Route to Love

One precarious plane ride, two lengthy bus rides, and countless schlepping later, I’m at a seemingly desolate metro in the outskirts of Paris, assuredly the path to my hostel and Once-in-a-Lifetime adventure awaiting. I maneuver underground and as the line to the help-desk steadily shortens I pat the list in my pocket of all I want to have seen, heard, and relished by the end of the weekend; a list filled with lofty and palatable expectations of city I’ve imagined visiting for years. I fumble with the burden on my back for the hundredth time, promising myself next time whilst packing I’ll repeat like a mantra, “You only need one pair of boots, Abby.”

The metro is dark and dank; the clicking of heels, wheels and fluidly verbose French bounce against the concrete, echoing and whirling round my head. I hardly finish lamenting my decision to over-pack in the name of fashion when I realize the painted face behind the scratched plastic sheath in front of me looks bemused and hostile.

I inch forward, launching into my premeditated monologue: “Bonjour! Un billet s'il vous plaît?"

My determined lips are silenced by hers, unleashing a tirade like I’ve never heard, let alone experienced. I knew my high school French was un peu rusty, but never did I think it would warrant such a response. Even in the midst of her harangue,which I only partially understand, I melt at the beauty being spat at me.

I’m still grateful for the barrier between us as I grab the change, ticket, and incessant insults she throws, and speed away without even asking which train leads to my hostel and reprieve.

Pressed against a graffitied wall I tenaciously scan my map, struggling to find the hostel’s number for more specific directions. I miraculously have a connection within the heart of the metro. I find relief when the amiable voice on the other end offers sound guidance recommending I follow the Eiffel Tower’s sparkling lights, being only two blocks away from where I’ll be sojourning.

Five crowded metro stops, seven majestically decaying, regal blocks later, and the tip of the Eiffel Tower serves as my beacon of light, reaffirming my adoration for this sensuous and enigmatic place. I lunch forward yet the weight on my back feels lighter than ever as I navigate past cafes and patisseries still bustling with joie de vivre.

I’ve seen the Eiffel once before- five years earlier on a day trip from London- yet this towering icon, illuminated now by moonlight and its own glory, provides me with the sensation of seeing it for the first time all over again.

I’m overwhelmed by the traces of history within this one icon; the myriad of individual histories packed in like Russian dolls. I feel at once connected and separated from here, awed by its grandeur yet embraced by its reputation for love.

My list suddenly feels impractical; my expectations needless. Paris, je t’aime.