As I watched Notre Dame burn, I found myself thinking, “Damn it, I was wrong. It won’t be there forever. Nothing will.” And, suddenly, our decision to live in another country, to seize the moment, seemed like such a wise choice. But was it enough?
In 2011, my wife and I relocated from the U.S. to Dublin. We’d always wanted to live overseas, to explore expat life, and Ireland seemed like a way to scratch that itch without much of a language barrier.
A few years later, I was hit by an urge to go further. Life in Dublin and semi-frequent travel throughout Europe pushed me to experience life in another place, to live like a local in a place where I didn’t speak the language. So, with very little preparation, I “moved” to Paris in 2016. I’d been to Paris before, but only for a day or two here and there. This time, if only for a week, I would be living in an apartment, and would have to shop in local markets and limit myself in other ways to try to see what the next level of expat life was really like.
At this same time, an American friend of mine (we’ll call her Shirley) who also lived in Dublin, wrestled with the idea of moving to Paris forever. She’d always wanted to make it her permanent home. Shirley had moved to Dublin as an intermediate step before heading to Paris. But Dublin clicked with her, which made her torn about leaving.
During my week in Paris, I shopped like a local, visited many landmarks, and did my best to get a feel for life in the city.
Sadly, one of the choices I made was not to take the tour of Notre Dame. The day I was there I took loads of pictures, but had other plans later. Besides, the lines were long and the ticket felt expensive. So, like locals everywhere, I just assumed it would always be there for me. I’ve said that about things in the States, in Ireland, and just about everywhere I’ve lived. But this time was different. And later would be different as well. As I watched the spire collapse, I lost any sense of permanence, and my belief that I could take my time about anything.
Saint-Germain-des-Pres
After checking into my apartment, I strolled the neighborhood identifying the big Monoprix and Carrefour chain supermarkets (my local markets), along with a couple of local produce shops.
Saint-Germain-des-Pres is also home to three of Paris’ classic cafes. Cafe de Flore, Les Deux Magots and Brasserie Lipp were all a block from my flat. These, and the perpetually crowded Le Relais de l’Entrecote became “my local cafes” and “my steak and frites place.”
In the days that followed, I started my mornings with coffee and a pastry at one of the smaller (less touristy) local cafes, and then walked to or took the Metro to whatever appointments I had in the morning. Unlike most locals, I spent my afternoons in one of the museums or gardens elsewhere in the 6th Arrondissement.
Musée de Cluny
One of my favorites, the Musée de Cluny (also known as the Musée National du Moyen Âge) is an easy walk from the center of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. It has a subtle yet sublime collection of art, architecture, design, and artifacts from the Middle Ages. The collection is best known for its incomparable “Lady and the Unicorn” tapestries. Additionally, the Musée de Cluny building itself is a stunning work of Gothic and Renaissance architecture that still stops me in my tracks.
Jardin de Luxembourg
On Tuesday, I did a bit of geocaching while strolling the tree-lined paths of the sprawling Jardin de Luxembourg. The vendor at the central boat pond asked where I was from. “Dublin” I responded, and was given a boat with, of course, green, white, and orange colors. I promptly released my inner Stewart Little.
Early one afternoon, after browsing through the Cluny, and lunching at a creperie that my friend Shirley recommended, I blindly wandered for a few blocks towards the Seine. My path took me through the Marche Maubert, a charmingly sporadic open air produce market, and through winding neighborhood streets.
Stumbling upon Shakespeare & Co, a kind of mecca for literary fans, I got my fill of books and had a coffee sitting outside in lovely weather as I enjoyed a spectacular view of Notre-Dame de Paris (the Cathedral).
Notre-Dame Cathedral
The view pulls you in, across the river. I looked at my watch — I still had some time before my afternoon meeting. After a half hour of journaling, and the steady allure of the cathedral’s grandeur, I decided I had to explore this magnificent testament to faith and man’s ingenuity.
Then as I crossed the bridge, I suddenly wasn’t so sure. The day was now full-on hot, the crowds cloying, and the ticket seemed pricey by my poor “local” standards. “It’s not going anywhere,” I reasoned, and spent my time photographing it from the outside. Words do not do this cathedral justice. There is no language for what it represents, for what great architecture does to you as you stand, humbled, awed, and grateful.
“It will always be there.” Those words haunt me now as I type them. I am a fool.
Somehow, I allowed familiarity to outdistance passion and urgency, desire and need. And, now, I think that can be the danger of catching versus chasing our dreams.
Once you’ve lived there, your dream city may become run of the mill. You’re in danger of taking her for granted. It’s a bit like Nina Simone’s ‘Other Woman.’ I’d seen Paris, if even for a moment (a few days), with pin curls in her hair.
Over that week, I studied pastry making and learned my way around the local markets and a fabulous Parisienne home kitchen courtesy of La Cuisine and Promenade Gourmandes.
Slowly, almost without me realizing it, I began to take the city for granted. By the end of my week living in Paris, I caught myself un-ironically calling E. Dehillerin, “my kitchen shop” in Paris.
Inside I was grinning at my luck — to have a growing familiarity of this great city. But somewhere, even deeper inside, I knew I’d begun to take her for granted. I assumed too much, and thought I’d somehow come to possess her in a permanent way.
“It will always be there . . . ”
Rue Cler and Elsewhere
In 2018, Shirley bit the bullet, put her stuff into storage and moved to Paris for a year. She settled into a flat close to Rue Cler, where she’d spent time on her previous 1-3 month forays into Parisienne expat life. But this time, she would either send for her things at the end of the year, or return to Dublin and make it her permanent home.
My wife and I visited her for a few hellishly hot days that July, and got to know Paris with no air conditioning. Most nights, to avoid the heat in Shirley’s apartment, we ate on cafe terraces along Rue Cler. It was a lovely few days, but I was not back home in “my Paris.”
Moving just a few kilometers across the city changes the experience. Saint-Germain-des-Pres is a busy, touristy enclave, with many locals scattered about. While Rue Cler itself is pretty busy and often full of visitors, the surrounding streets are mostly blocks of flats that are predominantly occupied by locals. As a result, daily shop interactions felt a bit less transient. But, again, that may have been my inner expat making assumptions. For Shirley, the experience of living in Paris for a year was good, but far from ideal, and not her dream come true.
After a year, Shirley returned to Ireland more committed to Dublin than ever. For her, the language barrier in Paris was simply too much of a hurdle to overcome. Although her French is quite good, the fact that she had to translate all of her thoughts, however subtly, inhibited her from, as she put it, “really being herself.” Even after a year of daily interactions and battling French bureaucracy (in French) on a regular basis, she simply didn’t feel like Shirley. In French it was difficult to joke like Shirley, or make casual conversation like Shirley.
In the end, the lessons I learned from my week in Paris, from Shirley’s experience, and from the tragedy of Notre Dame, are that we should in fact chase our dreams, but be wary of having all our dreams come true. Don’t make assumptions, and don’t take cherished experiences for granted.
