I Went to Paris to Fall in Love

I recite the same three sentences under my breath as the captain orders the seatbelt sign: “Je m’appelle Jenny, je suis a Kansas City, je suis professeur de Yoga.” This introduction is sure to snag me a French boyfriend during my week in Paris, or at least break the ice when meeting someone in The City of Lights.

When gathering intel from the folks I know who have seen the Eiffel Tower, the general consensus was that “as long as you try to speak French, you’ll make it by”. Try as I might, I hardly retain the Spanish vocabulary I learned in high school, yet still slip in “yo” when attempting any romantic language. And while I consider myself “good with words”, I become speechless whenever I embark somewhere new. 

“Bonjour! I mean… Merci!” I shout at the clerk at Charles De Gaulle when purchasing my museum pass. “Thank you” She responds stoically. I’ve been in Paris for less than an hour and already know this trip will be one of many embarrassing and sequentially empowering moments. As figuring things out on my own without having a hand to hold was a major driver in my decision to cross the pond.

While I’m no novice traveler, life and the pandemic put a hold on my European excursions for half a decade. When I would frequent Florence and surrounding cities in my early twenties, my motives settled in external acclaim. I entered airports as an avatar, eager for adventure, capturing photos of every Instagramable landmark like Pokémon GO. But as I prepared for this solo trip to France, I stuck to one destination with the intention to embody the romantic nature of the City of Love.

Retreating in the 10th arrondissement, (neighborhood), my Airbnb host briefed me of the history of his flat, formerly occupied by a single aristocratic family that now inhabits dozens of renters. Later I’d learn from young Parisians that I was staying in the “ghetto”. Regardless, this quiet apartment furnished in classic French decor helped me feel at home.

Pascal, my Airbnb host, first warned me of his poor English, yet succeeded in fluent, prolonged chats with me every morning during petite dejeuner. 

“We only have wifi in the kitchen, which is where Anne Claude will work. There is no wifi in the bedroom. It is bad for the body.” Pascal pointed out this health tip, along with daily reminders about France’s hefty taxes.

“Do you work outside of Airbnb?” I asked.

“No. Taxes are too high.” Pascal replied.

“And Anne Claude, is she your wife?” 

Pascal paused, then responded: “She is the mother of our child.” 

Pascal’s bald head and toothy grin added shine to the overcast skies that welcomed me the week I visited in December. And while I never saw the sun, the skies dazzled with strings of light from Christmas markets and exquisite marketing from luxury brands. Perceiving Paris as the fashion capital of the world, I packed a vibrant wardrobe filled with fake furs and my treasured vintage finds. To my surprise, most of the women in the streets sported Carhartt beanies and Converse hightops just like any other American I know. But the lack of makeup, nail polish and styled hair among my European peers had to be my favorite observation as I too keep my nails natural and my hair untouched from curling irons. 

Typically, I’m a social girl who loves to stand out. But when I’m traveling a foreign country alone, it feels safer to fit in. By my third day, people on the streets started asking me questions in French, as I finally bought a black parka and ditched my beret for a long, lush, soft-as-cashmere wool scarf I snagged from the Bastille markets for 10 Euro. That being said, no one in Paris wears berets. Unless you’re a tourist or retired, that is. 

“But I think the hat looks good on you.” Said the Siberian clerk at a postcard shop I found within Les Passages, an elegant arcade of indoor shops and cafes. With winter coming, I stuck with the beret that day and asked the clerk where I should go for live music at night. She suggested La Gare Le Gore, a repurposed train station turned night club that was hosting an electric jazz duo that evening. Back home, a jazz club calls for a fierce outfit and a hot date. But I didn’t have a date, so I slipped on a dark, silk jumpsuit with faded pink fur and made my way to the metro. A group of young twenty-somethings stopped their conversation as I walked around the huddle towards the entrance, where I caught my first stares and realized what mistake I had made. While the bouncer didn’t ask for a cover fee, I asked myself what I was doing in jewels at a dive bar doused in graffiti. 

This is fine. It’s live music… No one will be paying attention to you. I assured myself as I headed into the bar, which, to my unpleasant surprise, was stark bright with grunge hipsters sitting along the perimeter, sipping le cocktail du jour before the show. Two dozen heads turned towards my wide eyes which took in every detail of this casual, cool spot. A full forty minutes passed before the lights dimmed and the host took the mic, asking us to come closer to stage. Up front, I had a clear view of the sexy, skinny, wavy-haired accordionist who transcended pleasure from his fingertips with each note he stroked. Mixed with the lo-fi beats of his partner’s 808 and acoustic drums, the music pacified any apprehension I carried from the beginning of the night, allowing dancing to be my antidote from the previous self-implied humiliation. 

The following night, I popped off of the Champs-Élysées metro station to witness the iconic street and a classic cabaret. Ascending out of the subway, a disturbing rumble shook my core as I watched smoke fill up the night sky. Hoots and hollers pierced my ears from people I could not see, but felt their chaotic energy. Orange flares shot off in the distance. Police sirens blasted. Cell phones dotted the air in attempt to record the madness. Red flags with a green star in the center draped over dozens of backs, turning citizens into superheros. Morocco had just defeated Canada in the World Cup, and every immigrant, supporter, and sports fan fled the Champs-Elysees to celebrate.

Shuffling through the congested crowd, I pushed myself through to the Lido, a show I was told is closing it’s doors at the end of the season. Sure, the performers and their brilliant costumes were entertaining, but the World War II context and Nazi references wasn’t my cup of tea. So I bought an 18 Euro glass of champagne, costing more than most of my meals I ate that week. Sipping the bubbles in my upper deck seat, I scanned a group of German retirees in the row before me, spying a gorgeous young man with a wealthy older woman to my left. He looked nervous, she was bored. They left behind two untouched glasses of acidic white wine in which I grabbed during intermission.

At recess, I befriended a Ukrainian massage therapist on holiday and in refuge from the horrors awaiting her back home. Nadine from Kiev invited me out for drinks after the show and escorted me down the street, which was still flooded by futbol fans.

As a masseuse, Nadine refused crass requests on a regular basis, so I asked her what she does to protect her energy. “I stare at a candle flame when working with my clients.” She said after contemplation. “Like meditation.” I affirmed. With meditation being my number one suit of armor from life’s uncertainty, I was happy to meet someone who could speak with such heart and vulnerability. 

After I said au revoir to Nadine on her last night in Paris, I was determined to find another pal to dance with over the weekend. Much like my failed efforts back home, dating app matches kept leaving me for dry. Looking for my Parisian prince, I was stuck being the Queen of Ghost Town.

Optimistic of attracting another companion, I headed to Montmartre Saturday morning. This picturesque hub is home to artists residing on a hill with panoramic views of the city, famously seen from the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. Escaping the crowds of this grandiose, gothic limestone monument, I stepped into a nearby church where tourists murmured around the edges, taking photos of stained glass and saints. The center pews warned tourists to only sit for prayer, which is exactly what I was inclined to do. Dropping to my knees, I put my hands to my heart, sobbing as I asked god for blessings. 

Now, I’m not Catholic but I could feel the spirits viscerally, and the couple praying next to me could feel it too. When I stood up, that couple in the pews reached out their hands and offered some sort of commendation to me in French. I didn’t know what they were saying, but I understood their token of grace, spoken with conviction and deep sincerity.

Refreshed from the holy water I marked across my head, I made my way towards a cemetery for a different kind of spiritual encounter. Standing still while checking the map, my new vintage bag broke at the straps. Straight ahead, I saw a man in a leather shop, certain he could help. Alberto from Chile wore a red bandana over his long, gray dreadlocks. An older gentleman, Alberto’s soul was as playful as his twelve-year-old son who stepped in shortly after I entered. He only spoke French and Spanish, allowing me to practice what little Español I knew until Google Translate was necessary. The app was especially useful after I told Alberto I was a yoga teacher, which opened Pandora’s philosophical box of prophecies and insight.

“You’ve traveled far to find your answer” he told me, then asked me why I suffer. I confessed my current pains but assured him my suffering has ceased, thanks to a decade of practicing self-acceptance. I admitted that within those ten years I have never truly dated anyone, which brings me pain via loneliness. He paused, then he prayed and said I was getting closer. 

Alberto serenaded me by strumming his guitar and singing about the stars. He made us coffee and invited me for lunch with his son. After his little one ran off and we ordered a bottle of wine, Alberto’s fatherly love turned into a romantic request. I told him I loved him like an angel, as his warmth meant much to me while traveling alone. 

When we parted, he gripped my body tight and kissed me hard on my cheek. Bewildered, I left the restaurant with a strapless bag, ready to walk around and process what had happened. I managed to see the cemetery before sunset, which was an eerie ensemble of gothic tombs. Frustrated that Alberto could have very well been the one I traveled so far to meet, I reminded god that my ideal partner needs to be closer to my age and speak English fluently.

Drinking a beer at an Irish bar, my best friend back home asked how I was and what I was up to. I told her it’s been a whirlwind of majestic sites and magical encounters, that it’s Saturday night and I have the itch to dance but no one to dance with. That I would need to lighten my mood soon if I wanted to avoid being the sad, lonely girl at the club.

Deciding I ought to clean up, change outfits and eat something, I made my way back to the metro. 

“Hey! Could you help me find something?” A tall, thin man with curly dark hair stopped me in the middle of the street while I was checking the map on my phone. 

Staring into his emerald eyes, I stood speechless as he continued on, proposing we keep walking as the pedestrian sign turned red.

“Do you like Indian food?” He asked.

“Yes, but… I ate Indian last night, and I’m afraid I’m not in the best shape to go to dinner right now. I need to freshen up.” Stumbling over my words, I couldn’t help but admire this man’s English through a thick, European accent.

“Will you be out after dinner? I could meet you then.” I proposed.

“What’s your number?” He asked.

“Here…” I handed him my phone. “What’s your name?”

“Axel.” He smiled.

“Axel, I’m Jenny. I’ll see you in a few.” 

A jolt of energy shocked me to the bone, flattery induced by this boy’s bold debut. After a shower and a few hours, I met Axel at a quiet pub back in Montmartre.

“Je m’appelle Jenny, je suis a Kansas City, je suis professeur de Yoga.” I exclaimed to a table of four, including Axel and three of his friends, who shot me a stunned stare.

“Parlez-vous français?!” One curly-haired cutie asked. His name was Anthony.

“No!” I laughed. “That’s literally all I know.”

The rest of the table laughed and continued to ask me questions about my trip, a conversation which inevitably worked its way into the esoteric. I asked the group if they had heard of any of the French artists I play for my yoga classes, resulting in a unanimous “no.”

“But I think slow music is quite lovely.” said Axel. 

“It’s not so formulaic like popular American music.” 

“Right.” I agreed. 

“Down-beat, low-fi is mostly what I listen to these days, and it’s taken me much time to appreciate.” I continued.

“Listening takes patience.” Anthony interjected.

“Do you have patience?” He continued. 

I paused, smiled, and looked at everyone around the table in the eyes.

“I don’t think I had much in my twenties, but traveling and meditation and working towards my goals has taught me much patience. But now, I’m getting impatient as it’s getting late and I want to dance.” 

“Look, you all have been so kind. I realize that the second I sat down, I changed the dynamic of your evening. Thank you all for speaking English with me and being great company.” I added.

I said goodbye to Axel and his friends, and headed to the club they suggested: The Moulin Rouge. Crowded and sweaty, I swatted off a couple handsy men on the dance floor, left after an hour and walked home while eating the worst falafel of my life. 

To compensate, the following night Axel took me to a traditional French restaurant at Bouillon République, where we shared a bottle, two starters and entrees for fifty bucks. He taught me much about French history and walked me home to my apartment, which was across town from his flat.

“You have such an appreciation for life.” Axel told me at the entrance of my building. 

“I admire how you see the world. With so much optimism and wonder.” He added.

“Optimism has saved my life a couple of times, so I stuck with it.” I told him.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked.

With permission, I had my first French kiss in a long time. And while Axel wasn’t the Prince who would propose to me during my trip to Paris, he certainly asked the right questions that expanded my idea of love. That is, our search for belonging begins when we take risks, and fulfills itself when we foster love within ourselves. I don’t think everyone needs to travel far to find love, though I’m convinced love will find you at unexpected times, in unfamiliar places.