From the Archives
An ode to my first love and first solo trip
I wrote the following essay eleven years ago and rereading my words today, I got to revisit not only memories of one of the best periods of my life, but a simpler time before smartphones and the modern conveniences of travel. I was also reacquainted with a version of myself I have fallen out of touch with. Solo travel has become second nature to me now, but it wasn’t always that way. I had the same worries as everyone else taking their first solo trip has—I fretted about how I would find my way around, afraid I would feel bored or lonely. No matter what journey we’re on we all have to start somewhere, and this is the story of my beginning.
After almost 20 years of solo travel, I admit it takes more than a perfectly crafted crêpe to impress me now. I will even confess to jadedly saying that once you’ve seen one (ruin, cathedral, volcano, temple, insert any other awe-inspiring manmade or natural marvel), you’ve seen them all. But looking back at how younger Morgan reveled in wonder and serendipity has made me pause and think about how I can better interact with the world around me and reopen my eyes to the little joys in everyday life.
Je t’aime
My heart still aches for my first love. Whenever I think of her I get a feeling of longing that produces a physical sensation in my body. It’s a tight, straining pull in my chest and stomach that makes tears well in my eyes. I loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her, and I missed her from the moment I stepped onto the plane and left her.
We met seven years ago, in 2007, when I was studying abroad in Spain. I had been planning, and relentlessly pestering the Global Studies department advisor, for months before I could even apply for the study abroad program. I always knew I wanted to travel and immerse myself in as many different cultures and languages as I could. The only foreign countries that I had been to at that point in my life were Canada and Mexico, and I was ready for the next challenge. I dreamed of being the stereotypical college student who backpacked across Europe. So, with a bit of savings and a huge student loan that I’m still paying off, that’s exactly what I set out to do.
I envisioned myself doing all the romantic things that you see in movies like Roman Holiday—whizzing through city squares on a sexy red scooter, pigeons flying up around me, strolling down cobblestone alleys in medieval towns, and sipping espresso in little white cups on little white saucers in a quaint little café. My friends and family joked that I would fall in love with some exotic, mysterious, sweet-talking European and I wouldn’t want to come back home. I admit I imagined the same thing myself. Ever since Madonna’s “Take a Bow” video featuring the confident matador in tight, high-waisted pants and sequined jacket, I fantasized about how it would be to have that kind of man sweep me off my feet in a foreign country.
I did end up finding love, but not in the tall, dark and handsome Spanish bull fighter oozing male bravado that I had expected. After witnessing my first (and last) bullfight in Madrid I was appalled by the cruelty of it all and the confident, strong, red-cape-and-sword-yielding man of my fantasies revealed himself to me as a pompous, scrawny little barbarian who slaughters already maimed animals for sport. What I found instead was a love I had never felt for anyone before, and a love I don’t anticipate ever feeling again. I fell madly, truly, deeply in love with Paris.
I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to fall for her charms. Countless songs and movies have been inspired by the love of, or finding love in, Paris. In the song “April in Paris,” Ella Fitzgerald, her smooth voice like the back of a hand softly stroking a lover’s cheek, croons:
“April in Paris, this is a feeling
That no one can ever reprise
I never knew the charm of spring
Never met it face to face
I never knew my heart could sing
Never missed a warm embrace
Till April in Paris
Whom can I run to
What have you done to my heart”
Woody Allen’s film, Midnight in Paris, evokes the artistic, creative, and whimsical spirit of the city that makes it so attractive to so many different people. The protagonist Gil, a screenwriter jaded by a successful yet unfulfilling career in Hollywood, travels to Paris and wanders the streets daydreaming about the life he wishes he could be living. At midnight every night he finds himself whisked away to 1920s Paris where he encounters some of the most brilliant talents of the time: Salvador Dalí, Ernest Hemingway, Josephine Baker, and T.S. Eliot to name a few. My favorite quote from the movie is when Gil responds to a question of whether Paris is more beautiful by day or by night:
“You couldn't pick one. I mean I can give you a checkmate argument for each side. You know, I sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can't. Because you look around and every street, every boulevard, is its own special art form and when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe that Paris exists, these lights, I mean come on, there's nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, people drinking and singing. For all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.”
I couldn’t agree more. Paris does have a certain je ne sais quoi that could turn even the most cynical naysayer into a hopeful dreamer.
My first visit to Paris was in November of 2007. I had a few days of vacation from school and because of its proximity to Spain, and the simple desire to say that I had seen the Eiffel Tower in real life, I booked a ticket to the City of Light. I also wanted to discover if I could remember even a shred of high school French. I had heard from other American tourists that the French are very protective of their language and not very forgiving to those who don’t speak it properly. I was a little apprehensive, but determined to make myself understood—at least well enough to find the nearest bathroom.
Armed with a French-English dictionary, a list of the major tourist attractions I wanted to visit, and a beret (yes I was that girl) I set out on the first solo adventure of my 22-year-old life. I had never traveled by myself before, and I was both excited and anxious. I would have uninterrupted time for quiet contemplation, complete freedom to do what I wanted, when I wanted to do it, and I wouldn’t have to follow anyone else’s itinerary.
At the same time, how was I going to enjoy my own company for four whole days? I consider myself a pretty fun person, but who would I point things out to? Who would I rely on when my sense of direction proved utterly useless? What if I got bored or lonely? I could have chosen to go with friends, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could be self-reliant and thrive in this sort of situation.
Contrary to the stereotype many Americans have of the French being arrogant and rude, I found the people I came in contact with to be very polite and accommodating. My first experience with this was on the plane from Madrid to Paris when I sat next to an impeccably dressed elderly French woman who struck up a conversation with me. She told me that she had been visiting her sister who lived in Spain and was now returning home. We chatted, me in Spanish peppered with some broken French, her in French and Spanish, both fluent and flawless, for the duration of the two hour flight.
Upon arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport she offered me a ride to my hostel. My plan had been to get to the underground metro station at the airport, grab a route map and figure it out from there. I had never been good at reading maps or finding my way around, even in a familiar city. On top of that I was alone, without a cell phone, and it was getting dark. I was terrified. My innate Midwestern politeness, however, stupidly urged me to decline and say I didn’t want to be any trouble. The fear must have registered on my face, though, because she insisted. Her husband, a balding, jovial-looking fellow with Groucho Marx glasses, was waiting for her at the arrival gate. She spoke a few quick, unintelligible sentences to him to which he smiled widely and responded in heavily-accented English, “Zis eez no problem! We are ‘appy to take you!”
After getting myself situated at the hostel, I had so much adrenaline pumping through me from the sheer excitement of just being in a new country, I didn’t care if it was dark and I was alone. I set off into the night with a map of the city and found the nearest metro station. This is where I got another taste of French benevolence.
Apparently, as much as I naively thought I was blending, everyone could easily spot the silly American tourist running around in a beret because people kept stopping to ask me if I was lost or needed help finding anything. A small, demure-looking woman saw me having trouble with the ticket machine and without saying anything just smiled, pressed some buttons, and out popped a ticket. At one point, without noticing, I dropped a ten euro banknote—which is not chump change to a broke college student—and a scruffy-looking man, who looked like he could have used the money more than me, came running to return the bill to its rightful owner. He flashed a gummy smile and gave me a pat on the back. Coming down the stairs to the platform, a Muslim woman was struggling with her baby in a stroller and a young Black man dressed in baggy jeans and a leather jacket came to her aid.
On the train, I silently observed people interacting with one another. Perfect strangers from different races and backgrounds were making small talk and laughing together. It all made me want to cry. I’m not used to seeing that where I’m from and I haven’t seen it in any other city I’ve traveled to since. It’s deeply touching to see humanity at its finest—kindness and compassion thriving in a diverse, harmonious society.
I was beginning to fall in love.
Paris in November is cold, drizzly, and cloaked in gray, the sun making only sporadic appearances. I would not typically become enamored of that kind of weather, but as soon as I stepped out of the underground and onto the bustling street lined with various stands selling crepes, grilled chestnuts, and hot chocolate, I melted. The energy of the city at night, with its twinkling lights strung around the café patios and the warmth of the people, made me forget that I was wrapped up in a winter coat and mittens.
I went to the nearest crepe stall and watched with childlike anticipation as the woman poured batter onto a big round burner and spread it into a circle using a T-shaped wooden spinner. I was positively giddy when she drizzled Nutella all over the golden brown disc, sprinkling the finished product with powdered sugar and wrapping it in a paper cone for me to carry. I took my little treasure and proceed to my first destination.
A short walk later I found myself at the bottom of the steps leading up to the awe-inspiring Sacré-Cœur Basilica. Street performers, mimes, persistent bracelet sellers, and tourists lighting up the night with a continuous succession of camera flashes crowded the area. Making my way through the masses, I finally stopped when I reached the top and looked out over the city. I breathed in the cool, crisp night air and allowed myself a moment to just soak it all in before entering the church. As soon as I set foot inside, my jaw dropped. Gaping up at the apse decorated with a Christ in Glory mosaic, golden light emanating from the heart, I became aware of angels’ voices resonating all around me. The nun’s choir was singing, producing an ethereal atmosphere which made me imagine that I had entered heaven.
The next morning I enjoyed a simple breakfast of café crème and a croissant at a café along the Seine River. Traveling alone, removing the distraction of having to entertain or be entertained by another person, helped me be more observant and aware of what was going on around me. Paris was teaching me so much. I was learning to enjoy the solitude of being alone in a sea of strangers. I was discovering it was quite possible to rely completely on myself, to do things I had once doubted I could do, like navigate an unfamiliar city and order a meal or ask for directions in a foreign language.
I was learning to be present and live in the moment.
Over the next few days I reveled in the whirlwind romance that I was developing with Paris. I spent hours leisurely wandering around the Louvre and strolling through Père Lachaise Cemetery in the rain. I took dozens of pictures of the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe from as many different angles as I could. The open air markets were a playground for the senses: bright, vibrant produce, creatures of the sea I didn’t recognize, fragrant wild flowers, pungent farm cheeses, vendors calling out, tempting shoppers to step up to their stalls, offering samples of sweet juicy peaches or fat beefy tomatoes. I flitted wide-eyed from one patisserie to the next, amazed by the wide array of pastries that looked like works of art, too pretty to eat. I turned down an alley and found a cozy hole-in-the-wall bistro and warmed up with a bowl of the best French onion soup I had ever tasted.
Paris by night is magical. The Place de l'Étoile, a large circular road junction around the proud-standing Arc de Triomphe that frenetically spits cars out in twelve different directions, is alive and illuminated. The trees along the Champs-Élysées are decked with lights during the Christmas season evoking a dreamlike aura, enhanced by a large Ferris wheel radiating a soft blue glow at the opposite end of the boulevard.
On my last night, as I was ambling down a side street, I came upon a small, obscure underground pub. A narrow staircase led down to a dimly lit stone cavern where a skinny, long-haired man in suspenders was playing an accordion and singing in an emotive, throaty tenor. I ordered a glass of wine, hoping to numb the pain of having to leave my lover the next day, not knowing when I would be able to see her again.
Only a month later I ended up returning to France, splitting my time between the Loire Valley and Paris. I helped feed neurotic alpacas, cleaned chicken coops, and babysat for a French family in exchange for room and board in their deathly cold five-hundred-year old chateau—a tiny wood-burning stove being the only source of heat. The middle child, Ange (‘angel’ in French), did not live up to his name and had it out for me from the get-go. Despite daily battles with the antichrist in child form and developing a raging sinus infection—which tested my French abilities when I had to visit the village doctor—I enjoyed bucolic life.
I immersed myself in French culture, cuisine, language and idiosyncrasies, rode horses and bikes through the French countryside, browsed Christmas markets and stuffed myself silly with homemade goat cheese smeared on freshly baked baguette. The provincial life was charming and calming to the mind and spirit, but my heart was in Paris. Cutting my stay in the countryside short, I reunited with my beloved.
She was as enchanting as I remembered her.
Seven years later I still yearn for Paris and her joie de vivre. There are very few times in my life where I have felt absolutely sure about something or had the feeling that this is what I’m supposed to be doing, this is where I’m supposed to be, and being in Paris was one of those times. In his memoir, A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway wrote:
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
Paris has certainly stayed with me. She took me in her arms, while allowing me the space to discover myself, and gave me a mirror which reflected back to me my strengths and weaknesses.
Maybe I’m an idealist; perhaps I’m only remembering the good. Love can make one blind to someone’s faults – for example, metro strikes and dog poo on the streets are not uncommon in Paris. No place or person is perfect, but part of loving someone is looking beyond one’s flaws and seeing straight into one’s heart. Paris’ heart is pure, and I fell in love with her even in her dreary winter season in much the same way someone can love a person through their phases of moody brooding. If I were to meet her again, at her best, in the spring when the flowers are in bloom or in the fall with the vibrant colors of the changing leaves, I don’t think I could stand it. I would leave everything and run away to be with her.
Sometimes writing about an experience or a feeling diminishes it, cheapens it somehow; words can’t quite do it justice. All I know is my love for Paris was not ephemeral; I still feel it with the same intensity as I did the first day we met.
They say you never forget your first love. I certainly didn’t.
I left my heart with her, and I hope one day to go back and retrieve it.
Ooh I loved this, having just returned from my 1st visit ever to Paris! (and we came home and rewatched Midnight in Paris also! haha). It was magical!