It’s always great to visit Paris and I am always a little relieved to leave. We spent ten days in a small bright apartment in the 13^th arrondissement, a residential neighbourhood. How did the great writers ever manage to get any work done in a city this distracting?

Our first real “petit dej” in this iconic city was at a Brasserie, where 80s pop blared from a tiny speaker next to our table. Coffee, bright freshly squeezed orange juice, perfectly custardy herb-covered scrambled eggs, and pain au chocolat crammed onto the small table. Locals scattered throughout the restaurant, mostly eating solo.

As always, a basket of sliced baguette came with the meal. Tucked beneath the warm bread was a perfectly miniature bowl of preserves. We tried to keep our laughter down when my dad asked, “What kind of jam is that?” and my mom answered, “F-I-G,” literally spelling it out. He looked back slightly bewildered and said, “Strawberry?!”

We visited the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Le Printemps (great rooftop view), Notre-Dame again, Place de la Révolution, Luxor Obelisks etc… inadvisably, all in one day. After spending the least amount of time possible seeing these very busy, albeit historical, monuments, the trip really started.

Straight out of white lotus a la Victoria Ratliff a caravan of police cars screamed past our bus when my sister and I were sitting next to each other. A Southern woman with a gargantuan diamond on her finger whipped around staring at us with wide eyes and gave us her theories about terrorism. “You know allllll kaaaaayduh??!” The outlandish comment quickly became an inside joke.

Shocking to no one, we walked a lot more, winding through narrow streets and pathways. At one bend my mom spotted a sign advertising a martial arts school and wandered closer. A dapper older man approached and spoke in French: “You must go through those doors. I used to live there. It is a beautiful courtyard. You must not miss it. Be discreet.”

He opened the heavy wooden doors, and we walked through. The city noise fell away, and the air felt cooler. Faint echoes of sirens and tourists floated in the distance. A cobblestone path led us through wisteria-cloaked walls and past beautiful, unique wooden doors. I would have never guessed such a lush courtyard was hidden there, and as someone obsessed with The Secret Garden as a child, it felt even more magical. Outside, the well-dressed man waited, casually leaning against the wall across the street.

“C’était beau?” he asked.
“Oui! Très beau.” I replied.

We had an incredibly late lunch. Tucked down a road so narrow only pedestrians and the bravest motorists dared enter, we found a crêpe shop. Fuelled by the cheesy snack, we walked home, picking up ingredients for a very light, very late, very French dinner. Keeping our promise of daily cheese (peppercorn pecorino), bought from a very grumpy Parisian, and went to bed.

Saturday breezed by with a walk along the Seine, an overpriced but mediocre croque madame, and more coffee. That afternoon, we picked up a sunflower and some wine before going to meet the brother of a close family friend.

We met him for a drink at a bar inside a park in an area of Paris I had never seen. The bar had a big patio that overlooked a modern neighborhood with manmade ponds where kids played, and others picnicked. I ordered a St. Germain.

He spoke only French, my dad only English, and my mom a combination of the two, while my sister and I did our best to translate quickly and seamlessly. Occasionally we would kick our mom under the table and exchange a knowing look when our public-school French failed us, and we blanked on a word.

Later that evening, at his family home, he and his wife confirmed that Parisians really do know how to enjoy life. La joie de vivre.

The evening started with a full-bodied red from Bordeaux and peanuts he had brought back from his farm in Cameroon just weeks before. The main course was salmon with bacon, mushrooms, and parsnips, served with rice. Of course, there was a basket of baguette on the table. We were completely spoiled by the meal his wife prepared, even though she humbly insisted it was simple.

The next course was a plate of cheeses: Tomme, perfectly creamy Chaource, and an almost caramelized aged Gouda. The wine kept flowing. Finally, and unexpectedly, she unveiled a chocolate almond cake with macerated strawberries. We left so full we were on the verge of being ill, hearts full and stomachs even fuller.

On Sunday, we needed a break from cheese and wine. A hangover feels more romantic in Paris. My mom and I started the day at the market next to the church that we could see from our apartment. Since it was Easter Sunday, the women were dressed in their best wearing colourful dresses and big hats.

At the market there were rows of cheeses, eggs, baked goods, flowers, vegetables, meat, clothing, and more. I saw a toddler carrying the biggest, most voluminous pink peonies (in my memory, larger than the child) and met an adorable, well-behaved dog. Still, the most memorable thing was the spinach, which was the biggest and hardiest I had ever seen. We truly got to feast our eyes and our stomachs.

The rest of the day was spent reading, writing, and doing nothing.

On Monday, I had an endive salad on a terrace in the 3rd arrondissement to reenergize after so much bread. We all met a lovely couple from Ohio who told us they had been planning to introduce themselves as Canadians, until we mentioned we were from there ourselves. An angry, drunk French man roughed up our server, slurring his yells and asking for a table again and again.

Once we tired of people-watching, we crossed the narrow cobblestone street to explore an extremely old, ornate palace. The collection of books inside was jaw-dropping. We ran into our friends from Ohio, smiling as we passed them on the regal staircase. Later, we spent hours digging through thrift stores in Le Marais, frequently losing track of each other, which finally convinced me to bite the bullet and buy a SIM card.

On our way back to the apartment, we passed the Notre Dame, again, where crowds were gathering to pay their respects to the Pope. Being in Paris during Easter already felt special, but the Pope’s death amplified that feeling. It also confirmed that we would not be getting inside the cathedral on this trip. They rang the bell eighty-eight times in memory of his eighty-eight years of life, and the Eiffel Tower did not light up that night.

We did not have cheese that night.

I woke up Tuesday morning feeling like a kid on Christmas. My boyfriend, Malcolm, was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, set to land in Paris that night.

For lunch, I had a salad with prosciutto and goat cheese and then guided my family to Merci, a stunning three-level store. We eventually had to leave in a hurry because my dad and I wanted to buy everything there, from shoes and clothing to home goods and baguette-shaped candles. I was especially fond of the Levi’s linen-blend denim collection they featured.

Once again, we gathered wine, cheese, and one of those beautiful, greasy golden chickens you see everywhere in Paris. This time, we found a place that sold potatoes cooked slowly underneath the chickens, and it was worth the extra pennies. We rushed home to greet Malcolm, and everything felt back to how it should be.

The rest of the week blurred together with patios, spritzes, reading, walking, and pastries. Now a group of five, we hit a few more tourist spots; Jim Morrison’s grave (where my dad took a photo and I, without knowing why, stuck my gum on the already gum covered tree), the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, and Montmartre.

That evening, we cleansed our tourist palate with live salsa music at a very hot and sweaty club that our Parisian friends took us to. In her new thrifted jeans, my mom was propositioned to dance by several men. My dad beamed watching her spin across the floor with these young Frenchmen.

Our final hurrah was a surprise birthday dinner for me. I had hinted about it a month earlier on my actual birthday, March 25th, saying, “It would be so cool if I could celebrate my birthday in Paris,” but then let it go. As we left the apartment that evening, my dad smiled and said, “Well, happy birthday. You choose the place.”

Overwhelmed by the decision, we stopped for an aperitif. As we sipped, I listed everything I wanted in a restaurant to Malcolm. He listened carefully and started googling as we moved through our usual silly-to-bickering-to-silly-again family dynamic.

We ended up at a little spot just a few doors down from our apartment. It was perfect. Quaint, French, and clearly a local go-to. Our negronis came with a side of peanuts and olives. The burrata with tomatoes and pesto was fresh, and the olive oil spicy. I ordered my burger medium-rare, exactly how I like it.

My body was sore from walking on concrete all week and my stomach was sore from all the cheese, bread, and wine. I know I will be back, but all good things must come to an end. I do not think I could have happily stayed much longer in Paris. I cannot explain how much I love this city, but sometimes too much of a good thing just turns sour.

Now, at the northern tip of the Oslo fjord I understand that the great writers probably cut the richness of Parisian hedonism and cheese with cigarettes, Jim Morrisons gum tree was about saying f u to the man and I need to breath fresh ocean air to feel like myself. More on cigarettes and ocean air soon.

Best Things I Ate in Paris
• Medium-rare burger from Chevaleret
• Tarte au Fraise with frangipane
• Red wine from Bordeaux
• Frozen pizza (not a joke)
• Burrata with pesto and tomatoes
• Fresh baguette
• Comte Grand Affinage
• Peppercorn pecorino
• Turkish skewers
• Cappuccino
• Rotisserie chicken with potatoes
• Fresh dates
• Endive salad with prosciutto
• Nondescript green madeleine gifted by a baker at the farmers market
• Quiche Lorraine
• Kouign-amann
• French-style scrambled eggs
• Saffron canelé
• Nondescript stinky, gooey cheese
• Goat cheese and chorizo crêpe
• Ham and cheese crêpe
• St. Germain spritz / Aperol spritz
• Salted cultured butter