Paris et le Jardin du Luxembourg

Bri saw me step onto the school bus for the first time in kindergarten, circa 2000. Over the years, our families became close, and I spent many evenings at her house playing video games and eating pizza. We lost touch after I left for college, but chance brought us together during summer.

We reconnected again in December when I came home for the holidays. At some point, Bri mentioned that she had a short vacation scheduled for January, with no planned destination. An hour later, she booked a cheap flight to London, where we decided to rendezvous and train to Paris for a long weekend.

We took the Eurostar from London St. Pancras to the Gare du Nord station in Paris. The train sped underneath the channel and across the French countryside at 175 mph. When we arrived, we made our way through the station—mindful of pickpockets—and caught a cab to the Airbnb, which was an old apartment just outside the main city district. We dropped our bags and immediately headed out to explore, walking through narrow streets with bakeries and cafes adorning every corner. Even in the late afternoon, all the windows were full of bread and pastries.

We shared duck and escargot for dinner, then grabbed a bottle of champagne from a small shop on the way back to the apartment. After toasting the champagne, we searched for some decent bars in the city and then ordered a taxi. On the way, as we were chatting about our plans for the weekend, Bri suddenly flashes a wild look and points toward my window. “Is that the Eiffel Tower?” she exclaimed. I turned and saw the unmistakable form lit up against the dark sky. “I think I see two of them,” said Bri. “No, I think there is just one.”

By the time we reached the bars, we sobered up enough to realize that we had stumbled upon a Latin theme night. Every bar in the block was blasting Latin music. Some people were dancing bachata, others were climbing onto the bar. Bri and I bar hopped and ended up at a place where the ground floor was a masquerade and the basement a dance floor. I walked through the crowd to the stairs, feeling envious of the masks. In the dance area, we wandered over to the bar.

“What should we get?” asked Bri.

“Tequila?” I suggested.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

I ordered two shots of tequila. The barman turned around, grabbed two tall shot glasses, and placed them on the bar in front of us. He then reached underneath the bar for the tequila and proceeded to pour two double shots that nearly spilled over onto the wood. Just as he finished, someone next to us distracted him with another order. Bri and I looked at the shots, then at each other. Without a word exchanged, we turned around and walked away, knowing that those tequilas would cause a disastrous end to the night. We felt a little guilty for ditching the drinks, but I knew our guilt would have been much worse the next morning.

In the morning, we walked around the Eiffel Tower and had breakfast at a nearby cafe. Then, we walked along the Seine toward Notre Dame—this was a year before the major church fire. Notre Dame was imposing with its gothic architecture. Outside the entrance were various statues, street artists, panhandlers, and hundreds of pigeons. Despite being January, it was sunny and warm at around 65F(18C). As we crossed one of the bridges near the church, I looked out over the river and scanned the city. It seemed that the entire city was outside, enjoying the sun, chatting over coffees, sifting through secondhand books at small bookstands along the pavement. What were we doing in the States?

From Notre Dame, we walked to the Luxembourg Garden, a public garden recommended to me by a Frenchman from lab. I had imagined a small green space—like Bryant Park—that would be desolate in winter, but, on the contrary, the park spanned several blocks, had a large fountain at its center, and even hosted a palace. Along the perimeter of the fountain was a white stone pathway lined with statues. People were everywhere: kids passing a football, couples lounging on reclining chairs, young adults reading. After wandering for a bit, Bri and I stopped at a boulangerie for tea and a crêpe filled with granulated sugar.

We made a stop at the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa, then headed back to the apartment.

“What should we do tonight?” asked Bri.

I opened my phone and searched for local nightlife. One of the first results was an advertisement for a masquerade party. “What about this?” I said, extending my phone.

She looked at the advertisement and started laughing. “You realize this is a swinger party?”

Our night ended up being far less exciting, but nonetheless a fitting end to our trip. In the morning, we packed our bags and headed back to the station for the return train to London.