Vicarious Paris: One woman's candid account of moving to Paris, with insights on: food, nightlife, and living like a local

Chapter One: Bienvenue à Paris!

In May 2013 I moved to Paris for a six-month stay. My previous experiences in Europe were exactly zero. Which means...everything you could imagine about being green and fumbling your way through a brand new country without a single friend...well it happened.

Sort of.

I mean...I didn’t step off the plane holding a suitcase full of dreams because hello, my luggage was still in the cargo hold. Luckily I recovered and eventually felt at home, up to and including a weekly poker night in Paris (the locals, they’re just like us!). I felt so at home in fact, that the following year I moved back to Paris for the summer; I just couldn’t help myself. In conclusion: the French tourism board is a sexy beast of persuasion.

There isn’t much to say about the flight to Paris, since my airline of choice Air Transat flies to terminal three, which is as stripped down and ugly as airport terminals come. When I say stripped down, I mean: no designer shops, no relaxing bars to lounge in, and pre-made sandwiches for all. Overall this is not a problem, since Air Transat is the cheapest direct flight from Toronto, and the complimentary glass of wine really puts you in that Paris mood. That bean salad, however, is effing horrible; are you listening Air Transat customer service? Just retire the salad and let us starve; starving would be preferable to the sight and smell of that salad.

Anyway who cares about airports? You’re in Paris, baby! Well, almost; there’s still a forty-minute cab ride to go. By the way, it’s a terrible idea to take a taxi into Paris, as there’s a simple train that goes straight to the center of Paris, and it’s FIFTY EUROS CHEAPER! So unless you are the Sultan of Brunei or a close relative of the Sultan of Brunei, take the RER B train and save your money for wine.

At this time...I’m required to admit that I took a taxi into Paris. Scandal, I know, but I had three pieces of luggage and my forearms are dainty (the second time I arrived I took the train, so I’m fifty-percent legit).

Even if you’re only coming to Paris for four or five days, stay in an apartment instead of a hotel (apartments aren’t hard to find on airbnb, or agencies like Paris Attitude---which have a fee but can work if your stay is longer and you need more paperwork). Just imagine the difference between staying in an actual Parisian apartment versus staying in a generic hotel room. In the apartment version you’re strolling your way to a charming building...you’re half way up the creaky stairs when you run into your eighty-year-old neighbour who’s lived in Paris for sixty years...she of course says “bon soir,” and you reply in French except you don’t really have a French accent, but hey that’s fine because at least you tried...next you’re in your apartment...next you’re taking wine out of your fridge because YOU HAVE A FRIDGE (this is hugely important in summer)...or...or...you could open the door to your square hotel room and sit on the bed.

I don’t know, which one sounds more Parisian to you?

As a newcomer to Paris I chose an apartment in the Latin Quarter, and it was so close to Notre-Dame, that the Sunday church bells at noon would wake me out of my drool-encrusted slumber. It seems scandalous to sleep until noon when the magic of Paris awaits, but sometimes you’ll be out with your newfound friends and oops...it’s five a.m. all of a sudden (we’ll get to that later). My apartment’s location fulfilled my strong desire to be in the center of Paris, as it allowed me to branch off in every different direction in equal amounts of time; a recipe for experiencing it all. This of course doesn’t come without a price tag, but that’s why it’s great to have close family ties with the Sultan of Brunei (please assume I’m joking when it’s appropriate).

My studio apartment was on a wide pedestrian cobblestoned street, which I loved. It was also across from a gothic church, which I loved. Just imagine sitting at your desk to do some writing, and staring out the window to find some thirteenth-century gargoyles staring back. It was out of this world.