La fin de mon aventure parisienne, ou n’est-ce que le début?
Partie Un ❤️
Partie Deux ❤️
Lundi
There is a light drizzle, perfectly moody for a Parisian morning. I have some time to spare, so I walk down Boulevard Saint-Germain to Ralph’s Coffee. I arrive at 9:00 AM, just as they are opening the doors. I’m the first one to arrive.
Bonjour, Madame. Je voudrais une limonade, s’il vous plaît. Merci.
The woman at the counter hands me a freshly squeezed lemonade with a sprig of mint. How is it possible to make a lemonade look so beautiful?
I sit against the green crushed velvet cushions and enjoy my drink.
I walk back to my hotel, and the rain has nearly stopped. The cool air is turning humid.
Later that morning, I meet the group for a perfume-making class at Fragonard. Alexandre Makhloufi, a professional “nose” and self-taught perfumer, welcomes us into our classroom laboratory.
We learn about the complexity of creating a perfume. After walking through each essential oil, we are left to create our own fragrance.
While others are carefully deciding on their ingredients, I go with my intuition. It feels like creating a magical potion, filling my pipette with varying amounts of oils.
My perfume includes notes of citrus, bergamot, neroli, and lavender. It’s light and lovely.
We get the opportunity to name our perfume.
I choose Pénélope.
Transforming from Penelope Jones to Pénélope Saint-Clair, the French me.
Pénélope is a flâneuse who believes in the art of living well: lingering over tea, wandering beautiful streets, savoring good food, and making room for beauty in ordinary days. She is curious, feminine, and quietly romantic, with a fondness for the little pleasures that make life feel magnifique.
Every time I spray Pénélope, wherever I am, I hope it reminds me of this piece of me that comes alive in Paris.
Before our next stop, we enjoy lunch at Le Grand Colbert, a place of dramatic mirrors, white tablecloths, and Old-Parisian drama. You may remember it from the movie Something’s Gotta Give, with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton.
I fully embrace the French experience and try escargot for the first time.
The waiter sets down my “tools,” which feel somewhat surgical. The plate arrives with six snail shells, and I start to name them.
You are Benjamin. You are Pierre...
The table looks at me like I’m crazy.
The waiter shows me what to do with my tools. He scoops out the snail with the smallest of forks. It is dripping with parsley and butter. He places it on a piece of bread.
I steady myself as everyone watches, close my eyes, and try my first snail.
Oh! Wow.
I’m surprised.
C’est délicieux!
So sorry, Benjamin. So sorry, Pierre.
After a leisurely lunch, we make our way to the Palais Garnier, Opéra national de Paris.
The Palais Garnier feels almost impossibly lavish, with sweeping marble staircases, gold leaf, velvet, chandeliers, and painted ceilings at every turn. It is the kind of place that makes you stop walking simply because there is too much beauty to take in at once.
Our tour includes access backstage. We stop for a moment to watch a ballet dancer practice for tonight’s ballet, L’Histoire de Manon. She is young and excitable. I think our presence makes her a little nervous. Her giggles give her away.
Through a series of stops and a winding staircase, we make our way down to the basement to see the old wooden pulley system and the underground lake.
Perhaps my favorite part of the tour is seeing the costume workshops and walking into the room hung with beautiful white tutus, some even designed by Chanel.
What a magnificent place, full of history.
It was a long day, and the traffic was unmoving, so I decide to cancel my dinner plans at Brasserie des Prés.
Instead, I stop by my local café, pick up a jambon-beurre baguette, get into bed, and watch Emily in Paris.
Bonne nuit.
Mardi
My final full day in Paris...
Today is all about the splendor of the 6th arrondissement.
We begin our stroll down Rue Jacob and stop at Alix D. Reynis, where we meet Alix herself and admire her gorgeous porcelain.
I purchase two tiny porcelain candlestick holders, the thinnest powder blue and Prussian blue taper candles, and citrus-scented matches.
Something small to remind myself of my time in Paris when I’m back home.
We wander down Rue de Furstemberg and come across a quiet, almost hidden square. It was once home to French Romantic artist Eugène Delacroix.
On one side is Flamant, a florist, and on the other, Compagnie Française des Poivres et des Épices.
I buy a small tin of Sel de Camargue and Mélange pour Poulet Rôti.
As I’m about to leave, I smell the Sucre Tonka and fall in love.
This sweet, almost pistachio-scented sugar is nothing like I’ve ever seen before.
I join the queue again and think about all the special treats I could sprinkle my tonka sugar over.
After lunch at Café Madame, we walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg. This time, I learn about the coveted honey made in the garden’s historic apiary and sold only once a year.
Oh, how delicious that honey must taste.
My last evening in Paris ends at Le Procope.
Founded in 1686, Le Procope has been part of Parisian life for more than three centuries. Once a gathering place for the philosophers and writers of the Enlightenment, stepping inside feels like stepping into another chapter of Parisian history.
I snap a few photos of Napoleon’s hat before enjoying my last sips of champagne.
We say our goodbyes, and everyone goes their separate ways into the winding streets of Paris.
The reality of leaving will have to wait until tomorrow.
I want to stay in this magical Parisian fog for a little while longer.
Mercredi
I wake up early to finish packing. I want to enjoy my last breakfast before the taxi arrives.
As I’m putting my treasures into my suitcase, I realize that I really should have bought another one. The biscuits, confectionery, and antique finds really do add up.
I have to sit on my suitcase to get it to close.
Not très chic.
Have I learned anything?
As I wait in the lobby for my taxi, I watch the world unfold outside. Locals zooming by on bikes, parents walking their children to school, and shopkeepers opening their doors.
It’s just an ordinary Wednesday.
Of course, there are many things I will miss.
Swinging open the windows and looking out onto Rue de Buci.
The champagne.
The BUTTER.
The way you say bonjour as a way of saying, “I see you.”
But perhaps most of all, what I will miss is how I feel when I am here.
There is a part of me that has cracked wide open. I don’t think enough tape or glue will close it back up either.
I am changed.
I met a version of myself I think has been there all along, but was just waiting for permission to emerge.
Before I began this trip, I was quite nervous. Paris was an unfamiliar place, and I am certainly not fluent in French, so I created a character to help me push through the anxiety.
I’m so grateful for Pénélope.
But as I leave Paris, I realize I didn’t need to be anyone else to hard things.
I can just be Abby.
Au revoir, Paris.
Merci beaucoup.
Abby ❤️