A Day In Paris

“Beyoncé, Beyoncé, are you happy to be in Paris?” — “Partition” (2:30)

I’m not Beyoncé, but I am very happy to be in Paris.

Shangri-La Paris

This is my third time in Paris. Third time’s a charm? But that would mean the previous two were unsuccessful, which is not entirely the case. Well… besides receiving the call that your childhood dog was about to be put down. Oh, and on that same trip I purchased my dream jacket, a Moncler puffer, one of which I now regret and categorize as slightly tacky. But in 2022, mine and that puffer’s future looked bright. Something like Meghan Markle and the Royal Family in the beginning, harmonious and promising. Unfortunately for me, the French sales associate woke up on the wrong side of the bed and decided it was the day to send me home with the display sample, the rather harshly used display sample, may I add. My first trip in 2018, however, wasn’t all that bad, aside from being a broke university student. A croque monsieur and ONE macaron was all the budget allowed for. I guess maybe it really was third time’s the charm.

Fast forward to 2026: I’m twenty eight, no pets about to die, some adult money to my name, and I now have a long-distance boyfriend by the name of Andy. Andy has a big-boy job that takes him all over the world, and lucky for me, Paris just so happened to be where he needed to be. A part of me suspects the trip wasn’t entirely necessary, but the moment he saw my eyes light up, it became non-negotiable. That’s him, at times grounded and rational-minded, yet capable of a sudden, sweeping nature that turns everything you thought about him on its head.

Touchdown — 23 March, 12:00 AM

As we drove by the Arc de Triomphe, think whack-a-mole, but it was me, popping my head out the window in fleeting, breathless bursts, each glimpse of Paris appearing and vanishing before I could hold onto it. Coming from the rustic enchantment of Málaga, Spain, we arrived at our hotel in Paris. Opulence and elegance greeted us in the lobby of the most beautiful hotel I had ever stayed in. What a statement, and I mean every word. Emerald green tiles paired with brass, crystal, and black velvet, while decadent floors met you with every step. As you ventured deeper in, you realized that everything was mirrored. Beauty didn’t just exist around you, it was returned to you in every direction. We arrived at our room, and crisp white sheets greeted me like a soft bonne nuit. At this point it must’ve been around 1:30 AM, and with both of us exhausted from a weekend of wedding festivities, it was lights out, Sashko.

Bonjour Paris — 23 March, 7:10 AM

As the pain au chocolat were rising all over Paris, so was I. With thirteen hours left to conquer Paris before heading back to London, I was determined to make my mark. Since becoming a runner, my Instagram explore page has gone from Real Housewives and unrealistic male models to being almost entirely taken over by running content. One video I came across featured one of those unrealistic male models I mentioned, running around a track with an even more unrealistic backdrop, the Eiffel Tower. With a quick Google search, I tracked down this spectacular track named Stade Émile Anthoine, sitting right next to the Eiffel Tower, near the edge of the Champ de Mars. With a swift, deliberate cinch, I tied up my laces and began my quest. When I arrived I was truly mesmerized. So many things went through my head. It felt strange that something as ordinary as a running track could sit so close to something as magnificent as the Eiffel Tower. It hovered above, almost like the moon had landed on earth. It was an experience I’m blessed to have had that beautiful morning in Paris. Up until I was politely asked to remove myself from the track, as it was reserved for the students.

Stade Émile Anthoine

Unapologetic Tourist — 23 March, 10:30 AM

Before you continue, I feel it’s my duty to let you know that the journey we are about to embark on is entirely ordinary, completely basic, and totally expected. Don’t expect secret gardens or undiscovered bars. I skipped the museums this time around and simply enjoyed the city. As mainstream as it was, I still found myself revelling in the beauty of Paris. My 24,952 steps are proof of that.

Let’s start off with the Godfather of pastries, Cedric Grolet. I was particularly excited to feast on one of his famous pastries disguised as fruit but unfortunately, on this particular day only Cedric et la Chocolaterie was open for business. Nonetheless, I waited in line for half an hour and was finally greeted by what I would describe as Cedric et la Small Room With Not Much Chocolaterie. I left very confused and not entirely sure what I had even purchased. The store itself was a masterpiece, in my opinion catering more to interior design enthusiasts rather than chocolate lovers, as there was only one table with maybe 20 different chocolates to choose from. Suffice to say we were far away from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

As I exited the store located in the typical Parisian buildings that seem to always take my breath away, no matter how similar they are to the next, I brushed past the freshman class of the Cedric et la Chocolaterie lineup. I wanted so badly to save them from the underwhelming experience they were about to endure, but instead I clicked play on Forbidden Love by Madonna and waltzed forward. I felt as if it was now time to sprinkle in a little bit of culture, so I had my eye set on the Palais Garnier located a few blocks up. As I approached the opulent building, I was taken by its gilded statues catching the sun as though they were gods meant to be honoured. Shortly after, my attention was pulled by a less opulent, freshly printed sign stating “Exceptional closure of the Palais Garnier to visitors.” I was gutted. It’s difficult to put into words just how transfixed I was by the outside of this palace. I can’t even imagine the detail and history that would’ve seeped off the walls and into my soul had I been able to enter. In Ale fashion, we carry on, and that meant across the street to Fragonard, a classic French perfume house. The delicate floral notes may have caught my attention as I entered, but the radiating aura of the woman to my left eclipsed any perfume in the room. The feared Parisian woman, sophistication, precision, and confidence running through her veins. There she was in all her glory, each sweeping movement brushing different hand cream samples across her delicate hands. Like an iguana tracking a fly from corner to corner, my eyes darted through every detail, unable to look away from her and her mystique. The Parisian woman wore her luscious blonde hair tucked strategically under the collar of her turtleneck, softly rounded like a hot air balloon. It left the mind to ponder: was it intentional or accidental? With effortless ease and absolutely zero pretentiousness, a tweed Chanel blazer with hues of cotton candy was paired tastefully with crisp white jeans. The look was completed with the ultimate symbol of the true Parisian woman, an Hermès bag. But this deep burgundy Kelly wasn’t handled the way you may see online, like fine china with pristine white gloves, but instead worn with the ease of something truly her own, an understanding of its place in fashion and the dedication and craftsmanship it represents in French artisanship. I was able to look away long enough to purchase a few hand creams, but lucky enough to exit at the same time and sneak a very necessary pic.

Parisian woman

The most exciting quest of my day was finally here, visiting Officine Universelle Buly, a Paris-based luxury beauty and fragrance house inspired by old-world French apothecaries. Now made widely popular on TikTok because of their custom monogramming on brushes, mirrors, and other toiletry items. I’m not entirely sure why, but I really wanted a comb with my name on it. Mind you, I don’t brush my hair. Nonetheless, it felt like an item that would memorialize this beautiful day spent in Paris.

Officine Universelle Buly

6 Place Saint-Germain des Prés — 23 March, 2:45 PM

During a brief check-in call with Andy, he suggested I grab a bite at Les Deux Magots. I was desperate to sit down and finally relax. I say to everyone, in order to truly see a city and immerse yourself in it, you must find a patio and enjoy whatever your heart desires. Watch how people dress, how they interact, what they are wearing. It is my favourite pastime. Plus, the minute he explained how this particular restaurant was once frequented by some of the literary greats such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Ernest Hemingway, my Google Maps was already locked onto Les Deux Magots. I knew instantly that I was finally seeing the real Paris. Each table acted as a small stage, occupied by characters who truly embodied the Parisian lifestyle. Of course, a few obvious tourists were scattered throughout, but the illusion didn’t break. I sat in the perfect little table tucked away, offering just enough privacy while still providing panoramic views of everyday life unfolding before my eyes. My server was an enthusiastic individual who seemed rather excited that I was from Canada. It never gets old when a European automatically assumes I live in some alternate universe where snowballs are currency and ice is plywood. To my right sat a Johnny Depp-looking man with luscious long locks and a mysterious novelty that I’m sure is popular with the ladies. He was hyper-focused on his laptop, typing away. I immediately made the conclusion that he was one of two things: an already successful and established writer of some sort, or a struggling writer with big dreams, intentionally sitting at a table in ode to his favourite author. However, I must say a MacBook just doesn’t fit the writer in Paris vibe. I’d much prefer watching pen to paper. Just as my five scallops on a bed of risotto arrived, so did my second glass of Côteaux d’Aix-en-Provence AOP. I sat there and I enjoyed myself. No FaceTime, no music, I simply watched. I watched the older couple across from me enjoy their champagne and skinny cigarettes. I took a large gulp of rosé and pointed my attention elsewhere, quickly shifting my focus to anything but the natural urge to have a cigarette. At another table sat two older women, one in large circular turquoise-green glasses, the other in bold square red frames. I’ve come to believe that the sign of a woman who has lived entirely on her own terms can often be found in her glasses: oversized, colourful, and distinctly shaped. Paris was alive.

Last Call — 23 March, 4:15 PM

With the evening quickly approaching, it was time to meet Andy, who was waiting for me at the Shangri-La. As excited as I was to finally spend some time together, it also meant that this was the final stop on my wonderful tour de Paris. After taking in the unparalleled view of the Eiffel Tower from the gardens together, we sat in the hotel bar, had a drink, and recapped our vastly different days. From here, we made our way to the train station, where the Eurostar would take us directly to London. The twitch in my leg from all the walking and the kink in my neck from looking at the beauty of the city reminded me of a day well spent. This is a place I will always come back to. I love it so much but not in a way that would entice me to live here, like many often say when they fall in love with a city. I’m smart enough to know never to judge a city based on a vacation. It feels better kept at a distance, something I return to rather than fully claim. It holds such a special place in my heart because I’ve come here at such different points in my life, perhaps when I needed it most. Over the past ten years, it’s seen me at such different stages, like a proud parent. I look back on this short, special visit very fondly and hold excitement for the next time I get to say bonjour to this beautiful city. Paris, indeed, is always a good idea. Merci infiniment, Andy.