Your Solo Trip to Paris

Part One

So you decided to be original and go to Paris for fall break. You also decided to go alone. Find yourself, spice it up a little. Of course you take a Flixbus, and already that is an anthropological experience in itself. A Flixbus is a portal into the animal kingdom. There are different packs, different motives, but the one thing you have in common is that the moment you enter that bus, you feel entitled to act like an asshole.

Lady, I don’t care if your son is three years old and you want to sit next to him, I got here first?

And the person in front of you puts their seat all the way back because the person in front of them did the same thing and what are you going to do? Be the fool with less space? No, you say fuck the person behind you because it’s every man for themself and what did they expect from such a cheap ticket? Actual leg room? Come on.

three couches, but the table is gone. Who took the dining room table? Why are my clothes still wet? Maybe wrong ‘toerental’? Speaking of laundry, shouldn’t we wash the kitchen towels? And what about the bathroom towels? Who bought this toilet paper? How much money can I justify spending at Chris’? And we are all still wondering where the hammocks came from.

Though in the end it is all worth it , this culture shock, and I cannot help but ponder, during these beginning of semester stresses: What made me deserve such sweet unit mates? — unit mates that bring me freshly baked cake or hand me a flower through my open window (true stories). And how lucky are we to have professors that care about pronouns, or a campus with such variety in cultures that our backgrounds stand out? And as we continue to ponder what it means to be an adult; we can be happy with washers with ‘toerentals’ that go up to 1600 (because you are going to want to set your washer as high as it can go), microwave ovens, and magically self-refilling toilet paper. And maybe one day the hammock sharer will reveal themselves, and we won’t have to ponder about that anymore.

by Giulia Martinez Brenner

So you already hate everyone and this is even before the snores start. But whatever, you settle into your seat and in front of you is a sticker that says, “take care of your neighbor, wear your mask”. So now you’re even expected to keep that obnoxiously itchy thing on, and for the good of the dick stealing your armrest? But fine, it’s fine. You put your headphones in, you forget about it. You knew this was the way it was going to be anyway, you didn’t have any high expectations. The real problem is when they entice you with the promise of free wifi which obviously doesn’t work. The cruelty of hope.

Thankfully you manage to sleep, the half sleep of travel, that you’re grateful for because it passes the time. Until you wake up and only 15 minutes have passed, your hair is disgusting and filled with static, and you desperately need to pee. Now here comes the real inner turmoil, the question of a lifetime. Brave the Flixbus toilet? Or genuinely wet yourself? Honestly, it really is not an easy answer and you know it.

After long excruciating minutes of silent debate, you stand up, say a prayer, and go downstairs to the on board bathroom. You cling, pitifully, to whatever you can, while the jerky movements of the bus attempt to sabotage your balance in any way possible. You're on your tiptoes, your shirt is tucked under your chin, limbs are bent at paranormal angles to avoid all surfaces, and oh, now you realize that you still have your mask on as well which is why you’re sweating buckets and your glasses are fogged up so you can’t even see if you’re peeing in a straight line anymore.

Finally you’re done. You go back upstairs and begin to breathe normally again, you might even feel a glimmer of pride. And just then the driver announces that we will be stopping shortly for a food and bathroom break. Of. Course.

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Part Two

So you’ve arrived in Paris. There have been many French geniuses throughout the centuries, you admit it, but excluded from that category is whoever made the metro ticket machines. An ungodly contraption, that involves a disobedient metal cylinder that you need to roll to select your option, and buttons that simply don’t make sense, and you take 27 minutes to understand how it works, all the while intensely aware of the covid you are definitely contracting.

When you get to your hostel the sun is setting, but you’re committed to make the most of all the time you have. You start walking, no destination really in mind. After a while of wandering you check the map, and the closest monument is the Notre Dame, so you continue, now with a clear objective. And you’re halfway there before you remember that it burned down for God’s sake, but you might as well keep going, you’ve come this far. It’s still beautiful of course. Except for the couples ruining it with their PDA because even though it’s night time that’s really no excuse to be so shamelessly happy. Anyway, you go to take your picture, and you’re satisfied, because the full moon appears stealthily behind the facade, in the embrace of just enough clouds to not create a glare. Iphone storage full. Putain de merde.

You begin the walk back. There is somethingso familiar in these streets. You breathe in, you breathe out. Ah yes. Every other person has a cigarette dangling from their mouth. The Netherlands may have weed, which you are in no way snubbing let’s be clear, but they don’t do nicotine addiction like the French.

You keep walking. It’s really dark now. You always glance in the shop windows to check the reflection of anyone behind you. Whenever you hear someone on your heels, you slow down, so they can overtake you. You never wear headphones at night. No eye contact, no faltering, no pauses. Now you hear footsteps, you slow, but the person behind you does too. You quicken your steps. They do too. They say something. You don’t understand the words but you don’t need to, the tone is always the same. You say the only sentence you’ve taken the care of learning besides je voudrais un pain au chocolat s’il vous plaît. Half turning your head, with all the disgust you feel, “Je vais te péter la gueule.” Because the two things you should always know how to do is order food and fight.

But however powerful you may have felt, deep down you know it was stupid. And so you run across the street, because keys between your knuckles are actually not as effective as they say.

Now you’re finally on a more crowded rue. Brasseries line the sidewalk and everyone looks so happy and relaxed, drinking, chatting, smoking of course. You would really kill for a beer right about now. But is it weird that you’re alone? No, you just need to find the right place. Not too empty, that’s sad, but not too full, then you’re lame. You pass many that don’t make the cut, every time convincing yourself a better one

Part Three

The question everyone always asks themselves when visiting a new place is

What do I need to see?

You reserve a ticket for Le Louvre because you’re in Paris and you need to! You walk all the way to the Eiffel tower because you’re in Paris and you need to. Once plopped down on the grass and gazing at the tangled steel you think how you’d love to go up and see the view from the top. But you stay on the ground, and then walk all the way to the Louvre because your time slot is approaching and after yesterday’s beer you don’t even want to spend the 2 euro for the metro.

You arrive and look around, that glass pyramid you have seen countless times through someone else’s lens. The line to enter is just to your right but suddenly you stop. Do you really want to go inside and look at the shoulders of the crowd in front of the Mona

The entrance line is moving forward, but you to do anything. This is your solo trip to Paris, what do you want to do?

You want to go to la Café de la Mosquee and drink sweet mint tea in the courtyard just like your father did when he was your age and visiting Europe for the very first time. And you want to visit old book stores and wish you spoke French so you had an excuse

And you want to eat and walk and eat some more, until you reach the inconceivable point of being sick of bread and cheese. You want to watch rich Parisians in their chic outfits, their minimalistic clothing meticulously put together, smell the money on the fabric and in their perfume, because although taken separately, it would all be stuff you hate, beauti-

And there is no shortage of beauti-