Tuesday, November 14
So, something funny about flying back to the states from India is that it’s hard to find a direct flight, and you’ll probably have to stop somewhere in Europe along the way. Somewhere so lame and unexciting and horrible for walking around aimlessly and shopping and eating, like Paris. I think I need a different font for sarcasm. Excuse me! Somewhere so lame and unexciting and horrible for walking around aimlessly and shopping and eating, like Paris.
I left Goa at 6 p.m. on Monday and landed in Mumbai at 1 a.m. There was a woman waiting at the gate when I got off of the plane, and she asked if I was traveling to France. Then she asked for my name, so I told her, and after that she started running away from me. I dropped my bag to the ground and pulled out my passport and wallet, and shoved the cute headset from my flight a little deeper into the center compartment of my otherwise very tastefully organized bag. I thought they were complimentary (the headphones) but read “Do Not Take From Aircraft” as I shoved. Shitty shit shit. Too late now. I started running, too, in the French woman’s direction, and I followed her for 15 minutes in very poorly chosen shoes and a crick in my neck.
We skipped the security line, and the customs line, and all she had to do was whisper to different staff members that were located at each place. She knew everyone. We got to my gate and there was plenty of time to spare, but I don’t think I would’ve made my flight if she hadn’t been waiting for me (and running from me). Mumbai to Paris was an 8-hour journey, but I got a window seat and was relatively dehydrated, so I didn’t have to fall over people in order to pee more than once. I watched Love, Actually on my way and almost cried.
I landed in Paris at 8 a.m. and wasn’t allowed to check into my Airbnb until 4, so I took a train to a random location hoping to find a spot to drop my bags off, and then it started to rain. I called an Uber who took me to a more intentional destination, locked up my luggage at a hostel for €10, and changed in the dark in the dining hall just below it.
Dress-wise, I was expecting more color in Paris, and there were a few standouts among the trench coats and docs and loafers and black, gray, and beige scheme, but I would say my choice of dress was a little off the mark.
I started to walk.
I grabbed lunch at an earthy build-your-own bowl kind of place that I wish I remembered the name of. They had great tofu stew and I mistakenly bought a bottle of water even though there was a liter of it on the table for free.
I took myself to a few shops.
I bought a shirt at a vintage store that I’m 80% sure was made in the early 2000s. Is that vintage? Or did I get scammed? I paid €35 so even if the answer to my first question is yes, the answer to the second is still probably yes.
I stayed with a woman named Anne in her beautiful home in Montreuil. When I arrived, she left me a voice note before letting me in the gate.
She told me about her cat, her son, and her daughter, and about her 12 neighbors who are all creatives and know each other very well. The person staying in the loft that my window faced is an artist. I took a picture of their balcony.
Anne has incredible taste. Staying at her place felt like I was meeting a distant relative that I wished I had known my whole life for the first time.
It was 6 p.m. when I got to her home, so before it got dark I took a walk around the area. It was beautiful in ways that I can’t describe. I can understand why people romanticize this place so much. I saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time on a People to People trip in 2016 (I think that organization went bankrupt, but I’d recommend it otherwise). Even then, I didn’t understand the allure, so I made it a point to not go out of my way to see it during this trip. But staying in a town like Anne’s was enough to write stories about. Or a Substack post.
I got ready to see Joanna Sternberg in the city at 8:30 p.m. She’s an American Indie Folk artist who I love, especially her song “For You”, and she conveniently announced a show at Le Consulat around the same time I booked my returning flight. I knew exactly how to get there and how long it’d take and what I was going to wear, and that the show was definite because I got an email in French about it that afternoon.
It was a short train ride — about 10 minutes — and a 5 minute walk to the venue. No one waited outside for the doors to open, so I figured it would be very intimate. Maybe the room would just be me and Joanna. Or maybe people in France are late, which would mean that I am either part French or I should move here.
8:20 - Doors open at 8:30. No one is here.
8:28 - This is going to be so awkward. I figured she’d have a European fan base.
8:30 - Oh boy. The doors are going to open.
8:32 - I’m going to read that email I received earlier today.
8:35 - Damn it.
I hope she’s doing well. I know a lot of people who are getting sick. Towards the end of my culinary course, almost all of my classmates had some sort of head cold or fever. Weirdly, I haven’t, but I have a feeling I won’t be saying that for long. I took myself out to dinner in the area that I trained to since I dressed up and paid €4 for a ticket. I had miso soup, a cucumber avocado roll, and jasmine tea. It was nice. I did lots more walking and people watching. I also lost my credit card.
Wednesday, November 15
The next day, I took the train to Saint-Germain and spent the morning and afternoon there. It was a dream. I went to Secco first, and worked some recipe writing while I sipped on a sexily frothed soy milk latte.
I went to a Repetto store, something I had been dreaming of doing since I thrifted a pair a few years ago.
I walked and I walked and I walked.
For lunch, I went to a vegan spot called Guenmai, which was tucked away from the main shopping center. Each day, there is a plate with a mix of different vegetables and your choice of fish, spring rolls, or tofu wontons. I’m not sure how you’d classify this cuisine. It kind of felt like eating an English breakfast, even though I know the plates are not similar at all besides the beans and I was not in England. I called a friend of mine while I ate, met a sweet cat and asked it to try to avoid stepping on my beans, and afterwards I walked to a bookstore while I digested the very eclectic mix of produce items and mixed media.
I had a chai latte here. It was better than my soy milk one that morning.
And as per my friend’s recommendation, I went to The Centre Pompidou and saw the Picasso exhibit. The escalators that look me to Floor 6 were the best part. In a way, I did visit the Eiffel Tower. She looked better from a distance. There was a couple at the exhibit who didn’t speak to each other, but one of them took pictures of the other looking at art intensely. It was hilarious. There were also several memorable older women with red hair. I remember themes of bulls, breasts, and blocks (cubism) in Picasso’s work. His art reminds me a lot of my friend from college named Cam — a mix of genius and chaos.
Another friend of mine requested that I find a cheesecake. I told her that buying a slice here would be highly unlikely because a. vegan cheesecake in Paris is equivalent to Joanna Sternberg on a Tuesday night: nonexistent and would probably get you sick if it wasn’t b. cheesecake in general just isn’t the easiest to find in France. I visited a few bakeries and the conversations went something like this:
“Bonjour!”
“Bonjour Madame! Et que puis-je faire pour toi?”
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have cheesecake?”
“Cheesecake? No! There are so many things here that are much better than cheesecake.”
“I know. Do you know where I can find cheesecake?”
And then I’d visit another bakery.
My night ended with a vegan 5-course meal at La Table de Colette. I sat in the back right corner and faced the rest of the customers and the kitchen, which ended up being the best because everything operated like lock work, and it was amazing to watch — that’s a good pun, actually — especially with a glass of white wine in me.
I asked to leave tip, and the waiter had to ask his manager before he could charge my card. After paying, he said that “people don’t really do that here.” Very smart timing. Still, it was well-deserved.
I left the resturaunt around 10 p.m. My phone died on my way home so I walked for about 45 minutes until I found a train station. I’m sure there was one a lot closer, but I didn’t want to ask and figured I’d manage, which I did, but poorly. I charged my phone outside of the ticket counter and made my way back to Anne’s for €2.50. My phone died again just before I started my 15-minute walk from the station exit to her place, so I stopped at a sushi restaurant just before it closed and bought an avocado roll and miso soup in order to use their charger without feeling guilty…
Thursday, November 16
…and now it’s the next morning, and I’ll be on my way to New York soon, and then to Atlanta. I’m so tired but I’m so happy. All I can think about is seeing Frank and cooking and going through my moving boxes from college that I haven’t opened since I left for India.
I also plan on investing in a portable charger.
I think my first meal once I’m home will be Munish’s curry.
I hope you’re well. Here’s a recipe, for the sake of France:
Vegan Cheesecake
For the crust:
2 cups vegan graham crumbs mixed plus 1/4 cup vegan butter
For the filling:
1 cup vegan cream cheese
2 to 3 tbsps sugar
1 batch vegan whip or 1/2 container of vegan frozen whipped topping
1 tsp vanilla
Bake at 350F for 15 minutes in 8” round dish, or until golden and fragrant.
With a mixer, whip vegan cream cheese with sugar until smooth, then fold in whipped topping.
Spread mixture onto cooled prepared crust and cover. Freeze for 2 hours (at least) before slicing into 2-inch x 2-inch squares. Enjoy frozen.
I just know the next vlog is gonna smack
What an amazing time it has been for you.
Save travel home!