Notes on a Parisian Adventure

Paris, the undeniable city of love. Some say it is overrated, others say that it lives up to its reputation, surpasses it. My experience in Paris stood for something greater, a metaphor for all trials in life. I was taught to fail with grace and then to learn from my mistakes, to try again and to succeed. Although there was an abundance of beauty in architecture and culture, I was more overwhelmed by the beauty uncovered within myself. Forevermore, when I think of Paris, I'll remember self growth, accomplishment and resilience.


My first day in the city was a disaster, a failure of epic proportions. As soon as I existed the rail system, I made my first mistake; I walked in the wrong direction. My goal was to find The Seine and walk along it, only making small detours to the monuments along its banks. Instead, I followed signs I didn't understand and walked myself two hours away from the river. It was below freezing and the sun had set hours ago.

My problem wasn't just that I had started off in the wrong direction. The mistakes that I made that night were mine alone, because, and it all boils down to this, I was too ashamed to look like a tourist. I had intentionally left my guide book in the hotel room as my ego didn't want Parisians to catch me with my nose six inches deep in it. I carried a map for the four hours that I was lost and not once did I pull it out to locate my whereabouts. I was embarrassed to be that helpless American and I suffered for it. My knees hurt from the constant backtracking, the never ending walks and the pointless detours. I was cold and frustrated and it was my pride that got in the way of productivity.

Eventually I found The Seine and the relief was immense. I emerged out of the urban clearing right in front of La Place de la Concorde, where there stood La Grande Roue (the ferris wheel), the Obelisk and a pair of gorgeous fountains. With the abundance of art and statues inhabiting the area, it was easy to forget that the ground I walked on was once a place of royal and mass bloodshed. Were I transported back in time 215 years ago, I would have seen the head of Queen Marie-Antoinette roll. I looked around for a cake stand, but irony didn't seem like a Parisian past-time.


I immediately spotted the Eiffel Tower, which appeared close enough and became my next destination. Because I could see it no matter where I was on The Seine, I walked in its general direction while still avoiding lonely alleyways.

It took me an hour and a half to get there. Let's not forget that I had just spent the last four hours walking aimlessly, both knee caps were giving me hell (did someone just turn me into an 80 year old woman without my consent?) and the creepy old guy who sold me my hot dog tried to convince me to kiss him. The Eiffel Tower is not awesome enough for that! It was huge and blue and I saw it. I was done. 9:30 pm and I wanted to go home.

Everything in Paris is easier said than done. Because I was too afraid to use the metro system, get lost and die on French soil, I made the final mistake of walking back to the place where I had arrived. I miscalculated the distance to the Chatlet Station, ended up back at the ferris wheel and still had to walk another hour and a half beyond that to get where I needed to go. By the time I arrived at the Disney station (The whole trip was so The Mom and The Kids could go to Euro Disney), it was half past midnight and I had just missed the last shuttle to my hotel.

Let's talk about panic. I didn't know where I was in conjunction to my bed, there were zero taxis and Downtown Disney was nearly empty. This is where I prayed.

I looked for the nicest person around (there were few options at this point) and asked if she knew where The Sante Fe Hotel was. "Yes," she said, "up straight, take a right, ten minutes away." Wrong. Up straight, take a right then a left then another left, thirty minutes away. My body wanted to die.


As the hotel appeared before me, I had the strange feeling that I was walking into a bad Peewee Herman movie. The area was quiet, too quiet as they say, except for old Christmas music playing ominously from the surrounding speakers. I was the only one around and as I got closer, I noticed that the door to the lobby would open at random times for no reason. Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close. The Christmas music played on.

When I got the the room, The Mom was still up waiting for me, concerned that her Tropical Island au pair froze herself to death at the Louvre. I managed to breath out half a story before she was out of bed and standing in front of me. We spent the next thirty minutes exchanging horror stories of the day. Me with my endless walking, and she with the fear that her daughter had frostbite (no, just red toes and an overreaction). Suddenly, everything seemed funny and we were on the ground, clutching at our sides. Before we went to bed she said, "Girl, as soon as you said it took you four hours to get home, I knew you just needed to laugh about it." Laughter, it seems, doesn't get enough credit.

By morning, I was still exhausted. I slept poorly because my knees wouldn't bend, and getting out of bed (I split a bunk bed with The Boy, ironically being left with top bunk) was dangerously close to deathly. Still, I got dressed, massaged my knees, threw on my coat and grabbed my travel guide. I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.


Although reluctant to reenter Paris, I begged myself to go on. I was unsuccessful the first time, which was all the more reason to try again.

As I caught the metro into the city, I read my travel book, circled my destinations and studied up on public transportation. Most of the night before was spent walking, and with an efficient underground system at my disposal, why waste time when there's so much to see? After I arrived, I hopped off with a new attitude and headed for the Notre Dame.

Along the way, I stopped at stores and boutiques, looking for a treasure I could bring home to say, "I bought this in Paris!" The day turned beautiful and when I arrived at the cathedral, there was a new strength in my heart and blue skies above my head. The Notre Dame, needless to say, was astounding. I immediately stood in line to get inside, and I once again I was overwhelmed with the feeling of privilege. I touched the pillars and inhaled through my nose. I said prayers and gave thanks for the opportunity to be living my dreams. I knew inside that I now had the courage to carry on and the strength to overcome fear and failure. I cried for the blessing that life has been to me.

After I had wandered around and had my fill of history, I left and headed towards the Louvre. I shamelessly consulted my map (in public), quickly found the subway station, purchased my own tickets using the automated ticket machine and jumped on the Metro. I even went so far as to perform a very dangerous trick called... The Transfer. Yes, I transferred myself from the yellow line to the purple line (no injuries) and emerged right smack dab in front of The Louvre. My knees had a banquet party and everyone left with a goodie bag.

I had been lucky enough to stumble across The Louvre the night before. The only problem was that I found it at 11 pm, and no one was there to let me in. I walked around and peered inside, wanting desperately to go in. Unfortunately, I had to meet The Mom in a few hours and going inside would only have been a tease. I have promised myself to return again, as I will conquer The Louvre and live to blog about it.

As we headed home, I couldn't shake the feeling of accomplishment. I had survived a foreign city all on my own. Indeed I had failed at first, but every single mistake I made was a lesson learned. If you're going to travel, do it productively. Ask questions, carry a map, take risks, use public transportation and most importantly, disregard how you may seem to people you will never in your life see again. In one night of absolute misery, I was able to shed a layer of self-consciousness and be that much more free to accomplish my goals. Although I spent a weekend there, I still wouldn't be able to say if Paris lives up to its expectations or not. For me, Paris had simply personified the classic adage: If at first you don't succeed, try and try again.