A Letter from Paris

Zara coat (similar)
H&M sweater
Mavi jeans (c/o) (similar)
Adidas sneakers
Louis Vuitton handbag
RayBan sunglasses
Delphine Pariente ring (similar)
Strut Jewelry ring (c/o) (similar)
Urban Outfitters earrings (similar)
Location: Galerie Perrotin – Paris, France

Paris, February 23, 2019

Dear friends,

I am in the habit of sharing photos with you without context, putting together a series of months-old images followed by an unrelated text about whatever is on my mind at the moment. I focus on big ideas, rather than the small things that make life the big adventure that it is. This year, I want to share differently, and more personally. So this is the first letter in a series I’ve written to you all, day by day, during our trip to Paris. I hope you’ll enjoy this more intimate glimpse into our lives in our favourite city.

We arrive late. There is no discernable reason for the airline delay beyond bad scheduling – the weather was calm from Winnipeg on. But we arrive and, after a minor bout of anxiety waiting for my suitcase to appear on the conveyer belt – the baggage handling team is kind enough to send Ian’s through first, but takes their time with mine – we make a triumphant exit into the arrivals area of Charles-de-Gaulle airport. The driver of the private car we smartly hired to take us to our Airbnb is waiting, despite the delay. Seated in the back of his van with our bags secured in the trunk, we exit the subterranean carpark onto the Mitterand-era maze of freeway entrances towards the city. The sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day.

The scenery on the way to our 14th arrondissement apartment is unfamiliar. I am anxious to arrive, knowing the gardienne who is scheduled to meet us to hand over our keys only works for another hour. Naturally, it feels like traffic is crawling. I look out the window for signs we’re headed in the right direction, that we’re getting closer. It’s not until we reach the pont d’Austerlitz that I recognise where we are and a sense of relief comes over me. We’ll make it in time.

I recognise the wooden front door to the apartment building that will be our temporary home almost before our driver does. A complex and awkward dance ensues as we try to get out of the car, with our bags, in the street, and cross through the line of parked motorbikes to get to the sidewalk – but this is just the way things are in Paris. Space is a luxury here, not a right. The four-digit secure code lets us seamlessly into the building where we meet the gardienne – she is exactly as I imagined, a petite woman with a frizzy chignon and glasses. She eyes our North American-sized suitcases sceptically. “It’s three flights up, you know.”

I assure her that we’ve done this before. Although she approves of my French accent, she doesn’t seem convinced. Nevertheless, we make it up the stairs in one swift trip. There is a large, neglected plant sitting improbably outside the door – we will never figure out what transgression it committed to get kicked out of the apartment. Inside, we barely do more than line up our bags in the living room. We’re in Paris! Practical activities can wait. There is too much we are excited to do. And, we already know, not enough time in a week to do it all. I don’t even change my shoes. One fresh swipe of lipstick and we’re out the door again.

This letter is long, but the first day in Paris is always the most exciting – even the mundane feels worth retelling. We are staying in a neighbourhood we’ve barely seen before, but it doesn’t matter. When we take the stairs down into the Mouton-Duvernet metro station and refill our metro cards at the guichet, it feels like a homecoming.

The train ride itself is a happy blur. We are jetlagged and running mostly on the thrill of being back again. We arrive at our stop only to realise we don’t know which exit to take out to the street. After some hesitation, we guess and choose wrong. Aboveground, we take another wrong turn, despite having walked all of the streets around us before. Paris is a labyrinth; its twists and turns a constant reminder that no matter how well you think you know it, you can never really know it, not so well that it will stop surprising you.

But wrong turns are really part of the fun. We stumble upon the magnificently vintage tile facade of the Hotel du Jura, a two-star establishment that is otherwise not worthy of notice before crossing back to the street where we intended to end up in the first place – and from there, our destination, La Becane a Gaston on rue Lucien-Sampaix, is so close we can almost taste it.

In 2017, La Becane was a new restaurant just around the corner from our place. A single visit turned into near weekly brunch dates in the tiny brasserie. It was our best kept Parisian secret, but the word is clearly out – we can scarcely open the door because of the crowd of diners inside. The restaurant is busy, but they greet us with a kind of puzzled familiarity that often meets us in this city, where we visit the same places year after year, but usually only once a year. The owner is glad to see us, he just isn’t entirely sure why.

Space by the window at a communal table opens up, and we are happy to take it. The restaurant has printed menus now – on our last visit, dishes were ever-changing and written on a chalkboard daily. But the old chalkboard is still there, carried to each table so diners can see the specials. Ian opts for one of them, a pork sausage served with potatoes, while I choose pasta from the regular menu. It seems silly to order pasta for my first meal in Paris, but in reality, pasta is usually the only meatless option at French restaurants, so it’s what I survived on when we lived here. I’m not vegetarian anymore, but still always look for pasta at brasseries. La Becane is run by a Franco-Italian family, so I suspect I’m in for a treat.

But really, the meal almost doesn’t matter. The waitress brings me my glass of white wine, and the restaurant dog wanders over from behind the counter for a friendly visit. I watch the action through the open door the kitchen over Ian’s shoulder while I scratch the dog behind the years and take my first sip of wine; this is Paris. And it’s perfect.