You Don’t Have to Travel to Paris (Or Anywhere) Like Everybody Else

And that became my locus.

I'd never given any thought to my travel persona before, thus never realizing nothing had changed.

But now…

Ever get that intermittent fluttery sensation in your eardrums when a factory-grade template/stereotype/generalization is about to be annihilated?

Yeah, me neither.

Stuff just happens.

It’s those lifelong exhilarating feelings afterward that truly matter anyhow. They do wonders (as the Elders would say) for your 'constitution.'

Journey beginnings that led to that exhilarating feeling:

It started with stark contrast to exhilaration, that’s for sure. Smack dab in the middle of stifling, respiratory-oppressive, claustrophobic-esc finality that threatened to breach figurative settings into literal ones.

I fought back.

Did not even question.

I’d progressed to a sufficiently 'overwhelmed-subpar nutrient intake-dehydrated-exercise deficient-commuting-task saturated' organism of sleep and ‘me time’ deprivation. The Parisian special attractions infrastructure of the Champs Élysées, Arc de Triomphe and Louvre tickets weren’t gonna fix that. I determined that this engaging escapade would consist of absolutely nothing ‘touristy.’

Gonna take mega-space and different air and gonna take it now!

I accessed appropriate online sites, made travel plans in less than a week, then sent apologies to friends I knew in Paris (Hey, impromptu visit and winging it...will catch you next trip,)

There were last-minute hassles.

*Pewhn-pew. PEW-PEWHN-pew-pew-PEW*

Simple mathematics: Last minute travel plans + limited time = France (close and convenient adjacent land mass.)

The release felt on that plane leaving the UK coastline…indescribably satisfying.

I relaxed into flight altitude of neither here nor there for brief moments as this was, in fact, the shortest flight I’d ever taken in life. The groundwork laid for a season of 'never-evers' since I’d never been to Paris before either.

My online French language review tanked during the recent frenetic life pace that’s a breeze for robots but merciless to humans. Reliance on residual memory became my sweet spot.

Transportation pre-booked from Charles de Gaulle Airport happened to be a Ghanaian taxi driver who I fell into easy conversation with. One of the first questions, I asked him:

"Where do all the Afrikans hang out?"

*Mental bookmark: Château Rouge*

Tone set.

First Day on the Loose from 19th Arr Post-Reading, Writing, and Sleeping Seclusion

I slept until nearly noon that first day. Moved like a 'not-one-damn-thing-to-prove' tortoise when I finally emerged. Honest-to-goodness rest with no to-do list, phone calls, or attachments has curative properties like nothing else.

The next day, I'd chat with an old friend astounded by the relaxation in my voice.

Already. Best. Relax-a-cation. Ever.

Paris is separated into divisions called 'Arrondissements' (Arr/Arrt abbreviated.) My accommodation was in the 19th.

Front-desk reception staff were thin on vegetarian/vegan restaurant options but I was soooo nonplussed. Easily a part of my overall scheme to roam the Paris streets like a predatory 'power-flower of juiciness magnet' to let serendipity take full hold.

It did not take long.

Chez Jad, a Lebanese restaurant, was less than half a block from my hotel. Two amiable owners responded to my hearty “Bonjour Monsieur/Madame, parlez-vous anglais ? (Hello Sir/Ma'am, do you speak English?)” with genuine smiles and prepared me a meal that changed my digestive system forever.

That one meal kept me in complete satiety for the entire day.

I checked multiple times. Not hungry for another blessed thing.

Suspicions before, now direct personal evidence.

How could what I’d been eating prior be real food if 3+ hours later, I’m starving again?

Hmmm…

Food became a defining factor of my travels with this sustenance level found in other restaurants whithersoever my feet decided to wander. For me, this represented nourishment I'd been missing for far too long.

Seamless Quiet with Profound Change

As a child, whenever family or friends returned from a trip to Paris on a European excursion, they would repeat as if from a script,

“Parisians are so unfriendly/rude.”

“Unless you speak French, they aren’t helpful/can’t be bothered.”

I held no reference points since I hadn’t traveled there. As a 9-year-old, what could I say?

But after I'd roamed the streets, I struggled to purchase my first train ticket from le métro.

"Not to worry," the hotel desk had said.

"There'll be counter staff to help you," they said.

No one was behind any counter.

Just self-service ticket kiosks. And even reading the instructions in English made no difference.

I’d have to ask perfect strangers (preferably in French) for assistance. The people I'd been told my whole young life were rude and unhelpful.

Me thinking: Why go to another country if you're going to make no effort whatsoever to speak the language???

**Stereotype Eradication Spoiler Alert**

The FIRST person I asked helped me.

With my imperfect French, a gentleman stopped during his busy workday to help me buy tickets and didn’t miss a beat.

Because le métro...straightforward, it is not.

I thanked him profusely. But he was just one in a sea of supportive souls.

Even when I spoke English.

Château Rouge near La Chappelle Métro is the heartbeat of Afrika in Paris. A section of Paris off the beaten track, that didn’t feel like Paris. A cultural 'society-backflip' in concentrate that fed my barren spirit.

I let it infuse inside me slowly. Deliberately. For now, the closest I'd get to 'The Motherland.'

I sauntered in and out of stores basking in the unique atmosphere. but the proprietor of Maison Iba était tellement amical et beau (House Iba was so friendly and handsome.) The Afrikan print clothing and fabrics interior, what a superior feast for the senses! But I had a teeny-tiny suitcase and settled on ONE outfit with a determination to return someday.

Reminders of Home

As I squeezed into an itsy-bitsy space for a drink in a cozy bar, an Afrikan woman with an inviting smile motioned for me to join her. So kind! Our interaction was destined to be a defining memory since she spoke no English and I had my first full-fledged conversation in French.

I explained to her that it was my first time in Paris...my French was not fluent...I understood a lot more than I could find the words to reply.

We chatted about our respective countries, families, and the current socio-economic climate where people struggled to cope in France, the UK, and Bermuda. We shared photos from our phones.

Enjoyed each other’s company.

J'étais très fière de moi (I was so proud of myself!)

In less than fifteen minutes, I’d made a real friend in Khady who praised my hesitant pronunciation and gave me the confidence to speak even more. As I prepared to leave, she cautioned me to always secure my belongings due to numerous pickpocket-masters who remain a menace over the city.

Day 3 - Palais Royale: Intentionally Walked Right Past the Louvre

Meandering down side streets and happening upon this or that store, garden, sculpture, etc., became a key aspect of my approach to travel going

forward. I loved the opportunity to explore an area I had never seen before solely at my pace and passion's interest without the lens or filter of anyone else (at least for a few days.) Full immersion did wonders for my soul.

I whispered the name of my Vocal-loyalist confidante Tom Brad often across La Seine and let emotive wistfulness overtake me. Whatever

molecules of his earthly existence were left here, I petitioned that they’d find me along with Judey Kalchik who also requested I bear him greetings.

We would have found time to write together by now him and me. Of that, I was certain.

Exiting a busy sidewalk to enjoy a picturesque public garden transformed into pensive moments as I stumbled across a memorial transporting me back to another place in time. Grieving the inhumanity of humanity. Again.

My rough translation:-

Apprehended by Vichy Government Police, accomplices of the Nazi occupiers, more than 11,000 children were deported from France between 1942-1944 and killed at Auschwitz because they were born Jews.

A number of them lived in Paris 6th Arr east. Among them 6 "toddlers" who hadn't had the time to attend school. Passersby, read their names, your memory is their only burial.

(What follows: Names of the children with their ages.)

Another Unique and Lasting Experience Before Heading Home

A wrong turn back to lé metro, and I find lengthy antique displays on sale and froze as something surreal caught my attention. Upon close inspection, antique newspapers hung in protective coverings. One is a French-illustrated newspaper supplement 'Le Petit Journal' with Empress "Taïtu" of Ethiopia on the cover. The issue date: 1896. A once-in-a-lifetime find. “Pardon, Madame,” I called out to the seller, “Combien ça coûte ? (How much is it?”) and parted with €15.

Worth it in any language.

The trip lasted four days but felt like ten. With tangible lasting peace, I left by train for London the next day for yet another adventure...