Croissants & Cafés

[A personal history piece written originally for UCSB's Magazine Writing course in October of 2019.]

My first intercontinental travel experience was perhaps the most stressful – and now hilarious – twenty hours of my life. What began at San Francisco International Airport with an air of excitement and a trendy faux leather carry-on duffel quickly became a tale of confusion and comical complications.

For starters, I had never set foot on an airplane so big that it necessitated two aisles, so, of course, I stumbled down the wrong one and found myself stranded on the opposite side of the plane from my seat. Later, after not having used the bathroom for the first several hours of the flight, I finally worked up the courage to signal to my non-English-speaking aisle- and middle- seat neighbors to let me out of the row, just to find out that they were both fast asleep. (By the time they finally woke up to let me make my way to the restroom, I was watching the sun rise somewhere over Iceland.)

The travel troubles didn’t end once I got off the plane, though: in my severely sleep-deprived state, I got in the wrong line at customs; then my shuttle driver left me stranded at the airport and wouldn’t answer her phone. When she finally came back for me, I found out that she spoke no English; she then stuffed my (heavy) luggage onto my lap in the passenger seat of her tiny car because the two other passengers had already claimed all the trunk space.

When I finally arrived at my hotel, I was stressed, sweaty, and stained by the two airplane meals which had made their presence known on my shirt (thank you, turbulence). The concierge tried to hide his surprise at my flustered presentation, but quite frankly, I would have

chuckled at me, too. The only thing that made all of this chaos worth it was the destination: Paris.

I’d longed to see Paris since I was a little girl. The dreamy allure of the City of Light – in stark contrast with the generic suburban American experience I knew– was enough to convince me that Paris was the place for me. From the age of twelve, I had photos of the Eiffel Tower taped up around my bedroom and tucked into my binders at school.

My obsession was inexplicable – realistically, I knew very little about Paris other than croissants and cafés – but it remained steadfast. Something in me knew that I needed to be there. I could feel it. I longed to experience elegance and culture, things I’d never known in my day-to-day life. At eighteen, I went away to college, where my first order of business was to figure out how to study abroad in France. By Christmas, the plan was set: I would be getting on a plane for Paris the following August. When August came, I packed up one large suitcase and a duffel full of my best clothes, a few European guidebooks, and an empty journal. I hopped into the backseat of my parent’s Chevy and spent the three-hour drive between my house in Sacramento and the San Francisco airport pretending I wasn’t growing more terrified with each passing mile.

Then, my family left me at the airport. On the verge of tears, I gave my mom, dad, and sister each a hug, nodded to their “Be safe”s, got in line at security, and didn’t look back. I couldn’t look back. There was no room for doubt now. I had wanted this my whole life. Now, all I had to do was get myself on that plane.

The first time I saw the Eiffel Tower in person, I squealed like a little girl. I was still terrified, of course – I’d been living in a foreign country where I didn’t know a single soul for maybe three days at that point – but I saw the iconic, wrought iron structure peek out over the treetops and suddenly, that was enough. I then walked nearly three miles chasing after it, inching

closer and closer, one crooked, cobblestone city block at a time. When I got near enough to see the whole thing, I just stood and stared, beaming, my wide grin stretching from ear to ear. I was really in Paris.

A few days later, after I had gotten settled and comfortable in my small Haussmannian apartment, I developed a routine. Upon waking up, I would make myself a cup of coffee with the French press that came stocked in my kitchen (which I had to look up on Google to learn to use) and a fried egg. After I had eaten, I would get dressed: when the weather was warm, my outfit of choice was a sundress and clean white sneakers; when the air took on a chill, I’d choose black satin trousers with a tie at the waist, a sweater, heeled ankle boots, and a knee-length camel coat. Still finishing my coffee, I would do my makeup: usually just a sheer layer of foundation, some mascara, a bit of blush, and a swipe of tinted lip balm to keep things minimal like the chic Parisian women I idolized.

Finally, I would place my empty coffee mug in the kitchen sink, grab my shoulder bag, and march down the seven floors of winding, creaking wooden stairs to exit my building and enter the bustling 13th Arrondissement. With my heels clicking on the uneven sidewalk and my bag swinging, I’d march the ten minutes to the Métro, where I’d hop on the Line 6, ride seven stops, get off, transfer to the Line 8, ride four stops, get off, climb the stairs back up to street level, and walk half a block to school.

In hindsight, the simplicity and repetition of this routine was exactly what I needed in order to feel some sort of stability in a situation which was drastically out of my comfort zone. Embracing spontaneity has never been my strength, but I was so caught up in the glitz and glamour and glory of Paris that I never paused to process the fact that I was voluntarily moving myself to another country, alone, for a significant period of time. So, with each morning cup of coffee and each Métro ride, I was creating both a sense of familiarity and a personal relationship with an unfamiliar culture.

On the Métro, I would spend the majority of my commute listening to music and people- watching, often jotting memos into the notes app on my phone about the spectacular fashion sense of the women around me. I noted things like, “tortoise shell framed glasses,” “un-ripped jeans which end at the ankle,” and “always a watch.” (The watch pointer is the one that stuck with me most; I wear a watch every day now and I can’t believe I used to live any other way.)

My time in Paris helped me to discover more than just the value of wearing a watch, though. The city’s countless museums and intrinsic value for art allowed me to discover a love of impressionist paintings, like Degas’ ballerinas and Monet’s water lilies. I discovered that the best croissants are the ones with chocolate in the middle, called pains au chocolat. I discovered that Parisians squish their French together when speaking colloquially, rendering a phrase half as many syllables as it seems like it should be grammatically. (This explains why I could speak decent French but was terrible at understanding it with locals.) I discovered that my favorite neighborhood was the Marais, on the north side of the river.

I also discovered what it meant to be an American. I’d never had a concept of my national identity before I temporarily gave it up. As much as I adored the sophistication of French culture while I was in Paris, I longed for the simplicity of my own. I missed wearing baseball caps in public and eating a hamburger with my hands rather than with a fork and knife. I missed Thanksgiving. (My friends and I did our best to hold our own makeshift celebration, but French grocers didn’t have a reason to carry American holiday staples like turkey and pumpkin pie, so we substituted a rotisserie chicken and a raspberry tart for Thanksgiving dinner.)

I could perfect my French accent and dress as chicly as I wanted for the time being, but through and through, I was American. And although I didn’t shout that from the Haussmannain rooftops given the political situation in the United States, I was quietly thankful that to me, “football” was something different than “soccer.”

Identity and culture are tricky things. They’re abstract, they’re elusive. At least for me, they always have been. Growing up to form differing political views from the majority of my family has made me feel depressingly unpatriotic at times, and culture has never been an integral piece of my family, as our ethnic origins are ambiguous and jumbled. But living abroad made my foggy view of these two concepts a lot clearer, because I came to know what I wasn’t. I wasn’t French. As much as I loved the croissants and cafés, they weren’t a part of my story. I was an American from Sacramento, California, and that meant more to me at the end of that four months in Paris than it ever had in my life.