36 hours in Paris

Arriving at Fashion Week in the back of a moving truck; thanks,Vogue!

I had planned a trip to Paris one weekend in late September, as it was the last weekend of my parents’ apartment lease. I had some boxes to relocate and to make sure we didn’t leave anything before moving out. The night before, Graciela had texted me “what if I came with you…” and the trip became not so solo, which was perfect.

Friday, Sept. 26th

Eight hours before leaving for my flight, I decided to take myself out to dinner for a salad and two cocktails. Halfway through dinner I started to not feel so great, which I chose to ignore, as all great doctors advise. By 1 a.m., I was sweating with chills and cramps. When I woke up at 4 a.m. for my flight, I was packing while dizzy and with a swollen face, googling “signs of anaphylaxis,” “signs of food poisoning,” and whether or not it was mandated that Air France carry epi pens on their aircrafts (it’s not). While googling my symptoms convinced me I had about 36 hours left to live – again, all great doctors advise googling your symptoms – I accepted my fate of passing in Paris (poor me) and got on my flight anyway. 

Saturday, Sept. 27th

I landed at 9 a.m. and made my way over to the apartment, where I met Graciela. First order of business was a croissant, tea, coffee, and catch up. We talked about New York and Milan fashion weeks, friends we’ve met abroad, and also spent the majority of the time moaning at our croissants and spacing out from sleep deprivation. Afterwards, we took a picture with the wolf mannequin outside of the restaurant and went on a very long walk which consisted of window shopping and discussing the difference between the United Kingdom, Britain, and England – which I must admit, I already forgot. We visited the Jellycat cafe at Printemps, and then decided we needed fuel that was not just a croissant.

We left Printemps and tried to find a walk-in restaurant. We walked for 45 minutes through the Asian Quarter, Quartier Asiatique, but ultimately found a restaurant with a mixture of Italian, American, and French food. Another meal well spent spacing out from hunger and sleep deprivation. Afterwards, we took our time walking back over to the 1st arrondissement, buying two two Euro bottles of wine – which the storeclerk almost threw them at us for – and sat on the Seine drinking them. We watched ducks fight over nothing, waved at passing boats, and sang along to the violinist on the bridge above us. We then walked back to the apartment, where Graciela took a nap and I watched a Shane Gillis Netflix special, before getting ready for dinner.

We were having dinner with one of my good friends from high school, Maggie, who is studying abroad in Paris, at a restaurant across the street which has great cocktails and salads. A photoshoot took place in our apartment afterwards, followed by a night out.

Our first victim was La Fête, which had (at least) a 200 person line down the block. As frequenters at clubs with no lines, just clumps, we decided not to wait in line and just watch behind the clump of people at the barricade. We had no expectations of getting in, but wanted to see those who were while we waited for the rest of our group to meet us. The door man was a very fabulously dressed man in a cropped jacket, tight black jeans, heeled boots, and very neon make up. He was picking people out of the crowd and letting in those with tables – there wasn’t much of a “vibe consistency” that I could notice from who was getting in. I was still focused on the 200 person line, confused as to why it existed considering it was not moving while the barricade cluster was. At some point, the rest of our group came and we started the 15 minute walk over to Carmen.

To get into Carmen, we decided to come in two groups: one of four, one of five. The first group of five got denied due to there being a “private event,” but then our group of four got in; later, some girls from the original group of five came in. The bouncer was a very tall man in all black: sweater, pants, and trench coat. The inside of Carmen is absolutely gorgeous – it is a classic, old French interior. There are reliefs of little angels on the walls, ionic-esque columns, classically painted ceilings, and gilded mirrors, also with reliefs. There are oil paintings everywhere, a few chairs inside a birdcage for visitors to sit in, and a smoke box that could fit around 15 people looking for their nicotine fix. There is red lighting, a disco ball, and blue LED dots, along with a large bar and dance floor. My one quarrel with this night was that no one was dancing to the techno music, it was a sea of people standing – either on their phones or just trying to talk over the music. The only bodily movements came from being pushed by someone trying to get through. However, it was a great people-watching opportunity.

The notable crowd members were a group of English-speaking men (Australian? British? Surprisingly not American), one sporting a cowboy hat and the other sporting a lack of spatial awareness, as the joke of our night became how far away he could push you with his bum while dancing. Another man approached us and asked how long we were in Paris for, to which we responded 36 hours, and then he said we weren’t at the right place to see Paris nightlife. He never followed up with where we should’ve been, and we will never know because after staring at us for ten seconds he decided to trot away. Our last interaction was with a man who pointed at Maggie’s outfit, and when she said “oui?” he also trotted away. Overall, we didn’t interact too much with the crowd, but definitely remembered the times we did. 

Sunday, Sept. 28th

We had a laborious task ahead of us: moving my family’s things to a storage unit. After getting to the apartment on Saturday and seeing our boxes, I realized I would have to call for some back up power. But before Maggie’s friends came to help us, I went and got scrambled eggs, a pot of tea, and an entire baguette which I devoured within 20 minutes. Once the friends arrived, they helped us move the boxes outside the apartment and we waited for the Uber(s), which both canceled after seeing the boxes. 

Through divine intervention a moving truck had pulled up across the street, and after noticing every car that approached us ended up leaving, asked if they could help. We waited for an hour for them to finish their actual job before helping us on this side quest. Once we loaded up the truck, we realized there was only one available seat in the car, but we needed all four of us at the storage unit… After some French negotiations, the man opened the back of the truck to show us a little bench by our boxes. Three of us sat on this bench, holding on to our boxes. The trunk was lit up only by the sun through the plastic roof, really allowing us to embody the feeling of being a piece of moving furniture. It was quite a role, dare I say our best. For being in the back of a moving truck, it was quite a smooth ride. Once we arrived we paid our saviours, moved our boxes, and said our goodbyes to the kind friends who assisted us in moving. 

Graciela and I wandered over to Pierre Hermé for a macaron treat. I had my first ever macaron, and was very jealous I did not get a box of six like Graciela, who is a macaron connoisseur. We made our way back to the apartment, did a last round of cleanups, and discovered a bottle of champagne which became a gift to Graciela, as I was heading out for the airport. 

She made her way over to the Eiffel Tower, watched the sunset and drank some champagne. It was a good conclusion to our weekend, and a good start to Paris Fashion Week, to which we told everyone we arrived in the back of a moving truck.