72 hours in Paris as an ex-Parisian
A guide for individuals with self-respect (no Café de Flore)
A bit of a different post today — you know I’m not a guide girl, but I do have some sufficiently sacred knowledge of this beautiful city I feel inclined to share. Enjoy!
Saying I’m native to Paris would be a blatant lie, yet not much can stop me from inserting an unsolicited ‘You know, I lived in Paris for over a year…’ into every discussion. I was a transplant once upon a time, and not a very good one: my time in the city was defined by the WeWork in the 8th (the perks and pleasures of a remote tech job) and SSRIs (tough year. Next!…) It wasn’t very joie de vivre of me. But nobody needs to know that.
Coming back to the city as a tourist pins me at the perfect intersection of knowing and obliviousness. Knowing the right spots and the right people. The obliviousness of never staying long enough again to face the suffocatingly unforgiving, charming, inevitably brutal nature of this town. Whoever said Paris was romantic or, God forbid, a city of love, didn’t dig deep enough into its soil to be slapped in the face by its stature and indifference.
The problem with Paris is that most influencer recommendations make me groan. I don’t want a ‘hidden gem’ with 50 people on the waitlist, don’t want a ‘trusted’ Dua Lipa rec (not taking advice from that tax bracket) or another industrial brutalism-leaning coffee shop, and surely not Cafe Kitsune (sorry). I want reliable, local places I’ll return to, places that refuse to rush, places where I’ll feel comfortable. Luckily, as a failed transplant, I’ve gathered enough restaurants, bars, bookstores, even mirrors to take selfies in, and consider it my duty to share some here. And before you say anything, this is paywalled, so I’m not exactly making these places go viral and lose their authenticity badge.
Here’s everything we did in Paris on our latest 72 hour trip (culture, food, drinks) + alternative recs for every place. Realistic, tasteful, grounded, worth your money & time.
Day 1
The earliest, six in the morning Amsterdam-Paris Eurostar train is not unlike a toxic, reappearing ex for its magical ability to make you forget, every time, how horrible and soul-sucking the afternoon energy dip will be when you see that 35 EUR ticket price pop up on your screen. I keep forgetting that I’m not twenty anymore and need sleep.