basilica itself didn’t move me as much as some of the older churches, but I loved the mosaics, especially those with chivalric themes. We walked the circuit, but I found the sheer number of people overwhelming, and took a side street toward the river.

I found Montmartre beautiful. The stunning Mediterranean-style buildings were homes of famous artists of yesteryear and some wealthy contemporary ones. In a small square in front of a quaint old home was an eye-catching bust of a lovely woman. It turned out to be an homage to Dalida, the Egyptian singer and performer who had lived here in the picturesque home. Shawn was ravenous and demanded food. While he ate, I walked around for another hour. I wanted to visit Saint Vincent Cemetery but it was closed except for funerals. Nevertheless I was able to peek through the grates into the cemetery and was struck by how haphazard it looked. The place looked like it had been hit by a bomb. As I continued wandering I discovered a bustling street and walked its length around the base of the hill, admiring the many bistros and cafes. It reminded me of University Ave in Palo Alto with the number of eateries that packed its narrow streets. I admired the artfully decorated shop windows and charming architecture, and discovered the only vineyard in Paris and a quirky cabaret called Le Lapin Agile, adored with amusing exterior murals.

I passed a gelato place that looked delicious and told Shawn when I rejoined him. He had just received his food, and I shared a bit of his lamb, which was filling but not particularly well-seasoned. Afterward, we searched for the gelato shop but it was closed. I refused to settle for Amorino (a good gelato chain I’d tried several times in Toulouse) and couldn’t find any others to my liking. Shawn was tired, but I insisted on showing him Le Lapin Agile, which made him laugh because of the discrepancy between the amusing murals and the waiting crowd of serious-looking older folk. We made our way back to the metro and alighted at the Hôtel de Ville.

Back at the flat, I was still on a mission for gelato, and Shawn decided to join me. We found two gelato places next to each other, and I chose Pozzetto Gelato Caffè after asking a young boy in line for his recommendation. It was a good thing I didn’t check online reviews beforehand—despite a mediocre 3.3-star rating (due to complaints about wait times), the gelato was excellent. The place had an authentic Italian feel, relaxed staff, and generous portions served with a traditional paddle. I got a large cup with pistachio, noisette (hazelnut), and stracciatella—delicious. There were lots of people there, making for a lively atmosphere. Nearby, I spotted a nice café, Les Philosophes, where Shawn said he’d have coffee in the morning. It seemed like a great spot.

May 22. Considering that the street below our AirBnb had been full of smoking, drinking bar heads till the wee hours, I was surprised I’d been able to sleep. Rain sounds on my iPhone helped mask some of the street din. We decided to get a latte at Les Philosophes. On the way, a girl on a bike slammed into me hard from behind. I was angry and cursed at her—she probably lost control, but according to Shawn, she hadn’t even tried to slow down. Once we arrived at the café, I had a fantastic croissant and my first good latte in France. Shawn appreciated the chef’s statement on the menu about sourcing ingredients: ‘It’s not complicated. I get my eggs from Mr. [Name] in this part of Paris, my produce from [Name] in another part of Paris…’

We decided to explore the neighborhood in and around Rue des Rosiers, which we found out had been the Jewish quarter before Jews had been mass deported by the Vichy regime during WW II. The area had also been home to Russians and Romanians in the early 1900s. Everywhere we turned we saw signs documenting the names of the Jewish children who’d been deported. It was a sobering experience, particularly because my father, a non Jew born in Poland in 1932, had an uncle who, with great ingenuity and Aid, survived five Nazi concentration camps, including Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Dachau. So the reality of deportation and mass extermination was very real for me.

We considered visiting the nearby Picasso Museum, but at 15 euros each, the price seemed steep—though I later learned it’s housed in a beautiful old château, which would have made it worth it. Instead, we went to the Musée Carnavalet, the museum of Parisian history—and loved it. The museum was free and incredibly well-curated. It included detailed exhibits, including a re-creation of bourgeois interiors, as well as an extensive collection of historical shop signs. Since literacy wasn’t widespread in earlier centuries, shops would indicate their trade by their signage alone. I only made it up to the 1700s before we were ushered out at 5:45pm, closing time. I hoped to return another day.

Afterward, Shawn was hungry, so I suggested Les Philosophes again. He initially wanted to eat in the Jewish quarter, but all the restaurants were serving falafel, which he wasn’t in the mood for, so we returned to Les Philosophes. It turned out to be a great choice—we got a table next to a loud American art student talking to a quiet French speaker. Shawn ordered mackerel and I had salmon, both delicious. For dessert, we had île flottante—meringue floating in crème anglaise, a classic French dessert.

After dinner, I suggested a walk along the Seine, which was only a block away. I stumbled upon Place des Vosges and was proud to have found it on my own. They were playing live music, but Shawn was tired, so I continued exploring alone and agreed to meet him back later. I went for more gelato at Pozzetto’s before returning around 11 PM. Shawn was watching a soccer game, but the sound irritated me, and I asked if he could watch in another room – the bathroom!

May 23. I set an alarm since we needed be out of our hotel by 10:30am. Shawn had made what felt like a holier than thou comment about not taking photos because he prefers to observe things as they are. He said taking pictures interferes with that experience. I was still sore from him making fun of me for being an ardent photo journalist of sorts. I retorted that he doesn’t seem particularly observant to me, as I often catch him staring at the ground while he walks. I often encourage him to look at a particular building or person since he misses so much. That’s why his comment stung. It felt both critical and hypocritical. He spent the rest of the day in a sullen mood, refusing to speak for hours. His silence felt like punishment. When I said as much, he snapped that I shouldn’t say shitty things. We were off to a good start.

Dragging them through the rain, I made my way to the metro stop in front of the Hôtel de Ville. His anger had spilled over into refusing to help me carry them. And to lend insult to injury he didn’t trust that I knew where I was going, so he kept checking his phone. Infuriating. I have excellent sense of direction both in wilderness and cityscapes. I have led many groups of hikers through places I’d never been using my map and compass skills. Not only did he not appreciate this about me, but seemed to think the opposite. As I made my way to the metro entrance, I was dismayed to see hundreds of steps descending into the abyss. Thankfully, several younger folk offered to help me carry my bags. I was deeply moved. Especially against the backdrop of the argument with Shawn. Their kindness reminded me that the world is filled with goodness. The kindness of strangers.

It’s not fun to be in the middle of a seeming intractable argument with someone with whom you need to work together to find your way to the next destination. We headed out of Paris toward Orly Airport. I had to show my proof of purchase ticket twice, and panicked when I thought I’d lost it. I thought there before the grace of God go I as I saw a man arguing with security about him not having a ticket and refusing to leave.

Once we arrived at Orly, I called Citroen EuroPass to find their car shuttle. Euroapss is a car program open only to non EU citizens where you lease a new car just off the factory floor for a very reasonable rate, including comprehensive insurance. Of course the longer you rent, the cheaper the daily rate. It took me about 30 minutes to find the shuttle stop. We reached the car lease lot, loaded our luggage, and I asked Shawn if he could forgive me. After a long pause, he said yes. I wondered to myself why I was the one asking forgiveness when his comments had stung just as much if not more. I was struck by the paucity of the number of times he has apologized to me.

I was the driver during the 3 weeks we were together. This became an additional source of friction, because Shawn wanted to see fewer places and rest more than I did. It didn’t help that he often would take it out in a passive aggressive way, being sullen and silent rather than telling me what he wanted. More than once I said I have no idea what you want or need unless you tell me. He threatened to break up with me at least once on the trip over this. Over the days I grew more uncomfortable and uncertain of how to deal with the resulting tension.

I wanted to see the immense gardens of the palace of Versailles. The gardens were nearly empty since the palace was closed on Mondays and it was raining hard, giving the place an eerie, magical quality. Shawn chose to wait in the car. I dashed from the car, dodging raindrops as I headed to the grounds behind the immense chateau. At a constant gallop, it took me 45 minutes to explore the grounds. I knew Shawn’s patience was already worn thin, and wanted to avoid further hostilities. I got turned around several times, once in a forested area near the King’s Garden, and another while looking for the Queen’s Garden. By then, the rain had turned into an absolute downpour. My feet were soaked, my clothes drenched. I couldn’t help but wonder if the King had ever got lost in his gardens to escape responsibilities.

We left Versailles and searched for a place to eat. Shawn was unimpressed with every option—including the boulangerie, which I thought would have been fine. I suggested quiche or a sandwich, but he didn’t like either. So, we kept driving. Eventually, I handed him some bread and my leftover Lebanese food, and that was dinner. I was heading toward Rennes, the beginning of the trip I had planned through Bretagne. I’d never been to the northwestern part of France and was fascinated by its Celtic history and sovereign relationship to the rest of France. I would learn much about both in the weeks to come. I got to Rennes and found parking at the back of some narrow streets. I approached a gentleman on the street about where I might be able to buy an umbrella. Unphased, he handed me his. I tried to give it back but he refused. I was deeply touched by his kindness.

It was almost 9pm and we decided to split up and meet up in 30 minutes time. I rushed from here to there, ducking into La Gavotte Crêperie for a bite to eat. But there was almost no food to be had. I found another spot which seemed better, but couldn’t dawdle as the 30 minutes was almost up. I found Shawn who insisted on ordering dessert, even though I told him we needed to go—I was afraid we would not be allowed into our accommodation, as Jean Luc was only waiting until 10 PM.

The address situation was another fiasco. Shawn hadn’t actually written the address down, and we had to scramble to find it online. I was the one who ended up speaking to Jean Luc, since I speak French. Shawn insisted on speaking even though he has no real grasp of the language beyond food-related words. I think what was really eating at me was his lack of appreciation for my help with translation. Without that we would have been lost many times. The people of Bretagne do not speak English as a rule. Eventually, we found the place—Château du Pin—after pulling it up on Google. By that point, I was frustrated and told him he had messed up. He got angry. I apologized.

Finally, peace. Jean Luc greeted us and showed us to our upstairs bedroom. The historic chateau was idiosyncratic and lovely, with its creaky floors and crisp white sheets. And the view from our window overlooked three massive trees dating from the 1700s. That night I had the most peaceful sleep of my life.